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

[DragonParadox]

Of Broken Fates ​

Thirteenth Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

House of Master Coryn, Yin, Yi Ti

Hua Fen woke with a start, her limbs tangled in the unfamiliar silk sheets. For a brief moment she thought herself back in her childhood home, the whole of her time in Yin nothing but a fleeting dream. The bed was too high, she realized. I'm... the foreigners, it all came rushing back, being found out by strange foreigners with magic just as strange to the Golden Empire, offering her aid, curious to learn more, the favor of the Son of Heaven, the plot undone. The polished wooden floor was cool beneath her feet, her host had graciously gotten rid of the carpets at Fen's request, but there was still something strange in the air, a heaviness like the sweltering heat at midday before the rains came.

The shutters creaked in the wind, hadn't she locked those? Ever since Fen had taken to wearing a man's guise she had always been careful to lock the doors and windows to any room in which she might be revealed. Scolding herself for her carelessness the young woman rose to her feet and went to close the window, yet before she could reach out to touch it a sudden gust of wind blew them open to reveal a sight so dreadful that Fen stood rooted in place.

Beyond was the city of Yn, filed with lantern light and the comings and goings of its people even at this late hour, but the further one watched towards the horizon, the more darkness ruled. Windows grew dark and pillars rotted, the guardian carvings in the corners of the roofs took on a fiendish look, and in the distance the moon, corpse-pale and bloated, lay as though in the grip of a shadowy claw.

Spoiler: Vision of Shadow

"Is it not beautiful," a voice low and scratchy like rusted nails on slate called out from the dark. Hunched and deformed yet somehow fast... so fast was the fiend with the head of a snarling tiger reached for Fen. It was covered in a patchwork of colorful silks taken from a hundred defiled priestly vestments and in one hand it held a skull with eyes of clouded jade. "Come now, you can be a part of it, yes... just like you have always wanted to."

Spoiler: Twisted Fiend

"Liar!" Fen found her voice in a burst of anger, her formerly outstretched hand tightening into a fist in the same instant. For all she had been taught all her life that there was no greater dishonor for a lady of high rank than to brawl like a drunken peasant, not to mention the obvious impracticality of striking this thing barehanded, she was still only a moment away from doing it. "I am nothing like you and your ilk, defiler. You are less than a maggot crawling through the head of a rancid pig for that is what you would become if you had the courage to face the judgement of the Fates rather than linger here on earth to trouble the living."

The fiend's lips peeled back from its fangs, but not in anger. It started to laugh, the sounds like the yowls of a dying cat. "Maggot am I? An offense to the Fates? Then what are you? A willful, arrogant, disobedient girl who wishes to make a fool of her father by proving him wrong? Perhaps you think the Fates were wrong too, yes? To have made you a woman instead of the man you were clearly meant to be with your wit and wisdom? All of them are liars and hypocrites, pushing others down into the shadow that they might bask in the dying light."

"No... no you are just trying to tempt me to..." Fen could not find the words. Were there words that could answer the thing? Should she even be talking to it? More insidious still was the thought that wormed its way into her mind. If I stop listening to it does that make it right?

"Join us who have been cast down as you have been, unjustly by cruel and fickle spirits," the creature continued. "You will never have to be alone again. We are many and more gather with each turning of the moon."

The part of Fen that loved puzzle boxes and games, that would read through the sayings of wisemen by candlelight long into the night weighed the argument as dispassionately as it ever had those others even as her outer self was beset by doubt. And she found it... lacking. "I do not think the Fates should have made me a man, but that I aught to have been given the chance to sit in examination on the strength of my learning, to triumph or to fail. I ask for the chance to ascend, not to tear down the whole edifice of Empire."

A rough growl escaped the fiend's misshapen maw. "A pity. We shall have to do this the other way."

Fen's hands reached out blindly upon the table by the window, one of the heavy leather bound foreign books. Better than nothing. She lifted the thing to strike the fiend, maybe make it drop its skull while she rushed for the door.

Yet before Fen could put her desperate plan into action a second voice called out through her bedchamber, familiar but only faintly so. "That is what you call temptation?"

The lady Azema fell upon the fiend with claw, fang, and crimson wings outstretched. Yet for all the guise that seemed scarce less terrible than her foe Fen heard her in her mind. "Get away, I'll handle this!"

OOC: Azema is in for a hell of a fight, the rakshasa picked his moment well.

 

[DragonParadox]

New Roads and Ancient Hurdles ​

Twenty Third Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

As you had suspected he would, Lord Ashwin pledges his sword and his House to your banners as soon as you enter his solar once more, the return of his son and the knowledge of Baratheon weakness enough to earn you the support. Yet there is more you would do for House Keath to aid in the stability of your realm. First you pledge to not only abolish Aenys' interdiction, but aid in the construction of a new keep upon the site of Oldstones fit for a Great House, and at its foot no mere village or even a market town like Harroway, Saltpans or Fairmarkert, but a true chartered city.

"House Frey promises to be mighty indeed once matters in the Riverlands are settled, and I would look kindly upon a counter-weight to their influence," you explain to the surprised lord. "Not so mismatched, nor of course so vicious, as what is between House Tully, House Bracken, and House Blackwood, but enough to give Lord Walder cause for thought, let us say. He is a man who does better with a more even distribution of power and wealth around him."

Lord Keath's expression, that had been almost wary at the vast generosity, clears into an unshadowed smile. He likely knows Lord Walder well enough to understand why you might be inclined to build up other Houses alongside the Freys. Truth be told, you are more concerned with developing cities in the Riverlands to take advantage of its place as the crossroads of the Seven Kingdoms and a breadbasket second only to the Reach. The rivers make fairer roads than the Kingsroad ever could, and for sheer ease of transport they would likely be greater than any road you could build even with sorcery. It is along these rivers that you hope to build not one city, but many.

