A Dragon's Demand
Tenth Day of the Eight Month 292 AC
Gouging the soft wood of the deck, you launch yourself into the sky one last time. Words of power and authority drip from your tongue, an enchantment forged in the days of Valyria to draw the eye and befuddle the mind without anything so gauche working magic upon another. Two mantels one over the other you bear, the savage glory of the wyrms of yore and the majesty of a sorcerer-lord of the Freehold to whom all upon the world must bow.
"I will return on the morrow," you say, your voice a menacing rumble that nonetheless leaves your words sharp and clear. "Each and every ship I see here will still be in these waters else I shall be far less forgiving of your trespass once I have hunted your ships down one after another."
You can almost feel the magic in the air like a hot wind spilling outward from your every word as skill and presence merge and
almost become compulsion not upon one man or a handful but scores, hundreds. The sailors and armsmen in equal stoop to look up at you with eyes filled with dread. To your horror you see one man try to throw himself into the still monster-filled water, but those on either side of him manage to keep him from taking the final step.
A mighty magic this, you realize, and wild. What might you drive men to do by its power, and at what cost to themselves? A shudder that has naught to do with the brisk sea wind goes down your spine.
You land, troubled, but also glad the enchantment failed to take hold at the last, setting your mind again to the matter of Stannis Baratheon and his men. "Is there aught of magic about him?" you ask Ser Richard. While the knight's sense of the arcane is not as acute as a true sorcerer's, it has shown itself to be quite reliable in piercing glamours and trickery. "His left leg, not that it would be hard to guess by looking at it."
Looking down, you see that beneath his leathers the Baratheon's left leg shines like gold... No, it
is gold. Living gold that moves like flesh. Even in the days of Valyria such a thing would not have come cheap...
"He is a man of many secrets, the Usurper's Master of Ships," you say, half-to-yourself.
While you speak none of the Fury's crew dared come close to you, though a few do make abortive gestures when you gather their lord and his entourage about you. You would not be surprised if they think you are going to sacrifice him to your heathen gods... Come to think of it they would not object, but you have other plans for your
dear cousin.
What do you do with Stannis and the other knights?
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OOC: Your poor roll (4 which came out as 41) for intimidation saved you from causing any lasting mental damage to those who heard you. Basically if you roll over 50 for social skills and more than half of the result is magical enhancement of some kind or another the result is a wide ranging and usually mentally damaging compulsion, like say committing suicide by giant shark rather than remain in your presence because you are so terrifying.