Re: [D8, mid night] Greens & Blacks

[Reader]

It's 200SS Per DoS

[OOC: corrected, thanks!]

[Baelon Drakeson]

[OOC: I was waiting for the melee to finish to see if I would have a DP to spend for a bonus die on that brawling roll... but I suppose in interests of spreading the glory around (and wrapping things up sooner) I will forgo that option...]

[Reader]

[OOC: I was waiting for the melee to finish to see if I would have a DP to spend for a bonus die on that brawling roll... but I suppose in interests of spreading the glory around (and wrapping things up sooner) I will forgo that option...]

You can always spend it once the melee ends and enjoy the benefits without denying others.

[Baelon Drakeson]

I hadn't considered that... good to know that it is an option.

[Reader]

I hadn't considered that... good to know that it is an option.

[OOC: you'll have used up all your destiny points by then anyway in a futile attempt to defeat the glorious Jon Roxton/Loreth Lansdale!]

[Baelon Drakeson]

[OOC: no doubt I'll have burned my last one to escape death.]

[Septon Arlyn]

OOC: I could spend my DP to move my bonus die to test die, then I would be tied with Baelon for the persuasion glory

[Ser Jorah Holt]

As everything erupted into violence, Ser Jorah remained calm. As troops led by ? and ? tried to restore order, there was plenty of chaos and violence. The warrior in him wanted to help restore order, but he quickly realised that there was too many non-combatants around and not enough being done to protect them.

Organising Coldbrook troops and any other troops that would listen, he organised a safe area. If any lords wanted to complain about their troops being utilised by another house, Ser Jorah would deal with them in the morning. The more people he could protect the better. He kept an eye out for any member of the Royal Household or those he had met during the tourney that might need their assistance.

Whilst troops and knights and lords might be willing to face each other, facing an organised force was another matter entirely. The motley force gathered non-combatants on any social status and placed them behind a protective human barrier. Ser Jorah made sure he knew where Daveth was and that as he was healing, he was protected, preferably behind the barrier.

He sent a messenger back to the Coldbrook camp for reinforcements, but received word that they were beset and that Garret had been attacked by Ser Benedict.

Encouraging peace – persuasion 12
Cunning 9 roll
[url=cunning - green and black][/url]: 3d6k3-2 10
[url=Encouraging peace][/url]: 3d6k3-2 5
Brawling 9 [url=brawling][/url]: 5d6k5-2 17
so 2 DOS
[url=endurance][/url]: 3d6k3-2 10

[Daveth Coldbrook]

(OOC: Right. Spending destiny point to convert the bonus die to test die, adding 2 to healing result. Adding the +1 from Cunning roll to healing result as well. End result: 18, 2DoS. Using to increase favour of Ser Rickard Thorne.)

Daveth was not feeling well. While he was keeping it together, his stomach kept twisting in his belly every time he heard the clash of battle. Still, healing kept him focused on other matters while he waited behind Ser Jorah's loose barrier. He had various smallfolk boiling linen for him for bandages, as well as needles and thread. More than he needed, really, but keeping them busy kept them from panicking. While he prioritised treating fighting men, he still had enough time to treat the smallfolk. Not that he wasted any of his valuable supplies on them, but a bit of deft needlework covered over by bandages was good enough for everything that made it his way.

He was treating a scalp wound - bloody, but not really serious - on a particularly noisy commoner when a knight limped past the cordon. Daveth turned to give him his attention, and stood up in respect when he saw he was quite clearly one of the kingsguard. Noting the motion, the knight takes a couple more steps towards Daveth. "
Have you seen Prince Aemond? Is he here?"


Ignoring the angry muttering of the man with the scalp wound, Daveth replied. "
No, Ser."
he frowns, trying to put a name to the face. "
Ser Rickard, isn't it? I can at least treat your leg to speed your search."


He shakes his head. "
I'd sooner just keep looking if he's not here. I have to see him safe."


"
And if you find him in your current state, you'll just slow him down. If you really want to help him, you'll sit down, remove your armour over the wound, and let me treat you. Ser."
Daveth voice is firm. You do remember you're speaking to a member of the Kingsguard, right? It's this damnable heat. Makes me snappy.

