- Location
- United States
Yeah, Lya should learn the spells before we consider getting rid of it in any fashion.
This could potentially work out.
A Sword Without a Hilt: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 Crossover
- Thread starter DragonParadox
- Start date
-
- Tags
- 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
- USA NYC
Witness me for my Omake draft is done and the Old Gods hunger for the blood of the Seven Whores who are Bitches. Okay the insult was terrible but the Omake is done does anyone want to beta it for me please?
- Location
- United States
I can take a look at it. Just send it to me via PM.
- Location
- Chile
... I cant believe that fish hybrid of Tiamat went back in time and stole.my idea for their hoard.
(Really, I cant find the comment where Takesis says that, am I just blind?)
I may have said that comment just after waking up... ASWAH may have replaced breakfast for me, but it lacks that punch that something liquid usually has...
- Location
- being near locations is my passion.
"I tried to taunt it into coming down, but that didn't work either; hence ravens" if she asks further.
Update in beta.
Part MDCLII: A Thousand Small Steps
A Thousand Small Steps
Twenty-Second Day of the Twelfth Month 292 AC
Every step southwards is a relief, every stream crossed under clear skies a weight off your chest, and yet looking forward to the Wall and beyond you cannot help but worry, not for foes that can be fought with sword and spell and but for how your mother will deal with the kingdom you have wrought, the world entire around it. Before when you had thought of her return as anything besides a distant dream you had been concerned for her possible disapproval of your ways, your choices, and the company you keep.
Now you worry about her happiness and her safety in equal measure. The strain of all the strange revelations is writ clear upon her features no matter how she struggles to hide it, and you cannot help but think of how helpless she was yesterday, how easily she could have died again... or worse. She accepted your vague description of what the ice dragon said with near-incomprehension at the thought that dragons could speak. What might she say if she knew the blood of such dragons flows in your veins and hers, that you have made pacts with one such and he rules in Tolos as lord?
In truth you suspect you without Dany you might already have made some terrible misstep that would push her over the edge into a gaping maw of fear. Your sister plays her part upon a knife's edge, to be helpful and soothing without lying about her nature, to teach of magic without revealing her own dark secrets. You listen with half an ear as she recounts some of the more harmless antics of your unusual subjects.
"... the hard part is not getting a tinker fey working, for they love their craft, it's keeping them from flying off on some strange fancy like the unfortunate notion of the Battle Wheel. You see, this thing was supposed to roll across the battlefield sweeping aside all before them better than a charge of knights, with the driver suspended inside the spokes of the wheel. Fortunately they never made it past the scale models though I did have to heal one who was run over."
"Surely that was the intent," your mother answers, her tone making it clear she is playing along.
"Not when the one in need of being healed from broken bones was the driver," Dany finishes her story.
"Are such notions... common?" your mother asks you.
"Compared to the number of projects, yes," you reply. "However, the sheer volume of work goes to more reasonable things like better-than-Myrish crossbows and the projects for wide-scale use of water wheels like the one that raises the water gate at Riverrun, though granted that one required simplification. Still, they were of great use in the town's water-works..."
You launch into a discussion of the growing infrastructure of Sorcerer's Deep, making sure how much had already been done not grand plans for the future, she must have heard quite enough of those from your father's mad fancies. As you speak you can see her relaxing bit by bit, hearing of the extraordinary mixed with the commonplace concerns of rule on which she can offer advice with confidence.
"I'm glad you found a place... or made it as the case may be," she says at last. Then, visibly steeling herself, "I think I'm ready to hear about the journey eastwards now."
What do you answer?
[] Write in
OOC: I might as well tell you guys I'm not longer rolling encounters since the last one completed the arc quite well as far as combat goes.
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- Location
- United States
@DragonParadox, does this mean that bringing Rhaella and the Children along to see the Giants at the Fist of the First Men would now be perfectly safe?
No, that is just referencing the trip southwards to the Wall. If you go north again you might stir something up.
