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Post by WildlingKing on Oct 2, 2020 22:09:34 GMT
This was a very nice part! Robett was one of those PoVs that I really loved, but also one where my lack of planning was starting to come bite me in the arse. I gotta say you've handled him very well, especially given the narrative almost-dead-end I had left him in Really looking forward to where his story will go next, which brings me to the choice... [Stay with Dani] This was a very tough choice to make, because I'd love to see Robett and Jack reconnecting. However, I feel like staying is more in line with where Robett is emotionally. He doesn't want to go back to Castle Black and he feels betrayed by Jack. It just feels narratively right to solidify those feelings with this choice. And then hopefully down the line it might lead to an even more satisfying (or bitter) reunion between them. Oh, and also I'd love to see the relationship between Robett and Dani developed
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Oct 3, 2020 1:14:05 GMT
This was a very nice part! Robett was one of those PoVs that I really loved, but also one where my lack of planning was starting to come bite me in the arse. I gotta say you've handled him very well, especially given the narrative almost-dead-end I had left him in Really looking forward to where his story will go next, which brings me to the choice... [Stay with Dani] This was a very tough choice to make, because I'd love to see Robett and Jack reconnecting. However, I feel like staying is more in line with where Robett is emotionally. He doesn't want to go back to Castle Black and he feels betrayed by Jack. It just feels narratively right to solidify those feelings with this choice. And then hopefully down the line it might lead to an even more satisfying (or bitter) reunion between them. Oh, and also I'd love to see the relationship between Robett and Dani developed Thank you for the kind words on that one Robett indeed was one of those characters which felt like his story was transitioning to somewhere else, but that "else" part wasn't entirely clear. I've spent a lot of time adding layers and background on top of his original submission, to the point where his character is developing to be one of my favourites in the entire story to write. There'll be some reveals down the track which will be very interesting. As for the choice, I promise now I'll stop trying to give votes for Robett to leave Dani In this instance however, the vote really will decide Robett's future storyline (one which I consider as either remaining as the 'Weasel' or finding the true 'Robett'), and there'll sadly be no overlaps between those two storylines I've fully planned out. Either way, I'm really happy with whichever direction is chosen, but perhaps one has a more positive light at the end of the tunnel for Robett than the other, but I won't reveal which one that is I've been meaning to PM you, but I've been a bit swamped for time and I'm not sure where you're at with drawing submissions at the moment, but I think Robett could definitely do with an updated portrait if that interests you? Can talk about it more over a PM if you like
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Post by WildlingKing on Oct 3, 2020 21:18:38 GMT
This was a very nice part! Robett was one of those PoVs that I really loved, but also one where my lack of planning was starting to come bite me in the arse. I gotta say you've handled him very well, especially given the narrative almost-dead-end I had left him in Really looking forward to where his story will go next, which brings me to the choice... [Stay with Dani] This was a very tough choice to make, because I'd love to see Robett and Jack reconnecting. However, I feel like staying is more in line with where Robett is emotionally. He doesn't want to go back to Castle Black and he feels betrayed by Jack. It just feels narratively right to solidify those feelings with this choice. And then hopefully down the line it might lead to an even more satisfying (or bitter) reunion between them. Oh, and also I'd love to see the relationship between Robett and Dani developed Thank you for the kind words on that one Robett indeed was one of those characters which felt like his story was transitioning to somewhere else, but that "else" part wasn't entirely clear. I've spent a lot of time adding layers and background on top of his original submission, to the point where his character is developing to be one of my favourites in the entire story to write. There'll be some reveals down the track which will be very interesting. As for the choice, I promise now I'll stop trying to give votes for Robett to leave Dani In this instance however, the vote really will decide Robett's future storyline (one which I consider as either remaining as the 'Weasel' or finding the true 'Robett'), and there'll sadly be no overlaps between those two storylines I've fully planned out. Either way, I'm really happy with whichever direction is chosen, but perhaps one has a more positive light at the end of the tunnel for Robett than the other, but I won't reveal which one that is I've been meaning to PM you, but I've been a bit swamped for time and I'm not sure where you're at with drawing submissions at the moment, but I think Robett could definitely do with an updated portrait if that interests you? Can talk about it more over a PM if you like I haven't worked on the drawings in a while, but I just checked where I left off and I actually have the latest set almost done! I'll just need to do some finishing touches before posting them. So yeah, after that I should be able to find time to do more of them.
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Stigz
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Vibe check.
Posts: 150
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Post by Stigz on Oct 11, 2020 7:05:12 GMT
Edric
His forearms were scraped and bloody for his efforts, chafed raw from the tight bounds that Edric assumed had been stolen from the Wall when the deserters fled north. Would serve a better purpose around their necks. They had chosen to gag him after the first hour of his consciousness, not for an avoidance of screams or begging – they had kept Victor ungagged for that amusement – but because young Rickard had damn near lost a finger when his hand came too close to Edric’s teeth. The Wild Bear had lost some teeth for that.
It had been five days since Khort had betrayed them and they had been dragged to this cottage as their captives, treated like dogs for their wild amusement. Victor had lost all shred of his hope to survive, hanging by his wrists limply as blood dripped from his nose, but Edric’s fight still remained – and his battles were not in his benefit. They had punched out some teeth, pulled off finger nails and possibly broken a rib or two. Breathing had grown harder with each day, but nothing had been hospitable since their arrival here.
Regardless of the pain, the suffering and the pointlessness, the Wild Bear fought on. When his strength returned with a burst, he chafed his bloody wrists against his bindings with the ambition to loosen them, to free a hand. A freed hand frees the man, he told himself as he clamped down hard on the gag, although his yelps of endurance caught the attention of his fellow captive, who jerked awake with the reminder of his own inflictions.
Victor had gotten it worse than Edric, if that had been even possible. He had been the first to break, and they had taken their pleasure with him. Bael had taken fingers, Carley had taken his cock, and Khort had given him his own cock. It had left the once optimistic ranger silent, but to rekindle his expression, Bael had melted the ranger’s hands in the hearth. The flesh had charred beyond repair, and his hands were little more than burnt stumps at the end of his arms. They had stripped him bare, his skin as pale as milk. Were it not for his shallow breaths, Edric would be convinced his brother were dead.
“Edric,” Victor groaned with a powerless tone, his voice shallow and distant. The Wild Bear gave his forearms a rest as he turned his attention to his brother, who kept his gaze to the floor. “I miss my sister, Edric,” he muttered with a choked tone, and Edric could see tears running down his cheeks, mixing with the dried blood on his face. Victor mustered the strength to gaze upon the Wild Bear. “I’ll never see her again.”
Edric shook his head, but even his attempts to reassure him were filled with doubt. It was no secret that Victor was fading, and as much as Bael tortured him with more pain inflicting methods, Victor was becoming less responsive with each new visit. Victor dropped his again, and Edric groaned as he rubbed his bloody wrists at the ropes again before growling with frustration and agony. His winced and shook his head, his eyes flying around the room until they spotted a knife stuck in the table by the door of their torture room. If he could just get over there… and do what? His fading hope seemed to invite the attention of his torturers.
The door swung open, and first Edric heard the giggling laughter of Carley Winter, and then laid eyes upon three. The wildling bitch was pleasant on the eyes, but that was the only saving grace to her vile presence, and her admiring gaze looked upon her lover – whom looked at Edric will malicious eyes. Bael had never had much to do with any of the men at Castle Black, but he’d made a point to stay away from Bael Rangeld and his goons whenever he had spotted them. They had given hell to the weaker and isolated brothers at the Wall, but that was nothing to the kind of torment they had given to him and Victor these last five days.
“Still got some fight in you, aye?” Bael observed with a smirk as he cut the gag Edric’s mouth, carelessly slicing through his cheek in the process. In return, the Wild Bear snarled at his predator, facing death in the eyes. “Good, I like it better this way,” Bael remarked, and behind him Khort had cut down Victor and slung him over his shoulder, taking him away for his own dirty pleasures.
“Leave him alone you craven!” Edric shouted, his throat dry and bloody. Khort tossed Victor on the ground and turned his attention to Edric, grabbing him by the jaw and forcing his head back.
“Knock out some more teeth, will you? I could do with a new mouth,” Khort chuckled, and Bael flashed him a sadistic grin as he watched Khort turn to egress. Victor desperately tried to crawl to his freedom, only feeding to Khort’s amusement. “Where do you think you’re going, slut?” Khort growled, dragging Victor back by the ropes around his ankles. The ex-ranger unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants, and Victor turned his eyes of horror to Edric, who could do nothing but watch. Watching might have been easier than what was to come, as the Wild Bear spotted Bael returning to him with two sharpened blades.
-
Night had fallen over the Haunted Forest, and Edric sat defeated, tied to his chair with his newly inflicted wounds. Bael and Carley had left an hour ago to hunting, and Khort had retreated back to his room, taking Victor with him. Darkness had flooded the room, save for the light that crept under the door and cast a small glow on the floor near it. It was alone in the dark that Edric felt it all at once. All of the hours of torture peaked to his attention, surging through his body and egressing from his dry lips, which were saturated by the gag stuffed in his mouth. His energy was exhausted from hours of torment and effort to survive, his mind wandering aimlessly through his thoughts with nowhere left to look, and his body unable to sleep. His sleepless nights were his worst torture.
His mind roamed back to Bear Island, where he and his brother played under the Weirwood, screaming and laughing as if they had no fear in the world. Little did they know then that they’d be ripped apart by family politics, and later death. Guilt overwhelmed the Wild Bear as his brother’s lifeless face flashed before his eyes. His father’s words rung through his head. “It should have been you.” Edric had abandoned his duty to go and kill wildlings, and now the gods were punishing him for it.
Tears flooded his eyes, streaming down his cheeks, and he surged back and forth on his chair with resentment. “You’re a disappointment, you’re nothing!” his father yelled as he slapped him with the back of his hand, sending the chair onto its back legs. His brother pushed him from the back into the dirt, breaking his nose accidentally all those years ago, and surging the chair forward. “Why did you run away, brother?” William asked, and the chair slid back further this time. "I trusted you." The chair hurled backwards, and Edric watched Bear Island fly out of reach as he fell backwards.
The chair collapsed on impact, the bindings around him loosening except for those around his wrists. His eyes widened at the realisation, and he quickly fought himself up to his feet. He heard footsteps outside the room, they would have heard the bang, and he stumbled with haste to the table where he had seen the knife. If he could find it, he could work on his hands. His body bumped into the table, causing another loud thud, and from the sounds of it making the knife fall onto the ground. Fuck! He dropped to his feet, scrambling around the floor with his hands tied behind his back looking for a needle in a haystack.
“What the fuck was that sound?” Edric then heard, and he froze as he recognised Khort’s thick raspy voice. The deserter on the receiving end gave a weak response.
“I- I don’t know? I thought it was you,” he stated with a timid tone, and the following sound indicated Khort had given the boy a hit over the back of the head.
“If I am woken again, I’ll rip your fucking intestines out, you hear? Go check on the little shit,” Khort ordered, and Edric heard his heavy footsteps return to his room. The Wild Bear’s heart beat frantically as his hands fumbled on the floor, searching desperately for the knife, and the lighter footsteps etched their way to his door. It opened, and light flooded into the room, and Edric spotted the knife in front of him, but then found himself staring into the eyes of Rickard Flint.
“What the fuck…” he mumbled, and Edric quickly slid the knife behind him with his foot, getting a hold of it with his hands. He quickly tried to work the blade at the binds, but Rickard snapped into action and unsheathed his sword, pointing it at Edric. “Drop it!” he warned, and Edric froze as he stared at the tip of the blade – barely an inch away from his face.
“You don’t have to do this, Flint. Cut me loose and come with me to Castle Black, I’ll vouch for you, I swear,” Edric attempted to bargain, but Rickard shook his head defiantly.
“There is no Castle Black anymore! Everyone’s dead, and you’re about to join them,” Rickard stated, and Edric widened his eyes as he watched the builder lift his sword above his head. The Wild Bear crept backward but hit the wall, and Rickard brought the sword flying down. It hit the ground beside Edric as it fell from the builder’s hands, and Edric gazed back up at the builder with confusion, until he spotted the arrow lodged through his throat. It had shot through the window and pierced him exactly where it had supposed to, it was a shot any archer would be envious of, but in this circumstance Edric was thankful for the mystery arrow.
He cut away at the bindings and grasped his wrists, feeling blood return into his hands but also feeling the increased swelling seer with pain. Outside the hut, Edric heard the clanging of steel. He reached for Rickard’s sword and pushed himself upright, glaring down at the builder who choked on his blood. He gave him the mercy of his blade before taking his first steps outside of the room he had endured so much pain.
Fire had caught the hut alight, and Edric felt the weight of the dull iron blade after a moment of holding it. Mounted on the wall, he identified his weirwood bow, Silent Sister. He made his way to it, until he noticed the door to another room opening. His gaze was met by the cold eyes of Khort, who glared at Edric with seething anger.
“Better bring your ass to my sword you little shit. I can still play the card of a loyal brother if you’re dead,” Khort stated, and Edric lifted his sword into a defensive position as he glared back at the ex-ranger.
“You won’t live long enough to get that chance,” Edric promised him, making Khort roll his eyes as he swung his sword at him. The Wild Bear merely dodged the swing, and his blade arrived just in time to deflect the second attack. Edric thrust his sword at Khort’s belly, which the ex-ranger avoided with ease and smacked Edric with the back of his hand.
“I told Musgood you were a little shit. It’s your fault Keran died, you know? Your fault that the Lord Commander left his post and caused a mutiny. They’ll make you hang for it,” Khort stated with a bloodthirsty grin. “Perhaps I’ll save them the effort!” he growled as he charged Edric to the floor, knocking his blade from his hands. Khort fastened his hands around Edric’s throat, crushing his windpipe with the intention to suffocate him. Edric clawed at the ex-ranger’s eyes but was too weak to truly retaliate. His eyes bulged and his vision darkened.
“Gah!” Khort exclaimed as he released his grip on Edric, turning his attention to a new assailant from behind him. Edric spotted Victor struggling to keep a grip on the blade he had just thrusted into Khort’s back, and he received a hard punch in the gut for his efforts. Edric pounced at the opportunity and reached for his sword, lunging it into Khort’s chest before he had a moment to react. The ex-ranger’s brow lifted as he realised what had happened, and winced in agony as Edric twisted the blade, making him suffer. He fell onto his side and stared at the blade lodged through his chest with shock.
“Finish it,” he begged, “kill me!” he screamed with panic, and Edric looked at the flames building on the walls.
“The fires will do that for you, slowly,” Edric remarked, grabbing Khort’s blade and slashing his ankles to ensure he wouldn’t be able to move. He turned to Victor to express a victorious smile, but found his brother laying motionlessly on the floor. “Victor!” Edric screamed, rushing to his brother’s aid. He didn’t respond. Edric hurled him over his shoulder, grabbing Silent Sister off the wall and charging out the main doors. They tripped out into the snow and rolled away from the blaze. Edric watched the fire consume the hut, and within, he heard the screaming of a man he had once called his brother.
“Edric…” Victor coughed, and the Wild Bear turned his tamed attention to his brother, crawling to his side. His naked flesh shivered against the snow, and Edric made an effort to cradle him close. “My sister…” he mumbled, and Edric nodded.
“I’ll get you south again, you’ll see her,” he swore, and a sad smile touched Victor’s lips before his eyes seemed distant, then rolled motionlessly to the back of his skull. Edric stared at Victor with tears building in his eyes, shaking him in an attempt to bring him back, but he knew nothing ever would. He had tried to save his brother once, and now he had lost another brother in his arms.
“Edric!” a voice called from afar, and the Wild Bear reached for his bow to defend himself, but suddenly recognised the face of his caller. The First Ranger’s face was bloody, alike with his mace, but his relieved expression turned sour as he recognised Victor. “Gods,” he uttered as he knelt beside him. “I had hoped I could save you both,” George remarked with remorse, and Edric’s wet eyes turned to the First Ranger.
