The Bloody Field
Location: Outlands / Tir na Og
Realm of the Morrigan of the Celtic Pantheon and Tuatha de Danann
Ah, the Bloody Field, cutter, now there’s a real sodding slice of the Lower Planes if ever there was one. Funny thing is, it’s slap-bang in the middle of the Outlands. Weird the way that Pantheons work eh, just down and out ignoring the way the Land wants to play things? This realm, the stomping ground of the Morrigan and her alter egos, it ain’t no place for the faint-hearted. It’s a landscape torn asunder by eternal conflict, where war and strife bloom like deadly nightshade.Â
Picture this: a sprawling, endless battlefield soaked in the crimson of spilled blood, where the sky’s as red as the ground below. This place is cast in a perpetual twilight, a canvas of deep reds and purples, as if the very heavens bleed with the sorrow of endless war. Thunder rumbles like the drums of doom, and lightning of cracks like the whip of the gods, illuminating the field in flashes of stark, revealing light. No doubt this is a gift from Taranis, who just can’t bear to be left out of anything. The ground’s littered with the remnants of weapons and the bones of countless warriors. Every step’s a reminder of battles past and those yet to come. The air’s thick with the clang of steel, the sickly sweet scent of iron and the cries of the falling and fallen.
In the Bloody Field, you’ll find warriors of all stripes—hardy Celtic skirmishers clashing with swords and shields, their faces painted with bright blue woad in ancient patterns. Then you’ve got your berserkers, their howls mixing with the wail of the banshees, and battle druids, calling upon the dark powers of nature to sway the course of battle. It’s a place where honour and glory are won by the strength of one’s arm and the sharpness of one’s blade. They say that if you get lost in the thick of a battle against the Celts, you might well end up here in the Outlands, through some sick trick of fate and warp spasm of the planes.
At the heart of this realm, you might come across the spectre of the Morrigan herself, hovering over the battlefield like a harbinger of doom, her laughter chilling the spine as she revels in the carnage. The chant goes that the Morrigan is a triple goddess—although some say even more than that—and she loves nothing more than to take control of one or more of her proxies. You might encounter the fierce female warriors Bad, Fen, Macha or the mysterious demipower known as Nemhain—perhaps they’re themselves, or perhaps they’re the Morrigan, ensuring that her presence is felt in the frenzy of the fighters, her spirit fuelling their bloodlust and driving them to greater heights of savagery.
If you listen to the priests of the Morrigan they’ll wax lyrical about the beauty in this brutality, a dark poetry to the madness. They’ll tell you that Bloody Field ain’t just a place of death; it’s a place where legends are born, where heroes are forged in the fires of conflict. They’ll say that it’s a testament to the power of the Celtic spirit, undying and ever-resilient, forever engaged in the dance of war. Does that sound barmy to you? Because it sounds completely addled to me cutter.
So, if you ever find yourself stumbling across the Bloody Field, keep your blade sharp and your wits sharper. It’s a place where the only law is the strength of your arm and the courage in your heart. A place where the true test of a cutter isn’t just how well they can swing a sword, but how fiercely they can cling to life amidst the unending storm of battle. Get out as quickly as you can.
Oweynagat, the Cavern of Woes
Now Oweynagat, the Cavern of Woes—although some cutters call it the Cavern of Cats or the Cave of the Morrigan—is another barmy place, as dark as the Lady’s heart and just as unforgiving. It’s a twisted maze of tunnels and chambers, that burrow deep all the way beneath the battlefield. The air inside is thick with the stench of despair, heavy as a sack of decapitated heads. The walls weep with the sorrows of a thousand souls, their cries echoing through the gloomy depths. It’s darker than a devil’s desires in there, with only the occasional flicker of ghostly will o’wisp lights to guide your way.
Inside these caverns, the echoes of past tragedies hang thick, each step a journey through the sorrows of fallen heroes and vanquished foes. The ground’s uneven, littered with the remnants of broken dreams and shattered hopes. You’ll find no treasure here, cutter, just the remnants of those who’ve lost everything in the unending war above. What you might find though are the cat sith, strange feline fey that seem to be drawn to this place. Some cutters say that if you make them an offering, they may speak to you—or that the Morrigan may speak to you through them, or even possess one of your group and speak through them. What kind of questions you’d ask her? Perhaps you’d placate her and ask for help in an upcoming battle? Or perhaps you’d ask her to spare you and take your fellow instead.
Bring me thunder, bring me steel, bring me coat of iron mail
—Traditional song to the Morrigan
Bring me diamond hardened will and let my courage never fail.
Bring the lightning to my sword, lashing, living in my hand
And bring warning to the horde that here the Battle Raven stands!
The Lake of Sorrows
As for the Lake of Sorrows, now that’s a body of water as mournful as its name suggests. Situated in a hollow, surrounded by the gnarled trees of the battlefield, its waters are as black as the void. They say the lake’s fed by the tears of those who’ve fallen on the Bloody Field, each droplet a testament to the grief and pain of war.
The surface of the lake is eerily still, reflecting nothing but the sorrowful sky above. Those who gaze into it see not their reflection, but visions of their deepest regrets and darkest fears. The water’s cold as the chill of death, with an undercurrent that tugs at the soul, inviting the weary to surrender to its depths.
Legend has it that the spirits of warriors who couldn’t let go of their grief and rage dwell in the depths of the Lake of Sorrows. Their whispers can be heard in the rustling of the leaves and the chill wind that’s always blowing here, urging the living to join them in their eternal lament.
Canonical Source: On Hallowed Ground [2e] p74,172
Source: Jon Winter-Holt, mimir.net. I added the name Oweynagat to the cavern of Woes; it’s the name of a real cave in Ireland that’s associated with the Morrigan and also supposedly a portal to Hell on Hallowe’en. Too good to resist.