***​

Oaths sworn and pledges of support given, there are but two more Houses in the Riverlands with whom you might parley. Alas that it is the ones that have given so many headaches to your ancestors and indeed to the lords of this kingdom in ages past. You would not be surprised that if one were to ask a Mudd King or even Harren the Black which part of their domain was the most tumultuous, they would point to the weirwood tree and the rampant horse on gold. Granted, King Harren had also benefited from the feud to claim the Riverlands, but you are not here to stir up old battles to make your conquest easier, but instead hopefully put them to rest.

"Given that the trouble with young Lord Hoster and Lady Catelyn started at Raventree Hall, it might be best to start there," your mother suggests. "They keep to the Old Gods, too, so Lord Tytos is likely to take a visit better from the start." After only a moment's hesitation, she adds. "You could even ask... Lord Brynden to send a sign. Passing strange to ask the true favored of any gods to take part in that sort of theater, but he would certainly be willing."

"I think so, too. He might even have some fun doing it," Dany interjects with a smile, taking your mother's words for the compliment you are not sure they were.

"Might it not be better to do the reverse because the Blackwoods are more likely to be better disposed?" Rina asks. "As prickly as Lord Tytos and Lord Jonos are about each other, they might take being visited second poorly, making it better to spend that bit of goodwill where there is a surfeit of it. The Brackens might even be worried that favoring the Old Gods over the New, you would be inclined to settle the dispute in House Blackwood's favor."

"A fair point," you nod thoughtfully.

"Maybe you should at that," Ser Richard interjects. "Cut the knot once and for all, it's only being of even strength that let them feud for so long."

"Perhaps it is pride speaking, but I would rather be known as the king to begin healing the rift, not the one who merely chose a side," you answer after a moment's thought. "If nothing else, the religious dimensions of the feud would make any definitive solution of that nature echo far beyond the Riverlands."

"There's another reason it might be best to travel to Stone Hedge, Your Grace," Rina says, a touch hesitantly this time. "We have Hoster's side of the story, or near enough from Ansa, but nothing from Catelyn. I think that might be worth knowing before making any judgement in the matter? I admit I may not be entirely objective about this..."

"I do not ask you to restrain your counsel, chasing some chimeric state of perfectly level judgement," you wave away the objection with a smile before your gaze falls once more to the map of the Riverlands laid out before you so that you might decide where next to fly.

Where do you go next?

[] Visit House Blackwood of Raventree
-[] Write in

[] Visit House Bracken of Stone Hedge
-[] Write in

OOC: The account of the unfortunate lovers as was recounted to Viserys can be found here.

 

[DragonParadox]

A Peace Ill Fated ​

Twenty Third Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

In the end you decide upon House Bracken for your first visit. Better to have both sides of the tale before making any judgements, other than the fact that it is a dreadful tangle, but there isn't anything young Catelyn Bracken can tell you that would change that opinion besides perhaps 'father and lord Blackwood spontaneously reconciled' and in that case you would have to check both lords for enchantment.

So it is that you, Ser Richard, your mother and Rina come within sight of Stone Hedge, once more riding unseen upon spectral steeds while Dany lies coiled around your shoulders in her familiar hatchling form. The keep is old and strong, though more sprawling than tall as it stretches out over three low hills with a maze of walls, gates and courtyards watched over by towers, enough to make even the most determined assault pay in blood for every step. From its battlements flies the red rampant stallion of House Bracken watching over the herds of flesh and blood horses that graze on the surrounding hills.

History tell that the Brackens have always been great horse breeders, though how far that history goes or how it began depends on which side of the great feud one happens to bend one's ear to. Still, former sellsowrds or ancient lords the past matters little to you in this instance, it is the present you are concerned with, and the key to a full understanding in this instance is not Lord Jonos but his third-born daughter.

Dany spirals down to the window you know to belong to the girl, a tower apart from the rest, and from what you can glimpse of the furnishings quite spartan. Had Lord Braken also learned of the secret assignations?

It does not take long until you can ask for yourself for Dany soon invites you to speak to the girl along with any others that might wish to interview her. Rina follows, but to your surprise your mother choose to remain aloft. Then you catch sight of Ser Richard's relieved expression and realize she had given him an excuse to stay out of the conversation he wanted no part of.

"Your Grace, an honor to meet you," the girl's voice is firm enough, but she cannot quite meet your eyes as she curtsy and you do not think it is only the shyness of youth or the unexpected nature of the meeting. Ominously she holds a letter in hand that bears all the marks of something written in haste. The last thing you fancy yourself is a courier to the ill-fated idyll.

Spoiler: Catelyn Bracken

"My lady," you greet her politely nonetheless. "Has my sister explained why we are here?"

"Yes, Her Highness has been most kind, it's..." the facade of sophistication and calm cracks. "I couldn't really believe it wasn't a dream at first. I'm sorry I was so much trouble. I... we just wanted to make it all right and..."

"Catelyn, breathe," Dany interjects taking the girl's hand.

Blushing, Catelyn falls silent for a moment, but when she speaks she is once again composed. "You have to understand we were not just trusting in portents and signs like the old witch said, nor just in love, though yes Hoster and I are in love." She finally lifts her gaze almost defiantly. "By the time Lord Blackwood found the letters I had already spoken to Barbara, she's my eldest sister and father's heir, about ending this mad quarrel. Do you know we still argue over whose tits the hills were named for? Like it matters one whit who Aegon..."

"Who Aegon the Unworthy bedded, yes," you finish. "The moniker and the deeds that earned it are a matter of historical record. So you convinced your sister to..."