“Where were you?” he exclaimed with a choked voice. “Khort betrayed the Lord Commander, but they never found you. Did they get Jaremy and Wulfric?” Edric asked with a weeping tone, knowing that Khort had told Bael of them, but George reassured him with a shake of the head.
“I tracked you two here a few days ago and rode back to the Fist to get them. They have the attention of most of these deserters, and are doubling back to our camp south of here. We will go and meet them,” George informed them, but struck with grief, Edric shook his head.
“Bael Rangeld, and his bitch, did this to us. They’re still out here, somewhere. We need to find them,” Edric stated, and George frowned as he glanced around them.
“We need to regroup. The Lord Commander is still out there, it’s our duty to find him,” George stated, but Edric snarled.
“The Lord Commander is the reason we’re in this mess. Besides, Bael gave him off to the wildling king. If he’s not dead already, he’ll wish he was. There’s nothing we can do for him other than avenge him and Victor,” Edric stated, and George stared at the corpse of Victor before cursing under his breath.
“We must regroup first,” he stated, but Edric shook his head with anger.
“If we run now, they’ll regroup! We have to find them now and kill them, or they’ll fucking kill us!” Edric shouted, and George put a hand on his shoulder.
“I understand your situation here, and I swear we’ll find them, but we should regroup first. We can wait them out,” George stated, but Edric feared Wulfric and Jaremy wouldn’t be of similar minds, and George would turn on his word once he had gotten Edric away from this place. He couldn’t risk that. He had to act, with or without George’s help.
[Find Bael and Carley alone] [Go back to the others with George]
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Post by WildlingKing on Oct 22, 2020 18:53:36 GMT
Well damn, that was a grim and brutal part. I'm interested to see how this experience will shape Edric's character going forward.
[Go back to the others with George] Edric should probably start learning his lesson about acting recklessly.
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Dec 6, 2020 6:08:02 GMT
Ah so it's been a while since I've done any writing. Got swamped with exams, did really well with them and got accepted into honours for next year so academically things are going great. I rewarded myself with buying more guitar gear and a PC setup, and I've just been lost in all that to even think about writing. I managed to get Lenlie's part finished today though, just to build up some more Thenn tension
Lenlie A grand army massed outside the halls of the Magnar, eagerly awaiting the departure that would lead for vengeance. The Thenns had been humiliated at the hands of Fleshbearer, and they would not forget his betrayal, nor forgive it. Lenlie suspected Sigira would march this army day and night until she avenged her father, and Lenlie only hoped that she would not meet the same fate. The Princess stood at the steps of the main entrance to her ancestral halls, embracing her young brother and passing on some words to Skjorn the Scholar, who stood diligently by his Magnar’s side. While the Scholar was loyal to the Princess and the Magnar before, Lenlie believed he had some reservations for being placed in stewardship of the Vale instead of marching alongside Sigira. Admittedly, Lenlie felt similarly, but more for concern that Sigira was leaving with few friends at her side. The Ice River girl grasped the hand of the womaniser Thenn that had charmed her beneath the old oak two sunsets ago, and since then they had been inseparable. It had brought Sigira great joy to see Lenlie had been the one to tame Gorgar from his old ways, but in doing so she had kept Gorgar from leaving for war. One less friend at Sigira’s side. They then watched as the three descended down the stairs to their army, where Skyrnor and Lord Bjalner awaited them. Gorgar turned his gaze a moment to Lenlie before beckoning for her to follow him, pushing through the crowd and going to meet Sigira as she reached the courtyard. A small smile touched Sigira’s lips as she recognised their approach, and Gorgar’s big grin beamed at her before he hurled the young Storg over his shoulder. “Let go of me!” Storg yelled with laughter as he pommelled the Thenn brute’s back, and Gorgar laughed as he poked him in the ribs. Sigira quickly contained her amusement and grasped Gorgar’s forearm. “Your Magnar has given you an order… Remember who he is now,” Sigira prompted him, and Gorgar halted a moment with a raised eyebrow before he put Storg down. “We were just having fun…” Gorgar explained with jest, but Sigira firmly shook her head as she pulled him aside, and Storg brushed himself off. Lenlie glanced over to Skjorn, who was giving his farewells to Denyal Delen, and let out a sigh as she approached the Magnar. She gave him a smirk as he looked up to her. “Shall we have him whipped, my Lord?” she asked with a sly grin, cracking a smile on the little lord as he rolled his eyes. That amusement quickly drowned in whatever else the boy was feeling, as he crossed his arms and turned his gaze away. Lenlie frowned and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are surrounded by friends and allies, no one expects you to suffer this leadership alone. We are here to help you,” Lenlie stated with support, but Storg only shook his head as he gazed across to his sister. “I’m not the one who needs friends. I am the Magnar. It’s my sister I’m worried for,” he admitted, and Lenlie turned over her shoulder to see Sigira and Gorgar exchanging words before she returned her gaze to Storg. “I’m worried for her as well, but she has a whole army to protect her,” Lenlie stated with forced enthusiasm, and Storg nodded. “So did my father,” he muttered, departing her company to go see his sister. Lenlie frowned as she watched his back, before feeling a prickling sensation run down her own. She was abruptly startled as she turned to meet the cold eyes of Lord Bjalner, and a feminine face accompanied him that Lenlie vaguely recognised. “Lord,” she greeted shortly, then turning to his partner and nodding, and Bjalner tilted his head slightly without breaking eye contact. “Councillor,” he uttered in return, playing with the word as if he wasn’t sure what to make of it. The animosity he held for her was still abundantly clear, and seemingly shared with his new companion. “My daughter, Olha,” he introduced, leading the young lady forward by her forearm. Lenlie suddenly recognised her to be the girl who had sat by the albino’s side during the council meeting a couple of days ago. She was a stunning young woman, with dark blonde hair that stretched to her lower back, and a scar on her cheek which embellished strength to her beauty. Like her father, her eyes were sinister and haunting, although she was spared albinism, and her eyes were as black as the Long Night rather than the blood red of her father’s. “A pleasure, my Lady,” Lenlie stated formally as she bowed to Olha, who only glared back at her with her condescending gaze. Bjalner forced himself a short smile as he clasped his hands. “I find it curious that Princess Sigira chooses to leave her pet here and yet allow a hostage to fight in a war with her. I’d imagine you’d want your revenge on Fleshbearer for all the vile atrocities he may have inflicted on you?” Bjalner stated, and Lenlie felt her blood beginning to boil, but forced herself to be civil out of Sigira’s will. “I remain here because the Princess wants me here. I would imagine a great warrior like yourself would be better suited on the battlefield with his men then lingering here,” Lenlie stated, and the albino smirked at her as he crossed his arms. “True,” he admitted, then turning his gaze to Olha, “but if my daughter wishes to inherit my legacy then she will have to prove herself to me. She has been training her entire life as a warrior, but now she must prove herself as a leader. That is why she will march in my stead,” Bjalner revealed, and Lenlie turned her gaze on the heiress, wondering if she was any match for her. “Sounds like you have quite a reputation to meet,” Lenlie remarked, and Olha gave her a mocking grin. “Such is our tradition. I wouldn’t expect a foreigner to understand that,” she said with spite, before kissing her father’s cheek and departing from the conversation. Lenlie and Bjalner watched her approach Skyrnor. “I’m sure she will fit your shoes nicely,” Lenlie quipped dryly, turning her gaze back to the albino, who suddenly became more menacing in his isolated state. He held his silence, his piercing red glare causing Lenlie’s skin to goose bump and shiver, before his eyes flickered away to a new figure. “Skjorn the Scholar, or perhaps Skjorn the Steward now?” Bjalner greeted as he spotted the Scholar approaching them, and Lenlie spotted the concerned gaze on Skjorn’s eye as he joined them. He was looking out for her, she realised. “I do not lust for titles or power, Lord Bjalner, so call me what you will, but know I act only for the benefit of our people,” Skjorn stated, and Lenlie gave her ally a supportive nod as she glanced back at Bjalner, who flashed a grin at them both. “And who constitutes as our people now? The Thenns? Or the immigrants?” Bjalner remarked, taking his leave. Lenlie let out a sigh of relief as he departed, turning her gaze onto Skjorn, who stood as tall and noble, like a sentinel. “Times are uncertain, you would be wise not to antagonise Bjalner during his stay,” Skjorn advised, and Lenlie frowned as she crossed her arms and watched the albino lord embrace arms with one of his commanders. “Why do I get the feeling his stay is more permanent that what he’s letting off?” Lenlie queried, and Skjorn sighed with a nod. “Bjalner has his own motives, and I believe he would back Skyrnor should anything happen to either Sigira or Storg. I will monitor the situation and handle it if need be, but I want you to focus on Storg,” Skjorn reminded her, and Lenlie nodded. “What about the Hornfoots? Sigira placed me in charge of their needs as well,” Lenlie stated, and she could see the stress beginning to build in the Scholar’s expression. He turned his gaze to her, and she spotted deep concern in his eyes. “If Bjalner manages to dethrone Storg, there will be no place for refugees in the Vale. Of course, do as you are instructed, but remember who we are all here to serve. We support Sigira, but Storg is our new Magnar, he is our priority,” Skjorn emphasised, but even Lenlie could hear conflict in the Scholar’s words. Regardless, Lenlie gave him a nod. “I will do what must be done, as we discussed,” Lenlie promised, and Skjorn gave her an appreciative smile, before masking his concerns as they spotted Sigira and Gorgar approaching them. Gorgar wrapped his arm around Lenlie, kissing her on the forehead, an act which brought a smile to Sigira’s lips. The Princess then turned her attention to Skjorn. “All is well?” she asked, and the Scholar nodded diligently as he tucked his hands behind his back. “With Bjalner’s contribution, you have an army of almost two thousand. The lords are all eager for blood and vengeance,” Skjorn stated, and Sigira nodded. “And they will have that much,” Sigira swore as she pulled Skjorn in for embrace. “I know you wish you could join us, but I know you’ll make my father proud by guiding his son as Magnar here. We will return soon,” she promised, and Skjorn nodded while holding his head up high. Sigira then turned her gaze onto Lenlie and Gorgar, a sweet smile spreading across her face. “Nothing has brought me greater joy than seeing you two join together. Hold off the wedding until I return?” Sigira quipped playfully, and Gorgar chuckled as he hoisted the Princess up into the air. “Who else would marry us?” he questioned with booming laughter, and Lenlie gave a short smile as her feelings began to overwhelm her. Skjorn seemed to be the only one to notice this, as he came to her side. “The Vale will be safe and secure until your return, may the old gods grant you a swift victory,” Skjorn blessed with a change of topic, and Sigira nodded to him before reaching for Lenlie. The two hugged before Sigira whispered in her ear something the Ice River girl would never forget. She then parted from her, giving them a nod. A horn sounded and the troops began to move, and they watched as the Princess led this great army away from the Vale and down a road of vengeance, a road which Lenlie prayed she would return from. - A soft whimper came from her lips as she pressed her hand against his rugged chest, fighting hard to contain herself as he indulged her. All that built up energy made her take control, rolling him over so she could ride him like the southerners did with their horses. She ran her fingers across his hairy chest until they linked with his hands, and the two were connected in multiple forms of their love. He pulsated through her, and for a man known as the Frozen, their bodies proved to be anything but. His fingers coursed up her chest, cupping her breast and caressing her cheek. She grasped his hand and bit his finger as she quickened her pace, and felt him tremble beneath her a moment. She smirked at her power as she maintained her momentum; hearing him only fuelled her more. She could tell he was close, and if he could last only another few minutes… He intended to, as he hoisted her off the bed and pinned her back against the wall, pressing his lips against her neck as he humped her. Now she couldn’t help herself, allowing a small moan to escape her lips, and she was rewarded for it. His pace quickened, driving her against the wall of his home as she clutched onto him for dear life, her insides streaming with delight as he pleasured her. They both expressed themselves loudly until she felt him erupt within her, leaving her to feel every inch for a final moment before he carried her back to the bed and covered her with furs. She curled her leg over his as she cuddled him, resting her head on his burly arm and pulling at his chest hair – something he was quick to cease her from doing. “You sounded like you enjoyed that,” Gorgar stated observantly as he ran his fingers through her hair, and Lenlie gave him a nod as she felt his seed coursing deep within her. “You’re the best I’ve ever been with,” Lenlie admitted, and Gorgar grinned with pleasure to this news, making her roll her eyes. If he knew the competition, he’d understand the compliment was no great feat. Regardless, Lenlie knew Gorgar was the only man she had been with where she had found pleasure herself, in both fucking and companionship. She had to remind herself they had only been together two days, she didn’t want to get ahead of herself. And now I may be carrying his child, she suddenly thought, rolling onto her side. Gorgar placed his hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it off. “What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice sweet and charming, but also concerned. Lenlie frowned as she thought of how to answer? What do I tell him? She was worried about Storg, scared for Sigira, and then there was Fleshbearer… The creature which Gorgar unknowingly compared himself to, the monster that beat and raped her on a daily basis only for his pleasure to see her in pain. She owed her life to Sigira, and now she feared her becoming exactly what she was if Fleshbearer should win this second war. The thought haunted her. “It’s nothing,” Lenlie dismissed, and Gorgar rubbed her shoulder with a sigh. He then turned and sat up, and Lenlie turned to watch him get dressed. Her eyes dropped for a moment before flickering back to him weakly. “I’m afraid, Gorgar,” she confessed, and Gorgar turned his gaze back to her, giving her his attention. Lenlie’s eyes darted around as she tried to find a place to start, but it quickly overwhelmed her, and she found herself tucking up into a bowl before him. Naked and vulnerable, a position she had been familiar with for far too long. Yet to her surprise she was not met with the back of Fleshbearer’s hand, a blade or something worse, but instead a kiss on her forehead. Gorgar climbed back under the furs and rested his head on his arm. “Talk to me,” he prompted as he caressed her arm, and Lenlie gazed at him intently as she slowly came out of her shell. “In the Ice River clans, we know nothing but survival. Our ways… are not just because of tradition, but necessity. We don’t form close attachments, because we know that our fellow clansmen may be our next meal if the winter is unforgiving. I have been victim to that life up until now. Now I’m doing more than surviving, my life has purpose and I’m… loving. I never even knew such a feeling existed, and now I’m overwhelmed by it, and fearful of losing it. You, Sigira and Storg have become my family, and I can already see us being torn apart, as does Skjorn. I’m fearful of what is to come…” Lenlie expressed, and Gorgar stared at her a moment before wrapping his arms around her. “There’s nothing more that I wish than for us to be marching with Sigira to avenge our fallen. I’d love for nothing more than to capture Fleshbearer and let you have your way with him, but instead we are here, and we are safe. Many may not appreciate the age of Storg’s ascendance, but he is their Magnar, and they will come to accept that with time. Skjorn is more a worrier than a warrior, that’s why Krygorn appreciated his council, but don’t listen too deeply to his words. They’re more concern than need for worry,” Gorgar stated, and Lenlie gazed up at him, perplexed at his lack of concern for the situation. Perhaps I am just overthinking it, Lenlie suggested, but that thought did little to put her mind at ease. She slipped out of his arms and began to dress herself. “I need to get some fresh air,” she announced, and Gorgar nodded as he reached for his boots. “I’ll come with you,” he insisted, but Lenlie shook her head as she forced a smile for him. “I think I’ll go alone. I’m not great company right now,” Lenlie stated, and planted a kiss on his lips before he could argue. Gorgar frowned and let out a sigh before nodding, he knew better than to try and stop her. Lenlie grabbed her coat and then fastened on her furs, slipping on her boots before heading out the door. She was no stranger to the icy winds of the true north, but she couldn’t deny that the Vale had a bite of its own which would take some getting used to. She set down the path from his house for the refugee camp just outside the main township. Lenlie had been making an effort to bond with the Hornfoots since she had been elected by Sigira as their representative on the council, though it had been harder work than she had anticipated. It appeared that the Hornfoots shared a similar amount of disdain for the Ice River clans as the Thenns did, albeit all the Free Folk hate each other one way or the other. Lenlie only wished their mutual hatred for her would be enough to align