#tugdual

[super-powerful-queen-reyna]

here ya go, i think ive decided if i ever write this thing in full this will be the beginning! i have my oc's lore all planned out but maybe this will be a little confusing out of context lol (also english is not my first language so there might be errors)

-----

Tugdual was having a really, really bad day.

It was 8 in the morning.

To be fair, it was just the continuity of a really, really bad night.

At the very least, the small kitchen of Abakoum's old rehabilitated farm was quiet. After a night filled by screams and clamor, and a few hours spent in the car under a heavy rain with earbuds in but a dead MP3 player, silence was truly a blessing.

Images from the past night were cycling through his mind. Maybe he would place it on top of the "worst night of his life" podium. Of course, it excluded the one where his dad had left – no matter what happened to him, this one would still easily win. He bitterly smiled as he enumerated again the list of people who had given up on him, recently extended. New record. What had he been expecting? He knew it was the only ending for him. He was cursed, rotten to the core. This reaffirmed idea had been carving its way into his chest since the night before, and the pain didn’t look like it would stop any time soon.

But he didn't have time to brood on those thoughts some more; because a boy he had never seen before had just barged in the kitchen.

Short and skinny, he was wearing an oversized, light long-sleeved t-shirt which almost hid his hands completely. His blond hair was a mess, flat on the side: his pale cheek was still marked by a fold in his sheets. Rubbing his puffy sleepy eyes, it took him a few seconds to realize he wasn't alone in the kitchen. He froze, mouth wide-opened, while Tugdual was staring at him, slowly sipping his tea. A few more seconds and he fled abruptly. Tugdual heard his running steps echoing in the hallway, and he almost smiled, amused. Maybe his stay would be a bit more entertaining than he had thought.

Sasha was standing with his back pressed against the wall, heart beating fast, with panting breath, thoughts flying everywhere. He had awoken this morning, gotten up, come down to the kitchen like every day, thinking he would find Abakoum: but instead, he had stumbled upon a young man with black hair and elaborate goth clothes, who was calmly sipping tea. Sitting in his chair. Sasha, hadn’t had a human contact with someone other than his adoptive father since months on top of already being deathly asocial, had simply fled instead of saying hi and asking the million questions swarming his mind: Who are you? Where's my dad? What are you doing in my chair? Etc. And there he was in the hallway, on the first step of the staircases, hesitantly wondering if he should just lock himself in his room and simply wait for the situation to resolve itself.

But as he was starting to seriously consider this appealing idea, a silhouette emerged from the kitchen's doorway: it was the black-haired boy.

“Hello?” he said with a cocky smile.

He was visibly amused from Sasha's confusion. The blond one wanted to answer, but the words were all tangled in his mind, stuck in his throat. Sinister anxiety was filling him, whispering: An intruder. In your house! He couldn't help but see any human presence as a threat – apart for Abakoum, but this exception had taken time do build. Overwhelmed with panic, he thought about running up the stairs, trying to guess if he would have enough time to block his room's door. There was his chair, but he remembered distinctly moving it against his wall to clean his room the night before, so it was far from the door, and he had to get it quickly enough to block the handle, or... no, he wouldn't have the strength to move any other furniture –

“Sasha, you're up!”

The deep, familiar voice pulled him out of his frantic thoughts, and he turned his head to see with relief Abakoum walking up the hallway. The immense silhouette calmed him, and he was finally able to take a deep breath in the hopes of slowing down his painfully fast-beating heart. How humiliating! He was almost having a panic attack just because a stranger – who wasn’t even actively threatening! – had just popped up in his kitchen. How did he do it back then, in the children’s home? Where anyone could barge in his room at anytime while he was sleeping or changing? Had the comfort of Abakoum’s house made him so weak, he couldn’t even tolerate another person’s presence?

Trying to sound casual and totally cool with the situation, he asked:

“Who... who's that?”

The black–haired boy lost his smile. Worry darkened Abakoum's eyes for a second, his forehead frowning subtly. But he smiled and, coming closer to his adoptive son, lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Aleksander, this is Tugdual. Tugdual, Aleksander.”

He got closer to the boy and added:

“It was an unexpected visit, I'm sorry if you were startled. Everything's fine.”

Sasha nodded, looking wary. He didn't like this situation at all. Fear was eating away every corner of his mind: but at least he didn't feel directly threatened anymore thanks to the Veilleur’s presence.

“Naftali and Brune just left,” the old man said to « Tugdual ». “They want you to know that they love you.”

