There, another ledge. My hands scrabbled at the edge before I gained a hold, breath steaming and...
Climbing High (ASOIAF SI) (Sekiro Crossover)
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Chapter 1
- Pronouns
- They/Them
There, another ledge. My hands scrabbled at the edge before I gained a hold, breath steaming and heart racing. The poor thing had been hammering for hours now as I attempted the most dangerous climb in all the world. I had no rope to aid my ascent - far too visible even by moonlight. The best I could manage was carefully and quietly adzing out holds that I'd have to keep memorised for the climb back down. By day I slumbered in crevices away from the eyes of those who watched from above and by night I rationed my dwindling food supply to survive me to the end of this ill-fated mission.
I had never wanted to embark on this journey; I was content herding goats and hunting game on the slopes of my home, spending my miraculous second life simply and peacefully. My family roamed the Mountains Of The Moon, slipping past Andal patrols with our fleet-footed herds and always returning to the low-lying mortarless stone-fort deep within the hidden valley that our forefathers had called home for centuries. In the almost-forgotten past we had raided and fought with the other Clans, but since my grandfather's time we had withdrawn from that endless struggle. Why not? Our home couldn't be reached by the mounted knights the Andals relied upon - even if they found the route, the sulfurous springs would surely slay any train of horses and men that tried to cross. Upon the day I was deemed to be a man and had my legs and gut scarred in the customary way my father taught me the hidden way across the springs. No longer was I guided by the hand with my eyes covered to prevent the secret from falling into enemy hands, no longer was I a liability. No, now I was an asset. When we were done my father boasted to me that a single man could hold the spring path against a hundred and even with a lifetime's experience in cynicism those words filled my heart with confidence and wonder.
My climbing equipment was primitive - the only metal I carried a blade - but it was best my clan could offer. Numerous bone adzes I blunted one by one carving out handholds, a set of boots braced with horn on the toes to gain better traction, a grey cloak to hide me by day and by far the heaviest a gourd full of watered down wine to sustain me.
On the first night of climbing I passed the impact site where uncounted hundreds of unlucky souls had met their ends when the Arryns decided not to dirty their own hands. The second night almost led to my death when I disturbed a nesting falcon. The damn bird tried to claw out my eyes while I desperately bit my tongue to stop the men even then tramping up and down the path to the Eyrie from hearing my pain. The third night left me without a crevice to hide in and I dozed upon a crag, hidden only by my cloak. On the sixth night I left behind unhewn rock and touched upon the Eyrie proper, the ancient brick at once easier to climb and nigh impossible to find shelter in. The sixth day of the trek was thus preparing for the final leg of the trek - and the terrible task that awaited. I could hear the feasting and revelry of those within the walls, toasting the coming war and boasting of what they would accomplish. My innards screamed in hunger and soon I wasn't dreading the summit of my climb anymore.
They came in the night, riding in as the red sun set over the mountains to the west. The flocks were gathered and guarded, but the cousin on watch-duty was struck from behind by a foe much more cunning and ruthless than a shadowcat. He's bundled up while the herd scatter across the slopes. Next they come for the insomniacs and late-drinkers by the fire, rushing them with blitz attacks. Two are killed outright while a third will wake a simpleton. We awoke thrashing in our beds of fur and hide, but it was too late. They had us.
Our captors carried much more metal than we did; it gleamed in their hands and upon their waists, rusty iron and pilfered steel weapons an indelible threat that kept my attention. These were rough men, raiders from the Burned Men. There's more of them than us, enough for each of my uncles and cousins to have their own savagely grinning captor pressing them to their knees. Suddenly I was thankful that we were a party only of men.
Their leader was a monstrous brute, at least six feet tall with a single eye of flint staring at my father from beside a weeping burn. His hands played with a bronze dagger, twisting and turning it in the fire.
"My grandpappy, he told me you Goatlegs were cleverer than this. One man on watch, the rest of you fast asleep or too drunk to fight? You'd be lucky just to have Andals riding you down. Well, you weren't so lucky, were you? You got us."
Gods bless my father, he was hard. The type to never let you see when you've won. He faced down the raider as if he was in the seat of his power at our ancestral home.
"This ain't your land Burned Man. It isn't anyone's land. We've given no offence."
Unfortunately, the brute's fist was harder. While my father was spitting his teeth into the dirt his assailant took the time to take a long look at the rest of us. One by one he stepped around and behind us, stalking quietly as a shadowcat. I thought that me and my family shared the same heartbeat in that moment, as loud as thunder in our ears. To the left my uncle Jorv cried out and I could hear the sizzle as that red hot dagger pressed against his flesh. Another thud as Jorv was knocked to the ground.
"By all the hells man, do you cry out when your mother kisses you as well?! I've seen lads half your age take that and ask for more! It's this, this weakness, this cowardice, that's why we're here tonight. Damn Goatlegs, hiding in their hole. Happy to scurry and run while the rest of us fight are you? Not a one of you willing to fight against the falcons?"
With a grunt he reached down and seized my father's hair, baring his throat.
"You're just weak, dragging the rest of us down! We'd be better off without-"
"WE'RE NOT!"
It took all of them looking about for me to realise the scream was mine. Once more my father hit the dirt, the brute stomping towards me and without my permission my lips moved.
"You little shi-"
"One moon! Just one moon and I'll prove it!"
"...Oh? You think you can make up for the brothers I've lost, the sacrifices we've made-"
"One. Moon. I'll do more for the cause than the Burned Men have ever done."
Shit shit shit my mouth was racing, my mind was stuttering what what what - he was grinning. He was laughing, knee-pounding belly-rumbling laughter.
"I'll take you up on that one boy, one moon. We'll round up those goats, have ourselves a feast and when you don't manage shit we'll carve open your family and leave them here to rot. You've got balls, but it won't be enough."
He gestured and the pressure that had been mounting on my shoulder was gone; in its absence I felt unaccountably bold.
"And when I come back you'll pay us for every goat you touched."
My father's face was hilarious; a strange mix of pain, injury and utter flabbergasted amazement. It quickly turned to panic as I scrambled closer to him, wiping the blood away from his mouth.
"Y-yuh fool, run, run Sean, run and don't look back."
I wrapped my arms around him and whispered into his ear words that came from the same place as before, a strange core of confidence that I never knew I had.
"I remember what you taught me pa, I can do this."
The moon was half-waning on the night I clambered over the crenellations, it's silvery light just enough for me to see by. My gourd and tools I left in the last shelter I had found, carrying only my cloak and blade on that final ascent. The Eyrie was bustling. Around every corner was another busy maid, another man-at-arms or knight. I affected a quick, frantic mien and feverishly bowed my head to anyone who looked better dressed than I. From corridor to corridor I darted, searching for the target I was here to slay. In the High Hall I glimpsed the heroes of this chapter of history; a young man with grey eyes so grim he could be no other than Eddard Stark and beside him a brutish beast by the name of Robert Baratheon. I remained no longer than needed to confirm that the Arryn was missing; facing either of these youths wouldn't even be a contest, rather a tragic farce.
