Mórrígan felt nothing more than the weight of a club beneath her hands. She swung it right and left, a heaving mass that crunched as it smacked into her enemies - or her friend's - heads. Each hit altered the noise, and gave a new cry of death to the sound of screaming men.
The night was cold, and black. Each gust of air was shattered with screams, and with each breath she sucked in, Mórrígan could feel another death. It was warming, and in her icy dreamland she felt as warm as if she was sitting beneath the sun. But what would be the fun in that? Why would she sit beneath the sun, warm her hands in her long black hair, when she could fight beneath the moon?
A man streaked towards her with a yell in his throat and a sword overhead. Mórrígan swung her club in a circle - aiming for as much momentum as she could push for - and smiled as it struck its mark in his gut. His weapon fell to the ground as he clutched his gut, and she turned away from the mess, swinging her club in a circle.
"Here, in the night, is where the I reign! I call the shadows, I dance with the winds, I rule with the night!" She raised her hands above her head, letting the cold air smack her in the face.
She could not imagine a better place to be. Mórrígan lowered her hands, and picked up the club again. As she looked around herself, she was pleased to see that her personal favor - whoever was fighting? She had seen this
exact battle so many countless times, she could not tell herself who was fighting who - for the side she had chosen was perfect. They were winning, and as far as she was concerned, going to finish the battle.
Mórrígan tossed the club into the air. She would not be needing it, now that she was done fighting, and let it fall back to the ground - precisely from whence she had picked it up. With that, she let herself shape-shift into the form of a crow, taking to the air and flying above the battlefield.
As she did, she found herself considering her life once more. What was there to it? Here she was, the only Celtic God she had known of in the Ages since she first fought this battle, and yet she was all alone. Her mother - may she rot in whatever hell she had found - had hated her so much. And for each Age that turned when she lived with her two sisters, the only thing Mórrígan had ever wished for was a way out.
When it presented itself, she was so scared to take it. She was too young to take to the lands on her own, and there she found herself. But for what reason? Why had she not followed her two sisters to the grave - was that not the easiest choice? And now, that was all she wished for. For each death she gave, for each sword she would swing, she could never die herself.
It was her hell and her heaven, all in one blend, all the same battle.
The crow dipped closer to the battle, about to land in a tall oak tree when she saw a blast of light. A perfect storm, the right change in the wind of death. Before she could do anything - before she could blink, breathe, let alone notice the light - it consumed her.
When she did remember it, she was nowhere near the battle as it was raging. Mórrígan opened her eyes, and yawned. She was already bored. Where was the death? Where was the smell, the long trail of purple smoke, anything to lead her to where she was supposed to be?
Mórrígan stood up in a moment - she ached, true, but only her wings...which were not there, but for good reasons, she assumed - and looked around herself. Everything had changed. And to what purpose? Where was she? She looked into the distance. The sun was glimmering against glass sculptures, and she cocked her head to the side, squinting.
"Burn my eyes, where do I stand?" She looked around herself, trying to piece together the puzzle.
A solitary oak tree stood by her. At the ground was a quarter-staff. Mórrígan raced to it's side, kicking it up with her feet and snatching it from the air. She looked at it, eyeing the wood. It had been carved to be perfect for herself - a grip precisely where she liked it, with runes snaking up the side.
At some other point, I will translate this, or I'm not the Goddess of Death... However, more important matters are at hand.She shifted into the first animal she could think of - which took a moment. The form bled through slowly, but then she was standing tall in the form of an animal. She was not sure which one; that was the question. Whatever it was, though, she let it run towards the city.
Mórrígan was surprised to see how long it took to get to the city. Why had it taken so long? It had never before been so long, but there it was, more than the few moments she had ever had to travel. As she neared the glass buildings, she looked into the reflection; there stood a black mare, mane swirling in the wind. She shifted back into her 'human' form, also taking longer than she wanted, though when she saw it in the mirror she gasped.
It was truly a human. No longer an immortal being's favorite form, but a human. Her hand tugged at her braid, pulling at it, trying to see if it was real, and the head-ache she was given told her it was real. Mórrígan screamed with frustration.
This was hell! Forget an endless battle, this was what was
truly hell!
She picked up her quarterstaff - she had not remembered taking it as the mare, but it had arrived with her nonetheless - and her eyes caught a look of a small gold scrap beneath the staff.
"Perhaps I did not carry it at all," she murmured, picking up the paper with it.
"Mórrígan Brisdeah, your presence is required at the building in the center of town." Celtic runes? Her eyes strained to read them, but indeed it was. And that her mortal eyes could read it surprised her.
Mórrígan sighed, and decided she was to see what was happening. The path to town slowly unfolded itself. As she followed it - a small purple smoke stream? She missed the sight of it, but she could not imagine being summoned
just to kill someone - she watched her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a black leather skirt, falling just to her thighs, along with a loose corset that had deep-plum colored embroidery throughout the boning.
At least I'm not wearing pants.The building she was sent to turned out to be a school. She stared at the students milling around its campus, but continued to follow the smoke line. It led her through passages that were seldom used, and for what purpose she could not imagine. But she continued walking through, to where it shot into the wall.
Mórrígan stared at it, even daring to smell it, before taking a leap of faith and slamming herself into the wall. She stumbled - having expected solid matter - and fell to her knees, before pushing herself to stand up. She was not alone, it seemed, as she stared at the man who stood before her.
"Pray tell, who do I have the pleasure of knowing?" she murmured, daring to approach. This unfamiliar standing, wherever she was, she wanted to know who this was.
"I ask for a name, and the pleasure of knowing what brings you here." She slammed the quarterstaff into the ground, so that she could let go of it.