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Thread: (IC) Black Dragon Rising

  1. #1
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    (IC) Black Dragon Rising

    211 AC

    The new year has brought changes aplenty to the Riverlands. The drought that punished King Aerys' coronation has finally lifted. Streambeds and slowly refilling and the river currents have picked up a bit. At Reedtown, the poorest new residents who cast their lean-tos low on the riverbank are now paying the price--their meager possessions washed away or set adrift. The Lord Paramount of the Riverlands is Grover Tully, a boy of eight. His mother Johanna rules as his regent, but the real power has been distributed to the greater houses of the area: houses Blackwood, Bracken, Darry, Mallister, Mooten, and Lothston, to name a few. Meanwhile, the grip of the Iron Throne is at its lowest ebb. Brigands run wild on the roads and the spring sickness and following drought have wrought havoc on houses great and small. The Bloodraven's spies are said to be everywhere, whispering back everything they see to the Hand of the King. And yet, Lord Bloodraven cannot be found outside King's Landing, his attention fixated on Tyrosh and Bittersteel. Dagon Greyjoy reaves up and down the western coast, but the royal fleet remains staunchly guarding the narrow sea. It is a time of change, of old hierarchies coming undone.


    Kyle
    Templestone

    The visit has been a pleasant surprise. Usually when Lord Garlon Shawney travels to “confess his sins” to you, it means that he wants to get drunk and tell war stories from the Rebellion with someone who won’t repeat them. But this time he’s kept his head clear and bears interesting news besides. Lord Shawney is a good five years older than you, but the loss of his castle, sons, and arm in the rebellion has taken its toll on him. His hair is receding and peppered with white and his belly is straining against his greasy doublet. The two of you are sitting up at the top of one of Templestone’s seven towers, looking out over the wetlands, which are slowly recovering from the drought.

    Lord Shawney draws back from the parapet, retreating to the shade beneath the tower’s great bell. “As I was saying, Lord Butterwell’s finally decided to do something with that dragon egg of his. Damn shame how his father got it, but there’s nothing for that, I suppose.” (The prior Lord Butterwell traded his daughter’s maidenhead to King Aegon IV Targaryen in return for the egg) Shawney rolls his breeches up a bit and plops his bare feet back into one of the two buckets of cool water you carried up with you. “Ahhhh, that’s the stuff…Anyway, the champion of Butterwell’s tourney will take the egg. Now if I had my castle, it could be me that Frey girl is marrying and Butterwell would have to throw a tourney for no reason.” He swishes his feet about, slopping some water on the cuffs of his breeches. “I was told to pass along from Black Tom that you’re invited. There’ll be Peakes and Vyrwels, Freys, Butterwells, Cockshaws, even Sunderlands from the Sisters, Costaynes, Naylands, Boggs, and Paeges!” He’s more excited than you’ve seen him in years, so much so that you nearly miss that he named Ser Tommard Heddle, Lord Butterwell’s good-son and captain of the guard, as extending the invitation rather than Butterwell himself. “I declare it the finest tourney in years!”

    You’ve had little reason to treat with Lord Ambrose Butterwell. He was King Daeron’s Hand, but was so ineffectual during the rebellion (perhaps because one son fought for the Black Dragon) that he was dismissed and replaced with Lord Hayford. He’s said to be a shrewd, witty man with no shortage of coin. His seat, Whitewalls, is somewhat removed from the Riverlands proper—it’s closer to the crownlands and King’s Landing than it is to Riverrun. As such, House Butterwell has ever been a more forceful presence at the royal court than anywhere else. It’s a touch surprising that Lord Shawney would name this tourney as the finest, especially with Ashford Meadow just two years past. Perhaps he considers that one a tragedy on account of the loss of Prince Baelor? Or perhaps he has another reason.

    “Now House Leyburn is known for its tourney knights. Do you think your nephew will field all his lances?”



