And I'll close this vote now. Jaycen will accept Qarlton's offer. I won't say much about this choice, but I'm sure many of you could see the… more similarities between Ned and Robert from season 1 here, and Ned really ought to have stayed in the North... Fortunately this is not Kings Landing, and there are no Lannister's involved from what we can see
Anyway, I have the next part ready, and it is a Bethany part. Last time we saw her, Gareth had left and Bethany was striking hard times with her limited company, with Maddelyn showing difficulty getting over Gareth's return to Nightsong, and the whoreson Ben Tarth showing some empathy after his actions, something which Bethany did not take lightly too. By the end of the part, you chose for Bethany to go and apologise to Ben, and well, those were my bloody guidelines, but I might've gotten carried away with a new character at Blackhaven Enjoy!
Bethany
The warm air brushed against her cheeks and through her hair, she adjusted her arm, her gaze focused on the lone oak that sat ato… morep the small hill, at least a mile from the large stone wall that bordered Blackhaven Town from the Marches. Inhale. Her chest rose as she pulled in her breath, holding her army steady and her gaze calm. The shaft of the arrow rested against her forefinger, and with a calm exhale, she let her grip loose.
The arrow soared through the air, battling against the wind and steering on course, as planned. Splinters of wood thrusted into the air as the arrow pierced the trunk of the old oak, right next to the four other arrows she had just shot earlier. Another round of applause came from the guards as they watched her in marvel. “Brilliant shot, Lady Caron!” they exclaimed in compliments, but Bethany felt no sense of pride from her shots, nor any uplifting of her lowered spirits.
Before long, the men under … [view original content]
Ooooh, so no apologies to that shitty creep Ben, I see. I was a bit afraid for that, because I am really not okay with her apologizing to that fucker without having done him any wrong. Once he outright begs forgiveness, I might be willing to let it slip, but she has nothing to apologize for. That being said, I see she still plans to do it, so we'll see what comes out of it. Safe to say, some brooding bodyguard makes for a much better distraction than a lovesick cousin or a creepy shitcunt. I do not know what to make of Cassian yet, but well, I like him more than Ben, which is not particularly hard I particularly like that he is treating Bethany exactly the way she needs to be treated right now, directly, with a no-nonsense attitude, but not harsh or unfair. At the same time, we don't know anything about him, like, at all, safe for the fact that he comes from a lesser noble house and serves the Dondarrion's.
Now, the choice, the choice...
You see, I really, really had to debate on this, because here, my two basic modes clash with each other. As Concerned Dad Liquid, I have to bring up that brooding, handsome strangers are not always all that great. We don't know anything about Cassian and this is all going very fast. Bethy could very well regret this terribly, if it turns out she's hooking up with a guy that only plays with her, or if Cassian shows other ulterior motives for taking things this quickly with the second in line to House Caron. At the same time, I can't outright say that I have any suspicions against him, he could just as likely, maybe even more likely, just be a standard guardsman from a lesser noble family who takes an opportunity everyone would take in his situation. Maybe he's an okay guy. This brings out Shipper Liquid, as I can, indeed, ship it. It's not hard for me to ship and in this case, there would be some obvious benefits for Bethany. Getting quite close to her guard might allow her some liberty she otherwise wouldn't have. On top of that, she sees her stay at Blackhaven, with her mother's family, as an imprisonment, which it quite clearly is not. Maybe this could help her in actually finding some positive things about her current situation. Sure as hell, a fling with that guy is more than enough giving her something else to think about. So, I am really conflicted here. I'd actually prefer things not to move at such a quick speed for her, because we cannot know if Cassian is truly good for her, so that they might grow closer later on, once she sees what kind of a person he truly is. However, not kissing him here could be seen as a sign of rejection and could have the opposite, making her long for a man that feels hurt by her inaction, making him less willing to protect her if any danger comes up, generally making her situation feel even more like a prison for her. So, very reluctantly, and still leaving myself with the option to change my vote later on, I choose to [Kiss him], though as said, I am conflicted and feel generally very uneasy about this whole situation because of how easily this could backfire horribly.
Bethany
The warm air brushed against her cheeks and through her hair, she adjusted her arm, her gaze focused on the lone oak that sat ato… morep the small hill, at least a mile from the large stone wall that bordered Blackhaven Town from the Marches. Inhale. Her chest rose as she pulled in her breath, holding her army steady and her gaze calm. The shaft of the arrow rested against her forefinger, and with a calm exhale, she let her grip loose.
The arrow soared through the air, battling against the wind and steering on course, as planned. Splinters of wood thrusted into the air as the arrow pierced the trunk of the old oak, right next to the four other arrows she had just shot earlier. Another round of applause came from the guards as they watched her in marvel. “Brilliant shot, Lady Caron!” they exclaimed in compliments, but Bethany felt no sense of pride from her shots, nor any uplifting of her lowered spirits.
Before long, the men under … [view original content]
Bethany
The warm air brushed against her cheeks and through her hair, she adjusted her arm, her gaze focused on the lone oak that sat ato… morep the small hill, at least a mile from the large stone wall that bordered Blackhaven Town from the Marches. Inhale. Her chest rose as she pulled in her breath, holding her army steady and her gaze calm. The shaft of the arrow rested against her forefinger, and with a calm exhale, she let her grip loose.
The arrow soared through the air, battling against the wind and steering on course, as planned. Splinters of wood thrusted into the air as the arrow pierced the trunk of the old oak, right next to the four other arrows she had just shot earlier. Another round of applause came from the guards as they watched her in marvel. “Brilliant shot, Lady Caron!” they exclaimed in compliments, but Bethany felt no sense of pride from her shots, nor any uplifting of her lowered spirits.
Before long, the men under … [view original content]
Bethany
The warm air brushed against her cheeks and through her hair, she adjusted her arm, her gaze focused on the lone oak that sat ato… morep the small hill, at least a mile from the large stone wall that bordered Blackhaven Town from the Marches. Inhale. Her chest rose as she pulled in her breath, holding her army steady and her gaze calm. The shaft of the arrow rested against her forefinger, and with a calm exhale, she let her grip loose.
The arrow soared through the air, battling against the wind and steering on course, as planned. Splinters of wood thrusted into the air as the arrow pierced the trunk of the old oak, right next to the four other arrows she had just shot earlier. Another round of applause came from the guards as they watched her in marvel. “Brilliant shot, Lady Caron!” they exclaimed in compliments, but Bethany felt no sense of pride from her shots, nor any uplifting of her lowered spirits.
Before long, the men under … [view original content]
Bethany
The warm air brushed against her cheeks and through her hair, she adjusted her arm, her gaze focused on the lone oak that sat ato… morep the small hill, at least a mile from the large stone wall that bordered Blackhaven Town from the Marches. Inhale. Her chest rose as she pulled in her breath, holding her army steady and her gaze calm. The shaft of the arrow rested against her forefinger, and with a calm exhale, she let her grip loose.
The arrow soared through the air, battling against the wind and steering on course, as planned. Splinters of wood thrusted into the air as the arrow pierced the trunk of the old oak, right next to the four other arrows she had just shot earlier. Another round of applause came from the guards as they watched her in marvel. “Brilliant shot, Lady Caron!” they exclaimed in compliments, but Bethany felt no sense of pride from her shots, nor any uplifting of her lowered spirits.
Before long, the men under … [view original content]
Bethany
The warm air brushed against her cheeks and through her hair, she adjusted her arm, her gaze focused on the lone oak that sat ato… morep the small hill, at least a mile from the large stone wall that bordered Blackhaven Town from the Marches. Inhale. Her chest rose as she pulled in her breath, holding her army steady and her gaze calm. The shaft of the arrow rested against her forefinger, and with a calm exhale, she let her grip loose.
The arrow soared through the air, battling against the wind and steering on course, as planned. Splinters of wood thrusted into the air as the arrow pierced the trunk of the old oak, right next to the four other arrows she had just shot earlier. Another round of applause came from the guards as they watched her in marvel. “Brilliant shot, Lady Caron!” they exclaimed in compliments, but Bethany felt no sense of pride from her shots, nor any uplifting of her lowered spirits.
Before long, the men under … [view original content]
A Morgan part is on the way, but I don't think it will be ready until the weekend. Unfortunately I'm just stacked up with a lot of work during this part of the year, which has left me with little time to write the Invasion as fluently and regularly as I would've otherwise wished. Once my end of year exams come to conclusion I should have a week or so before my major vacation to pump out some parts, but unfortunately my progress will be stale up until that point. Hopefully this weekend though, that's my aim!
And the voting is closed! Well, it's been pretty decided for a while now, but it's probably time to close it after almost four months. Four months! That a third of the year, that doesn't sound right. At any rate, I am extremely sorry for being absent from the Invasion for so long. As those of you who follow White Night will know, I've been quite preoccupied with my final year exams, but they're over now. Unfortunately for you guys, I'll be out of the country in a couple of days for my 5 week holiday to South America, so it seems my writing will be delayed yet again. However I do have one part to post in the mean time, just to remind you guys I am alive it's an Erza part.
The last time we saw Erza Nightwood was in her first part. The Ironborn girl gave the perspective of the Ironborn on Bear Island, and she showed the results of House Woodfoot and the terrifying Ironborn that had seized control of the island, such as Ravos the Raper and Guthred Ghastly. When it came to Erza's end of part choice, you guys decided she should find some comfort with Artigas Pyke, a bastard a year younger than her looking for lust. This part leads off from there.
Bethany
The warm air brushed against her cheeks and through her hair, she adjusted her arm, her gaze focused on the lone oak that sat ato… morep the small hill, at least a mile from the large stone wall that bordered Blackhaven Town from the Marches. Inhale. Her chest rose as she pulled in her breath, holding her army steady and her gaze calm. The shaft of the arrow rested against her forefinger, and with a calm exhale, she let her grip loose.
The arrow soared through the air, battling against the wind and steering on course, as planned. Splinters of wood thrusted into the air as the arrow pierced the trunk of the old oak, right next to the four other arrows she had just shot earlier. Another round of applause came from the guards as they watched her in marvel. “Brilliant shot, Lady Caron!” they exclaimed in compliments, but Bethany felt no sense of pride from her shots, nor any uplifting of her lowered spirits.
Before long, the men under … [view original content]
The iron girl bit her lip awkwardly as she turned her gaze back to the love couple, Jarod reaching up Arika’s skirt as his mouth attended to her breast. Feeling perverted, Erza quickly turned her attention to Artigas, who appeared to have no trouble watching the show displayed before him. She punched his arm, making him wince shortly before turning to her with a perplexed look on his gaze.
“Let’s go,” she reluctantly decided, and as expected the bastard’s boyish smirk formed on his lips. “Well hold on, I haven’t even bought you a drink-” he started, but Erza cut him off when she grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and pulled him off his stool and onto his arse. His smirk widened to a grin.
“Right here, Nightwood?” he flirted, caressing her leg as she rolled her eyes. “Fuck off, Pyke,” she laughed, kicking his hand from her. She made her exit, and he followed after her heels like a starved pup excited for its meal. As they reached the doorway, Erza felt the prickling of hairs stand on the back of her neck, like she was being watched. She turned back a moment, scanning the crowd as Artigas rose to his feet.
Jarod had stripped Arika of her blouse, and the two had sprawled themselves over the table Erza had not long ago just eaten from. Lord Goodbrother downed an ale and challenged Captain Blackadder to another match of the finger dance while his thrall still bandaged his bleeding hand. Harlie Beserk had taken her place by her brother’s side, overlooking the drunken crowd while talking with their war leader. When Erza’s eyes reached the last place she had seen Guthred, she felt a lump build in her throat. Edgar had resumed his archery with Lord Ursus’ eldest son’s corpse, but Guthred Ghastly was nowhere to be seen.
“Come on, Erza, let’s go,” Artigas ushered her excitedly, and hesitantly she let him take her outside. There they found more men playing their foolish games, such as dousing their bodies in ale and jumping over campfires, or juggling axes. Erza and Artigas weaved their way through the drunken crowd and made their way for the camping ground, but Erza felt someone grasp onto her arm as they fought their way through the crowd, making her spin around in fright.
“G’day lassie,” the young man greeted, and it took Erza’s eyes a moment to adjust and recognise the man. “Two-Finger Tan,” Erza grinned, freeing her other arm from Artigas and placing her hand over Tanner’s. “The fuck are you doing out here?” she questioned, causing the mad man to grin. “Andiron Quarter-Iron and Korb the Pirate claimed they would have their brawl out here, I swear it…” Tanner mumbled drunkly, making Erza roll her eyes and smile.
“Tanner… Andiron already took Korb’s eye out three nights ago,” she reminded him, and Tanner raised an eyebrow momentarily before shrugging it off. “Where’s Jarod? Where is my brother?!” Tanner shouted, using Erza as a balance to pull himself up. She held her ground, helping the stumbling man onto his feet. He took a moment to find his balance, and his rolling eyes found contact with Erza’s.
“He’s in the hall, fucking the Goodbrother girl,” Erza informed him, bringing a disappointed frown onto Tanner’s usually jovial expression. “That damned bitch has stolen my brother she has, he and I were thick as thieves once,” Tanner stated in a stuttering melancholy tone before collapsing into Erza’s arms. She barely caught him, and Artigas made himself known again by supporting the weight of the drunken man.
“You need to rest, Tanner,” Artigas stated, making the madman only roll his eyes. “Fuck resting!” he spat, pushing the boy away and looking lustily into Erza’s eyes, “I need to find a woman to fuck,” he announced, standing himself upright and pushing Erza away to show his independence. “I’ll fuck all the pussy on this island!” Tanner declared, raising his hands up to the sky and laughing crazily as he stumbled back, tripping over arse of tit into the dirt. When he didn’t move after a long moment, Erza started to demonstrate concern, but Artigas impatiently pulled her back into the right direction.
When they reached Artigas’ tent the two immediately embraced, the unexperienced boy pecking at her neck and cheeks in a poor attempt at foreplay, but Erza worked his shirt off as he left his slobber over her. The two stumbled into the tent, Artigas ripping off his pants in a great hurry while Erza effortlessly pulled her shirt off. Artigas’ eyes widened with excitement as his virgin drives lunged at her breasts, but Erza caught him before he could reach them. “You’re mine, Pyke,” Erza whispered, pushing him onto his back. A wide grin spread across his lips as she placed herself on top of him, running a hand through his hair and caressing his cheek.
“What’re you waiting for?” he asked, his words love crazy and impatient, but Erza just stared into his beautiful eyes for a moment, trying to find some sort of attraction to him to clear her mind. She struggled, and eventually resorted to shutting her eyes before leaning in to passionately kiss him. He tasted of salt and ale, something she could not find an appreciation for, but she ignored it to the best of her abilities.
She focused on the distant laughter and cheering of the Ironborn at the hall, she thought about what each of them were likely doing in their drunken state. She wondered if she’d prefer to have been with them than massaging a bastard’s boyish manhood. She made her way down his neck as he grasped her hips, starting to pull down her pants. The night was cold and calm, but the warmth of their skin atop each other was something of a comfort for her. Erza let Artigas turned her over, the boy was already in a great sweat from the foreplay.
He climbed on top of her and she took a hold of his wet forearms as he found his way inside her. She felt disappointed with the outcome, but she did her best not to show it. She was a bitch, but she did not want to hurt the boy, not at that level. His eyes of lust stared at her breasts with pleasure, and his wet body began to rub against hers as he lowered himself onto her. She tolerated it, but then she heard something. A crack, the snapping of a twig.
“Stop, stop!” she whispered in urgency, grasping his scrawny arms to stop him. A look of worry and confusion spread across his face. “What is it? Am I hurting you?” he asked with a naive voice, but Erza did not give him an answer, even if she knew she wanted to mock him. You’re prick isn’t big enough to hurt me, Pyke. She listened carefully, but all she could hear was panting, the heavy breathing that aired down on her. Maybe it was just the wind, she thought in reassurance, and gave Art a nod to resume.
As he found his rhythm again, Erza thought of what things were like back at home. Back at the Iron Islands. She found herself thinking of her brother involuntarily, and had to force herself to think of something else. Was it weird to think of the best man she knew when there was another inside of her? Likely, especially when that man is her brother, but there truly was no Ironborn that was a primer example of the old teachings and strength than Agnar Nightwood.
Erza’s eyes trailed down the lining of the tent, until she found herself looking out the creaks of the barely open tent flap. The night sky was cloudless, and she could see a few stars twinkling in the distance. She remembered how Agnar used to show her the creatures of the night that were formed from the aligned stars, and how he taught her to use the night as a way to navigate. She stared at them with comfort until something blocked her view. A cloud? She thought curiously, but then the shadow shifted and she found herself looking at the light blue eyes that she recognised immediately. Ghastly!
She pulled Artigas off of her and reached for her boot, scrambling frantically in the darkness for her dagger. Artigas turned to her in confusion and concern as he noticed what he was searching for. “Erza what’s your fucking problem?” he asked with a touch of fear in his voice, but he tried to mask it with frustration. By the time Erza had freed the dagger, she heard the quickly scurry of Guthred’s footsteps disappearing into the night. She felt a cold sweat crawl over her, and the cold wind breezed through the tent flap onto her cool skin.
“I heard someone,” she stated, clutching onto the dagger in paranoia, but Artigas tried desperately to calm her down and bring her back to bed. “It was probably just a squirrel or something, don’t worry about it,” he claimed, placing his hot sweaty hand on her cold leg. “Erza you’re freezing!” Artigas exclaimed as he invited her under the warmth of the sheets, but Erza just shook her head. “I’m sorry Art, I can’t,” she mumbled, pulling her clothes back on. The look of disappointment on the teenager’s eyes hurt her, but she did not submit to his pleading eyes. Once she was reasonable she exited his tent, accepting the cold embracement.
She felt unsafe, haunted by Guthred. She knew it was him, it had to be him. She needed to get away from him, somewhere in the protection of others, even if they couldn’t really do much for her. Jarod would have been the perfect choice had she not known he and Arika were fucking in the hall, but she did not want to return to the hall either. Tanner was her second choice, but it was likely he was still unconscious by the fire. Perhaps I could go down to the docks, find Korb or Andiron, she thought hopefully, but she doubted that they would be in any position than the others. She turned her eyes to the forest, another thought springing to mind. Or if he’s desperate enough I could teach him a lesson, she thought riskily.
Ah, finally I am beyond glad to see that you managed to find the time to write a part again. Of course, there is your vacation coming up, but we have waited for so long, what's another 5 weeks? The story is worth the wait and may there be many more parts to come.
[Lure Guthred into the forest]
Seriously, that Guthred guy is creeping me out. The problem there is, I cannot estimate how bad he truly is. Is he merely some creepy jerk, but otherwise comparably harmless beyond the peeping, or is he actually as dangerous as Erza seems to think he is? Then again, he is a Hoare, so what kind of protection could she get from him, if she is unable to defend herself. Tanner is probably unconscious, Jarod and Arika are kinda busy and the others could be anywhere. So, I believe luring him into a trap could be best, either teaching him a lesson about trying to do, well, whatever he was trying to do there, or maybe even permanently dealing with him if he is having intentions even worse than just peeping on her and Art.
Erza
The iron girl bit her lip awkwardly as she turned her gaze back to the love couple, Jarod reaching up Arika’s skirt as his mouth att… moreended to her breast. Feeling perverted, Erza quickly turned her attention to Artigas, who appeared to have no trouble watching the show displayed before him. She punched his arm, making him wince shortly before turning to her with a perplexed look on his gaze.
“Let’s go,” she reluctantly decided, and as expected the bastard’s boyish smirk formed on his lips. “Well hold on, I haven’t even bought you a drink-” he started, but Erza cut him off when she grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and pulled him off his stool and onto his arse. His smirk widened to a grin.
“Right here, Nightwood?” he flirted, caressing her leg as she rolled her eyes. “Fuck off, Pyke,” she laughed, kicking his hand from her. She made her exit, and he followed after her heels like a starved pup excited for its meal. As they re… [view original content]
Erza
The iron girl bit her lip awkwardly as she turned her gaze back to the love couple, Jarod reaching up Arika’s skirt as his mouth att… moreended to her breast. Feeling perverted, Erza quickly turned her attention to Artigas, who appeared to have no trouble watching the show displayed before him. She punched his arm, making him wince shortly before turning to her with a perplexed look on his gaze.
“Let’s go,” she reluctantly decided, and as expected the bastard’s boyish smirk formed on his lips. “Well hold on, I haven’t even bought you a drink-” he started, but Erza cut him off when she grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and pulled him off his stool and onto his arse. His smirk widened to a grin.
“Right here, Nightwood?” he flirted, caressing her leg as she rolled her eyes. “Fuck off, Pyke,” she laughed, kicking his hand from her. She made her exit, and he followed after her heels like a starved pup excited for its meal. As they re… [view original content]
Well nearly two months and there's still no break to this tie, that shows how dead this story is Only have me and my lack of time to blame however, but I'll continue to post regardless. I'll leave this vote open in the off chance that others catch up with the re-ignition of activity on this thread, but for now, I have a new part ready. It's to Torv, who we haven't seen in quite a while.
Last time that was, Torv was on the search for Rolland Reed with his company: Rose the Black Thief and Jesse the Exile, a motley crew pulled together unwillingly. After being cast down the river from Torrhen's Square, the three spotted another raft that was beached ashore, and with obsidian arrows sticking out from it. In the end the team decided to check it out, thanks to your votes. They chose to camp on the beach rather than go searching for whoever once used the boat, suspected it was Rolland. Torv then awoke at dawn to find the Children of the Forest looming over them with weapons. Out of the three options, you chose for Torv to surrender, and surrender he will.
Edit: Now that there is a tie break, thanks to @CM3434 , I will close the voting. Erza will go to the docks.
Erza
The iron girl bit her lip awkwardly as she turned her gaze back to the love couple, Jarod reaching up Arika’s skirt as his mouth att… moreended to her breast. Feeling perverted, Erza quickly turned her attention to Artigas, who appeared to have no trouble watching the show displayed before him. She punched his arm, making him wince shortly before turning to her with a perplexed look on his gaze.
“Let’s go,” she reluctantly decided, and as expected the bastard’s boyish smirk formed on his lips. “Well hold on, I haven’t even bought you a drink-” he started, but Erza cut him off when she grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and pulled him off his stool and onto his arse. His smirk widened to a grin.
“Right here, Nightwood?” he flirted, caressing her leg as she rolled her eyes. “Fuck off, Pyke,” she laughed, kicking his hand from her. She made her exit, and he followed after her heels like a starved pup excited for its meal. As they re… [view original content]
A cold sweat rushed over him, and as the creature eyed him cautiously, Torv lifted his hands in surrender. The golden eyed being lifted its spear from the throat of the unconscious Jesse, and took a step towards Torv, pointing the obsidian-tipped weapon at his chest. Torv gulped as he tried to utter something, anything, to announce his peace. His eyes flicked over to the creature’s companions, who now hovered over his friends, one with an arrow drawn in its bow, the other holding a dagger to Rose’s throat. Torv now realised she was awake, her eyes wide and paralysed, stunned.