Time was a-wasting. Every corridor I had to back-track or look twice at raised suspicions. The household guard of the Eyrie may have been unpracticed compared to their contemporaries in more vulnerable castles but the House of Arryn harboured no incompetents; they saw me, failed to recognise me as a servant and nudged one another. They were slowly moving in, a tightening net of steel that threatened to - there! Behind one of those ever closing guards, a woman leaving a chamber where an old man removed his finery! I couldn't keep a smirk off my face, nervous as I was. I quickened my pace, began to look directly at the guards and hurried away. I would only get this chance once and to fail would mean death.
"Sean, see that deer there?"
It's a brown speck in the distance, the faintest hint of newly budding horns sprouting from a patch of gorse.
"Yes pa."
It's been a year since I was scarred and I was taking on the responsibilities of a man. I herded goats, carried newborn kids over the sulfur springs and all the other little pieces of responsibility that children revel in. Of course, one of these was hunting. The Goatlegs clan of course ate goat, but rarely. The herds were too important for milk and wool for us to slaughter without good reason. The bitter tubers grown in our valley provided a staple, but fresh meat was always necessary. My father and I were alone on this trip; we camped upon the entry to the gorge and ranged across the flanks of the mountains in search of game. It felt important to me even as we left; my second father was a stern, emotionally reclusive man, and every bit of positive interaction was to be cherished. His eyes then weren't cold, but full of mischief.
"You stay here lad, and maybe you'll learn somethin'."
With a smirk he rose from his prone position and half crouched half dashed off to the right, where a stand of trees bracketed by thicket offered a route closer to the deer. I remained there for what felt like an age, one eye on the deer, one eye on the trees waiting for him to take a shot. My eyes itched and when I wiped them I looked and there he was, one hand on the deer's antlers and the second ripping a blade through its throat as though he had just swanned up to it and it had bared its neck.
I nearly fell ass over head running down that hill, arms outstretched to balance. I probably looked a right fool and my pa laughed like a madman when I seized him by the jerkin and demanded he tell me how he did it. He waved me off as we dressed the deer, and it wasn't until we were ensconced in our little campsite perched upon a ledge overlooking the approach to the valley that he spoke of it.
"Lad, there's many a thing in this world; things you can and can't see, beasts and men and stranger things. Back in the time before the Andals came the Vale was ruled by many a king, some whose keep only commanded an important pass and others whose vassals ruled fertile land all throughout the Vale. Back then the Goatlegs were just a community of herders and hunters and we moved with the herds. One year we'd obey one king and the next another. They knew we weren't going to stay and didn't expect us to. The land was without border and none could limit where we went. Then the Andals came. They beat some kings through force of arms, others through trickery and deceit. And all throughout the war, we lost our land. The Andals cared nothing for the way things were done and demanded vassalage - permanent service - from whoever they decided they ruled. We could never give them that. And so we fled. We fought alongside some of the kings, bled what meager strength we had out upon the dirt but it was never enough. When that cunt Arryn slew the last Royce it was over. By then we weren't one small community - many had lost their homes and we taught them the hidden ways of the Mountains of the Moon. Some stayed with us to make new lives, others would rather bleed themselves on the Andals than live, and so they left us. But as the Andals grew in number, as they claimed and filled out every fertile spot in the Vale we lost even the places we wintered in. We got desperate. Until Dancing Dana. She found the gate to the hidden valley, led us through the brimstone ponds and into Misthearth. And there we remain even today."
It wasn't the first time I had heard the story; it was told in song and story year after year, kept alive in oral tradition for as far back as could be remembered. Others told it better and I told my father so.
"Aye, but there is more to be said boy. Back in the ancient days the Children taught men magic, and some men even found magic on their own. Both gifts from the gods and curses from demons flowed quick and strong and in their keeps and strongholds the kings knew many a great art, from the calling of storms and the writing of runes to taking the shapes of monsters." A dancing spark of mischief seemed to flit about in my father's eye. "We were just herders. Hunters. No shaking the bones of the earth, no great powers for us. But we knew how to be quick. How to be so quiet and well-hidden that we could watch over wild herds without disturbing them, so stealthy that both the deer and the shadowcat passed us by. We've lost much, but we still have some small speck of glamor." Another laugh and he grabbed me in a headlock, tussling my hair. "Enough to fool one damn deer and a stupid boy anyway!"
The guards weren't expecting what they got. They charged down those stone passages to intercept a spy, converging from every direction with their hands on their swords. They found a drunk knight pawing at a reluctant maidservant. And if a few felt their eyes itching as they passed a dark corner, leaving the path to the bedchamber unprotected, what was there for them to tell?
It was almost laughably easy to reach the bedchamber with the guards gone; I found myself damn well sauntering up there, a grin on my face and laughter in my heart. The door proved a momentary inconvenience solely due to it's age and weight - if I woke Jon Arryn all of this was for naught. However taking a few minutes to open the door and close it behind me handled that. And then I was at the end of the journey. All that was left was for me to kill this man who I had never met and whose ancestors had inflicted untold suffering upon mine.
Jon Arryn was old. In the clans most died young, to disease or disaster. It was rare for someone to survive long enough to become old. It was rarer for the clan in question to have the means to support such useless dependents. I loved my gramma and grampa a lot, but their lives rested on a knife's edge of whether we had enough to feed them. Jon Arryn was a slap in the face from my first life; the kind of old you only find in people who've lived lives of privilege, who've never gone hungry, never suffered from malnutrition. It was disturbing - even more so than the opulent furnishings. According to his means he lived an austere life but to a child of the mountain clans it was unbelievable decadence. A metal chamber pot. Tapestries on the walls. A sniff told me his wine was mulled as well. I suppose it made it easier to kill him; we're hardwired to envy and covet - it's the most common sin of all. I want what he has.
The first cut was easy. One hand upon his brow, the second driving the dagger into his left eye. He spasmed for a moment and in the air I could smell the reek of voided bowels. But one cut wasn't enough. The Burned Men wouldn't just believe my word that I had killed Jon fucking Arryn. I needed to bring them proof. With a few expert slices I made incisions behind his cheeks. I should have brought a skinning knife - human skin it seemed was much more delicate to remove than a deer's. By the time I had flayed his cheeks the skin was ragged and tattered so I cut deeper, scooping out chunks of flesh along with the skin. When I was done the Arryn was missing half the flesh off his nose and his lips beside. I folded up the proof and ran to check the door I had closed; shadows loomed through the gap underneath, the guards returned to their duty from the wild goose chase. Knowing it wouldn't be long before they smelled the rancid stink I had to be gone. The window was my only option. Taking a moment to daub a swift sketch of a three-headed dragon in blood upon the wall - best to keep things on the same track after all - I pressed myself through the narrow slit of the window. Then I merely had to make my way back to where I had stored my things and begin my descent.
