ASoIaF RPG - A Tourney of Gulls IC

[Cor Azer]

A gap in the swarm of clansmen before him gives Haken a moment to breath. A stiff kick sends the dead one before him to the side so the sarjeant can step up on a stray rock for a better view to look for his lords.

There! Still standing, thank the Warrior

He smiles with grim satisfaction as Ser Jarl runs down another of the Blood Goats, and cocks his head curiously when he hears laughter.

Roy? He stares at the young blacksmith, enjoying the skirmish perhaps too much. Strong lad, but maybe needs to take things more serious.

With the throng of clansmen lessening, Haken sees most the Vantri entourage holding their own. He hears Ser Laton belay some order Ser Jarl gave, but over the din, Haken hadn't heard the original order.Doesn't matter, I imagine. Bloody goats seem to be in retreat.

A few stragglers remain - whether for blood lust or brazen bravado or simple bad luck Haken can't say.

He hops down from his rock and hustles over the the side of the wagon. He grabs the shoulder of the clansmen trying to climb into the wagon, and hauls him back, flinging him to the ground. The heel of his boot breaks the downed man's jaw, and then Haken's steel finishes his howling.

"They're falling back. Fynn, Derring - drive them off. Ollip, check the fallen. Cam?"

"He's down, Sarjeant. Bleeding pretty bad."

"Fetch the maester."

Leaving his men to their tasks, Haken makes his way towards Laton's horse, where the heir of House Vantri is surveying the end of the battle. "A poor ambush it would seem, m'lord. Desperate, perhaps, to attack without overwhelming numbers. You want any prisoners?"

OOC: Yeah, so... um... the clansmen seem quite outmatched here, so they're running away. There are still a few if you wanted any captives for questioning, but for the most part, you need not worry about extra combat. Should we ever get to the tourney, perhaps stiffer opponents may be found.

 

[muggie2]

As the first, already battered clansman, sees Roy rotate back to face him after first poleaxing the clansman's comrade, his eyes fill with fear.
Roy stops laughing. He nods his head in the direction of the forest.
"Get outa here, lad. The butcher's bill's already high enough, and I've no wish to add you to it."
He shifts his staff to an obviously defensive, not offensive, position, and flicks it toward the forest again. The clansman doesn't need any more urging, and runs for it, still clutching his ribs from the first hit.
As soon as the clansman is obviously on his way and not returning, Roy looks around the group to see how the rest of the battle went.

 

[Captain Impossible]

Ser Jarl sees the clansmen turn and flee, their ambush having failed horribly. Ser Jarl positions himself between the caravan and the fleeing barbarians, on guard in case the retreat is a feint. He hears the someone shouting for the maester, and silently asks the Warrior to ward off the Stranger.

 

[DrZombie]

"We're having our hands full enough with the one we have. Make sure he hasn't gotten hold of a weapon. String up any surving clansmen." Laton says with a hard voice while he looks at the maester tending to one of his household. "These bandits will get no mercy from us."

 

[Cor Azer]

Ser Patrek trudges across the ruins of the keep, unmoved by the clansmen being executed. He hears a few of the Vantri men congratulating the young blacksmith on his efforts during the battle, and more praising Ser Jarl's riding.

His headache was returning. Gone when the blood started pumping as battle began, now that he was cooling down, he could feel the headache fighting to retake his attention.

Have to finish this quickly.

He sees the hefty House Vantri guard - Adham? Something like that - tightening the bonds on the murderous sellsword. The prisoner had demanded a weapon, but despite his struggles, had not gotten free.

"Ser Laton. A word please," says Patrek. His voice is even, but the hint of seriousness causes the few nearby men to step back, giving the two privacy.

"Your men are loyal and brave, and they fought well today. A testament to your House." Despite his congratulatory words, his voice remains even.

