Into the Deepest Dark Woods (Open)

[Dora Lynch]

((During her walk gathering firewood, Dora Lynch meets several people in the grove beyond the city, far end of her family farm. Bring a character into these woods and see what happens. Open to any and all.))


Into the Deepest Dark Woods

While her little boy Loomis was safe in the farmhouse, in care of her dear friend Widow Clemmer, Dora Lynch took a burlap canvas carrying sack and slung it over one shoulder and set out for the day, early on while the gray wolf light was upon the snow lands. She had tied foot covers on packed with hay and wound a wool scarf up and over her cap and mouth, hiding all her face but those two dark beady sharp eyes.


She trudged up Grover’s rise and down through the valley between Oak Woods and the Bracken Patch, with only the frosty puffs of her breath marking her passage in the air, as the deep footprints in the snow left her a track to use in returning. Her thoughts ran all directions, the here and now a given.


“Was a morn like this when I first met me good Clovis, me getting wood to supply Aegraine’s hearth without no cost; times was hard and I was stretched to me limits to make do with the money she give me. All she afforded, and it had to do. I seen him , that quiet man, Clovis. I was so scairt, I thought he were a bear or a wolf, him in that fur coat and hood. Twas the pipe smoke give it away, that he were human. That day he took over and done the firewood in trade for a mid day meal, which I were glad to cook and happy to keep his company. There are good men in this world and I had the luck to spend some years with one of the best, until he died too soon.” Her sigh punctuated the thought with a huge steamy exhaled breath, a white cloudlet in the still dark morning.


“Here be the tree where him and me first spoke. Here in the winter like tis now. And I am not sad, tis all good ; the past. Now I wonder, what is there left in this life to discover. In this land, in this very wood.”

Widow Lynch scrunched the burlap bag so that it stood open, to begin filling it with what sticks she could find, sweeping snow aside with a dead branch. That was how she missed hearing footsteps coming along the path, from the other direction. Someone was watching her and the feeling of eyes on her gave Dorie the shivers; she looked up to see what was there. “Hey ho; who go there?” she asked, a stout stick in hand, just in case.

[Martin lePower]

Christmas Presence; One of Three

by the players of Martin & Dora

“Dora Belle, ma belle, do you not know me? Has it been so long as that? “ What she saw was a tall cloaked man, outline of a Viking raider, his long fur wrap dragging along so he left no footprints behind.

Dorie squinted her beady little eyes, sharp in even the half light of a winter morning. “Bad Mike! That be you? But you are dead and gone, buried and rotted away! Begone evil spirit!” She made the sign of warding with her both hands, shaking with both the cold and that frightful thing before her, her fist husband. Bad Mike was what she called him to his face and it was the nicest thing folks ever told about that scoundrel. “Come sneakin’ up on me like you done the first day I seen you, you…you monster!”

It had been a lovely spring afternoon, when a very young Dora was out plucking herbs from the forest edge and gathering greens to supplement the village stewpot. War, then sickness had winnowed the little settlement of Wheatly Hill down to a dozen of survivors, who lived as one family, cooking and doing the farm work together, trying to get the village going once more. She had not noticed an extra shadow on the field, changing some of the wild flowers to a darker shade. The wind was light and away from where the intruder approached and she noticed nothing until it was too late.

“Well, well. I think I will pick me a flower from this field.” There was an ominous chuckle as there he was, just like that, in a snap. Dora Crotty whirled about, a bunch of wintergreens clutched in her fist.”Who be you? This here is Wheatly Hill land; you need come to the crossroads, if you wants to get directions, stranger.” What she saw was a tall man, six feet and more, long fur cloak and armor all dented and banged up. A real fighter. His helmet had horns on it, or maybe they grew from his devil’s head. At the moment she was too afraid to think on it. She dared not run, as he had weapons and from the blood caked fist wraps, he was none too reserved to use them weapons. “I be Dora Belle Crotty. You need to leave to the crossroads yonder, to get to the city beyond.” She pointed away, thinking to make a break into the deep forest as soon as this dangerous person looked away.

“To the cross roads, ye say?” he gave the direction a fast glance. “I thank you, girl. “ With that Mike tossed a gold coin near Dora but off to one side. There had not been a coin of any kind in Wheatly Hill for years and the glint of gold in the clover got her attention. “You welcome, sir.” She turned a it, reaching out for the coin and in a flash got hit in the temple with his hand. There was a blank space until Dora woke with an aching head. She was already tied hand and foot, flung over Bad Mike’s shoulder and being loaded onto his ship, anchored at the river’s mouth.

