Blood Feud [COMPLETED]

CHAPTER ONE ☽

Tara let her eyes follow the flames and ignored another recital of her Clann's great history, vision glowed white and hours could be wasted divining figures and shapes within. Bones were tossed with accompanying hoots from onlookers, she followed suit and chucked in small bones from a cloth purse.

The fire consumed the remains, she tilted her head up in silent prayer. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks as she reminisced on the life of their owner.

Brian had been a most faithful companion, a wild pup impossible to control or keep still for more than a moment. His streaked coat and intelligent eyes marked him as more impressive than the namesake 'Brian' afforded, which is why she had named him so.

Unfortunately, her beloved dog had escaped the stables one frigid morning and confronted wolves-- needless to say who was victorious in that encounter. Perhaps she wished Brian were tamer and more cautious of wolf packs, but if so would lose the very essence of everything she loved about him.

Breath ragged, Tara repeated the words to honour the dead in her mind; Be free and await me.

The druids tossed cattle heads into the flames, dampening the lively crackling with a dull thud of flesh on kindling. Her nostrils flared, steeling herself for a charred meat odour.

Bone fire nights were such a revelry, but the start was carved out for rituals and storytelling, a chore for the young rí. The Dark King allied with the druids at his ascension a thousand years before, and with the druids came pointless rituals.

Bone fire nights took place three nights a year across the seasons; Imbolc, Mean Fomhair and Samradh. She shivered in the late autumn bite and fixed a blank stare at the onslaught of sacrifices before the fires.

People bundled around the sages and clamoured at the spectacle. The synchronicity of the druids impressed her, though she hated to admit it. They moved with practised fluidity; slicing the victims' throats with knives, changing to axes, cleaving the head off, tossing it in the fire. Repeat.

She understood the allure. The grisly actions evoked an emotional response in those gathered, primal in its finality. By throwing the heads in the fire, the druids gave the ritual its close, a fitting end, resulting in cheers as the sacrifices' eyes melted out their sockets and cartilage stoked the flames. It was easy, accessible. Not too difficult to understand.

But sacrificing so many animals seemed wasteful and Tara had yet to notice any positive effects for her Clann from druidic arts.

Expectant mothers wobbled to the druidess' hut to prepare for labour. Sick children, clinging weakly to their worried mothers were rushed to druids for a healing poultice, rank in colour and consistency. A grieving family sought wise druidesses for proper burial and bereavement practices. Injured warriors visited a druid's hut for wounds to be washed, dressed and sacrifice offered.

The druids poured animal grease on the fires, and everyone stepped back as the flames crawled higher. The cheers turned to shrieks of delight, signalling the end of the ritual and the start of the revelry.

Drumbeats brought the festival into full swing aided by an influx of cider, pipes joined the rhythmic slap of the bodhrán, augmented by foot-stomping celebrants. The druids skulked back to their huts, thankfully sworn off drinking and all forms of fun. Perhaps that was her gripe with them as a sect -- they were far too uptight.

Tara's eyes sought her confidante, Ethne, whose gaze found hers across the bone fire and glittered with knowing. Her friend briefly turned to her husband, a whispered exchange, before shoving through the throng, which was quickly descending into merriment.