Just letting everyone know I'm packing my bags for a two week holiday in the south of France. Suck it.
I should have internet though. If not, I'll see you in two!
Sini
Member
STATUS:
The Empire Strikes Back
11 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 2 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Sinistred
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 564 (0.12 / day)
- VMs: 2
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Username history
- Sini 12 yrs ago
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jeroukoo,
Nightwing95,
Winston Smith,
Ezekiel
Status
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11 yrs ago
Current
The Empire Strikes Back
11 yrs ago
Off to visit the little sister. Shall be back by Sun/Monday.
11 yrs ago
Trying to wrap my head around the new tools and bits of the site. Well done, Mahz.
Bio
Née 1991. I feel old already.
Been roleplaying from the age of 15, write on solo projects in my spare time. I heartily encourage interaction when it comes to writing and creative efforts. Like to think I'm an understanding but stern and solid GM when I host games, and a collaborative and creative individual. Used to draw. Write in advanced section.
While I might not be as omni-present a some of you are on RP:G, I have been a part of it since 2009-2010 (if my memory serves me right). However, I must admit that post Guildfall, my activity also dropped. Slowly getting back into things.
I attended university to acquire my master's degree in history. I already had an educational degree for history and English, and am teaching both in secondary school. Any questions? Ask.
Been roleplaying from the age of 15, write on solo projects in my spare time. I heartily encourage interaction when it comes to writing and creative efforts. Like to think I'm an understanding but stern and solid GM when I host games, and a collaborative and creative individual. Used to draw. Write in advanced section.
While I might not be as omni-present a some of you are on RP:G, I have been a part of it since 2009-2010 (if my memory serves me right). However, I must admit that post Guildfall, my activity also dropped. Slowly getting back into things.
I attended university to acquire my master's degree in history. I already had an educational degree for history and English, and am teaching both in secondary school. Any questions? Ask.
Most Recent Posts
Ruby said
I've dropped the Martells, Zach's dropped Lannister and Velaryon, and I don't know what Sini plans for his Houses.
I did not pick up any major houses this time. As far as I am concerned, I would have players take their pick first, before I step in with my own choice of houses. There is plenty to choose from for everyone :).
Ruby said
At the moment my unofficial count has us heading to Option 2.Questions, reservations about it? Toss 'em at me.
Same here :) . I think this might be a good time for those wanting to flesh out a new house or revamp their old house sheets to do so.
Kingfisher said
Done my introductory post for House Bolton. I shall start work on a second one at some point.
Gruesome.
Kingfisher said
Speaking of which; is there any chance that I could get a response on my House Bolton application?
Updated the roster in the opening post - influx in the Vale and the North.
If I missed anyone, let me know. Happy posting!
Squrmy said
Does anyone have any feedback for my House Royce?
I think it's looking well, but let's wait for Vanqsie to cast her lovely eye at it :).
Falcon said
House Greyjoy
I like the old lord thing, people waiting for him to just die. An Essosi flavoured Ironborn is interesting, and he will have trouble commanding the respect of his kinsmen.
The Greystark though? That clashes with canon. We know the Greystarks were the last to command the Wolf's Den and White Harbor, but that was a 1,000 years ago before the Manderlys (ousted from the Reach around that time) took up residence in the North with sanction of Lord Stark. The Greystarks are extinct.
However, it does not clash with canon too hard, I find, to diregard the character. A forgotten son, last of his damned line? I think it's juicy. Have you checked with the Stark player?
Ruby said
No need to be so hard on yourself, Sloth! <3
Exactly.
Falcon said
I'll take up House Greyjoy, if that's alright.
Looking forward to your house sheet. Good luck :)!
Westeros, the Riverlands, Fairmarket
They rode through lush fields where the corn, wheat and barley were growing steadily in their own hues of green. Onion fields, patches of pumpkins, cabbages and all sorts of lettuce, neatly separated by hedges of low loose stone walls, showed the promise of a bountiful harvest in due time. A patchwork of fields and pastures spread out from either side of the road. The farmers and farmhands ceased their toil, stabbing the dark rich soil with their tools as to lean on them so they could watch the newcomers pass. The land had been rolling gently, alternating between woodland and hills.