“They already told me”, the young man muttered, his face suddenly gloomy.

“They insisted.”

Sasha looked questioningly at his adoptive father, who returned a soft gaze.

“Tugdual lives with his grandparents, Naftali and Brune, who are close friends. But they had an emergency and they cannot house him right now, so he is going to stay with us temporarily.” Observing Sasha as to gauge his reaction, he added softly: “It was very sudden. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you in advance.”

“It's... It's fine,” Sasha stammered.

It wasn't fine at all.

“How about breakfast, now?” cheerfully asked the old man.

The black-haired boy shrugged and disappeared back into the kitchen. Abakoum put his arm around Sasha's shoulders, inviting the young man to walk with him to the kitchen. Feeling his adoptive son slightly trembling against him pained him: but he had to show him now that there was no danger, nothing to fear. Letting him go back upstairs and lock himself in his room would open the way to the boy's crippling anxiety, that he was trying so hard to fight. Sasha gave him a reluctant look, and the old man answered by a calming smile.

“Everything will be fine,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Sasha looked away, a little reassured. As much as fear was trying to make him doubt, one thing he knew was that his dad had never broken a promise.

***

A few minutes later, Sasha was sat at the kitchen's table, not in his chair, sipping the black tea he usually drank in the morning. Squatting on not-his-chair, he had put his hands around the hot mug, and covertly gazed at Tugdual – or rather, the boy he was going to have to live with for an unspecified lenght of time, which was a terrifying thought. He was sat too, arms crossed, looking sombre. Long strands of black hair covered parts of his pale face, and he was absent-mindedly playing with his silver tongue piercing.

Abakoum sat down after putting toasts and jam on the table, holding a cup tea. To his surprise, it was Sasha who broke the weighty silence:

“So... he's gonna live with us?”

His unassured voice didn't help the question's clumsiness.

“He is right there,” grunted Tugdual, rolling his eyes.

“Indeed,” confirmed Abakoum, ignoring the grumpy teenager. “Do you remember Dragomira? Naftali and Brune are mutual friends.”

“Oh,” Sasha said, reassured to at least find one familiar element in this whole thing.

He loved Abakoum, and he loved Dragomira : their friends could only be good people, and by extension, their grandson too...? He glanced again at Tugdual, who was frowning in the perfect pouty expression of a gloomy teen. But he suddenly met his eyes: surprised by their intense steel color, Sasha quickly pretended to be absorbed by the contemplation of his tea infuser.

“By the way, anyone would mind telling me who he is?” the black-haired boy groaned, pointing at him.

Sasha turned to Abakoum, concerned. Had he not told anyone else about him? Without realizing, his heart had started beating fast again, blood pumping to his head as fear had burst again in his stomach. Why? Was he unimportant? Was he going to send him back into foster care? No. He’d rather die than go back.

But the old man gave him a kind smile, and gestured subtly to his throat. "Breathe!" Sasha obeyed, realizing he was losing himself to panic again. He almost sighed from irritation. Feeling like he had no control on any of his thoughts and emotions was incredibly frustrating. It felt like the unexpected situation was sweeping away all the progress he had made since living with Abakoum.

“Naftali and Brune probably told you that I recently adopted,” said the Veilleur, turning to Tugdual.

The young man glared at them successively with arrogance, and shrugged.

“They might have mentioned it.”

“And maybe have you heard of Oden?” Abakoum continued, with strangely enigmatic eyes.

Tugdual noticed it: intrigued without wanting to show it, he didn't answer, but was clearly waiting for more. Sasha laid back on his chair, comfortably curled up on himself, holding his hot mug closer. Even if he already knew in details the history of his biological family, he couldn't help but listen attentively.

“Oden was an old friend of us, I mean me, Dragomira and Leomido. We had found ourselves... well, we lived together in Siberia, as you know, it was decades ago... but Oden followed Leomido’s example, and he decided to leave the deserted, glacial countryside. I can't hold that against him... But unlike Leomido, he didn't go far. He settled in annexed Estonia, got married, had a child…”

The old man's gaze darkened, and he closed his eyes for a second, opening them again to reveal a piercing look.

“Sadly, the country wasn't spared by the tensions that forced us all to migrate West. But Oden wasn't as lucky as us... he was killed while trying to flee, like so many others...”

Sasha took a sip of his tea, and glared – hopefully discreetly – at Tugdual. He was staring at Abakoum attentively, having uncrossed his arms and even leaning slightly towards him.

