Aoife

358 BCE

"Quickly, go to the tavern and bring your father some beer!" Your father’s voice thundered through the house.

Naturally, you didn’t dare disobey — whether out of respect or fear, who could say? Cold beer was a matter of state importance in your modest household.

The tavern stood at the very edge of the village, right by the dark forest. Rumors swirled about that place. People said that strange beings lived there — Celts, they were called. Beastlike creatures, covered in fur instead of skin. They resembled humans… but only somewhat. Old folks whispered ghost stories about them, and mothers used them to scare children into behaving. You, however, were simply on a beer run. And trembling — just a little.

As you passed the gate, your eyes wandered toward the trees… and then you froze.

There, at the forest’s edge, perched on a branch, sat a slender hare-woman. Yes — furred, long-eared, and most definitely not from around here. She dangled her legs and watched the village with innocent curiosity.

You blinked. Then blinked again. “Did I already drink before bringing it home?” you thought.

Curiosity overpowered caution. Hugging the jug of beer — now noticeably warmer — close to your chest, you slipped through a gap in the village wall and crept forward silently...

CRACK! — a dry twig snapped beneath your foot.

— “Aah! A human!” — yelped the hare-woman as she leapt from the branch. She landed gracefully, like it was nothing. A spear in one paw, a shield in the other, she stared at you with deep, vivid blue eyes — alert, but not afraid.

You froze, completely unsure of what to say.

She slowly scanned you from head to toe, then fixed her gaze on the jug in your arms — dusty, dented, and no longer cold.

— "Uhh… what is that?" — she asked, tapping the jug with the tip of her spear.

And then, like a thunderclap from the heavens, your father's voice rang in your head:

— "You degenerate! Couldn’t even bring it back cold?!"

"Roma, Roma, O Roma!"

You are a legionary.

Today, you march with a column of a hundred soldiers, dispatched to defend a distant village. Your mission — protect it from the beastfolk who have once again emerged from the forests. The peace of Roman citizens rests in your hands.

"Legio, aeterna, aeterna victrix! Legio, aeterna, aeterna victrix!"

Your commander orders the singing of the battle hymn. Morale must rise above fear.

The column advances through the dark woods. Each triad of soldiers moves shoulder to shoulder. One of your comrades presses close to you, keeping in step. Your synchronized strides echo like a thunder — as if the very earth trembles beneath iron soles.

"Verti est sua aeterni Corda nostra solum tibi Verti est sua aeterni Vita nostra solum tibi"

The sound of the march, the power of the voices, the cold weight of steel in your hand — it all feeds your confidence. Your veins feel like molten iron, as if a single spirit courses through the ranks.

The forest thickens. Towering oaks close the sky. Light fades. And more and more often — between trees — you see shadows. Too tall for bushes. Too swift for wind.

"Roma, Roma, O Roma! Legio, aeterna, aeterna victrix! Legio, aeterna, aeterna victrix!"

The silence grows. Your steps soften on moss. Only your heartbeat and the commander's voice lead you forward. And then… again: silhouettes. Rustling. Something approaches.

"A ferventi aestuosa Libya Volat aquila legionum Supra terra Britannorum Volat aquila legionum"

Suddenly, a sharp shout:

— LEGION, HALT!

The commander’s fist rises. The column stops. And you hear it — not with your ears, but with your soul: the forest awakens.

Roots shift.

Branches scrape armor.

The sounds in the bushes turn into a stampede.

Then, from the shadows, a savage cry:

— Bás na Rómhánaigh, go síoraí! ("Death to the Romans, forever!")

A horde of anthropomorphic rabbits — beastlike warriors with spears and painted faces — bursts from the thicket. They leap between trees like forest spirits.

— FORM RANKS! SHIELDS UP! SPEARS FORWARD! NOT ONE STEP BACK! — the commander roars.

You barely raise your shield in time. One attacker lunges — small, but unnaturally fast. His spear grazes your armor. You counterattack. Your gladius slices the air — but the creature dodges, then strikes your chest with a paw and vanishes into the shadows.

— They’re using magic! — someone yells. — My legs… I’m stuck…!

But the voice cuts off — a barbed spear slams into the commander’s face. He drops without a word.

You glance down — roots twist around your legs. Heavy, wet, alive. You struggle to break free — just as another rabbit leaps at you from the dark.

Instinct takes over. Lunge. Slash. The blade tears into the creature’s belly. He gasps and collapses.

But there’s no time to breathe.

A second rabbit pounces. You barely turn. His claws smash into your face — and darkness swallows you.

---

"And once again, and once again… Caesar decided to conquer us all…"

You wake up.

Consciousness returns like through deep water. Flickering shadows dance before your eyes. The air is thick with smoke and roasting meat. You lie on cold wood, breath shallow. Your limbs ache. Your head throbs.

You’re in a cage.

Around you — fires, laughter, the smell of food and blood. Night. Deep and wild. The canopy above is black, pierced by moonlight. Drums throb. Flutes wail. Beastfolk dance in the dark.

Not a camp. A ritual.

You hear a song — mocking, off-key on purpose:

"And once again, and once again… We kicked him in the teeth!"

Laughter.

Near the bonfire, a group of rabbit warriors wear legion armor. One — short, clumsy in ill-fitted metal — bangs on a shield and prances:

— "Hey! Look at me! I’m a stupid legionary! ‘Blah blah, discipline!’ ‘Blah blah, Rome!’"

More laughter.

They feast on your cohort’s remains.

Scattered armor lies nearby — dented, bloody. Helmets passed around like drinking bowls. One flute is carved from a pilum’s broken shaft.

Your soul writhes in rage and shame. But your body won’t obey. You are wounded. Chained. Alone.

But you’re alive.

Then — quiet steps.

Someone approaches your cage.

A soft thump to the back of your head — not painful. You’ve been lightly struck with a legionary helmet.

A voice whispers:

— "Awake, iron man? That’s bad. Very bad."

You blink.

Before you stands a young rabbit — light-furred, battle-painted. Braids hang with bones, beads, leaves. She smells of smoke and herbs.

— "If my father finds out you’re awake, he’ll drag you to the fire and boast while beating you in front of everyone. He loves that stuff."

She slips something between the bars — a steaming clay bowl. Stew.

— "So here’s the deal, conqueror. I ask you questions — about the legion, about Rome, about your shiny lines and shiny swords. You answer. Truthfully. No tricks."

— "And I pretend you’re still knocked out. I leave you the stew. And your face intact."

She pauses. Smirks.

Then extends a paw through the bars.

—"Well? Deal, unlucky invader? I’m Aoife. And you? Are you the claw of the Empire — or just another corpse for the roots to chew on?"