the two clans together. She would have to find another way. She was met with cold stares and sneers as she entered the camp, and felt a constant looming threat over her shoulder as she walked among them. She spotted Thenn guards handing out blankets and bread to those who approached them, but few Hornfoots seemed to take the handouts. Lenlie approached one of the guards who sat by a display of pelts, seemingly bored as he twirled is bronze dagger between his fingers. His eyes raised a moment as he spotted Lenlie’s approached, and he let out a sigh as he sheathed the dagger and stood at attention. “Councillor,” he greeted, and Lenlie nodded to him as she glanced at all the untouched rugs. She crossed her arms and stood by his side, glancing at the refugees. “How are our guests?” she asked, and the guard raise an eyebrow to the title she had bestowed on them before rolling his eyes. “Stubborn and unappreciative. We are sacrificing our own grain for them and all they do is sit here and mope,” the guard remarked, before rescinding as Lenlie gave him a foul glare. “They sought the Vale for refuge from a tyrant king, it’s our duty to see that they are guarded from something that is a threat to us all. Have these essentials handed out to the tents, perhaps they are not fond of asking,” Lenlie suggested, and the guard frowned before relaying the order. It seemed her words had pricked the ears of a Hornfoot nearby, who came to meet her. “We don’t care for your grain or furs, Thenn, we did not run here to hide,” he remarked, and Lenlie turned to study the young man. He was imposing in stature, glaring down at her with his beady black eyes. His head and face were shaved, and purposely scarred, and a bone earring hung from his left ear. He was strongly built for his young age, and flexed it off with nothing more than an open pelt over his shoulders and furs over his legs. Lenlie would’ve figured the man no older than his late teens or early twenties. “I am no Thenn, but I am tasked with aiding you and your people,” Lenlie stated, to which the young Hornfoot sneered. “You’re the Princess’ bootlicker I’ve been hearing about,” he chastised, and Lenlie struggled to keep herself composed as he loomed over her. The guard beside her tightened his grasp on his spear. “You can call me Lenlie, who are you?” she asked, and the Hornfoot lifted his nose. “Maror, but my folk call me the Mangler, want to know why?” he asked, and Lenlie shrugged carelessly, only fuelling his vicious grin. He leaned in and whispered it into her ear. “I cut the limbs off my enemies, leave them mutilated and mangled, and take their parts as my prize,” he revealed, pulling back to see her expression. It was nonchalant, and her response was as well. “I eat my enemies,” she remarked, and the Mangler’s eyes widened with some surprise, but she turned her gaze back to the guard who was observing this whole conversation. “What are you doing standing there?” she asked coldly, and it snapped him into action as he grabbed an armful of rugs and headed off. Lenlie rolled her eyes as she watched the guard drop the furs off outside of a tent. “Give it to them!” she reiterated, and the guard frowned before following her command. “So, you’re from the Ice Rivers,” Maror deduced, resting his hands on his hips as he studied her. “What’re you doing working for the Thenns?” he asked, and Lenlie sighed as she crossed her arms. “I travelled here with Fleshbearer when I thought we were making an alliance with the Thenns. Princess Sigira rescued me from him when she saw what he was doing to me, so I’ve been in her debt ever since,” Lenlie stated, and the Mangler nodded. “Why aren’t your people accepted our help? You came to us, it would make all of our lives easier if you would comply,” Lenlie added, and Maror smirked at her. “For thousands of generations, the Free Folk have hated one another. We’ve plundered and raped and murdered one another for as long as we could remember, and I quite like that way of living. So when some Nightrunner calls himself king and unites my people to his cause, I don’t come running to his enemy to hide from him, we come here to help you fight him. So why the fuck has your army left without us?” Maror asked bitterly, and Lenlie raised an eyebrow before nodding. “Sigira didn’t want endanger what remains of the Hornfoots by dragging you to war. Alliances are important to her, and she wishes to build relations once this war is over and we can start over,” Lenlie stated, but she knew the truth had been because of what had happened to her father. The Thenns would not want to march with another foreign army they blindly put their trust into. Maror growled with frustration to her response. “So we are to just sit here like dogs until she returns? If those are her intentions then I think the Hornfoots will fare their chances against Redbeard’s army. We’d rather die fighting than cowering,” Maror stated, turning her back on her, and Lenlie gazed around before reaching out her hand. “Wait,” she insisted, and the Mangler turned his cold gaze back on her. “If it’s a fight you want, I think there may be one brewing here,” Lenlie stated, and the Mangler raised an eyebrow with interest, which then was interpreted as a threat. “What are you saying, girl?” he asked with a tone that could cut steel, and Lenlie immediately felt herself beginning to sweat anxiously. She did her best to hold her ground. “Not with you, but among the Thenns. Since Krygorn’s death, there’s been dispute as to who should rule the Vale. Krygorn’s heir is young but by Thenn tradition he is the rightful ruler, but many would support his nephew instead. I believe he may try to take the title by force after this war is done, if not before,” Lenlie stated, and Maror gazed at her profusely before shrugging his shoulders. “Why should I care about some Thenn infighting?” he asked, and Lenlie frowned as she tried to find a reason. It was clear they didn’t care for Thenn hospitality, but it was vital for Sigira to have a Thenn-Hornfoot alliance. “Because Krygorn’s nephew would see you and your people dead before an alliance was considered. I know you don’t appreciate our hospitality now, but Sigira is trying to hold your best interests in mind by allowing you refuge here; and while you may not wish to admit it, I know the young, sick and elderly among your group would not stand a chance against Raymun, Fleshbearer or the wrong Thenns,” Lenlie remarked, and Maror gazed back at his people before crossing his arms. “What is it you’re suggesting then?” he asked solemnly, and Lenlie crossed her arms as she looked to the ground. Bjalner was spreading his web of support all throughout the Vale, and Lenlie wagered that if he were to take the Vale by force, they would severely outnumber those who were loyal to Storg. They’d need the Hornfoots by their side to have anywhere near a fighting chance, but the question arose as to how they should be used. Lenlie could bring the Hornfoot warriors into the stronghold, giving a greater presence and purpose for them in the Vale as well as displaying their strength, and it may serve to prevent any action Bjalner may make. However it could also be viewed as a threat from the albino lord. Keeping them in the refugee camp would hold the element of surprise should Bjalner act, but they could perhaps be too late to the action. [Bring the Hornfoot warriors into the stronghold] [Keep the Hornfoot warriors at the refugee camp]
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Stigz
Full Member
Vibe check.
Posts: 150
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Post by Stigz on Jul 4, 2021 5:55:10 GMT
Skjorn
The Scholar glared at his reflection through the steel mirror he had once pulled from a plunder of loot his father had collected from the South all those years ago. As a boy, Skjorn hadn’t thought too much of the piece, and simply having it had warranted his father shame in questioning his son’s Thenn masculinity, but Skjorn had admired its beauty in metalwork and its clarity in reflection. Now Skjorn saw the ornament as a piece of introspection, a gateway to perceive himself in more than just flesh, and he would spend countless durations observing himself blankly in his solitude. The glass had cracked on its long trip from the southern kingdoms to the Vale, and for two decades Skjorn had stared at his shattered reflection with little concern. Now he stared at the cracks in his image, and wondered if they symbolised his own struggle within. He was divided and broken, and it was beginning to show.
His body was growing tired. His muscles still ached from battle, his wounds still lingered on his skin, and the trauma of that battle still resided deep within him. Deep black bags had sunken beneath his eyes from his sleepless nights, and his once curious blue eyes had fallen dull with fatigue. His short hair had grown some shape to it since he’d last cut it, and he was overdue for a shave, but there was still no questioning that the man who stared back at him was Skjorn the Scholar. He didn’t feel like the renowned advisor he had once been however, and even as he took a razor to his stubble, he struggled to identify with the man who stared back at him.
He stumbled away from the mirror and back to his bed, sitting himself down and burying his head in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair and stretched his eyelids as he grit his teeth. A storm had set over the Vale, hammering sleet as sharp as daggers against the ancient stone walls that defended them. Days like these Skjorn would have grabbed a book from his library, and yet now the Scholar lacked an appetite for acquiring new knowledge or admiring the fables of the South. He lacked energy for much at all, but his own melancholy was not a valid excuse to remain bedridden all day.
He pulled himself upright and began to dress himself, his eyes lazily roaming around his room. It had been two days since the Princess and her great army departed from the Vale, and Skjorn estimated they would be within the Northern Haunted Forest by now. Little had happened here since their departure, which the Scholar was thankful for, but today would mark the first council meeting since Sigira had left. Skjorn lamented going, but he acknowledged it was his duty as both Storg’s advisor, and the acting steward.
Slipping on his shirt he stood himself up and walked to his desk, pulling on his boots and grabbing his satchel. His heart near stopped when he heard the tumbling of a glass vial slip out of it. His hand snatched the vial before it rolled off the table, and he let out a gasp for relief as he stared at the small clear tube. The Tears of Lys sat innocently in its housing, as clear, tasteless and odourless as the water that coursed through their homeland. With all that had happened, Skjorn had almost forgotten all about it, but when he had remembered he had found excuses to skip the chances to pass it on to Sigira. It belonged to her rightfully, but the timing seemed wrong to him. With a succession crisis at hand, Skjorn feared what a weapon like this could do in the wrong hands. He grasped the vial in his hand before opening a drawer and tucking it under some books, then throwing his satchel over his shoulder and egressing his room. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest as he found himself staring into the eyes of an unexpected visitor.
“Gregory!” Skjorn exclaimed as he clutched his chest, and the warg dropped his gaze awkwardly as he stood back. “What are you doing here?” Skjorn asked as he controlled his rapid breathing, and the warg lifted his eyes up to the Scholar with embarrassment.
“I… I was hoping we could talk?” he mumbled, fidgeting his hands nervously, making Skjorn raise an eyebrow as he shut the door to his quarters behind him.
“I have a council meeting to attend, but we can speak as we walk. What’s bothering you?” Skjorn asked as they set off down the hall, and the young Thenn frowned as his eyes darted across the ceiling.
“Everything that’s happening here, Skjorn, it frightens me. We went to fight for the right thing, but now we’re here fighting among ourselves. I find myself unable to sleep most nights, I just keep thinking we might have been able to prevent all this… If we had gone with the Hornfoot to kill Fleshbearer. Perhaps Storg would have been accepted better as Magnar, and the Vale would have been safe…” Gregory mumbled, and Skjorn stopped as he put a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“You can’t begin to think like that, Gregory. None of this is your fault, and your advice to return to the Vale was both rational and commendable. I believe we would have met our ends much sooner if we had gone with Dogga to try and assassinate Fleshbearer,” Skjorn stated with assurance, but the young Thenn didn’t seem as certain.
“I just wanted to do what was right for our people…” he uttered as he dropped his head, and Skjorn grasped the boy’s shoulder as he lifted his chin.
“Go out and find a woman, take some pride for being a brave warrior who fought for one of the greatest Magnar’s in Thenn history. I will find you something to help you sleep once this meeting is over,” Skjorn prompted him, patting him on the back as he sent Gregory on his way. He feared just how dark the thoughts were that roamed that boy’s mind, and whether there was any merit to his words. He quickly shook the idea from his head, he knew he could no more blame the boy for his counsel than he could blame himself for all he could have done. This barrel of shit would have unloaded on us one way or another. Skjorn collected his thoughts and continued on to the council meeting.
-
The council sat silently as they waited for their Magnar to attend. The court was considerably smaller than usual considering the war, but still those lords which were too old for battle or their wives had come to sit in their stead. Among them was Lord Bjalner, who sat tall and proud with a menacing glare of impatience, and Lenlie sat further down the table with some Hornfoots. Much to Skjorn’s surprise, Yrma also sat on the council, her fingers restlessly tapping at the tabletop as her expression displayed her impatience. I would have imagined Skyrnor to keep his lapdog on a close leash, Skjorn thought to himself as he avoided her burning gaze. The rest of the table remarked similar views, and Skjorn cleared his throat awkwardly as he tried to steal their attention.
“Quite the weather we’re having,” Skjorn stated dryly, and the cold red gaze of Lord Bjalner crept over the Scholar’s skin. Yrma scoffed with a roll of the eyes as she crossed her arms.
“Our people are at war, our food supplies are dwindling, and the ‘Steward of the Vale’ is concerned about some cold rain?” she remarked with spite, making Skjorn frown. “I think there are better things we ought to be talking about, Scholar. Let’s begin,” she announced, but Skjorn firmly shook his head.
“We will wait for the Magnar,” Skjorn stated, and Yrma snarled in response to this.
“We’ve been here nearly three quarters of the hour, Scholar. What other agendas does our little lord have to delay him? A missing shovel in the play pit, perhaps?” Yrma sassed, causing some dispute amongst the lords and ladies of the council. Skjorn turned his attention to Lenlie, who only lowered her gaze, before finding the cold menacing gaze of the albino lord. Skjorn turned his attention back to Yrma, glaring at her before letting out a heavy sigh.
“Fine, let us start,” Skjorn announced, and the council silenced as they turned their eyes onto him. “As I mentioned earlier, the weather appears to have set in. The winds are growing and hunters have reported that game are few and far in between. This is proving costly on our reserves,” Skjorn stated, making Yrma sneer.
“No thanks to those fucking Hornfoots,” Yrma jeered, and Skjorn was about to protest, but another voice spoke up in his place.
“The Hornfoots are refusing to take your food and furs, they are more than capable to hunt and provide for themselves. They came here because they wanted to join the fight against Raymun Redbeard,” Lenlie claimed in their defence, and Skjorn spotted the scowls now facing her direction.
“If they do not care for our refuge, they are welcome to leave the Vale,” one lady spoke up, and received some encouragement from a few other nobles. Lenlie shook her head with frustration.
“You spit on them for setting up camp outside of these walls, but also spit on them for not bowing to your every gesture you reluctantly give. They are free folk, same as us, they won’t kneel. They came here seeking allies, not protection. The “King of the Freefolk” enslaved their people and led them to their death against Fleshbearer. They want vengeance, they want blood.” Lenlie explained, and Bjalner red eyes turned onto her.
“And yet they are taking our shelter. If its blood they want, they should have left with the army, otherwise I can offer them blood they won’t be able to refuse,” Bjalner stated ominously, and the two glared hard at each other before Skjorn broke the tension.
“Princess Sigira did not want to drag the Hornfoots into battle, which was her choice, she wanted them here. We must learn to adapt if we are to survive,” Skjorn stated, making Bjalner sneer.
“And what would you suggest, Scholar? Should we eat each other, like Fleshbearer’s young associate would?” Bjalner asked, and Yrma smirked at his jape. Lenlie held a dark glare on the albino lord, but did not react to his words. Skjorn sighed and shook his head. He was at a loss with this as well.
“The Hornfoots have suggested we should amass a great hunt, heading into the Haunted Forest and hauling a plunder of game back to the Vale,” Lenlie stated, and Bjalner raised an eyebrow with astonishment.
“Have they? So we should leave the Vale while they remain here and eat out our supplies then?” he remarked, making her roll her eyes.
“They know the forest better than any of us, they would lead the hunt. We would just need to provide them with the means to be able to haul the game back to the Vale,” Lenlie put simply, and it was enough for Skjorn to be convinced.
“This is our best chance,” Skjorn stated in support, and some nobles talked amongst themselves before Bjalner spoke up.
“And who will be heading this hunt to ensure the Hornfoots honour this arrangement and don’t simply take our gear and starve us out?” Bjalner queried, then turning his gaze to Lenlie. “Forgive me if I don’t yet trust Fleshbearer’s old love affair leading this task,” he added, and this time Skjorn could see ire building in Lenlie’s eyes, and quickly worked to extinguish the conflict.
“Yes, I concede that one of our own should go. None of us here would fit that role better than Yrma, I believe,” Skjorn proposed, and the Thenn woman smirked before shaking her head.
“Nice try, Scholar, but I’m not going anywhere. Consider me still here on Skyrnor’s good assurance,” she remarked, and Skjorn let out a short sigh. Was worth a shot.