“But his only daughter, Alina, was able to escape,” the old man continued. “She reached England and was able to build a life for herself.”

Sasha twitched, like every time his biological mother was mentioned. He had almost no memory of her: she had abandoned him to his genitor, who clearly had not wanted to be burdened by a child. In his most likely estimations, she was gone right after his birth. Even though he couldn’t help but search for his deepest memories and find the comfort of thin and soft arms like his, the forgotten tune of a lullaby, and those sparkles of light he couldn’t define the origin of... memories that were perfectly impossible, if she had indeed left him right after his birth – and probably created by his own mind.

“...using the records, and I managed to trace all the way back to Aleksander, and we decided that he would come and live with me,” concluded Abakoum, bringing the boy back to reality.

He turned his head to Tugdual, trying to gauge his reaction. The young man was strangely focused and gazed intensely at Abakoum, who was also looking at him. Sasha frowned slightly, feeling like something was being communicated right under his nose. The old man seemed to answer a silent question by a very subtle nod, and Tugdual's eyes opened slightly, before gazing at Sasha. A little offended to not be included in the conversation, he pretended not to notice and focused on sipping his tea.

---

here you go

THIS IS SO FUCKING AMAZING! Your Tugdual characterisation? Your OC? Your captation of the vibe of Abakoum's house? *chef's kiss* mwah mwah mwah infinite. Like literally your Tugdual has the exact bitterness and catlike fascination with people, your OC is in for a treat (Edefia)... Idk what to say except that is absolutely marvelous and perfect!

I'm so glad you shared it with me!

[calochortus]

Tréguier (Côtes-d'Armor) - Cathédrale Saint-Tugdual - Transept sud - Grande verrière (vitrail de Hubert de Sainte-Marie de Quintin) by Patrick Via Flickr: Tréguier (Côtes-d'Armor) - Cathédrale Saint-Tugdual - Transept sud - Grande verrière (vitrail de Hubert de Sainte-Marie de Quintin) La vigne mystique se mêle aux fondateurs des septs évêchés bretons, aux saints du terroir et aux métiers bretons fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hubert_de_Sainte-Marie fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cath%C3%A9drale_Saint-Tugdual_de_Tr...

[stormgrl19]

Requests

Requests: open

Languages: English

I automatically write for fem!reader, but if you ask I can also write for genderneutral!reader.

I also write Imagines for oc x reader. (I will try to make the OC like you describe it, but if you want, it can also be a surprise.)

I will not write smut and non-con so please don't ask me for it and last but not least it can or will take a while until your request will be written as I am really good at procrastinating, so please be patient!

Oh, and English is not my first language, please tell me when you find wrong spelling and grammar!

Oksa Pollock

Mortimer McGraw

Tugdual Knut

OC

The 100

John Murphy

OC

OUAT

Peter Pan

Twilight

Paul Lahote

Jared Cameron

OC

TVD / TO

Kol Mikaelson

Kai Parker

OC

Fate: WINX

Stella of Solaria

Sebastian Valtor

OC

[ghoermann]

Cathédrale Saint-Tugdual de Tréguier

[ash-den]

OFFICIAL ART FOR OKSA POLLOCK DROPPED!

Tugdual and Gus look like twins and Gus's genes didn't even try for his kids.

WHAT WHERE LOL

[mask131]

Arthurian myth: Morgan the Fey (1)

Loosely translated from the French article "Morgane", written by Philippe Walter, for the Dictionary of Feminine Myths (Le Dictionnaire des Mythes Féminins)

MORGANE

Morgane means in Celtic language “born from the sea” (mori-genos). This character is as such, by her origins, part of the numerous sea-creatures of mythologies. A Britton word of the 9th century, “mormorain”, means “maiden of the sea/ sea-virgin”, et in old texts it is equated with the Latin “siren”. A passage of the life of saint Tugdual of Tréguiers (written in 1060) tells of ow a young man of great beauty named Guengal was taken away under the sea by “women of the sea”. The Celtic beliefs knew many various water-fairies with often deadly embraces – and Morgane was one among the many sirens, mermaids, mary morgand and “morverc’h” (sea girls/daughters of the sea).

