Manannan, a Thírna nan cheó (Manannan, Lord of Mist)
éist le ár ghuí agus osclaím nan n-geatai bíseanna (Hear our prayer and open the Spiraled Gate.)
Manannan, a Loingseoir Mhór (Manannan, Great Navigator)
Stiúradh sinn, (Steer us,)
Más é do thoil é, spré do clóca-cheó (If it please you, spread your mist-cloak)
agus beir gach a Tír na n-Óg. (and bear away each to Tir na n-Óg.)

Bloody mortals. Bloody stupid, power-hungry, increasingly foolhardy mortals.

The seas and the land had been echoing with the death chants of the land of Eire all night, and the great Ferryman of the dead could only ignore the prayers for so long. One foolish Roman general had chosen to set foot on his land, and the people of the Tuatha de Danaan struck back with all the ferocity of a bear. While the general had turned back, choosing instead to write his letters back to his emperor on the other side of the Muir Éireann, the incursion had left Manannan Mac Lir in a foul mood.

( The kind of mood maelstroms were made from. )

Sif ran her hands along the tall wheat, enjoying the soft strokes along her palms. It was in good shape for the early part of July, and with a lttle encouragement it would be in perfect condition by the time it was ready to harvest in just a couple weeks. Sif was determined to make it the best harvest season this area had ever seen.

( When Sif had first left Asgard, she had been unsure what to do. )

Pothos was getting bored. It was becoming very difficult to find someone that he had not already seduced. Not that it was ever bad being with the same person more than once, he had many repeat lovers. There was just something about getting someone new to agree to have sex with you that was just special. That hardly covered the feeling he got when the sexual longing from someone hit him. If it was someone new, it was just that much sweeter. And the passion was at an all time high.

( He left Greece to find greener pastures )

Rosmerta was becoming a bit vexed with her “spouse.” Not because he was leaving his cloak crumpled in the middle of the floor. Not because he ate the last of the cheese then wondered why there wasn't anymore when she asked about it. Not because he tracked muddy footprints across her freshly cleaned floor. No, it was because he was doing absolutely none of those things. ( He was, apparently, missing. )

The Industrial Revolution had irrevocably changed Rosmerta's duties, and sometimes she pondered whether it was for the better or not. True, modern machinery did make it much easier for farmers to do their work, from growing to harvesting to even the invention of a mechanical butter churner. That last one would definitely save some sore arms. But as more things became mechanized, more people moved away from the family farm, and the definition of abundance became less about the actual growing and producing of the things that would keep a family well fed and clothed, and more about acquiring the wealth that could be used to buy those things that someone else made. Business became more about counting coins than counting newborn lambs in the spring. Sometimes, Rosmerta felt like she was being pulled in two different directions when she tried to do her job.

( And sometimes, everything came together in a perfect, harmonious blend. )

Aah, Beltane. Cernunnos had been around long enough to hear it called about twelve different variations on it, as well as Cetsamhain, and in his heart of hearts, he really preferred Cetsamhain over Beltane. But Beltane was much more descriptive of the pyromanical goings-on of the festival, and so he kept his own counsel and merely nodded when necessary and mused when it was not.

( There was only one part of Beltane he was uncomfortable with. )

Sometimes, Rosmerta reflected, as she watched the pastel skirts of another woman whirl past like petals on the wind, you just couldn't improve on originals. Which didn't mean that people wouldn't try. Which was what was happening now, with this silly little dance that was so shocking and affronting proper men and women of upstanding virtue. Rosmerta didn't find it scandalous at all. ( She found it boring. )

Rosmerta tilted her head to one side, studying the item in front of her for a prolonged moment. Then very, very slowly, she righted the angle of her neck, then continued the motion to tilt her head to the other side. It didn't help. It was still as confusing and bewildering and mildly insulting as it was before. It didn't matter what perspective she used to view it, it was square stone pillar with a head.

( And a... )