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

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Tomcost said:
It is on the thread meme scale, like Glowdude, Burny and the Brass Ballsack.

So by all means something that we should try to make it happen IC
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So something like:

Ser Fussoway the Red
Ser Fussoway the Bold

Lost to his niece when she was twelve years old

Ser Fussoway the Red
Ser Fussoway the Bold

Shot so straight he missed the earth
Stood his ground, face like a hearth

Demanded the fey undo what they had wrought
Could scarcely believe that they had not.

Ser Fussoway the Red
Ser Fussoway the Bold

Back down from his claim, as it was only his word.

Ser Fussoway the Red
Ser Fussoway the Bold

Entered Melee with a Bard
He found this fight to be quite hard

No matter how he tried to strike
He could not seem to hit quite right

Ser Fussoway the Red
Ser Fussoway the Bold

For all his knightly training, had not been training nightly.

And so lacked skill to face a man so sprightly.


... and so on, but with better actual verses. This is something of an untrained skill check for me.
 
Viserys Targaryen.
Dragon.
Emperor.
Dread Sorcerer.
Pirate King.
Scourge of the Narrow Sea.
Vanquisher of the Bitch Queen.
Azor Ahai reborn.
Breaker of Chains.
Godspeaker.

Grand Master Insult Swordfighter.
 
So is pulling a bane on this guy's social life going to make meeting with Ashford awkward?

Lord Ashford: ... I think I understand the bureaucracy now. The paperwork keeps the king too busy to find his own entertainment.

Steward: In a way it's relieving to see something like this. A sane looking Targaryen is just one who's found a completely novel form of insanity.
 
And in Ashford upon the meadows,
you can see a man chasing shadows.
Ser Fossoway, the wormy apple,
look at him and hear him prattle.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
The mouth runs fast, the mind less so.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Knightly in body, but the character? No.

With a bow from finest ash,
he entered the field quite brash.
His foe his niece, a young maid in bloom,
but watch her shoot and know he's doomed.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
No arrow flies straight, no target he hits.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Watch him rage and have his fits.

"It's magic! It's Fey!" That's his claim,
but it's clear as day who is to blame.
No talent, no skill, just full of pride.
But shouting and baying these faults to hide.

To Be Continued
 
So, I kind of labeled this guy "volunteer target" because he hit his niece and was acting like a dick at the archery contest, but I almost feel bad for him now.

... not enough to stop, but still.
 
BronzeTongue said:
So, I kind of labeled this guy "volunteer target" because he hit his niece and was acting like a dick at the archery contest, but I almost feel bad for him now.

... not enough to stop, but still.
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Reminder that he was fine with coaxing his niece into a undefined, but definitely major Fey debt.

He definitely volunteered to be our amusement.
 
BronzeTongue said:
So, I kind of labeled this guy "volunteer target" because he hit his niece and was acting like a dick at the archery contest, but I almost feel bad for him now.

... not enough to stop, but still.
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He also refused to greet an unknown Bard politly while his companions introduced themselves properly.

Let's be honest, someone who has been living in fey-infested lands for several years and still does that, deserves whats coming to him.
Politness and hospitality to wierd strangers should have been the very first lesson to learn.
 
And in Ashford upon the meadows,
you can see a man chasing shadows.
Ser Fossoway, the wormy apple,
look at him and hear him prattle.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
The mouth runs fast, the mind less so.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Knightly in body, but the character? No.

With a bow from finest ash,
he entered the field quite brash.
His foe his niece, a young maid in bloom,
but watch her shoot and know he's doomed.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
No arrow flies straight, no target he hits.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Watch him rage and have his fits.

"It's magic! It's Fey!" That's his claim,
but it's clear as day who is to blame.
No talent, no skill, just full of pride.
But shouting and baying, these faults to hide.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Demands a favor. Does not want to pay.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Would sell his niece to the Fey.

But this deal won't stand.
Not on Ashford land.
Yet the neighbours look and what they swear?
"No spell seen on the lass." The verdict quite clear.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
His arrows plow dirt. His honor at stake.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
His niece splits an arrow, sealing his fate.

The lass the crowd cheers,
For the knight they have jeers.
But a moral we find in the tale of this brute.
Be kind to thy neighbours and to those who own lutes.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Red in the face when we tell his tale.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
But we'll sing it and dance it until it grows stale.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Red in the face when we tell his tale.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
But we'll sing it and dance it until it grows stale.



Do not meddle in the affairs of Bards, for they are unsubtle and have a sense of humour.
 
Azel said:
And in Ashford upon the meadows,
you can see a man chasing shadows.
Ser Fossoway, the wormy apple,
look at him and hear him prattle.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
The mouth runs fast, the mind less so.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Knightly in body, but the character? No.

