Ruby

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

Although quiet drives were rare things, he found the pickup of the protectee from the small airport just north of the Capital District of New York, and the subsequent drive into Albany, to be a landscape of gentle, green rolling foot hills that seemed to melt into the Hudson River valley, with the Catskills Mountains hazy in the distance.

It would have been downright relaxing, if not for the protectee, and the reason for their presence. The handheld encrypted radio bleeped into activity, breaking the quiet drive.

“We have a problem.”

The man seated behind the driver of the large, black, General Motors SUV gave a wry smile, and brought the radio closer to his mouth to answer, “What problem?”

“She’s here, but she isn’t alone. Fucking Magneto came with her.”

Greg Joseph found his eyebrows perk at both the mention of the man, and the way in which the Agency analyst on the other end of the radio said it. Fucking Magneto, the senior analyst said, and he found himself not blaming them for it.

Joseph found himself pausing before responding, exchanging a look from the Special Agent in the front passenger seat, before turning his head to the right, to the man seated quietly in the seat behind the front passenger seat, eyes perking at the protectee, “News to you?”

“I had no idea, no. I just knew she was coming.”

Everything about Paul Bailey told the former US Army Intelligence and Law Enforcement turned CIA Mutant Desk Chief that he was being honest. A soft sigh escaped him before the radio went back to his mouth, Joseph taking another pause as his mind raked across the files and reports in his mind. “…we don’t normally see her alone, do we?”

Even the Special Agent in the front passenger seat looked back at his boss, a curious look on the Agent’s face. What are you getting at? Their senior analyst’s feminine tone softened, as her mind played catch-up, “Jean Grey?”

He didn’t have the patience for them to find it, themselves, “Think about every time we’ve seen her go through a Krakoan Gate. Is she ever alone?...no, right? Never? Meanwhile, Ororo Munroe sneaks out and surprises our analysts on the subway, or pops into Wakanda, or Kitty Pryde is boating around the world's oceans, or Emma Frost is strolling through gates solo like she owns the world…why is this woman different? Why is she never alone?”

“Could be coincidence,” the tall, blonde, former college athlete Special Agent in the front passenger seat offered.

The senior analyst came back over the radio, ”…she’s either always with teammates, family, or children. Or…”

“Or the woman who zapped an entire star and killed an entire solar system of people because she got godly levels of bitchy isn’t someone they want walking around the world alone.”

A surprise voice chimed in, the man next to Joseph, the woman’s former brother-in-law, “She’s not like that.” Even the driver peeked back in the rear-view when Bailey spoke up, as the thin man with the crown of brown hair on a quickly balding head shifted slightly, realizing every eye in the vehicle was on him, now, before continuing, “…I lost the love of my life, my wife. I lost my children.”

There was a knife’s edge of emotion deep enough for Paul Bailey to lose himself in, but Bailey took a slow breath before speaking more, “I knew her parents. I knew every sister and brother. I knew every member of that family. None of them ever spoke of her like that—not even remotely. And I knew her, myself. She’s not like that, Deputy Director. I would have told those Shi’ar aliens the same thing when they murdered my family, and her’s, adult and child alike. I would have died too, had I not been working late that night. Whatever this Phoenix did, it wasn’t Jean Grey. My wife and our babies bet their lives on that. They killed them all anyway. Justice, they called it, I was told…I don’t know about this Shi’ar Empire, Deputy Director, but I should hope MY government, THEIR government, wouldn’t be so quick to assume the same horrible thing.”

The car slowed to a stop outside the four-story over-a-century-old red-brown brick building that shared the entire city block with the cement parking garage that acted as secondary parking for New York State government buildings in the area. The corner space of the old red-brown brick building was The Hollow, a bar and restaurant popular with both the state government employees from their state buildings surrounding the street and the lawyers from the US District Court just a block down the street, across the 797 Interstate that divided Albany from the riverfront of the Hudson. They stood outside on the sidewalk, staring into the backseat of the long, black, American-made SUV.

