Two warriors step in front of the door behind Moz, and reach out to grab him as two more approach the silver bowl and the knife.

Attempting to avoid the hands, Moz stumbles back avoiding one, but into the grasp of the other. They grab him tightly, but, twisting and squirming, Moz manages to slip out of their grasps. Seeing no escape from the longhouse, as the two warriors block the door, he runs behind Angus. Peeking around the barbarian's leg, he says, "Wolfpack, defend your Alpha!............Please?"

Cat-Sith follows along to stand beside the Barbarian. Unfurling his wings the Sphinx utters a low growl flashing his fangs, his claws glowing softly with moonlight.

As the Druid mutters and chants, waving his arms, Moz feels a heaviness start to drag on his limbs. For a moment he thinks he cannot move. But then he realizes that he can and the spell is broken.

Angus stands between the warriors and Moz, proclaiming with a harsh bite, "He is a foreigner and a fool! Unaware of its importance." He gives Moz a stern look and places a sterner hand on the goblin's shoulder. Moz feels Angus's grip go from stone to iron as his rage begins to burn. "I will remove the foreigners from the longhouse and we can resume the ritual."

Gloved and garbed, Alorin steps between his friend and the Druid, and warns the latter, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Whether or not he meant to steal Kromac’s sacrifice for Sheogorach, it’s not all that different from your own appropriation of Nuada’s silver. Are you telling me that you would wage war now in Kromac’s name on all the Old Gods all at once in addition to the Flame? Are you sure Kromac would approve of such a lack of tactics? Or perhaps Druids of Kromac are less well-versed in war than I thought. Think carefully before you act, Druid, lest your actions offend Kromac himself. Regardless, there has been no harm done, and it is in your interest to let the Emerald Fool walk, rather than pick a needless fight here. What else would you expect from a servant of the Trickster? If you pick a fight at every drop of the hat, you will only bring destruction to your tribe, not glory to Kromac. Instead, I’d ask you to leave this to us; we’ll talk some sense into this Fool as we travel.”

The Druid glares at Alorin, pulling himself to his full height. "Did I not accept your vow to Kromac? Who do you think Kromac is? I am his authority here. You do not have the authority to decide what Kromac's will is. Kromac demands vengeance on those who offend him. This fool was offered an opportunity to participate in our sacrifice, and returned it with theft and insult. If you would take it upon yourself to atone for this, I will give you a means."

He nods to the warriors blocking the longhouse door, and to Angus with his hand on Moz hiding behind him. "Give the Servant of Kromac the knife. Let him drain the Fool's blood as he deems just, and it will be offered in our sacrifice. And then we will forgive your offense, Fool, this one time. But next time, you will die to appease Kromac's wrath. Now you cannot claim ignorance. Do not offend us again."

The warriors still block the door, but one offers the sacrificial knife to Alorin, and the other one holds the bowl out to receive Moz's blood.

Looking up at Angus's defense of him, Moz smilies ruefully. "I see why Nuada choose you," he says, patting the barbarian on the butt. "It's alright big guy, this was a test and congrats you passed. I will explain after, I got this."

Stepping past Angus, Moz looks the Druid in eye. "Okay, Dog Faced Boy, you win this round. Gimmie that bowl." Snatching the bowl from the warrior and holding his cut hand over the bowl, he squeezes his hand causing a steady trickle to flow into the bowl, all the while maintaining eye contact with Druid.

After a few seconds and a decent bit of blood. Moz relaxes his grip, handing the bowl up to Angus to give to the Druid. Pulling a strip of cloth from his pouch to bandage the wound, he glares at the Druid. "There. I hope your flea-ridden Master chokes on it."

Turning to look at the warriors blocking the door, Moz says, "Move aside, before Nuada's Chosen moves you."

Alorin takes the sacrificial knife from the warrior, but seeing as Moz has already bled himself, he deems the sacrifice sufficient. Still holding a steady and calm gaze on the Druid, Alorin says, “I don’t seek to offend, but I must speak up for mine when I must, as I would speak up for any of the warriors or druids here if they needed me to. I hope Kromac finds the blood the Fool has spilt to be sufficient atonement.“

At this point, Alorin lifts up the knife, clocks Moz on his temple, and says, ”And you, learn to control that mouth a bit more. Don’t put us into these positions again.” As he lowers the blade, he quickly and lightly nicks Moz roughly where the marking to Sheogorach would be on his face, and holds up the knife so the blood is visible to all, including the Druid. He smears the blood over his own throat, cleans the blade and hilt, and returns it, hilt-first, to the warrior who gave it to him earlier. The entire time, Alorin keeps his calm eyes on the Druid.

