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The Lore Warden
On the sleepy Isle of Arran of the West coast of Scotland, a good 40 years before the birth of King Arthur, Callum Macgregor we studying late in the night in the hallowed library of Brodick Castle.
As a youth Callum was known to be a shy slip of a boy among his clansmen in the Gregor. Not possessing the stature of one warrior borne, due to his slight frame and sickly nature, he was often approached with motherly tenderness by the girls of his village. The clan chief of the Gregor knew all to well that this would way heavily on the boy as he reached manhood, so as with all orphans under his protection in the glen, he had sent Callum to the ancient seat of knowledge on Arran seven years past now, to study with the holy monks.
The holy monks were charged with protecting the few remaining texts and magi scripts of the free Gaels. Some of the works were ancient beyond immeasurable years, brought up from the four corners of the world, eons before the Roman Empire had looked to extend it's borders outside Rome.
The boy took his post under his charge from the clan chief and proved to be a studious and talented scholar, pleasing the ageing monks immeasurably by his diligence to duty. None of the monks ever had to look far to find the boy, for he spent every waking hour away from his daily abolitions and chores inside the library.
It was here that the Arch-Cannon Julian knew he would find Callum, as he came running up the cloister as fast as wizened old frame could allow. Bursting for breath he came crashing into the library, his tattered old hassock wet and sodden from the perpetual dismal weather, which had prevailed now over Arran for almost as fortnight.
"Callum!! Macgregor!!!" he gasped with failing lungs.
Sighting the old monk, Callum sprung from his desk and bounded across the floor to catch him as he stumbled thru the portal.
"What is it Holy Father?" forced the wide-eyed youth. He cast his eyes down the cloister to see a precession of tired monks in similar disarray breaking from their cells, throwing on their sandals and robe, fast approaching the library. It was then that the bells peeled and Callum had his answer. Intruders. Danger.
"Celts. droves of them.. boats. beaching. invasion." breathed the Holy Father as he regained his feet and the brothers of his order helped his tired bones into the library.
"Rest Holy Father", "Fetch father some mulled wine".
"No Time" Julian admonished. "We must move the Sacred Scrolls, and we must move them now!!"
"Holy Father no, we can protect." offered a one monk, but he was cut off.
"NO!!! We have no guards!! Jarrack our last caretaker passed away 2 years ago, we MUST move the scrolls before the cursed ones breach the village and seize them."
All the monks gathered nodded sagely, though a hushed dread whisper spread among them. In over 600 years had the most prized possession of knowledge in Scotland, known only to the few as the Sacred Scrolls, had remained in locked seclusion in the castles vaults. Few knew the real name of this collection of musty works, fewer still could read their ancient scripts, borne out of a language long forgotten, but their prophesy, words of power and teachings were deemed so important to the history and culture of the peoples of Scotland, that many a life had been lost through out the ages in their protection. Many more, to a man the monks knew, would be sacrificed tonight in that very duty of protection. This was their true calling, though none had dared wish it ever be proved.
With a haste borne out of passion for their lives work, the monks took to securing the Sacred Scrolls release. Taking with him Callum, and a handful of monks, the Arch-Cannon entered the vault and began packing the rolls of ancient vellum into the many heavy bound sea chests. The other monks took to the task of removing the most prized books from the library proper, favouring forgotten books of power, and magic, the wrapped them first in oiled-skins from seals, and placed them with great care and sadness into baskets.
Shortly the Arch-Cannon emerged, Callum and the monks bearing the heavy chests between them.
"No time brothers, move what you have to the boat slip now!"
As one, the moved out of the cloister, and into the open night carrying their precious burden with heavy hearts they made their way agonisingly slowly down to the shore. Casting anxious glances over his shoulder, Callum could see over the bay the dreaded gracefully carved prows of near thirty Celt longboats, pulled into the harbour. On these cursed sights his eyes didn't linger. instead passing glance to the fishing town beyond, where unholy flames were already spreading among the many ramshackle dwellings. Faint screams of the dying, muffled by the mist could be heard from across the harbour.
"They never stood a chance." Callum though bleakly to himself
Upon reaching the shore, the monks started packing and securing their precious cargo onboard a small, old sloop. Once the duty was complete, the Arch-Cannon dismissed the monks of his order, back to the library with the order to begin preparing burials of books in the catacombs. Leaving himself and Callum on the edge of the launch, the Holy Father imparted his last instructions to a scholar and a boy of sixteen summers.
"Take your charge son of the Gregor, take this boat and these works away from this place and away from the murdering hands of Hibernia. Sail as fast as god's winds will carry you, with the pole star to your back, and never turn back."
"Kneel Callum Macgregor! I anoint you Lore Warden and bless you with these charges. Protect them with your life, and never let them fall into the hands of any but our most holy and sacred brothers. May god watch over thee."
