Brochmael's hospitality is grand and his laughter infectious. I fall from my seat on several occasions, tickled to no end by the wit shared at our intimate board. The pork and beef laid before us are the finest I've ever tasted, and the mead is particularly special. In many cases I empty each cup in my first draught! Somehow, this makes our amusing discourse all the more amusing. I throw my cup at the cheeky kitchen boy, ordering a refill, in my finest British. I am in rare form, indeed, and my mood is only beginning! I've only the first of my charms tonight, and I've not yet begun this night of celebration, and I'll not forget cunningry!

How this room is greater yet smaller, I've not yet memorized. Yet stunning the torchlights, merry my lord Brochmael and happily engaging is my lord Brochmael. Verica, too, is she. "Where is that boy with my lord's cup?" I answer suddenly.



Great ancestors, Amlaidh... Have you forgotten the geis your mother Gormflaith placed upon your head the day you were born? Enter not the house of a laughing lord, for there is weakness in his integrity.

But despair not in your folly, my son. Your heart, enslaved by this daughter of Cruithne, has bested your wisdom, but your devotion does you credit. Remember my Nine Songs, also sung to you the day you were born, forever protecting you on your winding way...

Another man may not call you his bondsman.
The sídhe shall never do you ill.
The river's rage will calm at your crossing.
The hearts of your enemies will turn ere delivering you a felling blow.
Goibniu's Fire will burn the fetters that hold you.
Manannan will ever be your servant.
The bitter cold will not claim your life.
Your path will appear even along the darkest of roads.
When you sing before kings, it will be with the the fair tongue of Angus Og.

The Ancient Ones are with you, always, my son Amlaidh.