A Sword Without a Hilt: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 Crossover
- Thread starter DragonParadox
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- a song of ice and fire a sword without a hilt d&d 3.5 dungeons & dragons 100% high octane dragon fuel ave corvidae battle action dragon diplomacy best sister bureaucromancy delicious soul-stuff dragon dreams come true dragon ta'veren greatest uncle hubris is a coward's word in defiance of gods and men mammon's folly mutually assured mage's disjunction qm murderhobo top tier coatl
- Location
- being near locations is my passion.
I expect Jon Arryn to be at least moderatly warded, and tbh, I would very much like a chance to pick through his head.
Maybe a mind-blanked hit squad to collect for questioning, then memory modified so the skull won't reveal anything... Unless the spell would be detectable on the body after?
Also, DP has shown stones remembering what happened. Would an invisible flying person not touching stone get around the spell in question?
Maybe a mind-blanked hit squad to collect for questioning, then memory modified so the skull won't reveal anything... Unless the spell would be detectable on the body after?
Also, DP has shown stones remembering what happened. Would an invisible flying person not touching stone get around the spell in question?
- Location
- United States
We can disguise ourselves so that the stones won't know who was actually there.
- Location
- Brazil
Now now, Bobby B's whores are definitely not cheap.
Let us be fair here, the man is likely as good a connoisseur as you can get
- Location
- being near locations is my passion.
... There are some sentences that are a joy to read. That was one of them.
Hiding from literal stone. Lmfao
- Location
- The internet
I dunno he always seemed like the "Quantity over Quality" type to me.Now now, Bobby B's whores are definitely not cheap.
Let us be fair here, the man is likely as good a connoisseur as you can get
- Location
- Germany
We really have more then enough on our plate without micromanaging stuff we got people for.
- Location
- florida
They remembered the spells we cast, not us.
Stone tell just told him what spells were cast, and he guessed at us from there.
"The turtler" indeed.
- Location
- being near locations is my passion.
Inherent puzzle solving nature leads to trying to find action chain for positive outcomes, even if best solution is "hand off problem to skilled npc." Theroycrafting the "how" was not intended to come of as "call for thread mental resources", though the implicit request has become apparent.
Would still very very much like to see inside Jon's head like Varys and Pycelle. Wanna see his reasoning for his actions like the exile, or his reaction, and to get a good look at the politics of our Westeros enimirs from his perspective.
And to enjoy an "oh fuck" moment when we get a juicy reaction to Viserys.
Also, odd noticings or reports from Current King Loyalists on magic shit, if he is getting reports on that, could be interesting, or useful. (Interesting idea, potentially crap, brain not measuring; such information could be abstracted a +1 to inqusition building or +5% die size to relevent roll similar)
Would also, much more importantly than one dude's curiosity, like to learn any context he has with his wife's baby situation. That is going to be a thing in the future, probably a (very?) minor thing, but a thing. So knowing a bit more now costs the same amount of time in terms of chapter as later
Also, any surprises he might have as "Westero's chief Kinging Dude" (Kinging: verb; "to do king things").
We also have the possibility of a Mystery Box. I mean if there is something juicy it could be anything. It could even be a boat!
Of course, this is based on my belief that the plan proposed called for Jon to die without us (or someone working for us) getting a good look in his head. Have to go back and check, am very, very tired.
Maybe take him out when he is asleep for the interrogation and being put back, then he dies the next day?
Argh. Blind suggestions. :/
Would still very very much like to see inside Jon's head like Varys and Pycelle. Wanna see his reasoning for his actions like the exile, or his reaction, and to get a good look at the politics of our Westeros enimirs from his perspective.
And to enjoy an "oh fuck" moment when we get a juicy reaction to Viserys.
Also, odd noticings or reports from Current King Loyalists on magic shit, if he is getting reports on that, could be interesting, or useful. (Interesting idea, potentially crap, brain not measuring; such information could be abstracted a +1 to inqusition building or +5% die size to relevent roll similar)
Would also, much more importantly than one dude's curiosity, like to learn any context he has with his wife's baby situation. That is going to be a thing in the future, probably a (very?) minor thing, but a thing. So knowing a bit more now costs the same amount of time in terms of chapter as later
Also, any surprises he might have as "Westero's chief Kinging Dude" (Kinging: verb; "to do king things").
We also have the possibility of a Mystery Box. I mean if there is something juicy it could be anything. It could even be a boat!
