• The McCafferty clan never could shut their ******** mouths. I was telling myself that, although they were a bunch of drunken dickless nobs, they were fighting along with us. My name is Cearbhall Ó Deorain; I am actually an Irishman, born and raised till the age of 10,when, to my good misfortune and the amelioration of the Scots, my village was raided and my parents slain. So here I am, in Scotland, with these bunch of skirt sporting pansies, and prancing poofters.
    “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal son,”said Failbhe Seaghdha , holding a bloody rag in one hand, and a blood-stained battle-axe in the other. “I would have figured you to be as good as dead!”
    Failbhe is my brother, so to speak. His family found me after mine was brutally beaten, ravaged, and finally slaughtered in the raid, and took me in as one of their own.
    “You better bloody believe it’s the prodigal son! Hell, what did you think, I was gonna just keel over and take the easy way out? Hell no!” I chuckled, “Of course I’m still alive, I’m Irish!”
    “Aye, and just like the Irish, you’re bloody stubborn too!” He laughed, as did I for a few moments. Afterward we rested our arms on each others shoulders and hobbled off the gory, sanguinary, and lurid battleground.
    We sat down in the encampment and shared gruesome tales of past battles, and argued about who killed the most bampot down southern caliachs.
    Well, things were finally going our way.