Fear Cuts Deeper Than Swords v2: A Song Of Ice and Fire/Pathinder 1st Edition Crossover

[Miriam]

It is the year 292 after Aegon's Conquest. You are Domeric Bolton, son of Roose, squire and page for Lord Redfort of the Vale and Lady Dustin of Barrowton, and heir to the Dreadfort. Or at least, you were the heir.

For during your fostering in the Vale, you had struck up a friendship with the master-at-arms of Runestone, a Ser Samwell Stone, half-brother of the mighty Lord Yohn Royce. Eventually, one dinner where you dined at Runestone alongside the Redforts, the tilt of your conversation turned towards bastardy, for Strong Sam Stone was a bastard of Lord Royce's own father. The big and powerful man simply replied to your questionings with one singular sentence: "More lords have bastards then they admit, boy."

That short, truncated conversation plagued you for the last year of fostering. You enjoyed the friendship of Lord Redfort's sons Jasper, Creighton, Jon, and even young Mychel. Brothers they were, the young two of different mothers, for Lord Redfort was wed thrice. But they were not your brothers. As friendly as you were with them, they were not blood.

Such thoughts consumed you on the journey back to the Dreadfort, that mighty stone fortress that generations of Boltons had ruled from. First as Red Kings, flaying their foes or so the stories went. Then, after the last Red King knelt to the Starks and became loyal bannermen, as Lords of the Dreadfort. But rarely as friends or blood brothers.

And so it was that you arrived at the Dreadfort's solar with a question for your father, Lord Roose. Did he happen to have any baseborn children? Your father and liege banished his other servants from the solar except for old Steelshanks Walton, captain of the Bolton levies. He fixed you with a long stare and commanded that what he said next should never leave that room.

Lord Bolton's tone, serious at best grew chill as he told the tale of your half-brother, Ramsey Snow. While hunting along the Weeping Water a year before your birth. He encountered a miller and his wife, and the look of the miller's wife. Your horror grew as your father described that he took the long-illegal right of first night with the miller's wife. Just as you stood to question him over it, your father explained that the woman did have a child, one Ramsey, surnamed Snow for his baseborn status. Your anger, not forgotten but perhaps set aside in the excitement of discovering your new brother, led to questions over Ramsey, what was he like, did your father keep in contact with him?

Lord Bolton explained that Ramsey was "unruly" and that he had been sent the bad-smelling servant, Reek, to the miller's wife as a servant to care for Ramsey. He counseled you against visiting Ramsey, for ill rumors of the boy had trickled up to the Dreadfort.

You paid these rumors no mind, for you finally had a brother, a blood kin to befriend and raise up to the highest ranks! Reluctantly, you took Steelshanks with you to ride to the mill where your brother resided. To your horror, he was in the process of defiling a woman as you rode up, your father not having given word of your coming. His attention focused entirely on his vile action, he did not even take notice of you, his servant and perhaps only 'friend' Reek watching the scene greedily, perhaps for his own turn.

You drew your sword, not to wound or kill, but to warn him off from his ill deed as you strode off your horse to meet your brother. Seeing your pale Bolton eyes, a twin of his own, he pulled himself off the woman and charged at you, fury and fear in his gaze. Too late you realized that the sword in your hand mayhap seemed to him that you were coming to kill him. Too late to draw back and avoid impaling him on your sword. Too late to save his life as the blade pierced Ramsey Snow's heart.

As his life's blood fled and the Bastard of Bolton perished, you quickly became aware of two things. First, that your brother was a monster. And second, that in killing him, you have become a kinslayer. One of the few things that the gods of tree and stone abhorred.

In your shock, the sight of Steelshanks gutting the servant Reek, and then the woman, who had not yet fled, nearly escaped you, but as he advanced on you, you feared you would be done away with just as easily. Instead, Steelshanks clamped a hand on your shoulder and muttered that he would take you back to your father, to face his judgment. You almost wished that he had gutted you then and there.

Brought back to the Dreadfort bound in ropes, you faced the cold, impassive gaze of your father. The pale, dead eyes of your family bored into you for what felt like an eternity in the coldest of the Seven Hells before Lord Bolton sighed.

"Domeric… Tell me, if the kinslayer is accursed, what is a father to do when one son slays another?"

