Story for the Day: Sir Taunnis Moruadhain

The edits and artwork for the Mabhar Leith are almost complete! In the meantime, enjoy a bit about Taunnis Moruadhain, Captain of the Lakes Regiment, Head Guard of the Haven:

To Tughneadh, Sir Taunnis would go. It was early in the season for the first cutting of thatch, but he should be glad of seeing the sweetgrass fields at any rate and of never admitting to submit to the protestations of his wife by the way. He quitted the Haven and walked across the bridge to the south side of Barrellynmere, the lake wearing its calmest smiles, the bank skirted by the littoral barm, the wind rippling against the water, the surface mirroring the pilgrimage of passing clouds. Carps and minnows skimmed the shallows, scattering under the Captain’s stride, and Taunnis stopped at the end of the bridge, to glory in the view and admire the Haven from a distance, the old fort collocated by bastions and battlements, its walls never once breached, the central tower surrounded by stones unagitated and undisturbed, its inmates safe and away from the world unless the world should call upon them. Swallows and terns drifted over the water, the crakes committed themselves to the neighbouring sward, and warblers were at war in the rushes, disturbing the scene with desperate calls, much to the disinterest of the nearby crows. Here was all his peace, and though Taunnis’ home in Tughneadh was just as tranquil as the Haven, there was a sanctity here, an ancient aspect that must be acknowledged. He took up his sewynpaudir and said a prayer to Ogham, asking the Great God of Healing and Consecration to bless his braid anew. He offered it to lake, holding the long trail of sweetgrass under the water, closing his eyes and holding the image of Ogham, the Agent of Balance, in his mind. He offered heartfelt thanks to the Gods, that he and his wife had escaped the Casadiacht and been spared all its horrors, and wished that the rest of Frewyn should be spared the disease. He asked that his journey homeward be a safe one, and promised that the sewynpaudir he held in his hands should be kept as an offering to the Gods upon his return. He took the braid of sweetgrass from the water and held it to the sky, praising the Gods for his continued health and situation, and tied it to his fauld to let it hang dry. He adjusted the ties on his pauldrons, the plumes of Fuinnog’s feathers peeking out from the leather gardbrace, the craftsmanship worn against the silver-banded vanes, and caught a glimpse of his features in the surface of the lake, the lacustrine reflection doing him no favours as a man in want of peace. His hair, though not as full as it had been in his youth, was still in the right place, but the strands of silver were a far cry from the black and lustrous mane he had been used to. The wrines in his cheeks, the lirks around his eyes, and the furrows nestled in his corrogated brow earned from worrying about the Haven and everyone in it for much of his life. It was a disquieting likeness, a portrait produced by fifty years hard work, a canvas run over with wrinkles, woven on a hardy loom; he had sacrificed himself to safeguard others, his strength unmitigated in his faith and quiet affection, and while he never regretted his office, he wished it would have been kinder to him. Age was something he had been taught to disregard; soldiers and captains are either fit for service or fit for instruction, and as he was always used to do both at the same time, to be doing neither was a blow to so celebrated a Captain. He had grown accustomed to meriting his leave; he would not be told to take it now.  

But that he should be too old for urgent service… these were the words that plagued his conscience. He had been in the forces from seventeen, was made Second Captain of the lake regiment at twenty-one, and had been Head Guard of the Haven for well over forty years—and yet he was deemed too old to be of use to anyone now. The good old soldier, with straight carriage and incomparable might, a frame poured into his armour, to be so thrown off, without refutation and without ceremony—and to be told by his wife that he was at risk of infection when he had never been seriously ill in his life—it was most provoking, because it was true: he did need rest, only not one away from the Haven, and though it was undisputable that he was an older man, he was not elderly and disdained that he should be ranked with the bent backs and stooped shoulders of the relics at the Haven.