The warrior accepts the knife from Alorin, and holds it up high. The other warrior steps up to take the silver bowl from Angus, now partially filled with Moz's blood, and also holds it high, before he hands it to the Druid. The Druid holds the bowl in both hands, and for a moment, looks like he is raising the bowl to his lips, as if to drink--perhaps in the stead of his god--but he doesn't, and then he turns, and carries the bowl, holding it up high, back towards the fire. The smoky longhouse, thick with the smell of blood and incense, seems just as full with the fur-clad warriors, many of whom have shed their furs now, their bare arms and torsos glistening with sweat in the rising heat as they chant loudly, beating drums.

The two warriors, one holding the knife, step away from the door, leaving the party free to exit, and follow along with the chanting procession which the Druid heads with the silver bowl. The Druid stops in front of a a shadowy alcove at the back of the longhouse. Three skulls sit on a slab of stone--crude, but a recognizable place of sacrifice to Kromac. A great bear skull sits in the middle, and two wolf skulls on either side. They have been leaned back so that their jaws are open. Amidst the loud chanting, the Druid pours the contents of the silver bowl over the bear skull, letting it pool into the bear's bony jaws. At the same time, another man, not as burly as the warriors, and dressed in something like a robe, perhaps an acolyte of sorts--pours a jar of bear fat out over all three skulls, mixing with Moz's blood in the bear skull. Then he hands the Druid a clay dish of embers from the fire. The Druid takes it in his bare hand, the orange light burning against his face, and he flings the embers across the skulls. The fat bursts into flame, consuming the blood along with it, with an awful smell.

The Druid's voice, loud, and commanding, louder than it should be from the back of the longhouse, rings out, filling the space, booming over the sound of drums and chanting, and even those outside can hear him clearly.

"I command you, MOZ. By virtue of the sacrifice of your blood offered to Kromac, I lay on you this Geas, in atonement of the crimes of your Master Shegorach the Shub and his offense of slaying the Green Man and bringing woe and Vague to Skye from the Land of Fairy. You will not take any harmful or hostile action against any member of Clan Lochlann, nor against any Druid of Kromac, nor against any other follower, rite, or ritual of Kromac under the authority of any Druid. You must also offer, on the day of the New Moon of each month, the death of a life in blood to Kromac, under the guidance of Alorin, the Servant of Kromac. On pain of this curse you are bound to fulfill these injunctions. This Geas binds you until the Druden Day of this year. Let it be done!"

The warriors scream in a frenzy, the drumming and chanting reaching a fever pitch, and the silver bowl and sacrificial knife begin to make their rounds as each man drains his blood together into the bowl.

Moz the Magnificent 

Rubbing his temple where Alorin cuffed him, he gives his friend a grin. " We both know that I can't make that promise Alorin." Watching the Druid preform the rite placing the Geas on him, he rolls his eyes at the Druid's proclamation. "Ugh.... always with the Green Man, hardly fair to hold that against me. Do I hold the time Kormac humped my Master favorite footstool against you? Even the most powerful magics couldn't get the stains out. We had to throw it into the Nine Hells."

"So I can't hurt you, any member of Clan Lochlann or any other Druid or follower of the Great Leg Humper. I can't mess with any Rite or Ritual to your mangy dog. And I have too feed him once a month.... okay, okay." Scratching his chin. " I work with that. Should be fun walking that line." Clapping his hands. "Well since I can't mess with your rituals, I shall take my leave and you can all return to your sacred butt smelling." 

Uttering an arcane word he changes the illusions encasing him so he has a colorful face painting of wolf on his face. As he leaves the the longhouse, Cat-Sith walks beside him, his voice echoing in Moz's mind. " The Master will be displeased with this development." Looking down at the Sphinx "I know, I know, I will burn that bridge when I cross it."

Stepping outside he walks over to where Neris is standing with El and the baby. Holding up hands with his fingers slightly curled. "Grrrr I'm a wolf. Grrrrr." Dropping his hands with a laugh. "Angus, Alorin and I are a wolfpack now. Oh and the Druid put a curse on me."

Rivyre observes Moz strutting out of the longhouse seeing the image of wolf tatoo all over his face. She suspects this is probably another illusion similar to the one she discovered when tending to his wounds @ Lorchan's home the night before. Illusions, Lord of Luck, Master Shegorach, & Land of Fairy. As more information is said & discovered around Moz's antics, Rivyre is becoming more convinced he is not who & what he says he is. She suspects the truth will be revealed sooner than he wants...., but she'll continue to wait for the opportune moment.
"Grrrr I'm a wolf. Grrrrr." Dropping his hands with a luagh. "Angus, Alorin and I are a wolfpack now. Oh and the Druid put a curse on me"  he says as he walks up next to Neris.

