So, in their wisdom, our great father and mother built a wall to keep out the Gaels and Slavers and Fomorians and Sinoese and the Darkling’s Goblin hordes. The sea we leave to the war crows, on hill and cranog we live.
When raiders came ashore the clans gathered. We would rise from the mist and annihilate our enemies until our lonely shore brought no raider. Reavers knew to sail on.
Rarely they would come in greater numbers than we could easily crush on the beach so we let them come, bleeding them all the while. At some point they would realize they had gained nothing and lost much. The trip to the sea was harder still until they found their boats burned or taken and the end of the survivors was the same as the first to die. Such was the way we dealt with invaders.
It was strange to see clans who fought and raided each other coming together against a common foe, or perhaps it had more to do with how most disputes were settled by the combat of champions and rarely involved general combat.
Our interior valleys are rich, our cattle grow fat on the hills and grain for bread and ale grows in profusion in the plains. All our men have time to train in arms and to hunt. But our heroes and champions train skills to levels unparalleled in the world.
It may be of interest and is ironic to think, that the mother they honor, Scota, is in truth that same creature, the Morrigan of war, that they abhor.