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.
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Angry or not. Stupid or not. Intelligent or not. Edyn Tully was at least lucky.
Even though the quarrel in the streets of the capital with Lord Greyjoy and his guard had been less than fortunate, ending up in the filth of the city and covered in the blood of many, he had gone undetected. His hair was so blood-soaked, it could have been a dirty brown instead of his usual crimson. His armour plate didn't give him away either. A lot of fuckers wear armour when they invite themselves to a party - or rather a street fight close to the harbour of the city. And his was as smeared as the thighs of a wanton.
The last thing in Edyn's memory was the fact that Lord Greyjoy had gotten away, surrounded by a group of guards. Some giant of the seas. A fucking coward. His target slipping out of his hands, he'd been reduced to killing his servants. And then the city guard had come, sweeping over the entire fire like the blanket of the night. The bottom of a sword at his him in the back of his skull, and he had dropped into the dirt of the filthy street.
His mad anger had calmed down at the current prospect, locked into one of the prison dungeons of the city. All he could do was sit on the floor and look at the ceiling. Screaming his fury at the world just never did anything. He wasn't as blind in his anger as people liked to think. He was just fearless, disregarding the consequences of his doing.
While the involvement of Riverlanders in this attack could still backfire into the vocation of his father, being caught up in the mess himself certainly wasn't going to end up well for him. Truth isn't what happened. Truth is what people believe had happened.
Swordless, and not possessing enough physical strength to do anything about the iron bars that surrounded him, there weren't even stones to pick up. He turned left, to the cell at his side - the source of snoring sounds. It no longer was the day of the King's funeral. The night had easily passed as well. What time was it exactly? He couldn't tell, the sun was a privilege not for the dwellers of prison dungeons.
"Stop sleeping, you sewer rat. Wake the fuck up."
Finding an empty bowl of food at last, Edyn threw that. He was a fighter of close combat. The dungeon was dark. But he might have still hit the animal of a man.
"I can tell your stench even over this stinking shithole drenched in piss. You smell like the hills. Like an animal. I'm going to gut you like one if you don't put a lid on your noises."
Southerners had no concept of hospitality. To mistreat a guest was a grave deed in the north. The young man had learned quickly that the further he went south, the cuntier the people became. Long had he heard tales of the fabled King's Landing, even in the wild cold wastes of the northern mountains. To see the city and the pastel stones of the Red Keep was breathtaking. Maybe many of his lot thought it nonchalant, but Slynn loved every second...
It was obvious he was a stranger to a world like this however. People sneered at the ragged leathers. People scoffed at his family blade. People whined about his smell and then got pissy whenever he stripped down to bathe in the river. Most everyone had seen a cock or a cunt, so what the hell did it matter? Southerners didn't listen either. He had been buying bread for the boys when assholes in gold armor came and knocked him into the dirt. Drug him away. Ate his bread.
He was looking forward to that bread...
It was still warm and everything.
Now he was locked away in some dungeon with a bunch of others. At least the man with him looked like he had actually done something. Murder. At least a few people too judging by all the blood. Slynn could tell even in the low light. They weren't much for talking though and when he did, Sly would rather him have kept his mouth shut. Thankfully sleep saved him from the sheer boredom of sitting in the dark with this cunt.
He dreamed of all the castles he had seen. He dreamed of the fresh loafs of bread he wanted to eat. He dreamed that his brothers would come to pay his fines or whatever soon. This wasn't the first prison he had been in... Some things just got lost in translation during his travels. But at least he had dreams. At least until his roommate decided that even this bothered him. The bowl bounced off his shoulder blade. The shouting didn't bother him. He slept through shouting plenty back home.
''Mn...'' He groaned groggily, reaching back to rub at his shoulder. Rolling, he remained lying in the soft dirt and hay. ''The Sly knows ya lie. Golden men took all the weapons.'' A yawn escaped him. ''Sleep and ya want have to smell nothin.'' He grinned, his teeth shining through the dark. ''Cuz ya smell like a girl's bed sheets after her first bleed. So knock off ya moanin, ya bloody cunt.''
Post by TRISTAIN TARTH on Sept 8, 2017 15:24:04 GMT
[googlefont=roboto]
When you have an eyepatch, you get used the dark.
