Mighty McQuealon's Quest

The mighty Wulfbane McQuealon embarks upon an epic quest to rid the northern moors of the hellish demon hounds.

In the faraway places over heath and hill, over moor and over water, lay a land untouched by the far-reaching arm of Man. The world grows dark, for Man be a beast in his heart, made mad by greed and deceit - any land he touches is tainted by his blood and his evil ways. But in that place there was only calm and tranquility; beauty made greater by the grace of God.

Even the most humble and the most pure of the race of Man has in him a heart of evil, deep-rooted as it may be; lying in wait to be released, contained only by the strength and fortitude built by the goodness of God. Such strength can contain this darkness for years, even lifetimes, but those who are weak and let it slip out from time to time, allowing it to rear its head every so often, weaken their defenses. It takes hold. The good slowly falters, its light fades. The darkness envelopes it, and it is gone.

But is it really gone? Surely every man has a chance at redemption, does he not? Even the most evil and malicious of sins can be forgiven, can it not?

Hear my voice, and listen! We have heard songs of wars and kings from the Bards of old, tales of great beasts by our fathers, legends of warriors great and ladies beautiful; hear we now the greatest of these - the tale of the demon hounds of the Northern Moors, Mighty Wulfbane McQuealon, and the white ghost Fionúir who became his Queen.

Our tale begins...
 
Loch Scáthach was the largest of the Lochs in the place that was called Futland; and a place of evil it was. Horrors unspeakable came from its shores. Evil goblins and mystical beasts came from its depths and the caves that surrounded it. To one side, the sea - great and unfathomable, its waves as ferocious as the monsters that swam 'neath them. To the other, the moor - grey, desolate, bereft of life save for a few roving bands of rogues belonging to that accursed wandering race, the Gipsies. Upon either side lay the Caves of Cuchlun, in which were stashed all types and kinds of worldly and sinful treasures holed up by the godless buccaneers and marauders of the sea.
 
The sea was forgiving to none save for the strong. Wulfbane McQuealon was one of these. He was a mighty warrior, the son of a King, the heir to a throne of greatness - he had but to prove himself once more in battle against a terrible foe: The Demon Hounds of the Northern Moor. McQuealon's means of travel to the moor were uncanny - he'd disguised himself as a corsair and joined a ship heading north for the Lochs; when they found out his disguise, however, he was thrown overboard. His strength prevailed over the sea, however, and he survived.
 
Our narrative continues:
 
McQuealon dragged himself up onto the sandy beach, gagging on the salty water and spitting grit from his mouth. His fur cloak was sopping wet, and it weighed him down; he tossed it from his shoulders onto the sand and sat up as straight as he could. The wound on his forehead stung from the brine, and his feet and hands were going numb.
 
But he was not a weak man. Never may it be said of a McQuealon that he sat down upon a beach and did not get up when there was something to be done. Never.
 
'Twas a short walk up the hill, but the weight of McQuealon's chainmail was soon felt, mighty man though he was.
 
He pressed on for miles across the moor until he came to a gipsy's camp. Shared a light repast with the kind old man, he did, then went along his way with a full stomach. That lifted his spirits, but his face remained grim. He was hunting - hunting a foe noxious and evil.
 
As he trudged along his weary way, he heard the howls of the hounds of hell, their triumphant scorns to heaven and the God that created it echoing across the desolate moor. A heavy fog fell, and McQuealon felt the Devil walking alongside him. But he clung to his faith in his God, the Almighty Creator, and continued onward through the evil place.
 
"I hear yeh, fell demons!" cried he, drawing his mighty claymore. Its light shone bright in the darkness, blinding the eyes of the demon hounds that surrounded him. Though he could not see them, he felt their hot breath upon his back - despite the heat of his mail, a cold shiver ran down his spine; but may it never be said of a McQuealon that he trembled when danger reared its head. Never.
 
"I hear yeh and defy your leader. Come out of your slinking in the shadows and fight me to the death; for I am not a patient man!" The Sword's light glowed brighter as his courage grew greater.
 
His senses hightened, his muscles flexed, his mind sharp... he was ready.
 
The first of the hounds came rushing from the fog, its foul saliva and hot breath falling from its heinous mouth as steam and fire from hell. Elgarou was his name, for he was mighty. McQuealon was mighty as well, and that was evidenced by how swiftly he dispatched of this hideous demon-hound. The crimson blood sizzled on the blade of McQuealon's sword as Elgarou uttered his last blasphemies at heaven, and gave up his evil spirit to the depths of hell.
 