Ser Rickard looks at Daveth for a moment, considering, before moving so his injured leg can be treated. "
Very well. But your skill had best match your words. I have no time to waste."


It looked like a blade had slipped between the plates of his armour and given him a nasty cut down his leg. Daveth swiftly and efficiently cleaned and stitched the wound, and bound a poultice to it that should numb the pain a bit. It lacked the potency of milk of the poppy, but kept the mind clear. "
There. That will hold for this evening. See a proper maester when you can, though."


Ser Rickard tests his leg carefully before grunting and nodding. "
That's good work...?"
looking at Daveth slightly questioningly.

Guess I don't exactly look my best right now. "
Master Daveth Coldbrook. I believe you've met my father's sworn knight, Ser Jorah Holt?"


He blinks slightly, as if a bit surprised, before smiling. "
I have indeed. A good man. My apologies for not recognising you. However, I must depart. Good fortune to you, and thank you."
his tone makes clear his thanks are not idle.

"
M'lord, M'lord! I'm bleeding to death here! Won't you see to me, now?"
the man with the scalp wound whines angrily.

However, looking around, Daveth sees another small group of smallfolk come past the barrier, at least one of whom looked like they had a fairly bad gut wound. "
No."
he says simply. "
I'm going to see that man first."
Daveth couldn't quite keep the satisfaction from his tone. His prioritisation was completely valid, but he was still rather sick of the man complaining over a relatively minor injury. Not enough to deny treatment entirely - he wasn't prepared to be that petty. But delaying it, he was perfectly fine with.

The man, however, was not. Daveth was mostly turned away, trying to catch the attention of the badly wounded new arrival, so he only caught the flash of a drawn dagger heading for his back, far too late to do anything about it.

Until it stopped, blocked by a third party, so unexpected that it actually took Daveth a second to recognise him, and when he did, all he could do was exclaim his surprise. "
Nathan?"


(OOC: Hopefully that's not horribly out of character for Ser Rickard. I can edit if needs be.)

[Not at all out of character - Reader]

[Nathaniel Mason]

Nathan stares at the surprised man and with a quick twist of his wrist the knife clatters to the floor.

"
That head wound must be serious. It's making you stupid. Amputation may be required."


The man visibly pales. Nathan addresses Daveth but does not take his eyes from the man. "
I will deal with bandaging this man. I believe there are others that require your more skilled attention."

[Daveth Coldbrook]

Daveth takes a couple of seconds to fully comprehend what just happened. His first instinct is to call for the man's head, right then and there. His second, following swiftly thereafter, is for the man to get a fair trial, *then* lose his head. But, seeing the man's fear, and judging Nathan's words, both said and unsaid, his rage cools. 'Tis a night for stupidities galore. With so many going unpunished, what's one more?

There's a couple of seconds' pause before Daveth answers, quieter than he was before. "
Yes, you're right."


He starts to turn towards the more injured man, then turns back. "
And Nathan?"
voice more confident. "
Thank you."
and he resumes his healing.

[Baelon Drakeson]

[url=Fighting(Brawling)][/url]: 5d6-1 18 vs. TN 9 (2 DoS) +1 Black score, +2 War

[url=Brawling- DP for bonus die][/url]: 1d6 2 Turns that 18 into a 19, so a tie with Ben, but up to 3 DoS for +3 War.

[Reader]

Prince Daemon Targaryen himself praises Loreia Merrigal as he strides around Riverrun amid the fire and chaos, seeking for once to reduce chaos rather than cause it.

He dubs the guardswoman "
The Warrior's Shieldmaiden"
as the resolute guardswoman stands firm, protecting those seeking to calm tempers and aiding efforts to restore peace.

[OOC: please see your personal forum viewtopic.php?f=125&
t=165&
p=33549#p33549 for more details]

[Aerion Storm]

"What mad fuckery is this?!"  Aerion was jolted awake out of a wine-mellowed early slumber.  Ser Harbert Baratheon bellowing at the top of his lungs will do that to anyone.  He'd avoided going too far North, it was said, so an errant shout might not bring down the Wall.