AN: So I wrote a thing for practice. The crossover is... well I basically took the Sunken Valley, Ashina Depths and Mibu Village and slapped them into the Mountains Of The Vale. The story of Sekiro is/did/will be taking place on the other side of Yi-Ti and will not have much impact on or exploration in this. There is a Fountainhead in this geographical 'mirror' of the Valley/Depths/Village but it'll be greatly different to the original. There will likely be very large AU elements later on due to the events that took place in this chapter. I just really liked the idea of a village of assassins living in a hidden village in the Mountains Of The Moon.
EDIT: I live for criticism - it's the only way I'll improve.
I had never wanted to embark on this journey; I was content herding goats and hunting game on the slopes of my home, spending my miraculous second life simply and peacefully. My family roamed the Mountains Of The Moon, slipping past Andal patrols with our fleet-footed herds and always returning to the low-lying mortarless stone-fort deep within the hidden valley that our forefathers had called home for centuries. In the almost-forgotten past we had raided and fought with the other Clans, but since my grandfather's time we had withdrawn from that endless struggle. Why not? Our home couldn't be reached by the mounted knights the Andals relied upon - even if they found the route, the sulfurous springs would surely slay any train of horses and men that tried to cross. Upon the day I was deemed to be a man and had my legs and gut scarred in the customary way my father taught me the hidden way across the springs. No longer was I guided by the hand with my eyes covered to prevent the secret from falling into enemy hands, no longer was I a liability. No, now I was an asset. When we were done my father boasted to me that a single man could hold the spring path against a hundred and even with a lifetime's experience in cynicism those words filled my heart with confidence and wonder.
My climbing equipment was primitive - the only metal I carried a blade - but it was best my clan could offer. Numerous bone adzes I blunted one by one carving out handholds, a set of boots braced with horn on the toes to gain better traction, a grey cloak to hide me by day and by far the heaviest a gourd full of watered down wine to sustain me.
On the first night of climbing I passed the impact site where uncounted hundreds of unlucky souls had met their ends when the Arryns decided not to dirty their own hands. The second night almost led to my death when I disturbed a nesting falcon. The damn bird tried to claw out my eyes while I desperately bit my tongue to stop the men even then tramping up and down the path to the Eyrie from hearing my pain. The third night left me without a crevice to hide in and I dozed upon a crag, hidden only by my cloak. On the sixth night I left behind unhewn rock and touched upon the Eyrie proper, the ancient brick at once easier to climb and nigh impossible to find shelter in. The sixth day of the trek was thus preparing for the final leg of the trek - and the terrible task that awaited. I could hear the feasting and revelry of those within the walls, toasting the coming war and boasting of what they would accomplish. My innards screamed in hunger and soon I wasn't dreading the summit of my climb anymore.
They came in the night, riding in as the red sun set over the mountains to the west. The flocks were gathered and guarded, but the cousin on watch-duty was struck from behind by a foe much more cunning and ruthless than a shadowcat. He's bundled up while the herd scatter across the slopes. Next they come for the insomniacs and late-drinkers by the fire, rushing them with blitz attacks. Two are killed outright while a third will wake a simpleton. We awoke thrashing in our beds of fur and hide, but it was too late. They had us.
Our captors carried much more metal than we did; it gleamed in their hands and upon their waists, rusty iron and pilfered steel weapons an indelible threat that kept my attention. These were rough men, raiders from the Burned Men. There's more of them than us, enough for each of my uncles and cousins to have their own savagely grinning captor pressing them to their knees. Suddenly I was thankful that we were a party only of men.
Their leader was a monstrous brute, at least six feet tall with a single eye of flint staring at my father from beside a weeping burn. His hands played with a bronze dagger, twisting and turning it in the fire.
"My grandpappy, he told me you Goatlegs were cleverer than this. One man on watch, the rest of you fast asleep or too drunk to fight? You'd be lucky just to have Andals riding you down. Well, you weren't so lucky, were you? You got us."
Gods bless my father, he was hard. The type to never let you see when you've won. He faced down the raider as if he was in the seat of his power at our ancestral home.
"This ain't your land Burned Man. It isn't anyone's land. We've given no offence."
Unfortunately, the brute's fist was harder. While my father was spitting his teeth into the dirt his assailant took the time to take a long look at the rest of us. One by one he stepped around and behind us, stalking quietly as a shadowcat. I thought that me and my family shared the same heartbeat in that moment, as loud as thunder in our ears. To the left my uncle Jorv cried out and I could hear the sizzle as that red hot dagger pressed against his flesh. Another thud as Jorv was knocked to the ground.
"By all the hells man, do you cry out when your mother kisses you as well?! I've seen lads half your age take that and ask for more! It's this, this weakness, this cowardice, that's why we're here tonight. Damn Goatlegs, hiding in their hole. Happy to scurry and run while the rest of us fight are you? Not a one of you willing to fight against the falcons?"
With a grunt he reached down and seized my father's hair, baring his throat.
"You're just weak, dragging the rest of us down! We'd be better off without-"
"WE'RE NOT!"
It took all of them looking about for me to realise the scream was mine. Once more my father hit the dirt, the brute stomping towards me and without my permission my lips moved.
"You little shi-"
"One moon! Just one moon and I'll prove it!"
"...Oh? You think you can make up for the brothers I've lost, the sacrifices we've made-"
"One. Moon. I'll do more for the cause than the Burned Men have ever done."
Shit shit shit my mouth was racing, my mind was stuttering what what what - he was grinning. He was laughing, knee-pounding belly-rumbling laughter.
"I'll take you up on that one boy, one moon. We'll round up those goats, have ourselves a feast and when you don't manage shit we'll carve open your family and leave them here to rot. You've got balls, but it won't be enough."
He gestured and the pressure that had been mounting on my shoulder was gone; in its absence I felt unaccountably bold.
"And when I come back you'll pay us for every goat you touched."
My father's face was hilarious; a strange mix of pain, injury and utter flabbergasted amazement. It quickly turned to panic as I scrambled closer to him, wiping the blood away from his mouth.
"Y-yuh fool, run, run Sean, run and don't look back."
I wrapped my arms around him and whispered into his ear words that came from the same place as before, a strange core of confidence that I never knew I had.
"I remember what you taught me pa, I can do this."
The moon was half-waning on the night I clambered over the crenellations, it's silvery light just enough for me to see by. My gourd and tools I left in the last shelter I had found, carrying only my cloak and blade on that final ascent. The Eyrie was bustling. Around every corner was another busy maid, another man-at-arms or knight. I affected a quick, frantic mien and feverishly bowed my head to anyone who looked better dressed than I. From corridor to corridor I darted, searching for the target I was here to slay. In the High Hall I glimpsed the heroes of this chapter of history; a young man with grey eyes so grim he could be no other than Eddard Stark and beside him a brutish beast by the name of Robert Baratheon. I remained no longer than needed to confirm that the Arryn was missing; facing either of these youths wouldn't even be a contest, rather a tragic farce.