    Timon
    Reedtown

    The deck of the Fist lists ever so slightly as you step aboard. Half-beached and anchored tightly in place, the floating gambling den is looking worse for wear. A great warship no more, its oarlocks are plugged with pitch and sawdust, and its once-proud sails have been lowered and stretched to form a makeshift pavilion over the deck. Deep gouges scar the starboard side, the mark of a brush with Reedtown’s stony jetty. Even the deck still bears charred pockmarks from the great battle three years ago. King Daeron died in the spring, but his Fist still clings improbably to life and the docks of Reedtown, a phantom of treason and folly past. Behind you, your guardsmen Wyl and Plummer haul themselves up from the scaffold-ladder connecting the ship to the dock, their scabbards banging loudly against the hull.

    The proprietor of the wreck is One-Hand Ryk, a short grubby man who was once a riverboat captain of suspect repute. He is known to occasionally flout the king’s law, but the man always pays his taxes and sings sweetly when you need information. More importantly, he hates Quickfinger with a passion—it was Baernard Rivers who shortened his arm by a hand and scuttled his riverboat. As such, his indiscretions (smuggling, chiefly) do not loom as large in your mind as they otherwise might.

    Ryk appears before you, ducking under a wide flap of sail. His expression is grim as he wipes his curly mess of brown hair aside. “G’morrow Ser Timon,” he offers. Perhaps he knows what’s coming next. Yesterday, a pair of whores were found floating in the Ley, their hands bound. Both Nolla and Holly were serving girls on the Fist and Ryk’s temper is legendary. Murder is not uncommon in these times, unfortunately. But this is no ordinary matter.

    Both women had come calling for you a few days ago while you were gone at Templestone, begging an audience. Such is mighty uncommon. Those seeking your audience are generally the more affluent merchants and other fixtures of the community, all of whom have much to gain from strong relations with the house's steward. The rest of the town (miscreants, the better lot of them!) has no reason to seek the lawman, unless they have knowledge to sell.


    Ser Ethan
    Templestone

    “—and he said my leathers would go to rot after three years.” It takes a moment to refocus on what the tanner is saying. He’s been going on and on, laying out his claim that his rival tanner slandered him before gods and men. “But he lies! And he can’t know what he says, because I’ve only lived in Reedtown two years. How can he say the rot will strike in the third year, then?” Holding court can be tedious. Smallfolk in their wroth are a stubborn lot, intent on forcing every disagreement to their liegelord’s attention, no matter how tiny the consequence. The current dispute is certainly a headache. Usually when a man’s honor is impugned, the issue is resolved by a duel or trial by combat. But that path is for highborn accusers. It would be cruel to force lowborn men to fight each other to the death, without proper arms, armor, or training.

    Wate the Tanner stands before you, claiming that his foeman Darryl Greenarm (another tanner) has been spreading the lie that his wares are malformed, cursed, and rotten. The Greenarm sits well back in the pews, his stained arms crossed before him as he looks down. The seven-sided chamber was once a hall of worship, with a simple dais in the center and seven rising tiers of pews spreading in every direction. The distorted rays of summer’s sun cast through the stained glass on the western wall. Despite that, it's a bit dim. The other windows were mortared over years ago and it's too hot to light the braziers.

    Now that he has blessedly finished pleading his case, Wate rises from where he had prostrated himself and goes to sit in a near pew, facing a tapestry of the Father and murmuring under his breath. The Greenarm rolls his eyes. Meanwhile, the rest of the hall comes alive with activity. Some guardsmen change the watch and a handful of smallfolk filter out the doors, their issues resolved. Sitting at your side, Ser Elmar of the Red Fork leans in to offer his counsel. “Wate overstates himself by claiming his leathers to be the finest in the Riverlands. However, it would be unwise to punish him for this exaggeration. Remember, he seeks only to rebut the Greenarm’s claim of rot.” The balding knight drains his cup and nods to a serving girl for another. “Even a virtuous man can be overborne with passion while stating his case.”

    Elsewhere in the hall, the youth Brenly takes up a lilting song, hopping from foot to foot, bells tinkling, before the handful of remaining petitioners. Some of them smile politely at the boy’s antics, but you can see the strain on their faces. You’ve heard fifteen suits today and resolved twelve of them on the spot. The other three are knottier and require some thinking. The remaining smallfolk in the hall wait on the resolution of those cases. Maryn admits cutting Jonna’s purse, but claims that it was in satisfaction of a debt of twenty chickens that Jonna owes him. She acknowledges the debt, but protests that she owes chickens, not coin. Steely Garth seduced Pard the Boatwright’s wife, after which Pard took an axe to the pylon of Steely Garth’s hutch. The result was the collapse of both Garth and Pard’s homes into the Ley. Garth claims from Pard the value of the smith’s house, but Pard protests that his own house was worth twice as much, so it is he who has suffered more. And now, Wate the Tanner accuses the Greenarm of slander.