“…okay,” Greg Joseph said, nodding, “Let’s do this.” The tall, youthful, former college athlete of a Special Agent was out of the car, first, not saying a word, just opening the back passenger seat to let Paul Bailey out.

Bailey got out, immediately embracing the sister of his late-wife, and aunt of his late-children, Jean Grey. Joseph watched for a second, until he looked past the two, and saw the man still staring at him. The mutant, Greg Joseph corrected himself in his thoughts as he got out, putting on his best Sunday morning church of a smile. “Greg Joseph, Mutant Desk Chief,” he walked right up to Erik Lensherr, offering his hand, same as he always did, same as his daddy always taught him to do when meeting someone for the first time. Friendly, but respectful, firm. Same as he taught his son, he thought, as he looked at Paul Bailey and the woman, again.

“It’s okay.” Jean smiled at Paul, doubtless telepathic words passed between them as they stared at one another, Jean slipping her arm into Paul’s, pointing them down the sidewalk and heels clicking on pavement as the two started walking, towards the end of the city block, towards the car park, casting bright green eyes over her shoulder, at Magneto, then, to him. “Hello, Mr. Joseph. I hope we’re not keeping you too busy? Thank you for bringing Paul.”

He nodded, that Sunday church steps smile cemented on his features, the Texas in his accent as clear as the sunshine of the day, “Yes, Ma’am, one of the few times the Mutant Desk gets to do something so wholesome. We’ve been busy the past year since the uh…what do you call it? Birth of your nation?” He asked, not wanting to just call it ‘that Krakoa thing’, looking to the man keeping pace with Bailey and Grey next to him to answer the question, to Lensherr.

Marvel: Judgment Day

I'm just popping in to say I'm still pretty interested in this.

@Hey Im Jordan

Thanks!

We've gotten feedback Krakoa-only has been a difficult approach for people, so we're likely retooling this into a Marvel: Judgment Day game based on the AvXvE event of the past summer. Shouldn't effect who people picked to play, just giving everyone a wider scope and trying to make it a touch easier for those who've told us Krakoa, in isolation, was a high-learning curve.

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

Re-starting this next week. Let us know if you wish to continue/jump back in.

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

Greg Joseph, CIA Deputy Director of Metahuman Operations

Word association Game!

Planet.

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

The woman had arched a blonde brow as Jean Grey walked into the Grove, the scent of fall and freshly fallen rain mixing with the blonde’s perfume, Krakoa looming over them all, watching, leaves a brilliant reddish brown today. The metallic scent of the old man that stood behind her, watching as Jean approached, hit her last.

• --|A|-- •

Her mind instantly translated the Krakoan to what she had always known him as before: Apocalypse. That he was the first, the most notable, among so few mutants to change their names from what they had always been to a Krakoan language variant did not escape her, but there was time for curiosities between the blue giant and Jean.

“You’re going, I take it?”

Jean smiled a thin, bemused smile at Emma Frost. “What gave it away?”

Frost’s head tilted, as she took in the full view of the redhead, before blue eyes widened and her frosted lips looked to near gasp, “…my God, Jean Grey, is that a designer you’re wearing?”

The smile on Jean slipped, but the bemused look in her green eyes did not. It was a designer, though Jean refused to confirm that aloud, or even tell Emma which designer…not that Emma wouldn’t know it, already, knowing Emma Frost. She wore black; skinny black slacks, a thin black cotton V-neck sweater, her feet in black leather hiking boots with black steel tabs and black laces. The coat atop was a rich brown wool peacoat, her red hair long and straight, offering contrast between the black and rich brown.

”I would not recommend the Manhattan gates, Jean Grey.”

Jean blinked at Big Blue, surprised, “Surveillance?”

“Worse,” Frost sighed, a heavy, deflating thing that seemed to signal no end of annoyance within the White Queen, “those human cultists have only become more fervent. We’re concerned, well…”

”You are the Phoenix. You are the Mutant Alpha. They are fools, but they are not ignorant to who we are.”