Time was a-wasting. Every corridor I had to back-track or look twice at raised suspicions. The household guard of the Eyrie may have been unpracticed compared to their contemporaries in more vulnerable castles but the House of Arryn harboured no incompetents; they saw me, failed to recognise me as a servant and nudged one another. They were slowly moving in, a tightening net of steel that threatened to - there! Behind one of those ever closing guards, a woman leaving a chamber where an old man removed his finery! I couldn't keep a smirk off my face, nervous as I was. I quickened my pace, began to look directly at the guards and hurried away. I would only get this chance once and to fail would mean death.
"Sean, see that deer there?"
It's a brown speck in the distance, the faintest hint of newly budding horns sprouting from a patch of gorse.
"Yes pa."
It's been a year since I was scarred and I was taking on the responsibilities of a man. I herded goats, carried newborn kids over the sulfur springs and all the other little pieces of responsibility that children revel in. Of course, one of these was hunting. The Goatlegs clan of course ate goat, but rarely. The herds were too important for milk and wool for us to slaughter without good reason. The bitter tubers grown in our valley provided a staple, but fresh meat was always necessary. My father and I were alone on this trip; we camped upon the entry to the gorge and ranged across the flanks of the mountains in search of game. It felt important to me even as we left; my second father was a stern, emotionally reclusive man, and every bit of positive interaction was to be cherished. His eyes then weren't cold, but full of mischief.
"You stay here lad, and maybe you'll learn somethin'."
With a smirk he rose from his prone position and half crouched half dashed off to the right, where a stand of trees bracketed by thicket offered a route closer to the deer. I remained there for what felt like an age, one eye on the deer, one eye on the trees waiting for him to take a shot. My eyes itched and when I wiped them I looked and there he was, one hand on the deer's antlers and the second ripping a blade through its throat as though he had just swanned up to it and it had bared its neck.
I nearly fell ass over head running down that hill, arms outstretched to balance. I probably looked a right fool and my pa laughed like a madman when I seized him by the jerkin and demanded he tell me how he did it. He waved me off as we dressed the deer, and it wasn't until we were ensconced in our little campsite perched upon a ledge overlooking the approach to the valley that he spoke of it.
"Lad, there's many a thing in this world; things you can and can't see, beasts and men and stranger things. Back in the time before the Andals came the Vale was ruled by many a king, some whose keep only commanded an important pass and others whose vassals ruled fertile land all throughout the Vale. Back then the Goatlegs were just a community of herders and hunters and we moved with the herds. One year we'd obey one king and the next another. They knew we weren't going to stay and didn't expect us to. The land was without border and none could limit where we went. Then the Andals came. They beat some kings through force of arms, others through trickery and deceit. And all throughout the war, we lost our land. The Andals cared nothing for the way things were done and demanded vassalage - permanent service - from whoever they decided they ruled. We could never give them that. And so we fled. We fought alongside some of the kings, bled what meager strength we had out upon the dirt but it was never enough. When that cunt Arryn slew the last Royce it was over. By then we weren't one small community - many had lost their homes and we taught them the hidden ways of the Mountains of the Moon. Some stayed with us to make new lives, others would rather bleed themselves on the Andals than live, and so they left us. But as the Andals grew in number, as they claimed and filled out every fertile spot in the Vale we lost even the places we wintered in. We got desperate. Until Dancing Dana. She found the gate to the hidden valley, led us through the brimstone ponds and into Misthearth. And there we remain even today."
It wasn't the first time I had heard the story; it was told in song and story year after year, kept alive in oral tradition for as far back as could be remembered. Others told it better and I told my father so.
"Aye, but there is more to be said boy. Back in the ancient days the Children taught men magic, and some men even found magic on their own. Both gifts from the gods and curses from demons flowed quick and strong and in their keeps and strongholds the kings knew many a great art, from the calling of storms and the writing of runes to taking the shapes of monsters." A dancing spark of mischief seemed to flit about in my father's eye. "We were just herders. Hunters. No shaking the bones of the earth, no great powers for us. But we knew how to be quick. How to be so quiet and well-hidden that we could watch over wild herds without disturbing them, so stealthy that both the deer and the shadowcat passed us by. We've lost much, but we still have some small speck of glamor." Another laugh and he grabbed me in a headlock, tussling my hair. "Enough to fool one damn deer and a stupid boy anyway!"
The guards weren't expecting what they got. They charged down those stone passages to intercept a spy, converging from every direction with their hands on their swords. They found a drunk knight pawing at a reluctant maidservant. And if a few felt their eyes itching as they passed a dark corner, leaving the path to the bedchamber unprotected, what was there for them to tell?
It was almost laughably easy to reach the bedchamber with the guards gone; I found myself damn well sauntering up there, a grin on my face and laughter in my heart. The door proved a momentary inconvenience solely due to it's age and weight - if I woke Jon Arryn all of this was for naught. However taking a few minutes to open the door and close it behind me handled that. And then I was at the end of the journey. All that was left was for me to kill this man who I had never met and whose ancestors had inflicted untold suffering upon mine.
Jon Arryn was old. In the clans most died young, to disease or disaster. It was rare for someone to survive long enough to become old. It was rarer for the clan in question to have the means to support such useless dependents. I loved my gramma and grampa a lot, but their lives rested on a knife's edge of whether we had enough to feed them. Jon Arryn was a slap in the face from my first life; the kind of old you only find in people who've lived lives of privilege, who've never gone hungry, never suffered from malnutrition. It was disturbing - even more so than the opulent furnishings. According to his means he lived an austere life but to a child of the mountain clans it was unbelievable decadence. A metal chamber pot. Tapestries on the walls. A sniff told me his wine was mulled as well. I suppose it made it easier to kill him; we're hardwired to envy and covet - it's the most common sin of all. I want what he has.
The first cut was easy. One hand upon his brow, the second driving the dagger into his left eye. He spasmed for a moment and in the air I could smell the reek of voided bowels. But one cut wasn't enough. The Burned Men wouldn't just believe my word that I had killed Jon fucking Arryn. I needed to bring them proof. With a few expert slices I made incisions behind his cheeks. I should have brought a skinning knife - human skin it seemed was much more delicate to remove than a deer's. By the time I had flayed his cheeks the skin was ragged and tattered so I cut deeper, scooping out chunks of flesh along with the skin. When I was done the Arryn was missing half the flesh off his nose and his lips beside. I folded up the proof and ran to check the door I had closed; shadows loomed through the gap underneath, the guards returned to their duty from the wild goose chase. Knowing it wouldn't be long before they smelled the rancid stink I had to be gone. The window was my only option. Taking a moment to daub a swift sketch of a three-headed dragon in blood upon the wall - best to keep things on the same track after all - I pressed myself through the narrow slit of the window. Then I merely had to make my way back to where I had stored my things and begin my descent.
