The year is 286 AC. King Jaehaerys II has just passed, leaving the throne without a rightful ruler. While his three children fight for the crown, Winter creeps closer, and unimaginable darkness looms.
Not all alliances will be so typical this time. In fact, many people have a crucial effect on the way this story is told. As for the ending, we only hope there are enough people left alive to tell it after its passed.
Events
Join us for our first event, the wake of recently deceased King Jaehaerys II.
Updates
AUG. 19: So we are now officially open to the public. We have a mini-event flashback thread going on, and our main event just began. Feel free to make a second canon if you can keep both of them active enough.
Don't hesitate in pestering staff with questions; it's what we're here for! Let's raise a glass and make a cheer toward a successful launch of Winds of Winter.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 29, 2017 2:33:38 GMT
The violence of one man’s justice was the sin in another man’s bible. Castle forged steel tore through drunk and confused Ironborn that had dared to trust in the safety of the King’s peace. And for those Ironborn too old or too angry or too salty to give a Greenlander their trust—they fought back.
They fought back hard.
It was interesting to Quellon. So many thought that off their boats, the Ironborn were nothing. They were seen as savages waiting to be culled. This Tully had forgotten the stories of old. This Tully had never sailed West to the Iron Islands, had never seen a proper reaving, had never really fought someone who had nothing left to fight for other than a chance to die gloriously.
That was why the gathered knights were losing. Despite their horses and lances, they were being battered back. Clubs and axes and knifes cut out destrier legs and toppled mares into the mud. Breastplates were caved in by mighty hammer strokes and helmets sent flying dented by axes.
Underscoring the spear din around them was the voice of Edyn Tully. The stupid bastard traded words with Jeren as he swung his sword.
Arrogance was a curse put on those that learned not from their mistakes. The Rebel Fish had been cursed greatly.
“AXE!” Quellon screamed. He strode forward, unarmored and weaponless, towards the dueling noble boys. With one hand he grabbed Jeren’s shoulder and shoved him aside.
Edyn would attack Quellon. And Edyn would regret it.
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Sword to sword, the young men could have been called boys just as well. Edyn put the weight of his rage, his so called madness, into every blow of his sword. Further improved by the weight of his armoured frame, the Starks was getting driven through the heat of the street fight; but like a man drives a plough, the Stark boy was harsh ground, frozen and stubborn. It was not easy work, and Edyn was wasting time with the defense that had been drilled into the Stark by his stubborn father no doubt.
Before he could re-engage the Stark after his first fury of blows, Lord Quellon stepped forward, without a word. The Tully turned to him, letting the Stark tumble away. He'd have enough to do with the fight that raged around the two leaders of their respective parties. And in that struggle, the wolf was all alone.
Edyn sized Quellon up. The man had the blood of giants in him, or so the smallfolk would insist. Edyn was not one for superstition, however. Before him there was a man, tall and strong, but only that. Not even bothering to rise his sword, Edyn attacked from below. He wouldn't be able to compete with the Greyjoy's highguard. Swinging his blade toward the tall-as-a-tree Ironborn as if it were an axe, Edyn put on the show of a fierce attack.
But he was faster than that. At the last moment, he stepped around Lord Greyjoy, beginning the true attack by stepping into what he perceived to be the Lord Reaper's blindside, for that corner of his body sported an eye-patch. Certainly a man of the Greyjoy's stature wouldn't be able to do whirl around in time to defend from the young fish's side-stepping cut.
Edyn wanted to open the Ironborn's leg, perhaps take it off. No, he thought. This is it. That giant of a man was strong, but not fast enough. "Hold!" Edyn bellowed, filling the hearts of his men with his victory. They were knights. Not just pillaging scum. In the Riverlands, there was always one brawl or another. And in the Vale, the boys had been trained to deal with the animal likeness of the mountain people from the days they could hold a sword. Even though horses fell, the knights sold themselves, reaping the unarmoured Ironborn like the Ironborn liked to reap unarmoured stripes of land.
Behind each blow, the stark found the heels of his feet struggling to hold stance against the stone and dirt. Steel-covered arms complimented the dropping blade as the Tully’s sword, fortified by conviction, hammered down upon his vessel without remorse.
If not for balance of Scarlett’s composition and a resolve bonded in ice, Jeren would have found his form cleaved in two. Peering across the top of his blade, the heir watched as sparks budded from the colliding weapons as each strike generated enough friction for forge forest fire. Around them, mayhem laughed as the two parties ravaged the streets, seeking the other’s last breath. Still, in the epicenter of it all, Jeren had to stand his ground. That was until the man found his body lifted from the ground.