“Please,” Torv mumbled with a hushed voice, pleading with his hands, “we don’t mean you any harm,” he assured them, but the creature only looked perplexed as it looked back to its companions. They spoke in a tongue that Torv had never heard, and could not even begin to replicate, no matter how hard he thought of the melodic sounds they sung. There was no way of identifying any sound of deceit or hostility in their tone, their language left Torv completely dumbstruck.
Finally, their short but beautiful dialect ceased, and Torv’s opposed turned back to meet his fearful gaze. The golden eyed creature squinted in a moment of what Torv believed was contemplation, or decision, and uttered a few words before thrusting the spear past Torv’s face, slicing open his cheek. Startled and in pain, Torv let out a fearful yelp, collapsing to his knees as he tried to escape his attacker. He turned back to see that the creature was no longer pursuing him, but had turned to its comrades, who now laid their cuts on both Rose and Jesse. Torv tried to speak, but the words would not come out.
He wanted to scream, but his lungs were drained of air. Suffocating, he embraced the wet soil as he began to choke, his hands unwillingly contracting and releasing. His head began to spin and his vision started to fade. He lost all feeling to his toes, then feet, then legs. He was paralysed, and when he could no longer suffocate, his vision blackened, and one word spoke to him like a whisper. Sleep.
-
Torv awoke in a vast world of darkness, his surroundings completely black, but like ink. It swirled around him, dancing like shadows in the descending sun, yet there was no light. Torv pulled himself upright, disorientated and dazed with his surroundings. He outstretched his hand, watching as it quickly was engulfed by the inky shadows. He gulped, quickly snatching his hand back from the darkness and clutching onto it with his other, now looking around desperately for something else.
“Hello?” His voice echoed into the nothingness around him, until it gently faded into the abyss, leaving him lost and alone. What’s happening? Torv thought in panic, but his thoughts spoke louder than his words, and suddenly the inky darkness conglomerated into a familiar rectangular shape. Oily black tears streamed down the face of the enlarged Weeping Stone, its features so delicate and almost real. Torv reluctantly outstretched his arm again, letting the liquid that drained from the onyx eyes touch his hand. Immediately on contact, Torv felt everything spin, he screamed, shutting his eyes as the world morphed around him.
When he braved enough to re-open his eyes, he was no longer greeted by darkness, but a much darker, familiar setting. The Dreadfort, Torv realised, feeling a gripping around his chest as his breaths became more apparent. Reluctantly, Torv took a step forward, and found himself in a room unfamiliar to him, but with faces he knew all too well. The gaunt faced, weak man with a crown of pink copper atop his head, was the formidable King Rogar Bolton. However, he was younger than what Torv had known him to be.
He loomed over the corpse of a woman, caressing her hand as a melancholic look possessed his grey eyes, like dirty snow. “My King,” a shaky voice announced, but Rogar did not spare eye contact from the corpse of the woman. “There was nothing we could do to keep her alive, my King,” the man informed with regret, his face blackened out, “but the child we managed to save, a healthy baby girl. Healthy young twins,” he added with an admiring tone. Rogar’s lip quivered in ire has his hand tightly squeezed the woman’s.
“The little monster killed my sister,” Rogar growled, now turning his gaze to the baby girl. “Take her north of the Wall, let her freeze,” Rogar muttered, lowering his gaze back to his sister. The startled man gulped, clutching the child close to him. “My King…” he pleaded, but Rogar demonstrated his wrath generously, with his words. “That is my order, Nolan!” Rogar grunted, and the man reluctantly nodded with fear. “And the boy?” he added, his tone unwilling and fearful for the outcome.
“A bastard. Dull his mind with poppy mead and give him to your wife to raise,” Rogar commanded, running his hand through his sister’s hair. “He will never of his mother, and I will not have to worry about him searching for his father. Gods know the chaos that would cause us,” Rogar muttered, rising from his stool and facing Nolan. “This is my order, get it done.” The man nodded, turning and leaving the room while Rogar gave his sister a final glance.
The ink blotted out the scene, like a stone dropped in a puddle, until the wake settled and Torv stared into a dark reflection of himself, but it was not the same man that he really was. This Torv wore dark leathers, twirling a dagger in his hand with a malicious look on his eye. His face was concealed by the pelt of a wolf’s head, furs which draped down to his feet. Around his feet resided the heads of numerous men. Arnold Dint, Harmund Hornwill, Edrick, Emma Snow, Rolland Reed, Rogar Bolton, and Theon Stark. Torv shook his head, reaching to touch his face, which only disturbed the image.
Time spun again, and Torv now found himself across the waters in a distant land, harsh and unforgiving. A land where the winds left a cold bite on any that endured it, and where unicorns rode on the windswept fields. All except for one, one which laid cold on the stone shores, its belly ripped open and a girl beside it. Torv approached the female, but he could not identify her. She held a spear in one hand and the heart of the creature in the other, her long curly black hair was drenched in blood, and her face coated in it. She lifted both her arms into the air and screamed into the wind, her voice travelling to a land where castles stood behind a giant wall.
The wind swept him back to the Dreadfort, where he perched on a frosted balcony on the castle. He saw a man, his skin as pale as ice, his body coated in scars and his head cleanly shaved. He was the prince of the Dreadfort, but different, possessed. Torv could see through him, to an essence that ‘powered’ him, something dark and cold. It was not Dormund Bolton, not the Dormund that Torv had seen, not the one he remembered. Yet the prince seemed aware of his presence, lifting his head and turning to the balcony.
“Torvin?” he uttered, yet Torv could not tell whether his tone was malicious or just confused. Torv held his ground as the prince arose from the floor, coming to the balcony and lifting him off the dark stone battlements. “It is you,” he confirmed, and then swiftly, he twisted the bird’s neck.
-
Torv awoke in a mighty cold sweat as he felt a throbbing pain shoot through his neck. He yelped, falling off the stone bed he had been placed on and onto the rough rocky ground. He screamed as the pain intensified, and he felt his bones cracking and his muscles tearing. A soft hand touched his back, but the agony Torv suffered cause too great a pain for him to even want to see who touched him.
“Easy, child. You are ill, but I can cure you. I can take away the pain, and give you back what you have lost,” the voice promised, and while Torv was in no position to even care what tone the man spoke with, it sounded soft and genuine. “But I must warn you, for you will never be the same if you do this, but I promise I will train you to become everything you were born to be. I will take away the pain, and I will show you the way. Is this what you want?” the voice asked, and Torv’s hands clenched as he screamed in pain. He could not bear this, the pain had grown intolerable. He did not know who or what this man was or what he was offering, he had no time to think.
Ah, welcome back! I hope your vacation has been a nice one, I'm glad you returned. I also noticed some voters were absent last time, hopefully everyone ends up seeing this update here. You know I'd never miss a voting though
And whoa, what the hell was that revelation in this part? Torv seems to be a lot more important and powerful than I've assumed, hell, than anyone probably assumed. So, he's not only a Bolton, but also probably not dim-witted as I always thought, but more like permanently drugged or something like that. And he's a greenseer, eh? Dormund concerns me though. As Torv, or shall I say Torvin, claimed here, he's not quite Dormund, which fits with what we know of him since his resurrection. These are not only resurrection changes to his personality, it seems someone is altering him, probably controlling or at least heavily influencing him and this someone is likely evil. I was already suspicious enough about the whole resurrection deal here, as we don't know how it was done, it wasn't influenced by R'hllor magic, it was likely not connected to the Great Other either. Now however, it seems it would have been better if Dormund would have stayed dead.
[Yes]
Well, I can't see any negatives to this. It appears Torv is going to be important in the future, so he absolutely needs any advantage he can get. Dormund, or whatever controls him, knows of his existence and probably of his powers, so keeping him as he is definitely won't keep him safe. There's no bliss in ignorance this time.
Torv
A cold sweat rushed over him, and as the creature eyed him cautiously, Torv lifted his hands in surrender. The golden eyed being lif… moreted its spear from the throat of the unconscious Jesse, and took a step towards Torv, pointing the obsidian-tipped weapon at his chest. Torv gulped as he tried to utter something, anything, to announce his peace. His eyes flicked over to the creature’s companions, who now hovered over his friends, one with an arrow drawn in its bow, the other holding a dagger to Rose’s throat. Torv now realised she was awake, her eyes wide and paralysed, stunned.
“Please,” Torv mumbled with a hushed voice, pleading with his hands, “we don’t mean you any harm,” he assured them, but the creature only looked perplexed as it looked back to its companions. They spoke in a tongue that Torv had never heard, and could not even begin to replicate, no matter how hard he thought of the melodic sounds they sung. There was no way o… [view original content]
Torv
A cold sweat rushed over him, and as the creature eyed him cautiously, Torv lifted his hands in surrender. The golden eyed being lif… moreted its spear from the throat of the unconscious Jesse, and took a step towards Torv, pointing the obsidian-tipped weapon at his chest. Torv gulped as he tried to utter something, anything, to announce his peace. His eyes flicked over to the creature’s companions, who now hovered over his friends, one with an arrow drawn in its bow, the other holding a dagger to Rose’s throat. Torv now realised she was awake, her eyes wide and paralysed, stunned.
“Please,” Torv mumbled with a hushed voice, pleading with his hands, “we don’t mean you any harm,” he assured them, but the creature only looked perplexed as it looked back to its companions. They spoke in a tongue that Torv had never heard, and could not even begin to replicate, no matter how hard he thought of the melodic sounds they sung. There was no way o… [view original content]
First off, welcome back Stigz! Now for the choice, I am going with having her [Go to the docks] I feel at least slightly at ease having her out in the open rather than taking what could be a huge risk here.
Erza
The iron girl bit her lip awkwardly as she turned her gaze back to the love couple, Jarod reaching up Arika’s skirt as his mouth att… moreended to her breast. Feeling perverted, Erza quickly turned her attention to Artigas, who appeared to have no trouble watching the show displayed before him. She punched his arm, making him wince shortly before turning to her with a perplexed look on his gaze.
“Let’s go,” she reluctantly decided, and as expected the bastard’s boyish smirk formed on his lips. “Well hold on, I haven’t even bought you a drink-” he started, but Erza cut him off when she grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and pulled him off his stool and onto his arse. His smirk widened to a grin.
“Right here, Nightwood?” he flirted, caressing her leg as she rolled her eyes. “Fuck off, Pyke,” she laughed, kicking his hand from her. She made her exit, and he followed after her heels like a starved pup excited for its meal. As they re… [view original content]
[Yes] Looks like Torv will be really important moving forward because of whatever's happening now and he doesn't have too much of a choice anyhow so he may as well agree to this.
Torv
A cold sweat rushed over him, and as the creature eyed him cautiously, Torv lifted his hands in surrender. The golden eyed being lif… moreted its spear from the throat of the unconscious Jesse, and took a step towards Torv, pointing the obsidian-tipped weapon at his chest. Torv gulped as he tried to utter something, anything, to announce his peace. His eyes flicked over to the creature’s companions, who now hovered over his friends, one with an arrow drawn in its bow, the other holding a dagger to Rose’s throat. Torv now realised she was awake, her eyes wide and paralysed, stunned.
“Please,” Torv mumbled with a hushed voice, pleading with his hands, “we don’t mean you any harm,” he assured them, but the creature only looked perplexed as it looked back to its companions. They spoke in a tongue that Torv had never heard, and could not even begin to replicate, no matter how hard he thought of the melodic sounds they sung. There was no way o… [view original content]
Well that's not entirely true, there is always a choice Although I suppose how I've structured this one does make it look quite one sided, but overall depending on which choice is made by the end of this vote will determine the kind of character that Torv becomes. Both have their cons, and of course there are pros to them as well, but as the outcome to either option is a mystery to all but I, it is a gamble for you to vote.
[Yes] Looks like Torv will be really important moving forward because of whatever's happening now and he doesn't have too much of a choice anyhow so he may as well agree to this.
It'd seem these are all the votes that are going to come in for now, so I'll close the vote. Torv will say yes to this mysterious proposal, be it for better or worse. I can reveal to you that both options have their negatives and positives, but which will remain best for Torv in the end will be revealed later on. As you guys can also likely tell, Torv has quite the storyline coming up, and it's one I'm really excited to jump into.
At any rate, I have two small parts ready for you guys, which go to Dormund and Steffon. The last time we saw Dormund, he was about to head off for the Frost Keep to put House Frost back in line before being interrupted by his father, who requested he take Rechar Greenwood with him. You guys chose for Dormund to take Rechar with him instead of suggesting the witch: Elena, instead. Meanwhile for Steffon, the last time we saw him was at most deprived times for him. Departing Winterfell to embark on his mission to gain the support of Emma Snow, with the company of Gareth the sellsword and Teran Woodmill, they set off into the Wolfswood for Torrhen's Square. However with all the lack of sleep you bastards keep tormenting Steffon with, his deprived body took its toll on him and caused him to fall unconscious. Both of these parts pick up where they left off.
Torv
A cold sweat rushed over him, and as the creature eyed him cautiously, Torv lifted his hands in surrender. The golden eyed being lif… moreted its spear from the throat of the unconscious Jesse, and took a step towards Torv, pointing the obsidian-tipped weapon at his chest. Torv gulped as he tried to utter something, anything, to announce his peace. His eyes flicked over to the creature’s companions, who now hovered over his friends, one with an arrow drawn in its bow, the other holding a dagger to Rose’s throat. Torv now realised she was awake, her eyes wide and paralysed, stunned.
“Please,” Torv mumbled with a hushed voice, pleading with his hands, “we don’t mean you any harm,” he assured them, but the creature only looked perplexed as it looked back to its companions. They spoke in a tongue that Torv had never heard, and could not even begin to replicate, no matter how hard he thought of the melodic sounds they sung. There was no way o… [view original content]
The Red King held an impatient look on his stern gaze as he roughly rubbed the shoulder of Rechar Greenwood, whom held an expression that merely represented his face when he dangled over the edge of a cliff. Dormund glanced over at the witch with a look far from apologetic before averting his gaze to Rogar.
“Very well,” Dormund decided, placing his cold hand on Rechar’s shoulder. “I’m sure the boy will prove excellent at saddling my horse and entertaining the men,” the Red Prince jested, but Rogar just scowled in disapproval, while Rechar’s eyes widened fearfully. “Show some respect, when the boy is of age I’ll make him lord of his house, and you know how we treat lords,” Rogar stated, to which Dormund smirked, nodding. “Of course, father.”
“Prince Dormund,” Elena called, turning Dormund’s attention to her again. Elena took a few paces forward, placing her in front of the Red Prince. “We must talk on your return,” she informed him with a hushed tone, making Dormund raise an eyebrow, but she gave him a look which indicated not to question it, so he simply nodded. “Well, if that’s all…” Dormund hinted, pulling Rechar from Rogar’s grip and moving towards his horse.
“Dormund,” Rogar called with a gritty voice, making the Red Prince bite his tongue and sigh as he turned to meet his father’s gaze. Rogar only gave a dismissive gaze to Elena and Rechar, who both reluctantly parted their own ways, leaving Rogar with his son. A cold chill ran down Dormund’s spine as he eyed his father with resent, yet no matter how much he could hate the man, he couldn’t force away the fear that still resided in him. Dormund was younger than the old prick, and certainly a lot stronger than the last time his father had defeated him.
Rogar took a step towards him, making Dormund tense up, but hesitantly he held his ground, subtly clenching his hands into fists. His father took notice to this, and a heavy frown fell upon his face. “You wouldn’t strike down your father, would you?” Rogar challenged, and Dormund could pick the mockery in his tone, it infuriated him. “You wouldn’t cut open your son’s throat, would you?” Dormund remarked in ire, but despite how much he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything else but throw words at the man. Rogar sighed, clasping his hands together.
“Do you know what you did to me on that day?” Rogar queried, beginning to circle around Dormund as he awaited an answer. Paralysed, Dormund stood dead still and remained as quiet as a ghost, his eyes fixed ahead of him on nothing. Rogar took the liberty of answering the question for him. “You broke my fucking heart, boy. You allowed the one thing I had invested my life into to fall to some mere foreign cunt brave enough to thrust his sword at royalty. Clearly braver than you were to support your future king,” Rogar grunted, looking up at Dormund with condescending eyes.
Dormund’s lip quivered in anger, but he took no action, only turning to meet the hateful gaze of his father. “I was your son too, Rogar,” Dormund snarled, watching as his father’s eyes fluctuated from disdain to pity. He placed his bony hand on Dormund’s arm, causing his blood to rush around his body. “You still are my son, nothing will ever change that,” Rogar admitted softly, a frown now coating his expression, but Dormund shook his head, shrugging Rogar’s hand off him.
“You changed that when you murdered my friend and slit open my throat, old man. The only son you have now is a boy that resents you, and you our enemy to take him across the Narrow Sea to die. You have brought the end to your house,” Dormund doomed, making his father sneer in response, but Dormund didn’t leave him a chance to speak. “I will pull the Frost’s into line for this kingdom, not for you,” he finished, turning from the old man and mounting his horse.
“For as long as you live, I will always control you,” Rogar stated, but Dormund paid him no more mind. Then it’s a good thing you left me for dead, Dormund reminisced, jabbing his steed in the ribs and setting off. He could feel his father’s gaze piercing through his armour, biting at his skin, and no matter how much he tried to ignore it, he could feel the teeth of the Starving Leech sinking into his flesh, leaving him lifeless again and again.
No decision.
Steffon
A thudding pain awoke Steffon from his restless sleep, a cold sweat rushing over him as he grasped the sides of his bed. His bed? Confused, he tried to sit himself up, but his head weighed him down in agony, making him grimace as his hands clenched tightly into fists. “Easy, easy. You’ve got yourself one hell of a concussion,” a deep but gentle voice informed him, a damp rag was applied to his forehead, which only brought very minor relief.
“Where am I?” Steffon uttered in a painful groan. He tried to open his eyes, but when they met the light he instantly felt his head thud at the walls of his skull, screaming in protest, yearning the darkness. “You’re safe,” the man assured him, placing a soft hand on Steffon’s shoulder. “Your friends brought you to my hall shortly after you fell unconscious, they seemed quite distressed. Sons, I presume?” the man queried, but Steffon shook his head; something he instantly regretted.
“Travelling companions,” he muttered as he recovered from his pain. “Where are they?” Steffon then asked, a touch of concern in his weakened tone. The man sighed, pulling a stool to sit on. “As I said, they appeared quite distressed. The two argued for a while until one decided to leave, saying he was going to continue some mission on his own. Ah but that that was three days ago, and the other has remained to see you awake. He’s down in the mess hall, helping himself to all my mead, I might add,” the man chuckled, but Steffon raised an eyebrow in confusion.
“Three days?” he thought aloud, and as his memory came to him, he immediately sought for the strength to pull himself up. Forcing his eyes open, he rested a moment upright as his eyes unwillingly adjusted to the light, and the pain in his head faintly subsided. “I have to go,” Steffon informed the man, but his eyes could barely make out the features of the man, little own his surroundings. “You need to rest, rehydrate and eat. Then I will allow you to leave,” the man informed him, but Steffon sternly shook his head.
“You don’t understand,” Steffon grumbled, “I’m on a mission on behalf of King Theon. I need to get to the Rills before…” Steffon could barely contain himself. Impatient and weary, he tried to pull himself up, but the man placed a firm hand on Steffon’s shoulder, easily overcoming him with his strength. “I’m more than aware of your mission, General Cale, but that does not rule out that you need to recover from your injury. Gods know you will only get yourself killed if I set you loose now,” the man stated promptly, turning to grab something from a bench. “If you won’t rest, at least eat for me. You have three days of meals absent from your belly,” the man claimed, putting a bowl in front of Steffon’s nose. Reluctantly, he accepted it.
The warmth of the meal was a comfort to his tired hands, and calming to his head as he sipped at the hot stew. “Who are you?” Steffon finally asked, now seeing the man somewhat better. He was an older man, robust and clad in furs, his grey hair windswept and his beard equally untidy. He took a seat opposite of Steffon, a frown on his hard face. “I am Yoren Forrester, the chief of Clan Forrester,” the old man introduced himself, uplifting his hands as he eyed his surroundings, “and this humble abode is Forrester’s Hyde,” he stated with some pride in his tone. Steffon raised an eyebrow.
“Forrester?” Steffon questioned, sipping at the meat stew again, and causing Yoren to sigh. “We are the masters of lumbering ironwood. We supply House Stark with their shields and spears,” Yoren stated, which only made Steffon furrow his eyebrows. “House Whitehill supplies the Stark’s with ironwood equipment,” Steffon remarked naively, which evoked an irritable scowl from the old man. “The Whitehill’s purchase my produce, and in return, allow me to farm this land. Do not be fooled though, boy. If the Whitehill’s ever attempted to work ironwood, they would only produce frail equipment, not even appropriate for a boy’s toy sword,” Yoren claimed sternly, and Steffon could pick up some hostility in the old man’s tone.
“But enough of that,” Yoren acquiesced with a bitter tone, rising from his stool. “When you are able, come down to the mess hall. I’m sure your ‘travelling companion’ will be eager to see you,” Yoren stated, patting Steffon on the shoulder before descending the wooden steps that led to the Great Hall. Steffon let out a sigh, taking another sip of the stew before casting it aside and resting his weary head against the wall. Three days, he thought with worry. It would take another two days riding until arriving at the Rills. Three days wasted, Steffon thought with frustration, thinking of how the Stark army likely awaited at Deepwood Motte by now. With this, Steffon concluded that enough time had been lost, and despite the pain it caused him, he pulled himself upright and made his way for the stairs.
-
A touch of disappointment engulfed Steffon as he entered the mess hall to spot the sellsword: Gareth, sitting at Lord Yoren’s table. He admitted, he had hoped it would have been Teran that had remained. Of course that stupid boy chose to continue, Steffon thought with annoyance, fearing the kid had likely gotten himself killed, with the amount of Ironborn striking at the western shores, it was heavily possible.
Steffon awkwardly limped towards Yoren’s table, he could feel the eyes of the men and women in the hall, each judging him with their gaze, but he didn’t care. He had lost all his self-dignity with the passing of his wife so many years ago, and now with the loss of his daughter, he had lost all capability of empathy for those who were not worth his time.
Yoren arose from his seat when he spotted Steffon’s approach, raising his hands and announcing his arrival with his booming voice. “Friends, please welcome our protector, General Cale, to the hall!” Yoren yelled, bringing his hands together in applaud, which was followed by most of the hall shortly after. Steffon held a stern expression, climbing up the few steps that led to Yoren’s table. A servant quickly ran around to free a chair, conveniently right next to Gareth. Steffon sighed, nodding to the boy and take his seat. Yoren too took his seat at the head of the table, a smile touching his lips.
“Nice of you to join us, General. Let me introduce you to my family,” he warmly pleaded, placing his hand on top of his wife’s. “This beauty is Gylda, my beloved wife,” he introduced, and the old lady blushed lightly before smiling at Steffon, who only nodded in return. “Beside her is my eldest daughter, Trysta, and beside her are my sons: Thresh the Tall and Thermund the Taller,” Yoren concluded, of which only Thermund acknowledged Steffon, while both Trysta and Thresh kept their gaze lowered. “We are honoured to have you here,” Yoren added with a smile, to which Steffon reciprocated a small smile.
