[Day 10] The Septon's Arrest [Abelar, Balon, others by PM]
Dec 7, 2018 3:12:49 GMT 1
Ser Donnel Blackbriar, Balon Blackbriar, and 3 more like this
Post by Septon Abelar on Dec 7, 2018 3:12:49 GMT 1
Septon Abelar sits calmly in the quiet sept, beneath the towering statue of the Stranger. A smoldering taper sits before him, sleepily issuing coils of smoke that lazily unfurl in the still air. The septon's head is bowed in silent contemplation. Presently, he speaks.
"In the name of the Father, I pray that the people are judicious and discerning in their search for retribution." May they hold their course and their aim.
The camps are in confusion and disarray, a large mass of angry smallfolk wielding pitchforks, clubs, woodaxes, whatever they have at hand, there are hundreds marching in one disorganized mass, they cut through the fields to descend upon the Merryweather tents and have surrounded him and his men before they realize what is going on[.]
"In the name of the Warrior, I pray that the poor fellows of Gardenton are brave as they deliver iron justice." May they never yield until he is aflame.
The first man he killed sent a spray of blood all over him that'd prove advantageous as any attempt by the smallfolk to pull him down failed. The blood was too slippery for the commoners to find any purchase. By the time reinforcements had arrived Balon stood surrounded by a pile of dead bodies. Two dozen smallfolk laid dead and for what?
"Who whipped these people into a frenzy!" He yelled to no one in particular., "They should be hanged. There is no mob justice! There is the king's justice!"
"In the name of the Crone, I pray that today brings wisdom to the realm." May today live on in acclaim.
[ . . . ]
The rush of battle rises up in him, driving him on, the dead horse just a minor setback, all heroes in the songs faced challenges they had to overcome, he thinks to himself as he starts to smash his way towards the Merryweathers. But there are those who will not let him, many hands grabs hold of his arms and shoulders, dragging him down, kicking in his face, pitchforks and clubs and axes hacks down on him, but he cannot find the strength to break free, and all he can do is to cover and shield himself from their blows. Blood fills his vision, a burly man sweeps his shield aside and plants a foot upon his broken arm so that he cannot try to take this one final blow on it, Lord Karl looks death in the eye, he will not close his eyes nor beg for mercy, he will die with honor, his hand still clasping his weapon. A death on the battlefield, surrounded by slain enemies, is a good and noble death.
"In the name of the Mother, I pray that the innocent and young be spared." May they be passed over so their lives can truly begin.
Titus had never killed before. He was a young knight of summer, trained in but untested in battle. He knew how to ride, he knew how to swing a sword, he knew of manoeuvres, feints and tactics but he did not know what it was like to kill a man. To end someones life.
Until now.
[ . . . ]
He was young, not much older than Vortimer or Titus himself but life as a commoner had already marked the boy, scrawny build, missing teeth and heavy bags under the light-grey eyes, much like Titus'. It was with a sickening crunch that the heavy hoof of Honour made impact and crushed the boys skull - killing him on the spot.
There might have been others that he did not know of in his charge but that boy, those eyes and that sound would stay with Titus.
They say you always remember your first.
"In the name of the Maid, I pray that today's rough rule harms no woman." May they see their hairs go to gray.
"My Lord, there are women and children-" his objection is cut shot as Lord Eldon's eyes flare with the promise of vengeance untold, Gyldenhaal in flames and the heads of his family skewered on pikes. This was not a man to be refused.
"In the name of the Smith, I pray that what we build today will last a generation." Every man is born in sin.
Malyk wandered through the aftermath of the warzone that had come to Highgarden. He was not alone. Many sought the fate of loved ones. Many cried out for help. The Silent sisters glided through the camp like ghosts. There was even the occasional looter picking over the bodies like crows looking for shiny treasures. The latter flew away on the Senechal's arrival, like he was some terrible scarecrow sent to hound them. If any sought to challenge him over their prizes, they quickly thought better of it after looking into his eyes. They had no desire to join their brethren.
So he continued, seeking those who could still be helped, be they smallfolk or guardsman. He did not worry about those of higher status. Alive or dead they would be attended to and needed no help from him.
So he continued, in deep pain and rage, covered in blood, none of it his own. The songs of those around him screeching in his head like some great cacophony of noise as each demanded attention only to be drowned out.
"In the name of the Stranger, I pray that the wicked are smitten from Westeros." Every man must choose his way.
He doesn't feel their jabs. He doesn't flinch at their slashes and stabs. All he can see is her and the next attacker. And the next. And the next. And the next...
Seeing his son fall under the weight of the mob, Ser Donnel charged heedlessly into the fray. Cut and beaten, Ser Donnel soon finds himself plowing to where his son stands head and shoulders above the frenzied mob.
As he spots the child cradled protectively in the large warriors arms, he gives his son the order: "Save yourself, I will save the child."
[ . . . ]
Weak from the blood his body had spilled, ser Donnel barely managed to lift his finger towards the blackbriar camp. "Run until you find knights with my banner. May the warrior lead your path."
And may the stranger light mine.
Ser Donnel feels his eyes hard to hold open. I'll rest them for a moment, then I will get up.
And that was the last thoughts Ser Donnel had, before his broken, ageing body was finally ready.
It was true, rich or poor, righteous or right, in death they were all the same, from the same soil they had risen, and into the same soil they would fail.
The taper expires and the septon allows himself the twinkle of a smile at the thought of Merryweather's demise. It was not without risk, of course. Many things could go wrong, and he or Lord Jon could be called to account for the septon's speech against Lord Merryweather.