The constant inability to see out of one eye was a liability, so despite that, he learned to see, cause not being able to catch an incoming sword from your peripheral was a bitch of a time. Sounds, smells, touch; his senses were far from dull, but even they were not able to foretell ending up in prison.
King's Landing. The city of a million commoners all cramped into tiny huts and piled on top of one another in whore houses. It smelled of shit, mildew, and rotting flesh. Fresh food and water was worth more than honest labor, and wine was rumored to pour from the windows of the keep. Oh how he missed the capital.
He almost leapt for joy once he heard about the passing of the King. It was an excuse to put the city walls in his sights once again as he rode with Ridley to accompany him for the wake. Though while the boy went to the pyre and acted all holy, Tristain buried himself deep in a girl for the morning and afternoon. There were a few other's with him as well, men honored as a brother in their cause. But likewise, they stayed away from the confines of the church. --Unless maybe one felt like picking the pocket of a fat man.
Tristain proceeded to get drunk on wine and flesh, only to stumble out on a brawl as he went to piss off the docks.
At first this was not his fight and he was to look the other way, but against the shining gold armor was the head of one of their own. From the looks of it, he wasn't doing anything wrong, or was he... For anyone else he would have walked away, but this kid depended on them .
There were at least half a dozen men; Don't matter, his fist flew anyway and he drew his sword, in the end he was lumped into prison with a sorry looking bunch. Boy was the boss gonna be mad about this one.
In the cell across from him the sound of snoring was interrupted by an agitated shout and the clank of a wooden bowl clashing against the stone floor. Tristain smirked at the banter of the man and boy, back and forth, like they were contesting dominion, and it amused him.
He chuckled and pressed his back against the cold wall, "I bet the hills smell like freedom, n' an wild animal smells like food. Both are better than this, eh Sly?" he commented before sighing heavily.
"Ya girl's like to sing?" he asked, before he started to whistle softly. A song he caught in his head from the morning, he hummed to himself the tune before singing the lyrics slowly.
"A dragon has come to our village today. We've asked him to leave, but he won't go away. Now he's talked to our king and they worked out a deal. No homes will he burn and no crops will he steal.
Now there is but one catch, we dislike it a bunch. Twice a year he invites him a virgin to lunch. Well, we've no other choice, so the deal we'll respect. But we can't help but wonder and pause to reflect.
Do virgins taste better than those who are not? Are they salty, or sweeter, more juicy or what? Do you savor them slowly? Gulp them down on the spot? Do virgins taste better than those who are not?"
Ridley Storm is the bastard son of Rodric Baratheon - the younger brother of Arkas. He is the leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners in secret, as well as the oldest son of Rodric.
This was absolutely unacceptable. Ridley had already been dealing with a mass of trouble trying to keep out of the politics within the wake, as well as keeping his distance from his own family when it came to Brotherhood work. If his father were to find out he were involved with such a "dishonorable" group of people, he'd be disowned for sure. And despite having the brotherhood meet him in King's Landing so he could pay his respects and be on his way without much notice, things were never that easy.
They were people of the people, so of course his men were going to stand up for what they believed was right; but now they were in jail - and Ridley couldn't just leave them there. He didn't really have any good plan of how he was going to do this - especially since he'd have to go alone. And if he were to get caught.... oh boy. His father would surely kill him.
Clothed in a black cloak accompanied by a raven tabard, the Baratheon bastard moved through the tunnels beneath the cells in a swift and silent manner - blending with the shadows with a single torch as his boots quietly spanked the damp ground in a hurry. Going in from the front or above would be too obvious. But perhaps if he were to climb up from the cistern below, into the tunnels that ran throughout the city.
Finding himself to a tunnel that lead directly into the foyer of cells, he took a moment to brace himself for any guards who may be present above. The lower level and the jail was divided by an iron grate, and he was able to see up into the ceiling of the room above. Taking a bit of rope from the inside of his cloak, he pulled out a steel arrow, tying it around the thinnest end carefully, before loading it into the crossbow that was held to his side.
Aiming up between the grates, he pulled back on the trigger as the arrow shot up in suspension - taking hold of the ceiling and being fixed in place. He tested it - pulling down on it with as much weight as he could, but it continued to hold.