“Thank you for treating my wounds, and for the hospitality you have provided to my dear friend here,” Steffon expressed his gratitude, placing a firm grip on Gareth’s shoulder which made him wince. “We need to talk,” Steffon grumbled in Gareth’s ear, making the young man grimace. “No shit,” he muttered, freeing his shoulder from Steffon’s grasp. “General, do forgive me, but how long to you intend to stay at Forrester’s Hyde? We can’t afford the additional mouths to feed,” Trysta stated firmly, receiving an astonished look from her mother, and a distasteful glare from her father.
“Trysta, you will mind your tongue,” Yoren grouched, but Trysta shook her head. “I’m not your little girl anymore father, and I know just as well as your people that you have wasted more than enough of our medical supplies on this stranger!” Trysta spat, which was supported by her brother, Thresh, with a firm nod. “She’s right father, we can’t afford to keep them here any longer,” Thresh stated, but Yoren would not hear another word of it. His fists came thundering down onto the table, silencing the entire hall.
“This is not the time! Remove yourselves, all of you!” Yoren ordered, and reluctantly the two stood, followed by the entire hall. Steffon noticed a witty smirk on Gareth’s lips, to which he turned to Steffon. “Do you think it’s the poppy tea which they’re upset about? Or the fact that I emptied their liquor storages?” Gareth chuckled, to which Steffon sent him a menacing scowl which put him in his place. Steffon sighed, turning to Yoren.
“I see we have overstayed our welcome. We will depart directly,” Steffon informed him, but Yoren shook his head, raising is open hands. “Please, at least have another night’s rest before departing. Besides, I’d like to pray for you at the weirwood at dawn, if you would permit it,” Yoren pleaded, to which Gareth just rolled his eyes, but Steffon eyed the man sternly. This hospitality, it was unexpected, certainly, and clearly Steffon wasn’t the only one who was hesitant about it. He wasn’t sure what to think of Yoren, but he certainly knew he could use the rest, he could barely muster the strength to walk, little own ride. Gods know where a lack of sleep has gotten me so far.
[Agree to stay one more night] [Refuse his offer, leave tonight]
I am really not trusting this new Dormund. On the one hand, he is similar to how he used to be, at least from his own perspective, I definitely spot some of the traits he used to have before. On the other hand, there is this scene from Torv's latest PoV and I have to wonder if there is more inside of him than just, you know, him. Maybe he doesn't notice it all that much, but I have to wonder if he is truly in control of his own actions, at least to a significant degree.
[Agree to stay one more night]
Well, I gotta think of Steffon here. He really doesn't seem ready to continue his journey all that quickly. Another night of rest could be crucial. Just imagine if he leaves still completely exhausted and is attacked by someone, I don't think we can reasonably expect of him to defend himself in this case.
And man, I am really annoyed by Gareth Every time he opens his mouth, I'd like to punch him in the face. At this point, he's definitely more a liability than anything else and hopefully, Steffon will realize this soon enough and take appropriate measures to get rid of him.
Dormund
The Red King held an impatient look on his stern gaze as he roughly rubbed the shoulder of Rechar Greenwood, whom held an express… moreion that merely represented his face when he dangled over the edge of a cliff. Dormund glanced over at the witch with a look far from apologetic before averting his gaze to Rogar.
“Very well,” Dormund decided, placing his cold hand on Rechar’s shoulder. “I’m sure the boy will prove excellent at saddling my horse and entertaining the men,” the Red Prince jested, but Rogar just scowled in disapproval, while Rechar’s eyes widened fearfully. “Show some respect, when the boy is of age I’ll make him lord of his house, and you know how we treat lords,” Rogar stated, to which Dormund smirked, nodding. “Of course, father.”
“Prince Dormund,” Elena called, turning Dormund’s attention to her again. Elena took a few paces forward, placing her in front of the Red Prince. “We must talk on your return,” she informe… [view original content]
I am really not trusting this new Dormund. On the one hand, he is similar to how he used to be, at least from his own perspective, I definitely spot some of the traits he used to have before. On the other hand, there is this scene from Torv's latest PoV and I have to wonder if there is more inside of him than just, you know, him. Maybe he doesn't notice it all that much, but I have to wonder if he is truly in control of his own actions, at least to a significant degree.
Well we are aware that Dormund has had a physical transformation, given his strength to be able to dangle Rechar over a cliff with ease, while also ignoring the fact that he was in complete control with Rechar's resistance to this matter. So this resurrection has come with some few additives, which will be revealed in the time to come, but there is definitely some merit in your observation here.
And man, I am really annoyed by Gareth Every time he opens his mouth, I'd like to punch him in the face. At this point, he's definitely more a liability than anything else and hopefully, Steffon will realize this soon enough and take appropriate measures to get rid of him.
Hahaha yes, the Invasion's "Merc with a Mouth." Indeed, Gareth is more of a liability at this stage, although he hasn't really had the chance to prove himself on battle yet, not that he really cares to put himself in anyone's high appraise, as evident by his behaviour
I am really not trusting this new Dormund. On the one hand, he is similar to how he used to be, at least from his own perspective, I definit… moreely spot some of the traits he used to have before. On the other hand, there is this scene from Torv's latest PoV and I have to wonder if there is more inside of him than just, you know, him. Maybe he doesn't notice it all that much, but I have to wonder if he is truly in control of his own actions, at least to a significant degree.
[Agree to stay one more night]
Well, I gotta think of Steffon here. He really doesn't seem ready to continue his journey all that quickly. Another night of rest could be crucial. Just imagine if he leaves still completely exhausted and is attacked by someone, I don't think we can reasonably expect of him to defend himself in this case.
And man, I am really annoyed by Gareth Every time he opens his mouth, I'd like to punch him in the face. At this point, he's definite… [view original content]
Dormund
The Red King held an impatient look on his stern gaze as he roughly rubbed the shoulder of Rechar Greenwood, whom held an express… moreion that merely represented his face when he dangled over the edge of a cliff. Dormund glanced over at the witch with a look far from apologetic before averting his gaze to Rogar.
“Very well,” Dormund decided, placing his cold hand on Rechar’s shoulder. “I’m sure the boy will prove excellent at saddling my horse and entertaining the men,” the Red Prince jested, but Rogar just scowled in disapproval, while Rechar’s eyes widened fearfully. “Show some respect, when the boy is of age I’ll make him lord of his house, and you know how we treat lords,” Rogar stated, to which Dormund smirked, nodding. “Of course, father.”
“Prince Dormund,” Elena called, turning Dormund’s attention to her again. Elena took a few paces forward, placing her in front of the Red Prince. “We must talk on your return,” she informe… [view original content]
[Agree to stay one more night] Safe to say that I agree with the others on this one. Staying another night seems like the safest option for him in general.
Dormund
The Red King held an impatient look on his stern gaze as he roughly rubbed the shoulder of Rechar Greenwood, whom held an express… moreion that merely represented his face when he dangled over the edge of a cliff. Dormund glanced over at the witch with a look far from apologetic before averting his gaze to Rogar.
“Very well,” Dormund decided, placing his cold hand on Rechar’s shoulder. “I’m sure the boy will prove excellent at saddling my horse and entertaining the men,” the Red Prince jested, but Rogar just scowled in disapproval, while Rechar’s eyes widened fearfully. “Show some respect, when the boy is of age I’ll make him lord of his house, and you know how we treat lords,” Rogar stated, to which Dormund smirked, nodding. “Of course, father.”
“Prince Dormund,” Elena called, turning Dormund’s attention to her again. Elena took a few paces forward, placing her in front of the Red Prince. “We must talk on your return,” she informe… [view original content]
Alright, well this vote can certainly come to a close. Steffon will agree to stay one more night. This is definitely the more respectful option towards Lord Yoren, however his children may not agree entirely. However this is definitely a better alternative than facing further injury by over-stressing his body more, not saying Steffon is weak!
At any rate, I realise it's almost been three weeks since I've made a post, and I would like to apologise for not keeping you updated here. My laptop has been suffering an ongoing issue of not wanting to turn on, getting stuck with a windows glitch, and I've had to drive across the state to the retailer numerous times to get it fixed over and over, ending up in a hard reset which resulted in me losing a lot of my data. Not to worry though, I do have a lot of my story backed up through google drive, however I admit it has set me back a bit, as well as stressing over starting university in a weeks time (hopefully I'll get back into a rhythm by then). Anyway, hopefully now the computer won't chuck the shits, it seems to be working alright now.
So without anymore excuses, I'd like to post the next part. It's uh... Well it's... It's a new character. Yes, another character, because the Invasion really doesn't have enough PoV's However this one will be showing a very different perspective, and introducing a new plotline which will lead into the very end books of the story (there is also another PoV coming for this storyline, however I'll try to hold off until next chapter for him). So allow me to introduce you to the newest addition to the PoV cast: Rorik the Rugged, a Thenn warrior. I'll say no more, I hope you enjoy his first part.
Dormund
The Red King held an impatient look on his stern gaze as he roughly rubbed the shoulder of Rechar Greenwood, whom held an express… moreion that merely represented his face when he dangled over the edge of a cliff. Dormund glanced over at the witch with a look far from apologetic before averting his gaze to Rogar.
“Very well,” Dormund decided, placing his cold hand on Rechar’s shoulder. “I’m sure the boy will prove excellent at saddling my horse and entertaining the men,” the Red Prince jested, but Rogar just scowled in disapproval, while Rechar’s eyes widened fearfully. “Show some respect, when the boy is of age I’ll make him lord of his house, and you know how we treat lords,” Rogar stated, to which Dormund smirked, nodding. “Of course, father.”
“Prince Dormund,” Elena called, turning Dormund’s attention to her again. Elena took a few paces forward, placing her in front of the Red Prince. “We must talk on your return,” she informe… [view original content]
Sleet thrashed against them with the howling winds that tunnelled down the gullies of the Frostfangs, but they obediently held their ground, all waiting to hear the call. They were positioned atop the ridge, looking down into the green valley where the corpses of many of their brothers and sisters resided, slowly being collected and tossed onto the fires by their slaughterers. They’ve grown desperate.
Rorik’s gaze lifted up to the dark sky, his hands grasping around the shafts of his axes. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and where the icy shards spawned, the clash of thunder could be heard in close proximity. The moon was full, dimly lighting the ridge where Rorik could see all of his brothers and sisters in arms beside him. Each held a firm gaze, dutiful but eager to fight, all save for a selective few.
The crow deserter spoke with hushed words to his Thenn wife, there was a look of worry in his green eyes, and it looked like his wife reciprocated this concern with her own gaze. Beside them, the young and naive boy who had earned himself a name knelt with a bloodthirsty gaze on his malicious eyes. He, like everyone else, was coated in furs and bronze from the head down, but unlike the rest, his feet were completely exposed. Mad fucker, Rorik thought as he flicked his gaze over them to where their commander was positioned.
Magnar Bjalner, perhaps the most formidable looking man Rorik had seen, glared down at the valley with a hunger in his red eyes, his fingers running along the fine edge of his great axe. Beside him, his most loyal warrior and friend: Bjorn, held onto the silver embellished horn of the Thenn’s. Their army was silent, patient and livid. Bjalner took a final glance to the sky, the full moon was nearly engulfed by the black storm clouds that thundered over them.
He gave one firm nod to Bjorn, who in turn relayed specific hand signals to the men behind him, and smoothly the archer formations nocked and drew their arrows and all looked to their commander. Bjalner lifted his closed fist, and Rorik could feel his heart starting to beat faster in awe, his grip on his axes tightening. The moment the moon was completely obscured, and the valley was coated with the shadow of the night, Bjalner dropped his hand, and the first wave of arrows were set loose. This was quickly followed by the sounding of the Thenn horn with a thundering war cry from the Magnar, which quickly rallied the roar of the army.
Rorik instinctively joined this war cry, and without command his feet were already one step in front of the other with the rest of his comrades down the slope. A malevolent grin widened on Rorik’s lips as he spotted the shocked looks of the Ice River Clanmen as they spotted the mass army that charged down towards them. Those caught unaware were fortunate to be struck quickly with the raining arrows, they would not suffer the fuelled hatred of Bjalner’s offensive.
By the time the unprepared clansmen had reached for their shields and formed a lousy blockade the army of the Thenn’s had broken through, and Rorik gladly planted his first axe deeply through the skull of his first victim; a boy who had barely reached his maturity, with the blood of his meal staining his teeth. Rorik freed his axe as he swung his other into the back of a preoccupied warrior. The crack of his spine by Rorik’s bronze made him grin, and as he freed his blade, he was matched with an aware opponent.
The hooded figure thrust a spear for Rorik’s skull, something which he easily dodged. Rorik countered this attack with a well-placed axe to into the man’s shoulder, evoking a pained scream from underneath the hood. Rorik madly screamed right back at him, cackling at him with a blood frenzy and he headed his opponent, freeing his axe as the man fell. Rorik stopped a moment to regain his balance, his head recomposing itself from the hit, or perhaps the dozen horns of mead that Rorik had sculled before the attack.
Regardless, Rorik felt a hard thud crash against the back of his head, instantly dropping him to his knees in a perplexed daze. He turned to meet the enraged gaze of robust clansmen, a bloodied wooden club gripped tightly in his right hand. Rorik scrambled for one of his axes as the man lifted his club to finish the blow, but he was halted by the blade that pierced him through the back and exited through his chest, causing him to cough up blood before falling limp on his bronze skewer.
Rorik’s rescuer unsheathed his blade from the meat bag, and extended a hand down to Rorik. He grasped it firmly and was pulled to his feet, and as his eyes refocused he recognised the man to be Bjorn. His face and head was already coated in blood, obscuring the tattoo on his face, but his brown eyes held amusement. “Always saving your arse, Firebeard,” he grinned, and as Rorik bent down to pick up his axes, Bjorn deflected another blow towards Rorik, and quickly parried the inexperienced swordsman.
“Thought you’d be watching over the Magnar,” Rorik spat, planting his axe in the face of a woman that charged at him. He heard the muffled chuckle of Bjorn as he swung down his great sword, cutting a man in two. “Like he needs it!” Bjorn shouted, grabbing his next opponent by the throat before crushing his windpipe singlehandedly. Rorik threw an axe at the ambushing clansmen behind Bjorn, lodging itself deeper into the boy’s neck as he fell on it.
Rorik turned to hear the thundering roar of Magnar Bjalner, swinging his axe around his head and bringing it down at the man beneath his feet. Around him the bodies were already beginning to pile, but it was nothing compared to his pet: Tun Kun. The giant let out a ground shaking bellow, which was followed with a legitimate ground shake as his foot stomped the woman beneath him, reducing her to a red mush.
Rorik turned back to see Bjorn engaging with three others, hurling his great sword around as they leaped back in fear. Rorik then flicked his gaze across the battlefield. He spotted the Night’s Watch deserter: Toregg, fighting clansmen back-to-back with his wife, Ygwyn. Near them, the Hornfoot boy: Maror the Mangler, had split off from the rest of the army, taking on two clansmen with his two-handed mace. As vicious as he was, his youth gave his older opponents the mental advantage, and Rorik could see the boy beginning to tire.
Letting out a frustrated sigh, Rorik ran to retrieve his axe from the ambushing opponent’s neck and then charged for Maror. Bowling over multiple enemies, while hacking at others, Rorik arrived just as one of the clansmen lunged his spear at his face, deeply grazing the boy’s cheek. Rorik snapped the man’s neck, and Maror took this advantage to thwack the other off his feet, and while he was down, Maror lifted his maze and slammed it down into his skull, cracking it open.
The Hornfoot turned back to Rorik to give him a bloodthirsty grin, followed by a nod of respect, before charging back into the action. Rorik just shook his head and grinned as he followed after him, wiping the blood from his hands on his face.
-
The sky was a blood red as dawn arose from the east, setting a warm light onto the valley. Rorik sat by one of the few remaining fires that hadn’t been stomped out in all the fighting, warming his cool bones as he rested. His gaze looked over the battlefield, observing the abundance of dead. Their army had suffered heavy casualties, regardless of surprising the ruthless Ice River Clans, but had still risen victorious as expected.
What snow hadn’t melted was tainted red with blood, and the groans of the injured could still be heard after hours. Those able roamed across the field, executing the few remaining clansmen, while others followed Rorik’s example and treated themselves with rest. Rorik spotted the Hornfoot jumping around from body to body with a knife in his hand, slicing ears and fingers from the corpses of their enemies and stringing them to his belt. Maror the Mangler, Rorik thought amusedly, watching the orphan live up to his name.
In the centre of the battlefield, Magnar Bjalner had ordered the construction of a great bonfire, which was coated with the corpses of the clansmen, sending great thick plumes of smoke into the clearing sky. The fallen Thenn warriors were meanwhile being loaded into the back of wagons, where they would be carted back to the Vale of Thenn and be given a proper burial at the stone mausoleum; a great honour which many soldiers looked forward to.
Rorik let out a groan, laying back and resting his head on the body of one of the corpses by the fire. He set his axes aside and reached into his satchel under his furs, feeling around for something specific, and when he felt it he freed it from his pelts. A small smile touched his lips as he ran his thumb over the rough edges of the small wooden totem, something which had been given to him by someone very special to him. Someone he had lost. It was a small wooden figurine, supposedly meant to be of him, but it was very roughly chiselled. Under the platform there was a word chiselled into the wood in the Old Tongue: “Daddy.”
A sad smile touched his lips as he breathed slowly, running his tough bloody fingers around the rough edges of the sculpture. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling a tear run down his cheek. He lifted his hand to catch the droplet, the salt mixing with the blood on his hand to reveal a pink reflection of himself, but not truly himself. Blood coated his face, running through his grimy dark red hair which fell down to his shoulders in a half-pony fashion. His dark brown visualised his sadness, and the tremble in his lips.
Rorik clenched his fist around the wooden totem, anger consuming him as he was reminded of the regret and loss that haunted him. His only distractions had been war and drinking, and now he had nothing but his thoughts, and they tortured him. Memories of her face flashed across his wet eyes, and a deep grumble built into a raging roar as he expressed himself in ire, grabbing his axe and tossing it into the pile of corpses before crumbling to his knees and pulling at his hair. I’m so sorry. he wanted to sob, but his throat tightened and refused to let him speak. So he just kneeled, letting the tears stream down his cheeks until he felt a touch on his shoulder.
“Rorik?” the familiar voice of Bjorn sounded, but Rorik shrugged off his grasp, wiping his eyes and standing. “I’m fine,” he uttered, walking over to the corpse pile to grab his axe. Bjorn followed after him. “You fought well today,” Bjorn complimented, putting an arm over Rorik’s shoulder as he grabbed his axe. “With this victory, the Ice River Clans will think twice before fucking with us. Bold shits thought they could just slaughter our emissaries and get away with it,” Bjorn spat, leading Rorik away from the corpses. “Did you see the look on their eyes as we charged?” Bjorn grinned with amusement, and Rorik nodded sternly.
“Pigs for the slaughter, the crows will fill their bellies on their remains,” Bjorn stated proudly, but Rorik didn’t engage, making Bjorn raise an eyebrow. “What’s the matter?” he asked with concern, but Rorik just shook his head. “Just a lot on my mind,” Rorik muttered, freeing himself from Bjorn’s arm. The man frowned, crossing his arms. “Rorik the Rugged, truly broken underneath all of his harsh specialties,” Bjorn stated, making Rorik sneer back at him in warning, to which Bjorn submissively raised his hands.
“Come, let’s get a drink,” he suggested, but Rorik just shook his head, taking a seat by the fire. He knew too well that drinking now would only make him worse. Bjorn simply sighed in response, placing a hand on Rorik’s shoulder before parting.
-
The walls to the Magnar’s Domain stood ten metres tall, with sentries armed with bows and bronze head spears at the battlements and the main gate. Rorik found himself walking with the company of Toregg and Ygwyn, who were both clearly tired from the journey back to the Vale. Rorik took a glance at the young couple, a small smile touching his lips as he became sentimental with some of his old memories.
Ygwyn was a young spearwife, only seventeen, but she had shown her ferocity on the battlefield, and behind closed doors, having given birth to their first son: Torwynd. She was a beautiful woman, with sharp high cheekbones and pale blue eyes, accompanied with luscious long blonde hair. She was no match for her crow partner, but Rorik had nothing against the crow compared to some of the other Thenn’s, as far as he was concerned the boy had proved himself.
Toregg was a few years older than Ygwyn, and according to his story, he had ended up a crow because of a betrayal down south. Whether or not this was true, Rorik did not know, but Ygwyn vouched for him and that was all that mattered. He had been with the Thenn’s for two years now, and he had gained the respect of most that he had fought with, as well as the Magnar.
“You fought well today,” Ygwyn remarked as she turned to Rorik, a warm smile on her lips. Rorik barely reciprocated the smile, and gave her a small nod. “You two as well,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze. “All we could hear after the battle was talk of Rorik the Rugged and how he killed the Clan Chief,” Ygwyn remarked, making Rorik furrow his eyebrows. “I did?” he asked perplexed, making Ygwyn raise an eyebrow.
“Aye, he was a formidable fucker too. You’re the bravest man I know to go up against that,” Toregg stated, making Rorik raise his eyebrows in sheer amusement. Just the drunkest, he thought with this news. Toregg sighed uneasily, rubbing his hands awkwardly. “You’re sure your mother was capable of taking care of our child?” Toregg asked nervously, clearly not convinced that this choice they had made was the wisest. Ygwyn only chuckled and looked at her husband with loving eyes.
“She did well with me, didn’t she?” she teased, making Toregg roll his eyes and grasp her around the waist. “Of course,” he admitted, but his tone was still uncertain. Ygwyn placed a finger on his lips, a grin touching her lips. “Don’t worry, our baby boy is fine,” she assured him, and reluctantly, Toregg humoured his wife with a small smile. Rorik took the chance to speak up in the silence.
“Torwynd, wasn’t it?” he asked, and Toregg nodded. “It’s a father’s dream to have a son, one of the proudest moments in my life. I’m sure it’s even more for you, being a crow,” Rorik stated, to which Toregg smiled and looked at his beautiful wife. “It is one of my proudest moments, yes,” he hinted, kissing her down the neck. “You have a son?” Ygwyn asked, playfully pushing Toregg away from her.
Rorik nodded, “I did.” Toregg raised an eyebrow. “Where is he now?” he asked curiously, to which Rorik sighed, running a hand through his knotted filthy hair. “I lost him,” Rorik stated, and Ygwyn’s expression immediately saddened. “I’m sorry,” Toregg mumbled, but Rorik shook his head, running his hand through the crow’s short scruffy black hair. “Don’t ever forget your children, you hear? No matter what happens, I don’t care how bad you’ve got it, they’re your legacy, and you must be their father,” Rorik counselled him, releasing his grip on Toregg’s hair. “Don’t fuck up and live in regret. Knowing that your son’s last thoughts of you is how much he wanted you dead will end you,” Rorik muttered, and Toregg’s eyes widened in astonishment and pity, but before he could say anything they were interrupted by the loud thudding of hooves on the dirt road.
“Rorik the Rugged,” a powerful raspy voice called, to which Rorik’s gaze met the cold red eyes of Magnar Bjalner. Rorik nodded, lowering his gaze. “My Lord,” Rorik responded, staring at his feet as he came to a halt. From the corner of his gaze he watched as the Magnar dismounted his steed and approached him, his pale white hand lifting Rorik’s chin so his gaze would meet Bjalner’s.