"To reconcile with the Blackwoods when she is Lady of Stone Hedge and Hoster was working on doing the same with his eldest brother Ser Brynden before things came apart. Father made Barbara swear on the Seven-Pointed Star that she would uphold 'our ancient claims and honor'," Catelyn continued, the frustration of several months of stewing boiling over. "Which honor that would be I know not, the honor that allowed Harren the Black to take over the Riverlands and kill Seven only knows how many raising that monstrosity of a castle? The honor that killed countless sons and daughters of both our Houses and their smallfolk, each death adding one more reason to push others into the Stranger's arms? They say the Old Gods do not forgive, I would not know for I am no theologian, but the Seven surely do and we Brackens have been remiss in that for time out of mind."

You had expected a love-struck girl and love-struck Lady Catelyn is indeed, but not as thoughtless as you had thought she would be. On the other hand you can well imagine why Jonos Bracken made his daughter swear to uphold the grudge between the Houses and not just from sheer hardheadedness. It would be hard enough for a woman to succeed without also leading the House she had just taken lordship of out of an age-old conflict. If memory serves, Lord Jonos has both a bastard who is knighted and a warrior tested, and a nephew not much younger.

"How did your father discover that you and Lord Hoster were conversing?" you ask as delicately as you are able.

"Lord Blackwood sent a letter, I only know a little of what is in it," she replies tight-lipped. "He called me a whore." And that was the part her own father had chosen to read out to her. Poor girl.

Still, sympathy cannot be what guides you here, at least not sympathy to two alone. The fate of tens of thousands of smallfolk hangs in the balance of the age old feud.

What do you do next?

[] Speak to Lord Bracken
-[] Write in

[] Speak to Barbara to see if she was sincere in recanting her promise to her sister
-[] Write in

[] Write in

OOC: And here we are, not quite as silly a plan as first appeared, but still with holes you could fly Balerion through.

 

[DragonParadox]

Traitors' Pact​

Twenty Third Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

Mereen, Slaver's Bay

Tuin raised his eyes from his notes warily, such that he imagined that were there another living soul to see him so facing off against an 'empty' chamber they might think him mad. Or were they of a sufficiently cautious disposition, start seeking out ghosts, spirits, and other unseen things. Yet the thing upon which the mage's gaze fell was none of these, but a plain black staff. To look upon it, the instrument might seem polished stone, to heft it one might think it wood. In truth it was both and neither, carved from a single great piece of jet, wood slowly becoming stone, forever caught between the worlds, just as its maker had been.

When the drow spell-weaver heard from the dragon lord that he had discovered a priestess of Lolth laid out in a ruined temple beneath the sky, the only reason he had not been shocked by that was that there were so many... many other things to be shocked by. So he had settled instead upon abiding surprise, like an itch at the back of his mind. No priestess he knew or had ever heard of would trust her bones to the World Above or indeed would leave her bones assembled for any necromancer to raise into service. True, they were guarded by Lolth's favored children, but none who knew the Queen of Spiders as well as her priestesses must would trust her not to find the mage's violation of the dead more entertaining then blasphemous.

So then, he wondered, what was this priestess doing laid out beneath a broken dome, blind eyes turned to the heavens above, by whose measure had the entire edifice had been raised? The answer had come from the most unlikely of sources, the Law Keeper Malarys Vanor, who had by the sacrifice of his dragon and a final work of sorcery carried upon the very tides of Doom, sealed himself from the world until he could be found and awoken. Might not another have tried to cheat death for a far longer span until the stars were right, the bones prepared for a rising, the spirit held in a stronger vessel? Tuin feared the priestesses of Lolth as he feared foxglove and deathcap, but he was an assassin as well as a mage. He had used both.

Without showing the merest hesitation, the last spell-weaver of Venthar crossed the room in five graceful steps and gripped the staff. In a firm clear voice, he spoke a blasphemous near-prayer:

May Darkness be my keeper
My fangs envenomed steel
I do not fear the Weaver
And to Her never shall I kneel ​

Long, long ago, or by Tuin's reckoning a few moonturns past, this had been the mocking chant of rebellion, first whispered in hidden cabals, then finally trumpeted from the walls of the Autarch's palace. No priestess of Lolth, be she ever so patient in the weaving of her webs, would allow such a thing to be spoken without giving a sign.

A sign there was indeed, but not what he had expected to feel. Rather than a battle of wills, a fanatic's fury pitted against apostasy, he felt curiosity... almost fascination. Another might have let down his guard in surprise, but an assassin's wariness is not so easily lulled into complacency, not before the works of his own folk, whom he knew so well.

Knives of ice and darkness stabbed into his brain, whips to flay his will and leave his innermost self unveiled. Knives cannot cut mist, nor whips flay it. Tuin was a thousand thoughts divided, and yet he was whole. Thus he beheld his foe, not a priestess, not a soul entire, but something that may have once been that. He saw hate and jealousy of Lolth, who had abandoned her people, and he stoked it. He saw the desire to be for one's own desire and he gathered it up.

How much we could be together... It had been a long time, even by the measure of his memories, since he had tried seduction, but for all his caution the mage knew one truth that bound together the merchant lords of Venthar even more than their rebellion from the Spider Queen. He who does not wager cannot win.

As swift as it had come the attack waned to nothing. A pledge was made, among the strongest that could be forged among the drow, for each held something the other could not take without losing a portion of the worth. Tuin had not lied. Together they would be great.

Spoiler: Staff of the Fatespinner

Staff of the Fatespinner

Appearance: This seems but a a plain black staff. To look upon it, the instrument might seem polished stone, yet to heft it one might think it wood. In truth it was both and neither, carved from a single great piece of jet, wood slowly becoming stone, forever caught between the worlds, just as its maker had been.

