Tales of Two

Primarch Makim Culpor Holy Pilgrimage of Light
The sea flowed around them, the ship bobbing upon the waves as it cut through with its prow. An onlooker might catch a glimpse of metal from her under hull, the true secret to the speed of Pillowlandian ships. Ships built on the continent of Solis, in general, utilized the closely guarded secret. Copper. A metal prized for beauty. Functionality. Vitality. Survival.
Copper was among the many materials gifted upon the people by the Primarchs father, Lugh. Lugh, High King of the Gods. Leader of the Tuatha Dé and all his people. The Fiefdom of Culpor. The house of Culpor. The Northernmost of the Union States. All the Primarchs ruled fiefdoms, all but the Johgs. Then again, they had mortal lifespans. They were of a different genetic stock, a more human one. The other primarchs remained, undying and ever present while they passed their throne onto their descendants. As with so many things father had done, they were balanced. A machine built to run perpetually, ever balanced by its own movements.
Now the ship sailed, with the men of his fief manning the sails and scurrying about. Around him were three more vessels, all identical. Laden with materials, men, and most secretly arms. THey had a monastery to build, a compound to await the return of father. Father, O father where have you been these long centuries. Makim thought back, gazing towards the sea of the north. The cold, dark, and consuming waters of the north sea.


The constant smoke, constant fire. Constant death. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting here. In the corner of this broken fortress. The radiation around him choked his senses, washing over him as it choked the life of all around him. Yet left him untouched, unwanted even by the radiations kiss of death.
He fell asleep, the darkness taking him deep into it. Endless nightmares and death, never ending. He never knew how long he had slept in the darkness, but it had been many cycles around the star. Things were different when he awoke. The death and brokenness remained, a broken world incapable of putting itself back together.
Yet, there was no more radiation blanketing the surface. No longer choking out his senses. It was fresh, the trees around him green. Homely. Glancing around he saw nothing, but heard something. Distant, but hopeful. Distant, but scared. His own clothing was barely able to be called rags, even less than the rags he had on when he fell asleep.
He had lived among the mortals, learning from them. Being them. One of them. Until the fateful day he had met Ogma. Meet his true people. The Tuatha Dé. Government, Nobility, Military. All powerful, all vulnerable. Then he had been taken, leaving behind the dying world with Ogma and journeying here.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts and shooing his memories belonged. His memory. The rolling mountains replaced by the roll of the ship on the waves. It was nearly time to depart however, as they drew closer to the shore by each passing minute. The cold of the north was descending too, as the deep of winter quickly approached.
The outer structure would take well into the spring to complete, especially if they wished to build walls which could protect the precious interior. But, as he passed from the deck to the ship's hold, the interior would be done nearly instantly. The stone marker, deep in the hold, was engraved with Ogham, the language of the Tuatha Dé. Once it was placed on site, and activated by Makim it would build the interior works of the facility and its hidden sanctums in hours. It was yet another marvel of the engineering skill of his people. One he had never been educated in.
In anycase, activation of the stone would have to wait. They still needed to acquire land for the site from the government of this northern hermit kingdom. Makim sighed, after all what was the purpose of preparing sites for the return of a being who might never return. In the meantime, Ogma was effectively in charge. The wounded soul that cared more for his personal adventures than the future of his people. He thought, making his way upwards towards the deck.The hatch shutting solidly behind him.


