@MrDidact Is it alright if I take temporary control of Sansa for my upcoming post?
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Captain Uni,
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Wheremst
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What if *I* was the small creature all along?
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O . O staring
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OooooooOooOOOOooooooOOOOOooOoooooooOOooOOOOoooOo
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V.1.26 (House of Caecilius Iucundus); 4091: Whoever loves, let him flourish. Let him perish who knows not love. Let him perish twice over whoever forbids love.
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"Second Commander Largon Arillos, I presume?" Rughoi drawled, speaking to a gaunt dracon across from him.
"Aye. At your service, kobold. And you are?" he responded, in similar fashion to Rughoi's previous greeting.
"I have the honor to present His Might, Rughoi 'the Brave', Rightful Count of Traeton and Emperor of All Kobolds," said an old lieutenant from the kobold retinue, stepping forwards and bowing to the two leaders. Rughoi bowed back, in traditional ancient kobold fashion. Largon didn't.
"Mighty fancy name you got there, Master Rughoi. Or should I be saying 'my lord', now? No, it's too soon, I think," said Largon, though his actions betrayed his false praise. He leaned on his spear, and made a big show of picking the dirt out from his nails. The two burly guards he brought with them tightened their grips on their spears and moved closer to their commander.
"I'll be quick. Mitron isn't a very effective ruler, is he? The city is deep in debt, most of all to its neighbor, Aredor, and increasing every day."
"Aye!" shouted one of the guards, before Largon could speak. "Had enough of him. Anyone would be a better King of Traeton! Sir, I suggest you take his deal." Largon quieted him with a wave of his hand.
"Very well. You have made your point, and you are of course right. I have a little less than half of the garrison under my direct command, and to turn them on the others would be an almost too easy method of unseating Mitron. However, what is in it for me? What can you offer me that the Commander Prime can't?"
"A better city. A happier people. What more could you ask for? That's why you joined the guard, isn't it?" Rughoi asked, tilting his head to look at the dracon's face. "Oh yes, and your record. I had almost forgot. Wanted for three counts of greater felony in Aredor, two of murder in the Fertile Valley. Under me, you will have complete protection from any ambitious guards officers looking for their public enemy number one. So, are we in agreement?" both members of the two parties silently shared a nod, then quickly left the scene, leaving no trace of their meeting.
"Aye. At your service, kobold. And you are?" he responded, in similar fashion to Rughoi's previous greeting.
"I have the honor to present His Might, Rughoi 'the Brave', Rightful Count of Traeton and Emperor of All Kobolds," said an old lieutenant from the kobold retinue, stepping forwards and bowing to the two leaders. Rughoi bowed back, in traditional ancient kobold fashion. Largon didn't.
"Mighty fancy name you got there, Master Rughoi. Or should I be saying 'my lord', now? No, it's too soon, I think," said Largon, though his actions betrayed his false praise. He leaned on his spear, and made a big show of picking the dirt out from his nails. The two burly guards he brought with them tightened their grips on their spears and moved closer to their commander.
"I'll be quick. Mitron isn't a very effective ruler, is he? The city is deep in debt, most of all to its neighbor, Aredor, and increasing every day."
"Aye!" shouted one of the guards, before Largon could speak. "Had enough of him. Anyone would be a better King of Traeton! Sir, I suggest you take his deal." Largon quieted him with a wave of his hand.
"Very well. You have made your point, and you are of course right. I have a little less than half of the garrison under my direct command, and to turn them on the others would be an almost too easy method of unseating Mitron. However, what is in it for me? What can you offer me that the Commander Prime can't?"
"A better city. A happier people. What more could you ask for? That's why you joined the guard, isn't it?" Rughoi asked, tilting his head to look at the dracon's face. "Oh yes, and your record. I had almost forgot. Wanted for three counts of greater felony in Aredor, two of murder in the Fertile Valley. Under me, you will have complete protection from any ambitious guards officers looking for their public enemy number one. So, are we in agreement?" both members of the two parties silently shared a nod, then quickly left the scene, leaving no trace of their meeting.
Sorry, I was away from the computer for awhile. I'll have a post soon.
