The Children of Zzthethpezemos

Black Turlogh Dubh O'Brien awakened to find much of his legendary strength had returned. He sensed that he'd slept for a very long time. While his recovery was not complete, there was no question the warrior felt much more like himself. In truth, an ordinary man would have taken to bed for days after such an ordeal as Turlogh had suffered, but the fabled weaponsman of Errin was hardly like most men. A fresh pot of the blue wine sat on a small table in one corner of the one-roomed wooden house. Beside it, a loaf of dark bread lay in a simple clay dish. The dark warrior gnawed off a large chunk of the bread and washed it down with a healthy swig of the refreshing blue liquid. He decided that he liked this odd wine and soon the warming fluid was gone. Turlogh ate his fill of the fresh baked bread and found himself wondering if the beautiful woman he remembered from the day before had prepared it. Another clay jar held fresh water. The revitalized Gael splashed some on his dark face. He wet his long black hair and used his hands to slick it back away from his somber face. Then he stepped out into the daylight. Judging by the sun, Turlogh was surprised to discover it was already past noon. He had never slept so long in all his life.

The three guards eyed the dark man curiously but they made no effort to restrain him in any fashion. The yellow folk of the village were out and about, taking care of the regular business of life. Children laughed as they kicked a ball made of an animal skin filled with water. Everyone stared in silence as Turlogh walked quickly past on his way to the house of the chief. The three warrior escort followed close behind the dark one, but made no effort to stop him. He climbed the creaking steps to the door of the old man's house. The bold warrior knocked a few times at the door of the house before calling out to Zzthethpezemos. A few minutes passed before the ancient man's yellow, bald head appeared in the doorway. He gave Turlogh a weary smile and his eyes squinted due to the assault of the bright sunlight.

"Greetings, great Turlogh Dubh O'Brien. You appear much better rested than yesterday. I trust you slept well, indeed our little island is a place where one can sleep and dream like the Gods themselves!"

"Aye, I slept well Zzthethpezemos," the Gael answered. "No doubt, due half to my fatigue and half to that strong blue wine of yours. I would have words with you today, there are many things I would like to ask you. Firstly, how fares my young companion, does he yet live? A curse would be upon me should I allow the death of one who is truly the last descendant of the great Cormac Mac Art of Connacht."

"Yes I understand full well," Zzthethpezemos nodded. "I have worked all night and all day with the young prince. Not once have I left his side, not even for a bit of nourishment. Still, he is in much danger. For this reason I needs return to him and our exchange of words, while much anticipated, must be delayed while I attend your friend. In a day or two we shall talk and talk some more. By then, Brenne Mac Art will be on the path to recovery or the path to the next world. In the meantime, entertain yourself as best you can. Has my servant Terrilara taken care of your needs ? Ask of her what you will, she will not refuse you Turlogh. Now I must return to young Brenne, I look forward to sitting with you soon great weaponsman of Errin." With that, Zzthethpezemos waved his hand and went back inside. Turlogh felt a bit agitated at being brushed aside but he was glad to know Brenne still lived. And truly, the ways of the yellow chief were much like those of the Druids the dark Gael knew so well. Mysterious are the methods of the mystic, and all accept their devices for what else can one do when faced with that not easily understood.

Turlogh walked down by the sea. It was a beautiful day, much warmer than the weather of Errin. The Gael wondered if his boat was safe. That was one more thing he would inquire of during his next meeting with Zzthethpezemos. There was much that he had to think about and despite all that, his mind was not fitful. Nay, he felt strangely relaxed, not at all a normal state for the brooding warrior. During his life, few were the days that knew no strife. His time had been one long succession of struggles, wars, and intrigues. As much as he loved Errin, it was no land of peace, and seldom did the rich earth of Turlogh's mother country thirst for the lack of spilled human blood . Something told him this land was much different. The Gael found himself wondering if everything might be a dream brought on by over-indulgence of alcohol.