“Tch!” It took the Greyjoy a single shove to send the smaller human across the field. Stumbling back into full height, the Stark dexterously eluded the impending weapons and aggressors whose strikes weren’t meant for him, doing his best to retain his composure in the eye of the storm.
Instinct wanted to pull him back between the two leaders, however, his progression was halted as axe and sword flung in his direction.
A swift dance carried him around his opposition, safely out the range of their attacks as the North-bred steel sought its own prey. Quellon and Edyn now masked beneath a wave of colliding bodies, Jeren’s only aim was his own salvation. Caught in the crossfire, the young man would have to pursue his own safety before aiding another’s.
Last Edit: Aug 30, 2017 15:59:16 GMT by JEREN STARK
Post by THE REAVING KING on Sept 6, 2017 18:54:41 GMT
In battle, a man’s eye told all. A quick flicker at the last second was the ominous herald to an attack, or a sudden distraction that invited the Stranger, or a show of surprise and fear and an omission of defeat.
In Edyn Tully’s eyes, Quellon saw desperation. The young lord might not have known it. In fact, he might have confused it for something else. Men were wont to mistake their faults for conviction or righteousness. Blind to their own hubris, they were forever surprised by swords they could not see.
Quellon Greyjoy was not surprised. He was expectant. Edyn’s sword diverted at the last moment. For a more inexperienced fighter, or a slower fighter, or a fighter who made the justifiable mistake of blocking the sword instead of following Edyn’s eyes, this would have been the end of the fight. Many times had Quellon sliced a man’s leg open and watched as they bled out, or as they stumbled back into the Drowned God’s court.
But Edyn had miscalculated. Quellon was not inexperienced, or slow, or easily fooled. Thus, the Tully was met not only with surprise at Quellon’s quick reaction, but also by a steel heel as he shoved his raised leg into the warrior’s face. It wouldn’t kill him, it might not even break his nose if his helm was on right, but that wasn’t the goal. The goal was to stop his slash and to send him reeling back into the mud.
The eyepatch was bait. And a stupid man thinking himself a fish had taken it, hook-line-and-sinker.
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Young and wild, Edyn Tully wasn't in the business of stepping away from a mistake. He followed them through, to the very end. If that came out equal to his own end - So be it.
Armoured leg send for his face, Edyn was in no place to bring up his sword. His weapon was mid swing. Quellon did move with experience, but Edyn's body was quick. The hill tribes fought like animal creatures. Instincts, sometimes, were all one could rely on.
Sliding forward, Edyn ended up on his knees, gliding under the kick. Through the filthy of the streets of King's Landing, his legs protected by his shin guards. By the time he came up, he was as weaponless and full of filth. Just like Quellon had been in the beginning of the fight.
Commanding a bunch of low lifes, no doubt, the Ironborn beset the weaponless. But he had only left his side weapon in the streets, his dual blades came out of the guard on his back, reaping reaver blood left and right. By the time he had cut himself out of the corner of confusion, the giant was speeding away harbourward. Leaving enough men to buy his retreat.
Edyn cursed, Greyjoy getting away. That damned Stark. A howl of anger escaped him and he turned to everything left in black upon the streets, doing to the Iron Islanders what he had wanted to do to their Lord. By the time he heard the sound of more armoured boots, there was nothing knightly left, only a steaming beast of anger, dripping in blood of slaughtered Ironborn and Riverlanders alike.
The dirt of the streets made all dead look the same.
North-forged steel bounced off the metals of Ironborn and Tully as Jeren found himself slowly consumed in the pandemonium around him. Bodies flinging to his left while crimson red splattered to his right, the man who had no ties to either side was the epicenter of a slaughter.
While Scarlett ran through the bones of his enemies, the Stark attempted to search for the two governing entities. Quellon was large enough to be seen over the corpses and soon-to-bes while Edyn remain invisible beneath the veil of his imposed mayhem. Alas, survival was paramount and the longer he searched for either, the sooner he’d find the stranger. As of now, all the wolf could do was keep his mane intact and blood within.
Agony spilled from one ironborn’s mouth as blood squirted from his chest as Jeren yanked his sword from the aggressor’s vessel. The sound of his blade slithering against the breastplate upon extraction petrified those ignorant to battle as the action was repeated in succession the more he found himself swarmed. Energy slowly depleting and arms growing heavy, the Stark would fight till his last breath.
Death wouldn’t come so easily; it would be earned through battle and blood.
Last Edit: Sept 12, 2017 19:28:50 GMT by JEREN STARK
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