Sorry, I was away from the computer for awhile. I'll have a post soon.
The question hung in the air for a few seconds. Ale splattered across the table, dripping onto their boots. A moment passed, then another, then yet another. Visenya looked confused, as she stuttered something not entirely legible. William smiled broadly, and drank deep in his tankard. Then, all hells broke loose.
William was shaken out of his daze by Visenya, who pushed him and his chair so that both made swift acquaintance with the wooden floor. He was about to say something before a rather large object was brought down on the table, held in the hands of a rather large northman. Splinters flew out every which way as wood met wood, showering everyone in the near vicinity with at least a few shards. Blood began flowing out of William's fingers, though in his drunken state he felt almost nothing. He could only watch from his poor vantage point on the ground as Visenya fended off multiple attackers at least twice as large as she is. Damn, the fairies took up another round of wild dance behind his eyes. Groggily, over the course of perhaps minutes, he willed himself into a sort of standing position.
"Stay close!" shouted Visenya over the commotion. She grabbed his arm and nearly imbalanced him again. William's mind suddenly clicked then, and he concluded that he should at least do something to help. He reached for his belt and began scrabbling around to find a weapon. Grumbling and cursing, he was finally able to slip the thin, long Bolton dagger from its sheathe. He waved it around, hoping that it looked menacing enough, and that certainly did the trick. Most people ducked away or pushed others to escape the potential bite of sharp steel, and the crowd parted enough for Visenya to drag the both of them through to relative safety.
Outside the tent was just as loud as the inside. At least ten voices were shouting for the guard, all of which translated in his head to an unbearable ringing. This was not helped by the arrival of men in clanking armor, at least a score, rushing onto the scene and into the tent.
"Don' let th' tent hitya ass on th' way in, yeah?" William mumbled to a guard, slapping him on the shoulder. This struck him with gales of laughter, and the guard gave him a steely glare before he charged in with the rest. The tent flap, however, did hit his back. William felt his legs give way, and only by leaning heavily on Visenya's shoulder with an arm wrapped around her did he barely prevent himself from losing a tooth or more to dirt and stone. "I think thas 'nuff wine ferr t'day," he declared, using his other arm to clumsily shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. He wasn't sure if the expression on her face was of mirth or annoyance.
William was shaken out of his daze by Visenya, who pushed him and his chair so that both made swift acquaintance with the wooden floor. He was about to say something before a rather large object was brought down on the table, held in the hands of a rather large northman. Splinters flew out every which way as wood met wood, showering everyone in the near vicinity with at least a few shards. Blood began flowing out of William's fingers, though in his drunken state he felt almost nothing. He could only watch from his poor vantage point on the ground as Visenya fended off multiple attackers at least twice as large as she is. Damn, the fairies took up another round of wild dance behind his eyes. Groggily, over the course of perhaps minutes, he willed himself into a sort of standing position.
"Stay close!" shouted Visenya over the commotion. She grabbed his arm and nearly imbalanced him again. William's mind suddenly clicked then, and he concluded that he should at least do something to help. He reached for his belt and began scrabbling around to find a weapon. Grumbling and cursing, he was finally able to slip the thin, long Bolton dagger from its sheathe. He waved it around, hoping that it looked menacing enough, and that certainly did the trick. Most people ducked away or pushed others to escape the potential bite of sharp steel, and the crowd parted enough for Visenya to drag the both of them through to relative safety.
Outside the tent was just as loud as the inside. At least ten voices were shouting for the guard, all of which translated in his head to an unbearable ringing. This was not helped by the arrival of men in clanking armor, at least a score, rushing onto the scene and into the tent.
"Don' let th' tent hitya ass on th' way in, yeah?" William mumbled to a guard, slapping him on the shoulder. This struck him with gales of laughter, and the guard gave him a steely glare before he charged in with the rest. The tent flap, however, did hit his back. William felt his legs give way, and only by leaning heavily on Visenya's shoulder with an arm wrapped around her did he barely prevent himself from losing a tooth or more to dirt and stone. "I think thas 'nuff wine ferr t'day," he declared, using his other arm to clumsily shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. He wasn't sure if the expression on her face was of mirth or annoyance.