"Although these clansmen deserved their visit with the Stranger, remember that you are on Corbray lands now. I have no doubt that you and your men could enforce your will - you clearly out number my retainers and me - but I would hope a man of honor would be better than that. In the future, I would appreciate it if you asked my leave - as envoy of Lord Corbray - before acting."

He winces, and presses a palm to his left temple.

By the Seven, these headaches are going to be the death of me.

 

[muggie2]

Ser Patrek trudges across the ruins of the keep, unmoved by the clansmen being executed. He hears a few of the Vantri men congratulating the young blacksmith on his efforts during the battle, and more praising Ser Jarl's riding.

Roy is rather embarrassed by the praise he is receiving. He is no stranger to fighting, nobody who worked in the mines was a stranger to that. Hardworking men liked to drink, hard drinking men liked to fight. Mostly it was just brawling, fists, tankards, and an occasional chair, and sometimes, though rarely, if things got really serious, someone might pull a knife. Dangerous, that. Anything short of that could be excused as high spirits - pay repair costs, pay a fine, whatever. Knives, though, were serious weapons. Law took a dim view of that. Roy had always been careful to avoid that kind of thing.
He'd never killed anyone.
Still hadn't. He'd put the clansman he'd hit down for the count, but still alive. Now they were going to hang the clansman, and it was orders of the Vantri. His lord. His house. But somehow, being congratulated for it felt, well, hollow.
He'd never killed before. Nobody he'd had fought had ever died. Until now.
Roy tries to make his way to Ser Jarl. He'd seen him fight, not much, but he'd caught the movement from the corner of his eye while he'd been fighting. No time to watch during the fight, but he'd have had to be blind to miss it completely, and afterwards, well, the bodies on the ground were testament to his skills.
Ser Jarl is surrounded by men praising his actions and skills. And justly so - his actions had all but ended the attack, and his skills could be judged by the bodies. Roy thought he could see some reservations in Ser Jarl's eyes though, some doubt. Maybe he was imagining it, maybe not. In any case, he needed to talk to him. He waited for a gap in the talk, a chance to get a word in.
"Ser Jarl, when you have time, can I speak to ye?"

 

[DrZombie]

Laton bows his head.

"My sincere apologies, Ser Patrek. I fear the anger at seeing one of my men wounded by these bandits has gotten the better of me. I intended no slight to you or your house, and I stand corrected. I will give over custody of the sellsword to your men as well."

He gets of his horse, and cuts off a cloth from the clothes of one of the dead clansmen to wipe away the worst of the blood and gore from his mace and armor before it dries out.

 

[Captain Impossible]

Ser Jarl acknowledges the praise of the others sincerely, but without enthusiasm. The battle was not the glorious clash sang about. The clansmen attacked like cowards, and the response from the caravan had been overwhelming. Running down men on foot from the advantage of horseback was no great feat. Something that isn't nostalgia or sadness reaches back to that day at Gulltown. A real battle. Glorious battle. Jarl wonders if he would ever get another chance.

Jarl stirs from his thoughts as Roy addresses him. He dismounts to be at eye level with Roy, whispering "Thank you, friend," to his rounsey as he does so. The last step to the ground is a little harder than expected, even with just his armor's padding.

"What is it, Roy?

 

[muggie2]

Ser Jarl acknowledges the praise of the others sincerely, but without enthusiasm. The battle was not the glorious clash sang about. The clansmen attacked like cowards, and the response from the caravan had been overwhelming. Running down men on foot from the advantage of horseback was no great feat. Something that isn't nostalgia or sadness reaches back to that day at Gulltown. A real battle. Glorious battle. Jarl wonders if he would ever get another chance.

Jarl stirs from his thoughts as Roy addresses him. He dismounts to be at eye level with Roy, whispering "Thank you, friend," to his rounsey as he does so. The last step to the ground is a little harder than expected, even with just his armor's padding.

"What is it, Roy?