    Master Odryn appears at your side with a new cup of fine Arbor white, chilled with some ice cut from a mountain lake in the Vale. Chilled wine is an extravagance, but you have come to rely on it to get through the sweltering heat.


    Vlad
    The Waterwood (Three leagues south of Reedtown—House Lychester’s Lands)

    Despite the shade, it is uncomfortable hot. Ahead of you, the hounds are scuttling through the underbrush, sniffing furiously on the trail of a red deer. But this day you are no hunter. That honor belongs to young Ser Leo Darry, Lord Darry’s second son. The lordling is resplendent in his flowing shirt of Dornish silk and matching cape of lustrous brown, a fine yew bow lies across his lap. He leads the group in pursuit of the hounds and game. The rest of the company is not so comfortable. Two of Ser Leo’s servants are struggling to keep up, their saddles weighed down with bags of fodder, sweetcorns and apples for his horse, and a deer’s carcass. You and the three other knights riding escort are sweating hard through your armor, cooking slowly in the in the humidity.

    You’re riding escort through the Waterwood, a small forest on the lands of the old man, Lord Ryman Lychester. By rights, House Leyburn can take five red deer per annum from the wood, a profit that Ser Gareth Leyburn then traded to House Darry. However, Ryman Lychester is unpredictable in his old age and the realm has grown dangerous since the spring besides. Thus, Ser Leo rides with a strong escort.

    Beside you, Ser Bennard Roote is wiping his brow with a green kerchief and swigging the last of the wine from his skin. He’s a thick man with close-cropped black hair and a ruddy face. He and Ser Willis Darry are Ser Leo’s primary escort, sworn swords of his father Lord Robert. The last knight of your company is also named Darry, though Ser Leslyn is a distant cousin of the main branch and is sworn to House Leyburn instead. You and he represent House Leyburn and can attest that Ser Leo is properly hunting by leave of Ser Ethan, should House Lychester’s men interpose. Truth be told, banditry seems more pressing concern. Since King Daeron’s demise and the promotion of the Bloodraven to Hand of the King, the realm has grown more and more dangerous. The great drought at the beginning of summer sent hundreds of smallfolk on the march in search of water and wilted the hedges. The result was a rash of outlawry across the Seven Kingdoms, which persists even after the rains ended the drought a few months ago.

    Ser Bennard resumes the tale he's been telling between chasing Ser Leo. "So not a league from Harrenhal, our ears catch a deadly scream and then a swarm of bats thick enough to darken the sun came screeching by. They say Mad Donelle Lothston is half bat herself. So my squire and I are trying to hobble our horses, but their eyes are rolling and they won't hold still. Not a Dornish moment later, the biggest wolf I've ever seen comes charging from the fern and takes my rounsey in the side! I had to—shit, where did Leo go?" The sound of the dogs is a bit more distant now, but Ser Leo Darry is nowhere to be seen.
    Last edited by Ser heretic; 05-17-2017 at 08:10 PM. Reason: Inconsistency of Tully boy's name w/NPC thread

  2. #2
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    Re: (IC) Black Dragon Rising

    Vlad

    Vladimir holds up his hand to silence the group. Spuring his horse forward, Vladimir rides up to where the young knight was last seen. Looking around to see if he can spot any sign, Vlad starts issuing orders.

    "Spread out, double spaces between all of you. Look for any signs of what happened. We continue forward going slowly until we find him. Be prepared for anything...good or bad."

    Keeping himself in the center, Vlad waits until the others are in position then sugnals everyone to move forward. Staring intently at not only the ground, but the area around them, Vlad looks for anything that can tell them what happened.

    Awareness roll-
    Awareness: 3d6 15
    Total- 15

  3. #3
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    Re: (IC) Black Dragon Rising

    KYLE

    Lord Garlon Shawney was an old acquaintance, though it was nice not to have to deal with the drinking on this occasion. He encouraged Kyleto join him and that did not tend to end well for Kyle.