Now he had to be quick, in case someone where to see this. He held onto the rope with all his might, climbing up as hastily as possible as he felt the arrow shaking within the ceiling above. He just needed to get to the grate.
He started to stumble as the arrow began to lose its retention, and he moved faster as his hand had reached up onto the bars, pushing them up with as much force as he possibly could to drive it out of place. It bumped to the left, and as the arrow had fell from the ceiling, he then took hold of the opening he created. Letting his arms, and then his head, he pushed the grate to allow him entry into the corridor.
Now he was inside... and there wasn't a guard. Perhaps they were changing shifts, or they only walked around at certain times? He made no hesitation to continue being swift though, as he looked into each of the cells carefully, trying to find his brethren.
Apprehension clutched his throat tightly, as sweat beads formed over his forehead, looking from cell to cell until he finally found exactly who he was looking for.
"Tristain," he said lowly, eyeing through the group of people loaded into the cell. He then spotted Slynn and took a deep breath. "What the fuck did you guys do to get locked up in here?" He began to mess with the door, trying to open it, but of course there wasn't going to be an easy way without a key. He sighed, groaning in annoyance as he looked around for a moment, checking to see if the guards had come yet.
"I have to find a key. Or a way to blow this place up without killing everyone. Any ideas? I'm trying to keep low profile."
"HEY! You're not supposed to be in here!" someone shouted from the end of the hall, and Ridley whipped his head to his left to see a man storming toward him with a blade in hand.
"Fuck," he murmured, turning back to the two before pulling out his crossbow. "Nevermind that I guess. Take this and see if you can pick the lock!" he threw a small dagger into the cell, tossing it onto the floor. His hands trembled a bit, fearing what would happen if anyone were to find out about this that knew him. "I can fix this, I can fix this, I can fix this..."
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]"A maiden on her first night? Don't talk about things you've never witnessed. Better yet. Don't talk at all, you filthy animal."
But before Edyn could get into the groove of spitting hatred at the dirty fucker, the voice of another spoke up. Apparently the smelly one had a friend with a singing voice.
Great.
Was making mistakes his new modus operandi? At first he had overestimated his ability to take down Quellon Greyjoy, even though a real clash had not happened. Jeren Stark had been in the way. He had robbed him of the time that he had needed to open the Lord Reaper from balls to brains.
And then the situation repeated.
Fighting with the stinking slur-voice a cage ahead brought the detriment of the singing voice to bear, just like the fight in the streets had brought the city guard. Some of his men had died. Did Edyn feel remorse? They had all known.
Greyjoy filth.
Ironborn scum.
He would kill them all.
"I take that back, friend. I can hear you've got a maiden in the cell with you. But for the sake of us all, put your cock in that mouth, and not that ass."
He was sitting in a cell. All his seething anger was useless. He couldn't bend steel. He couldn't slide through the bars and kill them, even though he wanted to. What was there to do but sliding back into the shadows?
Apparently yet another stranger joined the odd grouping in the dungeons of King's Landing. But that stranger had a crossbow, a dagger and - most importantly - that fellow was on the other side of the bars.
Did these fools even know that his rampant violence was the very reason they had been caught up in the sweeping wave of arrest? He certainly didn't care about them. But it would better if they remained unknowing. The title of being the heir to the Riverlands brought him nothing in the cell. It was only useless baggage.
Luckily, with a mouth like that, no one would ever think him such.
How were this fools even alive? A smelly cunt with the slurred voice of an animal. A broken-voiced tavern singer and some useless piece of shit that couldn't even hold crossbow straight. Edyn stepped to the iron bars, speaking with a tone of command. Battle had lost its thrills long ago.
"Give me that crossbow if you want to get out of here."
''The Sly speaks as he likes, fuck stain. Don't yap ya own cock licker if ya don't want to talk. The Tristain's singing is fine.'' He didn't care for this used tampon sitting in the cell with him. Hopefully after everything was cleared up this fuck would be left to rot in the dark, but Slynn knew better to expect such justice from the world. In the mountains, words were enough to kill a man, but these Southerners were softer. They liked their laws and their codes and hid behind them.
Maybe if he gave the fucker some fists the guards would separate them and the bloody man could be a rotten cunt somewhere else. Movement beyond their imprisonments drew the young warrior's attention away from their mouthy cell-mate. At first he thought it a guard and his sunken eyes perked up a moment. Perhaps they were being fed, or watered, or even better released. However as the figure spoke it was a voice he recognized.