AN: So I wrote a thing for practice. The crossover is... well I basically took the Sunken Valley, Ashina Depths and Mibu Village and slapped them into the Mountains Of The Vale. The story of Sekiro is/did/will be taking place on the other side of Yi-Ti and will not have much impact on or exploration in this. There is a Fountainhead in this geographical 'mirror' of the Valley/Depths/Village but it'll be greatly different to the original. There will likely be very large AU elements later on due to the events that took place in this chapter. I just really liked the idea of a village of assassins living in a hidden village in the Mountains Of The Moon.
EDIT: I live for criticism - it's the only way I'll improve.
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Alpha Zerg
The Last Primal Zerg
- Location
- Zerus
The first two sections and last to sections would do well without their dividers. If you read over them, they take place mostly in the same scene/context as each other (first two, and last two respectively). Maybe have a bridging sentence instead of the lines, if you feel it's necessary, but as it is, the breaks distract a lot from the flow of the scene and make the intro seem shorter than it is, while also being disjointed.
Other than that, I'm interested in seeing where this goes. It's a pretty damn ballsy start for an SI, I'll give you that.
EDIT: As a rule of thumb, you usually want about 500 words per scene-break unless you want the flow to seem disorientating. Some scenes work well with rapid scene changes/thought changes, but that's because they're meant to be confusing or disjointed. I don't get the feeling that this is one of them, especially as it's an intro.
Other than that, I'm interested in seeing where this goes. It's a pretty damn ballsy start for an SI, I'll give you that.
EDIT: As a rule of thumb, you usually want about 500 words per scene-break unless you want the flow to seem disorientating. Some scenes work well with rapid scene changes/thought changes, but that's because they're meant to be confusing or disjointed. I don't get the feeling that this is one of them, especially as it's an intro.
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- Pronouns
- They/Them
Thanks, I removed the first divider and replaced the second with an extra paragraph!
Alpha Zerg
The Last Primal Zerg
- Location
- Zerus
Nice, it reads a bit smoother now. Looking forward to the next chapter when it comes.
- Location
- United Kingdom
'Grandpappy' is not an acceptable word to use, and I'm not sure about 'pa', but otherwise fine so far.
- Location
- Williamsburg, OH
Haven't gotten around much have you? Methods of addressing parental figures changes region by region.
- Location
- United Kingdom
Yes they do, and if Tyrion address Jaime by Onii-chan because they're brothers that would be stupid as well. 'Grandpappy' is a specifically American phrase from a specific time and region. I'm talking about the maintenance of verisimilitude, something not helped by temporally and geographically bounded terminology. I read a similar fic in which a 'teamster' appeared driving a cart. That isn't what they're called outside American English.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
I was trying for something with less hard sounds than grandpa, but if it ain't a thing it can be changed.
QuietlyObserving
The Railgun That Walks Like a Bear
- Location
- Here.
There's no reason it's not a thing. What with the insular culture of the tribes of the Vale, it's not impossible. Also, considering that the Westerosi speak what is apparently perfectly comprehensible modern English (And it is true Modern English, not even Tolkien-type antiquated or Shakespearean Early Modern English) which does include words that require Earth history to have even become words, complaining about a local colloquialism seems a bit...petty?
It doesn't break immersion, it doesn't really impact the story.
I feel 'grandpappy' is acceptable - the story is written in English, and 'pappy' is an English word for 'father' (or 'old person') that has hick / lower-class connotations. It fits the 'simple farmer' background that the character has. While I agree that Tyrion using 'onii-chan' would be silly, that's because it's an inappropriate mix of cultures - a farmer using farmer-type words is fine.
- Location
- United Kingdom
It is objectively an Americanism, and thus inappropriate to ASOIAF. If a 'Teamster' showed up, meaning here a cart driver, I would still expect 'a unionised worker involved in freight hauling', not just 'cart man', because that's what the word means currently, even if previously it had a meaning of 'person working in a team driving a cart'.
I'm ignoring the idea that they're isolated so its ok, because no one in the Vale speaks like that. The Mountain Clans have a specific accent that is presented in the books, and even the show. To memory its a lot of 'So says X son of X', but if the argument is that they're isolated that's license to ignore established culture.
Regarding Modern English, no its not, its successfully aping Tolkein, there are specific words which are seeded into the text to make it sound weird, because that's how verisimilitude is built.
Here we have
Aught
Amiss
Fool
Kin
Wed
What's (contraction specifically rendered archaic in form, shift from 'What is' to 'What was')
Feigned
I'll acknowledge some people might use the last one, but the rest have all been replaced by modern versions. Fool for Idiot, Kin for Family. That sort of thing. So no, its not Modern English.
Coming to the crux of the issue though remains the Americanism. Even a cursory search of the term brings up numerous examples where its rendered as a specifically North American Dialectic word. It is not just 'rural slang' or 'words for farmers', its an American word for a farmer, making it inappropriate for the faux antiquated English which is present in all other areas of the source text. Is the message we're supposed to take from this that the Sekiro people are actually all from Kansas?
QuietlyObserving
The Railgun That Walks Like a Bear
- Location
- Here.
It, by definition, is Modern English. Shakespeare is considered Modern English. And they speak with more modern conventions than he used.
And judging words used in a story based on their current meaning makes no sense, considering "gay" and "faggot" both were perfectly acceptable and often-used words, especially in the theoretical culture of Westeros. Are you saying every time someone uses "gay" in a medieval source, your first thought is "pride parade"?
- Location
- United Kingdom
I can't imagine that you're seriously arguing that Shakespeare and the English we speak today is the same. Given I've been discussing things like Teamsters I would have expected my mentions of 'Modern English' would be taken for that they are and that seems like deliberately misunderstanding it to me but ok. Yes the GOTYers speak with more modern conventions than Shakespeare. No one is arguing they don't. I'm saying that no one 'weds' anyone, they 'get married'. The use by GRRM of these specific words informs the appearance of the characters to the reader. That's the essence of verisimilitude.
Modern (that is to say, the words we use in 'the modern day', here meaning, 'characteristic of the present time or times', not '1800 onward') English uses these words but it would be inappropriate for someone in Westeros to do so. We already have information about this. We have buggery, sodomy and sword swallowing, the first two being specifically archaic formulations and the third being, to the best of my knowledge, a form created for this purpose. If someone used gay in an actual medieval source then no, obviously I wouldn't think pride parade, but if someone accused someone of 'being gay', or similar where the implication was homosexuality, then yes, I would have to think that. Therefore when we have 'grandpappy', I would think 'rural southern US dialect' not 'old man'. LotR uses 'gaffer' for that purpose for example.
- Location
- Alabama
- Pronouns
- He/They
So, uh, anyone going to comment on the actual story rather than etymology facts that a subset of a subset know? Grandpappy sounds like an informal, rural, English word. The MC is using it informally, is rural, and is speaking in English. I see the 'issue', but it's minor as fuck and the fact that 70% of the comments on this story are currently about it is insane. Can we please tell the author how much we enjoy his work and give actual criticisms rather than show our asses?