“Get yourself cleaned up and then come to my stronghold. We have matters to discuss,” he grumbled, pulling back his hand and mounting his horse again. Rorik turned his gaze to Bjorn, who gave him a firm nod, informing him that he wasn’t in trouble. Once they were gone, Rorik let out a sigh of relief. Toregg let out a long whistle.
“He’s an intimidating fucker, eh?” Toregg remarked, wiping the sweat from his brow. Ygwyn smirked. “Aye, good thing you’re fucking the right wildling,” she teased, groping his manhood and making his eyes widen in shock. He laughed awkwardly, removing her hand and brushing her hair. “Freefolk,” he corrected, but she just grinned. “Not under the furs,” she mocked, caressing his cheek and making him blush. She turned to Rorik.
“Would you like to meet him?” she asked, her tone bubbly and her eyes beaming in excitement. Rorik raised an eyebrow. “Him?” he asked with confusion, to which she giggled. “Torwynd,” she clarified, and to which Rorik sighed. “Oh,” he realised, but still this offer had caught him off guard. Toregg rubbed at Ygwyn’s shoulders, taking his place by her side. “We understand if you want to head directly to Bjalner, but I promise, we won’t take up much of your time. I would be honoured if you did,” Toregg added, making Rorik frown.
“I-” Rorik sighed, confliction held him a hostage here. He had no care for meeting Bjalner, even though he knew it was not an offer, but a command. However that wasn’t the issue here, it was sentiment. It was one thing to give a new father advice on how to raise his son, another to see a father and his son having something Rorik could never have. Not again. A cold touch squeezed at Rorik’s heart, making him suffer as he thought of his children, and his wife. He missed them dearly, he had lost so much.
Ah, now that is a very interesting and unexpected PoV. I remember some of these characters from the Northern Chill, glad they indeed got a new home here Rorik is an entirely new character though, if I am not critically mistaken. He is also quite an interesting guy, personality-wise and stuff. I think I like him already and I am very excited for the kind of storyline you have in mind with him and how it will tie into the larger story. If I had to guess, I'd say these scenes beyond the wall could be of importance to the whole Dormund-Torv storyline, with the powers that resurrected Dormund possibly being connected to some force beyond the wall, if not necessarily the White Walkers. It will probably take a while, but I could see Rorik being connected to that eventually.
[Go meet Torwynd]
So, I get it, I really get it, this can't be easy for Rorik. He's suffered this loss in the past, but it seems like this happened long ago and he's still hurting over it. He can't shut down and ignore people who mean well over it, especially as it could be a bit of an insult if he would do this. I am really curious what happened to his wife and children though. It's clear they died, but just how exactly and when it happened, that is a bit of a mystery. Seems like it has been some time ago, but it could be anywhere from a short few years to over a decade or longer. Anyways, I am excited for this new PoV, I look forward to see more of him!
Rorik
Sleet thrashed against them with the howling winds that tunnelled down the gullies of the Frostfangs, but they obediently held thei… morer ground, all waiting to hear the call. They were positioned atop the ridge, looking down into the green valley where the corpses of many of their brothers and sisters resided, slowly being collected and tossed onto the fires by their slaughterers. They’ve grown desperate.
Rorik’s gaze lifted up to the dark sky, his hands grasping around the shafts of his axes. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and where the icy shards spawned, the clash of thunder could be heard in close proximity. The moon was full, dimly lighting the ridge where Rorik could see all of his brothers and sisters in arms beside him. Each held a firm gaze, dutiful but eager to fight, all save for a selective few.
The crow deserter spoke with hushed words to his Thenn wife, there was a look of worry in his green eyes, and it looked like his… [view original content]
Rorik
Sleet thrashed against them with the howling winds that tunnelled down the gullies of the Frostfangs, but they obediently held thei… morer ground, all waiting to hear the call. They were positioned atop the ridge, looking down into the green valley where the corpses of many of their brothers and sisters resided, slowly being collected and tossed onto the fires by their slaughterers. They’ve grown desperate.
Rorik’s gaze lifted up to the dark sky, his hands grasping around the shafts of his axes. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and where the icy shards spawned, the clash of thunder could be heard in close proximity. The moon was full, dimly lighting the ridge where Rorik could see all of his brothers and sisters in arms beside him. Each held a firm gaze, dutiful but eager to fight, all save for a selective few.
The crow deserter spoke with hushed words to his Thenn wife, there was a look of worry in his green eyes, and it looked like his… [view original content]
Ah, now that is a very interesting and unexpected PoV. I remember some of these characters from the Northern Chill, glad they indeed got a new home here Rorik is an entirely new character though, if I am not critically mistaken. He is also quite an interesting guy, personality-wise and stuff. I think I like him already and I am very excited for the kind of storyline you have in mind with him and how it will tie into the larger story. If I had to guess, I'd say these scenes beyond the wall could be of importance to the whole Dormund-Torv storyline, with the powers that resurrected Dormund possibly being connected to some force beyond the wall, if not necessarily the White Walkers. It will probably take a while, but I could see Rorik being connected to that eventually.
Indeed, as I think I mentioned awhile back, if not in public then I believe I did certainly to you, all tales of the Invasion will conclude in the North, just as they started. So indeed, both Rorik and this other yet-to-be announced Beyond the Wall PoV shall tie into that storyline, and it should hopefully make for a really interesting end plot. You've also noticed correctly, as all the mentioned characters in this part (except for Rorik of course) featured in TNC. The only difference being that they're all 17 years younger. I'm looking forward to resuming discussion in our PM's once you find the time
Ah, now that is a very interesting and unexpected PoV. I remember some of these characters from the Northern Chill, glad they indeed got a n… moreew home here Rorik is an entirely new character though, if I am not critically mistaken. He is also quite an interesting guy, personality-wise and stuff. I think I like him already and I am very excited for the kind of storyline you have in mind with him and how it will tie into the larger story. If I had to guess, I'd say these scenes beyond the wall could be of importance to the whole Dormund-Torv storyline, with the powers that resurrected Dormund possibly being connected to some force beyond the wall, if not necessarily the White Walkers. It will probably take a while, but I could see Rorik being connected to that eventually.
[Go meet Torwynd]
So, I get it, I really get it, this can't be easy for Rorik. He's suffered this loss in the past, but it seems like this happened long ago and he's still… [view original content]
Rorik
Sleet thrashed against them with the howling winds that tunnelled down the gullies of the Frostfangs, but they obediently held thei… morer ground, all waiting to hear the call. They were positioned atop the ridge, looking down into the green valley where the corpses of many of their brothers and sisters resided, slowly being collected and tossed onto the fires by their slaughterers. They’ve grown desperate.
Rorik’s gaze lifted up to the dark sky, his hands grasping around the shafts of his axes. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and where the icy shards spawned, the clash of thunder could be heard in close proximity. The moon was full, dimly lighting the ridge where Rorik could see all of his brothers and sisters in arms beside him. Each held a firm gaze, dutiful but eager to fight, all save for a selective few.
The crow deserter spoke with hushed words to his Thenn wife, there was a look of worry in his green eyes, and it looked like his… [view original content]
The Voting is Closed! Rorik will go meet Torwynd. This is definitely the more interesting choice of the two in my opinion, but whether this is the wisest one is yet to be determined. Rorik certainly lives in a shadow of shame and guilt with the loss of his family, but we're not yet aware of why his family held so much animosity for him. All will be revealed in due time however!
I have the next two parts ready, one a bit shorter than the other, however it will introduce the other Beyond the Wall PoV I briefly mentioned in my comment earlier. His name is Storrold, an Ibbenese captain leading his people to a promised land. The other part takes us back to the Fingers, as shown from the eyes of Jarden. The last we saw of the travelling Northman, Jarden had just returned to the Redfort with Cedrick and Lexia from his mission, and reunited with King Robar. In council discussion, Lexia discovered that Jarden had cheated her and that Wyllam was actually missing, and not with Robar as he had promised. This caused a rift in their relationship, and she quickly chose to return home as a consequence. Robar decided it would be unwise for her to return home alone, but refused to allow Jarden to take her back to Strongsong. You decided for Cedrick to take her, and so this part resumes.
Rorik
Sleet thrashed against them with the howling winds that tunnelled down the gullies of the Frostfangs, but they obediently held thei… morer ground, all waiting to hear the call. They were positioned atop the ridge, looking down into the green valley where the corpses of many of their brothers and sisters resided, slowly being collected and tossed onto the fires by their slaughterers. They’ve grown desperate.
Rorik’s gaze lifted up to the dark sky, his hands grasping around the shafts of his axes. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and where the icy shards spawned, the clash of thunder could be heard in close proximity. The moon was full, dimly lighting the ridge where Rorik could see all of his brothers and sisters in arms beside him. Each held a firm gaze, dutiful but eager to fight, all save for a selective few.
The crow deserter spoke with hushed words to his Thenn wife, there was a look of worry in his green eyes, and it looked like his… [view original content]
Another wave crashed over the bow, causing the ship to plunge into the shallows and lift back up onto the peak of the swell, throwing the weary sailors up into the air and crashing them back against the deck. Storrold clutched onto the wheel of the ship, difficultly trying to maintain the course he had set while he desperately searched for the other vessels that had been separated in the storm. He could see nothing.
“Ice rock!” one of the sailors screamed from the lower deck, igniting his club and waving it frantically as he clutched onto the for’ard mast. Storrold followed the flickering of the flames as he spotted the floating ice rock ahead of them, and without question he turned the wheel hard to the left, merely avoiding the obstacle that thrashed about in the waves.
In his peripherals, Storrold spotted his first mate climbing the steps to the helm, an infuriated and fearful look on his hard blue eyes. He stumbled about as he parted from the steps, being thrown into the railings which he clutched onto for dear life until they reached a momentary break in between the swell. He took this opportunity to pounce onto his captain, shouting in his hear.
“You kill us all!” he grunted, trying to take control of the wheel. Storrold had no time for tolerating his doubtful friend, and a quick rise of his shoulder into the man’s jaw released his grip from the wheel. The man stumbled back bewildered and caught by the motion of the sea before losing his footing and collapsing onto the floorboards. Storrold spat coldly and turned his gaze quickly to the fearful crew by the stairwell, shouting at them in summon.
Reluctantly the two men followed his order, climbing up the steps to hear his command. Storrold nodded his head to his unconscious mate. “Take below!” Storrold grumbled, but the two men remained frozen. “We die,” one cried, while the other took him by the shoulder. “We go back!” he begged, but Storrold shook his head bitterly and pointed them to the unconscious man. “Below!” Storrold barked, and without another word the two followed his order, quickly making their way to the first mate and dragging him down the steps.
Soon very few of the crew remained on deck, and the sails flapped and ripped in the howling winds, while what few sailors lingered watch with terror as the clutched onto the railings. Storrold briefly lifted his gaze to the black clouds above them, a flash momentarily lighting up the sky as a fork of lightning beamed across the clouds. Storrold spotted the gull he had madly been following for hours, flying ahead in the winds as if it was effortless. Take Ibbenese to land, Storrold pleaded, lifting his open palm to the bird.
The sky fell dark once again, and Storrold’s eyes readjusted to the madness down at sea. He dodged and weaved the small ice rocks as best as he could while also riding the waves instead of bashing against them, but their time was running out. The mainsail flapped relentlessly in the wind, tearing a large hole through the fabric. Storrold screamed at the men to release the tension on the line, but none were brave enough to act. Cursing, Storrold left the helm and was thrown down the stairs by the motion.
Driven, he crawled towards the line, which was so tightly wrapped around the stone cleat that it had begun to rip it from its foundations. Storrold grasped the thick rope in his hands, trying desperately to loosen it, but it was no use. The rope was jammed tightly under the cleat. Hesitant, Storrold freed the flint blade from his belt and started to saw at the line, watching as thread by thread let loose. The final thread let go on its own, causing the line to whip from his hand and allowing the sail to catch the wind momentarily.
Storrold quickly made his way back for the helm, clutching tightly onto the railings as he climbed the steps, but without warning something caught the ship unaware, thrusting Storrold back to the lower deck. He felt something crack, but as the men shouted he quickly realised it was not him, but the mast that had fractured under the pressure. The crew quickly rushed to its aid with rope and tar, filling the gaps and tightening a line around it, but the sound of one specific cry made a shiver sprint down Storrold’s spine.
“MONSTER WAVE!” A crewman screamed, choosing to abandon ship rather than face it. Others followed his example, while the rest looked to Storrold desperately for orders. He turned to the few left, pointing to the mast. “Hold!” he ordered them, then turning and running for the helm. He dashed up the steps and reached the helm just as he spotted the wave approaching from their port side. It stood fifty feet tall, and would engulf anything in its path.
Storrold desperately tried to turn the ship into its path, but the rudders could not carry the weight of the broken ship against the strong tide below. The Ibbenese captain gulped, turning his gaze down to his remaining crew for a final time. “HOLD!” he shouted, taking a tight grasp of the wheel just as the wave began to pick their ship up.
He heard the screams, of all things. The howling seas, the deafening winds and the thundering storms, but over all that he heard their screams. One by one as they were ripped away from their bastion of hope and plunged into the gaping jaws of the Shivering Sea beneath. Storrold clutched tightly onto the mast until the wave engulfed him, ripping the wheel from its base and plummeting him into the depths of the icy waters below. The final thing his ears heard was the squawk of more gulls, before his ears were drowned with water, and his lungs too.
-
He soared across the sea and over the primal islands of the First Men to the mainland of Westeros, the land which he had promised to take his people to. Flapping his wings, he flew over the barren frosted fields and over giant wall of ice to the mass forests that roamed beyond.
Following the peninsula, Storrold dived in his new body down to the frozen coast, flying along the edge of the windswept land and the Shivering Sea until he reached the point of the arm. The land was barren of forest, yet plentiful in wood and stone, and surrounded my large cliffs that harboured cave shelters. While the storm thundered onto the Shivering Sea, the bay neighbouring the point was sheltered and calm.
He plummeted into the water, catching a small fish in his beak on his first attempt. The waters were plentiful with life, and seals rested on the small rock peaks that jutted off the peninsula, while sea cows nibbled at the plants at the seabed. Storrold flew up from the water, perching himself on a rock and feeding on his meal as he watched other gulls follow his example and dive into the shivering depths.
He had finally found it, the safe haven for his fleeing people. If alive, he thought grimly, watching as the seagulls hunted many fish and landed by him. I find them, bring to new home, Storrold vowed to himself, shutting his eyes and taking flight.
-
As he opened his eyes again, he felt a burning pain in his shoulder, but as he went to inspect his wound he found it already attended to. His shoulder had been torn open by something that had impaled him, but whatever it was, it had been removed and the wound sealed with fire. This not treatment from my people, Storrold observed, touching the numb seared flesh and grimacing as he felt the edges.
His groans summoned his rescuer to his aid, a native woman of Westeros. She placed a hand over his mouth to hush him while she attended to his wound, coating it in a paste which instantly numbed the pain. Storrold’s eyes studied the woman as she attended to him carefully. She was fierce, with a stern face that showed a few scars, but there was an attraction with that. Nothing to beautiful hairy women of Ib, Storrold compared, but he held no grudge.
Once the woman had finished with treating his wounds, Storrold tried lifting himself up, but he was quickly stopped by the firm grip of the wild woman on his uninjured shoulder. “You must rest,” she stated coldly, in a tongue that Storrold recognised to be the Old Tongue. He had learnt only a few words with the Westerosi traders that had sailed to Ib, but while he was not brilliant at speaking it, he could certainly understand it to an extent.
“I must go,” he argued, but the woman shook her head, pushing him back down. “You will rest, and then you may go,” she concluded, making Storrold groan. “I find my people,” Storrold muttered in an attempt to persuade her, but she only let out a soft chuckle. “The only people you will find outside of this cave are those who would either burn you or eat you,” she remarked, then turning back to him, “or both,” she added with a teasing tone which irritated him.
“Free me,” Storrold finally begged, but again, the woman shook her head. She stirred something in a pot before turning back to him. “Drink,” she ordered, placing the pot to his lips, and reluctantly he obeyed. He coughed as he swallowed all of the strange liquid, making the woman smirk. “Who are you?” Storrold finally muttered, pushing the pot from his face. The woman sighed, sitting by his side.
“I am Amathe, who are you?” she asked, to which the Ibbenese groaned. “Storrold,” he grunted, bashing his fist against his hairy chest. She raised her eyebrows as if she was impressed, but likely she was more intrigued. “Why you help me?” Storrold further queried, to which Amathe shrugged. “I saw potential in it,” she answered dryly, making Storrold furrow his eyebrows.
“Potential?” he echoed, trying to pronounce the foreign word, but she just rolled her eyes. “What are you? You are unlike any man I’ve ever seen,” she remarked, lifting his long arms and admiring them. “Where do you come from, why are you here?” she interrogated, torturing his mind with many questions he struggled to understand in her tongue. Maybe she hush if I speak, he thought hopefully, but he knew that the more time he wasted meant the more time his people were in danger. Perhaps he could overpower her and escape.
[Tell Amathe your story] [Escape]
Jarden
A mist left their breaths as the council emptied from the Redfort and entered the courtyard, trampling through the lightly snowed camp to rally Robar’s army for the king’s speech. All save for Cedrick and Lexia, who were to ride back for Strongsong. Jarden followed the duo to the stables as he pulled on his leather gloves and wrapped his fur cloak around his shoulders.
Lexia was the first to mount her horse, doing so with such ease that she might maintain her dignity in the presence of the man who had humiliated. Jarden frowned as he tried to attract her attention with his stares, but she now held him in complete disregard, all because Jarden delivered a false promise, one he couldn’t follow through on. How was I supposed to know Wyllam was missing? Jarden wanted to argue in his defence, but he knew he played a risky game when offering the terms to secure the alliance. An alliance which could shatter at any moment now, Jarden thought with worry, feeling the burden of guilt weigh down on him.
Cedrick sighed, pulling his shadowcat cloak over his shoulders and clasping them to his gambeson, a stern look on his plain pale face. His stubble had developed into the beginning of a light beard, making him appear rugged and sterner than he likely was, although Jarden could relate that he was not likely enthralled with the idea of traversing the Mountains of the Moon again.
“You’ll take care of yourself?” Cedrick checked, lifting the leather saddle onto his horse and strapping it to place. Jarden nodded, tucking his hands under his armpits as he crossed his arms. “And you,” Jarden mumbled in turn, but Cedrick just shook his head. “Don’t you worry about us, Frost. You’ve pulled me from the risk of battle again, much to my chagrin, but as I know how much we’d rather be in each other’s positions, I wasn’t going to allow my father to interrogate this love of your life,” Cedrick explained, patting Jarden’s shoulder as he chattered his teeth and glanced at Lexia.
“I don’t think those feelings are mutual anymore, Cedrick,” Jarden sighed sadly, but Cedrick wouldn’t have a bar of it. He lifted Jarden’s chin so their gazes met, and Jarden could see the seriousness in his brown eyes. “You may have fucked up, but that doesn’t mean you should give up. I’ll talk to her, but it’s you who has to make it up to her. Go to the Ironoaks, meet us at Heart’s Home and gift her once we take the fight to the Andal fucks. I promise you it’ll all come together again,” Cedrick assured him, but Jarden was unsure. Regardless, he gave his friend a nod to appease him.
Cedrick turned and mounted his horse, taking hold of the reins and turning his gaze down to meet eyes with Jarden for a final time. “The snows are just as likely to kill you as the invaders, keep warm,” Cedrick stated, to which Jarden allowed himself a sentimental smirk as he thought of his family. “We Frost’s are Strong in Winter,” Jarden remarked, reciting his house’s words. Cedrick only grinned, challenging his words with his own. “As Strong as Stone?” With that, the two parted from the stables, leaving some warmth in Jarden’s heart as he watched the two ride, if only for a moment.
In the distance, Jarden heard the loud murmuring of the men and women in Robar’s army conglomerating in the courtyard, and as Jarden exited the stables, he spotted Robar upon a pedestal with Barrock Redfort and Ursula Upcliff by his side. “Brothers, hear me!” he called, rallying his army near. Some warmth touched the Northman’s heart, despite the lack of it surrounding him with the morning snows. He had finally found a place where he belonged, where he was wanted and respected, no matter his origin.
He approached the masses to hear Robar’s speech, a small smile touching Jarden’s lips as he admired his new king from a distance. He did not understand entirely why he felt so much pride for a man he had barely served for, in comparison to the rest of his loyal servants at least, but there was something admirable about him. He was young and passionate, yet strengthened and directed with one goal, reclaim the land of the First Men. There could be no braver king, Jarden thought naively in appraise.
Robar stood upon his wooden platform ever so valiantly, showing utmost confidence and strength to those who stood before him, it was his duty to do so. He wore the legendary bronze chest plate of his forefathers, with gambeson beneath it and a fur cloak over the top of it. A bronze shortsword rested in its sheath on his belt, while a decorated horn with the runes of his house engraved into the tusk hung beside it.
“Many battles have brought us together over these years, and with the small victories against the Andal’s, we have slowly grown a foothold on our home. As brilliant as this may be, these minor rewards are not enough, which is why we ride against the Corbray’s! Together, we will charge down their gates, annihilate their defences, and level their walls just as they did to ours. Together, we will take back our home!” he cried, rallying the troops into a cheer which even Jarden participated in, even if not as enthusiastic as others.
“With the support of the Belmore’s, we will destroy the Andal’s that try to escape by the sea,” Robar announced, receiving another cheer from his soldiers, “and from a newly found alliance, those which outrun the Belmore vessels shall be crushed by the Manderly fleet who come to support us!” While there was some obvious confusion among the men, they cheered regardless. Jarden spotted a relieved grin across Robar’s face, and the men roared for him to continue.
“Together, we will-” Robar shouted, unsheathing his blade, but his words were deafened by the echo of a foreign horn from the mountains. The army fell silent, but only for a moment, as Robar began to shout commands and quickly the army gathered their senses and started to enter defensive formations. Jarden gulped as he unsheathed his own bronze blade and joined the masses, taking side between two Royce soldiers who armed themselves with shields and axes.
Silence fell over the courtyard as each man and woman listened for another sounding of the horn, and watched for signs of an army. Was it the Andal’s? Jarden thought worriedly, tightening his grasp around the hilt of his sword. They would have caught them at a time of vulnerability if that were the case, they were certainly off guard.
Again, the blast of the unknown horn sounded over the mountains again, this time much closer, and then the distant sound of marching and shouts could be heard. Jarden took in a deep breath, and he spotted the nervousness of those around him. Jarden’s eyes lifted to the mountains that surrounded the Redfort, all quiet and barren, but only for a brief moment. He may have been the first to spot the rise of a banner over the horizon, but it was not a rewarding sight, and shouts hovered over the army as others spotted it and informed others.
Before long, a long stretched army of riders in iron manned the peaks of the Mountains of the Moon. Jarden gulped, turning his gaze back to Robar, who in turn was speaking with Ursula Upcliff. The look on Robar’s face troubled him, making Jarden grit his teeth fearfully as he turned back around to meet the mass unknown army. There were thousands of them, and only the first few hundred were on horseback. The thick of the army followed in march behind them, descending slowly down the mountainside.