''Ridely?'' Another rich kid he was, but not one that was locked up, and that was an important distinction that tempered his biases. ''The Sly was trading metal for bread, like he was told,'' he answered the query indignantly. He wasn't slinging his fists at the goldcloaks like the other two fuckers. It looked like the bastard was going to try to get them out. Suited him just fine. They could leave Ser Afterbirth here and be on about their way. Fuck this city.
''Ahn.'' The mountain boy's attention did not miss the shouts from down the corridor, aimed at their would be rescuer. Springing from his position on the floor, he grabbed for the knife thrown to them. He didn't want the bitchy one to have it over himself or Tristain. Once its grip graced his dirty fingers, he huddled against the gate to slide his arms through the gate and penetrate the lock with the tip of the dagger. He wasn't really sure what he was doing, but who knew, maybe it would work.
''Don't listen to him storm warrior,'' Slynn said through a grunt as he struggled with the lock. ''Ya been shooting with that longer than he, the Sly bets.'' Of course he couldn't know for sure, but he figured it was probably close enough to true. After all, of all of the 'crossbowman' he had seen, he hadn't seen any wearing armor as heavy as their unwelcome cellmate was. Probably a proper knight with honor and codes letting his true nature come out when he had to taste dirt.
Post by TRISTAIN TARTH on Sept 11, 2017 13:17:00 GMT
[googlefont=roboto]
The air permeated with animosity, as if it radiated off of Sly and their not so gracious prison mate. He passed them words thick with malice, giving the impression that it wasn't just them he hated, but he instead treated everyone with the same level of personal antagonism. Living life as just an angered bastard must be quite tiresome.
Despite the degree of rancor aimed towards him, the man couldn't help but smirk at his brother who came to his defense. The little shit was feisty wasn't he? Gods knew he felt pity for the man that wanted to size up the mountain boy.
There was a shadow cast from the dim light given in outside of the cells. The difference caught his attention immediately and he sprang up from his corner he rested against. Gloved hands circled around the bars as he closed in on his comrades face.
"Boy, I am pleased to see you standing there! The cloaks were going crazy today, arresting everyone that was in the street. I saw Sly here get snatched and well... got caught myself when I was trying to free em.. Ridley there's something else, I saw your---"
Of course Ridley was full of questions, that was a given, but he didn't seem to provide an actual way for them to get out. Tristain's tongue clicked as the voice of a guard echoed down the hall, and he knew they were running out of time. Ridley dropped a dagger that quickly found it's way into the hands of Sly and he stepped back to evaluate the situation.
He didn't expect the request of their fellow prisoner however, or did he wait to see what Ridley's response would be, -- the guard certainly wasn't going to wait. Footsteps quickened, their haste granted by the lust to strike down the young Storm where he stood, and Tristain frantically began to fumble with his pants, pulling out the leather strap that held up his breeches. "Move past his attack, to the left!" he told Ridley, with leather in his hand he stood closer to the bars.
The glint of light flashed as the guard raised his sword in his charge, the steel slowly coming over his shoulder and the momentum carrying the guard forward.
'Just as expected, not every guard gets the same amount of training in the cities, Poor fool.'
Lengthy arms reached through the bars, fingers ensnaring what they could get around; it felt like the fabric of a shirt -- or even a cloak, either way it was what he needed to pull the man back against the bars that separated them. That was a feat in itself however, the grunt from Tristain displaying the amount of strength it took to pull the fat bastard back.
'Try eating less you pig!'
Leather slipped around flesh and Tristain pulled with all his strength against the bars, the muffled gurgle of his prey only interrupted by the clang of his steel that fell from his hand. Twenty seconds, that was what it took before the man stopped trying to claw at him in response, and his body quick quivering like a young girl.
Tristain let his hand release his belt and fell back against the cold ground, his chest lifting and falling with deep breath.
"Check to see if he has a key," he said as he pulled his trousers back around his waist and fastened them.
"Oi, bloody man, you didn't get in here from not killing people... Ridley we gotta free him too. I like the idea of getting outta here alive."