Calder had dressed for the occasion, for now he had his four-hundred men at his back; it was no longer required to travel in a clandestine manner. His plate-armour was embossed, and had the Frey sigil on the breastplate, the metal itself treated with special techniques so the paint and colours were inside the steel, rather than painted over it. As lord, it was important that his suit of armour represented his wealth. Thirty household knights rode behind him, the towers of the twins decorating their surcoats, shields and –of course- the pennants they held aloft. Behind the knights came the footmen, rows on rows of spear and pike-men dressed in mail and leathers, and men-at-arms with heavier mail carrying shields and swords. Files of bowmen and crossbowmen followed, the bows carried in front of them so they would not get stuck behind something. A party of twenty mounted sergeants, wearing boiled leather and splinted greaves, guarded the rear of the column.
Ser Tom Fishbone rode a few steps behind the man in heavy plate so they could speak while showing Lord Calder Frey led them. His sigil deviated from the blue towers on pale silver of the Freys, for he was merely a Frey on his mother’s side. The skeleton of a leaping fish showed on his surcoat, in white on sable, the shape identical to the Tully’s trout. Tom mocked his father, Lord Janos Tully thus, for the Lord of Riverrun had only been involved with his conception and nothing more. He had got the name Ser Tom Fishbone because of it, and he felt slighted by his natural father.
“When will you wed, uncle?” He asked candidly, for he was one of the few whom Calder tolerated speaking openly without aggravation.
The road curled over a hill with a rocky outcropping. As they passed the jutting stone formation, Calder answered. “As soon as possible. Lady Joan was not present at Riverrun when we concluded our agreement, your father and I.”
Tom felt a pang of anger when he heard ‘your father’. He did not consider him as such, but it was the truth and no amount of denial would change that.
“We are already bound by blood,” Calder continued, whetting Tom’s desire to belong to a family, “but now we will even more so, for it is your half-sister I shall marry. That will make us brothers.” While Fishbone was a capable man, and loyal, he was hardly as cunning as his lord and master. Calder’s ruthlessness was inspired by intelligence and not cruelty, while Tom tended not to see the wider picture. His focus on the job at hand was admirable, but it threatened to inhibit him from making long-term plans. Fishbone was useful though. For every task a tool, Lord Frey thought.
While the Lord of the Crossing had agreed to marry his liegelord’s eldest, he had no intention of sitting around idly and wait for the ceremony. Who knew when Joan Tully would show up? The rights to Fairmarket were his, and he intended to collect.
Fairmarket was nestled along the Blue Fork, halfway to where the river joined with the Green Fork. Its source laid north-west in Hag’s Mire where small streams of melted silver passed through the ruins of Oldstones and eventually formed the river. On the north bank of the town stood several stone houses and the odd manse of local landed gentry, with a septry and the common grounds nearby. Other buildings were mostly constructed out of wood and clay, some with flint roofs but more with thatch. Three water-mills had been built along the riverbank, and their great wheels were turning, creaking with the ceaseless motion, grinding grain into flour. The outskirts consisted of shanty daub-and-wattle houses and hovels.
“No moat?” Tom remarked surprised.
Calder sucked in his breath through his teeth. The only fortification of note was the holdfast adjacent to the wooden contraption Fairmarket considered a bridge. “And a sorry excuse for a bridge,” Lord Frey complemented. “This will wash away whenever there are heavy rains.”
The armed and armoured procession entered the decently sized town from the north. Calder Frey and his small escort had passed through Fairmarket on their way to the Twins to join up with the contingent of Frey-men led by Fishbone. As such, he led them straight towards the holdfast and sent Ser Rickard Charlton to the opposite bank with a hundred men.
Lord Frey glanced up at the squat holdfast as they drew up in the market square. Fortunately its size was deceptive. While only being four stories tall above the ground, there were two levels below ground consisting of vaults and cellars. Unfortunately, the stonework was abysmal. Erected close to the river, meant that humidity seeped into the underground rooms, water leaking through the mortar. That was one of the first things on Calder’s list to change about Fairmarket. The holdfast itself was erected in dark and grey stones, topped with a pinewood roof from which banners hung.
