Barbarism, identity in relation to the natural world, and meditations on primeval forces are all conventions in Sword & Sorcery fantasy. In my research of the field of Celticism, I have found works—both mythic and modern—that also embody these concepts.

The honored stories of Fenian tradition of Gaelic folk belief in Ireland and Scotland features characters who fit the mould of S&S heroes—young men who live beyond the pale of civilization and often brush with the primeval, dark powers of nature, yet also find beauty, inspiration, and peace in it. The Fenian tradition (or Fenian Cycle) centers upon the exploits of warrior-poet Fionn mac Cumhaill (anglicized as Finn McCool) and his fellow warriors in his fían, a semi-nomadic band of young, aristocratic men who traditionally lived outside of society for a period of time as a rite of passage.

This tradition was the basis of 18th-century Scottish writer James Macpherson’s epic Ossianic poems (for a succinct overview of Macpherson’s life and works, see Deuce Richardson’s post here), which served as some of the beginnings of the Celtic Revival movement that took place during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Although Macpherson claimed to have translated his epics from original Gaelic folktales, poems, and manuscripts he largely embellished most of the poems’ contents and narratives. Regardless, they stand alone as masterful “written paintings” of the misty, primeval Caledonia (Scotland) Macpherson wished to portray his native land as and solidify the inhabitants as extensions and protectors of the land itself.

Speaking of Caledonia, one of my favorite metal bands perfectly recreates what it feels like to walk through the cool, foggy Highlands by way of lyrics that utilize vivid imagery of the hills, forests, and shores underscored by melodies that sound as though they were wrought from vibrations of wind and stone. The band Saor (pronounced soor; Gaelic for “Free”) defines their subgenre as“Caledonian Metal”, specifically focusing on the emotions evoked by the unspoilt Scottish landscape.

These pieces of artistic expression within the umbrella of Celticism can all serve as inspiration for Sword & Sorcery fantasy, especially for building worlds and characters that tangle with the concepts of barbarism, nature, and finding fulfillment in the world. While I will be largely referring to Celtic-themed sources, drawing on natural elements that define particular landscapes in any corner of the world can help establish a sense of wonder and open avenues of breathing life into settings.

Celts and Celtic-analogue cultures in fantasy are usually depicted as staunch worshippers and protectors of the natural world, in some media even literally being one with nature. Starkly contrasting the more orderly, imperial factions of the worlds they inhabit. While Celts historically and culturally did see divinity in nature (both before and after their conversion to Christianity), it was not to the extent that they were the unrepentant, lawless hippies the lion’s share of popular media makes them out to be. They certainly had a more amicable relationship with the natural world than the Anglo-Saxons did, but they still recognized the dangerous spirits and nameless forces that dwelt in it. Most interestingly, however, they viewed it as a source of poetic inspiration, which itself had otherworldly connections that could not be acquired within the boundaries of society.

The heroes of the Fenian Cycle are one such group in Gaelic folk tradition who draw upon the natural world as a source of their poetic inspiration. One prerequisite for membership in a fían (Old Irish for “a group of Fenian warriors”) was for recruits to be “versed in the twelve books of poesy.”

Most famously, Fionn mac Cumhaill becomes a master poet after consuming the Salmon of Wisdom (which also bestows the power of foresight to him). The first poem he composes gives praise to Beltaine (the 1st of May and regarded as the beginning of spring in the Celtic calendar):

May-day, season surpassing! Splendid is colour then. Blackbirds sing a full lay, if there be a slender shaft of day.

The dust-colored cuckoo calls aloud: Welcome, splendid summer! The bitterness of bad weather is past, the boughs of the wood are a thicket.

Summer cuts the river down, the swift herd of horses seeks the pool, the long hair of the heather is outspread, the soft white bog-down grows.

Panic startles the heart of the deer, the smooth sea runs apace — season when ocean sinks asleep — blossom covers the world.

Bees with puny strength carry a goodly burden, the harvest of blossoms; up the mountain-side kine take with them mud, the ant makes a rich meal.

The harp of the forest sounds music, the sail gathers — perfect peace. Colour has settled on every height, haze on the lake of full waters.

The corncrake, a strenuous bard, discourses; the lofty virgin waterfall sings a welcome to the warm pool; the talk of the rushes is come.

Light swallows dart aloft, loud melody reaches round the hill, the soft rich mast buds, the stuttering quagmire rehearses.

The peat-bog is as the raven’s coat, the loud cuckoo bids welcome, the speckled fish leaps, strong is the bound of the swift warrior.

Man flourishes, the maiden buds in her fair strong pride; perfect each forest from top to ground, perfect each great stately plain.

Delightful is the season’s splendour, rough winter has gone, white is every fruitful wood, a joyous peace in summer.

A flock of birds settles in the midst of meadows; the green field rustles, wherein is a brawling white stream.

A wild longing is on you to race horses, the ranked host is ranged around: A bright shaft has been shot into the land, so that the water-flag is gold beneath it.