“I will speak with Gorgar, he is an avid hunter and a Thenn, and he also doesn’t have a burning passion to kill all non-Thenns. He will do,” Lenlie stated, and the nobles again talked amongst themselves before coming to a unanimous agreement. Even Bjalner appeared satisfied with this choice.
“So be it, Gorgar will leave with the Hornfoots and our hunters. I see no further need to discuss anything until our Magnar is present. Thank you all for coming,” Skjorn stated, and the nobles nodded before taking their leave. Yrma was on her feet and out the door before anyone else, and Bjalner lingered awhile, speaking with some other lords and ladies, before taking his leave. Skjorn sighed and lifted himself up, turning to Lenlie who approached him.
“Are you sure about sending Gorgar away? You have few friends here at the Vale, and I can see you and he have gotten… close,” Skjorn queried with concern, and Lenlie frowned before nodding.
“I will be fine. What I want is of little consequence to what is best for the Vale, and I gave Princess Sigira my word that I would honour her wishes. This is what is best,” Lenlie stated, and Skjorn nodded in agreement before placing a hand on her shoulder.
“You are doing well, they may not accept you yet, but in time, they will,” Skjorn assured her, but Lenlie did not look so convinced. He flashed her a small smile before collecting his things, when he turned back to her, she was gone.
-
The weather was coming down with the might of the gods when Skjorn chose to quickly egress through the open courtyard back to the Hall of Magnars. He shielded his face as the sleet and snow struck at him in the winds, nipping at his skin like daggers of ice. Only a few days ago had they been sitting in this courtyard under the sun determining if they would march to war, and now the gods bestowed upon them ill fortune to accompany their concerns. There wasn’t a moment that went by that Skjorn didn’t think about the safety of Sigira, and he only hoped she would survive this vengeful mission. His eye was caught by the waving red leaves of the old weirwood, which stood in solitary against the weather as it had likely done for thousands of years, and yet the weirwood had never stopped him in his tracks as it did now.
A small boy knelt by its thick white roots, his long hair drenched wet and flapping in the wind, but the child was seemingly undisturbed by his surroundings. Skjorn approached the boy cautiously, unsure of what to expect, and it wasn’t until he drew closer he recognised who he was approaching.
“Storg? What are you doing out here? Come, you’ll catch a cold,” Skjorn ushered as he pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around the young Magnar, but the boy shook his head. The young Magnar had a sullen look in his eyes, such pain a boy his age should never have to endure, but Storg was no ordinary boy. And he never will be, Skjorn thought sympathetically as he knelt next to the young lord. His fur cloak was drenched with water and ice, his long brown hair saturated, but he did not shiver. Skjorn touched the boy’s cheek and found there was still warmth in his body, a great fire burned within him, and Skjorn sensed both melancholy and deep hatred in the young soul that knelt beside him.
“My father used to tell me stories of his great adventures to me under this tree,” Storg remarked as his wet eyes stared up at the bleeding leaves, hanging from the pale branches of the weirwood tree. “How he quelled a rebellion amongst our people long ago, finished a civil war amongst the giants, and won countless wars against the Ice River clans and Hornfoots. All before he became Magnar. I haven’t even held an axe with an edge yet,” Storg muttered as he lowered his eyes, and Skjorn frowned.
“Do not compare yourself to others, you will only carve yourself a pathway of contempt and jealousy. While it is true that your father was a great warrior, it was not his talent as a fighter that made him a great Mangar. He could not have won any of those battles as one man with a sword and shield, he won them because those around him respected him and would put themselves in front of harm’s way for him. They did that for him, because he would do the same for any of them. Krygorn was a leader, and you don’t have to be able to hold a sword to do that,” Skjorn assured the boy, but Storg’s eyes only seemed to turn cold with resentment.
“My father was stupid to get himself killed, and now my sister goes to do the same,” Storg muttered, and Skjorn shook his head in disagreement.
“Your sister is surrounded by our best warriors, she is in safe hands,” Skjorn promised, and Storg rolled his eyes.
“My sister is surrounded by people who would seek to undermine her. Who will stop my cousin from claiming to be Magnar when she is dead? An eight year old boy? An Ice River girl? You? We’re surrounded by as many as she is,” Storg argued, and Skjorn looked at the boy with sad eyes. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“I miss your father, too. I wish things had been different, perhaps if I had counselled Krygorn differently he would still be alive,” Skjorn thought aloud with a sullen tone, and Storg stared at him with dark eyes before turning his glance onto the old face of the weirwood.
“He wouldn’t be, and there’s nothing you could have ever done differently to change that,” Storg stated, freeing his shoulder from Skjorn’s grip and returning back to the Magnar’s hall. Skjorn stared at the small footprints the young Magnar left in the muddy snow, and then turned his eyes back on the white tree. What many events had this tree seen through the thousands of years it stood in this courtyard? Its eyes were like dark caverns that stared into the abyss, and within them, something stared back.
-
The Scholar was shivering as he returned back to the halls and guided himself back to his chambers. His clothes were wet, and the water that collected had begun to freeze. He rubbed his arms frantically in an attempt to get warm, but he knew he was wasting his efforts until he got some dry clothes on. He made haste to keep his blood pumping, navigating the corridors until he finally reached his door. He didn’t even realise the door was open ajar as he scrambled through his satchel to find his key. That’s odd, he thought to himself as he gripped the doorknob. Did I forget to pull it shut earlier? Surely not. Cautiously, he pushed open the door, and his eyes widened as the scene before him unfolded.
His room was a mess, as if it had been turned upside down. His cabinets were knocked over, his bed ripped apart, and his drawers ripped out of the frame. Skjorn gulped as he hesitantly entered his room, kneeling down to inspect the disaster that had unfolded here in his absence. At the centre of it all was a corpse in a puddle of their own blood. Skjorn rushed to the body, rolling them to their front and recognising the man to be Gregory. His throat had been opened with a dagger from Skjorn’s arsenal, which still sat in the puddle of Gregory’s blood. The Scholar’s heart began to rush as he laid the young Thenn down and closed his eyes. What the fuck happened here? Echoed in his head like a drum, and as his eyes scanned the cover of one of his upturned books, he immediately knew.
He scrambled over to his collapsed drawer, pulling the two books out which he had hidden the Tears of Lys under. The vial was gone. A giant lump lodged itself in Skjorn’s throat as his eyes widened, and his heartrate quickened in panic. He barely noticed how cold he had become, how lightheaded he was beginning to feel. The tears were gone, stolen, and Gregory was dead on his floor. Where are they? Who has them? The Magnar was in danger, and someone had tried to frame this so it looked like he was the assailant. Storg was right, Skjorn thought as he backed away from the body. He needed to get to him, to protect him, but if he didn’t report this to the guard immediately he knew that he would be perceived as guilty by the council, but would that matter if Storg was already dead? Time was of the essence, the Scholar had to act.
[Find Storg] [Call for the guard]
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Jul 4, 2021 13:54:17 GMT
Maya
It had taken them some three days to finish burning the bodies, and as Maya sat amongst the charred bodies of the dead, she felt a great sense of regret. She knew that there was nothing she could have done to change the outcome if she had been here, and she knew that she’d likely be among the dead if she had been, but her heart still mourned for some possibility things could have been different if she were in the fight. She had looked into a thousand pale faces, and piled hundreds of Nightrunners onto the fire, and not one of them had been her Rumak. Perhaps he got away, she tried to tell herself with some hope, but she knew that wasn’t true. He was either a slave for Fleshbearer’s army or had crawled under some tree to die away from the battlefield. Either way, Maya would never know, and it left an emptiness in her heart.
Alexia hadn’t been impressed when Maya had chosen to stay with Arvid and Terry. She had likely expected Maya to pounce on the chance for some action and a possibility of finding Rumak, and even Maya would have thought that was where fate would have led her, and yet as she looked to the girl that had made her stay she knew within she had made the right choice. Cassi Snow had something about her that Maya cared deeply for. She was an unloved bastard, just like her, and that attracted Maya’s sympathies like no other. The rest of her company she couldn’t say she cared for as much.
Terry still mourned the loss of his mother, but was slowly on the mend for his wellbeing. The Halfthenn had been nervously quiet, and Halvor’s men were equally as lacklustre in conversation as their lord, so Maya had kept the company of Cassi. She had listened to more of the girl’s stories amongst the crows, and the query had suddenly arisen in Maya’s mind as to what Ivan Longbeard could have known which another crow wouldn’t. Cassi had told Maya everything from the castles along the Wall and which were manned, to the names of everyone she had liked at the Shadow Tower. Maya confessed that the girl talked her ear off, but she didn’t mind too much. She was just pleased that the girl found some comfort amidst everything that had happened.
“I heard the warg call you ‘miracle’ before she left, why did she call you that?” Cassi questioned, and Maya frowned as she thought on Elissa and the others. She wondered how they had faired with tracking Fleshbearer.
“It’s a nickname that was given to me at birth by my father,” Maya answered hesitantly, feeling her heart sink to the thought of Rumak, and a sweet smile touched Cassi’s lips.
“That’s lovely, I wish my father had called me that,” Cassi stated, and Maya smiled lightly as she sighed.
“I’m called that because my real father, some whoreson crow I’m told, dropped me off the top of the Wall when I was born. I survived the fall, miraculously, and Rumak took me under his wing,” Maya elaborated, and Cassi’s eyes widened with a mix of shock and awe. It was clear she had more questions, but fortunately Maya was rescued by the approach of Nightbane and Halfthenn.
“Thank you for staying, and helping burn the dead. I’ll rest a lot easier now because of it,” Arvid stated, but Maya cared little for how well the Nightbane would sleep. His companion, Halfthenn, still held a worrisome look on his eye as he tucked his hands under his armpits.
“We should get moving,” he insisted, “we’ve been still long enough.” Arvid turned to Ivar and placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to rally some life back into him, but the Halfthenn only shrugged off his grip and walked away. Arvid awkwardly scratched the back of his head as Maya assessed the situation.
“What’s all that about?” she asked callously, “there’s been something off about him ever since he brought up you were taking us to see the Weir Witch,” Maya stated, and Arvid’s eyes turned on her, conveying a darkness that sent shivers crawling down her spine. He held that stare for an uncomfortably long duration before breaking away.
“Ivar’s right, it’s time to move. Collect your things,” he ordered, following after the Halfthenn. Both Maya and Cassi exchanged a confused glance, but Maya was determined to get to the bottom of whatever the fuck this was. What game is this Nightbane playing? She wondered as she feared for the safety of her… friend. Cassi was timid and fragile, and even though some life was beginning to crawl back into her fingertips, she was still quick to scare. Maya reached for her gear, encouraging Cassi to do the same.
-
The trees of the Haunted Forest began to thin as they came into an open plain of ice and rock. They had been travelling for some time before Arvid had finally allowed them some rest. Arvid and Ivar stood together somewhat away from camp, talking over something out of earshot. Maya watched them a while as she ate her food, trying to work Arvid out. There was no denying she saw strength in his character, something she could respect, but she also knew there was something he was hiding.
Terry had been quiet these last few days, keeping to himself mostly. A sullen look coated his expression which once Maya might have thought of as weakness, but now she only pitied him through her empathy. They had all lost someone in this war, at least he got the certainty of knowing what had happened to his mother. Cassi had fallen asleep on Maya’s shoulder, and she gently lifted the girl’s head up and laid her down to rest before moving over to Terry. The Hornfoot looked up at her as she approached, making some space for her on his rock.
“You did the right thing,” Terry stated plainly as he looked over to the girl, and Maya frowned as she stared at her, finally in a calm state. “You could have followed a path for revenge with Alexia, you could have tried to kill Dogga again; you could have done so much to undo what you have become. I am glad you didn’t,” Terry stated, and Maya raised an eyebrow at him.
“I haven’t changed, Terry. I’m still me,” Maya exclaimed in her defence, and Terry glanced at her and smiled with a nod.
“Aye, a better you.” Maya stared at him for a moment before dropping her gaze. Perhaps he was right, her taking on Cassi had brought out some unfound maternal urge in her, to care for as she had never been cared for. Sure, she had Rumak, and Torgon, but she had never felt the embrace of her mother. She sometimes wondered if she was still alive, if she ever missed her supposedly dead daughter. She was probably just some whore her crow father raped, but perhaps she wasn’t. Rumak always claimed Maya had a fire in her from the moment she was born, likely what saved her from tumbling off the ice, and Maya liked to imagine that came from her mother’s blood. No way it came from the blood of a craven crow.
“Ivar said that Nightbane is leading us to some Weir Witch, you ever heard of her?” Maya asked in a change of topic, and Terry’s brow furrowed as he shook his head. Maya sighed. “Halfthenn made her sound like some kind of a ghost out of a bedtime story, but he’s also been really strange about it as well. I mentioned her to Arvid earlier and he just went silent about it,” Maya reported, and Terry stroked his short goatee with some thought before shrugging his shoulders.
“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” he stated, getting up off his rock and heading towards the two. Maya watched him for a moment in a trance before snapping back to reality and quickly following after him. Arvid and Halfthenn wrapped up their topic as they noticed their approach, and Terry flashed them a small apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he uttered as they halted their conversation, and Maya stopped next to him. “We want to know what the deal is about this Weir Witch,” Terry stated, and Maya glared at Arvid.
“What aren’t you telling us, Nightbane? How is this rotting heart going to be of any use to us?” Maya asked impatiently, and Arvid stared at her with inquisitive eyes. The two flickered their gaze between Ivar and Arvid, and the Halfthenn simply stared with them at Nightbane. Arvid let out a sigh as he grabbed the Ivan Longbeard’s heart from Maya’s bag, squeezing it in his hand to the point that blood vessels began to burst.
“This is of no use to you, but it is to those who play with blood magic. I’m taking you to someone who can help you,” he stated, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy Maya’s curiosity. Arvid glared at them both.
“Its bad luck to speak her name, and I’m not taking you to her,” Arvid declared, which made Maya raise her eyebrows, and even Ivar looked confused. “I’m taking you to the North Grove,” Arvid revealed, and Maya raised an eyebrow, but Terry only sniggered.
“The North Grove? How many other fairy tales do you expect us to believe, Nightbane?” he asked with an impatient tone, and Arvid turned his glare on him.
“It’s no fairy tale, there’s no happy ending,” Arvid remarked darkly, and Terry gulped. Ivar appeared as confused as Maya felt.
“What’s the North Grove?” Maya asked, and Arvid immediately became recluse, but Terry was happy enough to answer that for her.
“It’s a haven, supposedly, a grove within a grove that protects from the cold and grumpkins and snarks,” Terry stated, but Arvid shook his head.
“It’s a prison,” he corrected, but any attempt to seek elaboration from him was thwarted when Ivar’s attention shifted.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, and they all looked around. Maya heard nothing but the distant chatter of some of Arvid’s men, as well as the sound of the trees and some distant squirrels.
“Hear what?” Maya asked, growing agitated with these pitiful distractions. Arvid knelt down and parted the snow from the grass with his hand, placing both of his hands palm down in on the wet green.
“Giants,” Arvid confirmed, and Maya furrowed her brow. Ivar nodded, pointing to the hill adjacent of them.
“Come on, it’s coming from over there,” he stated, running back to the men and dousing the fires before heading up the hill. Maya spotted Cassi awaking from the commotion.
“How in the name of the gods…” Maya started, but her words cut off with both disbelief and utter bewilderment from his claim, and Arvid flashed a smirk at her.
“Sweetheart, when you’ve lived in a place so cold and quiet that only the howling winds speak to you, you can hear the mountains talk. Now come on,” he urged, dropping the heart back in Maya’s bag. Maya turned to get the girl, and nearly jumped when she found her right behind her.
“Where are we going?” she asked, to which Maya sighed and rolled her eyes.
“To follow giants and fairy tales, apparently. Let’s go.”
-
They peered down at an army of perhaps a thousand or more Free Folk marching together, but unlike Raymun’s army, there was no singing or cheer among them. Indeed, Arvid was right, giants walked amongst them, standing twice or triple the height of those that surrounded them. They even rode mammoths. Maya observed Cassi marvel at their glory, and even Maya acknowledged it was a sight to behold, but not one she wanted to be too close to.
