Correna is a recent import to Rifts Earth from an alternate dimension. She hates her last name, but forces herself to go by it due to her sense of pride (until she discovers the correct name, she refuses to wear any other, lesser name, prefering to keep the obvious pseudonym than to 'disgrace herself so'). The name was originally changed to protect the family during the Clan Hunts of the previous 200 years, but now the knowledge of the original family name has been lost, although the clan plaid was saved. Correna is on a lifelong quest to find her true name and to rebuild the clan, to restore and preserve the spirit and traditions of Ireland. One of the most major disappointments of her life was when she realized that although she was a bard, she lacked the talent to learn the druidic powers/lore. When she was transported here, she saw a dragon flying and thought that she'd been granted a vision and stepped into the Otherworld. She now realizes that this certainly isn't the Otherworld of druidic tradition, but rather a mangled mess of every legend, children's nightmare and worse that she'd ever heard of. Or not heard of in most cases. ======================================= Correna was pouting again. "Feach! C‡ bhfuil an ag istigh?!" "Correna, bespeak thy'sel in Anglish, ca’lin. Bad enough ti' be abranded by the music o' thy tongue without callin' doon the wrath o' the Hunters. And we're here because _some_ young _lady_ couldna' hold 'er flapping tongue still in 'er head when bespeakin' ta the landlord, so tha' kin kindly shut thy harpy's mouth." Colum sighed heavily. Why ever had he offered to make an attempt at raiseing the young hooligan was beyond him. The monk had had a very nice, peaceful life of contemplation before she and her brother had stopped by the Abbey. And those blasted horses! Oh, sure the mare was right peaceful enough, and none could fault the boy's Connemaragh save for bein' easy to covet, but that stud! 'Twas enough to have every bandit and Englishman in Ireland after the pair. Oh, sure, he was right meek enough around the lass, but let someone else try to so much as lay a hand on the bloody huge monster and ye'd be lucky to escape with half a skin. If it wasn't for the younger lad's obvious dedication to becoming a priest.... Oh, who was he trying to fool? He'd been more than happy to leave and go traipsing around the country to teach the lass properly and he'd been selfish enough to claim the right to train her himself, even though one of his students probably could have done it near as well. But age has benefits and besides, fewer tongues by far would wag at a lass travelling alone with an aged monk. (Not that he hadn't pointed that out...) Correna had more raw bardic talent than the abbot could shake his cane at and there was simply no way that she could be trained at the Abbey. The nuns would have absolutely nothing to do with a girl of her ...background. Not that she wasn't chaste enough for them, but they were used to a much more placid existance and weren't up to dealing with such a throwback to warrior blood. So he had in truth brought this upon himself. Correna continued pacing around the small campsite. "Couldn't we have at least stayed in Ireland?" she asked again. Having dealt with this question at least 4 times in the last hour, Colum continued stirring the stew without bothering to answer. A saint like his namesake he was not. He pondered idly (yet again) finding some poor fool to marry her off to, but a) even he wasn't so cruel as that, and b) he'd not wish to have the death of the lad on his conscious. "Correna, sit _down_. Wearin' a trench around the camp may improve th' drainage, but tha' boots will have enough to do tomorrow without bein' worn out in a night. Have some o' this stew and calm thy'sel. After supper ye kin do thy bitch'n ta the horses. I, for one, am goin' ta sleep." With that, Colum wrapped himself in his blankets and attempted to sleep. ----------------------------------- "I wonder where Colum is now," she murmured to herself. It seemed but yesterday that she'd been tramping around various countrysides with the monk and here it'd been three years since he'd left her with Finn to complete her training. Colum had done a good job in the limited time he'd had for her bardic training, but it'd been high time to further her less passive skills. She'd always been determined to become a warrior-bard like the heroes she'd learned to sing of and while three years of bladework had sharpened her tongue almost as much as her skills, at least she'd gained a bit of sense of when not to use it. "Hah! Colum would never have believed it, much less my da." The thought suddenly