Base Enchantment: +1 Weapon

Senses: 120 ft. Darkvision, Blindsense, and Hearing

Communication: Speech, Telepathy

Alignment: Chaotic Evil

STATS:
15 (+2) Charisma
10 (+0) Intelligence
17 (+3) Wisdom

SAVES:
FORTITUDE: 11
REFLEX: 11
WILL: 11 + 3 = 14

Powers:

This staff allows use of the following spells:
Augury (1 charge)
Divine Insight (1 charge)
Find Weakness (2 charges)

Charges: 10/10

Recharge Conditions:
Each day at midnight, when the bearer prepares spells or regains spell slots, he can also imbue this staff with a portion of his power so long as one or more of the spells cast by the staff is on his spell list and he is capable of casting at least one of the spells. Imbuing a staff with this power restores one charge to the staff, but the caster must forgo one prepared spell or spell slot of a level equal to the highest-level spell cast by the staff.

Ego: 2 (Base Enchantment) +5 (Powers) +2 (Communication) +4 (Stat bonuses) = 13

Conflict Triggers:

1. Wielder is not drow
2. Wielder has not bested the staff in a contest of wills
3. Wielder serves Lolth in any quality

Caster Level: 12

OOC: I could of course have just had Lya identify this, in which case it would have just ended up on the sacrifice list most likely, so I gave Tuin some rolls to figure it out in his own spare time. He did and then he had a philosophical discussion with the tattered remains of the spirit of a priestess of Lolth. The result of said conversation was a resounding 'fuck Lolth'.

 

[DragonParadox]

Old Scores and New Games ​

Twenty Third Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

"I--a whore? Really?" You really shouldn't be surprised. Truly you shouldn't be. "Does a grudge give every person in this blasted realm the right to stomp on the innocent and blameless? I suppose I should be blaming my own family history for enabling this nonsense for nearly three centuries before I lay blame upon the Blackwoods..." Not that the Brackens were any less guilty, as she just pointed out. Well, your own grumbling exasperation won't fix this mess.

"I am hardly blameless, Your Grace," Lady Catelyn interjects, surprised by your vehemence and the shadow of old pain in her gaze. "I knowingly went against my lord father's will and dragged my sister into the scheme. That he was and still is wrong does not make me any less disobedient by the commandments of gods and men."

"Too see the injustice this feud has wrought and do nothing, would have also been wrong," Rina points out softly.

If the girl had been surprised before, now she is wide-eyed with shock. Obviously no one had put it in terms of responsibility to help mend the rift before. She has probably spent the last several weeks getting an earful of her supposed responsibility to obey her father, no matter his commands. "I suppose you are right..."

"You were born to a Great House, responsible for the smallfolk who have pledged to serve it," Dany adds gravely, her child's voice adding weight to the words instead of detracting from it. "Neither gender nor the order of your birth excuses you from it."

From the way her spine straightens the young woman is about to march into her father's solar and proclaim her newfound duty. Admirable as that may be, it is not quite what you need at the moment. You clear your throat faintly. "Assuming we had both heirs reconcile, even against the wishes of their fathers, Lady Barbara would have to trust that the succession would be upheld by the Crown with her father's passing, even against other claimants attempting to usurp her. We would have to get Ser Brynden to trust that the Crown will enforce and formalize de jure land rights on it's authority, both things which would be easier to do while I am king and already making steps towards that end."

"That makes sense," Lady Catelyn nods, looking not one whit disturbed by the implication of treason to King's Landing. Then again, she likely abandoned those doubts when she let a dragon in through her window.

"If you can get me a meeting with Lady Barbara, and assuming Hoster Blackwood can convince his brother to listen still, this all would still hinge on neither Lord Blackwood or Lord Bracken inflaming the conflict and striking out in blood before aught else..." you trail off expectantly.

"I think I can do that," the young lady shakes her head. "No, this is too important for doubts. I know Barbara and I know she does not like what father asked her to do, even if she could not tell me so herself. You will have your meeting, Your Grace."

With every word she speaks the idea that had been forming at the back of your mind grows more and more definite. "Your father, is he an ambitious man? And Lord Hoster, he is not particularly hung up on the idea of your hypothetical cadet branch bearing the name 'Blackwood', aye?" That would no doubt rankle at Lord Tytos Blackwood, but less so if they took up another name, ennobled in Essos where marriage ties would enrich both their lines through trade relations shared between Lady Barbara and Ser Brynden when they take up their seats.

"Before we met, Hoster was looking to become a maester and give up his name altogether," the words flow almost without inflection, like it has not quite sunk in why you are asking. "Oh... thank you, Your Grace, I..."

"Thank me when this is over, assuming we manage to thread the needle," you answer with a rueful smile. "Granting you lands in the east isn't much of an obstacle in this instance, and assuming he could trust that the Crown would uphold Lady Barbara's succession, much of your father's concerns would then rest upon the claims he's making on Blackwood lands."

"That and enough bad blood over the generations to drown a horse in," Lady Catelyn replies sadly. "I could spend an hour listing all the Brackens I know who were in some way killed by a Blackwood, and Hoster could do the same the other way." Unexpectedly, a spark of humor lights her eyes at some memory.

"What is it?" Dany asks curiously.

"It's rather macabre, Your Highness," Lady Catelyn replies, blushing faintly.

"I have a strong constitution," your sister deadpans.

After a moment's hesitation, the lady replies. "We, er... counted once, how many people bearing the other's name were supposedly killed by the other's House over the centuries. I'm down by three, it came out as two Catelyns to five Hosters."

Well... that is one way to measure the scope of the challenge and you suppose laughing is better than weeping. You sigh. "This all presumes that Lord Blackwood doesn't need certain other assurances. I should hope not, considering the brinksmanship here favors neither House with war on the horizon."

"Er... brinksmanship?" the girl asks frowning in confusion.

Right, Braavosi expression. "It means playing a dangerous game, taking a risky gamble."

"I hope everyone can win for once," she says, sounding almost as if she were speaking a prayer.

What do you do next?

[] Speak to Lady Barbara
-[] Write in

[] Investigate the omens and portents that brought Catelyn and Hoster together if indeed they were real and not rationalization of their feelings
-[] Write in

[] Write in

OOC: A bit of a character-heavy part, but I feel it flowed well, Rina continues to play well off this arc.