- Location
- United States
No, like, could we decide to swing by the Fist of the First Men before we finally reach the Wall without an encounter table in effect? Both to save ourselves the trip and give Rhaella a bit more exposure to magic before Sorcerer's Deep.
- Location
- Philippines
... I cant believe that fish hybrid of Tiamat went back in time and stole.my idea for their hoard.
(Really, I cant find the comment where Takesis says that, am I just blind?
Um, I didn't? I was responsible for suggesting to introduce them to the Tritons though, ergo setting of the salt that resulted when one appeared to witness the sanctification of the altar...
Bonus points if it was Alag who was there...
It was really surreal to find, of all things, my surname in real life in this thread.
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- Location
- being near locations is my passion.
OOC: I might as well tell you guys I'm not longer rolling encounters since the last one completed the arc quite well as far a combat goes.
Holy shit! planshift to MS, take the sultan's everything.
We're invisible.
Edit: NM.
Also, can we be sure to ask her to use a disguise ribbon when we get near the wall.
Also, very important, we need to talk to Dany, alone, next opportunity. See how she's doing...
Probably after we reach SD, but before we man up and talk to Mercy.
Holy shit! planshift to MS, take the sultan's everything.
We're invisible
.Edit: NM.
Also, can we be sure to ask her to use a disguise ribbon when we get near the wall.
Also, very important, we need to talk to Dany, alone, next opportunity. See how she's doing...
Probably after we reach SD, but before we man up and talk to Mercy.
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You are past that. You'll make it to the Wall tomorrow morning.
Diomedea
A piece of the continent
- Location
- The interblag
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I think hitting the Giants when we go back to visit Bloodraven (for the runes) might be best (they're not in a rush). If we finish enough ahead of schedule, we might repair the damage Essaria did to the schedule and get the sellsword bit done this month.
Omake: Dreams of Rage and Blood
- Location
- USA NYC
@Takesis I said I would write a Omake in thanks of your Monk Omake and here it is at last
The trees stand as silent sentinels with roots grasping tight the stern earth, and the sky wide and clear to shine with the stars silent burning bright. The shadows are long and soft as they are layered over the forest to weave and tumble as they will. The wind sings a song of battle lost and victory desired as the warm grass and gentle soil make a comforting bed for a weary soul sick with rage and hungover with fury. His flesh is scarred like the storm-riven mountains and gouged like the earth carved by the rushing stream. His bones have been beaten and cracked by blows like thunder and he has bled rivers and oceans of blood to water the parched earth beneath his feet. Every inch of him bears and is marked by battle and strife. Not one inch of flesh has not been broken and reforged in the relentless fires of war. His muscles ache with searing pain and his tongue is a rusty blunted thing, heavy and leaden in his mouth.
The warrior savage and brutal as the burning dawn and the fearsome storm lays down besides the fire to warm himself and rest for a time before the drums beat in his heart once more and the storm howls in his blood for pounding vicious release. Before the voice of the gods whispers, carried by the leaves rustling and shaking and the earth, groaning and moaning to give him once more his instructions of death and ancient madness founded on bloody unforgiving rage. Before the fury held in the boundless storm surges through him like vicious lighting and the wrath of the old earth sings in his marrow like battle songs of everlasting and thirsting war. Blood rending and tearing apart his veins as his heart crashes against his rib cage, pressing and pushing against it till it is on the verge of bursting. His ears ring and burn with a fiery warmth that fills him from head to toe with a slick and sublime flame.
Rage in the dawning light of morning is his mead and hate in the closing hours of twilight his bread. The warrior's back is curled and corded with thick and great muscles. Standing out like the face of a brutal mountains side stark and sheer as he sits and relaxes by the warming and comforting fires. The shadows dance over his face beaten and bruised from many thunderous blows of great might and scared by cruel slash's of howling steel and racing blades. His eyes are smoldering coals bound with a corona of jumping and dancing lighter that sparks when there is great joy or bloody passion bursting and crushing through his miracles sharp eyed gaze.