With the solemn ceremony complete, and his duties clear Callum arose and went to work rigging the boat for sail. Before he departed the Holy Father presented Callum with a gift of food and wine, and an ancient symbol made out of green stone, the likes of which the boy had never seen before. Callum placed this around his neck, as a symbol of his office as Lore Warden, and tightened the halyards so that the boat would catch wind to sail.
As the canvas whipped taught, and the boat began to run to sea the Arch-Cannon Julian called after.
"Sail straight south my son, to Wales, one there will be watching for you coming!!"
Finding the last confusing, he tended the boats ropes and tiller and speed out on his tack to open sea. Callum Macgregor, now Lore Warden of the most holy and sacred knowledge in all of Scotland bid a silent and grim goodbye to the Isle of Arran. He watched disappearing on the horizon, as the blaze from the harbour spread it's way like a fire worm, onto Castle Brodick. His home for seven years, tears rolled down his cheeks unabashed, as he grieved for the kindly monks, and their treasures of knowledge, now most certainly reduced to ashes.
Steadfast he turned his tears to the south. Caring not for thought as to his own danger, or how he would find a safe heaven for the Sacred Scrolls, Callum swore to his soul that he would live out his duties as Lore Warden and protect his charges with his very lifeblood, the blood of the warrior borne scholar. The Boy made course, straight for Wales.
Epilogue.
The Green stone of the Lore Warden began to glow as the cliffs of north Wales loomed. Sighting this strange occurrence, the grim faced boy accepted it, as a beacon of hope for his charge. On that dark brooding night, as he crashed his small vessel upon the beach of north Wales he looked up at the cliffs, and in a flash of lighting saw the one who was to meet him, wind flailing his long robes and wild hair, as he leaned on a great staff, atop which sat a bright eyed bird of prey.
Casting the bird into the wind, it soared down over the cliff, over the head of the boy; it gave a careening wail and flew out into the sea. Thus Callum met Merlin, who over the next fifty years would take in this orphan boy from the heart of Scotland, and raise him as his own son. Securing the Sacred Scrolls in druidic caves long forgotten, with powerful spells of warding, Merlin taught his adopted young apprentice and Lore Warden the arts and ways of nature. One such way of nature was for Callum to take a beautiful young maid from the valley and start a small family of his own. His children called Merlin grandfather, and he delighted on the young ones around him.
Though times were far from peaceful, Merlin's wards ensured that this remote part of Wales was untouched by the wars that raged. They were indeed binding their time awaiting the birth of one in Wales called Arthur, but that is another story.
On the sleepy Isle of Arran of the West coast of Scotland, a good 40 years before the birth of King Arthur, Callum Macgregor we studying late in the night in the hallowed library of Brodick Castle.
As a youth Callum was known to be a shy slip of a boy among his clansmen in the Gregor. Not possessing the stature of one warrior borne, due to his slight frame and sickly nature, he was often approached with motherly tenderness by the girls of his village. The clan chief of the Gregor knew all to well that this would way heavily on the boy as he reached manhood, so as with all orphans under his protection in the glen, he had sent Callum to the ancient seat of knowledge on Arran seven years past now, to study with the holy monks.
The holy monks were charged with protecting the few remaining texts and magi scripts of the free Gaels. Some of the works were ancient beyond immeasurable years, brought up from the four corners of the world, eons before the Roman Empire had looked to extend it's borders outside Rome.
The boy took his post under his charge from the clan chief and proved to be a studious and talented scholar, pleasing the ageing monks immeasurably by his diligence to duty. None of the monks ever had to look far to find the boy, for he spent every waking hour away from his daily abolitions and chores inside the library.
It was here that the Arch-Cannon Julian knew he would find Callum, as he came running up the cloister as fast as wizened old frame could allow. Bursting for breath he came crashing into the library, his tattered old hassock wet and sodden from the perpetual dismal weather, which had prevailed now over Arran for almost as fortnight.
"Callum!! Macgregor!!!" he gasped with failing lungs.
Sighting the old monk, Callum sprung from his desk and bounded across the floor to catch him as he stumbled thru the portal.
"What is it Holy Father?" forced the wide-eyed youth. He cast his eyes down the cloister to see a precession of tired monks in similar disarray breaking from their cells, throwing on their sandals and robe, fast approaching the library. It was then that the bells peeled and Callum had his answer. Intruders. Danger.
"Celts. droves of them.. boats. beaching. invasion." breathed the Holy Father as he regained his feet and the brothers of his order helped his tired bones into the library.
"Rest Holy Father", "Fetch father some mulled wine".
"No Time" Julian admonished. "We must move the Sacred Scrolls, and we must move them now!!"
"Holy Father no, we can protect." offered a one monk, but he was cut off.
"NO!!! We have no guards!! Jarrack our last caretaker passed away 2 years ago, we MUST move the scrolls before the cursed ones breach the village and seize them."
