Swifter than Blades
Twelfth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC
Mors groused loud and long at staying their hand over one old man the seers could not catch in their mirror. "I've fought and killed all my life, southerners, reavers from the Iron Islands, brigands and wildlings if there's a difference, and I've never once needed a witch to tell my fortunes before setting off. There's more to be lost letting the grass grow between your toes than spilling a draught more blood to make greener."
"Wouldn't the grass be red then, from all the blood?" Ser Dayne asked slyly. When Ting looked at him in askance leavened with just a touch of censure for riling up their most excitable companion, he raised his hand as though to ward off a blow. "Peace, master Ting, I am but a poor Dornishman who knows little of grass beside our Northern friend."
Poor in good sense, Ting thought as as the elder warrior glared at the younger and snapped another challenge. He was reminded of the time his master had taken him down from the mountains to learn of the world by following its paths. There Ting had seen the gnawed bones of two stags slain not by wolf or snow tiger, but by tangling their horns together.
For all Ting appreciated the help, he did think fondly of the days when it was only him, Denys, Criston, and Ceria pitted against curses, strange spirits, and the follies of their fellow man. There were other things about that time he did not regret, though, and they were far more numerous. The faces of his friends looked up, distorted from the polished pewter of his goblet. The monk drank the single cup of Arbor Gold in careful, measured sips. If there was something of the sin of pride to the act, then he could perhaps be excused for it.
***
"The maester left three hours after I started my watch," Velen gave his report. "It was Archmaester Perestan beneath the hood and cloak. He seemed pleased about some matter or another. Perhaps we should interrogate this Swift Eye."
"Or his corpse," Denys whispered, none too softly. He had not forgotten the unfortunates of Fleabottom anymore than Ting had, it seemed.
Nor should he, of course, but there were reminders worth making at such times as these. "If devils can find it in their hearts to walk a path less black, it would be ill done of us not to give these spirits the same chance. Evils are no less great for being out of sight, and on the other side of the scales they are not greater for having been done before our eyes."
"Wisely said, goodman," the red robed priest interjected. "One might almost mistake you for one in the Light of R'hllor."
The words another might have spoken in zealous dismissal were uttered in jest ,and so in jest also Ting replied, "Then perhaps He too walks the Middle Way."
Alas, they did not have much longer to trade friendly banter, for Ser Bonifer had already descended into the glamour shrouded mouth of the cave to meet Swift-Eye and his fellows.
Down they want, alongside the tinkling water, following sparks of spirit light until they came at last to a great door that seemed to have been carved from the living stone of the hill with patterns of leaf, flower, and vine, though the careful eye could glean darker things beneath, here a dagger lost among the roots, there a skull nesting a rose. Beauty from death.
At their approach the doors opened silently into what Ting could only think of as a child's notion of what a brigand's hideout would look like, rolls of silk set artfully besides jars of Arbor Gold, golden coins strewn on tables to best catch the lantern light, the treasures of months or years of bartering knowledge and darker things strewn all about such that it befuddled and distracted the eye, though that was nothing beside the beings that inhabited it.
Three pale
creatures with the hooves of goats, the ears of bats, and the lashing tails of rats looked upon them with eyes like golden gems. They spoke through mouths filled with needle-thin teeth, yet their voices were like those of children: "Who comes, who dares, who seeks, who strides?" This was no trickery, Ting realized,
young they were, by whatever measure deathless spirits used.
Lounging upon stolen chairs and silken divans where
beings near human in form but for the too-fine bones and dream like motions and the eyes of the same terrible entrancing gold. When they spoke their voice was like wailing, their words like poisoned glass upon the mind. "Where is our sister, where is our kin? Murderers, murderers and servants of murderers all!!"
Mors Umber raised his axe and readied the charge. Bonifer had already drawn his sword and raised his shield high when Ceria called out like the voice of thunder in the depths, "We slew your sister, if sister she was, because she attacked one of our companions for blood! Swear your services to our king and you shall not only be spared her fate but rewarded far beyond the petty riches you have gathered here."
"Well then, what have we here?" A familiar voice cut through the air, seeming to change pitch and direction with every syllable. Swift Eye flickered through from place to place within the chamber, never still for even the blink of an eye. "The vagrants have found a master, the heroes found a deal more profitable than seeing to the
reeking masses."
"Those mightier than you have perished fighting this battle," Ceria replied evenly. "Submit or die. I care not wish you pick, but choose
quickly."
The flickering fey stopped dead inches from her face and licked the tip of his silvered dagger. "Alright, let's talk. I'll even give you a free sampling of our services. A man came to us wearing a mask of copper and paid for the service of one of our number to return in his place,
a seeker of lore, a weaver of memories true. The man himself took the paths of the Feywild. Tell me then, how much is the knowledge of the paths stretching from my cave worth?"
What do you offer Swift Eye's troupe for their services?
[] Write in
OOC: I was getting ready to roll combat... and then Ceria goes and rolls this (Diplomacy with Guidance of the Avatar). So now you get to bid on the fey and you know what the Maester was doing here, or some of it at least. Also Mors Umber is getting ever more frustrated at not getting to fight anything. Not yet edited. 