His beard is flecked with charcoal black rough and harsh in texture. Spiked and stinging, it is affixed and held to his face like a thorny bush bristling with venom anger and spiteful malice. His arms as they tend to the fire are thick and bulge with tightly bound and wound muscles and ligaments lying dormant and waiting for the electrifying stimulus to awaken and explode into violent action. His knees hard as rocks and further strengthened by republic bashing skulls in bend upwards as he lays his thick tree trunk legs down besides his merry gentle fire that warms and soothes him this night. His hands fall down to rest on the protruding knob of his rock hard knee bone and his other falls down by his side to hang. Hands that are brutal claws or savage hammers as his tempestuous and violet changing mood shits and alters. With these brutal fists he cooks his food and feeds his mouth with careful and precise motions entirely at odds with his hulkish and brute demeanor. With a tentative sip he tests out his stew to see if it is too hot, and upon finding it is warm but not scalding in its liquid heat he begins to ravenously consume it and chug it down.
With some bread to balance it out he lays down by the tree covered in warm furs and snuggles up in a finely woven blanket, he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift on currents of memory. The sounds of the birds twittering and the squirrels chattering fades away to be replaced by the loud braying shouts of battle, a mixture of spine tingling and shit breaking terror and rapid bloodlust forced to the boiling point under the stress of the clash of blades and the charges of horses' hooves cracking down like thunder and smashing at the broken bodies littering the ground like lighting. Free Folk and Westerosi knights scattered across the ground gutted and hacked at, limbs thrown every which way, and intestines tangled in the muck and filth of the torn and churned battlefield. Skulls cracked by maces clipping them and chests bleeding out from viscous spear wounds and lances shattering through them forcing their way past their bones and organs to rip everything in its path apart. Horses' legs shattered and bent sending them crashing to the ground with their riders being hurled from their saddles to crash face first into the ground snapping their necks and breaking their spines with the violent impact. The battle had raged and clashed in the pouring rain as tides of fur and bright gleaming armor had struck at each other again and again to overwhelm their embattled foe. Snarling with rage the Free Folk struck again and again at their foes with cleaving axes and hacking swords chipped and of poor make but driven by a vicious and equally bloody will.
The knights cleaved at their heads as they ran past, sending fountains of blood flying into the air and decapitated skulls to roll in the dirt. Rusty blades managing to pierce past their finely-crafted plate and chainmail to gouge out their flesh and rip through them, cutting deep and nasty wounds into their flesh. When the Knights fell from their horses from stones and arrows they would descend on them like a rabid mob to rend and butcher them while they were down, crushing their mail and caving in their plate in their mad frenzy. In turn the knights ran over the savage and feral wildlings like a storm wind ripping up trees and sending them flying or in this case limbs and heads soaring through the air in beowulf grizzly arcs painted by noble swordsmanship.
In the muck and grime a soul lay dying and broken, a young boy of those beyond the Wall who would not kneel or bow from a mixture of brave daring and foolish pride. He had gone to fight chosen by a one of the Old Gods' Druids to earn glory and riches from the soft kneeler folk of the south only to find their steel was harder than his confidence in his skills and sharper than his easily disabled bladework. When the battle had come he molded and flowed with the rest of the onrushing horde that had crashed and fought against the Knights.
He had quickly discovered that those soft kneeler he had mocked could sweep him aside with barely any effort at all, and had found himself perplexed as he discovered he was prone on the ground unable to move lest he experience excruciating agony and find himself blacking in and out of consciousness. With blurry vision smothered by the howling rain and beating slaughter he gazed upon the relentless slaughter around him, feeling shame at his weakness erode his spirit and fury at the cruel and unforgiving hand fate had cast for him, fury that rose with the storm and crashed with the deafening thunder, fury that burned in his blood and boiled in his veins, fury that raced and surged through him searching for a way to escape. It scorched his muscles and seared his bones with scouring hatred and blazing wrath. He did not know when he started screaming or climbing to his feet, the storm raging and boiling with ear-splitting thunder and shrieking lighting above him. He did not feel the blade soaked in the grime of blood and viscera enter his hand as he gripped it with knuckles bleeding as under his flesh, bone, and ligaments warped and twisted into monstrous contoured shapes and barbaric forms of brutal murder and slaughter. He did not feel his arm hurled like a sling cleave through horseflesh and sunder knights armor with one fell blow.
