The Little Raven: Cadeyrn Brennus

[Badelaire]

Symbol: A black raven with red eyes and serrated teeth inside its beak
Home Plane: Acheron
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Portfolio: War, conflict, survival on the field of battle, revenge, scavengers
Worshipers: Mercenaries, battle priests, troublemakers, warriors, gladiators, scavengers and looters.
Cleric Alignments: CG, CN, N, CE
Domains: Chaos, Balance, Courage, War, Domination
Favored Weapon: Scythe

Favored Offering: The Morrigan's favored offering is a collection of small but valuable items that needn't be related; they must be scavenged, neither purchased nor stolen-preferably from a battlefield, but even from the street or a country road will do. Shiny things are appreciated, especially if they were valued by those that lost them. Medals, gold and silver buttons from a dead man's coat, and baubles of all kinds are often among these things. The Morrigan's true believers regard these things as treasures, calling them 'junk' in their presence is likely to start a fight.
 
The Morrigan is conflict incarnate. She sometimes will take the form of a large black raven or vulture with shining red eyes, or a troll-like woman warrior so horrific in appearance that her presence inspires mortal terror in all who try to fight her, and a maniacal rage in all those who are already engaged in a conflict. But most often her presence is felt in the wave of bloodlust that rolls over the field in the midst of a pitched battle, with corpses falling on all sides, or the raw fury of loved ones in the throes of a violent argument, or the steely glance shared between duelists as blades are drawn. The Morrigan is empowered by and fuels all conflict, great or small, and her presence means more food for the scavengers that are sacred to her.
 
Dogma:
The Morrigan is a concept given flesh – the concept of conflict. Those who would follow her must seek out conflict and engage in it. Some may try and end these conflicts, while others may try to cause and continue them, and still others will try to profit from them, often through acts of scavenging, but so long as there is conflict it is all the same to the Morrigan. Conflict is what makes things strong and tests their worth. It is how the great are truly proven and the full potential of beings and objects alike are brought out to face the newest threat. Carrion birds are sacred to her, and wise warriors will leave them alone as they feed on the fallen after a battle lest they incur the wrath of the Morrigan. And terrible is her wrath.
 
Clergy:
The Morrigan's clergy are known as The Morrigan's Murder or Warbirds. Nobody builds temples to the Morrigan, nor would she accept any that were built to her. Those that have tried have met ends that are legendary in their ghastliness, leaving only ruined remnants of their attempts, which are as close to holy places as the Morrigan ever has off of the field of battle. Her clergy are very often mercenaries, relying on her mercies to see them through another day of battle, traveling from one conflict to the next in a never-ending cycle of bloodshed and shows of strength, until only the strongest are left. Many are adventurers, seeking the strength of varied experiences in a world filled with conflict. Only a few ever reach old age, and none of the truly devout ever die of natural causes.

[Badelaire]

[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4Nr3ZAhrsU[/youtube]

Over hills and over meadows, see the crow fly, feel her shadow.
Over woods and over mountains, searching for a war.

Her wings embrace each strife and battle, where swords they clash and chariots rattle.
Seeking out the one whose time, has come to take the blade.

Morrigan ancient crone of war, I see your face, I'll cry no more.
Morrigan ancient crone of war, come lift me on your wings.

Morrigan ancient crone of war, I hear your voice, I'll breathe no more.
Morrigan ancient crone of war, come set my spirit free.

[Badelaire]

Fleeing from the soldiers, arms and pockets full of the spoils his goddess demands, the little raven dashed headlong into a thicket. Cursing his luck he pushes through the dense bracken, slashing at his face and hands as he tumbles headlong into a ditch, striking his head. Just before the world turned black, he manages to curse his luck just one last time before a figure wreathed in shadow stands over him. The haze of morning mists thicken and his consciousness fades...

[Badelaire]

Coming to, the little raven feels like he's been been soaked in ale for a week. With a dry mouth and throbbing head he finds his feet shakily, like a newborn lamb and wanders over to the gypsies he was sure weren't there the previous night. Speaking to a couple who regard him with faint curiosity, he tries to get his bearings for the direction to the coast, to hire a vessel and sail north to home. Only north, there is now a lake instead fields of battle prior. There are sidhe and goblin-men, moon wolves and returned sinners en masse. The little raven always played the lackwit because the church burned heathens at the stake, but here warlocks, heathens and witches run around with their magicks like a child with a straw doll.

