Captain of Terralux
Post by Geordie Brushtail on Apr 28, 2006 22:12:31 GMT
*Geordie settles down into a comfortable position, his claymore and dirk close to paw. He adjusts his plaid before beginning to speak.*
Ach, so ye want te be hearin’ boot me life? Weel, tat’s a story worth the tellin’. Ah’ll start wit me childhood, up in te moors…
Ah was born at tea time. Me mother, Primrose o’ Thistlevale, had just took a boit o’ blackcurrant scone when it started. Ah came quick enough, an’ raised quite a fuss accordin’ to me father, Alisdair. Ah was a simple enough babe, nothin’ really special, though me father always’ said tat Ah went for his claymore—an’ te sghian dhu, when Ah couldn’t carry his ole blade.
An’ where Ah was born! Ah tell ye, tere ain’t nae more beautiful place tan’ Heather Hall. Founded by me six-times great-grandfather, Griogair Brushtail, an named for his bride, te lovely Heather o’ Montrose. He built it between te fields o’ heather an’ te edge o’ te forest, facing south across te heather. Tis a grand little hall, with’ room to spare for all te Brushtails ten an’ sence.
Me first claymore was gifted te me when Ah was naught but ten. It was smaller tan a full blade, aboot me height at te time. Ah carried tat blade wit’ me everwhere—even te bed. Me father began takin’ me wit’ him, on scoutin’ missions an’ te loik. He taught me te way o’ te forest, how te move in shadows an’ witout sound. Ah wan’t too good at it te start—a deaf pigeon could sense me at a hunnerd yards. But Ah caught on quick as ye loik, tanks te a few strappins frae me father.
A travelin’ hare, a bard o’ sorts, passed a few seasons wit’ us when Ah was aboot fourteen. Ah can’t remember ‘is name naow, mores te pity, but he taught me te play te bodhran an te pipes, an te sing te ballads o’ old. Ah remember, he taught me his favorite, “Heather on te Moor.”
*Geordie hums a few bars before singing softly* An it’s heather on te moor, over te heather, over te moor an’ among te heather….if Ah was king Ah’d make her queen, te lass Ah met among te heather an’ its heather on te moor…
*Geordie stops and looks about him* Ach, sorry aboot tat. Reminiscin’, ye ken? Tet song has important significance fer me…when Ah was sixteen….*Geordie stops, a troubled look on his face. He quickly replaces it with his usual jovial look.* Ach, but ye wouldnae want te be hearin’ aboot tat, would ye? Naow, where was Ah? Aye, Ah recall…
Me ole’ claymore broke when Ah turned seventeen, sadly enough. Ah wouldnae part wit’ te thing, so me father had it cut down an’ made inte a dirk. He an’ me mother gifted me wit a new claymore, a full-sized one, made o’ stronger steel.
Ah turned eighteen naught but three months ago, on the fifteenth o’ February. As me older brother, Donald, is me father’s heir, destined to be laird o’ Heather Hall, an’ sence she…*Geordie hesitates.* Ach, but ye don’t wanna hear aboot tat either…*the look of sadness returns*
Anway, Ah decided tat there weren’t nothin’ to hold me te the north except te love o’ me home. Ah packed me bag an’ told me family goodbye, an started on a journey south. Ah had a few choice encounters along te way, an adder here, cannibal lizards tere.
A few times young ones—dibbuns, ye call them—saw fit te mock me kilt. Ah’ve never seen such brazen bairns, truth te tell ye. *Shakes his head in amazement.* Callin’ a kilt a dress? Ah cannae understand it…an’ when they tried te make me wear troosers? *He shudders at the thought.*
Anyway, a few weeks past Ah wandered here, an’ Terragon, te young lassie tat run’s this pretty village, was kind enough to let me stay. An here Ah am, till Ah die or Ah feel the urge to return to te thistles and heather.
Ach, so ye want te be hearin’ boot me life? Weel, tat’s a story worth the tellin’. Ah’ll start wit me childhood, up in te moors…
Ah was born at tea time. Me mother, Primrose o’ Thistlevale, had just took a boit o’ blackcurrant scone when it started. Ah came quick enough, an’ raised quite a fuss accordin’ to me father, Alisdair. Ah was a simple enough babe, nothin’ really special, though me father always’ said tat Ah went for his claymore—an’ te sghian dhu, when Ah couldn’t carry his ole blade.
An’ where Ah was born! Ah tell ye, tere ain’t nae more beautiful place tan’ Heather Hall. Founded by me six-times great-grandfather, Griogair Brushtail, an named for his bride, te lovely Heather o’ Montrose. He built it between te fields o’ heather an’ te edge o’ te forest, facing south across te heather. Tis a grand little hall, with’ room to spare for all te Brushtails ten an’ sence.
Me first claymore was gifted te me when Ah was naught but ten. It was smaller tan a full blade, aboot me height at te time. Ah carried tat blade wit’ me everwhere—even te bed. Me father began takin’ me wit’ him, on scoutin’ missions an’ te loik. He taught me te way o’ te forest, how te move in shadows an’ witout sound. Ah wan’t too good at it te start—a deaf pigeon could sense me at a hunnerd yards. But Ah caught on quick as ye loik, tanks te a few strappins frae me father.
A travelin’ hare, a bard o’ sorts, passed a few seasons wit’ us when Ah was aboot fourteen. Ah can’t remember ‘is name naow, mores te pity, but he taught me te play te bodhran an te pipes, an te sing te ballads o’ old. Ah remember, he taught me his favorite, “Heather on te Moor.”
*Geordie hums a few bars before singing softly* An it’s heather on te moor, over te heather, over te moor an’ among te heather….if Ah was king Ah’d make her queen, te lass Ah met among te heather an’ its heather on te moor…
*Geordie stops and looks about him* Ach, sorry aboot tat. Reminiscin’, ye ken? Tet song has important significance fer me…when Ah was sixteen….*Geordie stops, a troubled look on his face. He quickly replaces it with his usual jovial look.* Ach, but ye wouldnae want te be hearin’ aboot tat, would ye? Naow, where was Ah? Aye, Ah recall…
Me ole’ claymore broke when Ah turned seventeen, sadly enough. Ah wouldnae part wit’ te thing, so me father had it cut down an’ made inte a dirk. He an’ me mother gifted me wit a new claymore, a full-sized one, made o’ stronger steel.
Ah turned eighteen naught but three months ago, on the fifteenth o’ February. As me older brother, Donald, is me father’s heir, destined to be laird o’ Heather Hall, an’ sence she…*Geordie hesitates.* Ach, but ye don’t wanna hear aboot tat either…*the look of sadness returns*
Anway, Ah decided tat there weren’t nothin’ to hold me te the north except te love o’ me home. Ah packed me bag an’ told me family goodbye, an started on a journey south. Ah had a few choice encounters along te way, an adder here, cannibal lizards tere.
A few times young ones—dibbuns, ye call them—saw fit te mock me kilt. Ah’ve never seen such brazen bairns, truth te tell ye. *Shakes his head in amazement.* Callin’ a kilt a dress? Ah cannae understand it…an’ when they tried te make me wear troosers? *He shudders at the thought.*
Anyway, a few weeks past Ah wandered here, an’ Terragon, te young lassie tat run’s this pretty village, was kind enough to let me stay. An here Ah am, till Ah die or Ah feel the urge to return to te thistles and heather.
Leaderess of Terralux