Ridley Storm is the bastard son of Rodric Baratheon - the younger brother of Arkas. He is the leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners in secret, as well as the oldest son of Rodric.
The guard was dead; or at least, that was Ridley's first thought. Fighting and killing wasn't something Ridley was against or unseasoned in - it was more so the wrath he'd face from his father should he get caught. He never liked doing Brotherhood business so close to where his family was staying, and this was exactly why. Should anyone say anything and it gets to the wrong person... he had to stop thinking about it.
He took a deep breath as Tristain had mentioned finding a key, and immediately the bastard dropped to the floor and began padding down the man for any signs of metal in his pockets. Who knows how many others could have heard the guard's yelling - and he wasn't about to stick around to find out.
Finally, a glint of iron jangled and caught around Ridley's fingers, and he pulled them out quickly; looking through each one, he held it up in accordance to the lock on the side, testing some out before he finally found the right one. "I figured I'd just let the whole crowd in here out at this point. Wouldn't be fair to just pick and choose. We have to be quick though - we can get out through the cistern."
With a loud grind against the ground, the metal bars of the cell were pushed aside to allow exit from the area. He moved toward the manhole which he used before and looked down into the dark tunnel before turning back to the others.
"Now explain to me what the hell got you guys locked up."
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Was the guy with the crossbow their leader? Or was he just the guy calling the shots because he was outside of those bars? Apparently Edyn had stumbled upon a group of low-lives, even though they seemed to be from all over the place. Half-a-wildling, a half-naked singer and some dude with a crossbow that wasn't capable of putting down a fat guard - that dude wasn't even half - he was full nothing.
The moment their nobility let them to open the door to his cell, Edyn flowed out like the waters of a river breaching through a collapsing dam. He was quick, despite his armour. He threw himself against the body that had oppened the door, tackling them aside. Shoving off to the side, he turned to the pack of three, the dropped sword of the guard in his hand by the end of his movement.
Ready to spring forward and stab through the first of them - then kill the other two with a cruel slash - Edyn was like a bow with an arrow at the ready. For the longest while, his eyes remained on the mountain man that referred to himself in the third person.
Fine.
Not just a mere filth.
He was the ruler of all animal-like beasts.
But still a lesser creature.
Out of those three, the filth-stained waste of his father's juices was the strongest. He wasn't the brightest, not the prettiest and not the leader. But he was the guy Edyn would kill first. And in the realm of killing and fucking, going first was a compliment. One way or another.
"You smell like piss," Edyn said, turning to the crossbow-man. "You smell like shit. You smell like the place you came from," he continued, ever cheerful. "If you free every prisoner in this dungeon, you'll never get out - not out of the city, at least."
And he had no plans of sticking around.
"Give me the golden cloak, pantsless," Edyn groweld toward the singer, yanking off the red cloak on his shoulder that was dotted with different shades of red and brown. It had soaked up the dirt of the city and the bodily fluids of his enemy.
"I'm not getting out of here without my weapons. I'll be the guard. You'll be the prisoners."
His armour as dark a shade of steel as the mail of ghe gold cloaks, he'd appear as one of them - at least close enough in a dark dungeon. Besides. He held the handle of a sword between his fingers. At the end of the day, it was the most simple way to solve problems.
"Step out of line. I'll cut off your foot. You'll live on the floor, where you belong," Edyn said to no one in particular. "Talk out of turn. I'll cut off your foot. You'll live on the floor, where you belong." Like a good whipping, orders needed to be repeated. And with their dirt-for-brains, they could just as well be stupid.
Edyn came from established nobility. He wasn't one to follow orders.
Tristain sure was a quick thinker. His belt attack distracted the mountain boy from his feeble tampering with the lock. And as an added bonus he got a peak at the man's bared posterior, though his angle in relation to his bannerless brother didn't get him a money shot. Tits and a cunt were fine in all, but it was desolate in the mountains and sometimes anything would do. In the north it wasn't hard to find a partner for a romp but down here people wanted you to pay, like with everything else.
With the guard dealt with, their resident bastard fished the key from his clothes and freed them, even their sour prisonmate. Ridley wanted to know how they had ended up incarcerated, but Slynn was sure he had already explained this, mentioning that he had merely been dragged away with an armful of bread. Perhaps they had taken him for a looter. The present was no time for the past however. They needed to leave.
