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Post by Father on May 25, 2020 15:45:22 GMT 1
It requires all the expertise of Lord Leygood's maester, three weeks of recuperation, and enough milk of the poppy to keep a patient in bed when he insists that he is fine and that he needs to ride now with Lord Leygood to arrive in time for the next tourney, which the maester must understand that he needs to partake in, because he missed his chance to win this one...and also, since that argument sounded rather self-serving (because it was), he ought to show these foul and cowardly villains what the defiance of a true and valorous knight looks like. Lord Leygood would understand, surely? Or does he fear competition?
Proud lord starling: 4d6k3 8 Guards, bah! Knights are for protecting those who cannot defend themselves. Assassin's Disguise: 6d6k4 21Stealthy assassin?: 6d6k4 23 Surprise, +1D, +2 damage Double surprise: 2#6d6k4 14 17 +2D, +2 damage. Aim+3D surprise attack, w knife: 8d6k6 254*8=32 damage, Lord Willem takes a wound. Primary, then secondary: 2#6d6k5 22 26 2#6d6k5 20 18Round 1: Willem takes -2 on all tests. Round 2: Willem takes -3 for a total of -5, which incapacitates him. Minute 1: Willem takes 1 wound. Minute 2: Willem takes 1 wound. Willem spends a DP to inflict -1D on the poison attacksDiagnose TN 12: 6d6k4 18+1D Treat wounds TN 12: 7d6k5 21Treat wounds TN 12: 7d6k5 19Treat wounds TN 12: 7d6k5 17Full recovery after three weeks of bed rest. |
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Post by Balon Blackbriar on Aug 21, 2020 7:23:05 GMT 1
***After Pennytree but before Blackbuckle***
Balon sat in his pavilion tent staring at the pages before him. He had started a treatise on his military experiences for future reflection and study. While the details of events were specific the locations were vague or falsified. The value of ambush and surprise (Laughing Stream, the Red Mountains, Riverthorn). The resiliency needed in assaulting a fortified position like the motte-and-bailey at Pennytree. The value of patience and vigilance in a protracted siege. Even the overloaded flank tactic in the battle re-enactment at Whitewalls was included. Balon re-read that part. If that'd been a real battle Daeron's men would've been slaughtered. The writing was good, informative and knowledgeable but it lacked any sort of wow factor. Only historians and studious commanders would find it interesting. No matter, it wasn't for them anyway.
Balon rubbed his eyes and took a sip of water. He leaned back his chair and let out a long sigh. He needed to take a break. He put his treatise away and took out another book, one he had hidden in a satchel. He opened it and looked over his work. Most of it was cringeworthy poetry. Words that a certain woman had inspired him to write. Some of it was almost passable but the majority of it was a euphemism for sucking cock. He dipped his quill into the ink and tried again.
Some say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed.
Balon looked at the words. He wrinkled his nose and grunted then tore the page out and threw it into the brazier. "Rubbish. Absolute fucking rubbish." He stood up and stretched before deciding it was best to go outside and get some air. He placed his *special* book back into the satchel and went outside. The camp was a bustle of activity that had become background noise to Balon. He walked, not sure where he was going but he felt he'd know when he got there. As he walked he came across the camp's quartermaster. He was lowborn but with a razor sharp mind and a good sense of order. He was overseeing menials as they unloaded barrels of what smelled like salted pork. Seeing Balon, the quartermaster waived him over. Balon had learned the man liked to gossip like ladies in a sewing circle. Receiving supplies from all over the Riverlands gave him access to the latest news and rumor. Balon humored him hoping to hear of news from the Reach.
When he told Balon of Lord Starling's attempted assassination his jaw clenched. Balon had heard Willem didn't like him and while Balon didn't give a shit he wanted the man to live. Daeron and Addam had told Balon Lord Willem would side with Blackfyre when the time came and that was enough for Balon to want to see him recover. If he died that snotty little cunt of a daughter would be in charge and she was a loyalist through and through. Balon had hoped Ser Aemon would talk some sense into her but it appeared he was content keeping his mouth shut and not interjecting.
"May the Seven watch over him and I pray his would-be assassin is captured." Balon already knew who was behind it. He didn't need evidence to know the dagger had Lord Eldon's fingerprints all over it. Longtable is more important than Kingsbridge. Let them fight until Tanda gives him a son then they can skewer the pig. Balon went looking for Wildyre. If he didn't know already he was sure he'd want to.
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Post by Daeron Wildfyre on Aug 27, 2020 4:29:05 GMT 1
Balon's news hit Daeron harder than Otho Bracken's morningstar. He had not heard of these developments in the Reach and such attacks were a concern of his, especially as Lord Piggy had become bolder in past months.
"Thank you ser for informing me of this." His thanks were stilted and the flush in his face betrayed anger and pain, but he managed to keep it together until he made it to his tent. Without a second thought he quickly donned his armor and grabbed his sword before sprinting to the stables to mount up, but once there Daeron stopped and took a moment to think.
What the fuck am I doing? I can't just ride off to Kingsbridge to do what? Stab the poison out of him? Singlehandedly tear down Longtable, brick by brick? He pulled through weeks ago, there's nothing I can do for him now other than to bring shame to the Companions for abandoning my comrades in arms.
Sulking away from the stables and into the woods around their camp Daeron finally snaps, his anger rising again, and begins punching the biggest tree he can find. Blow after blow he gives the tree, but the tree does not yield, nor does it give him the answer to his problems and only long after he stopped feeling his entire hand does he sit down and allow himself to weep openly and quietly. Lord Willem was like a father to him, far more than his own would have ever been. He was the man who forged an angry boy from Driftmark into a capable and recognized knight, and he was the only person, other than Blackfyre of course, who could command Daeron's loyalty. Here in the Riverlands he just felt... useless and completely unable to help, but what could he do at this point? Vow another oath of vengeance against Lord Piggy? He was already going to murder that swine the first chance he got, but it turned out that powerful and hated lords rarely entered the melees at tourneys, or went to piss in the woods alone. If Lord Piggy was going to pay for his crimes a different approach might be necessary. One that would be a bit less.. Wildfyre, but Daeron could not yet say what that approach would be. For a moment he considered leaving another message in his boot, but he wasn't ready for that yet. He had plenty of friends who could help him in this endeavor, he didn't need to go begging to that treacherous sorcerer. Yet.
Pulling the gauntlet off of his hand, the Kingsbridge steel was remarkably unscored while his own hand was bloodied and possibly broken. Similarly the tree, other than some missing bark was essentially unharmed. He felt somewhere there was a metaphor, but honestly couldn't come up with anything good and contented himself with finding a maester who could make sure that his hand was good enough to still hold a sword.
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