@DrunkasaurusRex Maybe this should start with William looking around for any way to rig the jousts in classic mafia style, looking around for any hedge knights seedy enough to take a dive in the lists for gambling money.
@DrunkasaurusRex Ooh, me! Pick me! Pickmepickmepickme!
William followed Visenya's lead as she took him and the rest of her little in-group to the stands of the main attraction, the joust. As she went to socialize with highborns and other such folk, William decided that he would be better off not trying to get along with Starks and broke off from the party a bit to watch the proceedings, but not before swiping an apple off a platter going to the royal stands. Unfortunately, he bumped into someone unpleasant as he took a bite into his apple. It flew out of his mouth into a dark corner, already likely being invaded by worms.
“Argh, ya bastard! Watch where ye . . . “ Said the man, or rather boy, he slammed into.
“Torrhen,” greeted William.
“William,” greeted Torrhen Stark, son of Bran Stark and lord of the Dreadfort.
“Are you still keeping my seat warm for me?” William said, unable to keep the ire from creeping into his voice.
“Fack off, Bolton,” Torrhen grumbled, pushing past him and stomping away. William decided then that he has had enough of the tourney and went to rejoin the group a little later.
". . . Eh, no, not that one . . ." William muttered to himself. Dozens of women of all shapes and colors danced in front of him, some already cavorting with a couple of knights. The decision is most certainly not as easy as Visenya would have him believe. "Look at that one," he said, pointing to a summer islander sitting on the lap of Ser Someone-or-Other. "She's got some sort of Sothoryon corruption. Tries to hide it, but the swelling veins in her wrists betray that. He's in for a surprise in the morning." He turned again to another girl, this time a gaunt Lysene. "And her. Slightly limping, possibly Kingslander rot. Her slit must burn like the Ghiscari sun every waking moment." His eyes scanned the room, stopping on various whores and grimacing when he discovered their faults. "I don't like where this is going. Perhaps I should keep of the whores . . . for a very long time."
Finally, she kept her word, and soon William found himself in an expansive pavilion surrounded by people almost as drunk as he was. The ambience was lively, to say the least. Shouting, cursing, and guzzling dominated the ears of everyone present, and drink rushed down throats like a Reachman cavalry charge. The free wine, the pleasant environment, left him feeling almost . . . content. Visenya threw an arm around his neck, and he found that he didn't even mind. When the deafening shouts died down, a renegade thought jumped into William’s head. Quietly furious, he stamped it out, but moments later, it returned. The drink overpowered him, and when he turned to Visenya, she was as alluring as a figure out of a children’s story.
“As you know, I am the last ever Bolton. My blood, by conclusion, is perhaps the rarest in the kingdom.” The words came tumbling out of his mouth in an uncontrollable torrent. “Simply by being born, I promised my ancestors to carry on the family line. So will you do me the honor of becoming the Lady of Ethering?”
“Argh, ya bastard! Watch where ye . . . “ Said the man, or rather boy, he slammed into.
“Torrhen,” greeted William.
“William,” greeted Torrhen Stark, son of Bran Stark and lord of the Dreadfort.
“Are you still keeping my seat warm for me?” William said, unable to keep the ire from creeping into his voice.
“Fack off, Bolton,” Torrhen grumbled, pushing past him and stomping away. William decided then that he has had enough of the tourney and went to rejoin the group a little later.
". . . Eh, no, not that one . . ." William muttered to himself. Dozens of women of all shapes and colors danced in front of him, some already cavorting with a couple of knights. The decision is most certainly not as easy as Visenya would have him believe. "Look at that one," he said, pointing to a summer islander sitting on the lap of Ser Someone-or-Other. "She's got some sort of Sothoryon corruption. Tries to hide it, but the swelling veins in her wrists betray that. He's in for a surprise in the morning." He turned again to another girl, this time a gaunt Lysene. "And her. Slightly limping, possibly Kingslander rot. Her slit must burn like the Ghiscari sun every waking moment." His eyes scanned the room, stopping on various whores and grimacing when he discovered their faults. "I don't like where this is going. Perhaps I should keep of the whores . . . for a very long time."