Ridley's suggestion wasn't bad but the bloody bitch wanted his things first. The wild child figured getting his own things back would be good. His own sword meant something to him even if very little to anyone else who saw it. Maybe he'd get lucky and the bread would still be there. Then their self appointed boss amped up his typical cuntery. My way or the highway was it? Slynn was content to leave him bleeding beside that road. His fingers tightened around the dagger still in hand.
''Not a bad plan, blood lord,'' credit where it was due, he wasn't an unfair man. ''But ya keep shitting out take face, or ya ever threaten the Slynn or his brothers again, you'll lose both feet, both hands, both eyes, ya cock, and ya tongue.'' The north had customs of hospitality that it's denizens took seriously. While this wasn't anyone's home, they had just saved this ingrate. He'd still be rotting in a cell if it wasn't for their man. It didn't matter who he was if died down here.
Killed in a prison break who would ask questions?
''Ya can live the rest of ya days on the floor like a corpse, where ya belong.'' His dark eyes watched the man closely. He wasn't ignorant of these tense moments and how quickly that tension could be released. This dick with them needed an attitude adjustment as he wasn't about to suffer his rotten disposition for the duration of their escape. Either he would shape up, Slynn would kill him, or he would kill Slynn. No matter what happened though, he wasn't suffering his mouth from this point on.
Post by TRISTAIN TARTH on Sept 13, 2017 16:07:06 GMT
[googlefont=roboto]
In life, a dog is taught not to bite the hand which feeds it. A moral that has been integrated into society instinctually, and upheld by citizens both high or lowborn. It's natural to feel indebted to the person that guarantees your life, or provides any amount of effort towards your wellbeing. This guy on the other hand--...
Gratitude was a damn commodity now eh?
An azure eye glanced at level with the knight, his frame coming into view with the opening of his cell, exposing his features to the Brother. It was hard to make out any sigil, the stain of dirt and blood on his armor prevented that, but only revealed his capability as a swordsman. When it came to a fight, the true glorious ones, were the men who appeared to be nearly dead. As in this age, many tried to ride the coattails of glory in a war, and afterwards were nothing but false heroes to the people who honored them.
"He is right. Tune out their cries Ridley, we have to get out now, before anyone else comes to investigate," he said in reference to Edyn's claim about letting the remaining prisoners out, "I would hate the idea of you getting locked in here with us just for trying to get us out."
Not wanting to get on the ginger's bad side, Tristain un-hooked the man's cuirass, pulling the gold cloak from the dead man's large body. He also handed him the breast and backplate, his hand holding out the armor for the young man -- yes that is what he was, young but his eyes were cold and matured well past his years.
"The plate you wear is bloody, it's far from inconspicuous, latch this on too."
His gaze shifted between Sly and Ridley, concerned with the growing rancor in their voices, and the thought of ruining their chances of making it out alive. Personally Tristain has not know Slynn for very long, but he did know Ridley, ever since the boy's induction into their group, which made him feel rather old in comparison.
"Oi Oi Oi! Stop whining like bitches in heat, the man is true, I don't intend to leave without Fury," he said, referencing his bow he always slung on his back, "Throw this dead back in the cell, no one will be any the wiser."
Though he was clearly an asshole, this stranger was their best bet at getting their things and getting out of the city.
"They wouldn't let us past the gates looking and smelling like this, and I ain't equipped to scale the walls of King's Landing are you?"
A heavy sigh slipped past his lips as he searched the guard for any rope or cuffs for transporting, disappointed to find there was none, and frustrated that they would have to improvise.
"So much trouble... An Ridley it wasn't our fault! Golds were just sweeping people up in the city left and right! Whole bunch of folk got locked up in prison. Apparently highborn be fighting each other at the dock, and well this was their way to keep the peace."
Glancing at their gracious escort, wondering what part he played in all of that business,-- He wasn't locked up for looking ugly on the street, that's for sure.
"But I thought I spied your sister -- That gorgeous red hair unmistakable..., I would almost think she was a Tully, haha" he cooed thinking about the young Baratheon Lady he often saw in the stormlands each time Ridley stumbled home for the night. Tristain accompanied the boy for his periodic visits, staying in the stables and posing as merely an escort or old squire, whatever didn't gain attention from Ridley's father.