 

[DragonParadox]

A Frightful Chill ​

Twenty Third Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

You nod firmly in agreement with the sentiment, but your thoughts race onward to fit more of the pieces of the past few months in place. "My lady, you said that Lord Hoster and you did not trust in omens and portents alone, but there were such signs you interpreted as bringing peace to your two Houses through your union?"

"Hoster did, I prefer to keep to more... earthly concerns," Lady Catelyn replies, likely unsure of how to politely express a wariness of magic to a gathering almost entirely made up of sorcerers. "The storm was strange though, it came so suddenly." She shivers in memory of an old fright.

"I see," you answer thoughtfully. "I do not mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but I would look upon your recollections of that day if you would allow it, my lady, to ensure that no malignant power has clouded or altered them. Too often what is taken for sign or portent is a sign of darker things at work."

"What a dreadful thought, you do not believe in sweetening unpleasant truths to fit a lady's palette do you, Your Grace?" Thankfully the words are said in jest, not reproach.

"No more than I would to any other," you answer plainly. "Time and again I have found supposed feminine weakness to be more a manner of expectation than any inherent distinction, a fact which present company bears out."

Dany gives a cheerful wave to exercise the point while Rina merely smiles. Though Lady Catelyn soon joins her, her expression is more wistful. You cannot imagine she has many such confirmations of her worth. Hopefully young Lord Hoster is one, she has a good head on her shoulders for one thrust so young into the world of Westerosi politics.

As you had done with Joran to spy his supposed mentor you look back through the lady's memories for that fateful day in the Greenwood. There is no blurring of sights nor muffling of sounds save that which the passage of time would account for with the scene coming into terrifing focus when her palfrey charged headlong through the underbrush only to shatter a leg in a mistimed jump and trap her beneath its dying form, her own ankle twisted too badly to support her weight even when she manged to crawls free. Easy enough to see what might have inclined her to charity even towards a Blackwood who would mend the wound with a single seemingly miraculous touch, but it is not that part of the day that concerns you.

Again and again you return to the moment that the horse first spooked, a difficult prospect as memories are not arrayed as the pages of a book or letters upon a page, the weight of future-fear and future-pain impinges upon the recollection. There... not sight not sound but a feeling, a shiver down the spine not from fear but from a sudden and unnatural chill. Alas, however, as much you strain to sense more Lady Catelyn's memories of the moment can offer no further answers.

"No one has altered your memories, but there is something that might mark a subtle hand manipulating events," as Bloodraven does, you think but obviously do not say. However, much as the lady might be willing to forgive House Blackwood she would not doubt share the unease of most of Westeros knowing that a particular Blackwood heir yet lives. "Is there anything else unusual about that day, anyone who suggested that you might go riding on that path at that precise time?"

She shakes her head. "I was visiting the smallfolk in Copperidge, that's about six miles north of here, with food and medicines. Mother used to do that years ago, but she says she is too old these days and 'that's why she went to all the trouble of having so many daughters'." From the smile that accompanies the words it is clear her relationship with her mother had not suffered as much as that with her father.

"Why did they need food and medicine specifically then?" Rina asks before you have the chance to do so.

"There was a bout of Sweating Sickness, though a mild one, thank the Mother," Lady Catelyn replies. "You don't think someone could have caused that just to..."

"In ill hands magic can sicken as easily as heal," Dany confirms gravely. "Though it would probably be simpler to feign a mild case than a fatal attack, a physician might be able to tell the difference from the bodies." From the look she gives you it is clear that the notion of a physician looking over the bodies of dead smallfolk is not really what made her worried. A full blown sweating sickness epidemic might have distracted Lady Catelyn from her budding ill-fortuned idyll.

So warned you peer into the future and the past for answers reflected in the dreams coiled around history like a serpent around a latter twined. Answers you get, but none that are easily untangled:

Ware the touch of twice dead hands
A guest unbidden in the shadow stands
The victim turned thief at last
The Bane of those made Outcast​

Whatever had struck Copperidge had not been Sweating Sickness, and something is plotting to turn the rivers red with the blood of Blackwood and Braken both.

What do you do?

[] Travel to Copperidge to investigate further
-[] Write in

[] Seek out the guards who rode with Lady Catelyn that stormy day, perhaps they noticed something she did not
-[] Write in

[] Make use of magic to directly see the storm
-[] Write in

[] Split up
-[] Write in

[] Write in

OOC: Sorry this took so long. As always divination verse causing trouble, though in this case I feel it was worth writing up in full instead of summarizing. For anyone interested Sweating Sickness is an actual historical illness for all its bland name.

 

[DragonParadox]

Subtle Doom​

Thirteenth Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

House of Master Coryn, Yin, Yi Ti

"That is what you call temptation?" the words were filled with mockery worthy of a master thespian, with confidence perfectly feigned. Even as the rage and passion bore her up in crimson song Azema knew with the cold certainty of all her four thousand years that if the shadow-bound recovered enough to work his magic even for a moment she was dead.

Her claws cut silk but they barely pierced the thick hide beneath, even taking advantage of the surprise to lash out a her foe's eyes only a thin trickle of bitter blood slipped along her finger, but her caress was more than merely a physical touch, it sapped the life of her foe as readily as that of any mortal unfortunate enough to find himself in her embrace in times of old.

"Ohh... feisty," the rakshasa purred in Abyssal, so fitting upon its lips. "Maybe I will take you to bed along with the Hua bitch to be my concubine. I'd have to kill you first though."

Distantly Azema wondered if the fiend mistook her nature for one of lesser Abyssal heritage or if it actually thought the threat would unnerve one born to the Pit itself. Daggers flashed through the air first deflected by a buffering wing, the second time turned aside by the skin that had withstood the lashing wings of Shendilavri. Fangs sunk into her throat and found no purchase, wild laughter resounded within.

