[color=ed1c24][CENTER][sup][h1][b]M A D D A N E L L E [/b][/h1][/sup] [/CENTER][/color] “The sharpest sword in the Riverlands, and here I am babysitting a lady what thinks she’s a lord.” Danelle ignored Hoster’s grumblings, spurring Nightmare onwards. The great black stallion’s hooves thudded against sodden ground, its onyx coat gleaming like dragonglass beneath the gentle glow of the sun. Danelle’s armour was the same sheer black as her horse, with steel plates that clanked and rattled in rhythm with Nightmare’s bouncing strides. “The Blackwoods must be bleedin’ desperate if they’re lettin’ maids pretend to be knights,” Hoster Rivers prattled on, “Ain’t never seen somethin’ so queer in all my days.” [i]“Give this one to the Black Goat,”[/i] the shadows hissed and whispered inside Danelle’s skull, [i]“The darkness will delight in the taste of his blood.”[/i] Hoster was not especially impressive to look upon. He was a dumpy, pig-faced bastard with brown hair that reminded Danelle of mud. His small, ugly eyes looked like dirty chips of ice, and his armour was a motley hodgepodge of rusted plate and worn leather. The bastard’s mount was a pitiful mare, who was about half the size of Nightmare. Where Danelle’s stallion was a giant beast, caked in rippling muscle, Hoster’s mare was a gaunt, scrawny creature. “There.” Danelle nodded at the rickety building that had popped up in front of them. The Warm Hearth was a ramshackled tavern, rising out of a stretch of boggy wetland. Its painted sign was chipped and faded, and its wooden supports looked as though a gentle breeze would snap them in twain. House Blackwood’s scouts had reported that the Warm Hearth had been seized by men fighting for House Bracken. Supposedly, they were led by a brutal, bloodthirsty thug that folk had taken to calling “Calon the cruel”. “I ain’t blind!” Hoster snapped. [i]“Blind him,”[/i] the shadows begged her, [i]“Blind him and send him screaming into the black forest.”[/i] Ever since the witch Naessanara gave Danelle her dagger, the shadows had writhed and sang inside her head. She carried the knife with her wherever she went. Its hilt was carved to resemble a monstrous goat, with horns that looped and curled around its shaggy head. The pair rode onwards, the tavern growing larger and larger as they drew near. After a few minutes of riding, they dismounted a stone’s throw from the Warm Hearth. A lone post poked out of a tuft of long grass, which they hitched their horses to with a long coil of rope. Danelle Lothston rested one gauntlet-clad hand upon the pommel of Visenya’s Fury. “Tread quietly,” she advised, “We don’t know how many of them are here.” “Bugger that,” Hoster spat a fat wad of phlegm on the ground, “I ain’t not damn coward.” [i]“Such arrogance! All are made humble before the Black Goat. Gods and men are naught to the hungry darkness.”[/i] Danelle watched with a combination of amusement and irritation as Hoster marched up to the front of the tavern, beating his fist against the door. “Oi!” he bellowed, “Open up!” Danelle slowly strode up behind her travelling companion. The ramshackled door creaked open, and Hoster marched brazenly inside. Danelle followed, her fingers coiling tightly around the leather-wrapped handle of Visenya’s Fury. The interior of the Warm Hearth was as old and battered as its exterior. Huge wooden support beams held up the ceiling, infested with rot and decay. The walls were built from stone so faded they looked as if they were laid during the Age of Heroes, and the inn’s chairs and tables seemed equally ancient. There were no crackling flames in the fireplace. Amusingly, the Warm Hearth had a markedly cold and empty hearth. [i]“All fires burn out. All light is extinguished. In the end, there is only darkness.”[/i] “Find a different drinking hole,” a gruff, common-sounding voice commanded, “This one’s ours.” Three men were sitting around a shabby wooden table. They were dressed in boiled leather and tarnished chainmail. The biggest of the three sat at the head of the table. He was huge in both height and width, with an enormous battleaxe slung across his back. He had a gaunt, sunken face, wreathed in dark whiskers. A long, pointed moustache drooped down his haggard likeness, and his skin was the colour of warm bronze. “You are the one they call Calon the cruel.” Danelle addressed him. It was not a question. “You know me,” the giant grunted, “But I don’t know you.” “This land belongs to House Blackwood!” Hoster puffed out his chest, “Bracken dogs have no place here.” A murmur of chuckling washed over the three men. “You gonna make us leave, little man?” the figure to Calon’s right laughed. He was smaller than Calon, with a lithe frame. His skin was unusually pale, and he had a pair of daggers resting on his belt. “You and your bitch?” the man on Calon’s left chimed in. He was a plump, somewhat rotund man. He was completely bald, with a soft face encased in blubber. An oaken shield and a pointed spear rested at the foot of his chair. “All this land belonged to the Andals and the First Men, before the Conqueror came,” Calon wore an amused smirk, “Didn’t stop Aegon from taking it. Why should I care who ruled these parts a week ago? It's Bracken land now.” “Bugger the Brackens!” Hoster growled, “And bugger you!” Calon gazed at Hoster with bored, detached eyes. His gaze wandered past the dumpy warrior, settling on Danelle. “Don’t see many women with swords,” he mumbled, “Can you use it?” “Well enough.” she replied. Calon gestured to the men sitting on either side of him. “You two take the loudmouth,” he commanded, “I fancy seeing how the woman fights.” [i]“This one thinks he knows cruelty. Show him how wanting his grasp of suffering is.”