Despite these musings, Black Turlogh Dubh still longed to return home. However, how far away Errin was, or in what direction he should set the sail was a complete mystery. Zzthethpezemos had mentioned helping him, but also he had hinted at something in return of Turlogh. After taking in his new surroundings for some time, the Gael returned to the hut where he'd spent the night. There another pot of blue drink awaited. Turlogh smiled. The girl called Terrilara was not very friendly but she pleased in other ways. He sat once more in the wicker chair and proceeded to get drunk.

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The next morning Turlogh got up at dawn as was his custom. He felt good, well rested and well fed. Terrilara soon appeared with a breakfast consisting of eggs, bread, more blue drink, and a tasty meat that the Dalcassian could only wonder as to its origin. Like before, the girl gathered the empty pots and dishes and left without a word. The mere site of her well formed body was serving to create a powerful yearning in Turlogh's manly loins. Her disinterest was becoming equally annoying, unfortunately.

Golden sunlight streamed through small seams in the walls of the Gael's hut. The day promised to be a hot one, therefore Turlogh wisely shed his heavy leather leggings and shoes. He also removed his simple coarse shirt before exiting the small abode wearing only his drab kilt and broad belt. His volcanic blue eyes were surprised to not see the three guards waiting for him. Brooding dark features registered puzzlement, perhaps they had not counted on him rising so soon. More likely, Zzthethpezemos had discontinued the escort as a sign of respect and trust. Still, his weapons were nowhere to be found and truly Turlogh missed the weight of his battleaxe in his right hand. Strangely however, the urge to be armed was considerably less than he might have supposed. Surely, he was being lulled into an odd complacency by the warming sun, and the golden skinned people of this island paradise. And yes, he somehow felt that perhaps this place was a sort of paradise....far from war, political intrigues, ambitious fools, and evil. At least it seemed so, but Turlogh had lived long enough to know danger lurked everywhere in the world and this island was likely no different. Still.....it was uncommonly warm and the wind passing through the palm trees seemed to whisper a soft melody that was deeply soothing. The sunlight gently massaged his heavily muscled shoulders and the Gael let go of a small measure of the paranoia and anxiety earned from a lifetime of war.

The yellow people stared anew at the near naked, giant figure of a man walking amongst them. The stares did not last quite so long as they grew more accustomed to the stranger's presence. Turlogh made for the house of Zzthethpezemos but paused. The chief had shown him respect by removing his guard, therefore it might be wise to return some of that regard by waiting for a formal summons, as was the custom in most places. Having changed his mind, the dark warrior walked down by the beach. The white sand was uncommonly beautiful. He walked along the shore for a good ways, looking back over his shoulder occasionally to see if anyone followed. No one did. Turlogh continued his relaxing stroll, losing himself in the sound of the wind and the gently crashing waves. After some time, the Gael walked away from the beach towards a stand of palms. He stepped behind one of the trees, lifted his drab kilt and passed water. After finishing, he leaned back against the tree, crossing his arms over his chest. The weather had grown increasingly warmer as the morning progressed and Turlogh hesitated there in the palms, savoring the cool shade it provided. His meditation did not last long however. Suddenly, his warrior nerves were shocked back into their normal state by the sound of desperate screams....the horrified pleas of a woman in dire danger!

Instinctively, Turlogh hurled his mighty body in the direction from whence the screams were coming. He dashed back along the beach some fifty yards before reaching a sharp turn where the white-sanded shore angled off substantially to the right. His steely blue eyes were greeted by a horrific sight that made him spur his feet even harder. There was a woman with a small child struggling against a creature the likes of which Turlogh had never seen. It was a man of sorts with dark leathery skin and a slender muscular build. However the thing was hardly a man precisely, its eyes were red and evil, and one hand held a short spear with a chiseled flint point. Most amazing of all was the fact the creature's feet were not on the ground. In truth it was airborne, hovering a few feet off the earth thanks to a huge expanse of bird-like wings! Turlogh had barely absorbed the shock of this amazing phenomena when he recognized the female as none other than Terrilara, his cook. The woman grasped the child to her breast while swinging wildly at the beast with a basket. The creature emitted guttural sounds that seemed to Turlogh like a devilish laugh. The thing was absorbed in its little game, appearing to be toying with the woman.

