Now every fifth year in the land of Erinn games, between the provinces of Meath and Connacht, were held.
One year, a contestant known as Mac Duff brought with him to those games, his two fine sons.
Both mighty champions in their own right were they with each a troop of men.
One of the twain, Rinn by name, placed himself under the protection of Mider of Bray Lethe; speckled horses for his troop, and green cloaks with silver brooches, and shoes with clasps of red bronze, and on everyone of them a collar of gold with a gem worth a newly calved cow set in it.
The other brother, Faber, placed himself under arms for Buan of Connor Hill; black horses with bridle bits of gold for his troop, and grey-blue cloaks with a gold brooch at the breast of each, and a white tunic with crimson stripes, and a coil of bright gold round every man’s neck.
Mider asked could any man be found to fight his champion, Rinn.
“I will go against him,” said Faber.
“Bad news that,” said Rinn, “our meeting will bring only war-cries and battle corpses.”
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