Morgane, the fairy of Arthurian tales, is the descendant of the mythical figures of the Mother-Goddesses who, for the Celts, embodied on one side sovereignty, royalty and war, and on the other fecundity and maternity. In the Middle-Ages, they were renamed “fairies” – but through this word it tried to translate a permanent power of metamorphosis and an unbreakable link to the Otherworld, as well as a dreaded ability to influence human fate. The French word “fée” comes from the neutral plural “fata”, itself from the Latin word “fatum”, meaning “fate”.

There is not a figure more ambivalent in Celtic mythology – and especially in the Arthurian legends – than Morgane. She constantly hesitates between the character of a good fairy who offers helpful gifts to those she protects ; and a terrible, bloodthirsty goddess out for revenge, only sowing death and destruction everywhere she goes. Christianity played a key role in the demonization of this figure embodying an inescapable fate, thus contradicting the Christian view of mankind’s free will.

I/ The sovereign goddess of war

It is in the ancient mythological Irish texts that the goddess later known as Morgane appears. The adventures of the warrior Cuchulainn (the “Irish Achilles”) with the war-goddess Morrigan are a major theme of the epic cycle of Ireland. The Morrigan (a name which probably means “great queen”) is also called “Bodb Catha” (the rook of battles). It is under the shape of a rook (among many other metamorphosis) that she appears to Cuchulainn to pronounce the magical words that will cause the hero’s death.

The Irish goddesses of war were in reality three sisters: Bodb, Macha and Morrigan, but it is very likely that these three names all designated the same divinity, a triple goddess rather than three distinct characters. This maleficent goddess was known to cause an epileptic fury among the warriors she wanted to cause the death of. The name of Bodb, which ended up meaning “rook”, originally had the sense of “fury” and “violence”, and it designated a goddess represented by a rook. The Irish texts explain that her sisters, Macha and Morrigan, were also known to cause the doom of entire armies by taking the shape of birds. Every great battle and every great massacre were preceded by their sinister cries, which usually announced the death of a prominent figure.

The Celtic goddesses of war have as such a function similar to the one of the Norse Walkyries, who flew over the battlefield in the shape of swans, or the Greek Keres. The deadly nature of these goddesses resides in the fact that they doom some warriors to madness with their terrifying screams. One of the effects of this goddess-caused madness was a “mad lunacy”, the “geltacht”, which affected as much the body as the mind. During a battle in 1722 it was said that the goddess appeared above king Ferhal in the shape of a sharp-beaked, red-mouth bird, and as she croaked nine men fell prey to madness. The poem of “Cath Finntragha” also tells of the defeat of a king suffering from this illness. The place of his curse later became a place of pilgrimage for all the lunatics in hope of healing.

The link between the war-goddess and the “lunacy-madness” are found back within folklore, in which fairies, in the shape of birds, regularly attack children and inflict them nervous illnesses. These fairies could also appear as “sickness-demons”. Their appearance was sometimes tied to key dates within the Celtic calendar, such as Halloween, which corresponded to the Irish and pre-Christian celebration of Samain. Folktales also keep this particularly by placing the ritualistic appearances of witches and of fate-fairies during the Twelve Days, between Christmas and the Epiphany – another period similar to the Celtic Halloween. Morgane seems to belong to this category of “seasonal visitors”.

II) The Queen of Avalon

In Arthurian literature, Morgane rules over the island of Avalon, a name which means the Island of Apples (the apple is called “aval” in Briton, “afal” in Welsh and “Apfel” in German). Just like the golden apples of the Garden of the Hesperids, in Celtic beliefs this fruit symbolizes immortality and belongs to the Otherworld, a land of eternal youth. It is also associated with revelations, magic and science – all the attributes that Morgane has. Her kingdom of Avalon is one of the possible localizations of the Celtic paradise – it is the place that the Irish called “sid”, the “sedos” (seat) of the gods, their dwelling, but at the same time a place of peace beyond the sea. Avalon is also called the Fortunate Isle (L’Île Fortunée) because of the miraculous prosperity of its soil where everything grows at an abnormal rate. As such, agriculture does not exist there since nature produces by itself everything, without the intervention of mankind.

It is within this island that the fairy leads those she protects, especially her half-brother Arthur after the twilight of the Arthurian world. Morgane acts as such as the mediator between the world of the living and the fabulous Celtic Otherworld. Like all the fairies, she never stops going back and forth between the two worlds. Morgane is the ideal ferrywoman. The same way the Morrigan fed on corpses or the Valkyries favored warriors dead in battle, Morgane also welcomes the soul of the dead that she keeps by her side for all of eternity. Some texts gave her a home called “Montgibel”, which is confused with the Italian Etna. The Otherworld over which she rules doesn’t seem, as such, to be fully maritime.