Jarden gasped as someone took him by the shoulder, turning him around. He quickly recognised the dark eyes of Celesse Redfort, equipped with leather armour and gambeson. “Come on, the king wants you,” she hastily informed him, partly dragging Jarden until he founds his feet. The two pushed through the army to the wooden platform where King Robar stood with Ursula Upcliff and Lord Barrock Redfort by his side. Robar flashed a small thankful smile in Celesse’s direction as he spotted Jarden, dismissing her.
“Jarden,” he greeted warmly, giving the Northman a hand up onto the platform, but Barrock snarled. “Enough with the courtesies, Your Grace, what the fuck are your orders?” he spat impatiently, making Jarden frown, but Robar nodded understandingly, turning his gaze to Ursula Upcliff, who took a step forward.
“This is the army of Wyman Manderly,” she announced, to which Barrock raised an eyebrow. “Wyman? I thought you said you sent the raven to him yesterday,” Barrock muttered, clenching his fists as he felt lied to, but Robar shook his head. “I sent a raven to Wyatt yesterday, this is something else,” Robar clarified, making Barrock furrow his eyebrows. “These fucking names bewilder me, what does this one want?” Barrock barked impatiently, making Ursula sigh as she shook her head hopelessly.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled, but Jarden spotted something off with her tone, though he was not sure what it was. “There’s one way to find out,” Robar stated, summoning a soldier to them. “Bring me my horse,” he ordered, and the man obediently bowed and took his leave. Robar turned his gaze to Barrock, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Keep the men ready, if these Manderly’s engage then retreat our forces into the Redfort, the true fight is for the Andal’s,” Robar ordered, but Barrock only shook his head begrudgingly.
“There won’t be a damn fight if you die, I highly advise against this, King,” Barrock grumbled, but Robar had already turned his attention to Ursula and Jarden. “Saddle up, you will ride with me to meet them,” Robar stated, then leaving the platform. Jarden looked at Ursula awkwardly, who barely exchanged glances with him before disappearing after their king. Barrock let out a frustrated groan, descending down the platform and barking orders to his men. Jarden turned his glance back to the army, their full force coating the entire side of the Mountains of the Moon. Here we go, Jarden thought fearfully, making his way for the stables.
-
The three rode to meet the halted Manderly army, the cold wind beating in their faces as the galloped with haste. Jarden rode side by side with the beautiful sorceress of Witch Isle, and he admitted it was hard to keep his eyes off her. Wyllam scored a beauty, he thought with lustful eyes, but regret stung at him as his thoughts whipped back to Lexia. It pained him how much he thought she hated him now, having lied to her, having been unable to deliver a promise. His gaze flickered back to Ursula Upcliff.
She was a beautiful woman, slim in figure and appearing a decade younger than her true age. Her pale face was smooth with a defined jaw and a prominent chin, while a scar ran down her right eye. Her eyes… unnatural in colour, both like vibrant amethyst gems. Her raven black hair flew in the wind behind them, showing her moss green scarf which hid her shoulders. Beneath this however she wore a short-sleeved gambeson piece with a grey dress above this.
Their hard gallop slowed to a canter as they drew nearer to the Manderly army, and Robar pulled his steed back to ride side by side with Jarden. His loose curly hair was held out of his face by the bronze band around his head, which had the runes of his house engraved in the metal, just as it was on his chest piece. His stubble had grown into a light beard, which gave a further solemnity to his already serious eyes. He placed a hand on Jarden’s shoulder, causing the Northman to flinch awkwardly as he flashed him a small smile in turn.
“We don’t know why this ‘Wyman’ and his forces are here, so it would be best not to say anything provocative,” Robar stated, grasping Jarden’s shoulder. “Let Ursula and us do the talking, you just listen and learn,” Robar informed him, to which Jarden nodded silently in response. Robar attempted to give Jarden a reassuring smile, but it was clear that he himself wasn’t too confident with his odds against this unknown mass army.
Robar and Jarden caught up to Ursula just as she arrived at the neutral ground between the two armies, where three figures awaited them. The most notable was a giant of a man, larger than any Jarden had ever seen. He bore a heavy stature, with a larger muscular build that was armoured in full plated bronze. An aqua cape flapped in the wind behind him, the crest of his house embroidered in its fabric. He appeared an old man, with a head of grey hair that reached his shoulders, but he still maintained the strength to hold him in a mass of armour that few men could wear.
Beside him was another armoured warrior, however this one was suited in black leather and iron as opposed to bronze. An Andal? Jarden thought sceptically, feeling the urge to place a hand on the hilt of his sword, but he composed himself. The man was quite tall, but nothing in comparison to his older commander. What was perhaps most notorious about this warrior however was not only his iron equipment, but his mask, which was forged to replicate the face of a wolf.
Finally, the third figure was unlike the others. While she was tall, she wore a long teal green dress with drooping white sleeves. Her delicate hands were hidden under silk white gloves, and the only skin she revealed was that of her face, which was enough for any man to fall awestruck. She had a smooth complexion with a light warm skin tone, her braided hair was dyed white, and her eyes a familiar colour. Amethyst. Jarden turned his gaze to Ursula, whose eyes were widened and locked on the girl.
“King Robar,” the tallest of the three announced with a firm tone, “I am Prince Wyman Manderly, and we are here to support your cause,” the giant informed, causing a sigh of relief to escape Jarden, perhaps a little louder than he had hoped for. Robar gave Wyman a gracious nod, dismounting from his steed and approaching the Manderly. “I would be honoured to have you by our side, Prince Wyman, but you have certainly caught us off guard, and this is hardly a proper welcome for a new ally,” Robar stated in apology, to which Wyman only shook his head.
“I have no need for welcome ceremonies or gifts,” Wyman responded politely, extending his arm to Robar, who grasped it in welcome. Jarden dismounted from his horse, watching as Ursula did the same and approached the girl with curious eyes. “I know your face,” Ursula said with a hushed tone, her pale hand lifting to touch the cheek of the girl before her. A tear formed in her eye as she placed her hand on top of Ursula.
“Yes, Mother,” she whispered, causing Jarden to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Mother? He thought bewildered. They both look the same age, he thought with some confusion, but before his thoughts could roam any further, Ursula snapped her hand back and approached Prince Wyman with heavy footsteps.
“How dare you!” she screamed, her hands tensing, and Jarden could swear he saw something resembling a purple spark conjuring at her palms. “How dare you come here! How could you even think to bring our daughter into harm’s way!” she spat at his feet, making Wyman raise his eyebrows, but he did nothing to react. “We came to help you,” Wyman mumbled weakly, but Ursula instantly shook her head.
“Do not speak!” she hissed, turning back to Robar with a bitter gaze. “Turn them around, my King, they do not belong here,” she snarled, mounting her horse and riding back for the Redfort. Robar’s eyebrows raised as he took everything in, and he looked as perplexed as Jarden felt. “What was that?” he finally asked, to which Wyman let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “A rough history, but we are honest with our word, we do mean to help you,” Wyman assured him, causing Robar to sigh and nod.
“I will not judge you off the past of one of my lieutenants,” Robar stated in decision, to which Wyman gave him an appreciative nod. “Allow me to introduce you to the Iron Wolf, the second-in-command of my army,” Wyman announced, summoning the warrior forward. The man only gave a bow, remaining coldly silent. Wyman then summoned his daughter forward. “And this is my daughter, Wylda Half-witch,” Wyman added, to which Robar and Jarden bowed before her.
“My Lady,” Robar greeted, kissing her hand. “Let me invite you into Lord Barrock’s halls for the night,” Robar suggested, but Wyman shook his head. “There are Andal’s to rid, Your Grace, and my army has a thirst for war,” Wyman informed him proudly, but Robar was persistent. “Please, I’m sure your men could do with a night’s rest, and my commanders would like the opportunity to meet the newest addition to the war council,” Robar insisted, which persuaded the prince to submit.
“Very well, my men would appreciate the rest,” Wyman admitted respectfully, but he lifted a finger in compromise, “but I will not except me slowly down your mission, I am here to assist, not to hinder your efforts,” Wyman stated, to which Robar grinned, “And I would not consider to disrespect you by delaying our war any longer,” Robar assured him before turning to Jarden.
“Ride back to the Redfort and inform Barrock to stand down my army. Have his halls prepared for a feast, tonight we honour the arrival of Prince Wyman,” Robar announced, to which Jarden bowed in response. “It will be done, Your Grace.” Jarden turned and mounted his horse, steering his steed back for the Redfort. Setting off for the red keep, a storm of thoughts flooded Jarden’s mind. Was Robar safe alone with them? Why was Ursula so hostile with Wyman? Could Wyman be trusted? All of these questions in the face of war, there was little doubt that their support would be of assistance, but trust was valuable in battle, and Jarden feared many of Robar’s commanders would be untrusting of their new ally.
[Tell Amathe your story]
He doesn't know where he is or where his crew is. Perhaps, she might know something if he tells her what happened. Plus, he's two injured to go wondering alone by himself. He needs to rest.
Also, that was an interesting family reunion that occurred in Jarden's part. I'm interested in learning more about that story.
Storrold
Another wave crashed over the bow, causing the ship to plunge into the shallows and lift back up onto the peak of the swell, thr… moreowing the weary sailors up into the air and crashing them back against the deck. Storrold clutched onto the wheel of the ship, difficultly trying to maintain the course he had set while he desperately searched for the other vessels that had been separated in the storm. He could see nothing.
“Ice rock!” one of the sailors screamed from the lower deck, igniting his club and waving it frantically as he clutched onto the for’ard mast. Storrold followed the flickering of the flames as he spotted the floating ice rock ahead of them, and without question he turned the wheel hard to the left, merely avoiding the obstacle that thrashed about in the waves.
In his peripherals, Storrold spotted his first mate climbing the steps to the helm, an infuriated and fearful look on his hard blue eyes. He stumbled about… [view original content]
Amathe, that name sounds familiar. She's been in TNC as well, right? Anyways, Storrold is a very interesting PoV, he instantly became super memorable just with how exotic he is. I mean, an Ibbenese as a PoV? Never saw that one before, I like it Really, I mean, there is a huge lot of PoV's in the Invasion, but though he had only one part, I already really like him and I feel like there is potential in him. And yeah, for the choice I see little reason not to tell her. As Tales said, she might know something and I'd like to take the chance.
Storrold
Another wave crashed over the bow, causing the ship to plunge into the shallows and lift back up onto the peak of the swell, thr… moreowing the weary sailors up into the air and crashing them back against the deck. Storrold clutched onto the wheel of the ship, difficultly trying to maintain the course he had set while he desperately searched for the other vessels that had been separated in the storm. He could see nothing.
“Ice rock!” one of the sailors screamed from the lower deck, igniting his club and waving it frantically as he clutched onto the for’ard mast. Storrold followed the flickering of the flames as he spotted the floating ice rock ahead of them, and without question he turned the wheel hard to the left, merely avoiding the obstacle that thrashed about in the waves.
In his peripherals, Storrold spotted his first mate climbing the steps to the helm, an infuriated and fearful look on his hard blue eyes. He stumbled about… [view original content]
Storrold
Another wave crashed over the bow, causing the ship to plunge into the shallows and lift back up onto the peak of the swell, thr… moreowing the weary sailors up into the air and crashing them back against the deck. Storrold clutched onto the wheel of the ship, difficultly trying to maintain the course he had set while he desperately searched for the other vessels that had been separated in the storm. He could see nothing.
“Ice rock!” one of the sailors screamed from the lower deck, igniting his club and waving it frantically as he clutched onto the for’ard mast. Storrold followed the flickering of the flames as he spotted the floating ice rock ahead of them, and without question he turned the wheel hard to the left, merely avoiding the obstacle that thrashed about in the waves.
In his peripherals, Storrold spotted his first mate climbing the steps to the helm, an infuriated and fearful look on his hard blue eyes. He stumbled about… [view original content]
Comments
Shit, missed the earlier part completely
Ah, I'll get on the Bethany part first 
All good, I thought that might've been the case
[Do nothing] Hmmm, let's not be too hasty. I'm not fully convinced yet that hooking up with this Cassian Cole is a smart idea.
Ooooh, so no apologies to that shitty creep Ben, I see. I was a bit afraid for that, because I am really not okay with her apologizing to that fucker without having done him any wrong. Once he outright begs forgiveness, I might be willing to let it slip, but she has nothing to apologize for. That being said, I see she still plans to do it, so we'll see what comes out of it. Safe to say, some brooding bodyguard makes for a much better distraction than a lovesick cousin or a creepy shitcunt. I do not know what to make of Cassian yet, but well, I like him more than Ben, which is not particularly hard
I particularly like that he is treating Bethany exactly the way she needs to be treated right now, directly, with a no-nonsense attitude, but not harsh or unfair. At the same time, we don't know anything about him, like, at all, safe for the fact that he comes from a lesser noble house and serves the Dondarrion's.
Now, the choice, the choice...
You see, I really, really had to debate on this, because here, my two basic modes clash with each other. As Concerned Dad Liquid, I have to bring up that brooding, handsome strangers are not always all that great. We don't know anything about Cassian and this is all going very fast. Bethy could very well regret this terribly, if it turns out she's hooking up with a guy that only plays with her, or if Cassian shows other ulterior motives for taking things this quickly with the second in line to House Caron. At the same time, I can't outright say that I have any suspicions against him, he could just as likely, maybe even more likely, just be a standard guardsman from a lesser noble family who takes an opportunity everyone would take in his situation. Maybe he's an okay guy. This brings out Shipper Liquid, as I can, indeed, ship it. It's not hard for me to ship and in this case, there would be some obvious benefits for Bethany. Getting quite close to her guard might allow her some liberty she otherwise wouldn't have. On top of that, she sees her stay at Blackhaven, with her mother's family, as an imprisonment, which it quite clearly is not. Maybe this could help her in actually finding some positive things about her current situation. Sure as hell, a fling with that guy is more than enough giving her something else to think about. So, I am really conflicted here. I'd actually prefer things not to move at such a quick speed for her, because we cannot know if Cassian is truly good for her, so that they might grow closer later on, once she sees what kind of a person he truly is. However, not kissing him here could be seen as a sign of rejection and could have the opposite, making her long for a man that feels hurt by her inaction, making him less willing to protect her if any danger comes up, generally making her situation feel even more like a prison for her. So, very reluctantly, and still leaving myself with the option to change my vote later on, I choose to [Kiss him], though as said, I am conflicted and feel generally very uneasy about this whole situation because of how easily this could backfire horribly.
[Kiss him]
I've missed these reckless options in this story, let's go!
[Kiss him] Ah why not?
[Kiss him]
[Kiss him]
Why not? It appears that she could use this distraction anyways.
I'm just writing a comment here so the thread can remain in my feed.
I'm doing the same thing again. Just out of curiosity, will another part be posted soon?
A Morgan part is on the way, but I don't think it will be ready until the weekend. Unfortunately I'm just stacked up with a lot of work during this part of the year, which has left me with little time to write the Invasion as fluently and regularly as I would've otherwise wished. Once my end of year exams come to conclusion I should have a week or so before my major vacation to pump out some parts, but unfortunately my progress will be stale up until that point. Hopefully this weekend though, that's my aim!
(Kiss him)
I wasn't able to find this in my feed for awhile. Couldnt click on much.
And the voting is closed! Well, it's been pretty decided for a while now, but it's probably time to close it after almost four months. Four months! That a third of the year, that doesn't sound right. At any rate, I am extremely sorry for being absent from the Invasion for so long. As those of you who follow White Night will know, I've been quite preoccupied with my final year exams, but they're over now. Unfortunately for you guys, I'll be out of the country in a couple of days for my 5 week holiday to South America, so it seems my writing will be delayed yet again. However I do have one part to post in the mean time, just to remind you guys I am alive
it's an Erza part.
The last time we saw Erza Nightwood was in her first part. The Ironborn girl gave the perspective of the Ironborn on Bear Island, and she showed the results of House Woodfoot and the terrifying Ironborn that had seized control of the island, such as Ravos the Raper and Guthred Ghastly. When it came to Erza's end of part choice, you guys decided she should find some comfort with Artigas Pyke, a bastard a year younger than her looking for lust. This part leads off from there.
Erza
The iron girl bit her lip awkwardly as she turned her gaze back to the love couple, Jarod reaching up Arika’s skirt as his mouth attended to her breast. Feeling perverted, Erza quickly turned her attention to Artigas, who appeared to have no trouble watching the show displayed before him. She punched his arm, making him wince shortly before turning to her with a perplexed look on his gaze.
“Let’s go,” she reluctantly decided, and as expected the bastard’s boyish smirk formed on his lips. “Well hold on, I haven’t even bought you a drink-” he started, but Erza cut him off when she grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and pulled him off his stool and onto his arse. His smirk widened to a grin.
“Right here, Nightwood?” he flirted, caressing her leg as she rolled her eyes. “Fuck off, Pyke,” she laughed, kicking his hand from her. She made her exit, and he followed after her heels like a starved pup excited for its meal. As they reached the doorway, Erza felt the prickling of hairs stand on the back of her neck, like she was being watched. She turned back a moment, scanning the crowd as Artigas rose to his feet.
Jarod had stripped Arika of her blouse, and the two had sprawled themselves over the table Erza had not long ago just eaten from. Lord Goodbrother downed an ale and challenged Captain Blackadder to another match of the finger dance while his thrall still bandaged his bleeding hand. Harlie Beserk had taken her place by her brother’s side, overlooking the drunken crowd while talking with their war leader. When Erza’s eyes reached the last place she had seen Guthred, she felt a lump build in her throat. Edgar had resumed his archery with Lord Ursus’ eldest son’s corpse, but Guthred Ghastly was nowhere to be seen.
“Come on, Erza, let’s go,” Artigas ushered her excitedly, and hesitantly she let him take her outside. There they found more men playing their foolish games, such as dousing their bodies in ale and jumping over campfires, or juggling axes. Erza and Artigas weaved their way through the drunken crowd and made their way for the camping ground, but Erza felt someone grasp onto her arm as they fought their way through the crowd, making her spin around in fright.
“G’day lassie,” the young man greeted, and it took Erza’s eyes a moment to adjust and recognise the man. “Two-Finger Tan,” Erza grinned, freeing her other arm from Artigas and placing her hand over Tanner’s. “The fuck are you doing out here?” she questioned, causing the mad man to grin. “Andiron Quarter-Iron and Korb the Pirate claimed they would have their brawl out here, I swear it…” Tanner mumbled drunkly, making Erza roll her eyes and smile.
“Tanner… Andiron already took Korb’s eye out three nights ago,” she reminded him, and Tanner raised an eyebrow momentarily before shrugging it off. “Where’s Jarod? Where is my brother?!” Tanner shouted, using Erza as a balance to pull himself up. She held her ground, helping the stumbling man onto his feet. He took a moment to find his balance, and his rolling eyes found contact with Erza’s.
“He’s in the hall, fucking the Goodbrother girl,” Erza informed him, bringing a disappointed frown onto Tanner’s usually jovial expression. “That damned bitch has stolen my brother she has, he and I were thick as thieves once,” Tanner stated in a stuttering melancholy tone before collapsing into Erza’s arms. She barely caught him, and Artigas made himself known again by supporting the weight of the drunken man.
“You need to rest, Tanner,” Artigas stated, making the madman only roll his eyes. “Fuck resting!” he spat, pushing the boy away and looking lustily into Erza’s eyes, “I need to find a woman to fuck,” he announced, standing himself upright and pushing Erza away to show his independence. “I’ll fuck all the pussy on this island!” Tanner declared, raising his hands up to the sky and laughing crazily as he stumbled back, tripping over arse of tit into the dirt. When he didn’t move after a long moment, Erza started to demonstrate concern, but Artigas impatiently pulled her back into the right direction.
When they reached Artigas’ tent the two immediately embraced, the unexperienced boy pecking at her neck and cheeks in a poor attempt at foreplay, but Erza worked his shirt off as he left his slobber over her. The two stumbled into the tent, Artigas ripping off his pants in a great hurry while Erza effortlessly pulled her shirt off. Artigas’ eyes widened with excitement as his virgin drives lunged at her breasts, but Erza caught him before he could reach them. “You’re mine, Pyke,” Erza whispered, pushing him onto his back. A wide grin spread across his lips as she placed herself on top of him, running a hand through his hair and caressing his cheek.
“What’re you waiting for?” he asked, his words love crazy and impatient, but Erza just stared into his beautiful eyes for a moment, trying to find some sort of attraction to him to clear her mind. She struggled, and eventually resorted to shutting her eyes before leaning in to passionately kiss him. He tasted of salt and ale, something she could not find an appreciation for, but she ignored it to the best of her abilities.
She focused on the distant laughter and cheering of the Ironborn at the hall, she thought about what each of them were likely doing in their drunken state. She wondered if she’d prefer to have been with them than massaging a bastard’s boyish manhood. She made her way down his neck as he grasped her hips, starting to pull down her pants. The night was cold and calm, but the warmth of their skin atop each other was something of a comfort for her. Erza let Artigas turned her over, the boy was already in a great sweat from the foreplay.
He climbed on top of her and she took a hold of his wet forearms as he found his way inside her. She felt disappointed with the outcome, but she did her best not to show it. She was a bitch, but she did not want to hurt the boy, not at that level. His eyes of lust stared at her breasts with pleasure, and his wet body began to rub against hers as he lowered himself onto her. She tolerated it, but then she heard something. A crack, the snapping of a twig.
“Stop, stop!” she whispered in urgency, grasping his scrawny arms to stop him. A look of worry and confusion spread across his face. “What is it? Am I hurting you?” he asked with a naive voice, but Erza did not give him an answer, even if she knew she wanted to mock him. You’re prick isn’t big enough to hurt me, Pyke. She listened carefully, but all she could hear was panting, the heavy breathing that aired down on her. Maybe it was just the wind, she thought in reassurance, and gave Art a nod to resume.
As he found his rhythm again, Erza thought of what things were like back at home. Back at the Iron Islands. She found herself thinking of her brother involuntarily, and had to force herself to think of something else. Was it weird to think of the best man she knew when there was another inside of her? Likely, especially when that man is her brother, but there truly was no Ironborn that was a primer example of the old teachings and strength than Agnar Nightwood.
Erza’s eyes trailed down the lining of the tent, until she found herself looking out the creaks of the barely open tent flap. The night sky was cloudless, and she could see a few stars twinkling in the distance. She remembered how Agnar used to show her the creatures of the night that were formed from the aligned stars, and how he taught her to use the night as a way to navigate. She stared at them with comfort until something blocked her view. A cloud? She thought curiously, but then the shadow shifted and she found herself looking at the light blue eyes that she recognised immediately. Ghastly!
She pulled Artigas off of her and reached for her boot, scrambling frantically in the darkness for her dagger. Artigas turned to her in confusion and concern as he noticed what he was searching for. “Erza what’s your fucking problem?” he asked with a touch of fear in his voice, but he tried to mask it with frustration. By the time Erza had freed the dagger, she heard the quickly scurry of Guthred’s footsteps disappearing into the night. She felt a cold sweat crawl over her, and the cold wind breezed through the tent flap onto her cool skin.