sobered her. The Hunt had claimed her da not long after Mama’ died of the lung fever. Da'd made her promise to protect her brother and not to follow him that day, before he'd wheeled his fine Thoroughbred and led the Hunters a merry chase. Correna had sworn not to _follow_ him, but listening at the tavern that evening had given her the infomation she needed. She'd found Rosie first, half-skinned with a few steaks torn from her haunch. At least by the look of it she'd been dead first. Her father hadn't been so lucky. It had taken Bannerman Gansthai a _long_ time to die. A coldly vicious smile crossed her face at the memory. At least her da had died with honor, which was more than she could say of his Hunters. She'd memorized their gloating faces that night in the tavern, showing off the usual left ear and right forehoof trophies. Memorized them, and let them burn further into her soul every night that passed. It'd taken years to get them all. She'd been but a lass of fourteen summers that evil day, but she had granted herself the right to be called a woman after she'd tracked the last one down. They'd treated her da as their twisted minds treated a 'worthy prey', she'd treated theirs as less than carrion. "Hah! Them and their 'True Hunter's Death'!" Correna had been thorough, oh yes, most thorough in the study of her prey so that by the time she'd caught up with the first, she'd known the exact manner that would be most horrific, not in her mind, but to that of the Hunters. Leaving them with their flesh unclean and unable to be reclaimed in that disgusting ritual of theirs, unable, in their minds, to pass on to the Hunting Grounds. Flesh trophies were only taken from worthy prey, so she had taken none. Rather, she'd taken their own precious tribal medallions, branding them as outcasts and the lowest possible scum. Five of them she had hanging from her belt, five heavy, ugly bronze markers for each year of her life she'd spent on revenge. And after those years were up, she'd forced herself to complete her word and honor her promise to her brother. It was truly amazing to her how the same family could produce both her and Aidan. His name might mean 'fire' but it was a flame of priestly devotion rather than the quicksilver temper and spirit of Correna. Aidan had fought long and hard for that promise after she'd vowed revenge on the Hunters, trying to convince her not to sell her soul down the same road that the Hunters themselves travelled. As hard won as that promise was, giving up the bloodlust had been far, far more difficult, even as tired as she'd been of the mess. It was then that they'd gone to the Abbey to start anew. Correna had been determined that Aidan would get the proper schooling for the life he was so obviously designed for, but what she hadn't bargained for was Colum. After talking her brother into the Abbey, she'd been happily minding her own business crooning to Aodhadarragh as she worked on his road dust when the meddlesome old monk had popped out of nowhere, scaring her half out of her wits and nearly getting himself killed by a pair of steel-shod hooves and a rather odd, rather sharp sword for his trouble. Correna snickered to herself again at the memory of his startled face. He'd then had affrontry to demand that she undergo bardic training in return for her brother's schooling! Little had he realized that he was merely handing her what she'd wanted most all her life. Correna sighed. And as one thing led to another quicker than a dog chasing her tail, now she was here, on a rocky hillside far from Ireland, preparing for yet another expedition with the mercs that the man calling himself Finn Mac led. She was well and truly sick of being in their company, if truth be told. To her, mercenaries were a mere half-stride before a thief. She listened to the subdued clamor of the breaking camp and made her decision. At 25, it was high time that she cease this pointless roaming and set about her true mission. Her clan name, her true bloodname was waiting for her, somewhere in this world. She at last felt she had the skills she needed to finally unearth her heritage out of the forgotten past, to rebuild the clan that would someday drive the Hunters from the world and restore the true Spirit of Ireland. With a murmured phrase in the Irish to Alanagh, she looked once more back at the camp and nudged Aodhadarragh down the opposite side of the slope. "We'll just cut through these trees and..." Her voice faded out abruptly as the trees around her wavered as if caught in the heat-currents above a campfire. The world around her was no longer her world. A chill, empty land surrounded her now, white glazed and windswept.