    He noted that Lord Butterwell’s son had issued the invitation and had done so through Lord Shawney rather than a direct raven or messenger. Laughing at Lord Garlon’s joke about the Frey girl, he decided to find out what his companion knew.

    “Odd that Ser Tommard heddle issued the invitation and through yourself my lord. If I was a suspicious man, it would almost seem as if he didn’t want his father to know that we were coming. I am sure that is far from the truth. Mayhap, he is preparing his son for duties after he is gone.”

    "Now HouseLeyburn is known for its tourney knights. Do you think your nephew will fieldall his lances?”

    “He certainly has a few of them at his disposal even after the recent unpleasantness; my brother carrying on our father’s mantle as it were. Were you looking to place a bet or two on Eth.. Lord Leyburn’s knights?" It had not been so long since Gareth’s death and occasionally he forgot Ethan was now Lord. He avoided any mention that Lord Garlon would not be able to joust.

    Ooc
    Does Lord Garlon have any daughters?
    Awareness empathy roll on his reaction

    Awareness empathy: 5d6k4 18

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    Re: (IC) Black Dragon Rising

    Timon
    The deck of the Fist lists ever so slightly as you step aboard. Half-beached and anchored tightly in place, the floating gambling den is looking worse for wear... Behind you, your guardsmen Wyl and Plummer haul themselves up from the scaffold-ladder connecting the ship to the dock, their scabbards banging loudly against the hull.
    Timon feels his legs tremble from the exertion of climbing the ladder to get aboard the Fist. It's been months since the cursed sickness and I'm still weak as a kitten, he thinks bitterly, taking a deep breath as he steadies himself on the listing deck.

    The proprietor of the wreck is One-Hand Ryk, a short grubby man who was once a riverboat captain of suspect repute... Ryk appears before you, ducking under a wide flap of sail. His expression is grim as he wipes his curly mess of brown hair aside. “G’morrow Ser Timon,” he offers. Perhaps he knows what’s coming next. Yesterday, a pair of whores were found floating in the Ley, their hands bound. Both Nolla and Holly were serving girls on the Fist and Ryk’s temper is legendary. Murder is not uncommon in these times, unfortunately. But this is no ordinary matter.
    “One-Hand,” Timon returns Ryk's greeting with a slight nod, his expression as grim as the smuggler's own. “A nasty business this, so you'd best tell me true now. Did you have aught to do with it?!” he snaps, trying to quickly shock Ryk into giving a straight answer.


    Awareness (Empathy) test: 5d6k4 13 to try and get a sense for how truthful Ryk's answer is.

    And, if necessary, a Persuasion (Intimidate) test: 5d6k4 14 for the shock effect.


    OOC: Since we don't know each other or each other's gaming styles, I thought it might be a good idea to clarify what Timon is thinking and what he's hoping to achieve. Basically, he thinks it's unlikely that Ryk is the killer, but since he knows about Ryk's temper and smuggling, he feels he can't immediately rule it out. He expects Ryk to deny any wrongdoing, but by confronting him aggressively Timon is hoping to rattle Ryk enough so that he'll be able to get a sense for whether he's hiding something or not.
    Last edited by rax; 10-14-2016 at 12:28 PM.

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    Re: (IC) Black Dragon Rising

    Ser Ethan

    IC:

    Ethan pondered the collection of discontented humanity before him....and cursed the gods for taking his older brother before him. If Ethan had known this was his fate, he would have taken the Black.

    “It still isn't too late......” as mischevous part of him considers.

    Duty reasserts itself; “What would grandfather think....”

    Ser Elmar's whispers brings Ethan back to the 'here and now'.

    Ser Elmar - “Even a virtuous man can be overborne with passion while stating his case.”

    Ethan - “Thank you...yes Ser Elmar

    Ethan feels rage start to build in him as he considers 3 remaining cases before him....and suddenly chilled wine appears!! The need to reward Master Odryn suddenly comes foremost in his mind. The cool refreshment relaxes Ethan's and momentarily quells his need to lash out.

    Ethan to himself ...”How do I do this.....”