Of course, this is based on my belief that the plan proposed called for Jon to die without us (or someone working for us) getting a good look in his head. Have to go back and check, am very, very tired.
Maybe take him out when he is asleep for the interrogation and being put back, then he dies the next day?
Argh. Blind suggestions. :/
- Location
- Canada
If we need a mindblank hit squad for something we will just use the companions anyway honestly, that wouldn't be a weird thing to do. We don't have anyone sufficiently high level and trustworthy to give mindblank items to with the intention of having them be our black ops squad outside of them anyway. We basically did this with Varys anyway.
Canon Omake: Dragon's Fanfare
Crake
I AM THE STORM THAT IS APPROACHING
- Location
- USA
Twenty-First Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC
<<<Previous Next>>>
Criston stood dumb-founded amidst the din of Champion's Plaza. Before the calm and lilting explanation from his small guide, the flower spirit content to wait as long as it took for him to pull away from his stupor, this was a frequent problem he had been faced with, besides lack of time to experience all that the city had to offer.
<<<Previous Next>>>
Criston stood dumb-founded amidst the din of Champion's Plaza. Before the calm and lilting explanation from his small guide, the flower spirit content to wait as long as it took for him to pull away from his stupor, this was a frequent problem he had been faced with, besides lack of time to experience all that the city had to offer.
This was indeed not the first time, nor even the only instance where he had felt meek and small, incomprehension writ upon his features, dignity salvaged only because he wore full armor at the moment and thus he did not get laughed at like some provincials visiting or more frequently migrating into the city, free to hide his dimmed awe behind a full helm. Always wear a fucking helmet around your head if you can, boy, and expect someone to try to hit you there if you don't, he could hear Blackhaven's master at arms yell in the middle distance of memory and sudden whimsy, scathing words like why do you wear a helmet, boy? Is it because everyone wants to hit a squire, Storm? 'Cause they do. Everyone wants to hit a squire!
The Circle of Battle was one of the largest structures he had ever seen, and he had been around plenty of castles of Great Houses in his life.
He thought mostly that even without cavernous halls and soaring towers, the presence it gave off was more thunderous. Trumpets rang through the air and the energy of the crowd could be felt as if they were physical blows from the very edge of the square in which the arena of fused stone loomed ahead.
Dozens and dozens of marble plinths stood empty around the outer face of the Circle and sequestered under wide sloping awnings and archways, making him wonder after their purpose, and upon each tier of the Circle, looming above the entrances where administrators hurriedly organize lines for the crowds being drawn in, and grim-faced soldiers from the garrison had come down from the castle to help keep order, though even they had set aside heavy armor for light uniforms, and it took awhile for Criston to see what sense there was in guards who could not put down a riot if they had to.
It was then he realized their real purpose. Demonstrated swiftly and circumspectly, they were there to help calm the crowds and also help anyone who might be lost in its press. Seeing a man among them fearlessly dive into the crowd often enough to help make some space for an anxious minotaur. Not the sort of folks you want getting twitchy, Criston thought. Or another all but pick up a silver-furred monkey about to be stepped upon. More than the fact that the Little Valyrian was chattering in his ear all man-like and had climbed up his leg and up to his shoulder convinced the Stormlander it was as if they recognized them, made it clear that you couldn't dismiss every story as child's fancy or fool's grumbles.
As to the thought of riots... you would have to be a fool to start some shit with the King or his Companions right there. Criston hadn't seen so much as a grumble while making his way towards the arena, not even from the Westron contingent of the crowd, those non-native to the Deep, visitors and travelers and gawkers and hawkers. And it wasn't any real wonder. They were terrified of him. That or adored him, maybe even both, which wasn't any real surprise seeing as how Viserys Targaryen was quick with the praise and made it sound as to honeyed wine in the ear. Like you were special even if he's not talking right at you, the thought that he could be drives the crowds wild. Everyone could place their hearts closely to those accolades and the encouragement freely given, for their words were finely tailored and suited to fit many a body.
If there was one thing Criston had learned, it was that Deepsmen, as they sometimes called themselves, were an arrogant lot. Not haughty like stuffed peacocks or whatnot, not exactly, but they all had an opinion to share about something, freely arguing and considering words carefully before starting the argument again. In some cities you might find fools spewing drivel or agitators trying to sway the crowd to outrage, but in the Deep men and women would not be content to eat answers, however sweet or bitter sounding, right out of your hand. Some of them spot the cracks rather quickly and were ever faster in pointing them out.