Rivyre repsonds, "Yes..., a rather powerful blood curse as well & usually bestowed willingly." She pauses a bit & continues, "You stayed to participate in a ritual w/ Angus & Alorin. Then from what I "barely" overheard you were accused of stealing homage to Kromac, proceeded to taunt & insult the Druid again, & now you have this powerful curse placed upon you though I do not know it functions. Have you learned anything from your behavior w/ these people?" Rivyre asks in a serious & thought provoking tone.

Moz the Magnificent 

Stroking his chin as if deep in thought, "Hmmmmm no....not really..... i guess if I have to pick something, it would be not to get caught next time..... ya, that would be it." Confidently grinning. " Question for you. Now that we have a Holy War on Skye, that will likely lead to the deaths of hundreds, some of whom will be women and children. Do you think you should have listened to me when I suggested killing the Druid? You know instead of risking Holy War?" He asks wide eyed, head cocked to the side. 

Moz the Magnificent 

Looking away from Rivyre before her reply. He turns back to Neris. Looking down at the baby with El . He looks up at Neris. " So what are you doing next? Want to come with me and Alorin? He is responsible for this little poop machine now and is going to need some help. He is going to need me to watch his back and keep him out of trouble." Leaning with a fake whisper. "Sometimes he makes rash decisions." Leaning away and giving her a wink. " And you seem to have a level head. Plus I need someone else to talk too."

Rivyre looking very disappointed in that answer begrudgingly replies, "Not quite the answer I was looking for though certainly not unexpected either."

Rivyre pauses for a second but already knows her response to those other questions. "Firstly, knowing the situation where we're in now perhaps leaving him for dead in Kromac's Clearing "could"  have avoided all this. Although Lochlaan Warriors could have discovered his body, his dead guards, the broken altar, & we'd still have a dangerous situation. Unfortunately, there's no way of knowing."

"Secondly, there is no Holy War yet. There is the potential it can still be avoided..., & yes the deaths of innocents especially women & children indeed weighs heavily. My hope is Sir Lorn feels the same way when I find & speak with him of the situation. That talk has many potential outcomes...., some of which neither of us will like. But there are too many variables to be conclusive of his actions."

“Go preach somewhere else, Rivyre. Moz is talking to me.” Valanthe says annoyed the Rivyre butted in with her usual preachy nonsense. All that righteous talk hadn’t worked in the longhouse and it wouldn’t work out here.

”I don’t care if these humans want to go to war with each other anymore. I’ve realised there is nothing we can say or do that will change that. Instead we should focus on what we can do - and that’s taking this baby to Eladria.”

Turning to Valanthe, "Moz asked me a couple questions, & I answered them after he turned his attention to you. That's not preaching as far as i'm aware."

Moz the Magnificent 

Pushing his jaw, that just dropped back up, he looks to Neris."Oh Snap, you go girl" Shurgging his shoulders and holding his hands up helplessly to Rivyre.

Turning back to Neris " So Eladria, eh? Always wanted to go there. Do you all live in trees and dance and sing?" Looking at her with wide eyed wonder. Grinning suddenly, "That could work the child would be pretty safe there." Putting his hand to his chin. "Problem is the Elves, as you know, are fairly isolationist. Do you hve any pull with powers that be in Eladria? "

“Well, duh - of course I do. What about taking the baby to the mainland instead then? We could find an orphanage there. That’s probably better than growing up among boring old elves.”

Moz the Magnificent 

"Oh ya the mainland that could work." He says slighlty crestfallen at the thought of not visiting Eladria, as he tucks a scroll labeled 'Elf Jokes' back into his pouch. 

" I agree talking isn't going to stop this war. This fight has probably been brewing for awhile and just needed a spark. Towing this bundle of joy around a soon to be war zone is probably not the most responsible parenting, but I spent my formative years in a Fey Court so my understanding of the mortal world is lacking." 

"Maybe Sascha knows of a place on the mainland."

"A place on the mainland, for a child?" Sascha asks, thoughtfully. She mused on it. She had had one single, desperate thought before.  and that was still an option, albeit a poor one. Beyond that,  she would need to think further. She  took a breath as she thought it through.