Being the accursed in question, you did not answer him, and with another look at you, he turned to Steelshanks.

"The Stark cannot be allowed to know of Ramsey, nor of what Domeric has done. Take him far away from these lands on a pretended tour of the world…. Essos will do. The City of Sorcerers, perhaps? I have heard they worship a goat there in Qohor that cares not for kinslaying. Perhaps it will protect him from the fury of the Old Gods."

And with that dubious recommendation, Steelshanks and yourself left the Dreadfort, left the Bolton lands entirely, setting off from White Harbor to Essos, perhaps never to return to your home.

The city of Qohor awaits, Domeric Bolton. How will it find you?



[] Sorcerer (Ghoul Bloodline) In the long and restless nights spent first on a ship traversing the mighty Rhoyne, then on a caravan heading into Qohor, you began being plagued by startling and mysterious dreams. Nightmares of the Red Kings of old that were your sires. Of blood, of creatures that stalked the night and feasted upon the unwary. You knew that dreams could be prophecy, or the product of an unstable mind, or even merely the result of a bad meal, but these... these felt like more. These felt like power. But how would you harness it, and for what goals?

[] Druid (Leshy Warden): As the vast treeline of the Forest of Qohor emerged into your sight, you soon felt a pull towards it, a drive to enter the forest and claim its mysteries. You could swear by the Old Gods or the New that you could hear words in the whispering of the leaves and see eyes in the hungry shadows of the woods. The words seem to tell you to find them, to seek their secrets, to bring the eldritch malice of the endless forest to Qohor, and perhaps beyond. A few of the voices even plead for protection, mercy. Who are these voices in the leaves?

 

[Miriam]

Reserved for Character Sheets

Domeric Bolton Character Sheet

Name: Domeric Bolton
Titles: None
Aliases: ???
Alignment: ???
Race: Human (Medium Humanoid)
Level 1: (0/1000 XP)
Class: Sorcerer 1 (Ghoul Blooded)
Feats: Blooded, Landless Nobility, Precocious Apprentice, Steadfast Personality
Flaws: Haunted, Insomniac
Class Features: Bloodline Arcana, Ghoulish Claws
Senses: Low-Light Vision
Languages Spoken: Westerosi, High Valyrian, Low Valyran (Qohori)

Description: A son of the North, and especially of the Leech Lord, Domeric is a tall, fit man with a graceful, almost melancholy face, framed by the long, thin hair inherited from his sire, and expressive, pale eyes of a color between smoke and stone.

HP: 7
AC: 13 (10 +2 DEX), touch 12, flatfooted 10
Movement: 30ft
Initiative: +4 = (+2 DEX, +2 Blooded)
Attack: +2 (0 BaB +2 DEX)/ -1(0 BaB -1 STR)
Damage: 1d4-1 (STR) [Claws]
Weapon Proficiency: All Simple and Martial

Stats:
Strength: 8 + 0 = 8 (-1)
Dexterity: 14 + 0 = 14 (+2)
Constitution: 12 + 0 = 12 (+1)
Intelligence: 16 + 0 = 16 (+3)
Wisdom: 10 + 0 = 10
Charisma: 16 + 2 (human bonus)= 18 (+4)

Saves (+2 Vs Fear):
Fortitude: 1 = +0 (base), +1 (CON)
Reflex: 2 = +0 (base), +2 (DEX)
Will: 2/6 = +2 (base) +0 (WIS)/+4 (CHA)

+1 to all while awake and able cast (Resistance)

Skills (+4 to All Charisma Stats with Westerosi):
Diplomacy: 0 (Base) +4 (CHA) +2 (With Nobles of Lesser or Equal Rank) = 4/6
Intimidate: 4 (Base) +4 (CHA) = 8
Knowledge (arcana): 4 (Base) +4 (INT) = 8
Perception: 0 (Base) +0 (WIS) -4 (Haunted) = -4
Perform (String Instruments): 4 (Base) +4 (CHA) = 8
Spellcraft: 4 (Base) +4 (INT) +2 (PA) = 10
Sense Motive: 4 (Base) +0 (WIS) = 4
Stealth: 0 (Base) + 2 (DEX) - 4 (Haunted) = -2

Spells Known (CL 1):
Level 0: Detect Magic, Prestidigitation, Mending, Message, Resistance (At Will)
Level 1: Chill Touch (N), Sleep (4/Day)
Level 2: Blindness/Deafness (1/Day)*

Bloodline Arcana: Whenever you cast a spell of the necromancy school that deals hit point damage, you are healed of 1 hit point per spell level.

