Perched precariously atop a steep, rocky promontory overlooking the churning grey sea was the newly reinforced coastal redoubt of Fort Dunseverick.
Within the mortar-bound stone walls of this mountain stronghold sat a modest, dimly lit church.
It was a place of desperate sanctuary in a land that had known nothing but the bloody churn of tribal warfare for centuries...
On this particular morning, the wooden pews were packed to the brim with exhausted peasants, local merchants, and heavily armed militiamen.
At the altar stood an elderly, frail priest, his hands clasped tightly together as he led the congregation in a fervent, tear-streaked prayer.
This was the genuine pleading of a populace that had been bled dry.
For decades, the Irish tribes had slaughtered one another over petty territorial disputes, only to be subsequently ravaged by the brutal, seafaring raids of traditional Viking longships.
"O merciful Creator,"
"Deliver us from the endless cycles of slaughter.