“Thenns,” Ivar stated as he watched them, and Cassi watched with wide eyes.
“How can you tell?” she asked, to which Ivar half-smiled.
“Thenns are the only Free Folk that forge bronze for armour,” he claimed as he pointed at the links of bronze disks the Thenns armoured themselves with, “there’s an abundance of tin and copper in the Vale, and it’s more resourceful than carting tons of loot from over the Wall. It’s an art that’s been passed down since the coming of the First Men, and Thenns still practice it to this day. Besides, you won’t ever see giants marching with Free Folk unless they’re Thenns,” Ivar stated confidently, but Maya seemed less optimistic.
“How do we know they’re not part of Fleshbearer’s army?” Maya asked, and Arvid didn’t hesitate in providing a response.
“I think if the Thenns had giants alongside them to begin with they wouldn’t have lost their fight against Fleshbearer and Redbeard. I also doubt Krygorn’s daughter would march for the man who killed her father,” he stated, pointing down to a woman with auburn hair. “Come, let us greet them.”
They all stood and descended down the face of the hill, Arvid leading them with Ivar following close behind. Cassi clutched onto Maya like her life depended on it, and Terry brought up the rear with Arvid’s hunters. There was something daring about approaching an army as so few, it was almost akin to walking up to a bear alone and unarmed. The Thenns were her enemy, not long ago she was marching to war against them, and now there was nothing she could do to touch them. Her fight, her cause, all of it was dead.
“Warriors of the Vale!” Arvid shouted with a boisterous tone that echoed through the valley, and the army came to a halt as they spotted their approach. He then followed with a passage that Maya did not recognise, something spoken in the Old Tongue. One giant came forward, staring at Arvid for a moment before smiling.
“NIGHT-BANE,” he uttered in a booming deep voice that was foreign to them. Arvid grinned in response, walking to the army with open arms. Some Thenns detached from the main army, one being the daughter of Krygorn that was pointed out earlier. Another was a young male warrior with dreadlocks, he carried an axe of half bronze, and what looked half steel. Then there was another woman, who had dark blonde hair and quality bronze armour. When they drew closer their faces became more detailed, and Arvid greeted them with a nod.
“Princess Sigira, you look as beautiful as ever. Prince Skyrnor, you’ve grown since we last met,” he stated as he looked at the Thenn with the dreadlocks, and then turned his gaze to the blonde, “and based off your looks I’d wager you’re the daughter of Bjalner,” Arvid claimed as he introduced them to the rest of the company.
“Olha,” the dark blonde stated as she nodded, and Arvid smiled in response to her.
“What are you doing so far from the Frostfangs, Halvor?” Princess Sigira asked with a cold tone and a resentful look in her eye. There was a strength to her that Maya was attracted to, she was sure she’d like her if they weren’t on the opposite sides. If there even are sides anymore.
“These two came looking for me, claimed they needed my help. So here I am,” Arvid claimed as he pointed out Maya and Terry, and Maya immediately lifted her guard, pushing Cassi behind her. Sigira looked them up and down.
“A Hornfoot and a Nightrunner. I’m guessing you two went to find Arvid by Raymun Redbeard’s order,” Sigira claimed, and Maya reached for her dagger, but was stopped by Terry who nodded.
“We were sent to find an Ivan Longbeard, Arvid helped us find him,” Terry confirmed, and Sigira raised an eyebrow at Arvid.
“So, you’re fighting for the ‘King of the Free Folk,’ Nightbane? I thought higher of you, so did my father,” Sigira sneered, and Arvid frowned as he glanced back at Maya and Terry.
“I give no allegiance to Raymun Redbeard of his ideals, I’m doing as I freely wish, as any Free Folk is entitled to do. As for your father, I am sorry for his passing. I considered Krygorn a good friend, I grieve at his demise,” Arvid lowered his head as he gave his condolences, but Sigira didn’t display any appreciation for his sentiment.
“We are heading south to find Fleshbearer and avenge our fallen, you should join us if you truly honoured my father,” Sigira stated, and Nightbane flashed the princess a small smile before shaking his head.
“I’m afraid we are on a different path,” Arvid stated, then turning back to Ivar, who looked at him in disapproval. “You’re about a day’s journey from the battlefield where your people fell. We met some folk from both sides that were also going after Fleshbearer, some of our party joined them, claimed he was heading for the Frozen Shores,” Arvid informed them, and Sigira eyed him cautiously before giving him a small nod. She then turned her back on them and returned to her army.
Maya watched after her feeling a sense of empathy for the girl. They had both lost their fathers, and were both fuelled by their thirst for revenge. Only difference that separated them was that Sigira had an army and Maya had a heart. As Arvid said, they were heading on different paths, and while Maya wished she could allow herself to try and find Rumak, she feared she already knew his fate. She couldn’t find for the Thenns after having fought for Raymun.
“Your axe, that’s Valyrian steel,” a small timid voice stated from behind Maya, and the dreadlocked Thenn known as Skyrnor lifted his gaze as he heard mention of it. A smirk spread across his lips as he nodded.
“Now how do you know that?” he asked with some astonishment, his common tongue a little broken from lack of use. Cassi stayed behind Maya as she spoke.
“My father has a sword just like it,” she answered, and Skyrnor smiled as he caressed his axe.
“I think I’d like to meet your father someday then,” Skyrnor stated before turning his attention back to Arvid. “You’re sure you won’t come with us? I remember the tales Krygorn told of Arvid Halvor, we would be honoured if you would join us,” Skyrnor stated in an attempt to persuade, and Nightbane sighed before shaking his head. He then turned his gaze to Halfthenn and the men with him.
“Ivar, if you want to fight with them, don’t let me stop you. You’re your own man,” Arvid claimed, and Halfthenn gazed at him for a moment before extending his arm out. Nightbane grasped it while gripping Ivar’s shoulder with his spare hand. “Look after yourself, we will meet again soon,” Arvid bid him, and Ivar nodded to him.
“You too,” he reciprocated, but he held a stern look on his one eye. Maya then watched Ivar and the Halvor hunters depart their company and join the Thenn army. Skyrnor and Olha gave them a nod before linking back with the army and resuming their march for vengeance. They were now four, and they stood and watched as the army continued on their path for destruction and chaos until they lost sight of them in the forest. They then stood in silence, until Arvid picked up his gear and headed back up the hill.
“Come, I’d like to spend my next night under the ironwoods of the North Grove, and that won’t happen if we stay here,” he announced. Terry was next to follow after him, and Maya hoisted her pack over her shoulder, then gazing at Cassi. The young girl flashed her a smile, and Maya smirked back at her.
“Come on, let’s go.”
No decision.
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Jul 6, 2021 1:53:01 GMT
Two new parts, woo, what a great surprise! Welcome back [Call for the guard]This is a difficult decision, because I don't want to put Storg in danger here. Thing is, I could totally see him not being in any danger at all, that the true goal here is not for someone to try and kill Storg, but to discredit Skjorn and blame him for Gregory's death, to get him out of the picture. Actually, I am absolutely certain this is the case, this whole thing seems way too much like a set-up. Killing a man in Skjorn's room with his own dagger and leaving both of it there, that screams to me that he's the actual target here, that someone wants to put the blame on him. That someone most likely expects him to rush to Storg's side to make sure he's safe, so that he misses his (already pretty slim) chance to prove his innocence. To be fair, Skjorn is in deep shit already and I don't see him talking his way out of this just like that, but perhaps calling for the guard is one thing the true killer hasn't expected from him, giving him a slim chance to prove his innocence or maybe at least placing some serious doubt on his guilt.
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Oct 26, 2021 22:36:35 GMT
Rumak
Agony. If there was one word that summarised this moment best, it was agony. Rumak’s ears were deafened by the screams of agony, the sound of life ebbing away from one’s lips as they met their untimely demise. Agony was what this old man felt in his lingering and new wounds alike, and agony was what he felt behind his stern mask and focused rage. Agony was at the centre of it all, and as the corpses began to pile around him, and his eyes began to force shut from the intrusion of blood that was not his own, he let out a thunderous croaky shout that seemed to drown out all the suffering around him – if only for a moment.
He forced his eyes open, tightly clutching the hilt of his blade as he brought it soaring down into the next unfortunate fool who tried their luck on him. A raging frenzy numbed the sorrow that coursed through this beast, as he caught his next opponent by the throat. His nails clawed through the flesh, fastening around the panicked man’s internals, which Rumak thoughtlessly relieved him of. A silent blood gurgling sound left the man as he fell amongst the bodies of his predecessors. Rumak had already turned his focus to the next man he would kill.
The Thenn commander, Barryn, hurled his axe overhead into one of the Nightrunner spearwives, burying his weapon so deep it was easier to continuing cutting her in two than following the path of entry to retrieve his axe. Rumak set his course, his teeth snarling through his blood drenched beard. He backhanded a welp that tried their luck on him, slicing the throat of another that caught him by surprise. Barryn now had moved onto his next victim, a Thenn, one of his own, which he spared no mercy to as he swiftly removed the weight of their head off their shoulders.
Rumak cut through his foes with ease, each man and woman that came upon him was only fuel for a greater opponent, and now he was finally upon him. Rumak threw his fist into the back of Barryn’s skull, throwing the young commander off guard. Rumak utilised this opportunity to bring his sword down into the Thenn’s throat, but much to his surprise this strike was parried by another blade. Rumak’s rage driven glare turned onto Barryn’s defender and widened as he recognised the gaze that peered back at him. Maya?
The young Nightrunner girl slid her blade off his and knocked him on his arse, with Barryn only just lifting from the attack that had caught him off guard, disappearing amongst the crowd of chaos that engulfed them. Maya! Rumak wanted to scream, but the name wouldn’t even begin to form at his lips. He chased after her, struggling to find his feet, as Barryn clutched the back of his head and slowly pulled himself up. She faded amongst the many bodies that polluted this small arena, and surely enough Rumak found himself engaged with more killers – more fools that thought they could end his life.
“Enough…” a voice trembled, barely cutting through all the death and suffering that surrounded it. Rumak lifted his gaze onto an old man, nude to all but the chain that hung around his neck. His bones were frail and decrepit, his flesh coated in fresh and dry blood alike, the whip marks on his back had begun to scar. “Please…” he uttered, and those around him ceased fighting with visible confusion. What was an old decrepit man doing here? In the middle of all of this? “PLEASE!” he cried, and suddenly the fighting seemed to come to a halt. Silence flooded this makeshift arena as everyone stared to at the old Thenn. Yes, it was Raugan Varalaf, the old craven living to up to his reputation. His pale flesh shivered to the bite of the northern climate, and tears streamed down his bony cheeks, leaving a smudge of pink in their trail.
Barryn climbed to his feet and approached Raugan, one generation of Thenn looking to another. “Barryn, please…” Raugan mumbled, and the Thenn commander stared into the old man’s eyes, almost seeming to submit to the plea of the old man. Raugan extended his trembling hands to Barryn, fumbling with the Thenn commander’s fur coat, while the beast watched the weakness that fell upon him. His great hands wrapped around the old man in embrace, lifting him up. Rumak watched the moment Raugan’s tears of relief turned to agony, accompanied with the sound of his bones breaking from within as Barryn crushed him in his hold. Raugan spat blood and fell limp and Barryn dropped him, and a sudden outcry came from the crowd.
“Round them up!” Barryn shouted as he lifted his axe, and the Ice River clansmen swarmed in, disarming the Thenns, Hornfoots and Nightrunners. Rumak threw down his sword, glaring across to where it had all begun. Fleshbearer’s body was nowhere in sight, but the still body of a familiar face lay where he stood. Asger. Rumak thought with some strange sense of sorrow. He had never trusted the Clansman, but this one had managed to earn his respect unknowingly, and for that Rumak felt remorse.
By his body was the Nightrunner girl at the centre of it all. Ariyana Caswell sat there, a bloody dagger in her hand, staring into the deep blue sky that began to grey with cloud. She was disarmed and lifted to her feet by some clansmen, being brought before Barryn. She was knelt before him, and the Thenn commander lifted her chin with the tip of his axe, muttering something in the Old Tongue to her before lifting his axe up to swing. Rumak climbed to his feet.
“Wait!” he yelled, and the Thenn commander reluctantly hesitated his swing as he turned his gaze toward the Nightrunner commander. A resenting scowl followed with it, and Rumak grabbed his blade as he approached them. “I’ll do it,” he insisted, and the bearded Thenn glared deep into Rumak’s eyes, searching for the deceit he surely expected. He found nothing, as Rumak had nothing to hide, and moved out of his way.
He found himself now standing above her in a position he never hoped to find himself in – her executioner. He stared deep into her eyes. It was hard not seeing the resemblance she held to Maya, her dark hair, and her vibrant eyes… He knew what he had to do, but could he really do it? He felt Barryn’s glare on the back of his neck, and Ariyana’s eyes pleaded for him to do it, but inside he battled with himself over and over, and no side came to a victory. It would only be determined by his decision here. Ariyana rested her head back, whispering her recital to the old gods as her eyes rolled back. In the distance, Rumak heard the roar of a beast lurking within the woods. He grimaced as he fumbled with his blade. Do it, he urged himself. If you want to see her again, you must let her go.