"She was at the docks, where I was taking a piss, standing by some bitch with silver hair and a muddled white cloak. She was pretty, but had these weird eyes of like a blood or rust color, ..I think," he stood straight before kicking the lard into the cell that once held the two of them, "I never got a good look, before I found Sly here getting dragged off and kissed by the city watch, but there was alot of Sea men around, Ironborn, --that Kraken sigil I will never miss."
Ridley Storm is the bastard son of Rodric Baratheon - the younger brother of Arkas. He is the leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners in secret, as well as the oldest son of Rodric.
Post by RIDLEY STORM on Sept 13, 2017 19:16:11 GMT
[googlefont=Roboto]
I'm an atom in a sea of nothing
Looking for another to combine
Maybe we could be the start of something
Be together at the start of time
"Well, hello there, hi, yes," Ridley responded to the crimson haired grump who came at him with a thousand insults. "I'm sorry--do you have an issue with how things are operating? Well feel free to go and do it yourself then, because I only came for my two mates!" he chuckled.
Nothing irritated him more than being berated for no reasons other than speculation - it was something he knew far too well from his own father, but the difference here was that he wasn't required to hold his tongue! And boy, when Ridley gets snarky, it will never end unless you let it die. Rolling his eyes, he turned back to the other two as he listened to their plights of their missing weapons and nodded.
"Right, right. So do you have any idea where the weapons are being held?" he looked down the halls to make sure that no one was approaching - however as Tristain continued to speak, his ears perked up a bit and he slowly turned around to face the silver-haired man with a pale gaze.
"Sera," he responded back at Tristain's initial description. "Sera Baratheon? Are you sure it was her?" he asked before turning back and trying to come up with a new game plan for once they were able to escape. "You saw her with the Greyjoys? Did it look like she was in trouble? I swear I'll cut off Quellon's cock if he tries to touch my sister," he growled.
Taking a deep breath, he looked to the Tully and gave a serious gaze. "Do you know where this 'armory' may be? We better be quick."
The other two folded easily enough, but the one that it had all started with proved to be resolute. Defiant to the very death, he'd die standing, unbowed. What an ugly attitude. That didn't mean Edyn didn't respect it. It created two stubborn forces knocking heads, however. There was no choice - a fight would decide their fate.
"If this hole doesn't kill you, or your stench will not, I will kill you. One day."
But that day was not today. It worked in the favour of all involved that the mountain boy's friend moved along. The singer got shit done while they all stood around and the guy that had freed them kept his eyes on the prize. Fastening the cloak on his swordless side, Edyn would pass as a city guard on a quick enough look. The city was a piss-drenched shitstain. The guards looked accordingly.
Edyn took the key from his cell, tossing it into the next one, the one that looked the most densely populated. The prisoners within rose from their shadows, fiddling with the keys. At the end of the metallic rattle, more ironbar doors were opponed and about a dozen men stormed out without asking too many questions. Edyn looked over his shoulder, a cold look of disregard for these men in his eyes. Did they need further explanation?
"The city guard of King's Landing received their Goldcloaks from Prince Daemon Targaryen, brother of Daeron the Good. But they didn't only receive their colour. He also equipped them with issued weapons." Edyn walked away, talking on the move. It made sense to follow the fleeing prisoners, albeit much slower. They had really spent enough time standing around. And weeks before his attack, he had researched the tactical situation he'd face upon attacking Lord Greyjoy after the funeral.
"They'll have castle-forged steel," he reasoned, whirling the guard's sword in his palm. It was solid, but nothing special. His weapons were a league above that - as good as a smith in one of the realm's major castles could work ore. Nothing a filthy guardsman could ever hold onto without having some explaining to do. "They don't need weapons. They need gold for their whores and wine," Edyn reasoned, leaning into the shadows while a patrol passed infront of them. Some of the free'd scum had rushed along, screaming and making way too many noise. And now they had guards following them.
"Last night they were too tired for whores." Edyn marched down the dungeon's walkways into the direction from which the guards had begun their chase. Eventually there was a door made of wood, not one made of iron. It looked like a room for guards, not a room for prisoners. "There should be no guards left."
Edyn had been right so far.
But not about the room, revealed when he kicked down the door.