He did not know when he started beating the knight's skull into the ground to kiss the bleeding dirt with the pommel of his blade. Or when he ran screaming and howling across the field cutting and striking down any found in his frenzied madness. His blade become a whirling storm of death whose steel reaped a harvest of blood that flowed with its curve and dance in great sweeping arcs of dismemberment and disembowelment. When the blade finally found itself locked and secured in warm soon-dying meat he tore from the cooling hands of his foes an axe and ran amok among them with its crescent blade as the storm cried out with wrath and fury above and the rain fell like the hammering blows of the heavens to crash upon the naked and bloodied ground. Racing towards the knights victorious and relieved at at battle's end he leaped from the ground to crash among them with the blade of his axe falling like grim fate to separate them from each of their dearly beloved halves.
When even that blade was thrown to spinning and turning through the air to carve a swath of bloody ruin through another force of knights, he clawed for a mace and hammer for each hand to crack their bones and shatter the blood vessels in their veins. With these mauls of carnage he splintered and broke the knights who went to slay the gore-slathered madmen who could not stop laughing with the rushing wind and roaring with the crashing thunder. His heart had become a roaring bonfire, savage and fierce, and his mind was awash in the racing lighting of bloody fury and deranged rage.
Wounds that would have felled any lesser men a thousands, nay a million times over, covered his body, and yet he did not fall as chopped down tree but stood like an ancient oak that shook and writhes against the winds slicing fury and cutting anger. With hammer as thunderbolt he smashed through the knights' lines and with the mace in the other hand he shattered through brittle bone and warm spongy flesh, viscera and gore coating both weapons in a thick greasy sheen. With one last surge of raw rage and primal fury he embedded both of his weapons in the bodies of his foes breaking their rib cages and caving in their hearts with the raw force driven into them at that moment.
With the last of the knights slain and slaughtered to the last, dull fury echoing in his ears and leaden hate old as stones and harder than the cutting steams coursing through his veins the young warrior not fully processed by an age old battle frenzy and dark madness from the first days of the Song tore open the door of the Sept and with his bare hands clawed and his eyes wild and mad grabbed the Priest of the Seven who are One all covered in his fine robes and wielding his star to ward off the approaching calamity and smashed him again and again against the altars of his gods mangling and twisting his body as blood splattered and splashed over the floor as the Priest was absolutely ruined.
When the Wildlings came in to see what had happened at the end of the battle they found a figure covered and painted in scarlet, one of his hands clutching the torn-out heart of one of his foes excavated chest and with a cruel burning light in his eyes crushed the heart to steaming pulp to drip down onto the floor at his feet. And in the trees above ravens cawed and danced, wheeling through the gray skies, their black eyes giving off a sense from their blank bottomless depths like sable inkwells of satisfaction and victory achieved.
The trees stand as silent sentinels with roots grasping tight the stern earth, and the sky wide and clear to shine with the stars silent burning bright. The shadows are long and soft as they are layered over the forest to weave and tumble as they will. The wind sings a song of battle lost and victory desired as the warm grass and gentle soil make a comforting bed for a weary soul sick with rage and hungover with fury. His flesh is scarred like the storm-riven mountains and gouged like the earth carved by the rushing stream. His bones have been beaten and cracked by blows like thunder and he has bled rivers and oceans of blood to water the parched earth beneath his feet. Every inch of him bears and is marked by battle and strife. Not one inch of flesh has not been broken and reforged in the relentless fires of war. His muscles ache with searing pain and his tongue is a rusty blunted thing, heavy and leaden in his mouth.