[Spare her] [Execute her]
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Oct 30, 2021 14:21:38 GMT
[Spare her]
That took me a bit of thinking, because while I like Ariyana, my first instict after reading the part was that Rumak is more likely to execute her. That being said, the fact that this is a vote-determined choice and that he has to conciously urge himself to go through with this execution indicates that he is not as sure of it as I first thought and that both options are viably in-character. So, in the end I would rather spare her and I think it can be justified from Rumak's perspective, so that's what I'm going to vote for. The one thing I am not sure of is if Barryn would just accept this, given that he was literal seconds away from executing her in Rumak's stead, but I'm also a bit curious to see what he's going to do now ^^
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Jan 2, 2022 0:54:24 GMT
Hey! Happy New Year to anyone still interested enough to be reading these very occassional parts! That's much to my own character flaw and disappointment, as well as the overall disruption that is life. Though when I revived this fanfiction I had an ambition to see its story finished, and that is one dream that still holds true with me to this day. As 2021 has come to a close and 2022 ensues, I have made it my resolution to write a little each day, with the hope of delivering the justice the story truly deserves. I hope to be more active this year and meet some goals as I continue writing these parts that I so greatly enjoy - I hope you do too. With that being said, I have finally overcome the writer's block that came to me while writing this recent part. I wanted to do it right and I think I'm satisfied with its conclusion. Enjoy
Dead Man Fire and destruction littered the villa he once called home. Huts that once homed neighbours now reduced to ash and charred wood, but their demise was only the beginning of the suffering that would come onto the home of this lost man. Yes, he was lost, he had wandered this scene time and time again – never did he find anything new. He always first faced the great bearded man jumping out of the smoke and ashes with two axes made of bone – his eyes beady black and his flesh milky white. This berserk figure looked to make a formidable foe, and yet he always met a quick end with a spear lodged through his throat. Yes, the dead man had lived this life once before, and he relived it constantly. Two more sorry whelps would become victim to his rage in this repeat, one losing all their teeth from the pummelling of bruised knuckles, and another catching alight in the fire they had started. The sound of chilling laughter was what guided this dead man, a cackle in the wind that drifted him closer and closer to the predestined outcome of this life he had already lived. The dead man only left death in his wake as he followed this choking chortle, the bodies of the invaders falling among those of his neighbours. Surprise didn’t greet him as his eyes fell upon the two bodies that awaited him outside his damaged home. The flesh of his beautiful wife and sweet daughter had cindered in the fires that raged around their village, their humanity stripped from their naked bodies that had been assaulted in every way before their untimely death. No, the dead man had endured the vision of this torture every moment his eyes closed, and even as they opened the memory of their faces lingered in his gaze. He crumbled to his knees between their bodies, tears streaming down his bloody face that displayed no emotion. His expression was cold and distant, his soul somewhere well beyond his body. The giggling laughter of his daughter danced around him in a foggy memory, his gaze locked in the lost cloudy eyes of his wife, holding him paralysed by her everlasting grace. This life that was presented to him was so swiftly taken away, and the moment was lost, his gaze fell to their disgraced bodies. An agonising moan of grief left his defeated lips as he collapsed to their level, his heart shattering piece by piece as his throat closed with anguish. Beyond his veil of tears, he saw a creeping figure, the creature resembled that of the dead man’s brother. Slim and arched like a sickly rat, glaring at them with the eyes of a snake as he sharpened two knives in his hands. The creature began to cackle as he clicked his blades together, running shivers down the dead man’s spine as his body began to decompose under the gaze of this monster. “Wake up, brother,” the figure hissed as he ran his blades against each other, the honing sound burning holes in the dead man with each stride. He was finally upon him, looming over him like a contagious leper looking to spread his inflictions to those he deemed too fortunate. “Now you will live as you were always meant to, alone and with nothing. Wake up!” he cried, plunging a knife into his back and twisting it until the dead man yelped with pain. His eyes forced shut until the cackling faded into echoes, and there was finally silence. - His mouth opened with a gasp for air, life breathing through his body with a will to revive him from his sudden death. He hands clenched and his eyes pried themselves open, light flooding into his eyes, blinding him. His throat and mouth were coated with dried blood, making him cough and choke. “Water,” he pleaded, and suddenly his hands were positioned around a leather bladder that was guided to his lips. A soothing warm liquid coursed into his mouth, wetting his tongue, and flowing down his throat. His eyes adjusted to the lighting, his gaze identifying his guardian who loomed over him with two knives sliding against each other… and his eyes widened. Fleshbearer. The bladder fell from his hands, and suddenly the dead man recognised the taste of the drink he had been given. Blood. Fresh blood. A wide grin formed on the King’s face. “Welcome back, Squire,” he chortled with a croaky voice, a cotton bandage wrapped around his throat restricted his monstrous tongue from overindulging in speech. “Asger,” he then said, and the dead man kept his eyes locked on Fleshbearer’s one good eye, which left his gaze and stared beyond. “We were betrayed,” he muttered, then standing up and looking down on him. “I counted on you being a traitor, even tried to coax it out of you, but like a good little squire you kept your mouth shut. Even made me doubt myself,” he growled, and Asger gulped as he watched the monster pace with his knives. “And then the most amusing thing occurred… As you stood above me, ready to open my throat, that bitch who orchestrated it all put a dagger through your back,” he chuckled, inflicting pain on himself for his own amusement. “She betrayed you, saving me, and nearly killing you,” he cackled, which turned to coughing and a shortness of breath as he knelt down on Asger’s bed. “Nearly,” he uttered, resting his dagger on Asger’s chest. “If you’re going to kill me…” Asger started, but Fleshbearer shook his head with a smirk. “Kill you? My dear squire, I couldn’t be rid of you that easily. While you did betray me, I can see you were equally betrayed, and that…” he stopped and recovered his breath, “Why do you think that is?” Fleshbearer toyed, and Asger avoided the monster’s gaze. It was too soon. Ariyana’s plan. Deepstone had taken things into his own hands, and chaos had ensued, she was too stubborn to jump onboard with it. She tried to kill me. Asger clenched his fists with boiling anger and turned that rage onto Fleshbearer with a fiery gaze, making the King smile. “You’re an Ice River clansman, Asger, how the fuck did you think they could’ve trusted you? After we betrayed the Thenns and fucked the Nightrunners and Hornfoots into the dirt? They never would have given you a chance, but as a pitiful and… merciful king, I will,” he proclaimed, handing Asger his knife. “You have the Barbarian’s tribe, and you can have a powerful place at my side… Be who you were born to be, a man of the Ice Rivers!” he grumbled, forcing Asger’s hand to take the knife. “Dig up these traitors and join me,” he offered, standing, and extending Asger a hand up. Disgust and resentment flowed through Asger’s eyes as he looked at the claws extending from Fleshbearer’s fingers, and yet the rage at betrayal and thirst for revenge made the offer almost palatable. Asger knew he was choiceless here if he wanted to live, the question truly remained, did he want to live? He had accepted death long ago, and yet time and time again that mercy had been stolen from him. More kept him anchored to this world, and as he accepted Fleshbearer’s hand and was pulled to his feet, his new purpose became clear. He looked down at the knife in his hand, a handle of bone and a stained red blade. “Let’s take back what’s ours,” Fleshbearer growled with a determination in his eye. - The camp has fallen decadent and rabid following the sudden uprising. Where the captive soldiers of Raymun Redbeard and Magnar Krygorn’s armies had been given some opportunity to engage in their personal liberties once, now they were truly the slave soldiers that Fleshbearer had intended them to be. The clans held a firm grip on them, with many Thenns beaten and in bindings, and herds of Nightrunners and Hornfoots under constant surveillance. Asger received a plethora of reactions as his face was revealed to the masses. The people cried and screamed at the sight of Fleshbearer, masking Asger’s presence to most – but for those who noticed, there was shock and fear in their eyes. Fear of Asger’s intent. Those who had seen what Ariyana had done during the chaos had right to worry for what Asger would do now, alive and walking, and his eyes kept his intentions unknown. Fleshbearer and Asger walked with an armed guard, gallivanting down the mud-trotted paths of the camp until they came across one such pavilion. The king entered first, and Asger was ushered in behind him. The scene that unravelled before them was unsettling to say the least – and laying victim to it was none other than the one who freed the arrow that nearly claimed Fleshbearer’s life. Dogga hung by his hands in ropes that had chafed through his flesh, his clothes stripped of him and his pale body purple and red with bruises and festering cuts alike. Asger would have been forgiven for thinking the man dead, were it not for a shallow shivering breath exhaling from his dry cracked lips, leaving a mist in its path that only served to prove Asger wrong. “The famed archer!” Fleshbearer announced with a croaky restricted voice, lifting Dogga’s chin so that he might meet the gaze of the king’s one eye. The barely conscious Dogga did so, his eyes blackened from the beating he had received, and then his head fell back down. “The balls on you for finding the courage to shoot me, we’ll address that in time, but first…” Fleshbearer muttered, then taking his knives and cutting the bindings. Dogga fell limp into the dirt, having no energy to pick himself up. Fleshbearer knelt and gripped his right hand. “Let’s make sure you don’t have the fingers to do it again,” he insisted with glee, and Dogga’s eyes suddenly widened. Without hesitation, Fleshbearer drove his first blade through the centre of Dogga’s right hand, anchoring it into the dirt. The Hornfoot let out an agonising scream as his eyes began streaming tears, and Fleshbearer teased his next move, running the edge of his second blade across Dogga’s index finger. Were the archer a weaker man he might have begged, but instead he shut his eyes, and Fleshbearer relieved the man of each finger – one by one. When he was done with the right hand, he freed the knife. Dogga scrambled back and pulled his hand to his chest, guarding it from any further torment as he tucked himself into a ball. “I have need for a new dog, since Barryn ridded me of that old crone when you nearly ended my life. They tell me your name is Dogga. I couldn’t think of a greater replacement if I tried…” Fleshbearer announced, and Dogga remained cowering in the corner of the tent. Fleshbearer turned his gaze back to Asger. “These men will take you to the young Ariyana Caswell,” Fleshbearer announced as he started to strip himself, licking his lips as he turned back to Dogga. “What you do with her is up to you,” Fleshbearer stated, dismissing him. Some of the clansmen grasped Asger and escorted him out of the tent, and as they put that scene behind them, Asger listened to the sudden panicked screams of Dogga as Fleshbearer forced himself upon him. Asger had to stop himself after a while of walking, kneeling, and retching up bile and blood. Ariyana had stuck him good, he’d likely live, but that wasn’t what initiated his reaction. Some of the men offered to help him up, but Asger shrugged them off, pulling himself upright and wiping the puke and blood away from his lips. He put his feet in front of him and followed the desolate paths that led to Ariyana’s prison. Most who noticed this dead man stayed out of his way. Most. “ASGER!” a voice shouted, anger seething in the caller’s tone. Asger turned his gaze to his aggressor, his black eyes fuelled with dread and darkness, it was none other than Alex Deepstone. Before Asger even had time to react, the Thenn had him by the scruff of his collar. “You fucking traitorous cunt… I’ll fucking kill you!” he raged, bashing his head against Asger’s, knocking the Ice River clansman to the ground. He was quick to pursue Asger while he was down, and were it not for the patrol shortly behind, he might’ve succeeded with his statement. The Ice River clansmen swarmed Deepstone, planting their boots into him while he was down. Asger lifted his fingers to his lip, noticing blood had begun to flow from his mouth. Out as quick as it was in, he thought to himself as he spat out red. He lifted himself up, staggering across to Alex. “Leave him!” he yelled, pulling one of the patrolmen back and catching the hand of another before they could lay a club into him. Confusion and anger circled in the eyes of his defenders, and Asger shoved the clubber back. “I’ll deal with him myself,” Asger muttered as he lifted Deepstone to his feet before punching him back down. The Thenn seemed barely conscious, but a strength within him had him back on his feet with some effort. “You fucking bastard… You sold us out, and for what?!” Alex spat, looking at his brothers and sisters in chains around him. “We’re no closer to our fucking freedom!” he cried, throwing his fist at Asger’s jaw. He took it, but maintained his footing as the Thenn threw himself back into the mud with the momentum of his swing. Asger clenched his fists, pressing his boot down on the Thenn’s back as he tried to pull himself up. He knelt down and put the man into a headlock as he pinned him to the ground, putting his lip against his ear. “I didn’t betray you, it was fucking Ariyana who betrayed you, as she did me. Now, stay out of my fucking way,” Asger warned, pressing Alex’s face down as he pushed himself upright. The patrolmen quickly detained Deepstone as Asger left the scene, his destination clear and his determination clearer. - She sat silently in her prison, bound to the central post that kept the pavilion upright. Asger’s eyes of amber pierced into her with a confliction of pity and contempt. The Nightrunner girl had been a figure of authority and strength amongst both her tribe and the others under Fleshbearer’s oppression, and yet behind that veil sat a girl barely matured. Her eyes were distant and reflected sorrow as they stared obliviously at the puddle of her own making that she sat in. Her hardened face had been pummelled and bruised, and Asger wagered the guards had likely had their rounds on her under Fleshbearer’s orders. The dead man tried to shake off the pity he felt for the girl who had stabbed him in the back, attempting to replace it with scorn and pleasure at the reach of his revenge – yet he was not the monster Fleshbearer was. He approached her slowly, kneeling to her level and glaring into her cold eyes who barely shifted to acknowledge him. There was no sign of shock or surprise in her eyes as they recognised him, rather a look of remorse and clarity. “Are you here to kill me, Asger?” she asked weakly, her eyes falling back to the ground as she lowered her head. Asger’s eyes trailed over her, scanning her up and down before he bowed his head, unsheathing Fleshbearer’s knife. He stared at his reflection in its blade – the image was distorted, detailing a monstrous figure that hardly resembled a man. In the corner of his eye, Asger observed a soft misty exhale leave Ariyana’s lips as she let out a weak sigh. “When Raymun Redbeard visited our village, I was just a little girl, and he was little more than a dreamer, telling stories of his visits south of the Wall. He spoke of the heat of summer, the kiss of the sun on his skin as he sat and watched fields of wildflowers blow in the wind like currents in the sea. He spoke of the south with such beauty… Wherever he walked we always wanted to follow, just to hear more of the dreams he spoke so intensely of. He promised us that someday we could all run and play in these fields of flowers, basking in the sunlight without fear of crows or the northern chill…” Ariyana’s eyes stared wondrously ahead of her before she turned her gaze back onto Asger. “I don’t expect I’ll ever see it now.” Asger closed his eyes, collecting himself before he shook his head. Ariyana gazed into his eyes with an acceptance of her defeat, yet her eyes still struggled to hold onto the life that kept her chained to this harsh reality, with tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. “Has he said how he will do it?” she then muttered, wiping her eyes on her shoulders. Asger shook his head. “He’s left that up to me,” Asger stated firmly, sticking the dagger into the soil before her. She frowned as she stared at the blade, then lifting her gaze up to Asger. “I’m sorry it came to this, Asger. I hoped we could have done this differently, come out of this as allies… as friends,” she uttered, and Asger bit his tongue as he glared at her. “Those dreams didn’t stop you from putting a knife in my back, and they won’t save you now,” Asger seethed, to which Ariyana bowed her head in acceptance of that fate. “I didn’t say it to save me…” her eyes lifted to his, her strength regained for this fleeting moment. “The Free Folk must go free; the plan must be seen through. Promise me, Asger,” she pleaded, and Asger stared into her eyes with disbelief. He was lost for words. “You can give me over to Fleshbearer or take me yourself,” she said with forced words as she clenched her eyes shut, “I’ll suffer a thousand times over so that my people can roam free once again. Give them that chance, Asger. Don’t do it for me, do it for the Free Folk. Don’t give in to these cravens,” she begged, and Asger’s face turned to stone. “Enough,” he growled, grasping the bone hilt Fleshbearer’s blade, but she shook her head. “If I am to die, I’ll die free.” Asger’s eyes connected with hers, and for the briefest moment he felt helpless under her gaze, she stared right through him and saw every weakness and vulnerability. His eyes pulled away from hers, locating the bindings that tied her down. He ran the edge of the knife along the ropes, severing them free. She grasped her chafed forearms, rubbing the pain out of them as her skin began to breathe again, before looking back up to Asger. She shut her eyes. “I’m ready,” she whispered, resting her head back and exposing her throat. Asger stared at her for a moment that haunted them both, glancing back at the dagger in his hands. Doubt crippled him, the conflict ripping his heart apart as he fought to remember why he was doing this. He was betrayed by this girl, her ambitions had outgrown her, and Asger deserved his justice. Yet the mercy he offered her would not justify his steps to damnation, friend to friend or foe to foe, only he was leaving this tent – and not as a free man, but as a chained slave looking only to save his people from a terror gifted from one king to the next. Ariyana was free, and her blood was on Asger’s hands, or her own… if she could be trusted. [Execute her] [Let Ariyana take her life]
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Jan 23, 2022 11:21:09 GMT
Phoenix
The northern chill bit harder than the Ironborn had expected when they had beached on the Frozen Shores. Aye, there was a coldness beyond what they had ever experienced, that they knew, but combined with the chilling winds that swept over the great white plateau was a concoction that would have met them with a preserving death had they not been in good hospitality.
Phoenix had come in his woollen trimmed doublet, the exterior being a boiled leather that would serve both to protect him from the cold and the occasional arrow or axe. However, that and some leather gloves and breeches were far inadequate for that of the true north. He had worn a cotton cape with kraken clasps on his journey to the Greymyst’s, and they had left wrapped head to toe in fur cloaks – and even then, the cold still found a way in.
The Ironborn captain’s head ached as he sat in the chieftain’s sled. It had been a long night of drinking, fucking and axe hurling, and he had found little rest in between all that. Now he sat amongst the representatives of Clan Greymyst – or at least those who counted for something. Chieftain Vormyr sat at the head of the sled with Walf the Horned and his scheming brother Domund, whilst his sister Neyla and Prince Germun sat together behind them. Phoenix had fell in and out of consciousness most of this trip, in part to avoid the ferret-looking individual that sat beside him, but now as he awoke the lean man started to take an interest in the Ironborn.
“Long night, hm?” the skinny man said, and Phoenix glared at him with tired eyes before rolling his head in another direction, seeming to amuse his seated partner. “I am Fullerton, Vormyr’s chief advisor,” he introduced, and Phoenix rolled his eyes.
“I don’t care,” Phoenix muttered, resting his head back and forcing his eyes shut. He couldn’t find comfort. Every now and then the sled would jolt as a rock or some uneven ice went under the runner. Fullerton rubbed his brow anxiously as he tried to break the ice, clearing his throat.
“We aren’t too far from the Falls now, and soon we will be spilling the blood of my old kin,” Fullerton announced, and Phoenix shot him a glare as if to reiterate his earlier comment, but Fullerton paid his glance no mind. “You know, I find talking takes my mind off the dread of a long night,” he badgered, and Phoenix snorted in response.