With a bow from finest ash,
he entered the field quite brash.
His foe his niece, a young maid in bloom,
but watch her shoot and know he's doomed.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
No arrow flies straight, no target he hits.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Watch him rage and have his fits.

"It's magic! It's Fey!" That's his claim,
but it's clear as day who is to blame.
No talent, no skill, just full of pride.
But shouting and baying, these faults to hide.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Demands a favor. Does not want to pay.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Would sell his niece to the Fey.

But this deal won't stand.
Not on Ashford land.
Yet the neighbours look and what they swear?
"No spell seen on the lass." The verdict quite clear.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
His arrows plow dirt. His honor at stake.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
His niece splits an arrow, sealing his fate.

The lass the crowd cheers,
For the knight they have jeers.
But a moral we find in the tale of this brute.
Be kind to thy neighbours and to those who own lutes.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Red in the face when we tell his tale.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
But we'll sing it and dance it until it grows stale.

Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
Red in the face when we tell his tale.
Ser Fossoway. Ser Fossoway.
But we'll sing it and dance it until it grows stale.



Do not meddle in the affairs of Bards, for they are unsubtle and have a sense of humour.
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This made me giggle furiously.
 
MTB said:
Hm, can the aggrieved party demand a honor duel, and, if so, who may choose the weapons?
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I am no expert, but I believe that the challenged party gets to pick something about the duel, right? Like time, place, or weapon? If it's that last, I believe Buttercup would prefer a battle of wits and words.
 
Mimas said:
I am no expert, but I believe that the challenged party gets to pick something about the duel, right? Like time, place, or weapon? If it's that last, I believe Buttercup would prefer a battle of wits and words.
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"Well, well, it seems you just couldn't stem the tide of witticisms, so you've resorted to violence. That really does make you rotten, doesn't it?"
 
Inserted tally
Adhoc vote count started by DragonParadox on Mar 28, 2020 at 7:35 AM, finished with 89 posts and 20 votes.
  • [X] Wait for the inevitable confrontation and then on to the melee
    -[X] When it comes time to participate in the melee, in addition to his normal buffs (at least those which aren't visually recognizable) Viserys will duplicate a Moment of Prescience spell on himself using Wild Arcana (22nd caster level) and a Blood Wished Mighty Strength, plus Moment of Greatness and Heroics (Weapon Focus - Longsword) using his Grimoire. He will place a Blood Wished Greater Magic Weapon spell on Dark Sister as well as use his Grimoire to cast Spellsword on the sword so that he can store his Greater Metamagic Rod of Quickening in her. He'll also use his Blessing of Fervor spell from Dany's Persistomancy to gain a +2 attack and Dodge bonus and he will use his scabbard to apply the Keen Edge effect to Dark Sister.
    --[X] Viserys' modified melee attack bonus will be: +34/+34/+29/+24/+19 (1d10+10/17-20 x2). He can use Moment of Greatness to increase a single attack by +3 and Moment of Prescience to apply a +22 bonus to a single attack or other check, such as increasing his AC to avoid a melee strike.
    [X] Bronn Level Up
    -[X] Class: +1 Fighter
    -[X] Feat: Two-Weapon Fighting
    -[X] Skills (5 points): +1 Hide, +1 Intimidate, +1 Move Silently, +7 Bluff
    --[X] Retrain (+5 points): -1 Swim, -4 Ride
    [X] Wait for the inevitable confrontation and then on to the melee
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Part MMMCDXVII: Sour Apple
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    • Sour Apple ​

    Twenty Fourth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC

    Predictably you do not have long to wait until the ill favored Ser Alfryd finds you, still in the company of Ser Leygood and a few other knights of lesser Houses, though Lord Ashford himself had departed, perhaps either to seek answers from the fey, a drink to dull his frustrations or both.

    "Still licking the scraps of your betters are you?" the knight practically hisses in rage. "Trying to find someone who'll pay you better to kiss their asses than a ragged hedge knight?"

    "That's a mighty strong shade of red you've turned," you point out with mock-gravity. "I wonder if that means you've finally matured enough to put up a fight or if thine callow words mark you unripe?"

    "A fight?" he sneers. "What do you know of fights you sniveling little shit. I should have you beaten for your impudence and tossed out on your ear or else put in the stocks so you can finally put on a show worth seeing."

    "As it happens, someone did put down my name for the melee, doubtless as a jest, but if you would cross blades with me while I record good Ser Geralt's deeds I would welcome the... diversion," you proclaim before sweeping away into the crowds. You would have liked to taunt him more, but the look on Ser Richard's face makes you worry the idiot might find himself missing half his teeth if the confrontation continues any longer.