Emma cringed, though otherwise ignored it, “Just…you’re going alone, we don’t want a scene…may I recommend the Capital District gate?”

“…there’s a gate in Albany?”

Emma smiled, and, once more, Jean was smiling back. Catty, playful, “Have fun, Jean.”

There was something Emma wasn’t telling her. Jean knew that because of her telepathy, but not because she was reading Emma. She knew from experience what Emma looked like when she was holding back, because she had seen the woman’s mind when she had done it before in the past to others. Shaw had “casually” asked Jean to explain the tell on Emma, but Jean could do nothing but disappoint Shaw. If you hadn’t seen Emma’s mind as an active observer, before, you just weren’t going to pick up any tells on the White Queen. Shaw had muttered something about telepaths before giving up.

Whatever it was, Jean was certain she could handle it. A nervous, anxious energy filled her as she left the Grove. It wasn’t whatever Emma kept to her chest; it wasn’t the Cult of X warning from Apocalypse. It was going home. She hadn’t been since the Phoenix held the entire area hostage, attempting to persuade Jean to stay in their union.

Instead, with Logan’s help, she ended the relationship as best she could and moved on. But that didn’t seem to count, to Jean. She had experienced it within the White Room, yet, still, the extermination of nearly her entire family; brothers, sisters, their little children haunted her. Going home meant experiencing it all anew, a feeling that pressed down on her as she let out a sigh and felt her booted feet leave Krakoa’s ground and her body slip into telekinetic flight, to expedite the trip to Carousel, where most of the gates to major population centers could be found. It was after clearing the canopy and descending that she saw the gate—and the figure next to it, awaiting her.

What are you playing at, Emma?

Her booted feet touched down just feet from the gate, and him. Green eyes regarded him softly, if curiously, “Hello, Max. You look dressed for a funeral.”

Marvel: Judgment Day

Re-starting this in two weeks. (When I graduate.)

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Lord Barthogan of House Stark & Princess Saeria of House Martell
_{Collab with @Apollosarcher}

Barthogan Stark tent was along the coast, and the natural harbor gave them a view if the skags went for their long ships. Autumn winds. His banners flew high as the Direwolf were in the air giving pause to the damnable Skags who were off along the countryside. They wouldn’t organize for a battle, no they were scavengers and carrion pickers. He had half a mind to wipe the island's entire population out after this stunt of theirs waging an armed rebellion. They were fools and traitors; the lot of them, Karstarks, had lost near three hundred people by his scouts' guess if they didn’t find more bodies.

He had made a sound plan, he’d called the banners of Manderly and Karstark, not to mention the aid of House Arryn’s Knights eager for some kind of fight. The Night's Watch knew of Torwynd, King of Stone as he called himself; they wanted the bastard Lord Commander Forrester was already getting his rangers back to come southward. He might have been a minor house from Glover but the Forrester lad was quick with a blade and better with a plan, no wonder he made Lord Commander. Skags didn’t want a fight; they wanted to be like the Ironborn raid and pillage; he'd dealt with fools like that before.

Break his forces up and press from each side, pin them in and use rides to bring down runners. The Skags had few horses or their one horned goats, morons might call a unicorn, but cut them off and push. When it came time for battle they were savages with poor steel, little armor, and no knowledge of the land. This was not their bloody island and he was not going to tolerate their barely contained Wildling notions.

Of course, the final concern of the evening made its way to him, one of his sworn swords out scouting the enemy. Reynar Holt had found something far more interesting, a Dornish Princess lost in a land of ice and snow. If this had been thirty years ago... He might have tried to hold her captive but his tempers had cooled... Somewhat. Dornish had still taken Rickon from him; it was hard to forgive that. Princess Saeria Martell was brought forth, she’d been given a hot bath and a fresh change of proper winter clothes from his own forests. The older man leaned back, the famed Greatsword Ice was next to him in its sheath. It was said Barth the Blacksword earned his name by taking that up and cleaving half dozen men in twain with a strike.