A timorous tiny persistent little fellow sings at the top of his voice, the lark sings clear tidings: surpassing May-day of delicate colours! (“The Boyish Exploits of Finn” translated by Kuno Meyer)

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In the second volume of the Fenian text Duanaire Finn (“The Songbook of the Lays of Fionn”), there is a dialogue between Oísin, the son of Fionn, and St. Patrick where Oísin (who in this episode is incredibly old and one of the last two surviving members of his fían) praises the “music” of the natural world prior to the coming of Christianity:

[T]he chatter of the blackbird of Leitir Laoi and the sound made by the Dord Fian.

The sweet-voiced thrush of Gleann an Sgáil, the noise of the ships as they touched the shore: the cry of the hounds was more musical to me than thy chant, holy cleric.

Fionn had twelve hounds: when they were let loose in Gleann Raith their tuneful chanting, as they swept away from the river Suir, was more musical to me.

When Fionn took his seat on a hill the Dord Fian would be faultlessly sounded. It used to put all men asleep: alas! they would find the clergy more musical. (LVII.5-8)

This dynamic of father and son recognizing the beauty in nature when one is in his youth and the other is in the twilight of his life itself has a certain poetic weight. What both men recognize are the almost divine wonders in their native landscape; with these texts both being transcribed well after the conversion of Ireland and Scotland to Christianity, their authors would be loath to admit the pagan connotations of Fionn and Oísin’s verses, but the reverence and recognition of life is present.

The “Dord Fian” which Oísin refers to is a secret hunting language used by the fían of Ireland that mimicked the sounds of insects buzzing, wind through the trees, and ambient droning of the earth. It was a method of covert communication while hunting to mask the hunters from their quarry and was also a form of musical expression the fían would engage in while they camped and feasted in the wilderness. The fact these pre-Christian warriors incorporated the sounds of the natural world into a language unto itself goes to show how in tune these heroes were with the wilderness of their native land.

James Macpherson used the Fenian Cycle as the basis of his Ossianic poetry Fragments of Ancient Poetry (published 1760), Fingal (published 1765), and Temora (published 1765). His “translations” have no actual basis in any Fenian narrative from oral folklore or manuscript tradition aside from the names of characters (chiefly Fionn mac Cumhaill being represented by Fingal and his son Oísin being represented by Ossian who also serves as the narrator for large portions of the poems [thus the term “Ossianic”]), but stand on their own as captivating, if florid, artistic works crafted in the name of bringing attention to a fading, national identity.

Fragments largely deals with Ossian and other characters mourning the loss of their golden age in Caledonia. Ossian’s poems in this collection often make comparisons to the natural world and the heroes he admired in their heyday; they are not too dissimilar from the praise he gives in his dialogue with St. Patrick:

Who can reach the source of thy race, O Connal? and who recount thy Fathers? Thy family grew like an oak on the mountain, which meeteth the wind with its lofty head. But now it is torn from the earth. Who shall supply the place of Connal?

Here was the din of arms; and here the groans of the dying. Mournful are the wars of Fingal! O Connal! it was here thou didst fall. Thine arm was like a storm; thy sword, a beam of the sky; thy height, a rock on the plain; thine eyes, a furnace of fire. Louder than a storm was thy voice, when thou confoundedst the field. Warriors fell by thy sword, as the thistle by the staff of a boy. (Macpherson, 1761)

The nature metaphors utilized by Ossian serve to illustrate both the might of the heroes he knew in his prime as well as link them to his native natural world. Like the Fenian heroes of traditional Gaelic folklore, the Caledonian heroes Macpherson’s Ossian recalls seemed to have transcended into mythic status within sites outside of society. An interesting note about the Ossianic poems is the lack of references to gods or beings that could be perceived as divine. Rather, the memories—or even the literal ghosts—of characters haunt the natural world, perhaps as a call-back to the immortal worship of ancestors that persisted almost universally among Celtic-speaking peoples even into the modern day.

Hugh Blair, one of Macpherson’s chief supporters, wrote a dissertation on the three aforementioned poems and makes note of the elements that make up Ossian’s world of ancient Caledonia:

The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars, Clouds and Meteors, Lightning and Thunder, Seas and Whales, Rivers, Torrents, Winds, Ice, Rain, Snow, Dews, Mist, Fire and Smoke, Trees and Forests, Heath and Grass and Flowers, Rocks and Mountains, Music and Songs, Light and Darkness, Spirits and Ghosts; these form the circle, within which Ossian’s comparisons generally run. Some, not many, are taken from Birds and Beasts; as Eagles, Goats, Herds of Cattle, Serpents, Insects; and to the various occupations of rural and pastoral life. (Blair, 1763)

I often refer back to this “inventory” when fleshing out the landscapes and natural ambience in my own stories. Often, sword & sorcery can be entranced with the majesty, complexity, and decadence of urban or imperial settings when the natural world can be teeming with just as much life or phenomenon that act in stark contrast to the forces of Law which usually command cities. Taking stock of the elements that make up the natural world of your story and using them as points to expand upon for sake of things like metaphor, emphasizing a scene’s beauty, or connecting a hero or other entity to the land itself.