    Ethan rises slowly from his seat. First, looking at Brenly “Brenly! Thank you. You are dismissed!” The tone is Ser Ethan's voice suggests an ominous finality.

    Ethan to himself , in his head, “I don't believe this...”

    Ethan to the crowd at large “Garth Greenarm! Wate the Tanner! Jonna! Maryn! Steely Garth! Pard the Boatwright! <Insert Pard's wife's name here>! Present yourselves NOW!

    Once that collection of stinking humanity abases themselves before me, I continue....

    First the easy case:

    Jonna. You will deliver 20 chickens AND 80 copper pennies to Maryn for the debt and the failure to repay the debt promtly.

    Maryn. Justice belongs to me, not you. By taking justice into your own hands, you placed yourself into the wrong. You will deliver your left hand to me before the sun rises tomorrow. You may take the Black rather than give me your hand, should you so choose.

    Before I render judgement on the rest of you – yes, you too, my wanton woman - I want your miserable selves to consider my sworn men Ser Elmar and Master Odryn. These men ONE! Remain above reproach <<Ethan looks at Garth Greenarm and Pard's wife>> TWO know how to resolve problems without pestering their Lord. AND THREE, anticipate's their lord's needs and meets those needs without asking.

    Ethan pauses for a moment, before continuing...

    I am now going to give the opportunity to exercise that third quality. Anticipate a need of mine and tell me how you are going to meet it.”

    In Ethan's own head, “That's right, you knuckleheads....my time ain't cheap.”


    OOC:

    I am going to take a cunning and awareness check on the two remaining cases to see if there is some detail that points to what the just answer is here. It might be wishful thinking, but I want have the benefit (or penalty) of my PC's abilities reflected here.

    Also, there may be some latent mysogeny in my PC's response. Please don't take this as a reflection of my real life person.

    My rolls

    Steely Garth versus Pard

    Cunning Case 1: 4d6 11

    Awareness Case 1: 4d6 18


    Wate versus Garth

    Cunning Case 2: 4d6 19

    Awareness Case 2: 4d6 19

    Judgement cometh....

    EDIT - and no, I am not going to take bribes from these 5 chuckleheads. Ser Ethan is making a point.
    Last edited by David Rosenberg; 10-13-2016 at 09:58 AM. Reason: Added Comment and minor clarity edits

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    Re: (IC) Black Dragon Rising

    Kyle

    At your suggestion that Tommard Heddle may be inviting guests on the sly, Lord Shawney breaks into a deep belly laugh, swishing his feet in the water. “Between the two of us, I’ve met mice with steelier guts than Lord Ambrose Butterwell. The man is slow to raise his banner and slower to raise his cock. He’s been a widower for at least five years, and with no surviving sons.” He shakes his head. “It’s a shame, but at least Black Tom commands his garrison. Tom is man of authority and steel. Lord Butterwell chose well for his daughter.”

    You recall that Lord Shawney has two daughters, but misfortune befell both. His oldest, Gwenyth, was married to Ser Jaime Strickland, who was heir to his house before the rebellion. If memory serves, both are living in exile across the narrow sea. The younger, Minisa, became a silent sister and perished in the spring.

    Lord Garlon smiles at your suggestion of a wager. “Without mine own sons to cheer on or enough hands to hold lance and shield, I suppose I’ll have to find some way to amuse myself.” It’s well known that Lord Shawney is terrible with his coin, always in want of more and still ever-ready to throw what little he has away. “I once bet everything on Ser Loren and knights like him. If his sons are cut from the same cloth, I would gladly bet much and more on them as well.” The reference to the Rebellion is unmistakable, although one wonders whether Lord Shawney has his wits about him. That fateful war—his “bet”—left him stripped of castle, sons, and even his arm. Comparing that choice to a mere tourney wager seems to make light of his loss. But maybe Lord Shawney never let go of the past. His confessions typically take the form of rambling tales from the Black Dragon’s war, choked with nostalgia and the occasional dash of insincere regret. Mayhaps seeing Loren’s sons charging through the grass, lances in hand, is just another way to relive his glory days.

    OOC: As a quick note of clarification, "good-son" is Game of Thrones-speak for son-in-law. I should have made that more clear in my initial post. Tom Heddle is married to Butterwell's daughter.