They were arrogant because they each thought that they each had a place and a part in the organized chaos and fanfare around them, a place in the world surrounding them, and more importantly many thought specifically that they had a place under their King's rule. That they were special in their own way because their purpose aided a greater cause, from a baker who sent his custom up to the Dragon's Keep to feed the garrison their light repast or the tanner who made the saddles for the King's messengers or the smiths who made the buckles that attached to straps for a Legionnaire's armor.
Criston passed under the most prominent entrance to the Arena, the 'Dragon's Maw' so named because you almost seemed to enter into the belly of a great beast. When you did get deep enough inside, before you know it the sun hit your eyes and blinded you for the split second it took for the real fright on the other side, and you could see the huge silver-faced mirror then, you were greeted by the Three-Headed Dragon suspended in arcane currents with such clarity that one might surely despair if they were a Lion or a Stag. It takes seeing and knowing the real thing to make something that fine.
The Stormlander gazed down into the sands, thinking about the other aspect that made this place seem grander than even its monstrous size implied. It could hold a tenth of all of King's Landing within its belly, and that meant you had tens of thousands of eyes on you at all times. And when one thought beyond the implications of magical mirrored screens set up in similar arenas and plazas across the King's realm, it was more like every man woman and child in King's Landing eyeballing you at any one moment, a fact that had made many an early competitor's knees quake.
The Anthem began playing again, the dull roar of the crowd not able to drown it out, and he had expected another announcement of some sort to soon follow. It appeared that summoned beasts would be fighting a small company of Legionnaires for the entertainment of the Crowd before the next match. These were a veteran unit, apparently, and they acted with such uniform swiftness that he was sure the men calling the Targaryens' army a 'bunch of peasants and slaves tossed a cooking pot for a breast plate and a hog-sticker' swallowed their tongue lest they begin tasting the shit.
The Stormlander had at some point stopped blinking at every new attraction. Magic lighting up the night sky with harmless explosions, turning into fanciful shapes through glamours, minotaurs juggling casks of ale high in the air and sharing them out among visitors freely and often, mostly because they found it fun. White-feathered griffons doing flybys of major streets and thoroughfares.
And there was constant construction. Some new sight to be seen. But not haphazard or slapdash, like as not it was fey workers and stonekin masons with magic that could sing the earth to follow their whims, directed like bees in a hive to follow some inscrutable but longstanding plan. And there was always work to be found. You had to fight hard to find someone without a livelihood or a home, and it was often only those who had no need for either.
"It's okay to take it one day at a time," a stilted and high-pitched but breathy voice spoke out next to him, making his hand hesitate towards his sword. "I find you Men to be too quick to leap before looking, but the new things I see will be there tomorrow... and the next day. One can see them in their own time and consider them as they should be, not taken whole and as one."
Criston Storm blinked and stared at the gods bedamned Child of the Forest, and the Child of Earth and Stone and Stream, sprouted from winding roots supping from ancient spring, stared back.
"Oh, now that is some horse shit."
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- Location
- Germany
Wylla and Taena.
Well, Wylla not naturally, but she has the level 5 slots and an item to make them Teleports.
[X] Azel
Crake
I AM THE STORM THAT IS APPROACHING
- Location
- USA
@DragonParadox Not sure if you've noticed but I think almost everyone has typecasted Legionnaires are being comically grim and serious whenever in front of a crowd.
Canon Omake: Strangers In Strange Lands
- Location
- Germany
Strangers In Strange Lands
Twentieth Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC
If you had asked Sandor Clegane before this day what he thought about festivals, he would have shrugged and told you that he didn't bother with them and couldn't care less. Now, though? Now he would have told you to fuck off with this shit. The streets were full to the brim with people and everyone was shouting. Either someone trying to talk with someone else over the din, or some loudmouth market crier harking whatever. Despite being a good head taller than anyone without bull heads or stone skin in this place, there was still constantly someone bumping into him, especially kids. And the whole place reeked.
Not like King's Landing, but as if he had landed face first in the spice rack of Casterly Rock's kitchens with a dash of whatever Cersei rubbed under her nose this day to not smell the piss wafting over from Fleabottom. He could have really done with the smell of some good old piss right now. That one burned in your throat if you took too deep a breath of it, but at least he didn't get a fucking headache from it. Every damn city he had been in his days reeked of piss, so why couldn't this place try to be normal at least once?