The ”Life of Merlin” of the Welsh clerk Geoffroy of Monmouth teaches us that Morgan has eight sisters: Moronoe, Mazoe, Gliten, Glitonea, Gliton, Thiten, Tytonoe, and Thiton. Nine sisters in total which can be divided in three groups of three, connected by one shared first letter (M, G, T). In Adam de la Halle’s “Jeu de la feuillée”, she appears with two female companions (Arsile and Maglore), forming a female trinity. As such, she rebuilds the primitive triad of the sovereign-goddesses, these mother-goddesses that the inscriptions of Antiquity called the “Matres” or “Matronae”. In this triad, Morgane is the most prominent member. She is the effective ruler of Avalon, since it was said that she taught the art of divination to her sisters, an art she herself learned from Merlin of which she was the pupil. She knows the secret of medicinal herbs, and the art of healing, she knows how to shape-shift and how to fly in the air. Her healing abilities give her in some Arthurian works a benevolent function, for example within the various romans of Chrétien de Troyes. She usually appears right on time to heal a wounded knight: she is the one that gave a balm to Yvain, the Knight of the Lion, to heal his madness. In these works, Morgane does not embody a force of destruction, but on the contrary she protects the happy endings and good fortunes of the Round Table. She is the providential fée that saves the souls born in high society and raised in the “courtois” worship of the lady. However, her powers of healing can reverse into a nefarious power when the fée has her ego wounded.

III/ The fatal temptress

In the prose Arthurian romans of the 13th century, Morgane can be summarized by one place. After being neglected by her lover Guyomar, she creates “le Val sans retour”, the Vale of No-Return, a place which will define her as a “femme fatale”. This place transports without the “littérature courtoise” the idea of the Celtic Otherworld. Also called “Le Val des faux amants” (The Vale of False Lovers), “le Val sans retour” is a cursed place where the fée traps all those that were unfaithful to her, by using various illusions and spells. As such, she manifests both her insatiable cruelty and her extreme jealousy. Lancelot will become the prime victim of Morgane because, due to his love for Queen Guinevere, he will refuse her seduction. The feelings of Morgane towards Lancelot rely on the ambivalence of love and hate: since she cannot obtain the love of the knight by natural means, she will use all of her enchantments and magical brews to submit Lancelot’s will. In vain. Lancelot will escape from the influence of this wicked witch. In “La Mort le roi Artu”, still for revenge, Morgan will participate in her own way to the decline to the Arthurian world: she will reveal to her brother, king Arthur, the adulterous love of Guinevre and Lancelot. She will bring to him the irrefutable proof of this affair by showing her what Lancelot painted when he had been imprisoned by her. The terrible war that marks the end of the Arthurian world will be concluded by the battle between Arthur and Mordred, the incestuous son of Arthur and Morgan. As such, Morgan appears as the instigator of the disaster that will ruin the Arthurian world. She manipulates the various actors of the tragedy and pushes them towards a deadly end. It should be noted that any sexual or romantic relationship between Arthur and Morgane are absent from the French romans – they are especially present within the British compilation of Malory, La Mort d’Arthur.

Behind the possessive woman described by the Arthurian texts, hides a more complex figure, a leftover of the ancient Celtic goddess of destinies. Cruel and manipulative, Morgan is fuses with the fear-inducing figure of the witch. Despite being an enemy of men, she keeps seeking their love. All of her personal tragedy comes from the fact that she fails to be loved. Always heart-sick, she takes revenge for her romantic failure with an incredible savagery. Her brutality manifest itself through the ugliness that some text will end up giving her – the ultimate rejection by this Christian world of this “devilish and lustful temptress”. “La Suite du Roman de Merlin” will try to give its own explanation for this transformation of Morgane, from good to wicked fairy: “She was a beautiful maiden until the time she learned charms and enchantments ; but because the devil took part in these charms and because she was tormented by both lust and the devil, she completely lost her beauty and became so ugly that no one accepted to ever call her beautiful, unless they had been bewitched”. In this new roman, she is responsible for a series of murders and suicides – and as the rival of Guinevere, she tries to cause King Arthur’s doom by favorizing her own lover, Accalon. Another fée, Viviane, will oppose herself to her schemes.