    Vlad

    The other knights take a more relaxed approach to the disappearance of their charge. Ser Bennard rises in his saddle to look about, and then gives his mount a bit of spur to catch up with you. The younger Darry knight, Ser Willis, follows Ser Bennard and fans out to the left. Only Ser Leslyn jumps at your command, loosening the axe he keeps fastened to his saddle and taking the right flank.

    At first, you catch no sign of the missing Ser Leo. Even the hounds have gone silent up ahead. But then, from the corner of your eye, you spy something familiar: the tip of Ser Leo’s polish yew bow poking out from a tall bush. However, the man himself and his mount are nowhere to be seen. Around you, the wood is alive with the chatter of bees, squirrels, and birds. However, the forest thickens ahead and there’s no place for a man ahorse to go, save a narrow hunting trail that appears ahead. The knights to your left and right fall in beside you as they come up against the tangle of low brush, leaning trees, and thorny vines that block their way forward.

    Ser Bennard leans over and spits, taking stock of the situation. Ser Willis looks to him, waiting for direction, while Ser Leslyn does the same toward you. None of them seem to have noticed the bow.


    Timon

    Ryk blanches a bit at your accusation. He’s not the type to lose his composure in such situations, but he clearly understands that he is treading around rotten ice.

    “No, I swear it, Timon! I have naught to do with it. They worked that night here and left in the morning, in search of a warm meal and the Lady Jonquil’s sermon! It’s the witch you want, not me!”

    He’s agitated, yet still under control. You can’t tell if he’s lying, but at least you can investigate his story. Elsewhere on the anchored ship, you can see a couple of Ryk’s laborers hard at work plugging up some holes in the deck with daub and straw. One of his two young sons skips past, chasing a grey cat and meowing at it.

    Ryk glares at him for a moment, probably preparing to scold the boy for shirking chores, but he holds his temper for now. He turns back to you, “It’s fell business, for certain Timon. Like as not, some big lout took them for common whores and gave them his wroth when they said no.”

    OOC: I’ll treat this as a standard intrigue. In general, I’m going to link to my rolls whenever I think it’s appropriate—generally it will be for combat and other scenarios where observing characters can easily tell how skilled someone is. Intrigue is a little less open in this sense, so I’m going to do NPC intrigue rolls in secret, unless it’s something pretty obvious, such as rolls based on status. Here, I rolled initiative for both of you just so that we can move along easily.

    Timon's Initiative 3d6 14
    Ryk's Initiative 2d6 13

    Your test for Persuade (Intimidate) was successful for 2 DOS, which corresponds to 6 influence against Ryk, minus his DR, which I’m keeping secret (since the Read Target action reveals disposition, I believe disposition is usually secret). Ryk either wasn’t trying to influence you or failed to do so. I’m assuming your disposition toward him is Indifferent. (Correct me if I'm wrong)



    Ser Ethan

    Brenly makes a tactful exit, scooping up his fool’s cap from where it had fallen on the floor. Meanwhile, the smallfolk stand as you call their names. Jonna’s face goes sour when you issue your judgment, but it breaks into a gap-toothed smile when she hears your judgment against Maryn. For his part, Maryn blanches, holding his left hand up before his face and flexing his fingers. You can’t tell if he’s relieved to be escaping with his life or distraught over your judgment. He has the look of a simple thief about him, the kind who has faced lordly justice before.

    The remaining petitioners listen dutifully to your scolding. You can tell their simple minds are hard at work, trying to come up with solutions to their respective disputes. After thinking about their cases a bit, you remember that Darryl Greenarm is the tanner responsible for furnishing leathers and repairs to your mounted horsemen. His work is respectable stuff, tough and workmanlike, but with little showmanship or flair. You’re not familiar with Wate’s work, but some of your knights have been known to frequent his shop for a saddle or new scabbard. It occurs to you that the Greenarm may be worried about losing his work for you. Serving a lordly garrison is a steady source of coin for any craftsman, and an honor as well.

    Finally, Wate the Tanner speaks. “He says my leathers are brittle and gone to rot. I say, hang him by the neck with one of my leather thongs and see if it breaks!” A creative, if bloodthirsty solution, but one that could strike fear into the hearts of other craftsmen that directly serve your men.