Finally, she kept her word, and soon William found himself in an expansive pavilion surrounded by people almost as drunk as he was. The ambience was lively, to say the least. Shouting, cursing, and guzzling dominated the ears of everyone present, and drink rushed down throats like a Reachman cavalry charge. The free wine, the pleasant environment, left him feeling almost . . . content. Visenya threw an arm around his neck, and he found that he didn't even mind. When the deafening shouts died down, a renegade thought jumped into William’s head. Quietly furious, he stamped it out, but moments later, it returned. The drink overpowered him, and when he turned to Visenya, she was as alluring as a figure out of a children’s story.
“As you know, I am the last ever Bolton. My blood, by conclusion, is perhaps the rarest in the kingdom.” The words came tumbling out of his mouth in an uncontrollable torrent. “Simply by being born, I promised my ancestors to carry on the family line. So will you do me the honor of becoming the Lady of Ethering?”
Whoo, I think I finally kicked my writer's block!
The tavern roared with activity. The ambience created by pouring drinks, casual conversation, and occasionally a fight or two kept steady since Rughoi and his band arrived an hour ago and hasn't stopped since. This small village outside Traeton was as large, as beautiful as he had hoped, and also claimed some of the largest kobold communities on the continent. Perfect for the plan he was about to enact.
"Hey," he whispered to the bartender. "I've just had a terrible day. My employer, he's a dracon, tied me to a rack and beat me after I dropped a sack of apples after half a day of work." The bartender looked at him sympathetically, then passed him another flagon and turned to another customer. Rughoi was pleased to hear him relaying that rumor to the eager listener. If all goes to plan, his followers were saying roughly the same thing to anyone who'd listen.
Hours passed, and they were pleased to discover that the conversations have changed. No longer were weather, harvest, and possible mates the subject of many a chat, but now dracons and their supposed hegemony passed from mouth to ear. Time to act.
"Everyone!" Rughoi shouted, standing up from his seat. That at least got everyone's attention. "We are all tired, having worked a long day in the fields. At the end of the month, a fat dracon sitting on his haunches will count all we've worked for, and how much will he return to us?"
"Half!" was the dominant answer.
"Should we accept this heavy tax, while we toil in the fields and they don't?"
"No!" came the reply.
"Then let us, today, declare no! No, to the dictators! No, to the oppressors! No, to the dracons! The kobold blood is strong, and should never bow!" Uproarious cheer rang out in the large hall, and Rughoi sat down, smiling to himself. The revolution has begun.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Krakas shook in fear at the dracon woman's plea. "This sounds uncannily like something my son would do. I pray to Nasha it's not him."
"Hey," he whispered to the bartender. "I've just had a terrible day. My employer, he's a dracon, tied me to a rack and beat me after I dropped a sack of apples after half a day of work." The bartender looked at him sympathetically, then passed him another flagon and turned to another customer. Rughoi was pleased to hear him relaying that rumor to the eager listener. If all goes to plan, his followers were saying roughly the same thing to anyone who'd listen.
Hours passed, and they were pleased to discover that the conversations have changed. No longer were weather, harvest, and possible mates the subject of many a chat, but now dracons and their supposed hegemony passed from mouth to ear. Time to act.
"Everyone!" Rughoi shouted, standing up from his seat. That at least got everyone's attention. "We are all tired, having worked a long day in the fields. At the end of the month, a fat dracon sitting on his haunches will count all we've worked for, and how much will he return to us?"
"Half!" was the dominant answer.
"Should we accept this heavy tax, while we toil in the fields and they don't?"
"No!" came the reply.
"Then let us, today, declare no! No, to the dictators! No, to the oppressors! No, to the dracons! The kobold blood is strong, and should never bow!" Uproarious cheer rang out in the large hall, and Rughoi sat down, smiling to himself. The revolution has begun.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Krakas shook in fear at the dracon woman's plea. "This sounds uncannily like something my son would do. I pray to Nasha it's not him."
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