The demonization of the goddess is however not complete. Morgan appears in several “chansons de gestes” of the beginning of the 13th century, and even within the Orlando Furioso of the Arisote, in the sixth canto, in which she is the sister of the sorceress Alcina. She is presented as the disciple of Merlin. Seer and wizardess, she owns (within Avalon or the land of Faerie) a land of pleasure, a little paradise in which mankind can escape its condition. At the same time the Arthurian texts discredit her, she joins a strange historico-pagan syncretism, by being presented as the wife of Julius Caesar, and as the mother of Aubéron, the little king of Féerie.

After the Middle-Ages, the fée Morgane only mostly appears within the Breton folklore (the French-Britton folklore, of the French region of Bretagne). There, old mythical themes which inspired medieval literature are maintained alive, and keep existing well after the Middles-Ages. Morgane is given several lairs, on earth or under the sea. In the Côtes-d’Armor, there is a Terte de la fée Morgan, while a hill near Ploujean is called “Tertre Morgan”. There is an entire branch of popular literature in Bretagne (such as Charles Le Bras’ 1850 “Morgân”) where the fée represents the last survivor of a legendary land and the reminder of a forgotten past. She expresses the nostalgia of a lost dream, of a fallen Golden Age. True Romantic allegory of the lands and seas of Bretagne, she most notably embodies the feeling of a Bretagne land that was in search of its own soul.

However, it is her role of “cursed lover” that stays the most dominant within the Breton folklore. The vicomte de La Villemarqué, great collector of folktales and popular legends, noted in his “Barzaz Breiz” (1839) that the “morgan”, a type of water spirits, took at the bottom of the sea or of ponds, in palaces of gold and crystal, young people that played too close to their “haunted waters”. The goal of these fairies was to kidnap them to regenerate their cursed species. This ties the link between these “morganes” (also called “mary morgand”) and the Antique “fairy of fate”. Similar names, a same love of water, and the presence of the “land below the waves”, of a malevolent seduction – these are the permanent traits of Morgane, who keeps confusing and uniting the romantic instinct for love, and the desire for death. More modern adaptations of the legend (such as Marion Zimmer Bradley’s novels) weave an entire feminist fantasy around the figure of this fairy, supposed to embody the Celtic matriarchy.

[oksa-pollock-fandom-revival]

2025 is a Tugdual Year

[tugdual-ama]

Tugdual are you still alive in the year of 2024

My body is alive, my soul is dead

[alexar60]

Marécage

Des marais à perte de vue !

Moins connu que Gauvain, Tugdual venait aussi du pays de Galles. Il avait traversé les mers pour trouver ce que les chevaliers de la table ronde cherchent depuis toujours, le Saint Graal. Dans le nord, il avait combattu des hommes des glaces. A l’ouest, il s’est opposé au terrible serpent de mer, A l’est, c’était la fameuse horde sauvage qu’il défia pour sauver un petit village sans richesse. Quant au sud, il affronta le géant des sables. Mais de tous ses défis, il ne pensait pas que celui-ci serait le plus compliqué.

Des marais à perte de vue !

Voilà comment les paysans de la région décrivirent l’endroit. La piste donnée par un marchant local obligeait de s’enfoncer dans les terres de Nimué. Mais, à l’approche, il comprit qu’il ne serait pas facile d’entrer dans ces terres. C’était une immense étendue d’eau et de bois où personne n’allait par peur des superstitions. On disait qu’il était hanté, qu’un monstre habitait la zone et dévorait tout être vivant pénétrant dans le marécage. D’ailleurs, Tugdual n’entendit aucun chant d’oiseau, preuve que même ceux qui sont censés être à l’abri, ne se sentent pas protégés.

Le chevalier suivit son instinct. « Si le Graal est au centre de cet enfer », j’irai le chercher, pensa-t-il. Personne ne voulut l’aider. Ainsi, il acheta une barque et s’enfonça sous le regard médusé et désolé des villageois. Au début, tout se passait bien. Mais après avoir traversé le lac, ou plutôt la grande étendue d’eau, sa barque pénétra le sanctuaire interdit.

Puis, il fut confronté à différents problèmes. La chaleur étouffante du jour laissait sa place à au froid glacial de la nuit. L’humidité fut si importante et l’air si vicié qu’il vit, de ses propres yeux, son épée commencer à rouiller. Son bateau n’avançait que rarement dans l’eau croupie, l’obligeant à ramer et à se jeter dans le marais pour couper les racines des arbres ou des plantes qui, l’empêchaient de continuer sa route. Et le brouillard toujours présent, devenait de plus en plus dense quand il s’enfonçait dans ce marais infect. Dès lors, il réalisait que sa quête devenait absurde.

