Curdled Blood, Twisted Seed

About Andraste Cliodhna of Nottingham

Part one

Not many knew about Andraste Cliodhna. Off the top of her head, she could only name one; the witch. Well Mortianna was dead now, so that made Andraste almost non-existent, which in her mind was just as good as invisible. She kicked the cold crumpled form that had fallen against the doorway, confirming once and for all that the wicked devil worshipper was in fact no longer living. She placed the toe of her boot on the witch's nose, mashing it down and moving it to and fro. She had always wondered how the skin stayed on the old hag's bones.

As she was rifling through the folds in the Mortianna's clothes, trying to stomach the stench of death and portent potions, she heard it. It was a deep, hollow groan so filled with agony, that she felt her soul was about to rip in two. And not just from the pain of any man: she recognized that voice.

Trembling, she kicked open what was left of the door, looking around at a nearly empty room, taking special care to inspect the wrecked altar. Then she heard the moan again, this one softer, or weaker. She tripped over herself to get to the seemingly lifeless figure by the window. He was a tall, exceedingly pale man, with the greasiest black curls fallen in front of his face, quivering slightly as his breathing grew more ragged with each swell of his breast. There was blood gushing from a wound just below the fatal spot, and Andraste blanched as she realized she was walking through a large puddle of his 'life-water'. Robin Hood had missed killing him by mere millimeters. His eyes flickered open as she stood above him. They were bloodshot, the whites of the eyes turned pink, which contrasted disgustingly with golden hazel irises.

As The Sheriff of Nottingham (George was his real name) struggled to open his eyes for what he was sure would be his very last time, he saw what appeared to be a young man, aged about fifteen, hovering over him. His wild imagination flared to picture thousands of different possibilities, each one turning out to be more horrible then the last.

The boy's almost emaciated form was wrapped in a tartan of robin's egg blue, with white and violet lines criss-crossing about it. Underneath the tartan was a midnight blue velvet shirt, skin tight and matched by a pair of leggings under the lad's kilt. The hilts of several daggers stuck out of his boots, and a white cat-o-nine-tails was coiled at his side, the deadly ends stained red with blood.

With the last ounce of his strength, he pulled away from the person in front of him, scrambling back a mere two inches before his arms and legs gave out. He could feel everything going black, and as his sight faded, he issued one last word of loathing.

"Celt!"

"Celt," Andraste grumbled to herself as she struggled down the steps, the sheriff of Nottingham in her arms "I'll show you a Celt and put you in front of a mirror..." She stopped dead as she heard voices outside. As an instinct, she pressed herself hard against the wall of the tower, looking down at the sheriff's hastily bandaged wound. The black cloth that was torn from his very shirt was starting to grow wet and sticky. She didn't have much time.

She had hung around the campsite long enough to recognize that Robin Hood was speaking to his brother. She did not know his brother's name, arriving only with the Celtic mercenaries and lingering behind afterward. Soon their voices faded into nothingness. With great embarrassment, She realized she was sweating and breathing hard, her bright blue face paint starting to run. If the two had just listened more intently, her and her burden would have certainly been found.

She shifted her weight, bending as she laid the sheriff on the steps for a moment. She straightened and cupped her hands around her mouth, wincing as she nicked a cheek with one of the spikes on her gauntlets. Andraste hesitated, and then let out a loud, clear, and rather convincing crow call.

The seconds ticked by like hours, and Andraste felt an uneasiness in her stomach that would not go away. Her mind was racing in circles, telling herself over and over again that they wouldn't come. And in reality why should they? Sure, she was a Celt like them, but they had been from Gaul, and she had traced her roots to Dublin, two very different places. Andraste had regretted the moment she snuck into their camp. They were lewd, barbaric, and disgusting creatures, and she hadn't tried to hide her recoil from them. She hadn't opted to pay them when she announced her plan to save the sheriff either, just tried to sway them with strong words. They had been paid to go after Robin Hood's camp, but would they do the sheriff another favor without gold?

"Shit, they're not coming..."

But then, very quietly, but still present, there it was; the responding crow call. They were here! Andraste actually laughed out loud, holding her hands up above her head and twirling about. She stumbled and fell back against the wall. Somewhat sobered, she heaved the body of George of Nottingham up into her arms again. She sorely wanted to hoist him over her shoulder and make it easier on her, but she knew that would only agitate the wound more.

By the time she reached the cart outside, the strain and the winter's cold had cramped up her hands, she rested him on a hefty pile of straw next to her, sitting back and massaging her joints. Behind her, a horrible baying started up. She turned about to see half a dozen Irish wolfhounds all looking at the sheriff hungrily, a malignant gleam in their eyes.

"Wotcher preshus cargo, swee'art," Said one of the older thugs, as he tore some unknown meat off of a rather large bone. Andraste shuddered, having inherited her wild imagination from her father. Maybe it was her, but that bone looked an awfully lot like a human femur. "Careful da dogs don' ea' 'im," He continued, showing his blackened teeth "Dey can smell de blud."

"Oh," She retorted brightly, "That's wonnerful, now if you wouldn't mind handing me my kit, so I can fix him up?"

Almost grudgingly, the old man pulled out a wooden box with a sloppily painted up-side down cross on it. Below the head of the son of god was a pentacle, and the words 'heal ye or fear ye'

"Pardon me snoopin' m'lady...boot aye...I wuz lookin' a' dat 'ealin' kit o' yorze..dat's debil worship dere, dat is," The man said, wiping his hand off hurriedly after she took the box from him, as if touching it would infect him. Andraste smiled darkly.

"Oh aye, the pictures may be those o' devil worship, but that's just to deter people from opening it. Our gods, the druid gods o' Eire, do not worship evil, nor do I."

Having sufficiently shut the Gaulish man up, she unclipped her tartan sash from her belt and laid it down on top of another generous pile of hay. Like all Scottish and Irish warriors' clothing, the sash doubled as a wool blanket. She carefully shifted the man from one pile to another, hastily undoing the makeshift bandage and pulling out clean, spotless strips of cloth. But then, something she wholly hadn't expected happened. George of Nottingham opened his eyes and spat, giving Andraste the evil eye.

"I hate Celts." He hissed, watching her as she wrapped the bandage about his chest.

She pulled her eyes away from her task for just a moment, glaring back at him. George would have jumped back if he had the strength. Her eyes were the same shape, size, and color as his. Yes, he recognized her features to be that of a girl's now, not to mention the lack of sash revealed her velvet garbed bosom. She had curly black hair, tied back into a braid, and sallow, tall face with pale skin.

"Aye, and if you say that, you must mean you hate yourself as well," She said with a tone of great conviction in her voice, "Father."