Likewise Grysldane and Fardlenon, the evil twin hounds fell at the hands of McQuealon, and thence Mikkelfar the Oppressor, Cacklhein the Foul, Morq the brother of Mikkelfar, and many others. Mighty McQuealon's eyes glinted as the evil bodies fell around him, their hideous strength no match for his mighty sword. 'Twas said that in McQuealon's hands alone there was the strength of ten men his size, and that with his chest he could break chains of hardened steel. The stories were obviously not exaggerated, for McQuealon felled hound after hound, and hardly broke a sweat.
 
He fought for hours against the hounds with no help, save for strength and fortitude from God.
 
But he knew he had not felled the last when silence fell over the moor. There was still another, lurking in the darkness. Leading from behind like a coward, but with the strength of a hundred of his kind contained within him: Goleor the Many. He stalked low through the fog, watching McQuealon as he sheathed his sword.
 
"Goleor. This is not the first time I have seen your face," quoth the Warrior. "So it has come down to you and to me, old adversary. Come; and let us fight like warriors were meant to fight."
 
"The Mighty Wulfbane McQuealon," came the hideous reply. Goleor's eyes glowed green and he barred his teeth. "Tonight you shall suffer in torment with my brothers in the place that they have gone. You shall not have a pleasant time."
 
"Ha!" laughed McQuealon. "Come, and let us see who shall suffer in torment. I have nothing to lose that I shall not recieve again threefold when I go to meet my maker. You, Goleor the Many, shall see your maker in good time, I think; and I doubt that you shall gain anything from it."
 
Goleor leapt into the air, hair bristling, mouth open. McQuealon stood his ground and swept the hound out of his flight with a hand covered by silver gauntlet. Kicked the hound in the ribs, he did, breaking three or four; Goleor ripped into McQuealon's leg, making him cry out in pain, but Goleor's jaws were no match for McQuealon's grip of steel. The two circled one another for a moment, then met again in a flurry of claws, jaws and mail, neither stronger than the other.
 
They fought for hours, blood mixing with the mud, the bodies of the other demon-hounds littered about the ground as the two exchanged blow for blow, cut for cut and yell for yell. At last, McQuealon, wearied and beaten down though he was, caught hold of Goleor's jaws and drew them apart so far they snapped end from end. With that, Goleor breathed his last and Mighty Wulfbane McQuealon had his triumph.
 
But no battle comes without a cost. McQuealon's loss of blood and exhaustion got the best of him, and he slipped into darkness. The rain fell and the thunder rumbled, and Mighty Wulfbane McQuealon fell deeper into a deep rest of silence. He heard nothing and felt nothing, save for the grace of God and his ever-present protection.
 
A band of gipsies passed by later on that night, and, seeing the slain bodies of the demon-hounds laying across the moor, rejoiced to heaven that the moor was now safe from the evil they had feared. It took ten men to lift McQuealon into the wagon, and even then they had to use an extra horse to aid in pulling it, but they knew they must needs revive their rescuer.
 
When McQuealon awakened, he ate and was revived; after thanking the gipsies for their kindness, he continued on his way North across the moor; his destination was unknown.
 
Or was it?
 
Surely every man has a chance at redemption, does he not? Even the most evil and malicious of sins can be forgiven, can it not?
 
Such were the questions in McQuealon's mind. He needed answers, and so he sought to find them. In his childhood he heard of a land where no man had been; where peace reigned and where no war could be found. McQuealon knew his days of fighting were over - his final task was finished, and he was free to return home as king. But he knew that could never be. Kings must fight for their throne, and McQuealon did not wish for that. So he continued on along the moor in search of that land, where he could find rest and peace.
 
He encountered one or two more gipsies along the way; all of them told him to turn back with great fear, for they said that the region was ruled over by a terrible white ghost that killed all who sought entry. But may it never be said of a McQuealon that he turned back in the face of death. Never.
 
McQuealon found the 'white ghost' and, perceiving that it was not a ghost but a frightened swordmaiden driven mad by the elements, talked and reasoned with her. He saw the good in her heart and sought to bring it out; for he was a kind man and a gentlemen at that, always respectful of members of the female gender. After calming her, he gave her food from the gipsies and water from his wineskin, and told her of the God in heaven. He told her of the Saviour as well, and of the bread of life and the living water, did the best he could to be salt and light. When he was finished, she was thirsty for that living water and believed.
 
And so McQuealon came to love her deeply, and named her Fionúir. They found the land which had not been touched by man, and built a kingdom there ruled not by McQuealon and Fionúir his queen, but by the grace of God in Heaven.
 
Their children grew strong in the faith, and after that their children's children grew stronger. The Mighty King Wulfbane McQuealon and his beautiful Queen Fionúir grew to a ripe old age, and died in each other's arms. Their deaths were mourned greatly, but the tale of Mighty McQuealon's slaying of the demon-hounds of the Northern Moors, his meeting of the white ghost Fionúir and the beginning of that mighty kingdom are told to this day in that place; that place where Man found God's grace and forgiveness, and lived happily ever after.