Yo Gamerlord, so far the story is rather compelling. The protagonist is likeable, and his actions mainly make sense. Unlike a lot of SIs he's naturalized, and I think that makes a good story. You also explained the plot device - stealth magic - in a way that made sense with both the world and the story at large.
Yo Gamerlord, so far the story is rather compelling. The protagonist is likeable, and his actions mainly make sense. Unlike a lot of SIs he's naturalized, and I think that makes a good story. You also explained the plot device - stealth magic - in a way that made sense with both the world and the story at large.
Baron Steakpuncher
Hopeful Idealist
- Location
- Australia
So, story so far is A+, especially for implications.
Maximum Power
The Unchosen One
- Location
- The Ormulum
I forgot to say this yesterday, but I'm super interested for the presence of Sekiro alone. Not to mention your nice writing. Good luck!
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GamingPizza1998
(Verified Pizza) (Verified Cape) (Verified Case53)
- Location
- Earth
Awesome really looking forward to it!
Chapter 2
- Pronouns
- They/Them
The descent was both easier and harder than the ascent. Handholds were already carved out and although my memory of them all was patchy, my feet found them nonetheless. What made it harder was my company. All magic, even the least and most banal, is a deadly thing and the weak glamor that had been kept alive by the Goatlegs since time immemorial was no different. There was a very good reason that it was not taught until one was a man - both intelligent enough to memorize the brimstone spring path and stoic enough to safeguard such knowledge even under torture. They came and went as the days passed, capering up and down the cliffs with little care for me - or such trifles as gravity - other than to make crude jokes and piss in my gourd. Most covered themselves in rusted chain and plate, centuries of pilfered steel. Others wore rotten hides and tattered feathers, but the one certainty was that no two were alike. Bulbous bodies coupled with long beards, or rib-baring thinness with rake-like fingers among many other bizarre variations. No matter their provocations I kept my body loose, my gaze merely passing over them, not lingering upon them or staying away from them. A perfect, cultivated air of ignorance.
This was the trade the glamor demanded; meddle with the sight of others to save yourself from danger, only to meddle with your own sight and be placed in far greater danger regardless. Grumpkins and snarks the Andals called them; small mischievous creatures that soured milk and stole children, long relegated to ancient fairy tales and nursery rhymes. They thought they were gone along with the Children and the giants; the Goatlegs knew better. For all their strangeness, for all their unique and deviant forms they were bound by a single rule: they could not directly harm those who could not see them - hells, couldn't even touch them. Thus for the most part they kept their depredations to the dark forests and mires, leading travelers astray with witch-lights and cries of despair, and there some few cultivated hidden groves and fairy rings where if the conditions were right a hapless wanderer might glimpse them and provide a bountiful feast. Thus my father taught me as his father had taught him; stoic ignorance in the face of any pain or inconvenience, through a constant bombardment of insults, beatings and random assaults until I could keep a placid and calm face even as one man berated my lineage and another whipped me with a rod, all the while drinking out a horn that yet another assailant had just filled with some vile mixture. Then and only then I was taught how to use the glamor. Privately I thanked my father for his harsh tutelage as I gulped down wine contaminated with foul urine.
My withered 'modern' conscience flared some when I passed the impact point for the Moon Door; no less than four more shattered bodies littered that waste, guards and servants both. My actions had seen them slain… but for my family I would pay a thousand lives more. The malevolent little hallucinations had passed, thankfully, but I could not let myself grow complacent; once the vassals of Arryn had finished torturing the unfortunate for information they could not give they'd quickly figure out how I had gotten in. The Vale Of Arryn (the small one, not the region that had taken it's name) would soon be awash with knights and men-at-arms searching for their liege lord's murderer, not to mention those who would side with the Mad King Aerys in this rebellion hunting for rebels. The only refuge me and mine would find would be the hidden valley. But first the Burned Men.
The Burned Men had called for their kin; the small campsite I had left behind had been supplemented with a score of rough hide tents big enough for entire families to fit in. The goats were almost all gone, the ground littered with splintered bones. Our greatest flock, all but gone. The thought of my sister's faces gaunt with hunger twisted something in me and I cast aside subtlety to march right on in.
My family sat in their own filth, lashed to wooden stakes driven into the ground. Malnourished children pelted them with rotten food, raiders swaggered every time they passed near and their wives joked and jeered about their strength and manhood. Over it all presided that ghastly one-eyed brute. They had torn my father's favourite cloak from his shoulders and now it, along with what little finery we had, was adorning a rather ugly young woman who was sprawled across One-Eye's lap. I could remember the day my mother had draped that cloak around his shoulders, the small private smile they shared and the hope I felt that their happiness would one day become mine. It was all memories, sharp and painful, like the tales of uncle Eron, son of Himmet, who had a dozen shining silver rings and bangles, and a thrilling story for each. Now he lay rotting in a pit a moment's walk away. They hadn't even given him a burial after sixteen days.
The children saw me first and raised a great clamour, pointing and shrieking. By the Gods, I preferred the bloody snarks. The Burned Men ran forth with axe and blade and for but a moment I saw my father lift his chin before he saw me and all hope guttered out in his eyes. I've done it father, it's going to be alright. One-Eye rose to his feet, towering over me. His smile was a dark thing, cracked yellow teeth framing a loud, laughing black hole.
"Your back boy! Had enough of tryin', ready to just lay down and die like the rest of the damn goats?!"
I fished out my trophy and threw the tattered half-mask of skin to the ground at his feet.
"It's done you damn charred fuck. I went and got the Arryn."
It was as if the life had been snuffed from every one of them. Incredulous laughter met my grim face and laid down to die, leaving doubt in its wake. The leader leaned down, tenderly grasping the blackening edges of the skin, twisting it this way and that as if it would reveal some secret to him.
"You-your lying. No little soft skinned goat-boy could beat the Arryn."
Now it was my turn to laugh, bending double as my lungs collapsed into wheezing. A long moment, then I was back up smirking.
"Oh you dumb cunt, I didn't beat the Arryn, I killed him, quick and easy in his sleep. I scaled the damn Eyrie, snuck my way past all his knights and guards and jammed my knife through his fucking eye!"
They were looking at me as though I was a madman. Men, women and babes all. My father and the brute wore matching looks, mouths gaping.
"I don't even need to prove it! Send out your scouts, your most clever thieves, and search the villages; the word will have spread by now - on the eve of marching off to rebellion, the Arryn of the Vale dead in his sleep, half his face gone and a three-headed dragon painted in blood on his wall."
His one flinty eye was darting now, looking left and right for a way out.
"He-h, that's it then! You didn't kill him, the fucking king did! You're just trying to take the bloody glory - and what of it? The Burned Men have done far more than kill one man!"
"The Andals are going to suffer, Burned Man. Their leader is gone on the eve of war, and all those who needed his cool head are burning with renewed hate for the Targaryens. They're walking into a massacre, and no matter who wins, we win. Less knights. Less patrols. So much lost ground returned to us. I've done what I said I would, in half the time as well. I'm taking my family. And you will return the goats you killed."