Calder and Tom discerned the glint of sunlight on the metal tips of bolts and arrows that were trained on them by men behind the slits in the turrets.
“What is the meaning of this?” The voice of an old man standing in the single entrance to Fairmarket’s holdfast lashed across the cobbled square. A sword hung at his belt, and he wore simple clothing. The door ajar behind him was of oak and iron, and two men-at-arms with spears stood beside him.
“I am Calder Frey, Lord of the Crossing,” he shouted back, his attitude firm and confident. Some smallfolk had gathered round, their faces showing a mix of interest, excitement and fear.
The old man crossed his arms in front of his chest and spat through the gap of his teeth. He was still strong in spite of his age. “And I am castellan of this here tower. What’s a Frey got to do in Fermarkt?” An old grey fox, he was, and a local at that judging from his way of talking.
“Lord Janos Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, my future father-in-law has invested in me the rights to Fairmarket and its environs. I am Lord of the Crossing and Lord of Fairmarket.”
Doubt crept onto the man’s leathery face. Why had he not heard of this? Was this a trap? What was the Crippler playing at?
“Do you doubt my word, ser?” Calder shifted in his sturdy saddle, his destrier snorting. “I have the papers to back up my claim.”
The old fox scratched his silver stubble. “Nay, that won’t be necessary m’lord,” he muttered as he descended the stairs. The men-at-arms at his back relaxed visibly. “Rather not have trouble. It’s not as if I’ve got the men to stop you either way.” He spat through his teeth again. “I served Lord Osrick well, and Janos Tully after him. I wager I can serve ye too.”
“Better to accept an unexpected ally than turn him into an enemy,” Fishbone suggested.
Calder nodded. “Just so, Tom. Does not mean we have to trust him, though. I will need you to keep an eye on him and the local men-at-arms. We will pay them good silver. You will be in charge after I leave, until Franklyn or Benfred arrives. I will leave instructions.”
Tom nodded. “As you say, my lord,” he replied before riding off shouting commands. “Get that Tully banner down to make room for Lord Frey’s sigil. You!” Fishbone pointed a gauntleted finger to the old castellan. “See to it.”
They rode through lush fields where the corn, wheat and barley were growing steadily in their own hues of green. Onion fields, patches of pumpkins, cabbages and all sorts of lettuce, neatly separated by hedges of low loose stone walls, showed the promise of a bountiful harvest in due time. A patchwork of fields and pastures spread out from either side of the road. The farmers and farmhands ceased their toil, stabbing the dark rich soil with their tools as to lean on them so they could watch the newcomers pass. The land had been rolling gently, alternating between woodland and hills.
Calder had dressed for the occasion, for now he had his four-hundred men at his back; it was no longer required to travel in a clandestine manner. His plate-armour was embossed, and had the Frey sigil on the breastplate, the metal itself treated with special techniques so the paint and colours were inside the steel, rather than painted over it. As lord, it was important that his suit of armour represented his wealth. Thirty household knights rode behind him, the towers of the twins decorating their surcoats, shields and –of course- the pennants they held aloft. Behind the knights came the footmen, rows on rows of spear and pike-men dressed in mail and leathers, and men-at-arms with heavier mail carrying shields and swords. Files of bowmen and crossbowmen followed, the bows carried in front of them so they would not get stuck behind something. A party of twenty mounted sergeants, wearing boiled leather and splinted greaves, guarded the rear of the column.
Ser Tom Fishbone rode a few steps behind the man in heavy plate so they could speak while showing Lord Calder Frey led them. His sigil deviated from the blue towers on pale silver of the Freys, for he was merely a Frey on his mother’s side. The skeleton of a leaping fish showed on his surcoat, in white on sable, the shape identical to the Tully’s trout. Tom mocked his father, Lord Janos Tully thus, for the Lord of Riverrun had only been involved with his conception and nothing more. He had got the name Ser Tom Fishbone because of it, and he felt slighted by his natural father.
“When will you wed, uncle?” He asked candidly, for he was one of the few whom Calder tolerated speaking openly without aggravation.
The road curled over a hill with a rocky outcropping. As they passed the jutting stone formation, Calder answered. “As soon as possible. Lady Joan was not present at Riverrun when we concluded our agreement, your father and I.”
