The Eryn Swordsmen

May 21, 2009
By Anonymous

My name, Connor Bain, I’m a drunk of the Emerald Isle on his seventh year past his decade. More specifically, Dublin. I suppose my story should include the three most important details of being one of the “lucky people”. First, if in the north you’re Catholic, if in the south you’re Protestant; second, if you’re a Brit don’t speak, death comes quickly to those who pledge loyalty to the red nation around here; & third, if you ever see me, and your eyes tell me you have no green blood, my Cleaver, Vengeance, will taste blood.

At this point, you should be asking yourself why a seventeen-year-old carries around a two yard sword. Well, other than being taller than it, that’ll be my business. More importantly, you should be asking why religion would matter; you’re probably thinking it’s even stupidity that two sections of one religion would matter. I used to think like that, when I was a child. I was also spanked as a child. But when I became a man I put away childish things.

I imagine you’re a tad confused now. Maybe I should elaborate the significance of Ireland’s situation, before divulging the rest of my own. The year is 2009, the people are laden with violence, and the country is torn apart by war; a war of Protestants and Catholics. I am one of the Irish Republican Army, Catholic. However, I’m the only one that doesn’t use a gun, and isn’t dead.

The politicians and the public side of the church say there’s no need for violence, and that our organization is just a terrorist group. But the drunken people, my people, know better; the I.R.A is the only hope for our independence. The damn Protestants still want the rule of the blood-army over us. But as long as Vengeance is whistling and I have breath in my body there will never be a Brit in our government.

I guess you’ll want to know how Vengeance got her name. I’ll tell you, but repeat the words you read and she will have your blood. When I was six my uncle took me aside and said I had to learn to fight, so he handed a wooden long-sword and showed how to use for the next seven years. But when I turned thirteen he and I were called out on a stealth mission, our specialty was stealth. We were supposed to set a dummy-bomb in the British embassy; I thought it would be no more difficult than any of our missions, but my uncle knew better, I saw it in his eyes and the sword he gave me.
So, as we set the bomb and were leaving the building thinking we’d done a good job, we were approached by the Bobbies. From there… well, let’s just say it involved my dad, a stolen police bereta, three quick shots, and my uncle’s dead body. Since then I vowed my sword would make my vengeance.
Today I’m on a mission to infiltrate the Protestants’ head quarters, intercept some kind of information, and only come back when I have that information. The whole way I’m thinking how I always do, how much I want my father’s blood. As I reach the destination I scan it over; it’s not where I’m supposed to be. And before I can turn back to my motorcycle to reroute, I see the man I’ve been hunting for so long; the first man who taught me to fight; the man who left my mother; the man, that I only call so because of our blood relation, known as my father.
I keep my tone indifferent, “Where you been?”
His tone reflects mine, “Japan.”
“Was it nice,” I finger my sword.
“Fantastic,” he quickly un-sheathes his Katana resting in his belt.
“Good for you,” I’m even quicker with Vengeance from my back.
“Well, let’s get it over with,” he doesn’t even care.
We start to circling each other until we simultaneously charge. I’ve got the size and reach, both with my sword and my body; I’m even faster than him when we have no swords. However, his one-yard Katana is faster and lighter than Vengeance, but he’s slightly out of shape and a little shorter and weaker than I. Well Vengeance, one last fight…

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