He couldn't even get something proper to eat. The inn he stayed at had only all this weird Essosi stuff he was thoroughly sick of by now, and Leto had told him that he wouldn't get anything else. Not that there was no one making a decent stew in this city, it was just that every pampered lordling and merchant was trying 'those exotic Westerosi dishes'. They were waiting from noon till sun-down before shabby taverns at the harbor for a thin soup with half a piece of meat in it. To Sandor, anyone proclaiming a blood sausage with some pickled cabbage a 'delicacy' was either touched in the head or had it too far up his own ass. So it was either going hungry or trying honey glazed parrot or whatever Essosi deemed 'normal' food and thus didn't bother with, and so staying hungry it was.
Again he glanced over to his companion on this doomed expedition. In his opinion, and he was quite good at reading the amount of pissed someone could be, she was yet again slightly more so than the last time he looked. And it was her idea to do this. Or actually, it was the Dragon's idea, with his grand talk about paths and looking for them. She probably just felt obligated to go along with it. Not that Sandor held that against her, but this day would have been a lot better if she had just been on her way after helping him fix his armor and pointing him towards a smith to get a new blade. That he could appreciate.
Her idea to 'enjoy the festival like people are supposed to do' wasn't. Because apparently, she had just as much of an idea how to do this as he did. He should be sitting in the quite of his room to think or, better yet, get drunk on some cheap swill, instead of having a contest with her who could look more annoyed while shoving someone out of the way who stepped on their feet. So far, he was leading by a good margin. Scars worked better than pretty faces for this, even though she could give you a look that would have even the old creep Ilyn take a step back.
So far, the only thing this whole thing brought him was some time to think about her. Where in the seven hells had the Dragon dug up a woman like her? She didn't look like a bear with tits like some of the womenfolk from the North allegedly did. More like someone who would find work in a whorehouse actually, though anyone who would offer her a few silver for a night would probably piss blood for the next week. And she didn't fight like some magister's former bed warmer, either. Sandor could respect these Legion people. They were tough and gave just as good as they got, but even they called it quits once they had more of their blood on the sand than in their bodies. He couldn't shake the feeling that a lot about this place would make more sense to him if he figured out what her deal was, but that didn't mean he was any closer to doing so.
Thankfully, they had drifted away from the busier streets again, giving Sandor some more room to walk. Again she glanced back to him, like she had done a few times by now, drew in a breath and then... said nothing and turned away. A few times, he had done the same with her. Did they both really suck this much at being people? Maybe that was why the Dragon had suggested he should go out of his room sometimes without heading towards disemboweling someone or getting the same done to himself. Didn't change that he felt even more the Hound than Sandor right now than when he was running errands for Cersei. Being good at being a Hound wasn't the same as knowing that you were bad at being a man, and that knowledge stung.
He glanced around again, unsure how to break off this farce. Should he just walk away? Maybe say something? Fuck it. And so he just stopped walking, silently hoping that Leto wouldn't notice so that he could just go back to his fucking room and wait there for the fucking fight in the fucking arena. Just to be on the safe side, her turned over to the group of kids sitting at the tables in the alley they were in. The last thing he needed right now was having to explain to the woman why he wanted to ditch her. Just as he did so, he heard his name spoken. Clegane. Of all the times that he was recognized in the streets, it had to be now. Though when he looked over them, silently swearing up a storm, none of them were actually looking at him. Then one of the boys said it again, Clegane, and he was pointing at one of those steel toys he had seen a few times today.
When he looked closely at this one in particular though, every other thought ground to a halt. Before he knew it, he had crossed the distance to the table and picked up the figure to see it better. Still though, he couldn't quite believe his eyes. In his hand he held his seven times damned brother. There was no mistaking it, even without his name written out clearly on the base of the toy. A huge man, his features clear and crisp as if he stood before the real one, and even turned into the same frothing mask of rage and hatred that he sometimes saw in the darker nights. He held a huge sword in the right hand, ready to strike at someone, the three dogs of their house proudly displayed on his chest. An arms-men in Clegane livery knelt before him, his head firmly gripped in Gregors huge, meaty hand. The look of terror on the mans face made it quite clear that his head would burst like a melon any moment. Fuck. If you added a crying woman bleeding from her loins slung over his brothers shoulder, you would have had it all.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!" The words jarred him from his thoughts and he was dimly aware that they weren't the first ones addressed at him. Some slip of a girl, not even ten name-days from how tiny she was, stood right before him, arms folded before her chest and glowering up at him. Now that she had his attention, she went back to speaking at a normal volume, yet her stare didn't lessen in the slightest. "You can't just take a figure from someone."