"Perhaps there's someone in my family's household that could take care of her.  Geldstadt is still safe, for now... Of course this child also comes from odd circumstances. It's possible that she's mageborn, and if that were the case, the Amethyst Academy would probably be willing to see to her care, given she'd eventually become their responsibility regardless. We'd need to take her to an academy member of some sort for that. I don't know, beyond that. I imagine there's systems funded by the church in some places?"
Sascha ran her hand once again through Solis' mane. Her question about the church directed at Rivyre. She assumed the Flamekeeper would know if the church did anything to aid children in need.

"I think getting her as far from this conflict as possible is a safe bet, regardless, the mainland is still safer for now, even if she's still with one of us." 

Rivyre replies to Sascha's answer, but addressing everyone outside,

"At least from my own experience I have never known the church to turn anyone away, so that is certainly an option. Though I seem to recall that wasn't a popular idea amongst some of us here. I would never seek to force the Sacred Flame on any man, women, or child..., so lets table that as a last resort for the child if we have no other options."
"As far as Lady Sascha says the child potentially being a mageborn that is certainly possible. Although as far as my understanding, a mageborn isn't identified until early childhood usually around 5-6 years old if i'm remembering right. The Academy mages at the Starspire Observatory here would be more apt to make that diagnosis if magical prowess can be detected earlier."

After some heated debate and a wary glance back at the chanting raucous coming from the longhouse, the party reluctantly agrees to table the fate of the child for the moment, and try to overtake Sir Lorn. Catching him on his magical mount is deemed to be unlikely, and so the party decides to take the risk to try and get to Enniskillen via the mysterious and dreaded Fairy Roads.

Alorin knows of a fairy road named Skipping-A-Derry, the entrances to which are outside of Darryl and Enniskillen, respectively. But this fairy door is on the other side of Darryl. Anxious to make time, the group, with the exception of Sasha on her warhorse, piles onto Beef's sled. Syletha leaps up onto the short fluffy back of the fae cow, and with a word from Angus, Beef leaps into pursuit along the slant of the longhouse hill, south of the river confluence, the sled flying on a steep angle amidst the trees, valleys, and roadways that crisscross the heart and spokes of Darryl with a dexterity that is likely not a possible feat for a mortal cow. She avoids the more densely populated workshops and woodmills, finding her way in and between the tracks of logging sleds, and crossing over farm fields and hunting grounds. Skye is a wild place, under the common grazing law, and neither fences nor hedgerows are in style here as they have become in some places on the continent. So Beef's path is untrammeled, and of unnatural speed.

The snowy countryside winds out of the forest, and around the eastern farm lands of Darryl. The Emerald Trail, broad and built up onto a dike over that winds through the hilly, snow-covered fields, takes up its course from the port of Darryl out here into the farmlands, where Beef's sled joins it. The brilliant sun lights a clear sky, with no shred of mist, fog, or cloud to mar their way, the freezing air pulled into a breeze from their swift passage chilling and numbing the most well-furred and wooled of limbs. Farms stream by, cattle and horses huddle in barns and byres, farm workers dressed in layers of wool and furred caps repairing roofs and breaking ice to water stock. The bare branches of rows of cultivated orchards stretch into the clear sky. And the ring of axes and the jingle of harness sounds from every copse of forest woodland.

Alorin peers ahead, keeping an eye out for the landmark he remembers, the small, thatch-roofed tavern that makes a meeting place and rest for travellers and local farmers alike. Then he sees it, as the road winds along the edge of an enormous apple orchard, acres in size, the small, rough-barked trees clustering up to the road as the dike flattens out and a crossroads of several farm tracks meet the Emerald Trail. Even the snow here is churned and mixed with mud, as if this area sees heavy traffic even in the winter. Smoke puffs prodigiously from a wide stone chimney in the thatch-roofed cottage, and a sign hangs from a post out front. A faded painting of a gloved lady's hand holding a doily adorns the sign. The lacework of the doily, if you only glance, seems to present in a pattern that hints at a smirking face, but if you focus on it, the sensation is lost.

Moz the Magnificent 

As the sled comes to a stop in front of the tavern, Moz hops out with a big stretch. Looking up at sign, he gives it a grin and a wink. Looking back at the others. " Alorin says this is the last port of call before the Doorway. I don't know about the rest of you, but I need some travel rations. I was supposed to quickly pop out, snatch a baby, bring it back to my Master's Court, bada boom bada bing, drinks with the lads by nightfall. So I didn't really properly prepare for an extened journey."

Looking at Beef and Solis. " You guys may want to grab some feed for those two. Once on the fey roads I saw a cow eat the wrong thing and the next moment, it was climbing a tree and doing a surprisingly good job of it."