All the monks gathered nodded sagely, though a hushed dread whisper spread among them. In over 600 years had the most prized possession of knowledge in Scotland, known only to the few as the Sacred Scrolls, had remained in locked seclusion in the castles vaults. Few knew the real name of this collection of musty works, fewer still could read their ancient scripts, borne out of a language long forgotten, but their prophesy, words of power and teachings were deemed so important to the history and culture of the peoples of Scotland, that many a life had been lost through out the ages in their protection. Many more, to a man the monks knew, would be sacrificed tonight in that very duty of protection. This was their true calling, though none had dared wish it ever be proved.
With a haste borne out of passion for their lives work, the monks took to securing the Sacred Scrolls release. Taking with him Callum, and a handful of monks, the Arch-Cannon entered the vault and began packing the rolls of ancient vellum into the many heavy bound sea chests. The other monks took to the task of removing the most prized books from the library proper, favouring forgotten books of power, and magic, the wrapped them first in oiled-skins from seals, and placed them with great care and sadness into baskets.
Shortly the Arch-Cannon emerged, Callum and the monks bearing the heavy chests between them.
"No time brothers, move what you have to the boat slip now!"
As one, the moved out of the cloister, and into the open night carrying their precious burden with heavy hearts they made their way agonisingly slowly down to the shore. Casting anxious glances over his shoulder, Callum could see over the bay the dreaded gracefully carved prows of near thirty Celt longboats, pulled into the harbour. On these cursed sights his eyes didn't linger. instead passing glance to the fishing town beyond, where unholy flames were already spreading among the many ramshackle dwellings. Faint screams of the dying, muffled by the mist could be heard from across the harbour.
"They never stood a chance." Callum though bleakly to himself
Upon reaching the shore, the monks started packing and securing their precious cargo onboard a small, old sloop. Once the duty was complete, the Arch-Cannon dismissed the monks of his order, back to the library with the order to begin preparing burials of books in the catacombs. Leaving himself and Callum on the edge of the launch, the Holy Father imparted his last instructions to a scholar and a boy of sixteen summers.
"Take your charge son of the Gregor, take this boat and these works away from this place and away from the murdering hands of Hibernia. Sail as fast as god's winds will carry you, with the pole star to your back, and never turn back."
"Kneel Callum Macgregor! I anoint you Lore Warden and bless you with these charges. Protect them with your life, and never let them fall into the hands of any but our most holy and sacred brothers. May god watch over thee."
With the solemn ceremony complete, and his duties clear Callum arose and went to work rigging the boat for sail. Before he departed the Holy Father presented Callum with a gift of food and wine, and an ancient symbol made out of green stone, the likes of which the boy had never seen before. Callum placed this around his neck, as a symbol of his office as Lore Warden, and tightened the halyards so that the boat would catch wind to sail.
As the canvas whipped taught, and the boat began to run to sea the Arch-Cannon Julian called after.
"Sail straight south my son, to Wales, one there will be watching for you coming!!"
Finding the last confusing, he tended the boats ropes and tiller and speed out on his tack to open sea. Callum Macgregor, now Lore Warden of the most holy and sacred knowledge in all of Scotland bid a silent and grim goodbye to the Isle of Arran. He watched disappearing on the horizon, as the blaze from the harbour spread it's way like a fire worm, onto Castle Brodick. His home for seven years, tears rolled down his cheeks unabashed, as he grieved for the kindly monks, and their treasures of knowledge, now most certainly reduced to ashes.
Steadfast he turned his tears to the south. Caring not for thought as to his own danger, or how he would find a safe heaven for the Sacred Scrolls, Callum swore to his soul that he would live out his duties as Lore Warden and protect his charges with his very lifeblood, the blood of the warrior borne scholar. The Boy made course, straight for Wales.
Epilogue.
The Green stone of the Lore Warden began to glow as the cliffs of north Wales loomed. Sighting this strange occurrence, the grim faced boy accepted it, as a beacon of hope for his charge. On that dark brooding night, as he crashed his small vessel upon the beach of north Wales he looked up at the cliffs, and in a flash of lighting saw the one who was to meet him, wind flailing his long robes and wild hair, as he leaned on a great staff, atop which sat a bright eyed bird of prey.
Casting the bird into the wind, it soared down over the cliff, over the head of the boy; it gave a careening wail and flew out into the sea. Thus Callum met Merlin, who over the next fifty years would take in this orphan boy from the heart of Scotland, and raise him as his own son. Securing the Sacred Scrolls in druidic caves long forgotten, with powerful spells of warding, Merlin taught his adopted young apprentice and Lore Warden the arts and ways of nature. One such way of nature was for Callum to take a beautiful young maid from the valley and start a small family of his own. His children called Merlin grandfather, and he delighted on the young ones around him.
Though times were far from peaceful, Merlin's wards ensured that this remote part of Wales was untouched by the wars that raged. They were indeed binding their time awaiting the birth of one in Wales called Arthur, but that is another story.