Deliberations of Desecration
What has gone before.
The moon rose, argent and round, over Na Talla na Draoidheachd, pouring rivers of silver across the ancient green groves. The Darach trees breathed beneath its gaze, each vast trunk holding the gentle rise and fall of sleeping sisters within moss-softened hollows, prepared by the Kur-ahn seed planters when the world was young. A cool hush lay upon the land, as if the goddess herself paused in her stride to witness what must unfold.
Within the hall, darkness reigned, thick as spun wool, broken only by seven pale circles of moonlight set in the black stone floor beneath seven glass skylights. Mist, cold and fine as breath on iron, coiled around the bare feet of the seven ritual casters who stood there, arms hidden within the folds of robes heavy with the scents of myrrh ash, cedar oil, and sweet larch resin. Each bore the silent weight of kith and kin upon their shoulders, their breath a quiet litany as they waited.
Upon the obsidian chair sat the Speaker, robes layered in the shadows like the wings of a crow. His eyes reflected the moonlight, cold pools of polished jet. When he spoke, the mist paused in its slow dance, listening as though commanded.
“What news do you bring, bearers of the circles? What of the old one’s monastery, where he who watches keeps the hearths warm for the frost-bitten soldiers, beneath the songs of the maidens who guard the flame?”
Astrid, the First Magi, she who had woven mastery through all seven streams of draoidheachd, stepped forward into the moon’s path. She bowed low, the scent of sage smoke lifting from her robe as if acknowledging the Speaker’s grief.
“We, the seven who shape the world by will, journeyed to the monastery of the old one, called there by the one known as Mac Draoidheachd, at the behest of the circle and the covenant of breath and blood.”
The Speaker raised a hand, and a breeze of silvery mist rose from the floor, brushing each caster’s face in blessing, cool and soft as a mother’s hand.
“And how fares the Mac Draoidheachd, whose breath is a covenant, whose hands carry the weight of flame and river?”
Astrid’s breath caught, a pale cloud in the cold air, and she pulled back her cowl. Moonlight caught the sorrow etched into the lines beneath her eyes, and the mist pulled gently at the edges of her robe, lifting the last notes of larch resin and old iron.
“He lies weary, soul-tired and near the deep sleep, his mana near gone, his spirit quiet as the stillness before dawn. Had he been of the elder draoidhean, he would have surrendered to the long night.”
The mist shivered, falling still. A hush, vast and heavy, rolled through the hall as the moonlight in the skylights seemed to dim.
“What storm of steel and sorrow brought this battle upon him, and why there, at the monastery where the old songs guard the wounded?” the Speaker asked, voice hoarse with the taste of iron.
Steinherz, the Stone-Born, stepped forward, bowing deeply. The floor beneath him hummed softly, a note felt more than heard, as if the Saorsa herself bore witness through him. When he spoke, the air thickened, holding each word.
“A being of unmaking came, wreathed in destruction, tearing through the monastery’s walls and halls. No breath was spared, no spirit left unscathed. The warriors, the healers, the hearth-maidens, the very mice of the fields—torn away, stripped from Crann Na Beatha’s face and cast into the darkness beyond breath.”
“Nothing survived?” The Speaker’s words trembled, and the mist recoiled as if in fear. Even the air seemed to flatten, waiting for denial that would not come.
Lady Yrina, third among the seven, stepped forward, her cloak of green whispering like leaves in a restless wind. Her eyes, deep with the memory of the Ciad-Ghin, looked past the Speaker as if seeking a thread of hope in the darkness.
“Nothing survived. Not even the souls of the dead. The Guardian could not find them, nor Our Lady wreathed in smoke, who walks the mists of the lost.”
A breath, deep and ragged, left the Speaker as he closed his eyes.
“Thank you, Lady Yrina.”
He turned to the skull-faced Maighstir Eliban, the fifth, whose pale hands lifted, palm outwards, in acknowledgment.
“They could not be revived,” Eliban’s voice was the whisper of dry leaves. “Their deaths were made permanent.”
The Speaker bent, iron rising in the back of his throat, the taste of blood sharp and humbling. The mist around his feet darkened, pulling away before returning in slow eddies as he straightened, hand trembling to cover his mouth.
“It has been centuries since such a thing has happened.” His voice fell to a hush. “How did this affect the Mac Draoidheachd’s mana reserves?”
The six turned to Astrid once more. She took a breath that trembled like a string in the wind, and the air stirred, exploring each corner of the chamber, rustling against robes, tapping at the glass skylights as if seeking entry.
“Mac Draoidheachd called upon a lord from Tìr na Creige to build a new travel circle. When it was ready, he bid Lord Andros sink the old circle deep into the roots so it could be cleansed.” She paused, coughing softly, the mist curling around her shoulders like a shawl before pulling back, lifting the scent of ash and resin into the air.
“But the living spirit of the land rose in defiance, seeking to claim the monastery and pull it beneath the earth.”
Steinherz spoke then, his words falling like stones into a still pool.
“The Rootmother fought him to a standstill, stopping only to spare his life. When we arrived, Mac Draoidheachd had held the spirit at bay for over ten hours.”
Lady Yrina stepped forward again, her voice soft as dawn frost.
“I examined his reserves. They are nearly spent, a candle guttering low. He will require three weeks, at the least, to recover.”
The Speaker’s hand covered his face, shoulders trembling beneath the folds of his robes. His voice, when it came, was a hush threaded with grief.
“If you have brought record or rune, leave it with the Librarian.”
Above them, the moon watched, bright and cold, as the mist gathered the scent of ash, iron, and old sorrow, weaving it into the stones of the hall so it would not be forgotten.