A cold chill ran down the Gael's spine, the monster was trying to get the child away from Terrilara! Fortunately, the winged demon's obsession with its prey kept it unawares of the fast approaching Turlogh, who wisely stifled his battle cry. At last the thing knocked the basket out of the woman's hand. At the same time, its taloned hand grabbed onto the child's leg. Satisfied, it flew higher even as the woman pulled desperately at her baby. Turlogh leaped with all his might and closed a powerful hand about the ankle of the winged man even as it wrenched the baby loose from its terrified mother. Both child and mother screamed in shock and horror as the thing attempted to fly away. Turlogh emitted a bone-chilling Gaelic berserker shout even as he felt his feet leave the ground. With one hand the winged devil held the terrified child whilst his other brandished the primitive spear against the Gael.

The demon found itself in an awkward position as it jabbed with the spear at Turlogh. It became enraged by the persistence of the warrior and thankfully dropped the child as to better enable itself to do battle. A quick glance told the Dalcassian that Terrilara had caught her babe before it hit the ground. Turlogh grimly turned his full attention to killing this monster which he realized from legend was an evil harpy. He yanked himself up mightily with his one hand and sank his strong teeth deep into the calf of the flying horror. Now it was the harpy's turn to scream in agony and rage as a blackish fluid streamed from its wounded leg. It flapped its wings frantically and slowly gained altitude even as Turlogh held on, oblivious to all save dealing death to his hellish foe.

The harpy feverishly renewed it efforts with the spear, now with more effect. One jab sliced along Turlogh's chest, drawing blood and making the warrior wince with pain. Another well aimed jab bit deeply into the same hand that grasped the demon's leg with such determination. Any other man would have released the monster but not Turlogh. He held on just as strongly despite the wound and the realization that the battle was now raging far above the ground, yea even above the highest of the tall palms.

The Gael was completely caught up in his berserker madness. He scarcely cared about the certain death that awaited him. If he didn't bleed to death from the spear jabs, the fall from this height would crush him instantly. Turlogh didn't seem to care, the madness was on him and he would see this foul demon dead, it mattered little that it would cost him his own life. He was hardly known as Mad Turlogh Dubh of the Clan na O'brien without ample reason.

The harpy struck again with its short spear but this time the Gael was ready. His free hand moved like lightening to grasp the primitive weapon just below the spear point. With a mighty jerk, Turlogh tore it free from the surprised winged-man. The dark warrior then pulled himself upwards with all his might and sank the entire stone point deeply into the thigh of the monster. Then he turned and twisted the point as vile fluid gushed from the ghastly wound, effectively blinding Turlogh. The harpy shrieked in desperation and pain. It twisted and shook its legs frantically in an effort to free itself from the mad warrior. Finding its efforts unrewarded, the creature reached into the tattered belt about its waist and produced a knife made from obsidian. It ran the razor sharp blade down against the hand on its leg. Turlogh suddenly felt the entire hand go numb, at the same time the staff of the spear broke cleanly into and the warrior found both of his hands suddenly hanging on to....nothing, nothing at all.