In the grey town it's no different, there's a certain comfort in the familiar no matter how hostile but an awful feeling sinks into the little raven's stomach like a finger of ice has been pushed into his innards. A dread realisation that Da's stories of the old lands are more than just that. What were just fanciful tales to keep their minds off the hunger in the frequent days when they starved are a nightmarish reality.

The little raven has somehow passed onto The Otherworld without a direction to get back.

[Badelaire]

The one thing, apart from the sidhe, the goblin-men, the pagans and heathens, witches and warlocks and stranger folk that the little raven finds curious is the sheer volume of pretty women armed to the teeth. Banding with some he struggles to keep up with them in the fighting, in one of the many dark places where the returned sinners linger in this peculiar land.

The fighting takes his mind off his predicament and fills his pockets with more gold than he's seen in his lifetime. The fighting pleases The Morrigan and he finds himself able to call on her wrath more and more, though always careful not to ask too much of her. He doesn't know if he should be pleased with this new discovery or worried, there's no Templars to hunt the church's enemies but to flaunt such power like the others he's seen would bring ill tidings.

[Badelaire]

For the first time in his life the little raven drinks till he passes out and eats till he's bursting at the seams. He wishes Da, Peter and Slaeín could share in this but they hung long ago and he's all that's left. Pulling himself out of the bush he fell into and forcing himself to vomit with fingers down his throat, the little raven goes to try and find the nun, her bodygaurd or the painted one that he found of the Crone also that wandered into The Otherworld.

They walk the roads and slowly learn the pitfalls and perils of the land. Where the dangers are and where sanctuary lies. Names of places and of people and more importantly, how to avoid the things that crawl, fly, scuttle, slough and slide in the night.

[Badelaire]

Mopping his face, the little raven sits amidst the bodies of his foe. The bandits came thick and fast, screaming and waving their crude weapons at the lone traveller. With the wrath of the Crone of war in his veins, the fight is bloody and quick and the ruffians spread across the grass in messy heaps. Reaching for his belt, the little raven takes a long pull on his flask, the watered down wine quenching his parched throat as he sets to the next stage of the task.

Bracing his foot against the chest of the leader of the gang he tugs at the handle of his hammer, the backspike lodged in the skull deep until it relents and sets to the gruesome chore of removing the gold teeth of those who have them, setting them out in a small echelon to represent wings in flight and beheading the dead to ensure they did not come back as the Returned. For the next hour he spends his time praying for the souls of the slain and giving thanks to the Morrigan for seeing him through yet one more encounter in the Otherworld.

[Badelaire]

As the nun tends the little raven's wounds, an amused thought comes to his mind. She tends him as a wife tends her man, bringing him meals, seeing to his injuries, washing his feet and hands and offering words of comforting repose. Her ways are alien and strange, her lands very different from his own but they find an easy comfort in each other's presence.

The unbidden thoughts of his wife Lenore and little Blanchet, gods rest their souls, bring painful memories of how the pestilance took them and he weeps. Unashamed tears of grief and loss coupled with too much drink that come sudden and painful even though it's been some years since their passing into the next life. The nun says not one word, she simply wraps her arms around him and waits for the tide to subside.

[Badelaire]

The little raven and the nun are beset on all sides by the screaming, malice-laden torments of the shades of death. Pain and suffering is all they promise and these shades are far more than the pair have faced before. They rend through their protections and leave burns that no fire could ever reproduce in their scathing agony. The little raven cries out "Flee girl!" and the nun does so with great reluctance as he is swamped and covered with their darkness.

The pain is beyond description as they rend at his flesh, tear at his very soul and with one last utterance he cries out for the Morrigan's help. With his final plea, a great light shines in that dark place and the shades of death retreat, screaming from that called upon power, the wrath of the crone of war. Staggering, torn and bloody, the little raven falls into the waiting nun's arms and the darkness of unconsciousness consumes him as she tends his wounds, tears streaming from her eyes.

[Badelaire]

The little raven sleeps deeply as he recovers from his grevious injuries and in sleep comes dreams. Dreams of longing, dreams of home, dreams of life and dreams of war.