"Shall we fight forevermore then, Lady of the Poisoned Chalice?" came the mocking question in the tongue of Yi Ti this time. "Are you so desperate to keep this morsel for yourself?"

"Fen, stay in the room, there might be more of them outside," Azema sent, guessing the ruse instantly and hoping the girl would have the good sense to judge the fight before her with her head and not just with her eyes to see two monsters fighting. Then again, her foe could simply have said that for her sake so she would not just grab the girl and translocale. One passage and one alone, a road without return.

Fortunately the girl did not look like she was going anywhere, instead slamming the heavy book into the back of the misshapen tiger head with commendable initiative, unfortunately the moment of distraction cost Azema. The fiend found enough space to gesture and chant as from its claws spun trailed caustic mist to devour and destroy. Wood and silk were both eaten away. Somewhere behind her porcelain shattered as Azema's eyes watered from the spell eating into her flesh. One spell went wild, the other hooked under the jaw to spin it around cracking bone, but it was not enough. As the fiend tried the same spell again she was still out of position... too slow, too slow...

Light and fire bloomed within bound spells, uncoiling new life, though as fragile as that which she stole from her victims in battle it might as well last an age. It would be enough, it would have to be.

It seemd as though her foe had not expected such a working and it took a rather different lesson. "Which god did you sell your soul to, slave?" Snarling in frustration it sheathed its dagger and drew a scroll not to strike her down directly, but to unbind her protections against enchantment. Likely what it had used to pass the wards on the house also. Azema took the chance for another deadly caress, but it was not enough to stay its wrathful will and the spell flowed into the air, coiling like a serpent. The blessing held, for she whom had cast it was more skillful by far in her arts than the shadow-bound before her

Again they traded blows, but still the dagger could find no true purchase and even when it did the blessing cast it aside.

Better to cast, he'll open himself to attack, the Alu demon thought and for the first time since the fight had begun she addressed her foe. "Where is the strength you so boasted of, the potency of thy will and form? Naught but the bluster of an empty drum there is where thunder you have promised."

The gambit worked and it did not all at once, for the rakshasa drew a second scroll and thought to put it to better use. The black amulet felt cold and dead around her neck. It would only last for moments, but moments were enough to bind another to one's will the alu demon knew too well even as she stuck with renewed fury... once, twice.

"Leave the girl, she is nothing to you, not worth your pain nor the risk of your days upon this world of form, sister-in-darkness," the shadow-bound spirit whispered sweetly like poisoned honey dripping in the ear.

Azema was tempted of course, it was the nature of the spell to tempt and only a fool would use it for something one's victim would never do, and this was no fool, but even as she tasted temptation she pushed it aside. True the girl meant little to her, but her task meant much for it was given in service of a realm where perhaps alone of all the kingdoms of men she could walk in her own form under the light of day... home. Her only answer was the flash of crimson claws.

Breathe out, breathe in. She was bleeding from a score of cuts, having healed herself thrice over with careful measure to draw each drip of life from the belt and always did she play upon her foe's sorcerous pride. The dagger would wear her down eventually, but every spell cast was another moment for her to sink her own claws into his flesh. With darts of flame he sought to bring her low and by illusions her senses to beguile, but she was not deceived. Finally he fell to his knees, most of his blood dripping on the floor from a thousand gashes, not that Azema fared much better. A look of shock even deeper than the loathing it had shown before was the last thing upon his features as he toppled to the floor.

The girl, Fen, continued hitting the corpse with her book. Perhaps she was worth keeping alive for her own sake, to some measure at least.

OOC: Edited to be in accordance to rules as intended.

 

[DragonParadox]

Of Wine and Wolves ​

Twenty Third Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

"Whoever or whatever did this is skilled in covering its tracks," you sigh, rising from the moss covered stump in the middle of the clearing where almost three months ago the fateful meeting of Bracken and Blackwood took place. It does not look like much, just a rough tear in the canopy caused by some long ago fire or storm, with marks of more recent devastation still fresh upon its ragged edges. The beasts and the bugs have not colonized all the logs just yet but they are getting on. Sadly that the driving rain and booming thunder is all you can sense scrying the past for answers.

"Maybe," your mother frowns in thought, fingers sliding absently along the strings of Jenny's enchanted fiddle. "Mayhap it is old and does not know or care how the world has changed, treading ever upon the same path."

"If only there were some fey or fiend upon which to blame all the follies and evils of this unhappy land," Rina sighs. "I suspect though that mortal greed and spite have more than their fair share of blame, no matter what might await us."

Ser Richard shrugs with a faint clink of armor. "Whatever the Hells this is I'd wager it's easier to deal with by sword and spell than either lord would be."

"Trying to bridge two canals at once makes for poor arches," you agree. Thus you split the tasks ahead of you. Along with Ser Richard you will speak to the Bracken guards to see it any of them have any odd recollections of that day or any other that might relate while Dany, Rina and your mother will see to Copperidge and the strange sickness upon it in those days. To keep the wheels of the investigation running smoothly you also bind everyone by spell so that help is never more than a thought away should it be needed.

***​

Alas finding answers proves no easier once you are back in the village at the foot of Bracken Keep. It soon transpires that all the armsmen who were part of Lady Catelyn's escort that day also accompanied her, knowingly or not, the tales are conflicting, to other assignations. The usual strategy of buying drinks until someone's tongue is loosened finds scant success. No one wants to talk about it, be it from fear of Lord Jonos, shame at allowing matters to progress that far or even suspicion that any travelers might be 'Blackwood spies'. While the smallfolk may not be as invested in the feud with the House on the other side of the Red Fork as their lords there has been enough blood shed on both sides to breed the sort of distrust from Marchers speaking of Dornishmen or the reverse.

In the end it is the local septon who finally gives you the answers you seek. Young and full of passion to 'do the Seven's work' as well as fully embracing the proclamations of the Conclave of Oldtown he is eager to know more of magic and even the Old Gods with little interest in the local feud save in the way it sometimes disturbs his congregation.