The warrior savage and brutal as the burning dawn and the fearsome storm lays down besides the fire to warm himself and rest for a time before the drums beat in his heart once more and the storm howls in his blood for pounding vicious release. Before the voice of the gods whispers, carried by the leaves rustling and shaking and the earth, groaning and moaning to give him once more his instructions of death and ancient madness founded on bloody unforgiving rage. Before the fury held in the boundless storm surges through him like vicious lighting and the wrath of the old earth sings in his marrow like battle songs of everlasting and thirsting war. Blood rending and tearing apart his veins as his heart crashes against his rib cage, pressing and pushing against it till it is on the verge of bursting. His ears ring and burn with a fiery warmth that fills him from head to toe with a slick and sublime flame.
Rage in the dawning light of morning is his mead and hate in the closing hours of twilight his bread. The warrior's back is curled and corded with thick and great muscles. Standing out like the face of a brutal mountains side stark and sheer as he sits and relaxes by the warming and comforting fires. The shadows dance over his face beaten and bruised from many thunderous blows of great might and scared by cruel slash's of howling steel and racing blades. His eyes are smoldering coals bound with a corona of jumping and dancing lighter that sparks when there is great joy or bloody passion bursting and crushing through his miracles sharp eyed gaze.
His beard is flecked with charcoal black rough and harsh in texture. Spiked and stinging, it is affixed and held to his face like a thorny bush bristling with venom anger and spiteful malice. His arms as they tend to the fire are thick and bulge with tightly bound and wound muscles and ligaments lying dormant and waiting for the electrifying stimulus to awaken and explode into violent action. His knees hard as rocks and further strengthened by republic bashing skulls in bend upwards as he lays his thick tree trunk legs down besides his merry gentle fire that warms and soothes him this night. His hands fall down to rest on the protruding knob of his rock hard knee bone and his other falls down by his side to hang. Hands that are brutal claws or savage hammers as his tempestuous and violet changing mood shits and alters. With these brutal fists he cooks his food and feeds his mouth with careful and precise motions entirely at odds with his hulkish and brute demeanor. With a tentative sip he tests out his stew to see if it is too hot, and upon finding it is warm but not scalding in its liquid heat he begins to ravenously consume it and chug it down.
With some bread to balance it out he lays down by the tree covered in warm furs and snuggles up in a finely woven blanket, he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift on currents of memory. The sounds of the birds twittering and the squirrels chattering fades away to be replaced by the loud braying shouts of battle, a mixture of spine tingling and shit breaking terror and rapid bloodlust forced to the boiling point under the stress of the clash of blades and the charges of horses' hooves cracking down like thunder and smashing at the broken bodies littering the ground like lighting. Free Folk and Westerosi knights scattered across the ground gutted and hacked at, limbs thrown every which way, and intestines tangled in the muck and filth of the torn and churned battlefield. Skulls cracked by maces clipping them and chests bleeding out from viscous spear wounds and lances shattering through them forcing their way past their bones and organs to rip everything in its path apart. Horses' legs shattered and bent sending them crashing to the ground with their riders being hurled from their saddles to crash face first into the ground snapping their necks and breaking their spines with the violent impact. The battle had raged and clashed in the pouring rain as tides of fur and bright gleaming armor had struck at each other again and again to overwhelm their embattled foe. Snarling with rage the Free Folk struck again and again at their foes with cleaving axes and hacking swords chipped and of poor make but driven by a vicious and equally bloody will.
The knights cleaved at their heads as they ran past, sending fountains of blood flying into the air and decapitated skulls to roll in the dirt. Rusty blades managing to pierce past their finely-crafted plate and chainmail to gouge out their flesh and rip through them, cutting deep and nasty wounds into their flesh. When the Knights fell from their horses from stones and arrows they would descend on them like a rabid mob to rend and butcher them while they were down, crushing their mail and caving in their plate in their mad frenzy. In turn the knights ran over the savage and feral wildlings like a storm wind ripping up trees and sending them flying or in this case limbs and heads soaring through the air in beowulf grizzly arcs painted by noble swordsmanship.