Storm burst out of their tent to a camp turned pure madness.  Knights, squires, pages, servants -- and more than one wide-eyed horse, snorting in madness and terror -- were all running this way and that, barreling into one another on accident...no...on purpose?

Some Reachman's squire battered a Riverland page with a sturdy hickory waster sword.  A man-at-arms swung a three-legged stool at a one-legged camp follower.  Soldiers of every rank and nigh every House roared and charged and bit and cursed and spat, a tangled mass of rage and fear spreading through the camp like a plague.  

Aerion'd seen brawls before -- what squire hadn't? -- but this was something uglier.  There were flashes of steel here and there in the night, and sprays of blood against bright pavilion silks.

Storm had no idea what had sparked it, exactly, but he'd've needed to be blind and deaf not to know trouble had been brewing for quite a while.  The whole tourney'd gone to shit, tempers had been fraying the entire time, and the tournament grounds had been like a grassy field gone tinder-dry in a Dornish summer, just waiting for a lightning strike.  Lightning must've struck. Someone amidst the Blacks and Greens had thrown a punch, and everyone else, it seemed, had decided to throw one back.

No time to puzzle it out now, just time to wade in and watch Ser Harbert's back.  The why of things was a problem for nobler men than Aerion Storm. He was bigger than most, and better trained than anyone meaner than him.  

"Stay down," he bellowed in the face of a blood-drunk page wielding a cast iron skillet, after Aerion had wrenched him over his hip and thrown him -- hard enough to blast the air from him -- into the mud.

"Stay down," he shouted at a bloody faced knight wearing the red stallion, now with half a fantastic set of mustachios and a new scar that would never be dashing, after a kick to double him over and a punch just behind the ear to knock him down.

"Stay down," he shoulder-checked right into the squire with an apple on his shirt and a rock in his hand, tackling him down, punching three times, then warning him with upraised fist of a fourth.

He heard others, then, noticed them shoving and grappling, pushing and pulling men apart, shouting for them to stop, ordering them to stop, roaring for them to stop.  The tide turned, the last pockets of violence simmered, then stopped bubbling, and eventually all that was left was mud, blood, and a thousand bruises and cuts that needed tending.  Some worse than others.

Seven save us, Aerion finally found the time to catch his breath, knuckles skinned, nursing a bloody lip, ribs sore.  If enough more assholes had gone for swords just now, half the world would be dead before anyone'd stopped it.

Brawling, diff 9: 5d6 17
Fighting reroll, Blood of Andals (rerolling a 2): 1d6 6 (so 21 with reroll, 3 DoS)
Encourage Peace, Persuasion (Charm): 4d6k3 11
Attractive, rerolling two 1's: 2d6 7 (so 16 with reroll, 1 DoS)
Endurance, Diff 12: 3d6 12

[roll urls are on their way to Reader, yadda yadda yadda]

[Reader]

Aerion's brawling proved almost the equal of his elders, knight of reputation like Ser Benedict and Ser Derrock. But a reputation was a dangerous thing, and while the bastard was feted by many Greens that night for his effort, Ser Florian Greysteel was heard to damn the man for a hypocrite after one of his pages suffered a broken arm.

"Typical bastard, no disciplines. Flying in with his fists, then telling men to stand down a breath later."

[OOC: Ser Florian Greysteel's disposition towards Aerion deteriorates to dislike, in lieu of influencing the War/Peace score. Please note this on your character sheet]

[Aerion Storm]

[Got it, noted on my character sheet "running upgrades" post. In retrospect, I noticed there's a "convince" (or, heck, even "intimidate") that may have worked better...he wasn't being very charming, sorry.]

[Reader]

[Got it, noted on my character sheet "running upgrades" post.  In retrospect, I noticed there's a "convince" (or, heck, even "intimidate") that may have worked better...he wasn't being very charming, sorry.]

[OOC: no problem and played better in to my narrative/Ser Florian's grudge anyway.]

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