“I heard someone,” she stated, clutching onto the dagger in paranoia, but Artigas tried desperately to calm her down and bring her back to bed. “It was probably just a squirrel or something, don’t worry about it,” he claimed, placing his hot sweaty hand on her cold leg. “Erza you’re freezing!” Artigas exclaimed as he invited her under the warmth of the sheets, but Erza just shook her head. “I’m sorry Art, I can’t,” she mumbled, pulling her clothes back on. The look of disappointment on the teenager’s eyes hurt her, but she did not submit to his pleading eyes. Once she was reasonable she exited his tent, accepting the cold embracement.
She felt unsafe, haunted by Guthred. She knew it was him, it had to be him. She needed to get away from him, somewhere in the protection of others, even if they couldn’t really do much for her. Jarod would have been the perfect choice had she not known he and Arika were fucking in the hall, but she did not want to return to the hall either. Tanner was her second choice, but it was likely he was still unconscious by the fire. Perhaps I could go down to the docks, find Korb or Andiron, she thought hopefully, but she doubted that they would be in any position than the others. She turned her eyes to the forest, another thought springing to mind. Or if he’s desperate enough I could teach him a lesson, she thought riskily.
[Go to the docks] [Lure Guthred into the forest]
Ah, finally
I am beyond glad to see that you managed to find the time to write a part again. Of course, there is your vacation coming up, but we have waited for so long, what's another 5 weeks? The story is worth the wait and may there be many more parts to come.
[Lure Guthred into the forest]
Seriously, that Guthred guy is creeping me out. The problem there is, I cannot estimate how bad he truly is. Is he merely some creepy jerk, but otherwise comparably harmless beyond the peeping, or is he actually as dangerous as Erza seems to think he is? Then again, he is a Hoare, so what kind of protection could she get from him, if she is unable to defend herself. Tanner is probably unconscious, Jarod and Arika are kinda busy and the others could be anywhere. So, I believe luring him into a trap could be best, either teaching him a lesson about trying to do, well, whatever he was trying to do there, or maybe even permanently dealing with him if he is having intentions even worse than just peeping on her and Art.
[Go to the docks]
I think she should try to find some help, instead of just doing this alone.
Ps: I sent you a pm.
Well nearly two months and there's still no break to this tie, that shows how dead this story is
Only have me and my lack of time to blame however, but I'll continue to post regardless. I'll leave this vote open in the off chance that others catch up with the re-ignition of activity on this thread, but for now, I have a new part ready. It's to Torv, who we haven't seen in quite a while.
Last time that was, Torv was on the search for Rolland Reed with his company: Rose the Black Thief and Jesse the Exile, a motley crew pulled together unwillingly. After being cast down the river from Torrhen's Square, the three spotted another raft that was beached ashore, and with obsidian arrows sticking out from it. In the end the team decided to check it out, thanks to your votes. They chose to camp on the beach rather than go searching for whoever once used the boat, suspected it was Rolland. Torv then awoke at dawn to find the Children of the Forest looming over them with weapons. Out of the three options, you chose for Torv to surrender, and surrender he will.
Edit: Now that there is a tie break, thanks to @CM3434 , I will close the voting. Erza will go to the docks.
Torv
A cold sweat rushed over him, and as the creature eyed him cautiously, Torv lifted his hands in surrender. The golden eyed being lifted its spear from the throat of the unconscious Jesse, and took a step towards Torv, pointing the obsidian-tipped weapon at his chest. Torv gulped as he tried to utter something, anything, to announce his peace. His eyes flicked over to the creature’s companions, who now hovered over his friends, one with an arrow drawn in its bow, the other holding a dagger to Rose’s throat. Torv now realised she was awake, her eyes wide and paralysed, stunned.
“Please,” Torv mumbled with a hushed voice, pleading with his hands, “we don’t mean you any harm,” he assured them, but the creature only looked perplexed as it looked back to its companions. They spoke in a tongue that Torv had never heard, and could not even begin to replicate, no matter how hard he thought of the melodic sounds they sung. There was no way of identifying any sound of deceit or hostility in their tone, their language left Torv completely dumbstruck.
Finally, their short but beautiful dialect ceased, and Torv’s opposed turned back to meet his fearful gaze. The golden eyed creature squinted in a moment of what Torv believed was contemplation, or decision, and uttered a few words before thrusting the spear past Torv’s face, slicing open his cheek. Startled and in pain, Torv let out a fearful yelp, collapsing to his knees as he tried to escape his attacker. He turned back to see that the creature was no longer pursuing him, but had turned to its comrades, who now laid their cuts on both Rose and Jesse. Torv tried to speak, but the words would not come out.
He wanted to scream, but his lungs were drained of air. Suffocating, he embraced the wet soil as he began to choke, his hands unwillingly contracting and releasing. His head began to spin and his vision started to fade. He lost all feeling to his toes, then feet, then legs. He was paralysed, and when he could no longer suffocate, his vision blackened, and one word spoke to him like a whisper. Sleep.
-
Torv awoke in a vast world of darkness, his surroundings completely black, but like ink. It swirled around him, dancing like shadows in the descending sun, yet there was no light. Torv pulled himself upright, disorientated and dazed with his surroundings. He outstretched his hand, watching as it quickly was engulfed by the inky shadows. He gulped, quickly snatching his hand back from the darkness and clutching onto it with his other, now looking around desperately for something else.
“Hello?” His voice echoed into the nothingness around him, until it gently faded into the abyss, leaving him lost and alone. What’s happening? Torv thought in panic, but his thoughts spoke louder than his words, and suddenly the inky darkness conglomerated into a familiar rectangular shape. Oily black tears streamed down the face of the enlarged Weeping Stone, its features so delicate and almost real. Torv reluctantly outstretched his arm again, letting the liquid that drained from the onyx eyes touch his hand. Immediately on contact, Torv felt everything spin, he screamed, shutting his eyes as the world morphed around him.
When he braved enough to re-open his eyes, he was no longer greeted by darkness, but a much darker, familiar setting. The Dreadfort, Torv realised, feeling a gripping around his chest as his breaths became more apparent. Reluctantly, Torv took a step forward, and found himself in a room unfamiliar to him, but with faces he knew all too well. The gaunt faced, weak man with a crown of pink copper atop his head, was the formidable King Rogar Bolton. However, he was younger than what Torv had known him to be.
He loomed over the corpse of a woman, caressing her hand as a melancholic look possessed his grey eyes, like dirty snow. “My King,” a shaky voice announced, but Rogar did not spare eye contact from the corpse of the woman. “There was nothing we could do to keep her alive, my King,” the man informed with regret, his face blackened out, “but the child we managed to save, a healthy baby girl. Healthy young twins,” he added with an admiring tone. Rogar’s lip quivered in ire has his hand tightly squeezed the woman’s.
“The little monster killed my sister,” Rogar growled, now turning his gaze to the baby girl. “Take her north of the Wall, let her freeze,” Rogar muttered, lowering his gaze back to his sister. The startled man gulped, clutching the child close to him. “My King…” he pleaded, but Rogar demonstrated his wrath generously, with his words. “That is my order, Nolan!” Rogar grunted, and the man reluctantly nodded with fear. “And the boy?” he added, his tone unwilling and fearful for the outcome.
“A bastard. Dull his mind with poppy mead and give him to your wife to raise,” Rogar commanded, running his hand through his sister’s hair. “He will never of his mother, and I will not have to worry about him searching for his father. Gods know the chaos that would cause us,” Rogar muttered, rising from his stool and facing Nolan. “This is my order, get it done.” The man nodded, turning and leaving the room while Rogar gave his sister a final glance.
The ink blotted out the scene, like a stone dropped in a puddle, until the wake settled and Torv stared into a dark reflection of himself, but it was not the same man that he really was. This Torv wore dark leathers, twirling a dagger in his hand with a malicious look on his eye. His face was concealed by the pelt of a wolf’s head, furs which draped down to his feet. Around his feet resided the heads of numerous men. Arnold Dint, Harmund Hornwill, Edrick, Emma Snow, Rolland Reed, Rogar Bolton, and Theon Stark. Torv shook his head, reaching to touch his face, which only disturbed the image.
Time spun again, and Torv now found himself across the waters in a distant land, harsh and unforgiving. A land where the winds left a cold bite on any that endured it, and where unicorns rode on the windswept fields. All except for one, one which laid cold on the stone shores, its belly ripped open and a girl beside it. Torv approached the female, but he could not identify her. She held a spear in one hand and the heart of the creature in the other, her long curly black hair was drenched in blood, and her face coated in it. She lifted both her arms into the air and screamed into the wind, her voice travelling to a land where castles stood behind a giant wall.
The wind swept him back to the Dreadfort, where he perched on a frosted balcony on the castle. He saw a man, his skin as pale as ice, his body coated in scars and his head cleanly shaved. He was the prince of the Dreadfort, but different, possessed. Torv could see through him, to an essence that ‘powered’ him, something dark and cold. It was not Dormund Bolton, not the Dormund that Torv had seen, not the one he remembered. Yet the prince seemed aware of his presence, lifting his head and turning to the balcony.
“Torvin?” he uttered, yet Torv could not tell whether his tone was malicious or just confused. Torv held his ground as the prince arose from the floor, coming to the balcony and lifting him off the dark stone battlements. “It is you,” he confirmed, and then swiftly, he twisted the bird’s neck.
-
Torv awoke in a mighty cold sweat as he felt a throbbing pain shoot through his neck. He yelped, falling off the stone bed he had been placed on and onto the rough rocky ground. He screamed as the pain intensified, and he felt his bones cracking and his muscles tearing. A soft hand touched his back, but the agony Torv suffered cause too great a pain for him to even want to see who touched him.
“Easy, child. You are ill, but I can cure you. I can take away the pain, and give you back what you have lost,” the voice promised, and while Torv was in no position to even care what tone the man spoke with, it sounded soft and genuine. “But I must warn you, for you will never be the same if you do this, but I promise I will train you to become everything you were born to be. I will take away the pain, and I will show you the way. Is this what you want?” the voice asked, and Torv’s hands clenched as he screamed in pain. He could not bear this, the pain had grown intolerable. He did not know who or what this man was or what he was offering, he had no time to think.
[Yes] [No]
Ah, welcome back! I hope your vacation has been a nice one, I'm glad you returned. I also noticed some voters were absent last time, hopefully everyone ends up seeing this update here. You know I'd never miss a voting though
And whoa, what the hell was that revelation in this part? Torv seems to be a lot more important and powerful than I've assumed, hell, than anyone probably assumed. So, he's not only a Bolton, but also probably not dim-witted as I always thought, but more like permanently drugged or something like that. And he's a greenseer, eh? Dormund concerns me though. As Torv, or shall I say Torvin, claimed here, he's not quite Dormund, which fits with what we know of him since his resurrection. These are not only resurrection changes to his personality, it seems someone is altering him, probably controlling or at least heavily influencing him and this someone is likely evil. I was already suspicious enough about the whole resurrection deal here, as we don't know how it was done, it wasn't influenced by R'hllor magic, it was likely not connected to the Great Other either. Now however, it seems it would have been better if Dormund would have stayed dead.
[Yes]
Well, I can't see any negatives to this. It appears Torv is going to be important in the future, so he absolutely needs any advantage he can get. Dormund, or whatever controls him, knows of his existence and probably of his powers, so keeping him as he is definitely won't keep him safe. There's no bliss in ignorance this time.
[Yes]
Welcome back!
First off, welcome back Stigz! Now for the choice, I am going with having her [Go to the docks] I feel at least slightly at ease having her out in the open rather than taking what could be a huge risk here.
[Yes] Looks like Torv will be really important moving forward because of whatever's happening now and he doesn't have too much of a choice anyhow so he may as well agree to this.
Well that's not entirely true, there is always a choice
Although I suppose how I've structured this one does make it look quite one sided, but overall depending on which choice is made by the end of this vote will determine the kind of character that Torv becomes. Both have their cons, and of course there are pros to them as well, but as the outcome to either option is a mystery to all but I, it is a gamble for you to vote.
It'd seem these are all the votes that are going to come in for now, so I'll close the vote. Torv will say yes to this mysterious proposal, be it for better or worse. I can reveal to you that both options have their negatives and positives, but which will remain best for Torv in the end will be revealed later on. As you guys can also likely tell, Torv has quite the storyline coming up, and it's one I'm really excited to jump into.
At any rate, I have two small parts ready for you guys, which go to Dormund and Steffon. The last time we saw Dormund, he was about to head off for the Frost Keep to put House Frost back in line before being interrupted by his father, who requested he take Rechar Greenwood with him. You guys chose for Dormund to take Rechar with him instead of suggesting the witch: Elena, instead. Meanwhile for Steffon, the last time we saw him was at most deprived times for him. Departing Winterfell to embark on his mission to gain the support of Emma Snow, with the company of Gareth the sellsword and Teran Woodmill, they set off into the Wolfswood for Torrhen's Square. However with all the lack of sleep you bastards keep tormenting Steffon with, his deprived body took its toll on him and caused him to fall unconscious. Both of these parts pick up where they left off.
Dormund
The Red King held an impatient look on his stern gaze as he roughly rubbed the shoulder of Rechar Greenwood, whom held an expression that merely represented his face when he dangled over the edge of a cliff. Dormund glanced over at the witch with a look far from apologetic before averting his gaze to Rogar.
“Very well,” Dormund decided, placing his cold hand on Rechar’s shoulder. “I’m sure the boy will prove excellent at saddling my horse and entertaining the men,” the Red Prince jested, but Rogar just scowled in disapproval, while Rechar’s eyes widened fearfully. “Show some respect, when the boy is of age I’ll make him lord of his house, and you know how we treat lords,” Rogar stated, to which Dormund smirked, nodding. “Of course, father.”
“Prince Dormund,” Elena called, turning Dormund’s attention to her again. Elena took a few paces forward, placing her in front of the Red Prince. “We must talk on your return,” she informed him with a hushed tone, making Dormund raise an eyebrow, but she gave him a look which indicated not to question it, so he simply nodded. “Well, if that’s all…” Dormund hinted, pulling Rechar from Rogar’s grip and moving towards his horse.
“Dormund,” Rogar called with a gritty voice, making the Red Prince bite his tongue and sigh as he turned to meet his father’s gaze. Rogar only gave a dismissive gaze to Elena and Rechar, who both reluctantly parted their own ways, leaving Rogar with his son. A cold chill ran down Dormund’s spine as he eyed his father with resent, yet no matter how much he could hate the man, he couldn’t force away the fear that still resided in him. Dormund was younger than the old prick, and certainly a lot stronger than the last time his father had defeated him.
Rogar took a step towards him, making Dormund tense up, but hesitantly he held his ground, subtly clenching his hands into fists. His father took notice to this, and a heavy frown fell upon his face. “You wouldn’t strike down your father, would you?” Rogar challenged, and Dormund could pick the mockery in his tone, it infuriated him. “You wouldn’t cut open your son’s throat, would you?” Dormund remarked in ire, but despite how much he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything else but throw words at the man. Rogar sighed, clasping his hands together.
“Do you know what you did to me on that day?” Rogar queried, beginning to circle around Dormund as he awaited an answer. Paralysed, Dormund stood dead still and remained as quiet as a ghost, his eyes fixed ahead of him on nothing. Rogar took the liberty of answering the question for him. “You broke my fucking heart, boy. You allowed the one thing I had invested my life into to fall to some mere foreign cunt brave enough to thrust his sword at royalty. Clearly braver than you were to support your future king,” Rogar grunted, looking up at Dormund with condescending eyes.
Dormund’s lip quivered in anger, but he took no action, only turning to meet the hateful gaze of his father. “I was your son too, Rogar,” Dormund snarled, watching as his father’s eyes fluctuated from disdain to pity. He placed his bony hand on Dormund’s arm, causing his blood to rush around his body. “You still are my son, nothing will ever change that,” Rogar admitted softly, a frown now coating his expression, but Dormund shook his head, shrugging Rogar’s hand off him.
“You changed that when you murdered my friend and slit open my throat, old man. The only son you have now is a boy that resents you, and you our enemy to take him across the Narrow Sea to die. You have brought the end to your house,” Dormund doomed, making his father sneer in response, but Dormund didn’t leave him a chance to speak. “I will pull the Frost’s into line for this kingdom, not for you,” he finished, turning from the old man and mounting his horse.
“For as long as you live, I will always control you,” Rogar stated, but Dormund paid him no more mind. Then it’s a good thing you left me for dead, Dormund reminisced, jabbing his steed in the ribs and setting off. He could feel his father’s gaze piercing through his armour, biting at his skin, and no matter how much he tried to ignore it, he could feel the teeth of the Starving Leech sinking into his flesh, leaving him lifeless again and again.
No decision.
Steffon
A thudding pain awoke Steffon from his restless sleep, a cold sweat rushing over him as he grasped the sides of his bed. His bed? Confused, he tried to sit himself up, but his head weighed him down in agony, making him grimace as his hands clenched tightly into fists. “Easy, easy. You’ve got yourself one hell of a concussion,” a deep but gentle voice informed him, a damp rag was applied to his forehead, which only brought very minor relief.
“Where am I?” Steffon uttered in a painful groan. He tried to open his eyes, but when they met the light he instantly felt his head thud at the walls of his skull, screaming in protest, yearning the darkness. “You’re safe,” the man assured him, placing a soft hand on Steffon’s shoulder. “Your friends brought you to my hall shortly after you fell unconscious, they seemed quite distressed. Sons, I presume?” the man queried, but Steffon shook his head; something he instantly regretted.
“Travelling companions,” he muttered as he recovered from his pain. “Where are they?” Steffon then asked, a touch of concern in his weakened tone. The man sighed, pulling a stool to sit on. “As I said, they appeared quite distressed. The two argued for a while until one decided to leave, saying he was going to continue some mission on his own. Ah but that that was three days ago, and the other has remained to see you awake. He’s down in the mess hall, helping himself to all my mead, I might add,” the man chuckled, but Steffon raised an eyebrow in confusion.
“Three days?” he thought aloud, and as his memory came to him, he immediately sought for the strength to pull himself up. Forcing his eyes open, he rested a moment upright as his eyes unwillingly adjusted to the light, and the pain in his head faintly subsided. “I have to go,” Steffon informed the man, but his eyes could barely make out the features of the man, little own his surroundings. “You need to rest, rehydrate and eat. Then I will allow you to leave,” the man informed him, but Steffon sternly shook his head.
“You don’t understand,” Steffon grumbled, “I’m on a mission on behalf of King Theon. I need to get to the Rills before…” Steffon could barely contain himself. Impatient and weary, he tried to pull himself up, but the man placed a firm hand on Steffon’s shoulder, easily overcoming him with his strength. “I’m more than aware of your mission, General Cale, but that does not rule out that you need to recover from your injury. Gods know you will only get yourself killed if I set you loose now,” the man stated promptly, turning to grab something from a bench. “If you won’t rest, at least eat for me. You have three days of meals absent from your belly,” the man claimed, putting a bowl in front of Steffon’s nose. Reluctantly, he accepted it.
The warmth of the meal was a comfort to his tired hands, and calming to his head as he sipped at the hot stew. “Who are you?” Steffon finally asked, now seeing the man somewhat better. He was an older man, robust and clad in furs, his grey hair windswept and his beard equally untidy. He took a seat opposite of Steffon, a frown on his hard face. “I am Yoren Forrester, the chief of Clan Forrester,” the old man introduced himself, uplifting his hands as he eyed his surroundings, “and this humble abode is Forrester’s Hyde,” he stated with some pride in his tone. Steffon raised an eyebrow.
“Forrester?” Steffon questioned, sipping at the meat stew again, and causing Yoren to sigh. “We are the masters of lumbering ironwood. We supply House Stark with their shields and spears,” Yoren stated, which only made Steffon furrow his eyebrows. “House Whitehill supplies the Stark’s with ironwood equipment,” Steffon remarked naively, which evoked an irritable scowl from the old man. “The Whitehill’s purchase my produce, and in return, allow me to farm this land. Do not be fooled though, boy. If the Whitehill’s ever attempted to work ironwood, they would only produce frail equipment, not even appropriate for a boy’s toy sword,” Yoren claimed sternly, and Steffon could pick up some hostility in the old man’s tone.
“But enough of that,” Yoren acquiesced with a bitter tone, rising from his stool. “When you are able, come down to the mess hall. I’m sure your ‘travelling companion’ will be eager to see you,” Yoren stated, patting Steffon on the shoulder before descending the wooden steps that led to the Great Hall. Steffon let out a sigh, taking another sip of the stew before casting it aside and resting his weary head against the wall. Three days, he thought with worry. It would take another two days riding until arriving at the Rills. Three days wasted, Steffon thought with frustration, thinking of how the Stark army likely awaited at Deepwood Motte by now. With this, Steffon concluded that enough time had been lost, and despite the pain it caused him, he pulled himself upright and made his way for the stairs.
-
A touch of disappointment engulfed Steffon as he entered the mess hall to spot the sellsword: Gareth, sitting at Lord Yoren’s table. He admitted, he had hoped it would have been Teran that had remained. Of course that stupid boy chose to continue, Steffon thought with annoyance, fearing the kid had likely gotten himself killed, with the amount of Ironborn striking at the western shores, it was heavily possible.
Steffon awkwardly limped towards Yoren’s table, he could feel the eyes of the men and women in the hall, each judging him with their gaze, but he didn’t care. He had lost all his self-dignity with the passing of his wife so many years ago, and now with the loss of his daughter, he had lost all capability of empathy for those who were not worth his time.
Yoren arose from his seat when he spotted Steffon’s approach, raising his hands and announcing his arrival with his booming voice. “Friends, please welcome our protector, General Cale, to the hall!” Yoren yelled, bringing his hands together in applaud, which was followed by most of the hall shortly after. Steffon held a stern expression, climbing up the few steps that led to Yoren’s table. A servant quickly ran around to free a chair, conveniently right next to Gareth. Steffon sighed, nodding to the boy and take his seat. Yoren too took his seat at the head of the table, a smile touching his lips.
“Nice of you to join us, General. Let me introduce you to my family,” he warmly pleaded, placing his hand on top of his wife’s. “This beauty is Gylda, my beloved wife,” he introduced, and the old lady blushed lightly before smiling at Steffon, who only nodded in return. “Beside her is my eldest daughter, Trysta, and beside her are my sons: Thresh the Tall and Thermund the Taller,” Yoren concluded, of which only Thermund acknowledged Steffon, while both Trysta and Thresh kept their gaze lowered. “We are honoured to have you here,” Yoren added with a smile, to which Steffon reciprocated a small smile.
“Thank you for treating my wounds, and for the hospitality you have provided to my dear friend here,” Steffon expressed his gratitude, placing a firm grip on Gareth’s shoulder which made him wince. “We need to talk,” Steffon grumbled in Gareth’s ear, making the young man grimace. “No shit,” he muttered, freeing his shoulder from Steffon’s grasp. “General, do forgive me, but how long to you intend to stay at Forrester’s Hyde? We can’t afford the additional mouths to feed,” Trysta stated firmly, receiving an astonished look from her mother, and a distasteful glare from her father.