The raiders found their balls at last and closed around me with steel in hand.
"And why should we? Why don't we just slit your stupid fucking throat boy?"
And there it was. The final gambit.
"Because no matter the humiliation, no matter the dishonor you have done your name and ours, you are still sitting at our fire. Eating our meat, drinking our wine. Guest right, Burned Man! There may not be any men here to see your crime, but the beasts of the ground and sky see! The mountains, the valleys and all things in between see! The Gods see! We are leaving and you will not touch us, because if you do you are cursed Burned Man, you and all your kin besides!"
It was enough. The scarred, brutal raiders backed away and my path to my father was clear.
What can be said of the Goatleg's hidden valley, their home that no foe could breach? The gorge that leads to it plunges deep towards burning brimstone pools, a winding path through cliff and cave over dizzying drops and past the First Fort. This is as far as the ancient Goatlegs came before Dancing Dana found the way - no food, no source of water and barely any shelter from the biting wind. Just a rough goat track leading to a cave. Beyond that is the Passage - great stone idols rise high above the brimstone pools, the details worn away by time. When Dana first trod this way it was guarded by hairy savages, short and exceedingly ugly. Dana danced among them then - and her blade bit deep. Those that lived fled into the deep caves, but it has been many a generation since any have seen them, if they still survive.
Even if outsiders made it this far, they could go no further. The pools are treacherous and grow only more dangerous the deeper you go into the caves. If you take too long to discover the way the fumes will fell even the mightiest man. This is where the first of the ancient bones can be found: the ribs of a snake, grown to rival even the great Balerion in sheer size. They were blank when Dana came across them, but now they are scrimshawed into wards against the evils of the dark. The path is delicate - if you go too deep… strange things have been seen down there, shining lights and voices in no tongue spoken by mortal men. If you stay the course you reach the Giant's Cave, where the second of the great bones lie: arms and legs each longer than a man is tall and a great skull full of vicious teeth, lying against the cliff that hides the path onwards - Dana had to climb the bones, but now the Goatlegs have piled rocks into a path. And then, there it is. The hidden valley.
The cold fingers of the mist felt like home. Together we winded through the skeletal trees, following the bleating of the last four goats. My father supported two of his brothers, as I did the same for my cousins. Rimmel, son of Eron likely would not live much longer than his father; his blood barely clotted, and he had spent most of his time in captivity bleeding from open wounds contaminated with filth. Hemophilia wasn't exactly common among the Goatlegs, but it happened much more often than in others - so much time spent secluded from other groups meant that a certain amount of inbreeding had set in over the centuries. As a rule we did not grow tall, and we most certainly tended towards weak chins and large noses. Even with an entire life's knowledge telling me that this was a massive problem I couldn't bring myself to hate the way I looked. It was just who I was now.
Here and there rose pitch black stones, quarried from beneath the spring from which our water flowed. Greasy to the touch, they were kept as far from our homes as possible, and we only used them for two things; the boundary stones which kept the other denizens of the forest out and the furnace that turned wood to charcoal and smelted what little metal we could eke out of the mountains. The children often dared one another to sleep beside them. This happened precisely once. No one wanted to risk the dreams a second time. Further in came stakes fashioned of the black, pitted iron which each bore a single rune chiseled into them. The Goatlegs always knew too much to just allow anything free reign in their homes.
"Sean, Geller, what happened?!"
My mother was a formidable woman. Years of farming the poor earth of the valley had swollen her frame with the kind of muscle that comes from years of backbreaking work and poor food. Her face was almost square and her nose was a broken mess, the victim of helping the birthing of a rather frantic nanny goat. When I saw her and my sisters strength fled my body and I fell, the ravening hunger in my gut too much to resist longer than I had to. The gourd was finished two days ago. What food we took from the dead goats three days ago. Our people began to stream forth to help us and we rested.
AN: If I sit on this for much longer I'm going to tear it utterly apart and start over. Dialogue is a definite weak point of mine. Let me just say it again, I live for criticism, especially when it comes to dialogue.
This was the trade the glamor demanded; meddle with the sight of others to save yourself from danger, only to meddle with your own sight and be placed in far greater danger regardless. Grumpkins and snarks the Andals called them; small mischievous creatures that soured milk and stole children, long relegated to ancient fairy tales and nursery rhymes. They thought they were gone along with the Children and the giants; the Goatlegs knew better. For all their strangeness, for all their unique and deviant forms they were bound by a single rule: they could not directly harm those who could not see them - hells, couldn't even touch them. Thus for the most part they kept their depredations to the dark forests and mires, leading travelers astray with witch-lights and cries of despair, and there some few cultivated hidden groves and fairy rings where if the conditions were right a hapless wanderer might glimpse them and provide a bountiful feast. Thus my father taught me as his father had taught him; stoic ignorance in the face of any pain or inconvenience, through a constant bombardment of insults, beatings and random assaults until I could keep a placid and calm face even as one man berated my lineage and another whipped me with a rod, all the while drinking out a horn that yet another assailant had just filled with some vile mixture. Then and only then I was taught how to use the glamor. Privately I thanked my father for his harsh tutelage as I gulped down wine contaminated with foul urine.
My withered 'modern' conscience flared some when I passed the impact point for the Moon Door; no less than four more shattered bodies littered that waste, guards and servants both. My actions had seen them slain… but for my family I would pay a thousand lives more. The malevolent little hallucinations had passed, thankfully, but I could not let myself grow complacent; once the vassals of Arryn had finished torturing the unfortunate for information they could not give they'd quickly figure out how I had gotten in. The Vale Of Arryn (the small one, not the region that had taken it's name) would soon be awash with knights and men-at-arms searching for their liege lord's murderer, not to mention those who would side with the Mad King Aerys in this rebellion hunting for rebels. The only refuge me and mine would find would be the hidden valley. But first the Burned Men.
The Burned Men had called for their kin; the small campsite I had left behind had been supplemented with a score of rough hide tents big enough for entire families to fit in. The goats were almost all gone, the ground littered with splintered bones. Our greatest flock, all but gone. The thought of my sister's faces gaunt with hunger twisted something in me and I cast aside subtlety to march right on in.
My family sat in their own filth, lashed to wooden stakes driven into the ground. Malnourished children pelted them with rotten food, raiders swaggered every time they passed near and their wives joked and jeered about their strength and manhood. Over it all presided that ghastly one-eyed brute. They had torn my father's favourite cloak from his shoulders and now it, along with what little finery we had, was adorning a rather ugly young woman who was sprawled across One-Eye's lap. I could remember the day my mother had draped that cloak around his shoulders, the small private smile they shared and the hope I felt that their happiness would one day become mine. It was all memories, sharp and painful, like the tales of uncle Eron, son of Himmet, who had a dozen shining silver rings and bangles, and a thrilling story for each. Now he lay rotting in a pit a moment's walk away. They hadn't even given him a burial after sixteen days.