Roy looks a little embarrassed.
"I don't know if this is the right time, Ser. It's just, well, I've never, actually, you know..."
His voice trails off a bit. He coughs, and looks rather sheepishly at Ser Jarl.
"I was scared, Ser. I was laughing so that they wouldn't see it. And somehow, during the fight, the laughing became real. They just didn't seem to be a threat. But now the ones who lived, we're killing them. And, I've never, well, killed anyone before."
He waves at the others around them.
"I mean, is it always like this, Ser? It's a victory, but, somehow, it just doesn't feel like much of a victory. I put one down myself, and I'm just a blacksmith, not a real fighting man. I know we've protected the innocent, and our Lord, not that _he_ really needed any protecting, but..."
He trails off again, and looks at Ser Jarl, as if expecting him to say something that made sense of it all.

 

[Cor Azer]

Maester Karlon gives the wounded soldier a small wooden wedge wrapped in leather. "Bite. Hard."

As the man grunts, the maester shifts his leg, straightening it so that bones may set properly. The wooden stick muffles the agonizing groan. At least this man will live, thinks the maester, pausing in his work to look over to the fallen clansmen. A pity such folk couldn't be more civilized. If they'd only bend the knee, they'd find respite in the Vale.

He stands, and waves over two other soldiers. "He cannot walk on that leg; carry him to my wagon, and I'll watch over him there."

"You're not wasting my supplies on a dying man, are you, Karlon?"

With a heavy sigh, the maester turns to Ser Gough. "Dying men rarely groan like that, Ser." Which you'd know, were you ever truly in battle.

Disregarding any look the rotund knight may be giving him, Karlon finishes gathering his materials, and begins walking back to his wagon. Lady Palla gives him a reassuring smile as he passes, but the young squire Jacelynn - no, she was still dressed as Jace - did not see him; her focus was still on the battlefield. Don't trouble yourself, child. They died as befit their raiding ways, he thinks, but merely pats her knee as he continues on.

"Ready to march!"

The call echoes around the ruins, and so takes a few minutes for the maester to place it as Ser Patrek rather than Ser Laton. "Wes," he asks as he approaches Ser Gough's squire. "Has Ser Laton been injured? Why is Ser Patrek commanding?"

The young Crelling boy shrugs. "I don't think so, Maester. The gossip is that there was an argument; that Ser Patrek invoked the name of Lord Corbray. Ser Laton deferred to him - on Corbray lands, at least."

An argument? Unlikely. thinks Karlon, recalling the calm demeanor of both men. But perhaps a difference of opinions.

"Very well then, Wes." He directs the squire up into the driving seat of the wagon. "You'll direct the mules. I need to ride in the back and watch over the wounded soldier.

"Yes, Maester."

After administering a small dose of milk of the poppy, the soldier was resting peacefully. Karlon sits back as the wagon began to move, and the sounds filtering into the wagon are those of a caravan, marching down a simple road. His eyes begin to droop, as the rhythmic rocking of the wagon begins to sap the strength from his already tired bones.

"SER!"

Karlon wakes with a start. What? "Oh my..." How long have I -

"Ser Patrek!"

"Fetch the maester!"

Karlon is already stepping out of his wagon when Ser Patrek's squire Joff comes running. It is later in the day - the Corbray banners of Heart's Home can be seen flying above the forest canopy on a distant hill. The maester shakes his head to regain focus - the squire is babbling.

"Ser Patrek... he... just collapsed! He fell from his horse!"

The maester follows Joff back to the fallen knight, through a throng of people that cannot seem to decide whether to thin or gather.

He frowns as he stands above the knight, noticing the lack of chest movement. With practiced thoroughness, he kneels beside the man, but his examination is brief.

"I can do nothing for him. Ser Patrek is dead, my lords."

OOC: Ok, trying to move this along. I can certainly see why GRRM gets so bogged down - it's really easy to keep introducing plot threads, but sometimes, they gotta be trimmed down. When you respond, feel free to either be in "the present" or "in the past" - during the ride or finishing off something back at the ruins. That's why I left the trip mostly vague.