“Quit yer screamin’ gal, I am gonna have the captain marry us; you be honored. I got me any number of women but never married none before.” Married? Was that it was? A few words the captain spoke and Dora got a brand burned on her backside. Now the screaming began, in earnest. For years it went on, the beatings , the hair pulling and that ever present demand for a son, a son that was never to be for Bad Mike.

“How come you back, Bad Mike? Didn’t the devil want you in hell where you belong?”she spat as she pronounced his name. The dead do not walk. It was not real. But then, here he was. She saw him; heard him and yet it was all different. She did not feel the lash this day. He had not kicked her. Ah, there was some good in him being dead, for certain.

“Dora Belle? I am a wanderer; I am cursed. Cursed to find one person I wronged to give me forgivness; you be my last hope, gal. How’s about it?” She did not believe this for an instant.

“Nay, Bad Mike. You had chance a plenty to change your life, whilest you had it. I am glad I never give you no son. You would of made his life a misery, like you done mine. I am glad you was killed; tis not up to me forgive you. I leave that to the Almighty, who knows what is in the hearts of men. “ she set her lips in a firm line, for she was melting with thoughts of pity for the deceased sea raider.

“Bah! You skinny excuse for a woman! Dried-up old prune. Worthless baggage, infertile waste of my efforts!” He would have gone on and on but that Dora held up one hand, halting the spew of his words.

“I got me a son; with my good husband Clovis. It were not me that was amiss, it were you, Mike. You could not have had a child with anyone. “ She was right and he knew it, the fault was not hers.

It faded right that moment, the hated face of Bad Mike, away into the foggy morning air, into nothing. Dorie looked and blinked, for there was no sign he had ever appeared. She sighed and turned back to her work filling the firewood sled and hummed to herself, a holiday tune.

The words were never said aloud, but she knew in her heart of heart, Dora Crotty White Lynch forgave Bad Mike for all that he did to her, “he did not know what he did.”

[Dora Lynch]

Mid Day Madness

by the players of Dora Lynch & Rhupert Jenks

When the stain of light in the gray overcast gave out its pale glow, Dora paused for her noon meal of bread and a dried fish. There being ample firewood, she made her a small fire among a ring of round stones, lest the woods catch fire off the hot coals. Upon this woodland hearth the old woman cooked up her dark rye bread to toast and warmed the boney fish dry and crunchy with its bones intact. Poor like the Widow Lynch had to find protein where they could.

“Ach me! How fast the day run when you have got work to be done. " She sat on her heels, for the ground was snow covered, tucking her skirts about her, well wrapped from the biting cold. The fire warmed her lunch and her mood, for thoughts of Bad Mike and her previous life with him were none of them good. “I do not expect me second man's ghost to be coming up bold like that other, old George Lynch, he were a sly one, that gambled away off every cent he got his hands on. A charmer to be sure, but a louse were there ever one. George! Bah!” She spat into the coals to hear them sizzle, like the fires of hail where that man rightly must of gone.

Then a shadow fell short of the campfire, one come from the pathway had crept upon the poor woman while she was spouting bad about her second husband. Dora looked up, eyes on the gray woolen wrapped figure before and c aught the scent of good Scotch whiskey. But this was no imaginary figure, it was a real man.

“Hey there, old mother. Beg pardon. I saw your fire and would come warm myself a while. Tis a long hike back to Turas Lan and I am a bit lost.” A young’s man spoke out to her with a slurring of his words that she knew too well was from overdrinking. “May I sit?” he was polite but then so was that cur George Lynch, at first.

“Sit and if you will trade me, fish and bread for a nip of that drink you have there, we might share the fire while it burns; I have to douse it soon and get back to me work. “ The half filled burlap bag upon the adjacent wood sled proved what she was about. As the man settled by the fire, they exchanged provisions and he flung the hood off his head. It was one Dora had seen before, long ago, at the jousts.

“You be the one who rode against Zurban, eh?” Dora swigged the whiskey and passed the jug back to him.

“That was me; Rhupert Garmond Jenks at your service, lady.” The bow and his oh so serious manner made the little farm woman giggle, or maybe it was a bit of the drink’s fault. “Can you direct me to Lake Manor? I would visit the folks there.” It seemed and innocent question so the old lady gave him directions with a wave of her hand.

“Two hour march by the path over there yonder or one hour less if ye go through the woods, as Gramphire Bog is froze up. Most froze up. Beware, there be wolves in this here wood and one took me good Clovis last summer, done in him clean did, it did.”

