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It is a sunny day, the sky is blue and the air has an autumn crispness to it. A river cuts through a vibrantly green plain, the rushing of its waters sounding loud in the absence of other sound. A woman bends to the water beneath the browning leaves of a twisted oak tree, cupping crystal-clear river water in her hands and bathing her arms and legs.
Come closer. The woman’s dress is almost white and simple in design; she lifts the skirts to keep them dry. Her arms are ornamented with plain rings, gleaming dully metallic in the sunlight. The upper half of her face is hidden by a mask, carved and painted wood, two cow horns curving upward at the top and crow feathers hanging from the sides. Her eyes are gray-green and her skin is pale; her hair, a soft brown that flashes red in the light, falls midway down her back.
Someone approaches. This one is a man, tall and tan, with jet-black hair falling in waves past his shoulders. He wears a simple tunic of undyed wool; he carries a businesslike war club in one hand and a richly ornamented harp in the other. He, too, wears a wooden mask over the top half of his face, carved and painted with a grove of trees, heavily laden with fruit. The eyes behind the mask are dark amber.
The woman hears his approach, straightening and turning to face him, waiting silently with the air of having expected him. He slows to a stop a few paces from her, and they watch each other quietly for a few moments.
Abruptly the dark man laughs. “...You’re dressed like a girl!”
The woman scowls. “Shut the fuck up.” ...Not a woman, then....
The taller man hasn’t stopped laughing.
The shorter... man’s scowl deepens. “I’m not playing. I’ll poison your coffee.”
“Alright, alright, chill.” The taller man sobers a little, although the grin never leaves his face. “Don’t stress about it. ...You look pretty.”
The redhead punches him in the arm.
“OW! ...Okay, I deserved that....” The dark-skinned man leans his club and and harp against the oak tree, rubbing at his arm ruefully.
The pale one crosses his arms. “...You done now?”
Nodding. “Yeah.... Where are we, do you think?”
“The river Unius.” A blank look. “Ireland? ...You didn’t know?”
A puzzled look in dark amber eyes. “...Know what?”
Pale arms gesticulate. “It’s Samhain! You’ve come here because you need my help in the Battle of Magh Tuiredh against the Fomorians!”
The taller one frowns. “How was I supposed to know that?”
“...Well, I dunno, it’s a dream, isn’t it? People are just supposed to know things. How do I know any of this? I figured you knew, or you wouldn’t have come.”
“...Nope, don’t know a thing. Weird-ass dream... I really shouldn’t eat just before bed. Why are we wearing masks?”
The pale one sighs, sounding vexed. “I’m going to have to explain everything to you, aren’t I? We’re wearing masks because we’re playing roles... you’re the Dagda and I’m the Morrígan.” Expectant pause.
“...You know, I’m just going to keep staring at you until you explain a little better. Who’re Dagda and Morrígan?”
“The Dagda... that’s you... was the Good God, Eochaid All-Father, the High King of the Tuatha Dé Danann. He was all-powerful... with that club he could kill nine men with one blow, and with it’s handle he could bring the slain back to life. When he played that harp, Daurdabla, he put the seasons in their correct order, and commanded the order of battle.”
The dark-skinned man eyes the club and harp. “...Sweet!”
“He also possessed a bottomless cauldron that could feed an army, eternally-laden fruit trees, and two pigs, one of which was always growing while the other was always roasting.”
“Awesome, I’m badass! So what’s your deal, why’re you, uh... heh.” Grinning again.
Glare. “I am the Morrígan, the Terror, the Phantom Queen, the Great Queen. She was Anann, war goddess, personification of death. She predicted deaths in battle; she was the carrion crow and the premonition of doom. She was associated with cattle and had a role connected with fertility and the land, but also with the culling of the weak.”
Dark eyes blink. “...Well that fits.”
Smirk. “...Yeah, I thought so.”
“So... I’m supposed to get your help fighting the who? The Fomorians? Who’re they?”
“A semi-divine race, the gods of chaos and wild nature. As opposed to your folk, the Tuatha Dé Danann, the gods of human civilization.”
“......So, to sum up, they’re the bad guys, I’m representing the good guys, and we need your scary witchy death powers to defeat them, and I’m supposed to convince you to help us.”
“Right.” Gray-green eyes crinkle as the redhead grins.
“......Right. ...What exactly will you do?”
“I will pursue, destroy, and subdue. When I chant on the battlefield, the battle will break and the Fomorians will be driven into the sea.”
“...Wow. ...So... um... will you help us?”
The redhead’s grin widens, becomes slightly more dangerous. “Eochaid Ollathair, you’re going to have to do a little better than that to convince me~....”
Dark amber eyes widen slightly as the paler man slinks forward a few steps. “Ah... what am I supposed to do?”
“According to the myth, the Dagda and the Morrígan kept a tryst... the Dagda coupled with the Morrígan in exchange for her plan of battle....” The shorter man reaches up, entwining loose arms around the dark man’s neck.
“...Oh.” The taller man swallows, eyes dilated, lifting his hands automatically to smooth them over the contours of the other man’s back.
“...Also according to myth, the Dagda’s supposed to be huge.” The redhead smirks, lowering his eyes significantly.
“Ha. That’s no myth.” The taller man matches his smirk, mischief lighting his eyes behind the mask as the other man tangles a hand in his hair. “...I guess you’re the woman, then. Pretty dress and all.”
“Fuck you!” The pale one hisses and glares, yanking roughly on the inky black locks.
“Ow! ...I thought that was the plan~?” Curling fingers into red-brown silk, the dark one leans in for a kiss.