    As far as the dispute between Steely Garth and Pard the Boatwright, you recall that Pard owns a barge that he has been living on since the collapse of both his and Garth’s houses, whereas Garth has had to take up residence at an inn. So while Pard’s house may have cost more, he still has somewhere to call home. As for which man bears more blame, you can see both sides. It was Garth that started it by taking up with Pard’s wife, but it was Pard and his wroth that sent both their hutches tumbling into the Ley.

    Ser Elmar regards the remaining four petitioners and turns to you. The older knight is wise, but common. Offering advice on these last disputes is beyond his ken.


    Mason
    Templestone

    Royce Sunderland is a bit of a bawdy lad. The two of you are seated in Templestone’s deepest chamber, cooling your feet in a large cistern of drinking water. The cool darkness of the chamber is a welcome respite from the unrelenting sun outside. Royce is a sisterman, though highborn and a Sunderland, which puts his station as well below your own. It’s no wonder that despite being of an age with you, he’s stuck squiring Lord Shawney, while you are a full knight with a fine suit of plate armor besides.

    However, the disrepute of his house (and for that matter, Lord Shawney’s), Royce’s company is welcome. He hacks some phlegm into his shirtsleeve and then continues his story. “And she must have misheard my name, because she thought I was a Royce of Runestone…so I let her keep thinking that and next thing you know, we’re tousling in her sister’s bedchamber!”

    Lord Shawney’s arrival has turned out to be a welcome distraction from things at Templestone, which have been rather dull. In fact, they have been doubly so after Ser Leo Darry came visiting to hunt and you weren’t chosen to escort him. What kind of bugger-knight wouldn’t want you to ride vanguard in the dangerous wood? Anyhow, at least this way you don’t have to bake in your armor. Ser Vlad and Ser Leslyn went, along with two Darry household knights.

    Royce finishes his story with a satisfied grin. “So now I may have a bastard down at Starpike, but let’s not tell Lord Peake just whose it is. In fact, I may have one in Tyrosh across the narrow sea as well.” He winks at you. “Say what you will about Lord Shawney, but the man knows how to travel. Of course, my father helps him to get across the narrow sea. Our fleet is not the largest, but it is the most seaworthy. None better in a storm and it’s best not to sail from King’s Landing with Bloodraven’s spies infesting every wharf and hold.”

  7. #7
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    Re: (IC) Black Dragon Rising

    Mason took a swig of wine out of the wineskin, grinning slightly as Royce Sunderland recounted his time at Starpike. Well, Old Gromy was never the brightest, can't be surprise that his daughters aren't any smarter, but to think your a Royce! Good Gods they must of really gotten desperate since the war. You know what does surprise me? Is that you were able to go through with it. I heard Masher ladies were all kinds of ugly. Now a Riverlands girl, beautiful and just the mention of a last name will get them all types of ways. Mason took another swig and closed his eyes, enjoying the good wine and pleasant company. At least Fern thought me to do that much. He might not of been chosen for the honor guard, but this sure beat being in the heat, babysitting some lord. He was brought back to reality at the mention of Tyrosh. Handing Royce the wineskin. Tyrosh you say? And why would you and Lord Shawney be visiting in Tyrosh? Hopefully you weren't seeing some half-Bracken or the sorts. As my Family has always said, "Those Brackens are nothing but trouble".

    [OOC: I'm going to post an awareness test to use if its need for the next post.]

    Awerness: 3d6-2 9 should of been a -3. Total is now 8
    Last edited by Fumpler; 10-15-2016 at 04:37 PM. Reason: Awareness should be 8

  8. #8
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    Re: (IC) Black Dragon Rising

    Timon
    Ryk blanches a bit at your accusation. He’s not the type to lose his composure in such situations, but he clearly understands that he is treading around rotten ice.

    “No, I swear it, Timon! I have naught to do with it. They worked that night here and left in the morning, in search of a warm meal and the Lady Jonquil’s sermon! It’s the witch you want, not me!”

    He’s agitated, yet still under control. You can’t tell if he’s lying, but at least you can investigate his story.
    Timon steps close to Ryk, his eyes never leaving the smuggler's face. Finally, he cracks a small smile and says "Good...good. I'm glad to hear that. Of course you understand that I'll be following up on every detail of your story - just to be on the safe side."

