127/1 Death at Starpike
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127/1 Death at Starpike
by Theomore Tullison Tue Apr 04, 2017 3:33 pm
Lord Unwin's gaze as it met his own when he and Lord Walys saluted their host before the tilt brought forth the words spoken at supper a few days before, they had discussed the whims of Prince Aemond, how he still held grudges towards such lords as had failed to make proper contributions to his campaign against Wyl, Lord Mooton among those specifically having been mentioned, the prince had expected him to join, personally, with all his might. He had after all been at the inn when it was attacked. He did not even send Ser Florian or his brother. The parting words of Lord Unwin that eve were the last to be pushed away as he cleared his mind of everything taking a claim to his focus I am sure that you will be given opportunities here at Starpike, it shall be interesting to watch you make the most of them. Lord Unwin did probably not know that this particular opportunity was twice the chance to please a prince, for Lord Walys was one of the architects of the massacre at Pennytree, and Prince Daemon's anger had been stirred by that scheme according to sources he trusted.
And so Lord Walys had earned the ire of the two most dangerous men in the seven kingdoms, and at least one of them would approve greatly should he be humiliated or come to harm, neither would shed as much as a tear should it turn out to be worse, a perilous situation in times such as these. And the host could easily determine how the draw was made, way beyond coincidence. An opportunity to win more than just coin and glory, and Theomore wanted to win, he always wanted to win, but sometimes that could just as easily be done taking the high road, it was prettier, and while it could indeed not take you very far, victory was only a short step away sometimes. But the low road usually offered to be faster, ever the temptress, like a finger beckoning into a room just sufficiently well lit to hint at her appetizing naked shapes. Compared to the fat septon as companionship, even a man of simple imagination could see why the straight and narrow path required a strong will to choose, and you were given so many chances to choose not.
He had already given many lives to the prince, to both princes, what would another matter? The table in the stranger's halls where he had been reserved the seat of the guest of honor was growing so long that he would hardly notice any new faces as they filled up further and further down, would he even be able to make out the shapes of those towards the other end?. But each and every one of those faces represented a piece of his soul that had broken off and abandoned him, in disgust, the more you loose, the more conscious you grow about what is left of it to salvage. The more precious these things become. Sold for an approving nod, for a taste of the most personal gifts a raven haired beauty had to offer. Some even more cheaply, others wasted on mad failed schemes where solutions with no such costs were available.
The septon might be wrong to say there is always hope, always another way, but sometimes he is on to something, some choices have too great a prize for them to be taking. Not again. Not this time. But the grip of such convictions were ever treacherous, who can know what else is there to be found in that serene moment staring down his lance, when no other thoughts in his mind than where to aim his tip and how to react to that of his opponent? Could there be more than just his will to drive him? A darkness he could not control? That thought scared him as much as what might befall upon his daughter should he make one wrong step on the edge upon which he balanced upon.
But there was no such fear in him as he trained his lance upon his foe. As all else it faded to leave room for maximum concentration, just the tips of two lances. And his strong opening move to put a good scare in his opponent.
A cheer rises immediately as Lord Walys is violently thrown off his saddle, rumors have it that Ser Theomore may have come around from such heretic ideas instilled into him as a squire for Prince Dameon and turned to support the rightful heir. Lord Walys Mooton, however, is a traitor of the kind that will be allowed to walk, if only he bends the knee to King Aegon when the time comes, but gods forbid good King Viserys from departing his mortal form before his time. The cheers stills in short order however, simply watching Theomore's reaction instills a sense of dread. When a knight waves the maesters onto the field before even looking at his fallen foe, something is off. Some had noticed it, but none more than he. His aim had seemed impeccable, square and high upon the chest, but it had found it's way even higher, delivering the full weight of the blow to Lord Walys' throat.
Frozen above Ser Walys, his own helm simply tossed aside in the rush to get to his side, whatever good Theomore could do for him besides giving the maester space wasn't much. He did that much at least, not turning away, even knowing that the sight would haunt him for the rest of his days. The desperation and shock in the eyes of a man dying in pain, his face loosing color as the maesters grew ever more frustrated at not even remotely being able to find out how to save him. It would be a kindness to draw his sword and simply end it, no man should die in such pain. Nor should he be frightened or alone. Theomore kneels down and takes Lord Walys hand clasped in his. He could wear many faces, most of them false, most of them to be used for selfish and wicked acts. This one, however, was the face of a brother in knighthood offering company on this final journey, giving the promise of honor and dignity, their eyes meet, a flicker, Walys other hand opens it's palm, his eyes towards his left side. It is faint, but Theomore has trained himself to pick up such cues, he draws Lord Walys' sword from his scabbard and helps him hold it. Not soon after, the fellow knight's eyes rolls into his skull, and Theomore closes his eyelids.
As a black steed carries Ser Theomore the long way home, failing to shake the fears that his demons made him do it on purpose. He can imagine the faces, it would be just like Daemon to sends for a bottle of Arbor Red from three winters backs, the taste enhancing a state of amusement he liked to say. Aemond, the boy prince who thinks himself more fit than his older brother to climb the steps of the Iron Throne, triumphantly declaring how Theomore serves him so well yet again, a service with an evergrowing toll. He can remember more, Ser Florian in grief. Lord Unwin in approval. The maester desperate. The septon solemn. The ladies in shock. Lord Walys. Dead. Would that he could just run away from it all, or end it. But no, now it was too late, there is no turning back, only the way forward.