[/i] Moving with terrifying speed for such a massive man, Calon leapt up onto his feet. He darted over the table, barreling towards Danelle with his axe suddenly unsheathed. Calon’s lackeys charged at Hoster. Danelle drew Visenya’s Fury. She left Hoster to whatever fate awaited him, her focus locked on the axe-wielding giant who was storming towards her. Calon’s movements were fierce and wild, fuelled by primal fury rather than skill. She ducked beneath the swing of his axe, thrusting the point of her blade at his stomach. The behemoth pulled back, narrowly dodging the sharp of her sword. Calon’s axe shrieked through the air as he chopped downwards, aiming for her crown. Danelle parried with her sword, catching his axe with the flat of her blade. Her arms throbbed with pain as the force of Calon’s swing reverberated through her. She had to fight through the instinct to drop her sword, such was the strength and power behind Calon’s attack. The muscular colossus swiped at Danelle with his foot, trying to kick her off-balance. Danelle hopped over Calon’s kick, but doing so made her wobble. Her footwork became awkward and clumsy as she struggled to regain stability. Calon seized advantage of her unsteadiness. He charged forward, using one of his massive shoulders like a battering ram. Danelle was too slow to dodge, gasping for air as Calon slammed into her. It was as though she had been struck by a rampaging aurochs. She landed in a heap on the floor, messy tangles of red hair twisted across her face. Calon loomed above her, a wicked grin twisting his features. “Should have spent less gold on fancy armour, and more on learning how to bleedin’ fight.” he sneered. Danelle yanked her goat-pommel dagger off of her belt, ramming it into Calon’s right calf. A roar that was equal parts shock and pain exploded out of her attacker. The shadows giggled and tittered, singing their delight inside Danelle’s skull. Whilst the brute was stunned, she thrust her blade into his belly. Visenya’s Fury let out a wet squelch as it bit through leather, plunging into the flesh beneath. Calon gasped, dark blood bubbling out of his open mouth. Danelle yanked the sword free. A torrent of carmine gushed out of the open wound in Calon’s stomach. Danelle rolled to one side, whilst Calon swayed forwards, landing in a bloody heap on the ground. He twitched and jerked as life flowed out of him, his limbs spasming erratically. Calon the Cruel died laying face down in a pool of his own blood, with his belly torn open. She tugged her knife out of Calon’s corpse, slotting it back into its holster on her belt. Danelle slowly clambered to her feet, leaning on Visenya’s Fury for support. Hoster was slumped against a table, with the corpses of Calon’s thugs laying beside him. He was breathing heavily, sweat and blood smeared across his features. Half a dagger stuck out of Hoster’s shoulder, its blade thrust through his ragtag armour, and deep into the tissue below. “Fucker got me whilst my back was turned,” Hoster wheezed, “Didn’t stop me splitting his throat open.” He let out a raspy, guttural laugh. “What did I tell ya? Sharpest sword in the Riverlands.” Danelle waded over to Hoster, her armoured boots thudding and clanking against the wooden floor. “You said a lot of things,” Danelle said as she stood over her blood-stained escourt, “A lady who thinks she’s a lord.” “Help me up!” Hoster snapped, “Can’t you see I got a feckin’ knife stickin’ out of me?!” [i]“MORE! More blood! More misery! GIVE US MORE!”[/i] Danelle eased her knife out of its holster. The blade was still wet with Calon’s blood. Worry flashed across Hoster’s face. “Hold on now -” “You irritate me,” Danelle told him, “I don’t much care for your tone.” “All in jest, m’lady! Don’t take nothin’ I said to heart.” “Blackwood has plenty of men,” something sinister danced across her face, “Some of them will be less irritating than you.” Hoster raised his hands defensively. The cocksure arrogance in his eyes melted away. “Come now, Lady Lothston! See sense!” Danelle’s chuckling was cruel and vicious. “It is a shame that Calon’s men proved too strong for you, Master Rivers. We’ll have to make do without the sharpest sword in the Riverlands.” [b]“WAIT! PLEASE!” [/b] The dagger gave a sickly squooshing noise as Danelle rammed it through Hoster’s eye. The Black Goat was pleased.