He was big, gruff looking yet he was old and tired, the cold did little to faze him but it was the authority, he never wanted to Lord it hung on him. Like weights it dragged in how he stood, how he moved even in just how he welcomed the Princess. “Ah, welcome princess. I’d offer you something more... Suitable but I don’t know much of courtly manners and practices, we care little for it here. What we will have is words, soup, meat, bread, and beer if you partake in those sorts of things with barbarians like me’self.” He spoke with a grin, as moments later food was brought a thick brown soup filled with mixed vegetables from the north hearty and filling men burned off food at an astounding rate in the cold so they ate plenty more here.

Gods, he believes I’m who I said I am.

The shock of it took her a few moments, though doubtful such a pause was noticed, as the Stark Lord spoke. It made her reconsider the dagger at the small of her back—the Stark men had ordered her to hand over her weapons. So, she gave them the bow, the quiver of arrows, and two daggers. They never searched her, however, allowing her the dagger at the back of her thick belt under the many layers that even a tent and brazier fit for a Stark Lord wasn’t enough to make Saeria feel anything but chilled even in his tent.

The Stark Lord was older but could easily beat her to death if he got his hands on her. Two guards outside the tent. She believed she heard footsteps in snow on the other side of the tent’s far thick canvas wall; there would be men all around, armed, and ready. Without the bow, without Reginald, who they tied up near their primary entrance to the camp along the shore…running wouldn’t do her much good. Where would she go? It was hard enough with her items and her stubborn horse. Without them she’d be good as dead, with no good-hearted commoner to save her this time, she reckoned.

Left with precious few options, the Princess simply took the few steps towards the nearest table, stool a mug of beer that didn’t seem claimed, and brought it up to her mouth. It wasn’t a sip, it was a quaffing that left lines of beer running from her either side of her mouth, down her chin and to her neck by the time she pulled the mug away, all but empty, a few heavy breaths and…a belch that could have rocked the wooden foundations of Barth’s tent.

The kind of sound that had no business coming from the Dornish Princess as she wiped her chin with her forearm in a lazy wipe, setting the mug down and nodding at the Stark Lord. “Speaking of Barbarian life: I killed someone. Your man wouldn’t tell me who he was. It looks like you’re here for a fight…I killed one of the other side, I’m thinking?”

Barth cracked a grin. “I like you girl.” He answered watching the beer run down her face. “Aye, Skagosi are up in arms, something something King of Stone. We’ve found evidence they’ve been ritualizing and eating the smallfolk here.” He spoke as he sat up, cracking his neck as he tried to get comfortable. “I am Barthogan Stark, to you folk down in Dorne you call me Blacksword... Unless you prefer to use the title the men with purple eyes give me.” He let her note he wasn’t stupid like many of the southern houses claimed the Starks were. “Warden of the North. We are here for a battle but as you can see they don't want to give us one... So I’ve got the Manderly’s and Karstarks gathering up the banners. While Knights of Vale sail on in to give us a hand, even the Night’s Watch are on their way... Lord Commander Forrester wants Torwynd to hang from the walls. I'd just settle for his head off his shoulders.” Grunted the man as gestured to the seat across the table from him. “Eat something girl wandering around the North like you are, you need food. Walking through snow requires three times the food of a normal march. Body burns more energy in the cold trying to keep you warm... New clothes should do you some good. Those pelts come from the Wolfwood.”

He stopped and took a few spoonfuls of the hearty stew before them. It had stayed hot it must have been near boiling when it was brought in. “I won’t go around spreading who you are... But you're here for something and I swore an oath to Dragons... So what does the little lady need, I’ll see to it even if I think little of the Dornish. My word is my oath and I gave it to that blood of yours so ask away... Though try to remember we're in a war child.” He added with a teasing tone, he didn’t bother with titles or flowery words. He was every bit what the Southerners called him but he wore it with pride and honor if half the men in seven kingdoms were like Barthogan their King would never want for anything.