OOC:
high in saddle +2+Winning First vs Walys: 10d6k5+4 lucky: 10d6k5+4 33 Enough that he'll run out of health and injuries, consequence of defeat=death
stay in saddle vs Walys: 6d6k4-2 15 Enough to stay in saddle against Walys' highest theoretical result.
Cleared with narrator before posting.
And so Lord Walys had earned the ire of the two most dangerous men in the seven kingdoms, and at least one of them would approve greatly should he be humiliated or come to harm, neither would shed as much as a tear should it turn out to be worse, a perilous situation in times such as these. And the host could easily determine how the draw was made, way beyond coincidence. An opportunity to win more than just coin and glory, and Theomore wanted to win, he always wanted to win, but sometimes that could just as easily be done taking the high road, it was prettier, and while it could indeed not take you very far, victory was only a short step away sometimes. But the low road usually offered to be faster, ever the temptress, like a finger beckoning into a room just sufficiently well lit to hint at her appetizing naked shapes. Compared to the fat septon as companionship, even a man of simple imagination could see why the straight and narrow path required a strong will to choose, and you were given so many chances to choose not.
He had already given many lives to the prince, to both princes, what would another matter? The table in the stranger's halls where he had been reserved the seat of the guest of honor was growing so long that he would hardly notice any new faces as they filled up further and further down, would he even be able to make out the shapes of those towards the other end?. But each and every one of those faces represented a piece of his soul that had broken off and abandoned him, in disgust, the more you loose, the more conscious you grow about what is left of it to salvage. The more precious these things become. Sold for an approving nod, for a taste of the most personal gifts a raven haired beauty had to offer. Some even more cheaply, others wasted on mad failed schemes where solutions with no such costs were available.
The septon might be wrong to say there is always hope, always another way, but sometimes he is on to something, some choices have too great a prize for them to be taking. Not again. Not this time. But the grip of such convictions were ever treacherous, who can know what else is there to be found in that serene moment staring down his lance, when no other thoughts in his mind than where to aim his tip and how to react to that of his opponent? Could there be more than just his will to drive him? A darkness he could not control? That thought scared him as much as what might befall upon his daughter should he make one wrong step on the edge upon which he balanced upon.
But there was no such fear in him as he trained his lance upon his foe. As all else it faded to leave room for maximum concentration, just the tips of two lances. And his strong opening move to put a good scare in his opponent.
A cheer rises immediately as Lord Walys is violently thrown off his saddle, rumors have it that Ser Theomore may have come around from such heretic ideas instilled into him as a squire for Prince Dameon and turned to support the rightful heir. Lord Walys Mooton, however, is a traitor of the kind that will be allowed to walk, if only he bends the knee to King Aegon when the time comes, but gods forbid good King Viserys from departing his mortal form before his time. The cheers stills in short order however, simply watching Theomore's reaction instills a sense of dread. When a knight waves the maesters onto the field before even looking at his fallen foe, something is off. Some had noticed it, but none more than he. His aim had seemed impeccable, square and high upon the chest, but it had found it's way even higher, delivering the full weight of the blow to Lord Walys' throat.
Frozen above Ser Walys, his own helm simply tossed aside in the rush to get to his side, whatever good Theomore could do for him besides giving the maester space wasn't much. He did that much at least, not turning away, even knowing that the sight would haunt him for the rest of his days. The desperation and shock in the eyes of a man dying in pain, his face loosing color as the maesters grew ever more frustrated at not even remotely being able to find out how to save him. It would be a kindness to draw his sword and simply end it, no man should die in such pain. Nor should he be frightened or alone. Theomore kneels down and takes Lord Walys hand clasped in his. He could wear many faces, most of them false, most of them to be used for selfish and wicked acts. This one, however, was the face of a brother in knighthood offering company on this final journey, giving the promise of honor and dignity, their eyes meet, a flicker, Walys other hand opens it's palm, his eyes towards his left side. It is faint, but Theomore has trained himself to pick up such cues, he draws Lord Walys' sword from his scabbard and helps him hold it. Not soon after, the fellow knight's eyes rolls into his skull, and Theomore closes his eyelids.
As a black steed carries Ser Theomore the long way home, failing to shake the fears that his demons made him do it on purpose. He can imagine the faces, it would be just like Daemon to sends for a bottle of Arbor Red from three winters backs, the taste enhancing a state of amusement he liked to say. Aemond, the boy prince who thinks himself more fit than his older brother to climb the steps of the Iron Throne, triumphantly declaring how Theomore serves him so well yet again, a service with an evergrowing toll. He can remember more, Ser Florian in grief. Lord Unwin in approval. The maester desperate. The septon solemn. The ladies in shock. Lord Walys. Dead. Would that he could just run away from it all, or end it. But no, now it was too late, there is no turning back, only the way forward.
OOC:
high in saddle +2+Winning First vs Walys: 10d6k5+4 lucky: 10d6k5+4 33 Enough that he'll run out of health and injuries, consequence of defeat=death
stay in saddle vs Walys: 6d6k4-2 15 Enough to stay in saddle against Walys' highest theoretical result.
Cleared with narrator before posting.
Theomore Tullison- Posts : 3580
Join date : 2015-03-15
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