Leaning down toward the baby swathed in the basket beside Alorin. Making a funny face and voice "And we need some stuff for you my little stink monster. Some bottles, changing rags, clothes, blankets, toys, food and that basket can't be rated for sled travel. Yes we do, you cutie smelly beast." Tickling her under the chin. "Remember that Uncle Mozzie is the fun one." Giving her a wink. Looking up at Alorin "She needs a name. What about Mizzie? It was my Bibi's name." Looking back at the baby. "Little Mizzie the Marvelous, has a good ring to it."

Alorin

Alorin gets off the sled and takes a careful look around, focusing on the path branching off the Emerald Trail that leads to Malkin’s Door. He pays attention to any signs of  fey influence, and the shrine he knows is hidden along the trail. (Perception: 13+7=20)

At this point, he hears Moz, and nods his head to agree. “Hmm, you’re right, we might need to pick up a few things. But let’s see who we’re dealing with before we piss more locals off, shall we? Something about this place tells me the people running it aren’t your regular clansfolk.”

“As for a name, I’m more partial to Cassie. It’s what my mother used to go by. Well, shall we, then?” Alorin picks up the baby and urges Beef (in Sylvan) towards the stables beside the tavern. 

Moz the Magnificent 

"Cassie? Hmmmmm I like it." Reaching to tickle Cassie's chin and in a baby voice says " Did your Daddy give you a name. Yes he did." Sniffing the baby, his nose crinkles up. "Smells like someone needs a changing. Don't worry when we get inside Uncle Mozzie will Prestidigitation all that stinky poo away." He then stands back up and follows Alorin toward the Tavern's door.

Alorin easily spots the roadside shrine, a small structure with one wall holding a painted, gilded, and aged portrait, a weather-beaten wooden roof, and a small stone slab underneath for offerings. The shrine is only a few paces down the Emerald Trail from the crossroads of the farm tracks by the Quivering Doily tavern, where the eaves of the great forest proper take up alongside the road for a short distance. It marks a very faint track that leads off of the Emerald Trail and winds quickly away into the eaves of the wood. It's so faint, under the snow, that it would probably be invisible even to Alorin's practiced eye, did he not have some familiarity with the road.

On the tavern side of the crossroads, groves of apple trees raise their stark, naked black branches into the sky, and on the shrine side of the crossroads, the great forest looms stoically, bare and snow covered branches certainly part of its overhang, but evergreens of all sorts mixed throughout it create a dense canopy to overhang the faint track into the woods.

Beef pulls the sled around the tracks heading towards the back. No proper stable is here, only copious wagon and cart parking at the side of the orchard, with hitching rails, posts, and tie-offs. Two empty logging sleds are parked here already, each with a double team of oxen who stare balefully at Beef from under their yokes, pausing in their chewing on a small pile of straw, their limpid eyes staring unblinking at her.

Into the tavern the party goes, Alorin striding confidentally in with the babe in his arms who, as if on cue, begins to wail. Cassie wrinkles up her little face in discomfort, taking the party's attention away from the modest but cozy little tavern, sprinkled with tables and benches rough-hewn from logs, and a prodigious hearth and stone chimney with a well roaring fire. The thick walls of the building hold in the heat well, and everyone dressed in their furs from the outside cold immediately begin to sweat from the warmth, as if they'd suddenly stepped back onto Buttercup Lane.

Four large, muscled men sit at one table, their fur cloaks cast to the side, their leather, fur-lined caps sitting on the bench next to them. It's easy for everyone to see that these are logging men, rough and weathered farmers taking a meal break. Long locks and beards plaster to their heads as they stop midway from shoveling hearty bowls of some sort of stew or pottage into their mouths to stare in open-mounted surprise at the party bustling in with a crying baby. The youngest of them says, "Well, what do you be doing with a youngun out here? Has something happened? Who's hurt?" At the young man's words the four look ready to leap into action.

And a middle aged farmwife, wrapped in apron, headscarf, and long woolen dress, also looks up from the large pot she is stirring at the fire. Her face looks like it is normally sour, with the wrinkles one would expect from a hard life worked in the fields and over the fire, but it too has melted in amazement. "Here now!" she says. "Just you lay that wee one on the table here. What in Skye has happened that you're traveling with such a babe? A day old and no more, if I see it right! What do you need?" She bustles over to take Carrie from Alorin, cooing and fussing at her.

Alorin

As the farmwife walks up to them, and the loggers clamber to their feet, Alorin gives them and the tavern a quick glance, looking for any sign of their identity and affiliation - clan markings, religious symbols, or other iconography or objects. (Perception: 7+7=14)