Milo ap Twyssel was born the first son of Twyssel ap Gryffydd in the town of Dyffed, in the winter of the Year of Our Lord 1327, on the 23rd of December to be precise. He soon became a redheaded ragamuffin devoted to doing as little work as possible, and doing the chores that his Da and Ma would not let him shirk. He let most of his learning, got with sweat and the occasional swat from the church school of Dyffed roll out his ears and off his back.
One summer night, in 1341, Milo was up to no particular good, he heard a squawking, and spotted a fox slipping out of their henhouse with a particularly fat biddy clutched in his jaws. Milo, who had had special hopes for that hen involving the party at Midsummer, gravy, and his Ma's brown bread stuffing, sputtered with indignation. Pointing his finger at the fleeing predator, he cursed it with a will.
"Run off with my Midsummer's dinner, wilt thou? The Lord smite thee hard, even to thy life, thou sneak-thief dinner-stealer, thou! Owww!"
This last was not so much curse as exclamation, as a spark of white light erupted from Milo's index finger, whirled lazily toward the fox, and struck it in the ribs. With a surprised yip, the animal fell over onto its side, quite dead. The hen flapped about the yard in panic, and it took Milo several dazed minutes to scoop it up into his arms and march it back to the henhouse, with stern warnings.
"A deal I'll make with thee, fat biddy my own. You don't so much as tell an angel what's happened here tonight, and I'll eat the scrawny gray instead of you for Midsummer's. Go telling your tales, and it's the pot for thee sure."
The hen received this bit of negotiation with all the usual astuteness of her kind, which is to say she pecked Milo quite hard on the nose, and in ten days time, was found to be quite utterly delicious.
It was generally agreed in Dyffed that Twyssel's boy was not quite right, which suspicions dated from just about this time. Milo could often be found attending confessions daily, was up for church early, leaving late, and occasionally held the notes of the psalm just a hair longer than everyone else. He walked by himself when not in church, had fashioned a cross out of small twigs worn on braided grass, and in his fifteenth year utterly scandalized his mother by giving himself the most abominable attempt at a tonsure seen in five counties.
It didn't do any good. No matter how hard his prayers, he found that when he wanted to, he could see eerie colors tracing themselves around certain specific animals of the woods, could tell with unerring certainty the moment at which milk had turned without tasting it, and had terrified himself when, upon sighting a hungry wolf at Michaelmas, he had prayed for speed to deliver himself, and had run home faster than he'd ever seen a person of his size move in his lifetime. Most folks had seen it, too, which was worse. He spent several days in utter dread that he would be found out, denounced as a blasphemer, burnt as a witch, and would undoubtedly disgrace his family unto the last generation.
The dreaded knock at the door didn't come. Then again, no other knocks at the door came, either. Milo found himself more alone than he'd been in a long time. When he was home, Ma wanted to know why he wasn't outside. When he went to see anyone, they suggested he get out and do something useful. Father Lloyd tired of Milo's reciting the Mass with him too loudly, and everyone else just seemed to be nervous when he was around.
Finally, he went to the woods on a Sunday in the spring of 1348, with cheese, sweet lettuce, a small pot of cream, and every spice he could lay his hands on. He wasn't sure what was to be done, but he knew he'd have to find a friend soon or he'd run mad. Praying fervently, he began laying out treats for such a friend as the Lord might send him. His hands moved of their own accord, this spice sprinkled here, that clot of cream arranged there, until he'd made a small maze of foods and tastes, according to some incomprehensible plan.
He soon dozed, and woke to an odd tickling sensation. He started as his eyes opened, then felt an eerie calm and curiosity settle over him. Where he lay on the grass, a gray rat of middling size stood on its haunches, sniffing at his nose and idly licking cream from its right forepaw. Without hearing any actual sound, he was quite convinced it had said, "Hello, Brother Milo."
The two were distressingly inseparable. Elmo, for so he was named, would spend the day peeping out of Milo's neckline. He was a good confidante, as well, for he told no one any secrets, would listen with great patience, and would warn his huge companion just before worried heads poked themselves into their business. He also found himself getting on better with people in Dyffed. Elmo knew what people liked to hear, what sorts of flowers Brigitte Llewellynn liked best, and when to hold a joke or story to the breaking point. Milo found himself warming to people again, and enjoying their company. He didn't always know what he was doing, in fact, he almost never was sure where a story or a stunt was going, but Elmo knew, and Elmo told Milo, and that was good enough. It was as though all of his awkwardness and oddity had been transformed into an easy, winning way with people, and no one could quite put their finger on how that had happened.
