Talk:Tyrian Ghost Walk 2010

The crickety aged man stood on legs as feeble as he was old. His right hand held his rough hue staff in a tight clutch. He stood there before the pyre’n hearth as he had so many times afore. With a proud but defiant look upon his face, he slipped his left hand up and an awkward call to silence crossed the great hall. The elderman had taken his place at the head of the hall and as the Lord High Scutiferi all-present in the hall yielded as the orator was soon to begin.

Weak was his voice, soft and frail, as he began. Clearing his throat not less than three times, he surmised his tale would run long into the night. With a quiver on his lip, “Remembrance,” was all that past his tongue. He stood stoic looking at the filled hall for a long moment. A tear welled in his eye and dropped off his cheek surprising him. Immediately his hand went to his cheek wiping away all sign of the tear. His eyes justly fell upon the court, Erin’s court. It was here where Marquessate’s, Earl’s, and Baron’s would lend an ear to the sovereign, a place where policy was blood driven, where sovereignty came often as a blood-right. This court was a place of royalty, where king’s and men of stature and privilege ruled the lands. Yet in this place of men and their ladies, a queen had risen and Alister’s eyes sought her out.

Finally his eyes focused, coming to rest on one of the young girls who sat at the head table. This was his queen, Erin MacLarue. As he looked at the teenage girl, he saw the distinct lines and color of the girls mum, yet the determination of her father crossed her brow. He would speak long this night in honor of those who had fallen to save such as this. Those not long past who had given their lives for Albion.

“We find ourselves in the fall of the year of our sovereign Lord, 534, in this dark age. It is here that thou fledgling, Christendom, had made its appearance across the isle known as Hibernia. There nestled in the Southwest of Albion was found the Kingdom of Arnes and the long honored Halls of Durden. Our oratory is birthed out of the fifteenth year of King William MacLarue, Son of Ambrose, Steward of the Parsons, and King of Arnes’ reign. It was a time whence dark tidings come in the concupiscence of Prince Drogheda. For it was then that the Pict’s and the Jute’s of the vast Nor-Lands came upon them. Twelve years afore. This be the telling of that history in Arnes.”

Lord High Scutiferi Sir Alister Mote

clete boyce author "the grey waiting"