The wind had been rising for more than an hour, driving the clouds before it until they broke against the citadel of Tor Caith. The towers' ragged peaks split the clouds like knives, while rain fell upon the rocks below. Through the windows and arrow-slits the wind came, entering the room where Garanak sat and causing dust and cobwebs that had long lain undisturbed to swirl and dance.
Garanak's body was almost bereft of feeling, so he did not sense the breeze as it blew over him, causing an involuntary tightening in his papery, sallow skin. Nevertheless, as the parchments fluttered on the table next to him, his eyes opened. He sat for a moment, listening to the drumming of the wind and the rain outside the walls, and to the dripping of water coming from the crumbling masonry above. The wind carried with it the sweet scent of flowers, of summer, of life. It was a sign. A sign from Donn that his enemies were once again stirring, and that Garanak and his brother warlocks would soon be called upon again.
He stood and walked to the window, his ageing body protesting as it was forced back to life. The stone garden beyond was being lashed by the storm, and rain fell upon the elaborate statues formed from the same stone on which Tor Caith stood. To Garanak, though, they were as much memories as statues. Memories of the travellers who had come to the tower, lost and in search of refuge. They came seeking solace, but had ended up as victims of the spells of Garanak and his brothers. From some, they had taken the life quickly, watching their forms transform into stone in a matter of moments. With others, as the fancy had taken them, they had lingered.
One particular memory came back to Garanak: the rain falling just as it was now, and Galar standing out on the rocks, watching figures writhing as their flesh slowly changed into cold, dead stone. The thought brought a sharp pain to the sides of his face, sudden and unexpected, and he rubbed his cheeks with a wizened hand until the sensation faded and the muscles, long-unused, began to ease. He realised that he was smiling, both at the memories of the past and at the thought of what the future might hold.
The hour had come to wake his brothers – to leave this world and return to Lir's Reach. It was time to do Donn's work.
The vital spark of Beltane was lost...
From the realm of the god’s Danu and Cernunnos looked upon Dal Riata, the world of men, with concern. Where life should be flourishing the death and decay of Yule remained. Its icy grip still rooted deep within the soil where new roots should be budding into life and animals awakening from their hibernating slumber to bring fresh vitality to the world.
Together the gods sought one of the great eagles, flying free, high above the mountains of the Celtic Lands and through its gaze they looked down upon the stagnant world, seeking what had caused Beltane to falter, preventing the warming summer sun from bathing the land in new life. And lo, hidden amidst the cracked mountains to the East, their eyes fell upon the ancient citadel of Tor Caith.
There, within its shadowy depths, they sensed four mighty warlocks wake, stirred on by their master Donn, eager to do his bidding and stretch his dark hand of death and decay across the lands of Dal Riata. The warlocks had cast their Morcas spells enslaving the creatures of Lir’s Reach and leeching the very essence from the land.
Donn’s act provoked Cernunnos and Danu to call upon the mighty powers of nature they controlled. Drawing both flora and fauna to weave a mighty champion to defend Dal Riata from the encroaching evil. A warrior of nature, the Green Man.
They sent him to the world, to call upon the mighty heroes of sword, bow, magic, nature and stealth to aid him in his quest. Together they would banish the Morcas creatures, defeat the Warlock Lords and allow the spirit of Beltane to flow once more.
Ready your weapons! The summer event will arrive in the next few weeks!