“Then,” as he stood and gave the rest of the whiskey, jug and all to Dora, Rhupert stated, “ Then I will take the path, to keep it safe from wolves and brigands. Briggindis. Bri..”Jenks slumped onto the snowy bank and it took Dorie some doing to haul him onto the wood sled, to drag home along with the day’s gleanings from the forest.

“If this don’t beat all.” She chuckled to herself. “I come for firewood and got me a man! A nice young one, too!” She headed to the path home, taking the passed out Jenks along with her. "Alls I got to wonder, Almighty One, why is it I always finds the drunk ones?"

[Rhiannon MacBride]

Winter brought with its presence a great many things. The coming of Winter Court was just one. The others? Well, the return of several who'd been missing for a bit from the shores of Skye. One such was Rhiannon MacBride, Physician- and many other things left unspoken, who'd been gone for quite some time. She'd found that her abilities had been a needed, and valuable, asset in Ireland. Skye had Aislin Creed and a plethora of talented healers located at the Healer's Hall. The Irish circumstance concerning health and ailments had been...atrocious. Evangeline had been correct in stating the need of a skilled Physician on their land.

The time spent in Eire, a place that Rhiannon had visited many times in her life- having ties to it through her Mother's blood, wasn't exactly relaxing. Neither though was it horrid. Once things began to settle and a change for the better came about she was able to smile. It'd taken some doing, but by the time of her recent return, with Evangeline and Faolon, for attendance at Winter Court there'd been an improving start in Ireland's medical field.

Under her guiding hand, using experience gained from her days training to become Physician at the Healing Hall, she'd worked with a Parish there to open the MacBride Clinic of Healing. With the help of others- who'd been working out of cottages, or some even in hiding due to their knowledge being considered 'witchcraft', Rhiannon had worked diligently to improve their skill. Then under the tutelage of her, and those others, they'd begun opening options to those who wanted to come into the medical field for training. Skye had much knowledge that other areas did not where the field of medicine was concerned and Rhiannon hoped to spread it.

Now it was in the able hands of Eistir, a woman of Evangeline's clan, who was older than Rhiannon by a handful of years, had been raised in a family of Healer's, been healing many with her skills for years, and who had proved an apt pupil. With the promise to write if any issues arose Rhiannon had returned to Skye, and just in time to. For winter also brought other things with it- illness and a need for warm clothing, firewood, and medicine. Having departed ways with her Irish companions shortly after arriving she'd immediately returned home, cleaned up, visited the Healing Hall, and then went out to check on those in outer villages. Goods carried on a pack horse whose reins were tied to that of the very horse she rode. As it was the only reliable mode of transportation with so much snow.

Rhiannon found herself in the woods though, traipsing through high snow in warm boots that reached mid-calf and thick clothing of tunic and trousers with a vest, jacket, and cloak for extra warmth, searching for firewood and herbs. The family in need did not have any to gather wood to warm the small cottage they lived in. With three small children and an ailing Mother who, due to her recent sickness, couldn't even move from bed that was not good. The Physician sought both herbs to help the woman's ailment and wood to warm the little home.

Crouching down to pick up another small log, damp she noted, a brow raised as she thought she heard voices. "Who goes there?" Steady tones showed no evidence of fear for Rhiannon knew how to protect herself as she added another log to the sack on her shoulder.

[Dora Lynch]

Into the Deepest Dark Woods
Winter 1333-1334

(Wherein Dora meet another one gathering firewood, forgets and stays too long in the Winter Woods, as night approaches...)


Widow Lynch has toted the passed out young man Rhupert on her wood carting sled until she came to the main pathway and there she met Crandle, a workman at her farm. “Ho there, Cran. I see you have got yourself a fine horse, with nice Knight’s barding, eh?” She jested with her hired help. “I have found a man dressed to match.” They both laughed, as the former jousting champion was hefted off the peasant’s sled and onto his own horse, slung over the saddle like so much grain in a sack. “I best be getting back to the woods, before dark.” She gauged the glow that was the sun, barely discernable in the gray sky.

“I say you have got the larger animal this hunt, Mistress Lynch. I hunted and all I found was this man’s horse and no dinner in the saddle bags, either. I will take him back to the house and leave him to sober up. “ The odor of whiskey consumed was strong in the clear clean air. “Seems he did not leave any for us to drink. “ Turning from his hunting project , back to the farmhouse to deliver Rhupert into shelter, Crandle waved and called back, “I will go out the east side and see if there are any tracks to be found. “ There was need of meat at the farm, for the livestock was not safe from being harvested if the snows became worse.