The children saw me first and raised a great clamour, pointing and shrieking. By the Gods, I preferred the bloody snarks. The Burned Men ran forth with axe and blade and for but a moment I saw my father lift his chin before he saw me and all hope guttered out in his eyes. I've done it father, it's going to be alright. One-Eye rose to his feet, towering over me. His smile was a dark thing, cracked yellow teeth framing a loud, laughing black hole.
"Your back boy! Had enough of tryin', ready to just lay down and die like the rest of the damn goats?!"
I fished out my trophy and threw the tattered half-mask of skin to the ground at his feet.
"It's done you damn charred fuck. I went and got the Arryn."
It was as if the life had been snuffed from every one of them. Incredulous laughter met my grim face and laid down to die, leaving doubt in its wake. The leader leaned down, tenderly grasping the blackening edges of the skin, twisting it this way and that as if it would reveal some secret to him.
"You-your lying. No little soft skinned goat-boy could beat the Arryn."
Now it was my turn to laugh, bending double as my lungs collapsed into wheezing. A long moment, then I was back up smirking.
"Oh you dumb cunt, I didn't beat the Arryn, I killed him, quick and easy in his sleep. I scaled the damn Eyrie, snuck my way past all his knights and guards and jammed my knife through his fucking eye!"
They were looking at me as though I was a madman. Men, women and babes all. My father and the brute wore matching looks, mouths gaping.
"I don't even need to prove it! Send out your scouts, your most clever thieves, and search the villages; the word will have spread by now - on the eve of marching off to rebellion, the Arryn of the Vale dead in his sleep, half his face gone and a three-headed dragon painted in blood on his wall."
His one flinty eye was darting now, looking left and right for a way out.
"He-h, that's it then! You didn't kill him, the fucking king did! You're just trying to take the bloody glory - and what of it? The Burned Men have done far more than kill one man!"
"The Andals are going to suffer, Burned Man. Their leader is gone on the eve of war, and all those who needed his cool head are burning with renewed hate for the Targaryens. They're walking into a massacre, and no matter who wins, we win. Less knights. Less patrols. So much lost ground returned to us. I've done what I said I would, in half the time as well. I'm taking my family. And you will return the goats you killed."
The raiders found their balls at last and closed around me with steel in hand.
"And why should we? Why don't we just slit your stupid fucking throat boy?"
And there it was. The final gambit.
"Because no matter the humiliation, no matter the dishonor you have done your name and ours, you are still sitting at our fire. Eating our meat, drinking our wine. Guest right, Burned Man! There may not be any men here to see your crime, but the beasts of the ground and sky see! The mountains, the valleys and all things in between see! The Gods see! We are leaving and you will not touch us, because if you do you are cursed Burned Man, you and all your kin besides!"
It was enough. The scarred, brutal raiders backed away and my path to my father was clear.
What can be said of the Goatleg's hidden valley, their home that no foe could breach? The gorge that leads to it plunges deep towards burning brimstone pools, a winding path through cliff and cave over dizzying drops and past the First Fort. This is as far as the ancient Goatlegs came before Dancing Dana found the way - no food, no source of water and barely any shelter from the biting wind. Just a rough goat track leading to a cave. Beyond that is the Passage - great stone idols rise high above the brimstone pools, the details worn away by time. When Dana first trod this way it was guarded by hairy savages, short and exceedingly ugly. Dana danced among them then - and her blade bit deep. Those that lived fled into the deep caves, but it has been many a generation since any have seen them, if they still survive.
Even if outsiders made it this far, they could go no further. The pools are treacherous and grow only more dangerous the deeper you go into the caves. If you take too long to discover the way the fumes will fell even the mightiest man. This is where the first of the ancient bones can be found: the ribs of a snake, grown to rival even the great Balerion in sheer size. They were blank when Dana came across them, but now they are scrimshawed into wards against the evils of the dark. The path is delicate - if you go too deep… strange things have been seen down there, shining lights and voices in no tongue spoken by mortal men. If you stay the course you reach the Giant's Cave, where the second of the great bones lie: arms and legs each longer than a man is tall and a great skull full of vicious teeth, lying against the cliff that hides the path onwards - Dana had to climb the bones, but now the Goatlegs have piled rocks into a path. And then, there it is. The hidden valley.
The cold fingers of the mist felt like home. Together we winded through the skeletal trees, following the bleating of the last four goats. My father supported two of his brothers, as I did the same for my cousins. Rimmel, son of Eron likely would not live much longer than his father; his blood barely clotted, and he had spent most of his time in captivity bleeding from open wounds contaminated with filth. Hemophilia wasn't exactly common among the Goatlegs, but it happened much more often than in others - so much time spent secluded from other groups meant that a certain amount of inbreeding had set in over the centuries. As a rule we did not grow tall, and we most certainly tended towards weak chins and large noses. Even with an entire life's knowledge telling me that this was a massive problem I couldn't bring myself to hate the way I looked. It was just who I was now.
Here and there rose pitch black stones, quarried from beneath the spring from which our water flowed. Greasy to the touch, they were kept as far from our homes as possible, and we only used them for two things; the boundary stones which kept the other denizens of the forest out and the furnace that turned wood to charcoal and smelted what little metal we could eke out of the mountains. The children often dared one another to sleep beside them. This happened precisely once. No one wanted to risk the dreams a second time. Further in came stakes fashioned of the black, pitted iron which each bore a single rune chiseled into them. The Goatlegs always knew too much to just allow anything free reign in their homes.
"Sean, Geller, what happened?!"
My mother was a formidable woman. Years of farming the poor earth of the valley had swollen her frame with the kind of muscle that comes from years of backbreaking work and poor food. Her face was almost square and her nose was a broken mess, the victim of helping the birthing of a rather frantic nanny goat. When I saw her and my sisters strength fled my body and I fell, the ravening hunger in my gut too much to resist longer than I had to. The gourd was finished two days ago. What food we took from the dead goats three days ago. Our people began to stream forth to help us and we rested.
AN: If I sit on this for much longer I'm going to tear it utterly apart and start over. Dialogue is a definite weak point of mine. Let me just say it again, I live for criticism, especially when it comes to dialogue.
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Notononn
Freelance Trusted Lieutenant
- Location
- South Eagle Land
Dialogue seemed appropriate. Maybe stilted, if one twisted their head a bit, but in a situation where stressed out people are making speeches at one another. I'm very curious as to where this story goes now. The goats are gone, right? And the Burned Men refuse to pay for them
Seconding the thread marks it's just generally a great Idea, otherwise I actually quite enjoy the dialogue in this, it fits pretty well with the aesthetic you've given to the mountain people.
It's a solid story so far and I'm interested to see where it goes from here well done.
It's a solid story so far and I'm interested to see where it goes from here well done.
Takareer
Words and feathers
- Location
- Ontario, Canada
Your story is quite good - interesting, and well-written. The biggest flaw is the absence of the next chapter!
I agree with the people suggesting threadmarks. Using them would also show the current word count of the story in the thread list.