“I find sleep and a mouth around my cock a far better remedy, weasel.” Fullerton’s eyes twinkled with a sly grin.
“I can give you that, if you want,” he offered, and Phoenix glared at the man for a moment before he realised what he meant, and his back immediately stiffened as he pulled himself back into the world of the living. If that’s what you can even call this shithole. Fullerton expressed some amusement to his response. “So squeamish to even the thought,” Fullerton chuckled, “I shall have to find that satisfaction elsewhere,” he remarked.
Phoenix rubbed the restlessness out of his eyes as he cradled his head in his hands. “So, you were with one of these Ice River clans that we are about to fight?” Phoenix queried carelessly as he looked ahead of the sled, observing they were climbing up a slope of ice, as they had been the last four hours. Fullerton nodded as he stared off distantly. “No reservations for cutting Vormyr out from underneath and joining them in the heat of battle?” Phoenix asked dryly, and Fullerton entertained his question with an unsettling giggle.
“Those days have long past,” Fullerton stated firmly as he contained himself, grasping his arms. “I never much loved them, my father was a cunt and my brother an entitled shit. Our clan was small and farther out from the others, along the border of the Frozen Shores. The men of our clan would fight and raid the Frozen Shores while our women fished and tended to the village, and our leader was a nimble fool with no ambition. He was quickly dealt with by Armun the Barbarian, who seized our village and took control of our clan. My brother, being the humble servant he was, escalated to being his right-hand man, and made me suffer. So, I took a torch to their homes and followed the river downstream to the Frozen Shores, took refuge in some abandoned huts before I was found by the Greymysts, and I’ve been loyal to them ever since.”
Phoenix stared at the ferret of a man, wondering if he was truly capable of what he had spoken in his story. It didn’t matter, and Phoenix doubted Vormyr’s special advisors would be anywhere near the fighting when the time came. “It seems we both share ill feeling to our brothers,” Phoenix acknowledged, and Fullerton raised an eyebrow. “My family hailed from the North originally, my mother an Ironborn and my father a Stark bannerman. My brother, Derek, and I would always fight as boys – he was more like father, and I more like mother. Some time in our childhood my father died, and my mother quickly rushed us onto a boat for the Iron Islands, though my brother betrayed us to stay in the North. He told the guards, and my mother was wounded, we managed to get to the Iron Islands as a stowaway – though our ship broke under storm, and I was the only one to wash ashore. My uncle barely believed I was who I said I was until he his sister’s eyes in me.” Fullerton frowned sympathetically.
“My only regret was leaving my mother. I don’t know if she still lives, but she was the only one who stood up for me,” Fullerton remarked, to which Phoenix sighed.
“Perhaps you’ll meet again. The Drowned God has my mother, and if I’m fortunate I’ll find my end at the bottom of the sea with her,” Phoenix uttered dryly. Fullerton glanced at him with a confused look but didn’t question him, it was clear he was unfamiliar with the Ironborn’s God or culture. “For that to happen though I need to not die here, and my odds will be better if I rest off my misery,” Phoenix insisted, and Fullerton nodded as he turned his attention away, letting the Ironborn ease back into his sleep.
-
The shouting of voices and banging of steel ripped Phoenix from his sleep, his hand rummaging under his cloak to secure a dagger as his eyes were bombarded with white light. As they adjusted, he recognised the clattering of steel was that of men hammering iron spikes into the ice, and the shouting came most from one chieftain – Wacka. The Walrus directed his clan around the constructing campsite with a boisterous voice, his people running back and forth with his every order. His great grey beard covered half his furred chest, his furs embellished with shells and coral.
Phoenix’s muscles tensed as he pulled himself upright, watching as Vormyr and his siblings clambered out of the sled, quickly followed by Walf and Fullerton. Phoenix willed himself to do the same, throwing his legs out the sleigh and finding his footing amongst the snow and ice. He hadn’t walked on this kind of terrain since he was a boy in the North, his main visits on land being the unforgiving clutter of stone and ore that was the Iron Islands. Phoenix had always preferred the sway of the sea under his feet over that of settled land; the motionless consistency made him feel uneasy, as he was powerless to control the frozen tides that surrounded him.
The wildling prince seemed to share the same expression of discomfort as he joined Phoenix’s side, a scowling look directed at the open field of ice around them. “I was hoping I’d die somewhere warmer,” Germun muttered as he wedged his hands under his arms. Phoenix smirked.
“I was hoping to die somewhere wetter,” Phoenix remarked, evoking a chuckle from the red-headed Nightrunner as he nodded in agreement, then running his hands through his hair nervously.
“Last we met you mentioned you had something that would help us in this war,” Germun said with a fragment of hope lingering in his voice. Phoenix exhaled with a nod, his heavy sigh battling with the cold to form a thick mist before his eyes.
“Aye…” Phoenix muttered as he bit his lip. Aboard his ship was a supply of scorpions and siege equipment that would aid in assisting the wildling army over the Wall, at least in some supply – the idea being they could fire bolts with ropes attached to scale the wall with ease. “That secret resides on my ship, which we’ll have to survive this small encounter should we wish to see it,” Phoenix remarked enigmatically, making Germun frown.
Ahead the two watched the brief encounter between the Greymyst’s and the Walrus. Wildlings on either side of the clans grew tense in each other’s presence, and Phoenix questioned if there would even be an army awaiting Fleshbearer when his host arrived. He tried not to put too much concern into the matter. The Ironborn were here to assist any host was willing to aid King Dagon in his invasion of the North. By any means, Phoenix though as he watched Domund Greymyst loom in his older brother’s shadow.
He fingered the ruby pendant around his neck that Asshkaan had given him, contemplating if it had been wise to let the red priest depart. Aye, they had come to help Raymun Redbeard – Asshkaan had been clear about that from the beginning – but was it truly imperative that it was he and not his brother or another idol wildling king? Phoenix did not admire the conflict that stirred within him.
“We’ll have to work on keeping these lot from killing each other if we stand a chance of doing that then,” Germun stated laconically, leading his step towards the Walrus as the Greymyst’s dispersed. Phoenix reluctantly followed.
The Walrus barked and threw his arms around before spotting Germun and Phoenix, and the corners of his lips lifted – yet his eyes remained cold and menacing. “If it isn’t the Prince of the fucking Free Folk!” Wacka growled, his heavy steps charging towards Germun, who had stopped in his tracks. Even Phoenix was unsure if he should, or could, intervene. Much to his surprise, however, the Walrus lifted Germun off his feet with an embrace and a warm boisterous chuckle. “And the Ironborn!” Wacka announced as he placed the stunned prince down.
Phoenix lifted his hands. “No hugs, please.” Wacka chuckled and patted him on the back, damn near putting him into the ground with the sheer force of his enthusiasm.
“You lot are a sight for bitter eyes,” he grumbled as he watched the rest of Vormyr’s host trickling in, then crossing his arms. “Some of the lads have been watching over the Fangs, reckon Fleshbearer and his army will be crossing the pass within a day or two,” Wacka announced, then turning his glance back onto Germun and Phoenix. “With our combined numbers, I’d say we’re still rightly fucked,” the Walrus stated cheerily, leaving Phoenix perplexed.
“You sound overly optimistic,” Phoenix observed, making Wacka grin.
“Aye, killing Greymyst’s is almost as good as killing cannibalistic fuckers, and I might get to die killing both,” Wacka chortled with maddened amusement, attracting some burning glares from the Greymyst warriors flowing in.
Germun nodded awkwardly as he rested a hand on Wacka’s shoulder. “More will come to join the fight,” Germun said unconvincingly, then glancing over at the Walrus’ camp. “Come, show me your strength,” Germun encouraged, likely in an effort to lead Wacka’s discriminating damnation away from unfriendly ears. Phoenix gave the prince a nod before watching them wander off.
Phoenix let out a shivering sigh, his breath misting the moment it left his lips. His eyes roamed around the camp that was being erected. The Walrus clan were hard folk from what Phoenix could tell, and Clan Greymyst was cut from the same hide, yet the Ironborn captain was interested in how this army would hold in the days before the battle. This King Fleshbearer will likely face an army of corpses, and from what Phoenix had heard, the king likely wouldn’t be too displeased with that find.
The camp was built along the edge of a great frozen lake that stretched for miles, underneath the hanging precipice where a waterfall had once coursed – the namesake for this frozen shit-heap. What remained now was a vertical wall of ice dangling overhead, which had likely been that way for centuries. Between the two clans and Phoenix’s Ironborn there were little more than a thousand fighters amassed, and if there was any merit to the rumours, Fleshbearer’s army would be more than twice that number. Phoenix rubbed his brow from beneath his cloak as he pondered on whether he had made the right decision.
“Quite the shithole this is, eh?” a voice chimed from behind him, “how the fuck we’ll get to the Drowned God from here has me tossed,” Andiron Quarter-Iron announced with a grizzly tone as he scratched his beard. With him were Kober Goodbrother and Agnar Nightwood, while Phoenix assumed the others had gone to set up camp.
The Ironborn captain flashed a crooked smile at Quarter-Iron. “I suppose we’ll have to hold off dying until we’re back at sea, then.” Andiron snarled at him before chuckling in agreeance, and the two embraced. Phoenix eyed over his other men. “How’s that hand of yours, Agnar?” Phoenix japed as he glanced at the bandaged stump on the end of his left arm, evoking laughter from the other two.
“Wiping my ass is a challenge but I can still handle an axe well enough,” he answered shortly, getting a pat on the back from Kober – who also had a bandage around the stump of his right ring finger thanks to the finger dance.
“We thirst for a good fight!” Kober shouted with a manic grin spread across his face, and Phoenix smirked at his enthusiasm as gripped both he and Agnar on the shoulder.
“We’ll be bloodying our axes before we know it, until then let us go find some wildling whores to warm our beds!” The men cheered, hyping each other up as they walked over to the Ironborn camp.
No decision.
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Feb 24, 2022 23:51:33 GMT
Ah, I was a bit too late with my comment before the next part was posted, but given that the other part doesn't have a vote, I presume it is alright if I vote now, yes? [Let Ariyana take her life]I should have seen this one coming, to be honest. It seems there is no way for Ariyana to survive, which makes sense. It's a shame, but if it cannot be avoided, then best to just get it over with. Though part of me hopes that she's got some trick up her sleeve, Asger's narration got a bit ominous at the very end there. This is actually a really intriguing situation, because I wouldn't be surprised if she dies, but neither would I be surprised if she manages to get out of this somehow. Also
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Stigz
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Post by Stigz on Feb 24, 2023 1:20:57 GMT
Argus
The blood of the first Ironborn Argus plunged his sword through came swiftly, and no doubt at his victim’s surprise. It would be the only life Argus took with ease this day. Lord Bolton and his men came flooding out of the sewer grates, half engaging in battle with the Ironborn in the court, and half following the Lord up to the Keep. Among the latter party was Emilio Rivers, the tomb raiding thief who Argus had witnessed was smuggling jewels out of the crypts of Winterfell. Why he was here helping lay siege on a poor vassal’s keep bewildered Argus, but the Valeman knew one thing for sure, someone had to keep an eye on the bastard. And I won’t be doing that here.
Argus had decided to join the party in the courtyard to get the gates open and let their army in, ending this siege once and for all, and he chose to do so only for concern of his friend. Alistair yelled and drove his sword into the Ironborn Argus had just killed.
“I’ve got your back, Argus!” he shouted in a crazed frenzy, then charging manically with the other Bolton’s against the surprised Ironborn forces. Argus frantically rushed to back his novice friend. His sword raised to parry the swing of an axe, and in response to his counter the Ironborn threw a well-placed punch into Argus’ jaw. The sellsword from the Vale stumbled back in a moment of confusion, but before his assailant could finish him off, the shimmering folds of Valyrian steel revealed itself through his chest, red and glistening.
Ser Ilyn Baelish freed Lady Forlorn from the dead Ironborn and grasped Argus by the shoulder. “You alright, Keding?” he shouted over the chaos, and Argus nodded to him absently, then watching as the Braavosi landed knight moved onto his next target. Argus shook off the dazzlement and joined the fight, making a point to dodge attacks rather than parry, leaving most of his opponents vulnerable for a dwindling moment that was enough to get a strike in.
Their infiltration into Deepwood Motte had caught the Ironborn off-guard and enabled them to kill many with little resistance, though as they neared closer to the wooden portcullis, the archers on the walls turned their attention to the assailants behind the gates. Argus spotted one lining him up in his sights, and rolled forward to secure a shield from a dead Greyjoy, raising it just in time to block the arrow from piercing his chest.
“Get to the wall!” Ser Ilyn shouted as arrows started to rain around them, lodging themselves into the Bolton soldiers engaged with the few Ironborn who remained. Argus tossed the shield and scrambled to the cover of the wall beneath the archers, along with a handful of Bolton soldiers and Ser Ilyn. It did not take long for Argus to realise Alistair was missing. “We have to get to the gate controls,” Ser Ilyn announced as he glanced up at the wooden platform above the portcullis. Argus grasped Ilyn’s shoulder.
“Have you seen Alistair?” he asked, and Ilyn looked around briefly before shaking his head.
“Come on!” he shouted, lifting his shield and charging up the steps to the platform, the few Bolton soldiers following closely behind. Argus paused a moment as he quickly inspected the bodies littered on their path from the sewers. He could only spot Greyjoy and Bolton surcoats – no sign of Alistair. Fuck! The droning of shouting and metal clashing outside the wall was deafening, and Argus felt he was losing himself in the chaos. He pulled himself back into the present. I told him to stay with me! Where the fuck is he? His thoughts roamed wildly, and begrudging he put them aside as he followed Ilyn’s party up to the platform.
Two more Bolton soldiers had fallen to arrows on their ascent, and Argus joined Ilyn as he dealt with more warriors atop the narrow wall. They cleared their way to the platform, the remaining Bolton soldier continuing to dispatch the archers along the wall. “Argus, here! Help me with the lever!” Ilyn cried as he dropped his gear and pushed at it with all his strength. Argus sheathed his sword and pulled at the wooden stick from the other side, and together they set the chains in motion to raise the gate.
“Well done,” Ser Ilyn uttered shortly as he collected his weapons. “We will light the roof to signal the gate is open, then hold this position until our friends are here,” he determined, but Argus shook his head.
“We have to find Alistair,” Argus argued, but Ilyn disagreed.
“If he is not among the dead here then we will find him once this battle is finished. We cannot afford to jeopardise this effort by losing this position,” Ilyn claimed as he through at torch into the thatch roof. Argus bowed his head.
“I’m sorry, Baelish. I made a promise,” Argus stated, and quickly turned his back on the knight, blocking out his pleas and shouts as he quickly descended to the courtyard. He quickly glanced around and saw more Greyjoy and Bolton bodies leading to the keep. You had better not be in there, Argus thought angrily, but where else could he be? Argus bit his lip before making his way to the keep, glancing at each body on his way there. None were his friend.
-
The distance sound of screams and ringing steel echoed through the stone halls of Deepwood Motte’s keep. Argus carefully navigated through the halls littered with blood and Greyjoy bodies as he searched. He could not be sure if he was following the trail of Matthew Bolton’s men or Alistair. If Alistair is even here, Argus began to doubt his friend would ever show up. There was something eerily desolate about the keep, an emptiness that haunted the place where so much death resided. Argus shook off the feeling as he kept his stride along the path of corpses.
He rounded a corner and his heart jumped out of his chest as something flew directly at him. The creature reared as it saw him and fluttered onto one of the crossbeams overhead, screeching at him. Those golden eyes and white feathers, Argus could have sworn it was the same owl he saw in Winter Town when he spied Emilio and Ella with the crown of that old dead Stark king. Like that owl, this one’s eyes also rolled back and gazed at him before hooting and flying in the direction Argus had come. He watched it for a moment before heading down the path it had flew from.