In the muck and grime a soul lay dying and broken, a young boy of those beyond the Wall who would not kneel or bow from a mixture of brave daring and foolish pride. He had gone to fight chosen by a one of the Old Gods' Druids to earn glory and riches from the soft kneeler folk of the south only to find their steel was harder than his confidence in his skills and sharper than his easily disabled bladework. When the battle had come he molded and flowed with the rest of the onrushing horde that had crashed and fought against the Knights.
He had quickly discovered that those soft kneeler he had mocked could sweep him aside with barely any effort at all, and had found himself perplexed as he discovered he was prone on the ground unable to move lest he experience excruciating agony and find himself blacking in and out of consciousness. With blurry vision smothered by the howling rain and beating slaughter he gazed upon the relentless slaughter around him, feeling shame at his weakness erode his spirit and fury at the cruel and unforgiving hand fate had cast for him, fury that rose with the storm and crashed with the deafening thunder, fury that burned in his blood and boiled in his veins, fury that raced and surged through him searching for a way to escape. It scorched his muscles and seared his bones with scouring hatred and blazing wrath. He did not know when he started screaming or climbing to his feet, the storm raging and boiling with ear-splitting thunder and shrieking lighting above him. He did not feel the blade soaked in the grime of blood and viscera enter his hand as he gripped it with knuckles bleeding as under his flesh, bone, and ligaments warped and twisted into monstrous contoured shapes and barbaric forms of brutal murder and slaughter. He did not feel his arm hurled like a sling cleave through horseflesh and sunder knights armor with one fell blow.
He did not know when he started beating the knight's skull into the ground to kiss the bleeding dirt with the pommel of his blade. Or when he ran screaming and howling across the field cutting and striking down any found in his frenzied madness. His blade become a whirling storm of death whose steel reaped a harvest of blood that flowed with its curve and dance in great sweeping arcs of dismemberment and disembowelment. When the blade finally found itself locked and secured in warm soon-dying meat he tore from the cooling hands of his foes an axe and ran amok among them with its crescent blade as the storm cried out with wrath and fury above and the rain fell like the hammering blows of the heavens to crash upon the naked and bloodied ground. Racing towards the knights victorious and relieved at at battle's end he leaped from the ground to crash among them with the blade of his axe falling like grim fate to separate them from each of their dearly beloved halves.
When even that blade was thrown to spinning and turning through the air to carve a swath of bloody ruin through another force of knights, he clawed for a mace and hammer for each hand to crack their bones and shatter the blood vessels in their veins. With these mauls of carnage he splintered and broke the knights who went to slay the gore-slathered madmen who could not stop laughing with the rushing wind and roaring with the crashing thunder. His heart had become a roaring bonfire, savage and fierce, and his mind was awash in the racing lighting of bloody fury and deranged rage.
Wounds that would have felled any lesser men a thousands, nay a million times over, covered his body, and yet he did not fall as chopped down tree but stood like an ancient oak that shook and writhes against the winds slicing fury and cutting anger. With hammer as thunderbolt he smashed through the knights' lines and with the mace in the other hand he shattered through brittle bone and warm spongy flesh, viscera and gore coating both weapons in a thick greasy sheen. With one last surge of raw rage and primal fury he embedded both of his weapons in the bodies of his foes breaking their rib cages and caving in their hearts with the raw force driven into them at that moment.
With the last of the knights slain and slaughtered to the last, dull fury echoing in his ears and leaden hate old as stones and harder than the cutting steams coursing through his veins the young warrior not fully processed by an age old battle frenzy and dark madness from the first days of the Song tore open the door of the Sept and with his bare hands clawed and his eyes wild and mad grabbed the Priest of the Seven who are One all covered in his fine robes and wielding his star to ward off the approaching calamity and smashed him again and again against the altars of his gods mangling and twisting his body as blood splattered and splashed over the floor as the Priest was absolutely ruined.
When the Wildlings came in to see what had happened at the end of the battle they found a figure covered and painted in scarlet, one of his hands clutching the torn-out heart of one of his foes excavated chest and with a cruel burning light in his eyes crushed the heart to steaming pulp to drip down onto the floor at his feet. And in the trees above ravens cawed and danced, wheeling through the gray skies, their black eyes giving off a sense from their blank bottomless depths like sable inkwells of satisfaction and victory achieved.