"Most of those unfortunate enough to earn Lord Jonos' wrath have left for greener pastures, but there are two still close by... relatively close in one case. There's Brill, who took to the bottle after he lost his posting. You will find him doing small tasks around the village or mucking out the stables, no one trusts him around a horse anymore."

"And the other?" you prompt, as though only mildly curious.

"That's 'Red' Rick, supposedly he was always a good hunter and he just decided to live in the woods, if folk don't want him among them," the septon explains.

Being in possession of a name you ask nothing further lest you arouse suspicions and instead scry the former armsman's location. Before you can follow the lead however Dany's voice rings out in your mind: "We traced every case of sickness from clothes being washed and set out to dry on the same night under the dark of the moon. We couldn't find all the clothes in question, but divining from the ones we did get our hands on we found something... strange. Every one of them had been licked by a black wolf."

What do you do?

[] Continue to trace the two threads separately

[] Help with the search at Copperidge since it had been more fruitful

[] Write in

OOC: That was a roll of 1 for diplomacy following a low background roll, though after all the bonuses the result was still too high for a major setback while dealing with village rumor. You guys just lost time while the other party had a more fruitful investigation.

 

[DragonParadox]

A Tale of Silver, Flesh and Silver ​

Twenty Third Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

'Red' Rick proves to be as soured to the company of his fellow man as the septon's tale had hinted at, though thankfully still appreciative of the clink of silver coin. Given how unlikely the man is to gossip about strangers asking for tales you do not trouble yourself with hiding your tracks as you had in the village, simply handing him a small pouch of coin and asking him about the day he escorted lady Catelyn to Copperidge and what he may have seen through the storm.

"'T wasn't no storm that scattered us then, there be devils out there I tell ya," the man begins loudly, old spite practically boiling to the surface.

"Devils?" you prompt with worry. You had not seen any hand of Hell in these doings. Has the lord of the Third learned subtlety at last, or is his master acting in the west as well as the east?

"It's the wolves, what else are you supposed to call 'em if not devils? I ain't never seen wolves acting like that," the erstwhile armsman continued much to your relief. You would gladly take fey or other woodland things over fiends. "D' you think we left the little lady out there on her lonesome 'cause we were scared of thunder? No sir, they sneaked up on us careful like through the rain and came bittin' at the legs of the horses with that big black beast leading 'em, bigger than any horse I ever saw it was. They came after us fearing neither steel nor prayer. By the time we gathered to the call of the horn again the storm had passed and we found Lady Catelyn's horse dead and her no where about. There was not a mark or sign to show that she'd walked off, I swore it to Lord Jonos when he cursed at me and I'll swear it to you now I will."

For a moment you wonder if whatever power had arranged Hotser and Catelyn's meeting had also erased their tracks, but it occurs to you that the far more likely suspect in this case is Hoster himself with his woods witch's magic. After all, it would damage the lady's reputation were to it to be known that she was alone with a man much less a Blackwood for however brief a span. An ironic twist on later happenings, but one cannot truly blame either of them for it.

"Can you describe this wolf?" you prompt, mentally calling on Dany to listen in.

Unsurprisingly it proves to be the same beast, though Rick's firsthand account is clearer than what could be gleamed from handling the clothes of the sick of Copperidge.

Torn left ear, lighter patch of fur around the right eye... It seems the fellow had gotten a very close look at the wolf indeed as it tried to scare him off. Worth noting itself you suppose that the wolf did not kill anyone, whether from an inherent dislike of doing so or so as not to draw undue attention you cannot say for certain.

"Thank you for your time, goodman," you say while handing him the second half of his pay.

***​

It is with no small measure of surprise that you discover the wolf can be scryed and for that matter that it is an actual wolf, no different from any other in the forest making its lair in a shallow earthy cave along with its pack. "Male and female breeding pair, eight other adults and only three pups, no earthly reason why they would go after armed men," you muse looking down at the pack gnawing on the bones of an old kill, staying guard or plaything in the moonlight. "No sign of any magic either."

"So what now, Your Grace?" Ser Richard asks, still glaring down at the wolves as though expecting one to transform into a demon anyway.

"Talk to them," you shrug, dropping the glamour you had used to get this close before twisting your magic in an unaccustomed way that you might speak in the manner of wolves. It is strange to hear the yips and growls of a wolf coming from your throat in the way a dragon's roar never has, stranger still the way the magic adjusts your posture instinctively, as much a part of conversing with wolves as any sound.

This time you offer a bribe of meat, not silver, but the results are much the same. "The Wolf Brother came to us in the night and said to drink the bitter water, then to go to the places of men and lick the fur-that-is-not-fur so that some of them might sicken. He said to to drive away the ones upon the no-horns that he would put the fear in them and they would not strike us with long-claws, and we might eat the no-horn with the broken leg."

"How did the Wolf Brother come to you?" you ask, recalling tales of wolf spirits of winter that Koron had shared two months ago. Could this be a like creature? These wolves looked uncommonly hale and healthy to be touched by death.

"In the time of no-moon, he comes without flesh in silence, he comes to hunt for revenge against those who hurt his pack long ago. It was 'a man-thing and we would not understand the whole of it,' the Wolf Brother said," the wolf replies.

"If he was a man seeking man's vengeance then why did you aid him?" you prompt, knowing that the wolves cannot tell time well enough to give you a proper answer as to what 'long ago' may mean.

"Because he is Wolf Brother," the best replies confused and you have the sense there is something you are missing about the nuance of its speech.

What do you do next?

[] Question the wolf more
-[] Write in

[] Try to find out what 'Wolf Brother' might mean
-[] Ask Bloodraven
-[] Check the library

[] Ask the wolf to lead you to 'the bitter water'

[] Write in

OOC: The plot thickens once more.