Tom felt a pang of anger when he heard ‘your father’. He did not consider him as such, but it was the truth and no amount of denial would change that.
“We are already bound by blood,” Calder continued, whetting Tom’s desire to belong to a family, “but now we will even more so, for it is your half-sister I shall marry. That will make us brothers.” While Fishbone was a capable man, and loyal, he was hardly as cunning as his lord and master. Calder’s ruthlessness was inspired by intelligence and not cruelty, while Tom tended not to see the wider picture. His focus on the job at hand was admirable, but it threatened to inhibit him from making long-term plans. Fishbone was useful though. For every task a tool, Lord Frey thought.
While the Lord of the Crossing had agreed to marry his liegelord’s eldest, he had no intention of sitting around idly and wait for the ceremony. Who knew when Joan Tully would show up? The rights to Fairmarket were his, and he intended to collect.
Fairmarket was nestled along the Blue Fork, halfway to where the river joined with the Green Fork. Its source laid north-west in Hag’s Mire where small streams of melted silver passed through the ruins of Oldstones and eventually formed the river. On the north bank of the town stood several stone houses and the odd manse of local landed gentry, with a septry and the common grounds nearby. Other buildings were mostly constructed out of wood and clay, some with flint roofs but more with thatch. Three water-mills had been built along the riverbank, and their great wheels were turning, creaking with the ceaseless motion, grinding grain into flour. The outskirts consisted of shanty daub-and-wattle houses and hovels.
“No moat?” Tom remarked surprised.
Calder sucked in his breath through his teeth. The only fortification of note was the holdfast adjacent to the wooden contraption Fairmarket considered a bridge. “And a sorry excuse for a bridge,” Lord Frey complemented. “This will wash away whenever there are heavy rains.”
The armed and armoured procession entered the decently sized town from the north. Calder Frey and his small escort had passed through Fairmarket on their way to the Twins to join up with the contingent of Frey-men led by Fishbone. As such, he led them straight towards the holdfast and sent Ser Rickard Charlton to the opposite bank with a hundred men.
Lord Frey glanced up at the squat holdfast as they drew up in the market square. Fortunately its size was deceptive. While only being four stories tall above the ground, there were two levels below ground consisting of vaults and cellars. Unfortunately, the stonework was abysmal. Erected close to the river, meant that humidity seeped into the underground rooms, water leaking through the mortar. That was one of the first things on Calder’s list to change about Fairmarket. The holdfast itself was erected in dark and grey stones, topped with a pinewood roof from which banners hung.
Calder and Tom discerned the glint of sunlight on the metal tips of bolts and arrows that were trained on them by men behind the slits in the turrets.
“What is the meaning of this?” The voice of an old man standing in the single entrance to Fairmarket’s holdfast lashed across the cobbled square. A sword hung at his belt, and he wore simple clothing. The door ajar behind him was of oak and iron, and two men-at-arms with spears stood beside him.
“I am Calder Frey, Lord of the Crossing,” he shouted back, his attitude firm and confident. Some smallfolk had gathered round, their faces showing a mix of interest, excitement and fear.
The old man crossed his arms in front of his chest and spat through the gap of his teeth. He was still strong in spite of his age. “And I am castellan of this here tower. What’s a Frey got to do in Fermarkt?” An old grey fox, he was, and a local at that judging from his way of talking.
“Lord Janos Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, my future father-in-law has invested in me the rights to Fairmarket and its environs. I am Lord of the Crossing and Lord of Fairmarket.”
Doubt crept onto the man’s leathery face. Why had he not heard of this? Was this a trap? What was the Crippler playing at?
“Do you doubt my word, ser?” Calder shifted in his sturdy saddle, his destrier snorting. “I have the papers to back up my claim.”
The old fox scratched his silver stubble. “Nay, that won’t be necessary m’lord,” he muttered as he descended the stairs. The men-at-arms at his back relaxed visibly. “Rather not have trouble. It’s not as if I’ve got the men to stop you either way.” He spat through his teeth again. “I served Lord Osrick well, and Janos Tully after him. I wager I can serve ye too.”
“Better to accept an unexpected ally than turn him into an enemy,” Fishbone suggested.