“Trysta, you will mind your tongue,” Yoren grouched, but Trysta shook her head. “I’m not your little girl anymore father, and I know just as well as your people that you have wasted more than enough of our medical supplies on this stranger!” Trysta spat, which was supported by her brother, Thresh, with a firm nod. “She’s right father, we can’t afford to keep them here any longer,” Thresh stated, but Yoren would not hear another word of it. His fists came thundering down onto the table, silencing the entire hall.
“This is not the time! Remove yourselves, all of you!” Yoren ordered, and reluctantly the two stood, followed by the entire hall. Steffon noticed a witty smirk on Gareth’s lips, to which he turned to Steffon. “Do you think it’s the poppy tea which they’re upset about? Or the fact that I emptied their liquor storages?” Gareth chuckled, to which Steffon sent him a menacing scowl which put him in his place. Steffon sighed, turning to Yoren.
“I see we have overstayed our welcome. We will depart directly,” Steffon informed him, but Yoren shook his head, raising is open hands. “Please, at least have another night’s rest before departing. Besides, I’d like to pray for you at the weirwood at dawn, if you would permit it,” Yoren pleaded, to which Gareth just rolled his eyes, but Steffon eyed the man sternly. This hospitality, it was unexpected, certainly, and clearly Steffon wasn’t the only one who was hesitant about it. He wasn’t sure what to think of Yoren, but he certainly knew he could use the rest, he could barely muster the strength to walk, little own ride. Gods know where a lack of sleep has gotten me so far.
[Agree to stay one more night] [Refuse his offer, leave tonight]
I am really not trusting this new Dormund. On the one hand, he is similar to how he used to be, at least from his own perspective, I definitely spot some of the traits he used to have before. On the other hand, there is this scene from Torv's latest PoV and I have to wonder if there is more inside of him than just, you know, him. Maybe he doesn't notice it all that much, but I have to wonder if he is truly in control of his own actions, at least to a significant degree.
[Agree to stay one more night]
Well, I gotta think of Steffon here. He really doesn't seem ready to continue his journey all that quickly. Another night of rest could be crucial. Just imagine if he leaves still completely exhausted and is attacked by someone, I don't think we can reasonably expect of him to defend himself in this case.
And man, I am really annoyed by Gareth
Every time he opens his mouth, I'd like to punch him in the face. At this point, he's definitely more a liability than anything else and hopefully, Steffon will realize this soon enough and take appropriate measures to get rid of him.
Well we are aware that Dormund has had a physical transformation, given his strength to be able to dangle Rechar over a cliff with ease, while also ignoring the fact that he was in complete control with Rechar's resistance to this matter. So this resurrection has come with some few additives, which will be revealed in the time to come, but there is definitely some merit in your observation here.
Hahaha yes, the Invasion's "Merc with a Mouth." Indeed, Gareth is more of a liability at this stage, although he hasn't really had the chance to prove himself on battle yet, not that he really cares to put himself in anyone's high appraise, as evident by his behaviour
[Agree to stay one more night]
I basically agree with Liquid's reasoning here.
[Agree to stay one more night] Safe to say that I agree with the others on this one. Staying another night seems like the safest option for him in general.
Alright, well this vote can certainly come to a close. Steffon will agree to stay one more night. This is definitely the more respectful option towards Lord Yoren, however his children may not agree entirely. However this is definitely a better alternative than facing further injury by over-stressing his body more, not saying Steffon is weak!
At any rate, I realise it's almost been three weeks since I've made a post, and I would like to apologise for not keeping you updated here. My laptop has been suffering an ongoing issue of not wanting to turn on, getting stuck with a windows glitch, and I've had to drive across the state to the retailer numerous times to get it fixed over and over, ending up in a hard reset which resulted in me losing a lot of my data. Not to worry though, I do have a lot of my story backed up through google drive, however I admit it has set me back a bit, as well as stressing over starting university in a weeks time (hopefully I'll get back into a rhythm by then). Anyway, hopefully now the computer won't chuck the shits, it seems to be working alright now.
So without anymore excuses, I'd like to post the next part. It's uh... Well it's... It's a new character. Yes, another character, because the Invasion really doesn't have enough PoV's
However this one will be showing a very different perspective, and introducing a new plotline which will lead into the very end books of the story (there is also another PoV coming for this storyline, however I'll try to hold off until next chapter for him). So allow me to introduce you to the newest addition to the PoV cast: Rorik the Rugged, a Thenn warrior. I'll say no more, I hope you enjoy his first part.
Rorik
Sleet thrashed against them with the howling winds that tunnelled down the gullies of the Frostfangs, but they obediently held their ground, all waiting to hear the call. They were positioned atop the ridge, looking down into the green valley where the corpses of many of their brothers and sisters resided, slowly being collected and tossed onto the fires by their slaughterers. They’ve grown desperate.
Rorik’s gaze lifted up to the dark sky, his hands grasping around the shafts of his axes. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and where the icy shards spawned, the clash of thunder could be heard in close proximity. The moon was full, dimly lighting the ridge where Rorik could see all of his brothers and sisters in arms beside him. Each held a firm gaze, dutiful but eager to fight, all save for a selective few.
The crow deserter spoke with hushed words to his Thenn wife, there was a look of worry in his green eyes, and it looked like his wife reciprocated this concern with her own gaze. Beside them, the young and naive boy who had earned himself a name knelt with a bloodthirsty gaze on his malicious eyes. He, like everyone else, was coated in furs and bronze from the head down, but unlike the rest, his feet were completely exposed. Mad fucker, Rorik thought as he flicked his gaze over them to where their commander was positioned.
Magnar Bjalner, perhaps the most formidable looking man Rorik had seen, glared down at the valley with a hunger in his red eyes, his fingers running along the fine edge of his great axe. Beside him, his most loyal warrior and friend: Bjorn, held onto the silver embellished horn of the Thenn’s. Their army was silent, patient and livid. Bjalner took a final glance to the sky, the full moon was nearly engulfed by the black storm clouds that thundered over them.
He gave one firm nod to Bjorn, who in turn relayed specific hand signals to the men behind him, and smoothly the archer formations nocked and drew their arrows and all looked to their commander. Bjalner lifted his closed fist, and Rorik could feel his heart starting to beat faster in awe, his grip on his axes tightening. The moment the moon was completely obscured, and the valley was coated with the shadow of the night, Bjalner dropped his hand, and the first wave of arrows were set loose. This was quickly followed by the sounding of the Thenn horn with a thundering war cry from the Magnar, which quickly rallied the roar of the army.
Rorik instinctively joined this war cry, and without command his feet were already one step in front of the other with the rest of his comrades down the slope. A malevolent grin widened on Rorik’s lips as he spotted the shocked looks of the Ice River Clanmen as they spotted the mass army that charged down towards them. Those caught unaware were fortunate to be struck quickly with the raining arrows, they would not suffer the fuelled hatred of Bjalner’s offensive.
By the time the unprepared clansmen had reached for their shields and formed a lousy blockade the army of the Thenn’s had broken through, and Rorik gladly planted his first axe deeply through the skull of his first victim; a boy who had barely reached his maturity, with the blood of his meal staining his teeth. Rorik freed his axe as he swung his other into the back of a preoccupied warrior. The crack of his spine by Rorik’s bronze made him grin, and as he freed his blade, he was matched with an aware opponent.
The hooded figure thrust a spear for Rorik’s skull, something which he easily dodged. Rorik countered this attack with a well-placed axe to into the man’s shoulder, evoking a pained scream from underneath the hood. Rorik madly screamed right back at him, cackling at him with a blood frenzy and he headed his opponent, freeing his axe as the man fell. Rorik stopped a moment to regain his balance, his head recomposing itself from the hit, or perhaps the dozen horns of mead that Rorik had sculled before the attack.
Regardless, Rorik felt a hard thud crash against the back of his head, instantly dropping him to his knees in a perplexed daze. He turned to meet the enraged gaze of robust clansmen, a bloodied wooden club gripped tightly in his right hand. Rorik scrambled for one of his axes as the man lifted his club to finish the blow, but he was halted by the blade that pierced him through the back and exited through his chest, causing him to cough up blood before falling limp on his bronze skewer.
Rorik’s rescuer unsheathed his blade from the meat bag, and extended a hand down to Rorik. He grasped it firmly and was pulled to his feet, and as his eyes refocused he recognised the man to be Bjorn. His face and head was already coated in blood, obscuring the tattoo on his face, but his brown eyes held amusement. “Always saving your arse, Firebeard,” he grinned, and as Rorik bent down to pick up his axes, Bjorn deflected another blow towards Rorik, and quickly parried the inexperienced swordsman.
“Thought you’d be watching over the Magnar,” Rorik spat, planting his axe in the face of a woman that charged at him. He heard the muffled chuckle of Bjorn as he swung down his great sword, cutting a man in two. “Like he needs it!” Bjorn shouted, grabbing his next opponent by the throat before crushing his windpipe singlehandedly. Rorik threw an axe at the ambushing clansmen behind Bjorn, lodging itself deeper into the boy’s neck as he fell on it.
Rorik turned to hear the thundering roar of Magnar Bjalner, swinging his axe around his head and bringing it down at the man beneath his feet. Around him the bodies were already beginning to pile, but it was nothing compared to his pet: Tun Kun. The giant let out a ground shaking bellow, which was followed with a legitimate ground shake as his foot stomped the woman beneath him, reducing her to a red mush.
Rorik turned back to see Bjorn engaging with three others, hurling his great sword around as they leaped back in fear. Rorik then flicked his gaze across the battlefield. He spotted the Night’s Watch deserter: Toregg, fighting clansmen back-to-back with his wife, Ygwyn. Near them, the Hornfoot boy: Maror the Mangler, had split off from the rest of the army, taking on two clansmen with his two-handed mace. As vicious as he was, his youth gave his older opponents the mental advantage, and Rorik could see the boy beginning to tire.
Letting out a frustrated sigh, Rorik ran to retrieve his axe from the ambushing opponent’s neck and then charged for Maror. Bowling over multiple enemies, while hacking at others, Rorik arrived just as one of the clansmen lunged his spear at his face, deeply grazing the boy’s cheek. Rorik snapped the man’s neck, and Maror took this advantage to thwack the other off his feet, and while he was down, Maror lifted his maze and slammed it down into his skull, cracking it open.
The Hornfoot turned back to Rorik to give him a bloodthirsty grin, followed by a nod of respect, before charging back into the action. Rorik just shook his head and grinned as he followed after him, wiping the blood from his hands on his face.
-
The sky was a blood red as dawn arose from the east, setting a warm light onto the valley. Rorik sat by one of the few remaining fires that hadn’t been stomped out in all the fighting, warming his cool bones as he rested. His gaze looked over the battlefield, observing the abundance of dead. Their army had suffered heavy casualties, regardless of surprising the ruthless Ice River Clans, but had still risen victorious as expected.
What snow hadn’t melted was tainted red with blood, and the groans of the injured could still be heard after hours. Those able roamed across the field, executing the few remaining clansmen, while others followed Rorik’s example and treated themselves with rest. Rorik spotted the Hornfoot jumping around from body to body with a knife in his hand, slicing ears and fingers from the corpses of their enemies and stringing them to his belt. Maror the Mangler, Rorik thought amusedly, watching the orphan live up to his name.
In the centre of the battlefield, Magnar Bjalner had ordered the construction of a great bonfire, which was coated with the corpses of the clansmen, sending great thick plumes of smoke into the clearing sky. The fallen Thenn warriors were meanwhile being loaded into the back of wagons, where they would be carted back to the Vale of Thenn and be given a proper burial at the stone mausoleum; a great honour which many soldiers looked forward to.
Rorik let out a groan, laying back and resting his head on the body of one of the corpses by the fire. He set his axes aside and reached into his satchel under his furs, feeling around for something specific, and when he felt it he freed it from his pelts. A small smile touched his lips as he ran his thumb over the rough edges of the small wooden totem, something which had been given to him by someone very special to him. Someone he had lost. It was a small wooden figurine, supposedly meant to be of him, but it was very roughly chiselled. Under the platform there was a word chiselled into the wood in the Old Tongue: “Daddy.”
A sad smile touched his lips as he breathed slowly, running his tough bloody fingers around the rough edges of the sculpture. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling a tear run down his cheek. He lifted his hand to catch the droplet, the salt mixing with the blood on his hand to reveal a pink reflection of himself, but not truly himself. Blood coated his face, running through his grimy dark red hair which fell down to his shoulders in a half-pony fashion. His dark brown visualised his sadness, and the tremble in his lips.
Rorik clenched his fist around the wooden totem, anger consuming him as he was reminded of the regret and loss that haunted him. His only distractions had been war and drinking, and now he had nothing but his thoughts, and they tortured him. Memories of her face flashed across his wet eyes, and a deep grumble built into a raging roar as he expressed himself in ire, grabbing his axe and tossing it into the pile of corpses before crumbling to his knees and pulling at his hair. I’m so sorry. he wanted to sob, but his throat tightened and refused to let him speak. So he just kneeled, letting the tears stream down his cheeks until he felt a touch on his shoulder.
“Rorik?” the familiar voice of Bjorn sounded, but Rorik shrugged off his grasp, wiping his eyes and standing. “I’m fine,” he uttered, walking over to the corpse pile to grab his axe. Bjorn followed after him. “You fought well today,” Bjorn complimented, putting an arm over Rorik’s shoulder as he grabbed his axe. “With this victory, the Ice River Clans will think twice before fucking with us. Bold shits thought they could just slaughter our emissaries and get away with it,” Bjorn spat, leading Rorik away from the corpses. “Did you see the look on their eyes as we charged?” Bjorn grinned with amusement, and Rorik nodded sternly.
“Pigs for the slaughter, the crows will fill their bellies on their remains,” Bjorn stated proudly, but Rorik didn’t engage, making Bjorn raise an eyebrow. “What’s the matter?” he asked with concern, but Rorik just shook his head. “Just a lot on my mind,” Rorik muttered, freeing himself from Bjorn’s arm. The man frowned, crossing his arms. “Rorik the Rugged, truly broken underneath all of his harsh specialties,” Bjorn stated, making Rorik sneer back at him in warning, to which Bjorn submissively raised his hands.
“Come, let’s get a drink,” he suggested, but Rorik just shook his head, taking a seat by the fire. He knew too well that drinking now would only make him worse. Bjorn simply sighed in response, placing a hand on Rorik’s shoulder before parting.
-
The walls to the Magnar’s Domain stood ten metres tall, with sentries armed with bows and bronze head spears at the battlements and the main gate. Rorik found himself walking with the company of Toregg and Ygwyn, who were both clearly tired from the journey back to the Vale. Rorik took a glance at the young couple, a small smile touching his lips as he became sentimental with some of his old memories.
Ygwyn was a young spearwife, only seventeen, but she had shown her ferocity on the battlefield, and behind closed doors, having given birth to their first son: Torwynd. She was a beautiful woman, with sharp high cheekbones and pale blue eyes, accompanied with luscious long blonde hair. She was no match for her crow partner, but Rorik had nothing against the crow compared to some of the other Thenn’s, as far as he was concerned the boy had proved himself.
Toregg was a few years older than Ygwyn, and according to his story, he had ended up a crow because of a betrayal down south. Whether or not this was true, Rorik did not know, but Ygwyn vouched for him and that was all that mattered. He had been with the Thenn’s for two years now, and he had gained the respect of most that he had fought with, as well as the Magnar.
“You fought well today,” Ygwyn remarked as she turned to Rorik, a warm smile on her lips. Rorik barely reciprocated the smile, and gave her a small nod. “You two as well,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze. “All we could hear after the battle was talk of Rorik the Rugged and how he killed the Clan Chief,” Ygwyn remarked, making Rorik furrow his eyebrows. “I did?” he asked perplexed, making Ygwyn raise an eyebrow.
“Aye, he was a formidable fucker too. You’re the bravest man I know to go up against that,” Toregg stated, making Rorik raise his eyebrows in sheer amusement. Just the drunkest, he thought with this news. Toregg sighed uneasily, rubbing his hands awkwardly. “You’re sure your mother was capable of taking care of our child?” Toregg asked nervously, clearly not convinced that this choice they had made was the wisest. Ygwyn only chuckled and looked at her husband with loving eyes.
“She did well with me, didn’t she?” she teased, making Toregg roll his eyes and grasp her around the waist. “Of course,” he admitted, but his tone was still uncertain. Ygwyn placed a finger on his lips, a grin touching her lips. “Don’t worry, our baby boy is fine,” she assured him, and reluctantly, Toregg humoured his wife with a small smile. Rorik took the chance to speak up in the silence.
“Torwynd, wasn’t it?” he asked, and Toregg nodded. “It’s a father’s dream to have a son, one of the proudest moments in my life. I’m sure it’s even more for you, being a crow,” Rorik stated, to which Toregg smiled and looked at his beautiful wife. “It is one of my proudest moments, yes,” he hinted, kissing her down the neck. “You have a son?” Ygwyn asked, playfully pushing Toregg away from her.
Rorik nodded, “I did.” Toregg raised an eyebrow. “Where is he now?” he asked curiously, to which Rorik sighed, running a hand through his knotted filthy hair. “I lost him,” Rorik stated, and Ygwyn’s expression immediately saddened. “I’m sorry,” Toregg mumbled, but Rorik shook his head, running his hand through the crow’s short scruffy black hair. “Don’t ever forget your children, you hear? No matter what happens, I don’t care how bad you’ve got it, they’re your legacy, and you must be their father,” Rorik counselled him, releasing his grip on Toregg’s hair. “Don’t fuck up and live in regret. Knowing that your son’s last thoughts of you is how much he wanted you dead will end you,” Rorik muttered, and Toregg’s eyes widened in astonishment and pity, but before he could say anything they were interrupted by the loud thudding of hooves on the dirt road.
“Rorik the Rugged,” a powerful raspy voice called, to which Rorik’s gaze met the cold red eyes of Magnar Bjalner. Rorik nodded, lowering his gaze. “My Lord,” Rorik responded, staring at his feet as he came to a halt. From the corner of his gaze he watched as the Magnar dismounted his steed and approached him, his pale white hand lifting Rorik’s chin so his gaze would meet Bjalner’s.
“Get yourself cleaned up and then come to my stronghold. We have matters to discuss,” he grumbled, pulling back his hand and mounting his horse again. Rorik turned his gaze to Bjorn, who gave him a firm nod, informing him that he wasn’t in trouble. Once they were gone, Rorik let out a sigh of relief. Toregg let out a long whistle.
“He’s an intimidating fucker, eh?” Toregg remarked, wiping the sweat from his brow. Ygwyn smirked. “Aye, good thing you’re fucking the right wildling,” she teased, groping his manhood and making his eyes widen in shock. He laughed awkwardly, removing her hand and brushing her hair. “Freefolk,” he corrected, but she just grinned. “Not under the furs,” she mocked, caressing his cheek and making him blush. She turned to Rorik.
“Would you like to meet him?” she asked, her tone bubbly and her eyes beaming in excitement. Rorik raised an eyebrow. “Him?” he asked with confusion, to which she giggled. “Torwynd,” she clarified, and to which Rorik sighed. “Oh,” he realised, but still this offer had caught him off guard. Toregg rubbed at Ygwyn’s shoulders, taking his place by her side. “We understand if you want to head directly to Bjalner, but I promise, we won’t take up much of your time. I would be honoured if you did,” Toregg added, making Rorik frown.
“I-” Rorik sighed, confliction held him a hostage here. He had no care for meeting Bjalner, even though he knew it was not an offer, but a command. However that wasn’t the issue here, it was sentiment. It was one thing to give a new father advice on how to raise his son, another to see a father and his son having something Rorik could never have. Not again. A cold touch squeezed at Rorik’s heart, making him suffer as he thought of his children, and his wife. He missed them dearly, he had lost so much.
[Go meet Torwynd] [Refuse]
Ah, now that is a very interesting and unexpected PoV. I remember some of these characters from the Northern Chill, glad they indeed got a new home here
Rorik is an entirely new character though, if I am not critically mistaken. He is also quite an interesting guy, personality-wise and stuff. I think I like him already and I am very excited for the kind of storyline you have in mind with him and how it will tie into the larger story. If I had to guess, I'd say these scenes beyond the wall could be of importance to the whole Dormund-Torv storyline, with the powers that resurrected Dormund possibly being connected to some force beyond the wall, if not necessarily the White Walkers. It will probably take a while, but I could see Rorik being connected to that eventually.
[Go meet Torwynd]
So, I get it, I really get it, this can't be easy for Rorik. He's suffered this loss in the past, but it seems like this happened long ago and he's still hurting over it. He can't shut down and ignore people who mean well over it, especially as it could be a bit of an insult if he would do this. I am really curious what happened to his wife and children though. It's clear they died, but just how exactly and when it happened, that is a bit of a mystery. Seems like it has been some time ago, but it could be anywhere from a short few years to over a decade or longer. Anyways, I am excited for this new PoV, I look forward to see more of him!
[Go meet Torwynd]
Indeed, as I think I mentioned awhile back, if not in public then I believe I did certainly to you, all tales of the Invasion will conclude in the North, just as they started. So indeed, both Rorik and this other yet-to-be announced Beyond the Wall PoV shall tie into that storyline, and it should hopefully make for a really interesting end plot. You've also noticed correctly, as all the mentioned characters in this part (except for Rorik of course) featured in TNC. The only difference being that they're all 17 years younger. I'm looking forward to resuming discussion in our PM's once you find the time
[Go meet Torwynd]
The Voting is Closed! Rorik will go meet Torwynd. This is definitely the more interesting choice of the two in my opinion, but whether this is the wisest one is yet to be determined. Rorik certainly lives in a shadow of shame and guilt with the loss of his family, but we're not yet aware of why his family held so much animosity for him. All will be revealed in due time however!
I have the next two parts ready, one a bit shorter than the other, however it will introduce the other Beyond the Wall PoV I briefly mentioned in my comment earlier. His name is Storrold, an Ibbenese captain leading his people to a promised land. The other part takes us back to the Fingers, as shown from the eyes of Jarden. The last we saw of the travelling Northman, Jarden had just returned to the Redfort with Cedrick and Lexia from his mission, and reunited with King Robar. In council discussion, Lexia discovered that Jarden had cheated her and that Wyllam was actually missing, and not with Robar as he had promised. This caused a rift in their relationship, and she quickly chose to return home as a consequence. Robar decided it would be unwise for her to return home alone, but refused to allow Jarden to take her back to Strongsong. You decided for Cedrick to take her, and so this part resumes.
Storrold
Another wave crashed over the bow, causing the ship to plunge into the shallows and lift back up onto the peak of the swell, throwing the weary sailors up into the air and crashing them back against the deck. Storrold clutched onto the wheel of the ship, difficultly trying to maintain the course he had set while he desperately searched for the other vessels that had been separated in the storm. He could see nothing.
“Ice rock!” one of the sailors screamed from the lower deck, igniting his club and waving it frantically as he clutched onto the for’ard mast. Storrold followed the flickering of the flames as he spotted the floating ice rock ahead of them, and without question he turned the wheel hard to the left, merely avoiding the obstacle that thrashed about in the waves.
