Heen (Realm)/Heenite Highlights/November '07/Erin's Death

Naal's Only True Friend

Naal's Only True Friend
26 November 1007		<Naal O'Hlomhair
Erin O'Deaghaidh, Count of Sotrebar has been killed during the battle in Naraka. He fell to his knees at the news in silence. Inside him a bubbling rage gradually boiled until he could resist no longer. A cry of painful anger bellowed from his lungs and carried into the heavens like thunder. Erin, the only true friend that Naal ever knew, was gone and along with him, Naal's soul seemed to flee from his body. His loyal captain reluctantly drew closer to Naal, but before he could place his hand on his lord's shoulder, Naal sharply sniped. "Get away from me ye! Everyone GET AWAY FROM ME!"		A tear of bitter rage rolled down his cheek as he gripped his hands until they bled. "Erin!" Naal screamed into the heavens. "Ye think ye can get outta this like that? Ye think that this be over? I swear to thee, my brother, that I will join ye soon. But, until then, tell whatever powers that be there with ye that they better open the gates wide, for I will bringing EVERY DAEMON THAT BREATHES WITH ME!! YE HEAR ME?! EVERY ONE OF THE BASTARDS!!" Breathing almost to the point of hyperventilation, Naal bellowed out another ferocious scream of pure hate that shook the core of the men around him. It was at that moment that Naal's heart had been changed. For better or for worse, no one could say...

Mourning in Silence

Mourning in Silence
26 November 1007		<Jadine Baraedor
Jadine Baraedor fell. All the strength in her body had been taken from her at the news from her scribe that her friend Erin, her Chieftain, had been taken from the world by the Daimon forces of Vlaanderen. She could not speak and she could not move. Behind her, she heard a large beast moving. Immediately she sprang into action in a burning rage of anger and despair.		The beast behind her had no chance, and she did not stop the cleaving and ripping until there was nothing left of the Daimon. Covered in blood and tears, Jadine let our a guttural roar and then became silent. Her voice had left her, along with all her joy of life, and she walked silently back to her tent to weep. She would be silent a long time.

Riding Away

Riding Away
26 November 1007		<Mark Anthony Obeji
As Mark Anthony makes his way back to Watto, he passes a leaderless unit, all with their heads down. Mark Anthony looks at them as he rides his horse, but means to ride right by them. "It's so sad, he was a great leader." says one of the men in the unit. Mark Anthony now stops his horse, and asks them, "Of whom do you speak of?"		"Erin, Count of Sortebar is dead m'lord." replies the soldier. At the sound of this grave news, Mark Anthony slowly starts to shake his head in disbelief. And suddenly he looks back to Naraka, and yells, "NO, NEXT TIME I SEE YOU NOT ONE OF US WILL DIE! I PROMISE YOU I WILL BE THE ONE LOOKING DOWN AT YOUR CORPSE!!!" And he kicks his horse, and starts again to ride to Watto. This time however, he is riding much faster, and with a fury in his eyes the gods he once spoke to never possessed.

Long Live the Memory

Long Live the Memory
26 November 1007		<Fror Dwarf
Fror stood alone, All his men dead, his captain gone. The daimons were too strong this time, several times they had been repelled but the Heenite will and arms were just not enough for this battle. Walking back to his tent, his scribe, scout and healer waited for him, though there would be no song and dancing tonight. His blood brother Erin had fell, His mens deaths were hard enough to bear but the loss of his friend would stay with him for many years to come. Fror didnt say a word as he moved through his empty camp and into the tent standing defiantly in the wind and rain of Naraka. At the back of his tent Fror opened his travel chest, delving into the chest he picked out a medal, the medal Erin had given him not 2 weeks previously.		Dropping into a chair he sat and stared at the medal, thinking of the good times and celebrations he and Erin had shared. Why had the gods punished his friend in such a manner, why did they see fit to take him from this world. After several hours had passed, Fror begin to get his things together, it was a long trip back to Heen and though he would be travelling with all the survivors of the battle, it would still be a lonely journey and Fror wanted to get it over and done with as quickly as possible. Erins burial would be within the next few days and Fror would be there no matter what, Erin was his brother in all but name and family. Fror would honour the memory of his friend in a way no-one would forget.......... LONG LIVE THE MEMORY OF ERIN O'DEAGHAIDH