January of 1350 was cold, cold beyond his memory of winters past. Worshippers in Dyffed's church were huddled together for warmth, and wisps of steam came from their mouths as they prayed. Elmo was miserable under Milo's clothes, and his tiny flickering presence in Milo's heart began to feel more and more faint. He tried blowing down his own shirt, but the breath was cold by the time it reached his friend, and he finally huddled over his cupped hands and began breathing his warmest breath onto what everyone around him could clearly see was a great, shivering, whiskery, gray rat. Ma gasped. Da scowled in exasperated disapproval, and his sister Kimberly, barely five years of age, declared matter-of-factly, "Bubba Milo's kissing a rat. Can I kiss him too?"
Father Lloyd turned a worried eye on the scene before him. As Milo looked up to meet his gaze, Elmo turned around and look over his shoulder at Dyffed's priest. As Milo began to pray for some way to explain this that didn't seem to end in fires and hot irons, his companion turned about on Milo's cupped hands, and slowly and deliberately crossed himself with a tiny paw. Father Lloyd's jaw dropped open, and Milo obeyed his companion's clear suggestion that he should salute the altar and leave at once.
Home was a noisy place. There was no point going inside. Everywhere else was chillingly quiet, and soon enough the news came. Dyffed's Elders had conferred, and their verdict was clear. Milo was to explore the wide world, and visit Father Crechewell in Devonshire, just shy of the ends of the earth. Father Crechewell would give him guidance and teaching, and would know what to do with him. Life in Dyffed could go back to normal, and all would be well.
Milo took the news soberly. At least, there would be a farewell dinner, and one last chance to celebrate, and for that matter to see Brigitte, who had taken an unaccountable liking to him. He didn't understand it at all, but he knew how to make her laugh, which Elmo insisted was what she loved to do more than nearly anything else in the world.
He made his way to The Dancing Man, Dyffed's public house and hostel, and waited for the festivities to begin. As he sat pondering, wondering just how he was going to get to Devon alone, he felt a nudge. He looked up, to see a woman, for the Lord's sweet own sake a tallfolk human woman, sitting down to take her meal.
"Ye're up to some trick or other, and I'm to be the butt of it, eh, Elmo?" he asked.
"I'm telling you truly, Milo. She's a messenger of the Blessed Virgin, and you need to escort her to Devonshire. She has taken an oath not to tell, nor to ask for aid, so ye'll have to invite her to travel with us."
"Is any word of this true?" he asked again, suspiciously.
"At least three of them, Brother Milo. But the Lord alone knows which three! Oh, and he says, ask the heathen, too. She's the other messenger of the Virgin."
"Now, bear the Lord false witness, and ye'll be in real trouble, ye great beast."
"Ooh, now ye've told me. I never would have known there was trouble afoot, what with us both walking alone to the end of the world in Devon all by our lonesome and no one to defend us. Ye've certainly taught me, Ywis. Anyway, 'tis true. Two Virgins, one in honor of each Pope."
With the conviction that he was letting himself in for real trouble, he asked. To his surprise, he found his invitation accepted, and himself bound for Devonshire with companions, food, and the distinctly unsettling feeling that adventure would come of this.
It was Spring in England, in the Year of Our Lord 1350, and Milo ap Twyssel had set out for Devonshire with a princess of Faerie and a Scotswoman with Samson's own temper. God save the King, and the Lord help us all.
Father Milo's words regarding his companions:
Phiona MacPhearson-- Fierce and gruff, given to great rages in battle, and also a great wrestler with the Lord. She it was that Saint George chose to give his lance and his might in defeating the foul black dragon beneath the Isle of Meadhan. Her powerful will is both her blessing and her curse, but the Lord will make something mighty and wonderful with it.
Brygid-- At first, she seems the cold, proud winter to Phiona's stormy summer, but her eye and arrows are sharp indeed, and there is a torrent of passion under her icy facade. At times, she seems to fear looking too closely at herself with that keen eye, as though what she will see is not enough. May the Lord teach her how fearfully and wonderfully she is made.
Gwen-- She is easily underestimated, as so many of us smaller folk are. She has shown every bit as much bravery as the Two first companions have. Now that they are Three, she fits herself easily into where she's needed most be it in battle, or in peaceable times. She makes a most welcome addition to our merry band.