In his peripherals, Storrold spotted his first mate climbing the steps to the helm, an infuriated and fearful look on his hard blue eyes. He stumbled about as he parted from the steps, being thrown into the railings which he clutched onto for dear life until they reached a momentary break in between the swell. He took this opportunity to pounce onto his captain, shouting in his hear.
“You kill us all!” he grunted, trying to take control of the wheel. Storrold had no time for tolerating his doubtful friend, and a quick rise of his shoulder into the man’s jaw released his grip from the wheel. The man stumbled back bewildered and caught by the motion of the sea before losing his footing and collapsing onto the floorboards. Storrold spat coldly and turned his gaze quickly to the fearful crew by the stairwell, shouting at them in summon.
Reluctantly the two men followed his order, climbing up the steps to hear his command. Storrold nodded his head to his unconscious mate. “Take below!” Storrold grumbled, but the two men remained frozen. “We die,” one cried, while the other took him by the shoulder. “We go back!” he begged, but Storrold shook his head bitterly and pointed them to the unconscious man. “Below!” Storrold barked, and without another word the two followed his order, quickly making their way to the first mate and dragging him down the steps.
Soon very few of the crew remained on deck, and the sails flapped and ripped in the howling winds, while what few sailors lingered watch with terror as the clutched onto the railings. Storrold briefly lifted his gaze to the black clouds above them, a flash momentarily lighting up the sky as a fork of lightning beamed across the clouds. Storrold spotted the gull he had madly been following for hours, flying ahead in the winds as if it was effortless. Take Ibbenese to land, Storrold pleaded, lifting his open palm to the bird.
The sky fell dark once again, and Storrold’s eyes readjusted to the madness down at sea. He dodged and weaved the small ice rocks as best as he could while also riding the waves instead of bashing against them, but their time was running out. The mainsail flapped relentlessly in the wind, tearing a large hole through the fabric. Storrold screamed at the men to release the tension on the line, but none were brave enough to act. Cursing, Storrold left the helm and was thrown down the stairs by the motion.
Driven, he crawled towards the line, which was so tightly wrapped around the stone cleat that it had begun to rip it from its foundations. Storrold grasped the thick rope in his hands, trying desperately to loosen it, but it was no use. The rope was jammed tightly under the cleat. Hesitant, Storrold freed the flint blade from his belt and started to saw at the line, watching as thread by thread let loose. The final thread let go on its own, causing the line to whip from his hand and allowing the sail to catch the wind momentarily.
Storrold quickly made his way back for the helm, clutching tightly onto the railings as he climbed the steps, but without warning something caught the ship unaware, thrusting Storrold back to the lower deck. He felt something crack, but as the men shouted he quickly realised it was not him, but the mast that had fractured under the pressure. The crew quickly rushed to its aid with rope and tar, filling the gaps and tightening a line around it, but the sound of one specific cry made a shiver sprint down Storrold’s spine.
“MONSTER WAVE!” A crewman screamed, choosing to abandon ship rather than face it. Others followed his example, while the rest looked to Storrold desperately for orders. He turned to the few left, pointing to the mast. “Hold!” he ordered them, then turning and running for the helm. He dashed up the steps and reached the helm just as he spotted the wave approaching from their port side. It stood fifty feet tall, and would engulf anything in its path.
Storrold desperately tried to turn the ship into its path, but the rudders could not carry the weight of the broken ship against the strong tide below. The Ibbenese captain gulped, turning his gaze down to his remaining crew for a final time. “HOLD!” he shouted, taking a tight grasp of the wheel just as the wave began to pick their ship up.
He heard the screams, of all things. The howling seas, the deafening winds and the thundering storms, but over all that he heard their screams. One by one as they were ripped away from their bastion of hope and plunged into the gaping jaws of the Shivering Sea beneath. Storrold clutched tightly onto the mast until the wave engulfed him, ripping the wheel from its base and plummeting him into the depths of the icy waters below. The final thing his ears heard was the squawk of more gulls, before his ears were drowned with water, and his lungs too.
-
He soared across the sea and over the primal islands of the First Men to the mainland of Westeros, the land which he had promised to take his people to. Flapping his wings, he flew over the barren frosted fields and over giant wall of ice to the mass forests that roamed beyond.
Following the peninsula, Storrold dived in his new body down to the frozen coast, flying along the edge of the windswept land and the Shivering Sea until he reached the point of the arm. The land was barren of forest, yet plentiful in wood and stone, and surrounded my large cliffs that harboured cave shelters. While the storm thundered onto the Shivering Sea, the bay neighbouring the point was sheltered and calm.
He plummeted into the water, catching a small fish in his beak on his first attempt. The waters were plentiful with life, and seals rested on the small rock peaks that jutted off the peninsula, while sea cows nibbled at the plants at the seabed. Storrold flew up from the water, perching himself on a rock and feeding on his meal as he watched other gulls follow his example and dive into the shivering depths.
He had finally found it, the safe haven for his fleeing people. If alive, he thought grimly, watching as the seagulls hunted many fish and landed by him. I find them, bring to new home, Storrold vowed to himself, shutting his eyes and taking flight.
-
As he opened his eyes again, he felt a burning pain in his shoulder, but as he went to inspect his wound he found it already attended to. His shoulder had been torn open by something that had impaled him, but whatever it was, it had been removed and the wound sealed with fire. This not treatment from my people, Storrold observed, touching the numb seared flesh and grimacing as he felt the edges.
His groans summoned his rescuer to his aid, a native woman of Westeros. She placed a hand over his mouth to hush him while she attended to his wound, coating it in a paste which instantly numbed the pain. Storrold’s eyes studied the woman as she attended to him carefully. She was fierce, with a stern face that showed a few scars, but there was an attraction with that. Nothing to beautiful hairy women of Ib, Storrold compared, but he held no grudge.
Once the woman had finished with treating his wounds, Storrold tried lifting himself up, but he was quickly stopped by the firm grip of the wild woman on his uninjured shoulder. “You must rest,” she stated coldly, in a tongue that Storrold recognised to be the Old Tongue. He had learnt only a few words with the Westerosi traders that had sailed to Ib, but while he was not brilliant at speaking it, he could certainly understand it to an extent.
“I must go,” he argued, but the woman shook her head, pushing him back down. “You will rest, and then you may go,” she concluded, making Storrold groan. “I find my people,” Storrold muttered in an attempt to persuade her, but she only let out a soft chuckle. “The only people you will find outside of this cave are those who would either burn you or eat you,” she remarked, then turning back to him, “or both,” she added with a teasing tone which irritated him.
“Free me,” Storrold finally begged, but again, the woman shook her head. She stirred something in a pot before turning back to him. “Drink,” she ordered, placing the pot to his lips, and reluctantly he obeyed. He coughed as he swallowed all of the strange liquid, making the woman smirk. “Who are you?” Storrold finally muttered, pushing the pot from his face. The woman sighed, sitting by his side.
“I am Amathe, who are you?” she asked, to which the Ibbenese groaned. “Storrold,” he grunted, bashing his fist against his hairy chest. She raised her eyebrows as if she was impressed, but likely she was more intrigued. “Why you help me?” Storrold further queried, to which Amathe shrugged. “I saw potential in it,” she answered dryly, making Storrold furrow his eyebrows.
“Potential?” he echoed, trying to pronounce the foreign word, but she just rolled her eyes. “What are you? You are unlike any man I’ve ever seen,” she remarked, lifting his long arms and admiring them. “Where do you come from, why are you here?” she interrogated, torturing his mind with many questions he struggled to understand in her tongue. Maybe she hush if I speak, he thought hopefully, but he knew that the more time he wasted meant the more time his people were in danger. Perhaps he could overpower her and escape.
[Tell Amathe your story] [Escape]
Jarden
A mist left their breaths as the council emptied from the Redfort and entered the courtyard, trampling through the lightly snowed camp to rally Robar’s army for the king’s speech. All save for Cedrick and Lexia, who were to ride back for Strongsong. Jarden followed the duo to the stables as he pulled on his leather gloves and wrapped his fur cloak around his shoulders.
Lexia was the first to mount her horse, doing so with such ease that she might maintain her dignity in the presence of the man who had humiliated. Jarden frowned as he tried to attract her attention with his stares, but she now held him in complete disregard, all because Jarden delivered a false promise, one he couldn’t follow through on. How was I supposed to know Wyllam was missing? Jarden wanted to argue in his defence, but he knew he played a risky game when offering the terms to secure the alliance. An alliance which could shatter at any moment now, Jarden thought with worry, feeling the burden of guilt weigh down on him.
Cedrick sighed, pulling his shadowcat cloak over his shoulders and clasping them to his gambeson, a stern look on his plain pale face. His stubble had developed into the beginning of a light beard, making him appear rugged and sterner than he likely was, although Jarden could relate that he was not likely enthralled with the idea of traversing the Mountains of the Moon again.
“You’ll take care of yourself?” Cedrick checked, lifting the leather saddle onto his horse and strapping it to place. Jarden nodded, tucking his hands under his armpits as he crossed his arms. “And you,” Jarden mumbled in turn, but Cedrick just shook his head. “Don’t you worry about us, Frost. You’ve pulled me from the risk of battle again, much to my chagrin, but as I know how much we’d rather be in each other’s positions, I wasn’t going to allow my father to interrogate this love of your life,” Cedrick explained, patting Jarden’s shoulder as he chattered his teeth and glanced at Lexia.
“I don’t think those feelings are mutual anymore, Cedrick,” Jarden sighed sadly, but Cedrick wouldn’t have a bar of it. He lifted Jarden’s chin so their gazes met, and Jarden could see the seriousness in his brown eyes. “You may have fucked up, but that doesn’t mean you should give up. I’ll talk to her, but it’s you who has to make it up to her. Go to the Ironoaks, meet us at Heart’s Home and gift her once we take the fight to the Andal fucks. I promise you it’ll all come together again,” Cedrick assured him, but Jarden was unsure. Regardless, he gave his friend a nod to appease him.
Cedrick turned and mounted his horse, taking hold of the reins and turning his gaze down to meet eyes with Jarden for a final time. “The snows are just as likely to kill you as the invaders, keep warm,” Cedrick stated, to which Jarden allowed himself a sentimental smirk as he thought of his family. “We Frost’s are Strong in Winter,” Jarden remarked, reciting his house’s words. Cedrick only grinned, challenging his words with his own. “As Strong as Stone?” With that, the two parted from the stables, leaving some warmth in Jarden’s heart as he watched the two ride, if only for a moment.
In the distance, Jarden heard the loud murmuring of the men and women in Robar’s army conglomerating in the courtyard, and as Jarden exited the stables, he spotted Robar upon a pedestal with Barrock Redfort and Ursula Upcliff by his side. “Brothers, hear me!” he called, rallying his army near. Some warmth touched the Northman’s heart, despite the lack of it surrounding him with the morning snows. He had finally found a place where he belonged, where he was wanted and respected, no matter his origin.
He approached the masses to hear Robar’s speech, a small smile touching Jarden’s lips as he admired his new king from a distance. He did not understand entirely why he felt so much pride for a man he had barely served for, in comparison to the rest of his loyal servants at least, but there was something admirable about him. He was young and passionate, yet strengthened and directed with one goal, reclaim the land of the First Men. There could be no braver king, Jarden thought naively in appraise.
Robar stood upon his wooden platform ever so valiantly, showing utmost confidence and strength to those who stood before him, it was his duty to do so. He wore the legendary bronze chest plate of his forefathers, with gambeson beneath it and a fur cloak over the top of it. A bronze shortsword rested in its sheath on his belt, while a decorated horn with the runes of his house engraved into the tusk hung beside it.
“Many battles have brought us together over these years, and with the small victories against the Andal’s, we have slowly grown a foothold on our home. As brilliant as this may be, these minor rewards are not enough, which is why we ride against the Corbray’s! Together, we will charge down their gates, annihilate their defences, and level their walls just as they did to ours. Together, we will take back our home!” he cried, rallying the troops into a cheer which even Jarden participated in, even if not as enthusiastic as others.
“With the support of the Belmore’s, we will destroy the Andal’s that try to escape by the sea,” Robar announced, receiving another cheer from his soldiers, “and from a newly found alliance, those which outrun the Belmore vessels shall be crushed by the Manderly fleet who come to support us!” While there was some obvious confusion among the men, they cheered regardless. Jarden spotted a relieved grin across Robar’s face, and the men roared for him to continue.
“Together, we will-” Robar shouted, unsheathing his blade, but his words were deafened by the echo of a foreign horn from the mountains. The army fell silent, but only for a moment, as Robar began to shout commands and quickly the army gathered their senses and started to enter defensive formations. Jarden gulped as he unsheathed his own bronze blade and joined the masses, taking side between two Royce soldiers who armed themselves with shields and axes.
Silence fell over the courtyard as each man and woman listened for another sounding of the horn, and watched for signs of an army. Was it the Andal’s? Jarden thought worriedly, tightening his grasp around the hilt of his sword. They would have caught them at a time of vulnerability if that were the case, they were certainly off guard.
Again, the blast of the unknown horn sounded over the mountains again, this time much closer, and then the distant sound of marching and shouts could be heard. Jarden took in a deep breath, and he spotted the nervousness of those around him. Jarden’s eyes lifted to the mountains that surrounded the Redfort, all quiet and barren, but only for a brief moment. He may have been the first to spot the rise of a banner over the horizon, but it was not a rewarding sight, and shouts hovered over the army as others spotted it and informed others.
Before long, a long stretched army of riders in iron manned the peaks of the Mountains of the Moon. Jarden gulped, turning his gaze back to Robar, who in turn was speaking with Ursula Upcliff. The look on Robar’s face troubled him, making Jarden grit his teeth fearfully as he turned back around to meet the mass unknown army. There were thousands of them, and only the first few hundred were on horseback. The thick of the army followed in march behind them, descending slowly down the mountainside.
Jarden gasped as someone took him by the shoulder, turning him around. He quickly recognised the dark eyes of Celesse Redfort, equipped with leather armour and gambeson. “Come on, the king wants you,” she hastily informed him, partly dragging Jarden until he founds his feet. The two pushed through the army to the wooden platform where King Robar stood with Ursula Upcliff and Lord Barrock Redfort by his side. Robar flashed a small thankful smile in Celesse’s direction as he spotted Jarden, dismissing her.
“Jarden,” he greeted warmly, giving the Northman a hand up onto the platform, but Barrock snarled. “Enough with the courtesies, Your Grace, what the fuck are your orders?” he spat impatiently, making Jarden frown, but Robar nodded understandingly, turning his gaze to Ursula Upcliff, who took a step forward.
“This is the army of Wyman Manderly,” she announced, to which Barrock raised an eyebrow. “Wyman? I thought you said you sent the raven to him yesterday,” Barrock muttered, clenching his fists as he felt lied to, but Robar shook his head. “I sent a raven to Wyatt yesterday, this is something else,” Robar clarified, making Barrock furrow his eyebrows. “These fucking names bewilder me, what does this one want?” Barrock barked impatiently, making Ursula sigh as she shook her head hopelessly.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled, but Jarden spotted something off with her tone, though he was not sure what it was. “There’s one way to find out,” Robar stated, summoning a soldier to them. “Bring me my horse,” he ordered, and the man obediently bowed and took his leave. Robar turned his gaze to Barrock, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Keep the men ready, if these Manderly’s engage then retreat our forces into the Redfort, the true fight is for the Andal’s,” Robar ordered, but Barrock only shook his head begrudgingly.
“There won’t be a damn fight if you die, I highly advise against this, King,” Barrock grumbled, but Robar had already turned his attention to Ursula and Jarden. “Saddle up, you will ride with me to meet them,” Robar stated, then leaving the platform. Jarden looked at Ursula awkwardly, who barely exchanged glances with him before disappearing after their king. Barrock let out a frustrated groan, descending down the platform and barking orders to his men. Jarden turned his glance back to the army, their full force coating the entire side of the Mountains of the Moon. Here we go, Jarden thought fearfully, making his way for the stables.
-
The three rode to meet the halted Manderly army, the cold wind beating in their faces as the galloped with haste. Jarden rode side by side with the beautiful sorceress of Witch Isle, and he admitted it was hard to keep his eyes off her. Wyllam scored a beauty, he thought with lustful eyes, but regret stung at him as his thoughts whipped back to Lexia. It pained him how much he thought she hated him now, having lied to her, having been unable to deliver a promise. His gaze flickered back to Ursula Upcliff.
She was a beautiful woman, slim in figure and appearing a decade younger than her true age. Her pale face was smooth with a defined jaw and a prominent chin, while a scar ran down her right eye. Her eyes… unnatural in colour, both like vibrant amethyst gems. Her raven black hair flew in the wind behind them, showing her moss green scarf which hid her shoulders. Beneath this however she wore a short-sleeved gambeson piece with a grey dress above this.
Their hard gallop slowed to a canter as they drew nearer to the Manderly army, and Robar pulled his steed back to ride side by side with Jarden. His loose curly hair was held out of his face by the bronze band around his head, which had the runes of his house engraved in the metal, just as it was on his chest piece. His stubble had grown into a light beard, which gave a further solemnity to his already serious eyes. He placed a hand on Jarden’s shoulder, causing the Northman to flinch awkwardly as he flashed him a small smile in turn.
“We don’t know why this ‘Wyman’ and his forces are here, so it would be best not to say anything provocative,” Robar stated, grasping Jarden’s shoulder. “Let Ursula and us do the talking, you just listen and learn,” Robar informed him, to which Jarden nodded silently in response. Robar attempted to give Jarden a reassuring smile, but it was clear that he himself wasn’t too confident with his odds against this unknown mass army.
Robar and Jarden caught up to Ursula just as she arrived at the neutral ground between the two armies, where three figures awaited them. The most notable was a giant of a man, larger than any Jarden had ever seen. He bore a heavy stature, with a larger muscular build that was armoured in full plated bronze. An aqua cape flapped in the wind behind him, the crest of his house embroidered in its fabric. He appeared an old man, with a head of grey hair that reached his shoulders, but he still maintained the strength to hold him in a mass of armour that few men could wear.
Beside him was another armoured warrior, however this one was suited in black leather and iron as opposed to bronze. An Andal? Jarden thought sceptically, feeling the urge to place a hand on the hilt of his sword, but he composed himself. The man was quite tall, but nothing in comparison to his older commander. What was perhaps most notorious about this warrior however was not only his iron equipment, but his mask, which was forged to replicate the face of a wolf.
Finally, the third figure was unlike the others. While she was tall, she wore a long teal green dress with drooping white sleeves. Her delicate hands were hidden under silk white gloves, and the only skin she revealed was that of her face, which was enough for any man to fall awestruck. She had a smooth complexion with a light warm skin tone, her braided hair was dyed white, and her eyes a familiar colour. Amethyst. Jarden turned his gaze to Ursula, whose eyes were widened and locked on the girl.
“King Robar,” the tallest of the three announced with a firm tone, “I am Prince Wyman Manderly, and we are here to support your cause,” the giant informed, causing a sigh of relief to escape Jarden, perhaps a little louder than he had hoped for. Robar gave Wyman a gracious nod, dismounting from his steed and approaching the Manderly. “I would be honoured to have you by our side, Prince Wyman, but you have certainly caught us off guard, and this is hardly a proper welcome for a new ally,” Robar stated in apology, to which Wyman only shook his head.
“I have no need for welcome ceremonies or gifts,” Wyman responded politely, extending his arm to Robar, who grasped it in welcome. Jarden dismounted from his horse, watching as Ursula did the same and approached the girl with curious eyes. “I know your face,” Ursula said with a hushed tone, her pale hand lifting to touch the cheek of the girl before her. A tear formed in her eye as she placed her hand on top of Ursula.
“Yes, Mother,” she whispered, causing Jarden to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Mother? He thought bewildered. They both look the same age, he thought with some confusion, but before his thoughts could roam any further, Ursula snapped her hand back and approached Prince Wyman with heavy footsteps.
“How dare you!” she screamed, her hands tensing, and Jarden could swear he saw something resembling a purple spark conjuring at her palms. “How dare you come here! How could you even think to bring our daughter into harm’s way!” she spat at his feet, making Wyman raise his eyebrows, but he did nothing to react. “We came to help you,” Wyman mumbled weakly, but Ursula instantly shook her head.
“Do not speak!” she hissed, turning back to Robar with a bitter gaze. “Turn them around, my King, they do not belong here,” she snarled, mounting her horse and riding back for the Redfort. Robar’s eyebrows raised as he took everything in, and he looked as perplexed as Jarden felt. “What was that?” he finally asked, to which Wyman let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “A rough history, but we are honest with our word, we do mean to help you,” Wyman assured him, causing Robar to sigh and nod.
“I will not judge you off the past of one of my lieutenants,” Robar stated in decision, to which Wyman gave him an appreciative nod. “Allow me to introduce you to the Iron Wolf, the second-in-command of my army,” Wyman announced, summoning the warrior forward. The man only gave a bow, remaining coldly silent. Wyman then summoned his daughter forward. “And this is my daughter, Wylda Half-witch,” Wyman added, to which Robar and Jarden bowed before her.
“My Lady,” Robar greeted, kissing her hand. “Let me invite you into Lord Barrock’s halls for the night,” Robar suggested, but Wyman shook his head. “There are Andal’s to rid, Your Grace, and my army has a thirst for war,” Wyman informed him proudly, but Robar was persistent. “Please, I’m sure your men could do with a night’s rest, and my commanders would like the opportunity to meet the newest addition to the war council,” Robar insisted, which persuaded the prince to submit.
“Very well, my men would appreciate the rest,” Wyman admitted respectfully, but he lifted a finger in compromise, “but I will not except me slowly down your mission, I am here to assist, not to hinder your efforts,” Wyman stated, to which Robar grinned, “And I would not consider to disrespect you by delaying our war any longer,” Robar assured him before turning to Jarden.
“Ride back to the Redfort and inform Barrock to stand down my army. Have his halls prepared for a feast, tonight we honour the arrival of Prince Wyman,” Robar announced, to which Jarden bowed in response. “It will be done, Your Grace.” Jarden turned and mounted his horse, steering his steed back for the Redfort. Setting off for the red keep, a storm of thoughts flooded Jarden’s mind. Was Robar safe alone with them? Why was Ursula so hostile with Wyman? Could Wyman be trusted? All of these questions in the face of war, there was little doubt that their support would be of assistance, but trust was valuable in battle, and Jarden feared many of Robar’s commanders would be untrusting of their new ally.
No decision.
[Tell Amathe your story]
He doesn't know where he is or where his crew is. Perhaps, she might know something if he tells her what happened. Plus, he's two injured to go wondering alone by himself. He needs to rest.
Also, that was an interesting family reunion that occurred in Jarden's part. I'm interested in learning more about that story.
[Tell Amathe your story]
Amathe, that name sounds familiar. She's been in TNC as well, right? Anyways, Storrold is a very interesting PoV, he instantly became super memorable just with how exotic he is. I mean, an Ibbenese as a PoV? Never saw that one before, I like it
Really, I mean, there is a huge lot of PoV's in the Invasion, but though he had only one part, I already really like him and I feel like there is potential in him. And yeah, for the choice I see little reason not to tell her. As Tales said, she might know something and I'd like to take the chance.
[Tell Amathe your story]