    Elsewhere on the anchored ship, you can see a couple of Ryk’s laborers hard at work plugging up some holes in the deck with daub and straw. One of his two young sons skips past, chasing a grey cat and meowing at it.
    "New holes in the deck, Ryk?" Timon continues, nodding towards the laborers. "Anything I should know about?"

    OOC: Alright, an intrigue it is then!

    Objective: Information - Timon's initial goal will be to find out as much as he can from Ryk about Nolla's and Holly's last night on the Fist. However, I'll lead with a genuine Read Target action to learn Ryk's disposition and technique, and hopefully get a bonus for the rest of the intrigue.
    Disposition: Indifferent (DR: 4)
    ID: 12
    Composure: 9
    Action: Read Target: 5d6k4 15 - the first paragraph above is intended to show this action; the second paragraph is intended to be small talk that will lead into Timon's next action.

    BTW - rolling 13 on 2d6 for Ryk's initiative is pretty impressive. Did you perhaps copy paste the wrong bbcode?

  9. #9
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    Re: (IC) Black Dragon Rising

    Quote Originally Posted by Ser heretic View Post
    Kyle

    At your suggestion that Tommard Heddle may be inviting guests on the sly, Lord Shawney breaks into a deep belly laugh, swishing his feet in the water. “Between the two of us, I’ve met mice with steelier guts than Lord Ambrose Butterwell. The man is slow to raise his banner and slower to raise his cock. He’s been a widower for at least five years, and with no surviving sons.” He shakes his head. “It’s a shame, but at least Black Tom commands his garrison. Tom is man of authority and steel. Lord Butterwell chose well for his daughter.”

    You recall that Lord Shawney has two daughters, but misfortune befell both. His oldest, Gwenyth, was married to Ser Jaime Strickland, who was heir to his house before the rebellion. If memory serves, both are living in exile across the narrow sea. The younger, Minisa, became a silent sister and perished in the spring.

    Lord Garlon smiles at your suggestion of a wager. “Without mine own sons to cheer on or enough hands to hold lance and shield, I suppose I’ll have to find some way to amuse myself.” It’s well known that Lord Shawney is terrible with his coin, always in want of more and still ever-ready to throw what little he has away. “I once bet everything on Ser Loren and knights like him. If his sons are cut from the same cloth, I would gladly bet much and more on them as well.” The reference to the Rebellion is unmistakable, although one wonders whether Lord Shawney has his wits about him. That fateful war—his “bet”—left him stripped of castle, sons, and even his arm. Comparing that choice to a mere tourney wager seems to make light of his loss. But maybe Lord Shawney never let go of the past. His confessions typically take the form of rambling tales from the Black Dragon’s war, choked with nostalgia and the occasional dash of insincere regret. Mayhaps seeing Loren’s sons charging through the grass, lances in hand, is just another way to relive his glory days.
    “It just seemed a trifle unorthodox, but then in these times, everything seems to be happening like that,”Kyle mused,stroking his chin in contemplation. Nobody had come out of the Blackfyre rebellion unscathed, except maybe the Dorne and the North, but then they generally did due to their remoteness from the main thrust of any fighting. "I guess that Black Tom is taking a greater role in the house then. I must admit though, a dragon egg, even though they have all died out, must be worth a fortune. You could purchase an entire house and lands with one if you so desired."

    ooc
    who inherits when he goes without a direct heir who is not in exile?
    Last edited by Corrigon; 10-21-2016 at 05:41 AM.

  10. #10
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    Jul 2015
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    263

    Re: (IC) Black Dragon Rising

    Vlad

    Vladimir holds his hand up and stops the line. Reaching down he pulls the yew bow from the bushes.

    "Now I'm pretty sure your young lord wouldn't carelessly toss this aside. Now how about following me into the woods taking this a bit more seriously than you have. I'll lead...Ser Leslyn follow me."

    Having said what he wanted to Vladimir slowly guided his horse onto the path and into the forest. Once inside he moves even slower allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadows.

    Awareness roll-
    Awareness: 3d6 12
    Total= 12

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