An Unlikely Request

An Unlikely Request
26 November 1007		<Medium T-Style
Medium turns his head down. Together with the other Celt nobles and the other Heenites, he had formed a circle around the body of Erin. The Heenite forces had retreated some miles from the battlefield, and gathered there. Medium's men were nearly all killed, the survivors were wounded. The takeover unit was destroyed, the takeover of Naraka was stopped. But that was of noone's worries. They couldn't care less about that. The Marshal had fallen, the Celt leader of the Heenite forces. Erin was cowardly killed by Improbable and his forces, even after Erin had fallen wounded and was unable to properly defend himself. Again... Medium thought back at Dzikun. But this time he was not alone. Erin died honourably, defending mankind against inhuman invaders. At least he was not cowardly ambushed by the enemy, and he did not have to fight alone, nor was his body captured by the enemy. It was a sad event, but it was a noble death. Medium dreamed of dying like that one day, but not yet. Erin has fought well to survive, but his opponent was too strong. The enemy he died against was not one one would have wished, but at least his death was not pointless. Medium couldn't believe what had just happened. Suddenly, the idea of Erin's death did not get through to his mind anymore. This did not happen. He was dreaming. Dzikun... Erin... No, they're different, it can't be. They are similar, but different! No way! Medium closed his eyes for a few seconds, hoping the scene in front of him would be gone when he reopend them. He opened his eyes again, and was shocked to see that he was not dreaming. With a sad face, he fell on his knees and put his sword in the ground.		Holding his hands upon the top of his sword and his chin on his hands, he sat there for several minutes, not saying anything. All around him Celts were being sad or strong. As Medium sat there, his look changed. The sad look dissappeared, and became an angry look. Not furious, just angry. Without opening his eyes, he said "I need a camel." Noone heard him, noone reacted. "I need a camel," he said again. Now some people started looking at each other and at him. Medium opened his eyes and looked at Seamus. "Give me a camel," he said, notably addressing his call to anyone but keeping his eyes at Seamus. People started looking at him. "Why would you need a camel? You never rode on one before." Medium looked at the one speaking at him, a man unknown to him, most likely someone's Captain. They sure make them with guts in Heen. That's good. He looked back at Seamus. "I will now." Seamus stood up. "What are you going to do, Medium?" Medium took a deep breath. "Erin was the leader of the Celts, commander of the Celtic Army and an example to many, a good friend to others. He was cowardly killed by Improbable. Noone and nothing may do that. Noone and nothing will kill the Celtic leader unpunished." Medium stood up and set a few steps, but Seamus held him. "What are you going to do, Medium?" Seamus' voice raised to an impatient tone. "Don't you understand, Seamus? Erin must be avenged, Improbable must be punished. The camel is either for you or for me. You may chose."

Messenger of Bad News

Messenger of Bad News
26 November 1007		<Tissaphernes Ulthran
"A rider approaches!" came a call from the back of the unit. Turning, Tissaphernes noticed there was indeed a horse heading towards them at great pace. "hold here..."she ordered, watching as the horse sped towards her. As it drew up, she recognised the livery as that of her Majesty's messenger service. "What news?" she asked with a friendly smile, as the rider ground to a holt next to her. "I'd rather not say, M'lady" he said gravely, passing her a message from his bag before bowing formally in the saddle and continuing on the highway. Opening the note, the Countess gasped, almost dropping the piece of paper in her hand.		Erin O'Deaghaidh, Count of Sotrebar has been killed during the battle in Naraka. it read. As shock was diluted and over-powered by anger, she screwed up the paper savagely. "By the gods, have these invasions not cost this land enough? Now those forsaken beasts take our bravest from us...." Looking to her unit she relayed the message dutifully, those who were wearing helmets or berets immediately removed them, and all eyes sought the ground. "May he continue to bask in glory in the next life, as he never failed to achieve in this one" Tiss mouthed in a quiet voice, evoking a prayer.

I Wept Dear Heenites

I Wept Dear Heenites
26 November 1007		<Martana Curs
My kin, all Heenites, I could have sworn that I had heard the heavens echo and whisper. The air carried songs, that were sung by the desert sand itself as it swept over the bare rocks, as it singes human and animal’s skin alike, as it sears over cloths. Only close listeners can hear the sand’s song. And it is always different. Sometimes it is cheerful, sometimes it is tired. Sometimes it bolsters the minds of the Heenite’s defence, sometimes it warns a lost traveller. But it always sings. And today, as I woke up on the field of battle and opened my eyes, I peered into a stark-white sun, and the desert sands, in millions, they sang to me. So loud and intense that it reached beyond our desert’s borders, and fulfilled the minds of all men sensible enough to hear it. “A silent voice, flies overhead, speaking of words, that cannot be said. Only in dreams, they can be heard, when thoughts are pure, and left unstirr’d. The lonely sleeper, within cloth held, the voice speaking, of what we felt. So will he, in his peaceful sleep, know the tears, shed while we weep.”		And I wept, dear Heenites, I wept. I heard the sands sing and I knew and I wept. It was one of my kin that had fallen. One of my dearest not to return to our beautiful lands, and still have a spark to withhold them before he left us. I find you so late in the night, as I could not bring myself to speak to you sooner. I simply could not. But now I am here, and I want to remember Erin along with you. He died bravely, by his word and by his sword. He died as a true Celt, as a true Heenite. In glory and in eternity. As all Heenite shall once die. And all know. The continent mourned when they heard. I have received the letters of condolences from plenty already. On this day, I also grant Erin O’Deaghaidh the Desert Rose, the symbol of utmost service for our realm, utmost love for our realm, and in the end for utmost sacrifice for our realm. May his actions inspire us all to the true Heenite spirit, as Erin was the most true Heenite I have ever lived to see. Heenite till death, but into eternity and further he will live on. Let us now carry his body with us, back to the lands he has given his life for. Our army will not march in retreat, but in mourning pace. And so a true Celt dies. And so a true Heenite dies. And so he shall be remembered.