 

[DragonParadox]

Waters of the Past ​

Twenty Third Day of the Eleventh Month 293 AC

"I would see this bitter water for myself, in exchange..." technically the meat had been only to talk, not to lead you somewhere. While wolves are unlikely to split hairs you always did like dogs, and what is a wolf if not the first of all dogs? Reaching out to the wellspring of power within you speak a word of grand healing upon the whole pack, old injuries mended, lingering maladies cured and even a bit of the touch of old age and hard living lifted as the glade fills with golden light.

The black wolf jumps back startled, but he knows his own body and knows that he feels better than before. With a tongue-lolling 'smile' he lopes ahead, enjoying the feeling of perfect health. Maybe enjoying it a little too much, both you and Ser Richard have to resort to flying in order to keep up on the rough forest floor. At the knight's look you shrug and smile sheepishly. "It's a nice wolf, and despite what many think a healthy prosperous pack is vanishingly unlikely to trouble men. It's in the lean and hungry times they trouble folk, or when something else compels them..."

It does not take you long to find the something, another far larger clearing among the forest of oak and aspen, and within was a pool of still water with not a trace of moss growing upon its crumbling shore, nor a single willow bold enough to dip its roots into the water. At first sight it looks like the sort of pond that gathers intermittent runoff up in the hills, filling up and drying out a hundred times in every season, but looking into the surprisingly clear water you see no trace of the sort of leaf litter and other refuse that would gather in such a place, only stones worn smooth by water and time. This pool has been here a very long time and not wholly by natural circumstance.

"Thank you for leading us here," you say to the wolf with a careful a pat on the head, not quite careful enough that he does not nip at your hand from sheer instinct, but even in this form your skin is too hard to be pierced by wolf fangs, and when you start scratching him behind the ears where he cannot normally reach he presses into your hand happily.

"Are you going to take that home?" Ser Richard asks amused.

You consider the matter briefly, there is room enough in Mosshold and it really is a very nice wolf. "Do you wish for a new home where food will always be plentiful and you need not have fear death through disease or injury?"

The wolf ponders the matter for a long moment, weighing its present territory against the promise you have made, then nudges your hand in agreement.

"Yes, we are taking them home," you answer a surprised Ser Richard.

The wolves however are Vee's concern, you have yet a mystery to untangle. Silently you reach out with your senses, to see through veils and catch the glint of magic in the air if there is any to be seen. At first it seems as though you had caught nothing but a dead end, the air dead of both sight and sound. Then you catch sight of something sparking in the water brighter than moonlight, perhaps a light that only a mage's sight can catch.

Two wishes more you weave upon yourself and Ser Richard both, to grant you breath like a fish to pass unhindered beneath the surface. The water is clammy and colder than it aught to be, though not uncommonly so, though the deeper you walk the more it darkens out of all proportion with its actual depth. Rather than conjure light so that darkness might be warned Ser Richard uses a bound enchantment to see through it as you already can, until at last you spot something embedded among the stones.

"A sword, or what's left of one at least," you say pulling the hit free of the earth for the first time in who knows how many centuries. Green, not rust-red with age, bronze then, First Men work. The pommel is the head of some snarling beast, though which you cannot tell in its current from, but the runes along what is left of the blade broken two places below it reveal more: "Honor... Chase... Moon... Key," you trace the markings in turn. "The sword was a gift to a hunter, a symbol of status, maybe authority, maybe a hunt's master." Turning the blade around you see perhaps the last runes you had expected to find here: Frost, kingship, and a accent that is usually reserved for feared beasts like wolves or bears, the Kings of Winter, the Starks of old.

"Maybe we aught to get out of the water before we look that over, Your Grace," Ser Richard's voice draws you from your thoughts.

"Yes, of course," you agree quickly. Out of the darkness where colors bleed back into the world in the fragile moonlight you realize your first guess was wrong about the sword. While it is indeed green with age and corroded the missing piece of the blade had been broken long ago, perhaps in battle.

"Did you find anything more?" you send to Dany after a moment.

"No news, though in this case it is good news too, no lingering effects of the sickness in Copperidge," she answers. In a less pleased tone she adds: "No trace of magic or enchantment either, and we are going to have to wait until morning to interview more people." When she hears what you had found she and the others translocate to meet you on the shores of the nameless lake.

"How old is that?" your mother asks pointing at the blade, her eyes flickering momentarily to Rina.

"Not that old," the younger mage says definitively. "The runes are more rounded, meant to be forged into metal not carved into stone. From the Age of Heroes, not the Age of Dawn."

Luckily you have an expert on runes to call upon to give a more definite answer.

"You are looking at somewhere between Jorah Stark, Edrick Snowbeard and Edwyn the Spring King," Waymar says after weighing the blade in hand. "It's not just the runes, but the way they forged the guard, almost ornate see. It fell out of favor with Jon the Eight Stark and Brandon Ice Eyes would probably sooner stab you with one of these than gift it, too much of a reminder of his great-grandfather's weakness."

"Snowbeard is the one who lost the Wolf's Den and Ice Eyes the one who won it back if I remember right?" Rina half asks. "It looks like this comes from a time the North, or at least the Starks, were weak. Though what it's doing this far south and tangled with the curse..."

"Then new moon is two days from now, maybe we should get back to dealing with the politics and watch the sword then to see if it does anything strange," your mother interjects.

"Or we could see if Eddard Stark's forebearence extends to another visit to his archives," Dany offers. "I'm not sure I want to wait until this thing has power again, it's too skilled at hiding itself, too skilled by half."

What do you do next?

[] Return to settling the political conflict, speak to the two heirs and then their fathers
-[] Write in

[] Try to gain access to the archives of Winterfell again
-[] Write in

[] Write in

OOC: That was a lot longer than I expected it to be, hopefully the atmosphere is worth it. I had actually missed that you guys wanted to take the wolves, thankfully it got caught in beta.