A Sword Without a Hilt: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 Crossover

Twenty Second Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

There is something odd about the source of Lychester wealth, something that twists and turns the seer's gaze, that warps the verse into even more obscure meanings. Thankfully, it is not the grey void of something warded beyond the power of mortal magic that might leave you wondering of foes or darker powers, but still a curious conundrum. If nothing else, you would like to see how this veiling had been done and why. Thus you slip through the shadows and ask questions of beast and tree, stone and stream, until finally you find what all of them have been whispering of, that which does not belong.

Wards there are to pass set across the land, enduring as the bones of the world, the whisper of another world, unknown to most, save perhaps for the fleeting feeling of unseen walls closing in and a strange darkening across the face of the sky. Beyond them, a path of stones cunningly fitted together across the hills and vales, no chalk here but rather granite drawn from the depths of the earth. Horsemen ride upon that road, knights bearing the black talon of House Lychester on their surcoats, silver spurs gleaming at their heels. To your surprise, one lifts what looks to be a small Myrish Eye to look through it, though no Myrman had worked upon it, that you know for certain. Glyphs in the Tongue of Earth are etched into the polished brass with the pride of those famed artisans.

"He's not looking to the horizon," Ser Richard whispers from beside you.

You nod wordlessly, from the aura of the far-eye, you suspect it is meant to see more than the world under the sun, works of magic, perhaps even unseen spirits. Whatever else can be said of Lord Derman Lychester, the man knows how to secure his gains once he has them.

Still, neither wards nor watchers are enough to snare you, and so in the end you find yourself before the entrance of the hill which supposedly holds the 'mine'. If this mound of chalk and flint has ever held enough silver to make even a single coin, you will climb a tree and call yourself an Essarian.

Wary of yet more wards, you once more look with a deeper sight upon the world... and this time you are practically blinded. There are no spells upon the hill, you are not altogether sure most enchantments could even last more than an hour here. Lashing threads of wild magic in colors bold and brash fill the air with discordant notes, and otherworldly spells seen, heard, and tasted in an almost indecipherable melange.

Inside, night turns to unnatural twilight as from the floor, the walls, and the ceiling rise spear-like crystals of deep crimson light, the illumination waxing and waning as though with the beat of some vast heart. "Blood Crystal," you recognize at once. Not malignant itself, but one of the more dangerous things to harvest on the plane of earth, for only creatures of flesh and blood can tend to it, yet the crystals crave the lifeblood of their 'gardeners' far more than the beast blood with which they are usually watered. From the faint smell that still lingers inside, you would guess goat blood.

"How bad is it?" Ser Richard asks, his hand going to the hilt of Oathkeeper.

"It could be worse..." you admit finally. You can see why Lord Lychester's Shaitan backers were willing to arrange this trade to keep the dangerous business of growing blood crystal out of their hands. You suspect the pay in silver might even be further tilting the bargain in their favor.

You think back to the village, the smallfolk had been close-mouthed, but out of loyalty not fear. Whatever they are getting paid they too think it is worth the risk, but it still rankles that some Shaitan House had looked at life in the Seven Kingdoms and reasoned that the lives of the people here are cheap enough to make the deal profitable. You have a great deal to say to the lord of these lands.

As though your thought had conjured it, you hear the sounds of hoof-beats down the winding path. A moment later another rider emerges, this one more than a knight. That is clear, as much from the deference of the guards as the spark of gold and gems about his throat, and the spark of sorcery also. He had taken to guarding more than his knights with Shaitan magics.


"Any trouble today?" he asks loudly in an almost brusque manner before moderating his tone. "The damn snarks have me on edge."

"No, my lord. There have been no missing tools or strange ailments since Little Horst came down with the green tongue three days back," the knight replies. "Maybe they've given up once it was clear we wouldn't be scared off a gold mine this easily."

"Silver mine, Gwain, silver," the lord corrects, though the smile that twitches beneath his mustache makes it clear he did not mean it as a reprimand.

"Then I shall have to remind my lord that they are called fey not snarks," the warrior replies."They don't like the name."

"I'll be courteous to them when they stop harassing my men," the lord snorts.

So the fey have been making trouble. Easy enough to guess why, as the magics of the blood crystals are anything but natural to this realm and many of the fey see themselves as the guardians of the world's balance.

What do you do?

[] Reveal yourself to Lord Lychester
-[] Write in

[] Find and speak to the fey first to get their side of the story
-[] Write in

[] Write in

OOC: It's just you and Ser Richard here under invisibility, so you could either casually stroll in or drop the glamor abruptly.