Enses requirimus saevos nos,
nos ferrei reges servi fati,
morta ex terra mortiferra tela
in hostes bello ad moventes.
Equos frenamus furentes
Capi ta superba quatientes
mortem hostibus et luctem date
acrem di manes sternadis.
Ave Morrigan, ave ferrum,
Ave tela, ave cruor
Ave pugna, ave moritur.

[Badelaire]

The little raven's attention is caught by the woman hunched in the doorway. Her face is young but her eyes old, uncaring and unseeing of the world around her. He sees a person who has endured beyond their limits and is simply lying down to die, without so much as a struggle. Her hands are clasped tightly around her stomach, a gesture he knows only too well.

Remembering the nun's words he digs into his pack and offers the woman some gold, enough to pay for lodgings for a time as well as a flask of his watered down wine and fresh bread, cheese and pickled meats. These things were worth more than any coin in his youth but here he grows ever stronger and such things seem trifling to hoard and covet.

"I know what it is to starve." he says without his usual disarming accent, holding the things out to the wide-eyed woman. Her eyes stream at this unfamiliar act of compassion and she babbles in her Barovian tongue to him. Though he doesn't understand her, the tone is clear with her gratitude as she embraces him in a hug before hurrying off to eat and drink in peace.

Watching her retreating form, the little raven ponders his place in the Otherworld. He's only ever known violence and bloodshed. Life is short and cruel where he comes from and taken away so quickly. But he won't give up, he won't succumb. He won't die on his knees begging but on his feet, fighting.

Fight.

Fight to end suffering, fight to resolve conflict, fight when no one else will, fight until you are no longer needed. Fight until the Morrigan takes you on her wings to the Afterlife. Fight to appease the Morrigan and become her servant evermore.

[Badelaire]

The rain falls gently, soothing a heated brow and washing the red away as the little raven turns his face to the weeping heavens. Drawing breaths in great lungfuls, he surveys the carnage his hands have wrought with a profound regret. Desperate men, driven to hunger and despair like himself so very long ago torn asunder by the wrath of the Bloody One, the Crone of war. He digs their graves with his bare hands, trying to fathom the body parts like some grotesque puzzle as he lays each man's remains to rest in the earth's womb and prays with hands clasped and eyes closed for their souls to fly high, free of hunger and want. Rousing from his contemplation the skies are tinged gold with the setting sun, herald of night's coming and further battles to come.

[Badelaire]

The little raven gags on the stench of the rotting bodies, once animated, and now lain to rest by the might of the Morrigan and the strength of his arm. With a chargin expression he looks at the sheer number of them arisen, the Returned in his lands. Sinners, deviants and those who were filled with so much hate and malice in life that death was no obstacle to their sheer force of will and spite.

With each passing day he grows stronger ever still, that scrap of a boy scrounging for food, never quite managing to eat his fill for more than a couple of days at a time now a grown man with a purpose. Though his parents, his wife, his child, his friends all lie cold as their souls departed to the Otherside, he remains hopeful, optimistic. With each soul laid to rest, he rests easy at night knowing that he lives for something regardless of how small the import of that may be. But there is one thing that shines above all else in the dark...

The little raven does not fly alone.

[Badelaire]

The first thought on his mind was how it didn't hurt, not after the impact of the blow subsided. The little raven's life ebbed away into the tall grass around him and yet he bears a strange sense of calm and acceptance. Staring up through the dappled canopy of the trees, their sunbeams piercing the gloom with brilliant rays here and there, the sky never seemed so cerulean in its depth.

Drawing long, slow breaths he simply waits for the Morrigan to come take his soul to the Otherside. The Returned that lay the final blow must have been a great swordsman in life, his skill having not diminished in death as his flurry of attacks overwhelmed the little raven. Closing his eyes to take a painful swallow, he lies immobile and patient.

But slowly, feeling comes back, limbs respond and he is able to push himself to his feet with an almost agonisingly labourious effort. Using the ancient stone wall now ruins to support himself, he gathers his armaments and staggers off deeper into the forest to pray for the Morrigan's aid before the exhertion would surely kill him with certainty...

[Badelaire]

Once again the little raven is locked in a life and death struggle. His throat constricts, his eyes bulge, breath is torn from him as his hands grasp at his neck with futile effort. The nun sighs in exasperation and moves behind him, wrapping her arms around his torso, fist clenched in hand and forces sharp and sudden below his ribs.