Smallfolk, he said, and Saeria Martell felt herself twitch. She thought of Wendal and that cabin. She thought of his little boy. Suddenly, Saeria was reaching for a second drink and plunging her mind and heart into darkness. “Torwynd?”

The name played again and again and again in her mind with the deep tone of the Stark Lord. Torwynd. Torwynd. Torwynd. She drank once, twice. Each beat of her heart only seemed to make her angrier; common folk slaughtered for some hopeless, pointless, dumbass violence. It was cruel. It was evil. Torwynd. Drink. Torwynd. Drink. Her string hand twitched; once, twice. On the surface, however, it might have looked cloudier.

Except for one thing: the intensity of the Martell survivalist was increasing by the second. “Right,” she said, another smaller belch and a wipe of her lips, blinking at his question. “…NEED? This ‘little Princess’,” she stressed her title to correct him, an irony considering she never blinked when he called her girl, “Needs to kill Skagosi before they kill more commoners.” She snorted, loudly, the combustible mix of Rhoynish and Valyrian blood boiling, the Northern beer enough to make her outspoken about it. “I can track, hunt, and fight. You won’t find a better archer.”

There was no further qualifier. Matter-of-factly, she had declared it impossible with a sip of beer. There was no pride in her voice, there was no ego creeping about the edges of her eyes—there was nothing but steel in those big purple eyes.

“I’ll learn the land, I’m sure your scouts have some helpful tips. I’ve already had a rude introduction to the North,” she said, head shaking at the memory of her ignorance and lack of foresight. She should have known better, and if it weren’t for Wendal…his little son…Saeria felt herself burn all over again.

“Maps. Where are they? Why are you waiting for so many men? You’re sure a small force can’t go in hard and fast and cut off the head of this ice serpent of stupid? Wargs?...worse?”

She asked, looking sharply at him. She heard stories, and from men who were no fools.

“We called up aid because the Skags won’t organize because the North is a big place girl.” He explained as reached for a map. “I have hundreds of miles of coastline to cover to find where they landed. As you saw they didn’t stay together, they’ve spread out across the lands of the Karstarks perhaps further. I bicker with my advisors on how to deal with them. Some say spread our forces out and try to hunt and kill them, a long and slow process which we do not have time for... Don’t want to be here when Winter comes.” He tapped the locations on the map.

“Manderlys I need to locate their landing. The Karstarks I need help from because they know the lands. If neither come... The Watch will be useless too. We have only more than a couple thousand blades... Which is why we are considering another option.” He explained as he showed her locations of villages and farms on a survey map. “Ride out, spread our men to villages and towns and bring a lot of smallfolk to Karholds Wintertown. Leave half our army’s supply trains with them and their men gathered on the walls. They can defend from Skags at the old castle and keep their smallfolk safe.” He explained as he sighed a moment. “I cannot fight someone who does not organize for battle. I cannot force a battle without martialing up the might of the whole north, with Winter around the corner it would doom our crops.” He explained his predicament.

“...Your bow and your skill are appreciated though.” He offered honestly as he took a long gulp of beer draining half the cup. “But what my men have in training and discipline they counter with survival skills. That barren wasteland of an island has given the ability to endure harsh winters and subsiste on even less.” He groaned and stood up showing her the map. “So I can fight and get more and more killed, then lose even more in the Winter... Or I make things a little worse and take all the smallfolk back to Karhold and have the Karstarks batten down and hold till winter freezes the skags out.” He had no good options.

“This isn’t an honorable foe, not a real king either... He’s a pretender and traitor seeking glory off the backs of backwards people.” He groaned a moment. “We ought to burn their island down...”

“Batten the smallfolk in Karhold, then gather a pack and do what you direwolves do: hunt. There’s a trail. We can find it. He’s a pretender, not bringing ruin to their seat on that island would be neglect of your duty.”

Princess Saeria had gotten that lesson more than once from family, close and distant.