In the 21st century, the only form of “literature” that has come close to capturing the melancholic, sublime, yet liberated form of Macpherson’s poetry is the Scottish black metal band, Saor. The band’s “About” page sums up the stories they wish to evoke through their music:

The stage becomes a canvas upon which the band paints stories of battles, legends, and the timeless allure of the Scottish landscape. These enthralling shows bridge the gap between past and present, inviting listeners to join a communal journey that celebrates Scotland’s heritage and its enduring connection with nature.

Their album which best blends human music, natural soundscapes, and moods of the natural world of Scotland, I believe, is Aura. Released in 2014, Aura features songs with Scottish Gaelic lyrics (sung by Beth Frieden) and sound effects that replicate the wind and rain of the Scottish Highlands. The haunting words spoken amidst the sounds of winds in the song “Tombs” (featured as a bonus track on the remastered version of Aura) really feel as if the land itself, or phantoms dwelling within the hills and cairns, are speaking. Like the Ossianic and Fenian examples, Saor manages to combine human elements with the natural world they adore and venerate through their artistic expressions.

Listening to their albums myself put me in an Ossianic mood as the themes and soundscapes built a misty, blue-grey world haunted by battles, wanderers in the fog, and countless spirits with forgotten names and stories. Saor’s music speaks to souls that long for an age in such a land a beautiful as Scotland without as many constraints or anxieties as our own. They evoke an age only dreamed of in songs and stories, much like how the poems of Ossian and Fionn recall a freer, heroic age of myth.

While a great deal of Sword & Sorcery fantasy favors setting stories in exotic urban locations and manmade ruins, Robert E. Howard’s Bran Mak Morn stories and “Beyond the Black River” wholeheartedly delve into the sublimity of the natural world and the peoples who inhabit it. Most interestingly, these stories deal with Picts, the aboriginal inhabitants of Scotland (who are erroneously made non-Celtic in Howard’s fiction); they are often likened to the extreme end of barbarism even beyond a hero like Conan who is primarily regarded as a “savage” himself by other characters such as in “Beyond the Black River”:

Short men, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, lean-hipped. They were naked except for scanty loin clouts. The firelight brought out the play of their swelling muscles in bold relief. Their dark faces were immobile, but their narrow eyes glittered with the fire that burns in the eyes of a stalking tiger. Their tangled manes were bound back with bands of copper. Swords and axes were in their hands. Crude bandages banded the limbs of some, and smears of blood were dried on their dark skins. There had been fighting, recent and deadly. (Howard, 1935)

The Picts in the Bran stories are portrayed in a more sympathetic light and are likened more closely with their native land of Caledonia, one of the best variations of their appearance being in “Worms of the Earth”:

He was dark, but he did not resemble the Latins around him. There was about him none of the warm, almost Oriental sensuality of the Mediterranean which colored their features. The blond barbarians behind Sulla’s chair were less unlike the man in facial outline than were the Romans. Not his were the full curving red lips, nor the rich waving locks suggestive of the Greek. Nor was his dark complexion the rich olive of the south; rather it was the bleak darkness of the north. The whole aspect of the man vaguely suggested the shadowed mists, the gloom, the cold and the icy winds of the naked northern limbs. Even his black eyes were savagely cold, like black fires burning through fathoms of ice. (Howard, 1932)

Both descriptions of Picts are respective of their homelands by generation—the Hyborian Age Picts of “Beyond the Black River” being those of the jungle and Bran, from the zenith of the Roman Empire, hailing from the bleak, northerly hills of unconquered Caledonia. Although Howard’s Picts are not Celtic, the prose he uses (especially for Bran) to link them to their homelands is not too dissimilar to Ossian’s metaphors for the heroes of his age or Saor’s ability to portray landscapes through their sound.

S&S heroes have the opportunity to explore or hail from lands beyond the walls and spires of decadent cities they dream of plundering. There is as much danger and adventure to be found in the wilderness, if not more so than in the city, for it is an untamed, elemental place. Celtic storytellers recognized this but also understood the beauty it held. While they weren’t “one with nature” as popular media likes to portray them, they still managed to evoke the divinity and fantastic qualities of it through poetry and stories. The same can be done for the worlds of S&S stories, whether they take place in worlds or times only vaguely inspired by our own; in cold, northern highlands or in dark, lightless jungles teeming with life hidden from the human eye. It is a matter of taking notice of what elements make up the worlds of these stories and expanding on the wonder that can be found within them, showing the chaotic, untamed forces of the land beyond city walls. Heroes too can embody those forces, especially if they were born into cultures that embrace the freedom of the natural world but do not succumb to it.

Ethan Sabatella is the author of the Celtic sword & sorcery stories “The Abartachs’ Hostage” (DMR Books, Die By the Sword I, 2023) and “The Tomb of Tigernmas” (DMR Books, Samhain Sorceries, 2022). He will be published with DMR again with his story “Balefire Beneath the Waves” appearing in Die By the Sword II in Spring 2024. Ethan also publishes weekly articles on Celtic myth and folklore, sword & sorcery, and general media reviews, and monthly short stories on his Substack Senchas Claideb.