The Chronicles of Devlin

This is meant to form a backstory for my nation leader on OB's Imperium Nova site. I'm the Irish Celts, and I share the island with Onyx. The story begins four years before the start of the events of the game, with this prologue.

Enjoy and comment

Prologue - Battle of the Southern Coast

Deep peace of the running waves to you.

Even from shore, the boy could see the boats of the Britons dashing through the open sea. Their thin wooden hulls sent the water ahead of them off to each side, causing a foamy wake. His green eyes locked onto one, the one heading directly towards his section of the beach. It was barely a mile and a half away, and closing very fast. He was scarcely 16, and this was his first time going to battle. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. Sweat dripped down his forehead, into one of his eyes. He blinked to get rid of it, and could almost see the droplets flying off his face.

Deep peace of the flowing air to you.

A cool wind swept across the beach. It picked up loose patches of sand and sent short streams of it down the shore. It rustled the grass near the boy and the other Celts, creating an eerie atmosphere that permeated the night. The boy inhaled deeply through his nose. The lack of humidity, and the recent gust was making for a cool and crisp evening. He exhaled, and opened his eyes. The boats were even closer now.

Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.

It hadn't rained in weeks. Fog hadn't even spread across the land. It was an odd weather pattern, and one that had rarely been seen before this year. It was almost as if the land itself had been preparing for this inevitable battle. The scent of blood would travel for miles in these conditions, prompting wolves to come. The bodies of the victors would be buried, of course, but the Celts had already decided against burying their enemies here. If they won this battle, this would be hallowed ground.

Deep peace of the shining stars to you.

The boy looked to his left, and to his right. To his left, a massive line of Celtic warriors, each several ranks thick. They were armed with longswords, clubs wrapped in strips of iron, heavy axes, and thick wooden shields. Some wore iron plate armor on their torsos, others wore only thick, woolen pants. Blue symbols decorated their arms, faces, and chests, designating their own clans and families. To his right, stood his father. He wore a thick, gray beard, and ornate armor, complete with chain mail. The man looked to his son and smiled. He put a strong arm on his shoulder. The boy felt slightly reassured. It meant a lot to him that his father thought he was ready to fight for his clan.

Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you.

The Britons had nearly reached the shore. "Devlin," said the boy's father, "I want you to know that I have faith in you. I know that you will do well on the battlefield, and that you'll share this victory with our clan, and all the others." He took his hand off Devlin's shoulder, and turned to face the army of Celts behind him. "I know all of you, who have banded together on this night, will do well to push these bastards back to the sea!" The crowd began to cheer in response. "I know that years from now, our grand children will tell tales of the clans who did not give in! Who will not give up! Who will live to die as free men!"

The Celts were in a frenzy now. They cheered, and hollered, and jutted their weapons up in the air. Devlin smiled. Nobody could rally a crowd like his father. He turned his attention back to the shore. Boats were moving directly into the sand, and stopping several yards in. Britons jumped from either side, carrying swords and axes. They were still struggling to organize, less than 100 yards from the Celtic lines. Devlin's father drew his claymore from his scabbard.

"FOR THE CLANS!" He screamed as he ran forward. The rest of the men, including Devlin, followed suit, drawing their weapons (if they weren't already), and joining his battle cry. The chariots from the other side of his father were the quickest out, and soon led the charge. The Britons were trying to force a defensive line ahead of themselves, but they simply didn't have enough time. Devlin was among the first infantry to reach them. He swung his sword at the first man he saw.