Turlogh felt himself flailing free against space. The fall must have been a very great one but it seemed to rush by in the fleetest of moments. The air was crushed instantly from the warrior's lungs as he felt his body slam with agonizing force into the water below. Downward he plunged into the depths of the lagoon. Amazingly, he didn't lose consciousness entirely, at least not at first. At last the momentum of the long descent ended and his glazed eyes looked upwards to see sunlight barely visible above the surface, so very far away. Turlogh was not a good swimmer, the chilly waters off the coast of Errin hardly invited a watery frolic. Therefore, the skill had never been properly learned. Still, the strong will to live gave him battle against the doom of drowning. He struggled upwards even as his lungs agonized from lack of air. The surface seemed to remain always just out of reach and then his strength began to fail. The last thing he recalled before passing out was water rushing into his lungs, as he uttered a curse against Crom for willing him such an unmanly death. Lastly, was a sinking sensation....and the onset of utter blackness.
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"Turlogh....TURLOGH!" The Dalcassian warrior's brain was a thick fog of swirling, opaque masses. Faintly, he could hear someone calling his name. The voice sounded familiar but Turlogh could focus on nothing in particular. He felt something pressing against his back and still, the sound of his own name was called. The warrior felt somehow, for some reason, that he should attempt to answer. With great effort he tried to form words, but when his mouth opened, only a deluge of foul seawater spewed forth. This was quickly followed by vomiting as the contents of Turlogh's stomach emptied on the white sand. Someone struck his back repeatedly and the dark Gael responded by coughing, spitting, and gagging even as life ebbed back into is powerful, tortured body.

Strong hands pulled Turlogh to a sitting position. However, he still had difficulty raising his head which throbbed unmercifully. The Gael's blue eyes opened and gazed about as his consciousness slowly returned. It occurred to him that he was still alive....but how? The fact that he still breathed was enough for now he reasoned. Regardless, no dead man could feel so wretched. The deeply lined face of old Zzthethpezemos appeared before Turlogh's blurred vision. "Ah, my friend, you live! They thought you were dead but I knew some spark of life remained in that unbeatable body of yours. Thank the Gods my children fished you out of Great Neptune's depths barely in time. Rare is the warrior that lives to know the fame of his own great deeds. What you have done today will be spoken of in this village for a hundred years...yea, and longer!"

As Turlogh felt yet another wave of nausea crush his body, his eyes beheld a vision more pleasing. Terrilara put her hands to his face even as tears flowed from her beautiful green eyes. She spoke excitedly in the strange, incomprehensible language of the yellow people. Turlogh felt himself being lifted by strong arms. He preferred standing on his own but his protest was cut short when he fainted. Shortly, the dark warrior became dimly aware that he was back in that same hut where he'd spent the last two nights. He attempted to rise up but his spinning head called quick halt to that effort. Instead, he fell back onto the bed where he'd been placed. Feeling to weak to do anything else, Turlogh slept.

It was a fitful rest at best, and the Dalcassian had no idea how long he lay there. At some point in time he'd felt a soft hand on his shoulder. Terrilara pressed drink to his parched lips and he swallowed as much as he could. It was the blue wine, mixed with something else that he didn't recognize. It tasted pleasant enough however, as again he fell asleep. This rest was better, when Turlogh awakened he felt somewhat more like himself. He was still very weak but his mind had cleared considerably. Terrilara sat by his side. She gave him more drink and a few sips of a thick soup. It was very dark outside and all was quiet. A candle burned nearby. Turlogh managed a smile for his devoted attendant. He was pleased when she smiled back, and it was a warm smile. The warrior felt his strength ebb somewhat so he lay back again.

Turlogh wasn't certain why his next action took place, it only felt right. He motioned for the woman to come closer. Without hesitation, Terrilara lay beside him on the bed. This pleased Turlogh, but also brought an ironic grin to his face. He had the woman he wanted in bed finally, but was to weak to take advantage. The dark Gael was a somber, serious sort of man. However, if he could, he would have laughed at his situation. Still, in a spiritual way, he felt good. His arm went about her waist and rested on a taunt belly. His dark face rested in a nest of her soft white hair. Turlogh drifted back to sleep, savoring the scent of this magnificent creature. He had won her grace at very nearly the cost of his life. However, he had no urge to complain. His miserable existence was small wager for the a prize such as this! Turlogh snored the next few hours away.