“Aye, we can hunt them... But not in Winter. We are only in autumn and the cold nearly killed you. What is it like when forty feet of snow buries the roads and trees. When homes are not regularly clear of snow it might collapse inward and kill you.” He explained with a sigh. “My men cannot spend all of autumn hunting Skags. I can spare some yes, but the rest are needed with harvests... A long winter here... Mean famine and death for thousands.” He took a breath and then walked over clasping her shoulder.

“But, I can see your set on this... So I will give to the Karstarks one hundred of my best to help hunt and kill Skags. Since you want to help, you choose from my men. The best archers, stalkers, trappers, and scouts will be brought up. Test them for me, pick out the best to fight and kill these savages and if you wish go with them till Winter nears.” He answered with a sigh. “Then... I’ll take you to Winterfell where we might finally get warm... And proper hot baths in the springs underneath the castle. You may be a guest of honor, perhaps by the time we return my Brandon will be home, you’d be able to meet the rest of the family.”

She nodded, slowly. “I’ll need a message sent out through the nearest raven,” she said, sadly, “I will have to tell…my mother. I’ll write it now and hand it to your man.”

”Mother. Tell father I love him. Tell my siblings I love them. I miss you all. There is war here, and I must fight it. It’s the right thing to do. Need the RIGHT assistance, will help ties with Starks. Like the Starks, so would you. — Your Little Sun Dragon.”

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

The sky looked like the shadow of a shadow to her, a never-ending voice of grays and lifeless pale blues that threatened the world with snow all over again. She took slow, painful, breaths and focused her eyes on the haze upon the horizon. The first two weeks in the North had been, by far, the worst in her young life. It wasn’t winter. It was barely autumn. She checked, twice, with Maesters before leaving.
Tell that to the North.

She had wandered to nearly every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, save the Vale and the North. The North just sounded more amusing than being boxed into a valley with a bunch of steep mountains all around. First men, Andols, First men, Andols…the First Men won. And, really, all things being equal, it was Winterfell and the Wall that had won.

And in her few days out from White Harbor, she had never been so cold in all her life. The last night she could fully recall had been such a misery, she had come to terms with wanting to die. Not actually dying, the girl was just too stubborn for such nonsense, but the desire to let it all end, quietly, in the dark and cold like so many before.

She understood the urge, now.

Sheer willpower saw her another few nights. The days and nights blurred, pooling in her mind as one long grey and white and painful stain. If it weren’t for her well bought clothes, the voice told her, she would have lost toes and fingers. Instead, she just needed rest. She understood the voice to belong to some god. She didn’t believe in your gods, or their gods. She could see gods having been a thing, once, long ago. But to her…it would just be some god telling her to make sure she closed the door on her way out for the last, final, time.
It was half a day before she realized the voice belonged to no god, but a man who cut and sold wood. There was a cabin, there was a little boy, hiding behind things. It was nightfall before she could speak to the man, ask what, how. He explained it was the wet that did her in. She had been too exposed to snow, she had clearly fallen in snow, and she had never properly dried off. Staying dry, he said with a puff of his pipe, was the key to staying alive in the North. “You’re an archer? Keep yourself as dry as your strings up here, girl.”

He noticed she didn’t look like any woman he had seen when he changed her, dried her clothes. The amount of near strangers that had seen her in her nameday pride, between being dressed by ladies of court and the water gardens all her life, it frankly wasn’t that strange. It was honor that forced her hand in the end. She knew he might not accept it, so she smiled big and sweet and gave the gold coins to the young boy, and told him to give them to his papa when she was gone.

Reginald was beside himself when he saw her again. He looked, he snorted, he looked away. “I MISSED YOU TOO!” The horse might have bolted, had he not been tied. Not that it mattered, eventually Reginald always found her. Eventually, Reginald always returned to her. “I love you too, I’m an idiot.”

