Art: A Tale of Heracles

Three hundred twelvemonths had passed since the expulsion of the Gaels from Kemet. The Children of Goidel Glas, a man born of a Princess of Kemet but fathered by a Scythian Prince, were a people without a nation and so they travelled the world, undergoing trials and tribulations greater than that of the Hebrews. The druid Caicher had prophesized that their descendants would reach an island called Eire and that would be their nation, but for a young Gael named Art, this was not good enough. The very idea that home would be reached by their descendants, not by them, was enough to make Art quit the travels of his people.

Arriving in a Libya, uncertain of where his own wanderings would take him, the Young Gael found himself standing before a giant of a man, six feet and four and a half inches tall. He was clean-shaven, black of hair and eye, light-skinned and muscled like a bull. Clad in a red loincloth and a pair of sandals, there was no reason for Art to believe this man was anything more than a mere bandit… a large and well-muscled one.

At sixteen twelvemonths of age and a height of five feet and five inches, Art was lean and hungry in build. His skin was ruddy, his hair short, red and curly, his eyes mismatched, with the left being blue and the right green, and due to close-fitting lids looked small and triangular. He was square jawed, had a large, hooked nose and sharp cheekbones. He was overall not particularly good-looking, very common in appearance. Clad in a pair of padded, quilted leather trousers and an open tunic, one could have mistaken Ar