High Archon Ogma

Seven Days. Seven days of meditation and rest he had spent in the chamber. In the end seven days was nothing, he had gone stincts lasting several millennia. The rest offered his spirit what his body had no want of. Restoration. Restoration of strength to his mind. Not that he had remained silent or inactive during those days of rest, indeed his spiritual body had simply wandered the halls of this facility and the others dotted around Solis and this world among others.
During his walks, or perhaps more accurately his spiritual hikes, he simply observed the world. All of its events and all of its occasions. From the Far East, to the North, and to the South he observed. Things of interest and people of note filed away deep in his mind for later review. Yet, he also had seen the beginnings of a great opportunity. The heir to the Lanceshirian throne had been wounded by religious fanatics, worshipers of an Exiled One. Their presence was concerning, but no surprise given what status this realm had assumed after… The Incident. The entire central continent worshiped a group of Exiled Ones, though of them only one had done truly horrific crimes. The rest had simply shirked their duty to the Ard Rí and his forces.
Thus it was time to move, if he was to ever restore the Tuatha Dé as the true leaders of his people he must act swiftly, and do what he could do here. What he had done thus far was far from sufficient to secure his people's legacy… if that was even possible anymore.
He rose from his position on the cushioned floor and crossed the chamber, a second entrance opening on the far wall from where he had entered. Sealing behind him, the area was well lit from recessed lighting. All along the hall were various lights, each a steady green with a handful red intermingled amongst the crowd. He waved at the air, a section of the wall vanishing silently. He reached in and withdrew his own personal blade, Orna. The deeds and feats accomplished by its wielders over the ages would prove a useful tool to convince the young heir apparent, not to mention he would prefer the blade speak now when he wished instead of when he didn’t.
This was no time for taking a boat, however leisurely the four hour cruise from Mosocu to Nuremburg might be. Thus as he walked towards the end of the hall the section of wall which had vanished reappeared, this time with a red glow. The wall at the end itself took on a shimmer, a deep sea blue rotating around the center point as it grew increasingly luminant. Finally a soft snap was heard in the air and flakes of snow drifted through from the other side. With a simple motion a heavy winter cloak settled on his body, obscuring himself and, most importantly, his armor and arms.
The other side was the city of Nuremburg, home to the current residence of the Crown Prince. The city was quiet, though large enough to never be entirely dormant. So the side street was as good as Ogma would get while remaining close enough to his objective. The portal closed silently behind him as he glanced around at his surroundings.
He had only begun to walk out into the main thoroughfare when he paused. Surrounding him was a good half dozen men, each armed with daggers and short swords. They had begun to circle and close the distance, despite their confusion of where he had managed to come from their instincts told them he would be easy. In anycase, they couldn’t be allowed to live. They had seen him arrive. “Gentlemen, I have little in the way of money for you to waste on alcohol.”
“Yeah right, that cloak of yours will fetch a pretty penny. And you look western, no city guardsmen will search for you if they know what’s good for them.” Sneered man closest to the main street, beginning to brandish his blade. “Plus, there is a pretty bounty on your head ya divine. Be a shame to waste the chance.”
At this Ogma paused, his face remaining a mask while he tried to process the information. “I hadn’t realized you were a Far Darrig, nor had I realized the faerie people had gotten into the bounty hunting business. Nonetheless, I highly doubt now is a good time for you to try and deliver me to whomever you’re working for.”
“Get this Valara boys, nothing he good for but pay!” screamed the evident leader as he closed the distance, hesitating just a touch to ensure his gang engaged before he did.
Ogma sighed, unclasping his cloak and allowing it to fall as he drew his own crysblade. There was nothing special about the blade, except that it was fashioned from the bone of a felled sandworm formerly native to his homeworld. He ducked the first swipe, it overshot and impaled itself in the torso of the man who had approached from his rear.
Turning he jabbed upwards, twice in quick succession. Making contact deep into the gut of the man on his left who he proceeded to use as a shield against the second man coming from the street.
A third Far Darrig struck, ricocheting off the midnight black chain he wore. Only crude iron weapons, pure iron at that. They’re definitely hunting another sort of divine. But why?, he thought as his body continued on autopilot. He reached and grabbed the creature's arm, flipping him onto the ground while he drove his blade deep into its neck. Three down.
Now the three remaining faerie had circled around him, growing weary at the ease with which he had dispatched their comrades. Now they glanced on in confusion, suddenly realizing that he made no noise but that of his blade puncturing deep into its unfortunate target.
The leader was evidently some sort of soldier by day, as he now drew a sword in a desperate bid to widen the distance. As he drew the other two closed upon Ogma, who rose slowly from his third kill. “Who do you work for?” He asked simply, his hand on the grasp of Fragarach as he slowly unsheathed it.
“Why would we tell such a simpleton as you? You’ve become too much like a mortal in your looks.”, the ever wise leader of their sneered. At last he began to close the distance, renewing the assault as his own weary companions overcame their case of caution.
Ogma lifted Fragarach clear of his scabbard and threw it, “I ask for a final time, who do you work for?”, as it paused and leveled itself at the throat of the last standing faerie to his left. The distraction of the now floating blade taking all three of their attention he made a short slash upon the faerie to his right, one strike being all that was needed to kill even without the deadly powers of the Gae Bolg.
“Tuatha Dé? How could it be?”, the leader of the gang asked, horror consuming his face. “You’re all meant to be dead. All of you that matter anyhow.”
“Thanks for the great concern for my health, now who do you work for?”
“We’ll never tell you! The days of the Tuatha Dé are over, you hold no power anylonger!” the only remaining lackey yelled, anger clouding his face. Fragarach remained silent, indicating that they indeed would take their secret to the grave.
“If you must be so rude then I suppose you shall face the penalty of attacking a Tuatha Dé. The penalty of treason by a faerie is death. You are hereby sentenced.” With a swift sweep of his hand Fragarach ran through their throats, dropping both to the ground as their blood joined that of their splayed comrades. A most concerning development. A most concerning development indeed. Ogma thought, recollecting his cloak and muttering “mors ignis.” The six bodies were quickly consumed by flame, the smoke dissipating into the night air.
He finally happened upon Castle Nuremburg, an impressive structure for purely mortal hands. The place was well maintained at the very least, and guarded attentively. Despite this it was of little difficulty for him to simply bypass the walls and gain entry to the main keep. Even at this hour there were servants moving around the many passages on this or that task.
He happened upon the room of the prince, and simply knocked. Time was of the essence.