There was a pile of weapons in the very back, the city guard's loot. But also two golden cloaks that weren't too tired from the night before, sharing a whore between them, while their friends chased the breakout. Stepping aside, he rediscovered polite attitude. "A beastly setting for a beast such as yourself. After you, Ser Wylderling," Edyn invited, guards pulling their cocks out of the whore. And then they wanted to do more pulling, hands reaching for weapons after the moment of surprise.
''The Sly will be waiting. Till then you just talk empty words.'' It was as he thought. The antagonist cunt wasn't going to do shit. They just wanted to muscle the three of them. For a slow moment he couldn't understand why his brothers couldn't see it. In the north, he had met a lot of men like the one the were to make their escape with. These men had hearts that were just broken pieces, they could only fight and winge.
Force was the only language they spoke.
Slynn had dealt with many, killed plenty too. That was how it always worked, ally or enemy. They fought and shit from their face until they finally died. People said 'wasn't he a cunt' for a few years and then they were forgotten. The bloodied knight would be forgotten too. His promised death match awaiting, they continued along with Ser Douchebag as he freed the other prisoners like he had previously said not to and spouted off a little history lesson.
He was knowledgeable when he wasn't verbally defecating. The young fighter liked history. He hadn't come down from the frigid north to stay steeped only in his own songs and stories. It was part of the reason he liked Tristain. He was a good singer, and apparently had a cute ass. For a highborn he wasn't a cunt either, not like the knight of shitstains leading them. As he kept prattling on about the birth of their mutual enemy, Sly began to guess he was some Lord too.
With armor like that it was a pretty easy guess. In the realm of guessing however their dungeon tour guide was doing quite a bit. His predictive fortunes would run out eventually and as he led them to their things. They all walked in on a romp. The others might be surprised but Slynn had seen wild fucking for most of his life. The folks of the mountains weren't shy nor ashamed. About the business of fucking off from this prison, the boy didn't bother with taking a moment to ogle any participant.
His concentrated gaze was focused on something else. Spinning the knife within his hand as he stepped around his compatriots, Sly flicked the dagger forwards, twirling it through the air into the man on the right's chest. The poor sod grabbed at the wound tumbling off the whore and the bed both onto the floor, penis flopping pathetically in flaccid defeat. Of course he would engage the other with his bare hands if he had to, but Lord Bitchalot had a sword and his brothers weren't helpless.
Post by TRISTAIN TARTH on Sept 15, 2017 4:21:21 GMT
[googlefont=roboto]
The boy's love for his family never ceased to amaze him. He was a bastard, and while taken in as a ward by his father, the boy never felt a true father's love. Sera was always a kind spirit, but their interactions may have been limited to a few, despite the years of living together.
Tristain raised his hands as if surrendering to the wrath of the stag as Ridley displayed his animosity towards the kraken. "Yes I am convinced it was the Lady Baratheon. I do not doubt my ability to notice the fire kissed color of hair," he responded before promptly following their escort.
"Boy I do not know what it was she was doing with the Greyjoys, so don't ask me! I only know what I saw. I didn't see no trouble till the men started fighting, and she carried some fainted pale girl onto the ship." That was it, literally the last he saw before turning tail and running into Slynn getting purse snatched.
Fingers ran through tousled pale locks as he walked behind the red haired man, listening to his reasoning for setting the prisoners free, --though making it of their own volition so he wouldn't feel responsible if they were apprehended once more. It was the pragmatic solution, and he certainly didn't argue with the young man.
Together they came upon a door, and the sounds of a squealing girl filled his ears. Oh how sweet the pleasure of man, and one day he wished to die the same, with his prick in a girl and drunk off of wine and love. Stepping away from the door he watched the halls for any men that may come up, awaiting the entrance in which he could grasp his fingers around the wooden shaft of his bow once more. He was not useful in a front of assault.
WINDS OF WINTER is the original work of AARON, AERIE and WINTER. Any and all content is copyrighted to WINDS OF WINTER.
Copying, altering, or stealing any of the site's content is prohibited.
All of WINDS OF WINTER characters are the original work of their owners may not be replicated or stolen.
All images and graphics belong to their rightful owners and WINDS OF WINTER does not claim to own any of them.
The skin was created by TIMELAPSE OF WICKED WONDERLAND.
