Woad made its blue stains on his face, "Und Lait oos bless yoor kingdoom oon this wahrld."
He prayed to Thair, the King of Gods and Mortals, a Picttish God unfound, unrelated to, uncomperable to any God of the other nations. Thair was so powerful, all things began and ended with him, who created every other god from his son Rhuth to his rival Klessus, that he nearly rendered the other gods useless, he could be seen as the beginning and overseer of everything. Except of course imperfection, and such was for Klessus. The other gods were little more than errand boys for Thair.
The small chapel was built of thatch, it was as much a hut as anything else, and it stood in the middle of the woods. The fire was burning down to cinders, the worshippers may not leave until it had, and it was now that his duty here began to end for this day, he went and fetched the uisce bethad, the water of life, lifted it up to his lips and drank his bit, the drink burned the throat, purification, he told himself. He passed the cup around and put what was left on the altar.
Druithne led the procession out of the chapel, they found their weapons where they had stored them in the walls of the chapel, for weapons could not be brought into the presence of Thair.
For Druithne it was a sword, for dozens of others spears or bows would suffice, they made no vows about their weapons, only about their service, to Thair and the King.
The sunlight glittered down on them in this, one of the few chapels left free of the cruel Islish heel.
Druithne wondered how much longer his brothers would tolerate this.
For him, the answer had long since passed.
.