More corpses were scattered on the grey stone floors, oozing red from their open decaying wounds. Argus found the stench was greater here, and as he rounded into the next room, he noticed that not only the dead of Greyjoy and Bolton surrounded him, but also the festering guard of Glover as well. The Ironborn had hung them on iron hooks like slaughtered pigs, dangling them in the dimly lit kitchen area. At its centre, Argus spotted one man surrounded by dead Ironborn. He stood frozen still, his sword red and his body and hair drenched in blood. Argus cleared his throat, and the man flinched, turning to meet him. Seven hells.
“Argus?” the voice whimpered, his hands shaking as he recognised his friend.
“Alistair,” Argus grinned with relief as he sheathed his sword and ran to him, embracing his friend. His relief quickly turned sour, however. “What the fuck happened? I told you to stay by my side!” Argus remarked coldly, and Alistair glanced around at the Greyjoy corpses.
“They… they were trying to get away. I- I did good, right?” Argus looked at all the carnage that had occurred in this room.
“You did all this? On your own?” Argus asked with disbelief, and Alistair’s eyes saddened.
“There were others, but…” his voice droned off and Argus nodded understandably.
“Okay, let’s get out of here,” he decided, throwing Alistair’s arm over his shoulder. The two slowly exited the kitchens, walking the path of bodies Argus had followed earlier. As they rounded the corner, Argus realised things had gone quiet. He could not hear the clash of metal, nor any shouting, only the echo of footsteps. He paused a moment.
“What is it?” Alistair asked as he glanced around, but Argus hushed him as he listened. The steps grew louder, and as they rounded a corner, a curly haired boy collided with Argus and Alistair. They immediately recognised the boy as he glanced at them with wide eyes, but Alistair said his name before Argus could. “Emilio?” The bastard gulped as he looked at Argus before scrambling to his feet. More steps were coming, belonging to Lord Bolton.
“Looks like some of you survived,” he stated coldly, a sword in one hand and his other securing an unconscious girl over his shoulder.
“Who is that?” Argus asked as he glanced at the girl, and Matthew walked past them.
“Lord Glover’s daughter,” he announced, then pointing his sword at Emilio. “Rivers, you and these two will hold this position while I get the girl out,” he stated, and Emilio shook his head fearfully.
“You saw how many of them there were!” he tried to argue, but Matthew had already turned his back on them. The bastard gulped as he looked back. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he whimpered, and Argus sneered as he looked down on the thief.
“What? The Ironborn pocket all the jewels before you could get your thieving hands on them?” Argus jeered, and Emilio glared back at him. Alistair’s brow furrowed.
“What? What are you talking about?”
Emilio smirked. “I had hoped the Ironborn would deal with you so we could avoid this little confrontation. I cannot die here and I cannot have you two following me,” Emilio stated, and without hesitation he freed a dagger from his belt and thrust it into Alistair’s belly before sprinting in the same direction as Matthew. “Good luck!” his voice chortled in echo around the corner. Argus was already following him with his sword in hand before his head processed what had happened, and he turned back to see Alistair had slid to the floor, his eyes widened and his breathing rapid. Argus quickly ran back to him.
“Argus?” he mumbled with panic as he glanced down to the knife in his abdomen. “Oh shit,” he cried, and foolishly he pulled the blade out. Argus immediately pressed his hand against the wound, Alistair’s blood flowing through the cracks of his hand. In the direction Emilio and Matthew had come from, Argus heard steps. A lot more.
“We have to go, come on,” Argus prompted, trying to help him up, but Alistair screamed in anguish as he clutched his belly.
“I’m scared, Argus, it hurts,” he cried, and Argus nodded fearfully.
“I know, we’re going to get out of here, hold on,” he pleaded, sheathing his sword and picking Alistair up. His friend grimaced and swore as Argus ran him through the halls. The thundering steps grew louder at their rear.
“Argus, I-” Alistair winced with tears, and Argus ran faster.
“Don’t speak, just hold on,” Argus begged as he kept his feet moving. His arms burned and his legs tired. His breath was rapid and his eyes beginning to fail as the floodgates broke and streamed down his cheeks. Ahead was a bright light, beaming through the first window Argus had seen in this damned castle. It was a sure sign he had lost the track he followed in.
“There! Two of them!” a voice shouted from behind them, and Argus turned his head over his shoulder to see a dozen Ironborn flooding into the halls behind them, quickly gaining on them. Fuck!
“Hold on!” Argus repeated, charging for the window. He glanced at Alistair, his eyes shut and his moans silent. Argus shook his head painfully. “Hold on!” he cried, lunging into the light.
No decision.
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Stigz
Full Member
Vibe check.
Posts: 150
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Post by Stigz on Mar 1, 2023 11:33:04 GMT
Matthias
They had followed the eastern branch upstream until Torwyn’s minor fleet had reached sight of the main gates. Atop the ramparts stood a garrison of archers, young lads who looked greener than the bile that Seamus was upping from his belly. Matthias Verlen grinned as he unsheathed his curved Essosi blade, glancing back at the Ironborn aboard Torwyn’s ship.
Borg, the burly bastard that had picked one too many fights with Matthias, grinned through the gaps of his missing teeth, while Seamus stood behind many of the others, clutching onto his axe nervously. Coward, Matthias reassured himself with amusement. Aye, Seamus may have surprised him a couple of times during this voyage, but the lover of his sister was no Ironborn, and Matthias had no doubt the fisherman would see his last night here in these distant cold lands.
Torwyn Greyjoy stood at the helm of his ship, glancing at the fortified walls of Barrowton with studious eyes. It was clear he was surprised by the efforts the townspeople had mustered to build their defences, though Matthias would not let a few wooden posts stand between him and spilling blood. He knocked the hilt of his blade against the balustrades of the ship, inspiring the rhythm of a war chant as the Ironborn began to bash their axes against their shields.
“Brothers!” Matthias called with bloodthirst, then glancing at the women who were better shaped than Seamus. “Sisters!” he added, and the women bashed their shields and cheered. “These cowards hide behind their walls, lets fucking tear them down!” he roared, and the Ironborn amongst the handful of ships in Torwyn’s fleet cheered with him. The Greyjoy nodded with a smirk.
“Give them flame, then send them to the Drowned God!” Torwyn yelled, bashing his axe against his shield, and through the war cries and drumming, the first arrow of the night landed in the chest of an Ironborn behind Matthias. Instead of silencing them, it only unleashed their wrath.
Ironborn cast lanterns full of pitch at the walls before unleashing fire arrows into the wooden posts that stood between them and victory. Matthias walked to the aft of the ship, smirking as he approached the idle Seamus. “Try not to shit yourself before you die, Fish Fucker,” he japed, tapping the man’s cheek before sprinting to the prow of the ship. He let out a bloodthirsty roar before lunging himself off the bow and sinking his sword into the charred wood, which he and others would proceed to ascend while the other ships bashed against the gates.
-
Matthias roared with a thirst for blood as he freed his blade from some pitiful Northman who foolishly crossed his path. It had not taken long for the Ironborn to attract the muck and blood that came with the iron price, and Matthias glanced upon the arena that was his splendour.
Pathetic attempts at trenches had been dug ten feet behind the wall, filled with pitch and pikes that gave a nasty surprise for those among the Greyjoy’s rank who stumbled from their ascent over the walls. The Northmen had lit the trenches to separate those who climbed the walls from those breaking down the gates, and admittedly they had succeeded in that. When the gates were finally broken apart, the Ironborn flooding from the ships had nowhere to go but into a pit of fire. Matthias and the others were cut off from the rest, but that mattered not to the Ironborn berserker.
Matthias hurled his blade around his head and cleanly decapitated the next fool to come running at him, a manic laugh escaping his lips as he embraced the frenzy that became him. He glanced at the feeble ranks that opposed him. Most carried the sigil of House Stark or the crossed longaxes of House Dustin, though one giant of a man displayed the sigil of four silver chains crossed over a red field. What interested Matthias the most, however, were the mercenaries carrying a familiar flag – a broken sword. The Second Sons.
The Ironborn warrior had encountered this sellsword company during his time in Essos. Plenty great men of the past had run with this company, including Ironborn such as Harwyn Hoare. Matthias had never cared for mercenary companies, he trusted in himself and himself alone, others only slowed him down. He made sure to show that as he cut down the first sellsword that approached him, but he was surprised to see that he had missed his mark.
The sellsword dodged his first blow, smirking at him with a cheeky set of silver eyes that made Matthias snarl. He swung his blade at this red-headed fucker but each swing continued to miss, further enraging the Ironborn. The Second Son grinned as he twirled his steel sword with the theatrics of a cocky knight. “Come now, friend. More of that and you’ll tire yourself! Slow down, take a breath,” he gloated, making Matthias grin back.
“Faced with Ser Ginger of House Cunt? How could I ever grow tired of that?” Matthias remarked as he swung his blade at him again, though this time was surprised to find the knight parrying his blow. Their blades danced and they came face-to-face. The sellsword was chucking with amusement.
“I’ve been called a lot in my time, but that takes the cake. Truly, you’d better slow down and regather your form or you’ll end up on your arse,” he stated, and Matthias smirked as he stumbled towards him with a shallow breath.
“I’ll cut you a red smile to match the fuzz around your balls,” Matthias spat, but as he lunged his blade into an opening, he was surprised to feel something slice through the back of his leg, dropping him to the ground. Matthias landed face first in the mud, and a fit of rage turned him around to look at his mystery assailant. A gruff warrior with overgrown dark hair and cold purple eyes glared down at him.
“I told you so,” the red-headed knight quipped, but the backstabbing bastard shot the knight a glare.
“Quiet, Reyne,” he barked, then glancing around at the stumbling forces of the Ironborn before looking at Matthias. “You the captain of these fools?” he questioned, and Matthias smiled through his bloody teeth.
“Is your mother a whore?” he responded, evoking a chuckle from Ser Reyne. The gruff warrior knelt and grasped Matthias’ curved sword.
“She was,” he said laconically, and with a final flash, the last thing Matthias saw was the emblem of the sellsword’s shield pummelling him in the face. On the face of this bloody golden shield was a red stallion with black wings, snorting fire.
-
Matthias awoke with a pounding headache, though that was nothing to the cauterising of the wound on the back of his leg which pulled him out of his restless slumber. He growled and turned to meet the eyes of a woman dressed in gambeson displaying the sigil of House Dustin. He attempted to lift his hands to strike her, but found his wrists were bound in chains and linked to his belt.
“Welcome back to the realm of the living,” a familiar voice chimed with annoyance from behind him, and Matthias turned back and spotted Seamus peering at him through a growing black eye.
“For fuck sake,” Matthias groaned in disappointment. Not only had he not died, but his remaining moments of life had to be with this sulking mother’s boy. Fucking glorious, Matthias sneered, but quickly recognised much of the crew surrounded him in chains. Not too far away from him was Prince Torwyn Greyjoy, who sat in silence as he watched their captors discuss something among themselves.
In their group was the knight, Ser Reyne, and the one who had knocked Matthias unconscious. Another older man dressed in the Second Sons attire spoke with them, and that giant with the crossed silver chains. The woman who tended to Matthias’ wound also went up to speak with them. Matthias groaned impatiently. “What the fuck is going on? Are you going to kill us or not?” he grumbled impatiently, and the party lifted their eyes onto Matthias, the one with the shield stepping towards him.
“You know who I am?” he asked, and Matthias snorted before spitting in front of him.
“Some stupid bastard who’s a long way from home,” Matthias remarked carelessly, and the man glanced at the other prisoners, raising his voice.
“I’m Aegor Rivers,” he announced, and some of the Ironborn’s brows lifted to this discovery. “I’m offering you your lives in return for pointing out the commander of your fleet,” Aegor stated, and after a moment of hesitation, a few Ironborn prisoners pointed at Torwyn Greyjoy, who only sighed. Aegor gave a nod to his men, and without remorse those who had pointed out Torwyn had their throats slit. “I do not reward traitors or cravens,” he bid as the sound of those men gurgling on their flood filled the air. Aegor moved toward the prince. “What’s your name, boy?”
The Prince glanced up at Aegor with cold eyes. “Torwyn Greyjoy. I’m King Dagon’s son,” he announced, and a cold smile crept onto Aegor’s face as he nodded.
“You know why you’re still here, Greyjoy?” Aegor asked plainly, and Torwyn kept his eyes locked on the Great Bastard’s.
“I’d say after the raging success of Daemon Blackfyre’s rebellion, you’re trying to make friends to help put one of his sons on the Iron Throne,” Torwyn surmised, and Aegor nodded.
“I’m making friends in the North by quelling this little insurrection your father is stirring, but I’m willing to make an alliance with his heir, should his heir wish to live, that is,” Aegor stated, and Torwyn smiled coldly.
“What do you propose, Bittersteel?” he asked.
“I let you and your goons live and you go to your father and deal with him, pulling the Ironborn out of the North. You take his place and I’ll bring you riches and lands in Westeros you could never imagine seeing from your little reaving efforts. All I ask in return is your ships to charter an army across the Narrow Sea, and your men to fight alongside us when we take the Iron Throne,” Aegor stated, and Torwyn paused a moment before nodding slowly.
“An enticing offer to be sure,” Torwyn remarked, and Aegor stared at him coldly.
“More so than the alternative,” he added, grasping the pommel of his sheathed blade. “Do we have a deal?” the Bittersteel asked, and Torwyn offered him his open palm.
“If we’re going to make this alliance, we do it the Old Way,” Torwyn stated, looking to Aegor blade. The Bittersteel lifted his nose before unsheathing a dagger and slicing his palm open, then passing the bloodied blade to the prince. Torwyn Greyjoy followed the action, and the two secured their relation through a blood pact.
“Ser Reyne,” Aegor summoned, and the ginger knight came to his side. “Unchain our guests and escort them back to their ships,” he ordered, and the sellsword nodded as he relayed the command back to the guards. Matthias glanced at his wrists as the chains fell loose from them. Of all the things he had expected to happen here tonight, this was not it.
-
Matthias Verlen stood at the bow of Mermen’s Whore, his mind clouded in thought as he watched the sunrise to east cast a shadow of their fleet to the west. What the fuck happened? That question had flooded his mind for the last hour as they rowed downstream to the Saltspear. They had sailed up here only hours ago to lay siege on an easily penetrable castle. Now they rowed out in defeat? Was that what this was? Was the pact Torwyn signed an act of cowardice to save his own hide, and subsequently everyone else’s, or a merit of forward thinking that would benefit him with opportunity more ambitious that Dagon could even dream? So many thoughts, it was surely no good.
“I thought we were dead in there,” Seamus echoed as if only to exist to torment Matthias’ existence. Matthias rolled his eyes as he rubbed his brow tiredly.
“I had hoped you would have been one of the cowards to point out the Greyjoy,” he muttered, making Seamus frown.
“You’re a real cunt, Matthias, you know that?” he spat, turning his back on him. Matthias allowed himself a smile, yet he felt no joy in it this time. Don’t tell me I’m getting soft cocked, Matthias thought with bemusement.
“Verlen,” another voice sounded, and Matthias begrudgingly pulled himself away from his thoughts again. He met the eyes of Torwyn Greyjoy, glancing down at his bandaged hand before rolling his eyes.
“Prince,” Matthias grunted, returning his eyes to the water. “Where are we headed? To the Iron Islands for the Salt Throne? Or Bear Island for your father’s head?” he japed coldly, and Torwyn glanced at him coldly. “Or did you say all you did to save your own arse?” Matthias questioned, and Torwyn looked out at the barren lands that surrounded them.
“I am heading Bear Island. I want you to take the other ships and continue to Moat Cailin, as was the original plan,” Torwyn announced, and Matthias pushed himself upright with a furrowed brow.
“What?” he uttered with confusion, and Torwyn crossed his arms.
“I said you had command of these green guts and I meant it. You’ll head up the Saltspear with a handful of ships from my fleet and capture Moat Cailin. Any questions?” he asked, and silence muted Matthias again. Plenty, he thought, but by then, Torwyn had turned his back on him. Matthias turned his gaze back onto the lands that surrounded them, and the joy within him surfaced into an elated grin.
No decision.
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