The doors of the sept crash open. Abelar turns his head, his eyes falling over the phalanx of guardsmen in Tyrell livery marching toward him. He rises, ready to accept his fate. A shadow passes over his spirits as he notices all the blood and mud caking their tabards. A regrettable sacrifice. But those who follow the path of the righteous shall have their reward. They dine in the Father's Golden Hall. They snatch him bodily, forcing his head down and his arms back, wrenching them painfully. For a few moments, he can't understand their words as they tighten the irons about his wrists. Their leader pulls the faded, rainbow belt of cords from his waist and ties it around his neck like a hound's leash. He gives a powerful jerk to test the knot, sending the thin septon to his knees, choking and gagging. Sound returns.
"By the words of Lord Leo Tyrell and Lord Eldon Merryweather, you are seized for incitements and depredations! Poison-tongued talk, I say!"
Abelar tries to say "And who is Lord Merryweather now?" but all that comes forth is a pathetic cough. His wits catch up a moment later. He said by word of Eldon Merryweather! The septon's dark eyes go wide and he struggles mightily against the irons and the snare. "No! Noooooooooooooooo!" All of that blood, for naught. They deal him a couple savage blows to shut him up, and begin dragging him out of the sept, his hair disheveled and unkempt, his robes sliding halfway off without a belt. A flow of blood is visible on his small, shaven tonsure.
The world swims before him.
"In the name of the Father, I pray that the people are judicious and discerning in their search for retribution." May they hold their course and their aim.
"In the name of the Warrior, I pray that the poor fellows of Gardenton are brave as they deliver iron justice." May they never yield until he is aflame.
"Who whipped these people into a frenzy!" He yelled to no one in particular., "They should be hanged. There is no mob justice! There is the king's justice!"
"In the name of the Crone, I pray that today brings wisdom to the realm." May today live on in acclaim.
[ . . . ]
The rush of battle rises up in him, driving him on, the dead horse just a minor setback, all heroes in the songs faced challenges they had to overcome, he thinks to himself as he starts to smash his way towards the Merryweathers. But there are those who will not let him, many hands grabs hold of his arms and shoulders, dragging him down, kicking in his face, pitchforks and clubs and axes hacks down on him, but he cannot find the strength to break free, and all he can do is to cover and shield himself from their blows. Blood fills his vision, a burly man sweeps his shield aside and plants a foot upon his broken arm so that he cannot try to take this one final blow on it, Lord Karl looks death in the eye, he will not close his eyes nor beg for mercy, he will die with honor, his hand still clasping his weapon. A death on the battlefield, surrounded by slain enemies, is a good and noble death.
"In the name of the Mother, I pray that the innocent and young be spared." May they be passed over so their lives can truly begin.
Until now.
[ . . . ]
He was young, not much older than Vortimer or Titus himself but life as a commoner had already marked the boy, scrawny build, missing teeth and heavy bags under the light-grey eyes, much like Titus'. It was with a sickening crunch that the heavy hoof of Honour made impact and crushed the boys skull - killing him on the spot.
There might have been others that he did not know of in his charge but that boy, those eyes and that sound would stay with Titus.
They say you always remember your first.
"In the name of the Maid, I pray that today's rough rule harms no woman." May they see their hairs go to gray.
"In the name of the Smith, I pray that what we build today will last a generation." Every man is born in sin.
So he continued, seeking those who could still be helped, be they smallfolk or guardsman. He did not worry about those of higher status. Alive or dead they would be attended to and needed no help from him.
So he continued, in deep pain and rage, covered in blood, none of it his own. The songs of those around him screeching in his head like some great cacophony of noise as each demanded attention only to be drowned out.
"In the name of the Stranger, I pray that the wicked are smitten from Westeros." Every man must choose his way.
As he spots the child cradled protectively in the large warriors arms, he gives his son the order: "Save yourself, I will save the child."
[ . . . ]
Weak from the blood his body had spilled, ser Donnel barely managed to lift his finger towards the blackbriar camp. "Run until you find knights with my banner. May the warrior lead your path."
And may the stranger light mine.
Ser Donnel feels his eyes hard to hold open. I'll rest them for a moment, then I will get up.
And that was the last thoughts Ser Donnel had, before his broken, ageing body was finally ready.
It was true, rich or poor, righteous or right, in death they were all the same, from the same soil they had risen, and into the same soil they would fail.
The taper expires and the septon allows himself the twinkle of a smile at the thought of Merryweather's demise. It was not without risk, of course. Many things could go wrong, and he or Lord Jon could be called to account for the septon's speech against Lord Merryweather.
The doors of the sept crash open. Abelar turns his head, his eyes falling over the phalanx of guardsmen in Tyrell livery marching toward him. He rises, ready to accept his fate. A shadow passes over his spirits as he notices all the blood and mud caking their tabards. A regrettable sacrifice. But those who follow the path of the righteous shall have their reward. They dine in the Father's Golden Hall. They snatch him bodily, forcing his head down and his arms back, wrenching them painfully. For a few moments, he can't understand their words as they tighten the irons about his wrists. Their leader pulls the faded, rainbow belt of cords from his waist and ties it around his neck like a hound's leash. He gives a powerful jerk to test the knot, sending the thin septon to his knees, choking and gagging. Sound returns.
"By the words of Lord Leo Tyrell and Lord Eldon Merryweather, you are seized for incitements and depredations! Poison-tongued talk, I say!"
Abelar tries to say "And who is Lord Merryweather now?" but all that comes forth is a pathetic cough. His wits catch up a moment later. He said by word of Eldon Merryweather! The septon's dark eyes go wide and he struggles mightily against the irons and the snare. "No! Noooooooooooooooo!" All of that blood, for naught. They deal him a couple savage blows to shut him up, and begin dragging him out of the sept, his hair disheveled and unkempt, his robes sliding halfway off without a belt. A flow of blood is visible on his small, shaven tonsure.
The world swims before him.