Calder nodded. “Just so, Tom. Does not mean we have to trust him, though. I will need you to keep an eye on him and the local men-at-arms. We will pay them good silver. You will be in charge after I leave, until Franklyn or Benfred arrives. I will leave instructions.”
Tom nodded. “As you say, my lord,” he replied before riding off shouting commands. “Get that Tully banner down to make room for Lord Frey’s sigil. You!” Fishbone pointed a gauntleted finger to the old castellan. “See to it.”
I will be in Malta till 9 June. However, you are in capable hands in my absence.
I expect mind-blowing posts upon my return.
I expect mind-blowing posts upon my return.
Westeros, The Vale, Gulltown
The journey had taken him from Ashford to Bitterbridge by barge where they had disembarked and continued along the Roseroad. Ser Otho Bracken had hated the entire river voyage, beginning to end. Water was not his strong suit –at all. In fact, the huge knight would not have taken a ship at King’s Landing if he had not needed due to time constraints. Making it in time to Gulltown was paramount, for his third tourney this season. If only they could have set out sooner, then the journey could have been made by land, or at least up to Maidenpool where they had need only traverse the Bay of Crabs that cut into the Riverlands up to Saltpans.
If only they could have set out sooner. But no, a royal investigation had been called, and Ser Otho –a knight present at the Ashford tournament- had been sent for as a witness. Maekar’s blow had been a vicious one, and it had no doubt caused the death of Prince Baelor Breakspear. Nevertheless, Maekar remained a trueborn son of Daeron II and it seemed surreal to prosecute him for fratricide. Already from the beginning it was clear that the Anvil of Redgrass Field would be cleared of all charges. Both Valarr and Matarys, who had indicted their uncle for the murder of their father, displayed choler and disappointment as the trial proceeded. Bloodraven undoubtedly had had his own claws already in the proceedings, and he was either powerless to do something, or did not wish for Maekar be found guilty. Otho had not known which one was worse.
A seasick Ser Otho stumbled down the gangplank at the pier in Gulltown, immensely grateful to feel solid ground beneath his boots. Breathing in the air, he felt his strength –and stomach, returning and made for the tourney lists. He sent a boy ahead of him, but couldn’t remember his name. Then he realised he did not care either.
No expense had been spared in setting up the lists. The city itself was filled to the brim, by the sound and smell of it. Filled with hopefuls and knights and ladies, those that did not had quarters offered to them by the local nobility; filled with purse-cutters and homeless people little more than refuse. Ser Otho chose to set up his three pavilions in the designated area, outside of Gulltown. At least the smell of thousands of bodies packed together was less prominent, and horses did not reek half as bad.
The joust was a disaster. Ser Otho, encased in dented black armour with auburn highlights, had been sorely tempted to kill his horse after that poor showing. A nameless lad, only having earned his spurs a few weeks previously according to the stablehands, had dealt him a devastating blow with the couched lance. Otho –and his dignity- had been flung out of the saddle, sprawling from his horse. The crowd had been in awe until he had risen and roared with anger. Several men-at-arms had to grab hold of him, at least two of them having their noses broken in the process, lest he charged at the victorious hedge knight, intent on bloodying his blade.
Fortunately he could take out his anger on the opponents he faced in the melee. Fuelled by his rancor, Ser Otho Bracken had proven unstoppable, besting several knights of renown. Even the Laughing Storm had proven to be not fierce enough to withstand Otho’s powerful blows. The only adversary coming close to beating him, had been that disillusioned brat from White Harbor. For all his holy misunderstandings, Ser Baelor Manderly knew how to wield a sword, and the Brute of Bracken had thoroughly enjoyed the match. Violence and the sword-song is what he lived for.
Exhausted, he accepted the rewards and admired his handiwork. He had given a knight sworn to House Brune such a beating on the helmet with his gauntlets, that they had to carry him off the field to remove the dented helmet. The knight was fine, but the helmet had been lodged on too tightly as a result of Otho's punches. Ser Otho had taken several blows himself, and so when he smiled his mouth was coloured with blood. Some in the Riverlands might have recognised him better this way, running from the crimson spectre as he and his band of screamers came charging.
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