She spent a few days not far from the cabin, accounting for everything from various pastes to salt beef to small blocks of steel, strings, jigs, feathers fletched and unfletched, and a variety of shafts in firmness and size. Small saw, various small blades, bow, leather wraps and casings. The bedroll she kept upon Reginald, but sleeping under the stars was ill-advised if the clouds looked stormy, and if they didn’t, it would just be freezing cold. Fire became necessary, a large wineskin of Dornish Red, but true freedom came in the map Wendal had given her. A hunter’s map that highlighted trails, and more importantly, every cave and hunter hideaway between the south shore and the Wall.

The next few weeks just rolled together. She adjusted to constant freezing, even spending the evening two nights ago wild and naked in the snow and moonlight. Possible, of course, because of the natural hot-spring she had discovered nearby under some of the largest, oldest, trees she had ever seen in her life. They had been her favorite few days in the North, so far, outside Wendal’s cabin.

Her mind and her eyes seemed to focus on the horizon, again, at the same time. The synchronization of their focus allowing her to see past the haze of travel in the wilds of the “autumn” North. That haze on the horizon became something else entirely; it became a horse, it became a rider.

It became a danger as she watched from under tree line upon a ridge. And a danger made Princess Saeria Martell focus like nothing else in her earthly trials. There was new life to the girl as she disappeared where she had been standing just moments before. She had seen him first. In the wild, that could make all the difference. She returned to Reginald, removed the thick cloak and pulled up the hood of the layer just under the thick cloak; hooded tunic, woolen and lined with fur.

“Fade away, Reggie, I’ll be back.”

That was nearly noon. It was nearing sundown when she found the danger again. The man was, by quick looks behind trees, a scout of some sort. He busied himself with a camp, which meant a fire. She understood his concern, she had been regretting the shedding of her heavy cloak for hours, but it was more than enough noise cover for her to make slow and careful movements. He was hacking away at a tree nearby when she got to his camp. She soothed the horse the best she could before a quick pick through. Steel and salted fish and wools to keep warm. Nothing Stark, or any other noble house she recognized.

“Wha’ th…”

The voice grew quiet as his dark eyes surveyed her. When they met eyes, she knew trouble was coming, she'd seen that look in the eyes of many men before the violence came. He let the wood of the tree he had hacked at fall to his feed, thick chunks of wood for a long, slow burning fire to get him through the night before he went back looking for smaller bits, before the sun set.

She knew the schedule. Anyone who lived out in the wild did.

She’d seen the look in his eyes before. When he lunged forward, she was took his own dagger up from the neat pile he had created in order to make camp. She went back when he went forward, moving awkwardly in the snow under the tree he had picked. He lunged again, she circled around, keeping in mind the obstacle he had created. When he swung back around and gave a short shout, his eyes were narrowed on her, and the next lunge landed his foot awkwardly on one of those pieces of firewood, rolling the ankle and sending him to the snow. Another piece of firewood smashed the back of his head before he could recover. A hand gloved in rotting leather squeezing at her neck, and her hand brought the dagger down.

The scout howled, screamed—he wanted to make noise. Who was around? How many? She’d have to make a quick escape, thoughts she thought as she kept stabbing. When the noise stopped and the man’s twitching mostly died off, she caught herself standing there, removing the hand from her neck, panting as her mind dazed and her eyes narrowed to a tunnel.

Noise.

Panic struck through her heart like steel as she moved for the tree she had originally hidden behind to watch him. The tree she had left the bow at. The snow seemed thicker here, like a sludge she had to struggle through, sweating and freezing in equal measure. The doeskin cover was in her hands, then the bow itself, stringing it, and rearing around with arrow notched just in time to see another man, on a horse, ride up with a blade in his head.

She nearly felt the pressure fall and the string release, until the horse spun in place, and she noticed the shield. Grey, with a direwolf. She rested the bow, all but panting again as her heart raced. “Stark?...Princess Saeria of House Martell…really, really,” she said through huffs, catching her breath, “hope you’ve got a camp around here, somewhere.”

The scout snorted at her when she gave her name and her house, to no surprise of her’s. “Disarm. Lead me to your horse.”

From Ashes We Rise: An Alternate Warhammer 40,000 Unification and Great Crusade RP

Yes.