With a great expulsion then sudden heave of air, the little raven breaths once more, stabbing the expelled mutton chop piece with a fork and chewing it more thoroughly this time around in submissive victory over the food.

The nun simply goes back to her seat and eats with her demure manner, muttering about table manners and the benefits of taking one's time over a meal.

[Badelaire]

Slashing wild, crazed, like a man possessed by the furies the little raven tries to stem the tide that flows out the tunnels towards him and the silent sidhe. Their jaws bite and tear, laced with formic acid. He's overcome, swamped, still slashing and stabbing as he goes down, half turned in agony as he tries to get his last words out before darkness takes him, "Run!" but the silent sidhe doesn't. She stands as firm as she can with her tiny frame but like a reed in the wind, she bends too as she also is swarmed.

The sensation of being dragged by hands under his armpits is the first thing his mind comprehends before the pain of his injuries takes over all other senses. The familiar grip of his blade is pushed into his hand and buckler quickly strapped to his arm as the pacifist hurridly tends to the prone form of the silent sidhe. Staggering to the wall overlooking the tunnel up, the little raven stands vigil and waiting, splashing healing draughts over his savage wounds as best he can.

As the silent sidhe gasps her first breaths of new air, rousing, they plan and prepare to lay their wrath on these destructive creatures. And wrath was wrought as their combined skills are as one. And terrible was the little raven's wrath indeed...

[Badelaire]

With an exasperated huff, the little raven goes through his lessons with the nun again. Grumbling sentiments about the "Common Tongue" not being very well named at all. Anunciating at the nun's direction, the little raven begins to sound less like a lackwit bumpkin and more like someone who has been taught to read and write as he had been as a child. Learning Latin was less of a headache than this for the little raven and the nun a stern, unrelenting teacher indeed.

"No ale!?" The little raven protests.
"You drink too much and your concentration wanders enough as it is." the nun replies.

Sheer torment.

[Badelaire]

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

[Badelaire]

Da, Peter and Slainté stand proudly on the gallows, chests puffed out and heads held high. One by one the stools are kicked out from underneath them and they die, twitching and thrashing on the ropes with bulging eyes and blue faces. Ignoble ends for noble hearts. The little raven burned every moment into his memory as he stood powerless, his only ability to watch and remember. A mouse at the feet of giants...

[Badelaire]

The blinding light of a new day stings the little raven's bleary, red-rimmed eyes. The previous night was a blur of drink, song and from the feel of his jaw perhaps a little dust up afterwards too. All in good stead for the Morrigan's favour, to seek quarrel where it offers itself and the loudmouth was deserving of a set of knuckles in the  eye orbit.

Lying in his cot, world spinning around him, a tentative rap against his door issues and without even looking he knows it's the nun come to remonstrate him for his hellraising. With a heavy sigh, he lifts himself off the bed and struggles to walk to the door in a straight line before opening it and indeed finding the nun stood there, hands planted on her diminutive hips.

With a weary sigh the little raven opens the door wide to admit her and latches it closed on her entry, sitting himself down to listen to her stern lectures about the immorality of drinking and fighting for the sake of it. Ear-bashing as it is, the little raven smiles despite himself.

[Badelaire]

The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal or so hideous. Blood was its avatar and its seal, the redness and the horror of crimson life. There were sharp pains, sudden dizziness and the profuse bleeding from the pores. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim were the heralding sign that shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. The whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease were the incidents of a mere half an hour...
 

[Badelaire]

The little raven wasn't old but he certainly felt it. It had been some months since he ascended, seeking battle in the peaks on high. He needed the company of people, not monsters now. He needed to feel human and eat and drink and laugh, to speak. His grasp of the common tongue had slipped greatly and people found it hard to understand him as a result.

He hadn't seen his friends in a long time and worried over that fact. The nun, the painted one, the silent sidhe whose voice he had returned with the Morrigan's blessing, the feathered knight, the soldier from 'Core-meer'. He tried as best he could to offer the Morrigan's aid to those he encountered but more and more people cast insult and took quarrel where there was none. This made the little raven bitter indeed but still he would remain optimistic, every storm is weathered in the end.

[Badelaire]

[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ac186kDfHP8&feature=player_detailpage[/youtube]

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.