Des marais à perte de vue !

Après quelques jours, Tugdual pensait avoir fait le plus dur. Mais quelque-chose ne lui convenait pas. En effet, plus il avançait, plus il avait la sensation de déjà-vu. « Cet arbre, je l’ai aperçu. Et cette broussaille qui ressemble à un cheval, je le reconnais.» se disait le chevalier. De même, les arbres ressemblaient énormément à des formes humaines. Il crut même qu’ils gesticulaient des bras en voyant le vent bouger les branches.

Des marais à perte de vue !

Il avait fini ses provisions. Dès lors, il se mit à pêcher et récupérer quelques poissons. Tous avaient une terrible odeur de vase. Il vomit, sentant la maladie l’envahir. Et les moustiques qui s’amusaient à sucer son sang. Sa tête était chaude, il regrettait cette quête.

Des marais à perte de vue !

Dans son rêve, Tugdual vit une jeune femme aux cheveux d’or et à la peau blanche. Elle sortait de l’eau et l’invitait à le rejoindre. Il tendit le bras pour attraper sa main et se laissa glisser hors du bateau. Lorsqu’il se réveilla en avalant une gorgée d’eau putride, il se rendit compte qu’il était au milieu de rien. Sa barque avançait lentement. Lui qui ne savait pas nager, dut faire un effort surhumain pour la rejoindre, Enfin sur les planches, il souffla et s’endormit de nouveau. Le brouillard se faisait de plus en plus épais.

Il regrettait l’absence de son écuyer ou d’un compagnon. Son homme de main tomba malade quelques jours avant d’arriver dans ce village maudit. Il aurait pu attendre qu’il se rétablisse mais son esprit contenait trop d’impatience. Alors, il laissa son fidèle serviteur pensant le revoir dans quelques jours au plus. Et les autres chevaliers suivaient une autre piste à l’autre bout du pays ou en Calédonie. Dieu qu’il se sentait seul dans ce monde perdu. Même les oiseaux ne chantaient pas pour lui.

Soudain un craquement puis un cri. C’était le hurlement d’un animal. Devant son embarcation, l’eau se mit à bouillir. Il serra son épée à moitié tachée de rouille et observa cette eau remuer dans tous les sens. Le bateau continua d’avancer avec une lenteur insupportable. Il se mit à prier n’importe quel dieu. Malgré son baptême, il demeurait encore païen et louait toujours quelques dieux celtes. La rivière se calma brusquement. Tugdual observa les semblants de rives touffues et inaccessibles. Il jeta un œil sur un morceau de bois flottant. C’était les restes d’un cor de cerf. La tête arrachée regardait Tugdual en tirant la langue. L’intrépide semblait lire dans ce regard vide un danger.

Des marais à perte de vue !

A peine remis de cette vision d’horreur, le chevalier sentit quelque-chose frapper son épaule. C’était un tentacule. L’homme se releva immédiatement l’épée à la main. Face à lui, un monstre se dressait, des yeux globuleux le dévisageaient. Un second tentacule sortit de l’eau puis un troisième. Dès lors, le poulpe s’amusa avec la barque en la bousculant. Tugdual tomba, mais réussit à se maintenir dedans. Le monstre jouait, le bateau, collé aux  bras de la pieuvre, ne touchait plus l’eau. Un tentacule enroula la barque avant de l’écraser comme un vulgaire insecte. Le jeune héros plongea, malgré lui, dans une eau noire et dangereuse.

Il se débattait aussi bien pour ne pas se noyer que pour se défendre du poulpe. Son poignard frappait l’eau sans toucher le monstre. Il frappait et essayait en même temps de rejoindre la rive. Enfin il arriva à avoir pieds et put courir jusqu’au bord. Il regarda l’étendue d’eau. Tout était calme. La pieuvre avait disparu. Jamais il n’aurait pensé rencontrer un pareil animal en cet endroit.

Des marais à perte de vue !

Tugdual avait tout perdu. Il ne lui restait qu’un couteau accroché à sa ceinture. Il avançait à travers les ronces et les feuillages denses. Le brouillard n’aidait pas. Il essaya de chercher de la nourriture. Mais c’était le rôle de son écuyer que de chasser les petits animaux. Lui était habitué aux sangliers, aux cerfs et autres gibiers de grande envergure. Il marchait cherchant à longer la rivière.