Relieved of the burden of young Jenks, Dora returned to her task, a trek back to where she had been searching before. The snow fell thicker and there was a sudden, definite crack of a tree limb. Dorie stood still, holding her smoke-like breaths in as if that kept the sound of even her breathing from seeping out.

“Who Goes there?” A feminine voice called out through the slow fluttering snowflakes, the quiet cushioning white drifts made a single voice more audible and old Dora lumbered closer, careful not to be mistaken for a bear in her thick snow covered cloak.

“It be me, Dora Lynch, come a gathering firewood. Who be ye? Speak so that I might find you.“ It had become a veritable white out that day. Closer to the woman’s voice she tromped taking tall steps in the thicket, not knowing where be the rocks or the rills. “I come a gatherin’ lest we get snowed in for a spell. " Up close to her fellow firewood seeker, Dora threw back her hood and let the fresh snow make her gray hair even whiter. “Greetings. We can work the same area; that tree beyond where ye stand is dead, full dry and good for the taking. If you need the loan, I have brought an extra axe. We can take that deadling down like a team and share the product. “ She handed the second axe out to the stranger and along with it, her name. “I am Widow Dora Lynch, come from nearby Clovis Farm. The yonder oak is a good one to climb if you need to run up, come wolves. They come in the dark days, but so far none have hurt a body this season, so far.”

With a careful count of her steps, Dora stomped flat a path to the Escape Tree from the work area and began to mark the dead tree’s bark for where to begin their chopping. “How come a young lady like you has not got a man to find fuel for her hearth?” Dora was direct if nothing else. She had more to ask, for perhaps it was her imagination, but there was a trace of Eire in the young woman’s voice. Like her own speech, marked forever by her time in Ulster. Days of life in the forest, hunted like a rabbit in winter. Her thoughts skipped to the growl that told all it was past Lynch’s meal

[Rhiannon MacBride]

"Ah Mistress Lynch, it be only you." Familiar voices mingled in the woods as they once briefly did in the walls of the Cat's Eye. Had not Dora Lynch been a bit less than coherent that night? Aye, that she had. Rhiannon vaguely recalled something of shoes and throwing up. Lips curved at those memories- fondly of that night for it'd been a good night that aside, as the weight of her sack was shifted to accommodate the new piece of wood. "Those who know me call me Rhiannon. Some call me Mistress MacBride. I'm a Physician at the Healer's Hall."

Tones were warm and welcoming. Nothing of malice nor ill-intent in the depths. Preferring to heal injuries instead of make them. Of course, sometimes it couldn't be helped. She'd inflicted her share of injuries and only a few of those had she later helped to fix. "Spare axe, ye say? Och tha' be splendid! Ah've been searching these woods for almost two hours and 'ave yet to find more than a few logs...and twigs." Briefly the brogue came through stronger than before. Rhiannon's speech was usually more refined. Only on occasion did the more...natural come through. She kept talking in an effort to lead the Mistress Lynch closer until eyes were able to make out her figure.

Sack was carefully placed on the ground as glove encased hands accepted the spare axe. There'd been many a time that her hands had found need to hold one. Even when her Patron, before his death many years ago, had been alive Rhiannon had swung it. Never allowing herself to be dependent upon another. For one could never trust any except themselves. "Aye, seems ta be a fine oak. Sturdy. Ah'll keep it in mind. Wolves can be a mite...troublesome."

In all shapes and sizes. Sometimes they need not even walk on four legs to have the heart of one or to inflict fear, and pain. Rhiannon had met wolves in her time. Booted feet carefully maneuvered toward the fallen tree, both hands keep a solid and firm grasp on the axe, though mind drifted with the question.

A man? There'd been one that could've been trusted. Actually she'd begun to trust him more than she ever had...anyone. Had possibly even begun to fall for him. Or had already fallen? Rhiannon couldn't be sure. Yet that wouldn't be known it seemed. She'd not heard from him in quite some time. One of those moments in life that'd always leave her wondering...

There was the brief flicker across pale-skinned features. Hard to catch in the light offered by the moon, but there was a definite change-hint of sadness, of being lost in a moment off in another time- to Rhiannon's voice when she spoke,"Men aren't much use outside of a few hours of kind company. 'Course this wood isn't for me. There's a village, Gorm, not far from here. Family there in need of some aid. Mother be ill and children 'ave not a soul ta look after them. Helping them a wee bit."

Rhiannon straddled the trunk a moment before bringing left leg over to join the right. This leaving her on the right and Dora on the left. Giving them each a side of the tree. "What of you? Is this wood for your hearth? How be your boys?" At least Rhiannon thought it was two boys and not just one, but much had happened between that night and now.