Chapter 12-349: Resolve of the Irish (1/2)

Even The Mick’s knees wobbled at that welcome. That was literally hundreds of thousands of /voices slamming down upon all of them in totally sincere and hopeful welcome, and likely the most shocking and momentous moment of their entire lives.

His Banner popped over ten feet more, too.

There were tears coming down faces, none of them watery clear. As one, the Clanners all stood up, and with their Liege, roared back at the whole Allegiance, “BLOOD OF THE IRISH!” together.

Those standing to the side and looking on their weeping kin and comrades knew they’d just missed out on something awesome, and if a little disquiet and regret filled their souls, that was totally by design.

They were looking at The Mick, and now they could see him clearly, laughing with them, crying with them... and they could see the Monarch’s Mantle about him.

Old Man Kregor went to his knee again quietly. In eerie and sudden silence, the rest of the Blood of the Irish did the same.

The Mick took a long, deep breath, and nodded once.

Duty. Loyalty. The ties that bind between those who do not share blood. They could all feel it, and they could feel HIM.

Give him their Loyalty, and he’d not fail them.

Then they looked over at me, shook a little bit, blanched, and looked away.

Damn crazy Jesus-girl is right, /floated out from more than a few of them, which I raised an eyebrow at, glancing at The Mick, who only shrugged shamelessly.

I just chuckled, as Windwise swirled out of misty shadow next to her Banner, in front of the Wrapped and those with a lot of spite and malice in their souls.

Every Irishborn there, which didn’t include me, as Elrii had actually been born in France, and I technically in America, looked over at her and recognized the Pact with the Land.

More, they recognized that she was Irishborn as well, which startled just about everybody.

I flipped up the words, as she could not.

“This is a Warlord’s Vow, to one who will lead you in battle. If one day you seek to rise to an Oath and become something more, that is on you.” They all looked over at the Blood of the Irish, feeling an unspoken wall having risen between them. They couldn’t see it, but the rest of us could

“Take a knee.” There was no hesitation at my words, probably shame overriding any resentment.

“I, your name,” I began, leading them in the Vow, “a Child of Ireland, do swear to follow Windwise, Warlock Grandmaster of The Jet and the Silver Acknowledged by my Mother Land, to battle and to war, to fight and to serve, until the fighting is done, on this day, before Gods and Mortals!”

The Vow crystallized, and they looked up expectantly.

I saw and heard all of them gasp as they looked at Windwise. Their eyes were shaking as they turned their heads slightly, looked at me, and then hastily looked back at her.

Windwise smiled as her Banner rose slightly. All of them swallowed, and their eyes all fell as she looked from one to the next, one after another.

That towering hatred and resentment and thick-as-blood orneriness was quashed with a shiver of fear. They looked around at her, and then around in their own little section of the Markspace, and knowing /glances were being sent their way from other people there... who weren’t all that much different from them.

Then they could look Out There, at everyone else, and Up There, at me, and see the differences laid out starkly before them.

And they could look over at the Blood of the Irish, and see the difference there, too, in who they were Sworn to, and the Lord at the top of that stack.

It didn’t take much to see where they’d rather be, but it was equally obvious they didn’t belong there...

“Congratulations!” said Shvaughn in a very Irish accent, heavy with schadenfreude, dark eyes gleaming. “Mayhap someday, you’ll be a better person than I and you’ll get an actual Monarch that’s worth a damn. In the meantime, you’ll be reporting to Me.” Her knuckles popped loudly, and they all flinched at the memories of a lot of broken bones /flitted past them. “I have direct ways of dealing with attitude, and they tend to be painful, perhaps even lethal. You behave yourselves, and we’ll get along fine as you try to get strong enough to become a roadbump in front of me.

“If you have plans of lying, cheating, stealing, ganking, backstabbing, and the like, please, proceed with them! I will kill you slowly, take everything of yours, and burn it away for my own benefit. No muss, no fuss.”

There were /flickers from the ones out in China that she’d done exactly that at least fifteen times. A few of them had taken a whole hour to die, and everyone got to watch everything before she sent the soul of the traitorous, greedy idiot up into the Shroud to enjoy damnation there.

The newcomers all swallowed.

“You EARN the right to have a decent Monarch. Until then, you get the glory and wonder of dealing with ME.