Des marais à perte de vue !

La traversé devint encore plus longue et périlleuse. Il risqua de s’effondrer d’épuisement dans la boue et les flaques. Ses vêtements se déchirèrent au contact des ronces et autre plantes à aiguilles. Il sentait la verdure blesser sa chair. Il avait mal. Mais il ne voulait pas mourir en cet endroit. Savoir que son corps finirait ici, imaginer ses ossements pourrir dans ce marécage, le révulsait. Alors, il trouva la force de continuer.

Des marais à perte de vue !

A cause de la soif, de la faim et de la fatigue, son imagination joua des tours. Il entendit une étrange mélodie. C’était un chant doux, une voix féminine harmonieuse. Il s’arrêta, chercha à regarder le ciel à travers la brume. Celle-ci parut moins épaisse. Et si ce n’était pas un mirage ? S’il entendait bien une femme chanter ? Aussitôt il s’engouffra au milieu des buissons en direction de ce chant. Il trébucha sur les racines, s’arracha la peau des bras et des jambes. Il faillit se crever un œil avec une branche tendue. Enfin, le brouillard avait disparu ainsi que la forêt et les marécages.

Tugdual avait réussi. Un château de pierre se dressait devant lui. Il marcha difficilement, ses jambes tremblantes avaient de plus en plus de mal à avancer. Il s’agenouilla, se mit à ramper vers ce château fantastique. Puis il s’endormit. Pendant ce temps, une jeune femme chantait à côté d’une fenêtre. A ses côté, un homme sourire aux lèvres, tenait une coupe de vin. Ses habits étaient des plus éclatants. Il était envouté par la beauté de la chanteuse… A moins que ce soit par sa magie, parce qu’il ressemblait trait pour trait à Tugdual.

Alex@r60 – août 2023

[gillesvalery]

TREGUIER (cathedrale Saint Tugdual) (Côtes-d'Armor)

[hexaconto]

Choisir son expert-comptable à Saint-Tugdual - 6 critères incontournables

La région de Saint-Tugdual compte moins de 10 experts-comptables. En tant qu’entrepreneur, dirigeant ou créateur, cela vous fait donc autant de possibilités pour choisir l’expert-comptable adéquat qui vous

[super-powerful-queen-reyna]

Guns for hire is sooo tugdual coded

[silvestromedia]

SAINTS NOVEMBER 30

St. Andrew Roman Catholic- Patron of fishermen-The first one to be called by Jesus. He immediately left his nets and followed Him. Nov. 30 Vatican News https://www.vaticannews.va/en/saints/11/30/st--andrew--apostle.html

St. Joseph Marchand, Roman Catholic Priest and Martyr of Vietnam. He was arrested in Saigon and condemned by authorities; he was martyred with red-hot tongs. Nov. 30

St. Tudwal, 564 A.D. Welsh monk and bishop, called Pabu (Father) among the Bretons and sometimes listed as Tugdual. Originally a monk in Wales, he journeyed to Brittany, France, with his mother, sisters, and other relatives. The Celtic language of Brittany was easily understood by Welsh speakers. Tudwal’s cousin, Deroc, was a king of Dumnonia and he worked to promote the faith in his cousin’s domain, founding Lan Paku at Leon, Spain. He eventually became bishop of Treher (Treguier) with King Childebert I (r. 511 -558) as his patron. He is remembered in Wales in several sites in the Leyn Peninsula.

[jfsabyblogs]

En avance sur son temps ?

BLOG KELOU. Ven 22.05.2015, 19:23. MISE À JOUR. http://jfsaby.com/blogs/index.php/kelou/vW6 Article modifié. 1 PHOTO. En visitant la salle du « Trésor » de la cathédrale Saint Tugdual de Tréguier, je suis resté pantois devant la statue de Saint Jean l'Evangéliste. Je n'avais jamais entendu dire qu'il était le saint patron des auto-stoppeurs…

[ghoermann]

Cathédrale Saint-Tugdual de Tréguier

[rsayoub]

Celebrating Milestones and Mastering Game Localization: A Fireside Chat with Tugdual Delisle

In the world of podcasts where voices blend and stories unfold, the Localization Fireside Chat has carved out a niche that resonates deeply with those intrigued by the art and science of localization. As we celebrate the release of our 52nd episode, it’s not just another number; it’s a testament to the journey, the conversations, and the myriad insights shared by leaders across the globe. This…