    From the sounds of it the fool's friends manage to restrain him before he can follow you, though you can feel his murderous look burning in the back of your neck. No doubt he is consoling himself with fond images of the melee to come. Alas for him they will not last long in the harsh light of reality.

    ***​

    The melee of Ashford does not resemble the structured fighting of the Circle of Battle and not without cause. The knights and squires gathered around the field weapons and shields in hand are doing more than competing for gold an glory, they are preparing for battle. You wonder how many of them realize it is the sort of battle that is ever more unlikely to be fought in this age of sorcery and skirmishes in the sky as the legions prepare to march across the face of Westeros. You shake off the thought. Buttercup the bard would not be pondering the changing nature of war.

    "So do you think I should compete?"     Dany asks silently, glancing over the assembled growing crowd of warriors with a considering eye. "I look almost old enough to be a squire, right?"

    "You look old enough to be a page, barely," you counter. "I realize we haven't been very circumspect today, but having you trounce half the knights in attendance is a step too far even so."

    "You're no fun..."     she begins pouting. The thought cuts off as something behind draws her attention. "Is that Randyl Tarly? I didn't know he was even here, much less that he was on the list for the melee."

    "Trying to forge connections in these trying times, I imagine," you can feel a smile tugging at your lips. "Somehow I do not think he will enjoy my company or jests." The idea of trouncing the Lord of Horn Hill does not have the same appeal as the idiot you humiliated earlier, but recalling Samwell accounts of his father you can't say you'd regret the chance to meet him out on the field.

    You notice a few more notable shields among the knights preparing for the melee, you see the seals of Blackbar, Costayne, Merryweather and Rowan. All but the last are reasonably removed from the succession, uncles and cousins, but the Rowan heir is upon the field this day. Before you can ponder the matter any deeper, the horns sound clear and sharp over the din of the field. The time had come to face the melee.

    "Good luck Ser," you call to Ser Richard. "I hope you will not sweep me from the field ere I can attest to your deeds."

    "Good fortune be with you," the knight replies, the briefest smile flashing upon his lips for he knows as well as you do that fortune has little to do with your success upon the field this day, not with all the spells you you have woven unseen but not unfelt around you.

    "A melee?" Dark Sister sounds amused as you draw her, though not displeased. She tastes the air with senses beyond flesh a wave of anticipation singing though you as your own. "I know this place, I know this dance well indeed."

    To his credit Alfryd Fossoway finds you quickly once again, thinking to avenge himself upon the singer covered in naught but light chain, before moving on to more difficult fare. "No one to hide behind now, little weasel!" He shouts as his sword comes sweeping down left to right in a blow that might have taken your arm at the shoulder... if it was there, at least.

    Twisting aide you call: "Come now Ser, no one likes a sour apple." Seeing as he has overextended himself that badly, you may as well take advantage of it. Dark Sister presses his blade further along its path until it is buried in the dirt, then you sweep it out to cut a thin line of blood along his cheek. "You should not worry so about your loss, I've heard told that many men fail to perform the first time with a woman!"

    The last taunt sets a Blackbar knight close at hand laughing so hard he ends up disarmed by Lord Ashford, not that anger seems to improve your opponent's blade form any. He probably shouldn't be trying to decapitate you either. Ser Richard might notice and take it amiss.

    "Tsk, Tsk... Still wormed by today's events I see," you call out, earning a sort of mental grating from Dark Sister you only later realize is a groan. "You're definitely his kin." The flash of a smiling silver haired man in your mind makes you pause and it takes you only a moment to realize it's prince Daemon. You are not sure if you aught to be insulted or offended.

    Ser Alfryd attempts to toss dust in your eyes, though without any more luck and in one more clang of steel against steel you twist the blade out of his hand. "I've got you over a barrel now Ser!" you laugh "Yield, there will be chances apple-nty after this!"

    Perhaps you shouldn't have ended on a pun, you think as the enraged knight charges you as though to grapple you to the ground. With strength born of sorcery and skill half dreamed, half drilled by Ser Richard's sparring, you strike him about the head with the flat of the blade, once, twice, thrice, until he collapses in the dirt.

    You have certainly made Buttercup's reputation today and from the looks of things Ser Richard is well on his way to winning the melee, having already dispatched three fey knights and currently fighting his way to Lord Tarly.

    What do you do next?

    [] Earn a few more victories for Buttercup

    [] Stay close to Ser Richard to watch his progress, only engaging anyone who gets close

    [] Fight a particular opponent
    -[] Write in

    OOC: I couldn't work in all the puns, but hopefully the ones I did flow well enough. Like I said I'm not very experienced with them. Not yet edited.
     
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