Sandor looked around himself, seeing the eyes of the whole gaggle of children now firmly on him, waiting for him to do or say something. When he turned his head slightly, he was glad to see that the other people walking the street hadn't stopped to stare too, though Leto did. That she had a hand hanging loosely next to her blade was not reassuring though. "I was just looking at it."
In the tense silence that followed, one of the boys spoke up. "Aren't you that knight from the arena? The one whose sword broke?" A girl spoke next. "Didn't the announcer lady call you Clegane?" And with this the dam had broken and children did what children did best. Being loud and annoying. "Yeah! And he had those three thingies on his armor too!" "Those are dogs you idiot!" "They look nothing like dogs. This is a dog." With this he held up another of those small toys, looking some kind of strange dog Sandor dimly recalled seeing in the streets once, but before the argument could go any further, the girl right before him leveled her glare at the boy who already was read to give his retort on the matter of his houses coat of arms. That shut the boy up, never-mind that he was old enough to have a small beard and looked built like a smith's apprentice. So the small girl was apparently in charge here.
He had no idea why he spoke instead of just dropping the toy off and going. "Yes. Those are dogs. That's the banner of house Clegane. I'm Sandor and this here is my brother Gregor. Or the Mountain as they call him."
Odder yet was the reaction of the kids, which was far from the gushing over tourney wins he had expected and instead more confusion. "But that's a giant. You are a man, how can you be brothers with a giant?" "That's not a giant. That's a knight. One of the evil ones." "And why is the knight so big? That's some kind of monster. It kills his own people! Knights don't kill their own people!" With this a blond girl, a distinct Westerosi drift in the trader talk she spoke, lifted another figure of Gregor, pointing at the hapless arms-men. "He kinda looks like this one actually. Just with less arms. Maybe he lost a few?" Again a toy was held aloft, this time of some kind of shark-man-thing with five arms. Try as he might, Sandor couldn't keep in the snort when he saw the face of the thing and there was indeed an uncanny resemblance to his brother. "Why can't he be an evil human monster knight? The cultists look all weird, too..."
As he saw the tables descend into squabbling, Sandor was just glad to be rid of the attention, though two sets of eyes were still on him. The girl with the stare that could pierce plate and the boy right before him. The one whose Gregor Clegane figure he was still holding. "Could I please have that back? I would like to play."
Sandor gave the figure one last look. Here he was, his brother in all his terrible glory, reduced to a toy for children. They wouldn't be laughing if they ever saw the original. Though with that thought, a few words came back to him unbidden. 'If he had been so foolish as to come here he would have likely suffered a very unfortunate accident long before he took a step into the arena. Or got himself an appointment with the hangman within a day all on his own.' Or maybe they would. They would probably cheer quite loud if they saw the 'monster' dangling from a rope. At last, he placed the figure back on the table where he thought he had taken him from, though the boy immediately shuffled it a few fingers widths to the left for some reason. "Sorry. I didn't want to interrupt your game." And the strange part was, he actually meant it.
He was already turning on his heel when the boy turned back around to face him. "Is he really your brother?" He turned his head back and gave the boy a curt nod, not really thinking about that he presented him not much more then scars on his face to see. "You don't really look like him, that's why I'm asking. He looks all mean and angry and you... just look kinda sad..."
Why Sandor walked away so fast after these words, he didn't know. What he did know though was that all of this, not this walk with Leto, but coming to this damn island in the first place, had been a huge mistake.
AN: This came entirely out of nowhere and demanded to be written.
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Often the most fun stories to write at least in my experience. It's nice to see Sandor stumbling forward towards some answers.
Anyway vote closed
From the mouths of babes. When was the last time Sandor ever saw a child who didn't scream at his appearance and instead commented on his demeanor? I also just love the fact Sandor just immediately apologises and gives the kids back his toy, I wonder if he'll even notice the contrast...
- Location
- Germany
It's kinda difficult to creep out children from the Deep. He just didn't have a chance before to notice that his face or size bothered nobody here.
- Location
- Philippines
- Location
- Germany
You certainly can join with you own.
Snowfire
Polyglot of Chimera
- Location
- Wordcats
Planetos: Oh gods I can't take more than one of them walking around on top of me. I'd go quite wonky otherwise!
You certainly can join with you own.
Oh hey, I updated PW last night
*HT 39 intensifies*
