Once, in the days of yore, the Isles of Britain were dark and savage, peopled by the proud yet lethal Celts, Picts, and Britons. In time, after their Roman occupiers came and went, civilization abandoned by the Romans began to form anew amongst the scattered clans. As wanna-be Conquerors tried time and time again to take the isles for themselves, the nations of the isles slowly grew stronger, and their faith turned to God. To the west, in Hibernia, A brave, stubborn Welshman by the name of Patrick slowly led his former captors into Christianity. In the wild, misty highlands of Caledonia, a strong-willed Irishman travelled among the battle-hardened Pict tribes, spreading the word of Christ, later becoming known as Saint Columba.

To the south, in the cold, murky plains of Britannia, the Roman-Catholic church had already taken root, not only in the religious orders of Britannia, but also in its military force, dominated by local noblemen. The chivalric code, once at the center of nobility's core principles, had become a joke, only followed in court; pompous, self-serving knights became a frequent sight in the villages they had once sworn to protect, committing atrocities with the women, and slaying any man, woman or child that stood in its way. Any incident that made its way to the courts was quickly pardoned by the King, or bought out by Papal indulgences. The day was rapidly coming when Hibernia and Caledonia's humble ways of life would come into conflict with the corrupt and powerful Britannia...

Even before she heard the thundering hooves, Eothain O'Skye knew that something was not right. Everything in the forest stood absolutely still; not even the birds were singing. Of course, this could have been that they knew she was hunting them, but still... Eothain silently got to her feet, her long fair hair stood out in contrast from the deep greens and grays of the oversized woolen cloak bundled around her. Underneath the borrowed cloak from her father, her faded and finely-patched tunic almost blended in with the wall of bushes she was hidden behind. Beneath the deep hood of the cloak, her brilliant and intelligent green eyes flashed through the underbrush ahead of her, looking for signs of disturbance. A long layer of broken blades of grass, where a doe rested, most likely with child. A few faded paw prints in the loose dirt, a few days old at most, most likely a fox on the prowl. And- she froze, her hand frozen in the act of reaching for an arrow from her quiver slung across her back.

There, in the clearing, just a matter of yards away,  a majestic stag stood proudly, watching her boldly, as though he was daring her to strike. "Lord Almighty, guide my hand well," she muttered, as she drew her arrow, fitted the notch to her bowstring, pulled back to full strength, and with a soft exhale, she released, sending her arrow hurtling towards her prey. The arrow flew straight and trueas it pierced the ribcage of the stag, sending it to its knees. As it lay dying in the grass, Eothain drew her small, worn hunting knife from its sheath, and drew closer, ready to put the noble beast out of its misery. Until she noticed something. something small, shallow, yet to her, almost seemed to blare out to all the world. On the stag's flank, faded with age, was the King of Britannia's brand. She had just poached the King's deer.

 What happened next could only have happened in a nightmare. Slowly, fading into earshot, came the sharp tramping of hooves. Eothain could tell, what was approaching wasn't just another of her neighbors coming home for the night.  Nobody in their town could afford to readily shoe their horses. Warhorse, she thought, terror rising swiftly in her mind. Poaching from the King's deer meant imprisonment, at best, and at worst... She shuddered. Many a tale was told in the villages she visited of disgruntled knights pillaging neighbor towns, burning them to the ground, and carrying off the survivors to who knows what.

Before she could vanish into the foliage around her, a tall, armored figure on horseback rode around the bend, hunting spear at the ready. His visor was sealed, he wasn't looking- oh kark. Across his shield, was a simple black foreground, a crimson stripe slashing across it, and in the center, a roaring lion's head, golden and gleaming in the low light of the forest. And he was looking straight at her. It's okay, he can't see me, I'm invisible, I'm- stepping back, she stepped on a branch, snapping it loudly. the knight's helm whipped in her direction, locked on to her. All hope of escaping unnoticed just left with the soul of the stag.

 The knight's horse snorted disdainfully, almost as if tasting her scent- nodon'tthinkofitdon'tthinkofit, and pawed the ground tentatively, searching for Eothain in the foliage enshrouding her. Cursing herself for her foolishness, she crouched deeper into the bushes, trying to find an escape route, any escape route. As the horse slowly trotted forward, iron-clad hooves tearing into the ground, Eothain reached back into her quiver and grasped a smooth, willowy shaft, its stiff fletching brushing against her fingertips. It was a crazy idea, but it would give her time; time enough to get back home, but not enough to- She drew the arrow, set it to the bowstring, drew the arrow back to just under her ear, full draw, and with a half-exhale of breath, let the arrow go, sending it hurtling across the slowly closing ground between her and the rider, and- the arrow smacked into the thick iron breastplate of the knight, sending him toppling off the horse with a strangled gasp. The arrow didn't penetrate, but it bought her time. That armor looked pretty heavy, and no man, no matter how fit, would get up from that position very quickly. With that, Eothain promptly slid into the underbrush, amid the muffled cursing in the direction of the fallen knight, and vanished.

By the time Eothain reached her village, she feared she was too late. Everything seemed normal; the town smithy was billowing with the sounds of Edoras the blacksmith busy at work, hammer clanging and forge roaring; the marketplace wasn't particularly busy, a decent-sized crowd billowing around the vendors; but there was still something wrong, she could tell. As she troubled over what it could possibly be, a heavy hand clapped onto her shoulder. "You're in trouble."