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- Location
- United States
Damn it. There goes that chance.
Well, when we safely stash Rhaella and the Children away in Sorcerer's Deep and then go to the giants at the Fist of the First Men, can you have the encounter table up and running again for that?
I am completely against this.
That will be months away, and this is something I want to handle ASAP. We just dealt the Others a massive blow by sacrificing the Winterborn Peryton and slaying the Frost Dragon, and it's still Summer. There will never be a better time than now to venture to the Fist of the First Men and diplomance the giants and arrange for their transport south of the Wall. This is far more important than the sellswords, @Diomedon.
@Wheel of time what title would you like for the omake?
iggyfan
Verified Man-Thing
- Location
- Kentucky
Why are you so concerned about diplomancing a race that numbers 2000 at most and is so primitive that they make the Children of the Forest look technically advanced?Damn it. There goes that chance.
Well, when we safely stash Rhaella and the Children away in Sorcerer's Deep and then go to the giants at the Fist of the First Men, can you have the encounter table up and running again for that?
I am completely against this.
That will be months away, and this is something I want to handle ASAP. We just dealt the Others a massive blow by sacrificing the Winterborn Peryton and slaying the Frost Dragon, and it's still Summer. There will never be a better time than now to venture to the Fist of the First Men and diplomance the giants and arrange for their transport south of the Wall. This is far more important than the sellswords, @Diomedon.
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- Location
- Brazil
It will be months before Bloodraven is done with his writing, and years before the Giants finish deliberating.
Diomedea
A piece of the continent
- Location
- The interblag
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Damn it. There goes that chance.
Well, when we safely stash Rhaella and the Children away in Sorcerer's Deep and then go to the giants at the Fist of the First Men, can you have the encounter table up and running again for that?
I am completely against this.
That will be months away, and this is something I want to handle ASAP. We just dealt the Others a massive blow by sacrificing the Winterborn Peryton and slaying the Frost Dragon, and it's still Summer. There will never be a better time than now to venture to the Fist of the First Men and diplomance the giants and arrange for their transport south of the Wall. This is far more important than the sellswords, @Diomedon.
We know IC that the giants take forever to deliberate (Bloodraven estimated a full year for them to talk over who should go to the wall and talk to the Watch). We're not coming to an agreement with them at all quickly, as in, a snap decision with no dissent by the giants might take a solid month, or several weeks at best. Talking to the giants is making our pitch (you don't need to go through the watch, I can take you south to other lands myself), and leaving to let them talk it over.
The sellswords, on the other hand, need to be hired and then moved into place asap.
- Location
- United States
Who cares how primitive they are? They're giants and they could be ours. Just give them fullplate and Dragonglass-tipped weapons and let them go to town on the Others. Ultimately this is less about diplomancing them and more about making sure they don't loaf around for the Others to swoop down on them.
You're both missing the point.
Diplomancing won't work right away, but we could go to them now and give them our pitch or at the very least assure them of passage through the Wall. Then they deliberate on that for months or years, and possibly come to us. But either way they will be away from the reach of the Others much faster than they would be if we didn't speak with them.
- Location
- Brazil
You realize they are Giants?
They don't need to be sophisticated, we don't want their tech, we want their people. We can make them Supreme Harnesses and razor-sharp swords and axes and steel-reinforced tower shields and everything.
- Location
- Philippines
@Wheel of time, that read like a wuxia chapter. Full of overblown descriptions and narrative to finish up with an actual plot. Brilliant!
That said, it's missing a setting.
You could place the omake as a vision of the Andalos invasion to Dalla of the Mountain Clans. Or place the monk's dream at the time of Robert's war.
That said, it's missing a setting.
You could place the omake as a vision of the Andalos invasion to Dalla of the Mountain Clans. Or place the monk's dream at the time of Robert's war.
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