*Must make DC 8 Caster Check to cast

Spell-Like Abilities (Sp) (CL1): Know Direction, Purify Food and Drink, Read Magic, Cure Light Wounds (1/Day)**

**Can only be used in forests

Items:
Dagger, Bolton Cloak, Qohorik-Style Clothing

Funds
40 Gold Goats (Qohorik currency)
37 Silver Hoofs

 

[Miriam]

Reserved for Rules and Maps (rules can be updated if thread and QM desires)

 

[Miriam]

Reserved for assets, including holdings and realms

 

[Miriam]

First Day of the Ninth Month, Year 292 after Aegon's Conquest



As Steelshanks awoke you for the final day before your entrance into Qohor, you blinked away yet another strange dream of ancient sires plaguing your sleeping mind. You recalled mostly colors; the scarlet red blood of a recent recipient of… hospitality, the yellowed off-white of ancient Bolton bone, the pale, desiccated, decaying skin of a disturbingly familiar-seeming flesh-cloak, and most startlingly, a hand whose nails and fingers lengthened into claws, almost like an animal's. A small part of your mind noted that other than the unnatural claws, the hand was quite similar to yours. As your claw raised above a nameless victim, you were jolted awake.

The details of the dream, or rather nightmare, fled as you rose and began dressing. The broad armored form of Steelshanks stood to your side. For years you had considered him a comfort, a sworn sword of your House and a guardian of the interests of House Bolton… before you saw him gut an innocent woman, and… whatever Reek was. You supposed the looming warrior was still a protector of the interests of Roose Bolton, at least.

Spoiler: Steelshanks Walton

Seeing your glance, he handed you a bundle of items. A set of fresh clothing in the drab, pig-iron color of the Qohorik peasantry, a slim dagger, whose pommel was decorated with the unblinking visage of the Black Goat staring back at you, and a smattering of coins minted with a face much the same as the dagger. Gods, you supposed you would have to get used to seeing that damnable goat everywhere, maybe for the rest of your life.

"Lord Bolton thought that sending you out without a single scrap to your name would be akin to kinslaying you by neglect. The dagger was my own addition. A foreigner to Qohor might not be kindly looked at if he bears a sword, but a little blade like that could be missed, I wager."

Your gaze must have revealed your dubious expression, for he reached into his own pack and revealed a cloak dyed in the familiar pink of your House. He handed it to you gravely.

"That's fine, quality wool there. Colorful besides. Some merchant will doubtless pay top coin for an 'authentic Westerosi barbarian cloak'. Sell it, buy yourself some better weapons, or clothing depending on how you mean to make your way here."

The guard captain turned to leave, then sighing heavily, glanced back to you. "Or, if the gods forgive you and hallow your deeds, come back with it to the Dreadfort in triumph."

Gained 40 Gold Goats (Qohorik currency), Dagger, Bolton Cloak, Qohorik-Style Clothing

Well. You had not expected that. Perhaps Steelshanks wasn't as heartless as he seemed... at least to you. You nodded, and as he handed you one final item, a nondescript wooden placard signifying passage into the city for foreigners, you clasped his armored forearm.

"Steelshanks. Walton. Thank you. I hope I see you and father again one day."

The taciturn man broke out into a small smirk.

"The look on Lord Bolton's face seeing you back in glory would be a fine memory to have."

With that, he disappeared into the crowds, likely to make his way back

And now, for the first time in your life, you were truly… alone. No lord father, no fostering liege, no heirs to any holding keeping you company. Just you, Domeric Bolton, and the supplies Steelshanks had given you. An auspicious beginning? Hardly. But it was yours, and so be it. You would make yourself a place in the world, even in this strange Essosi city.

You made your way through the gates of Qohor with little fuss, the little wooden placard sparing you the city guards attention. You had heard that grim-faced eunuch soldiers guarded Qohor, and while upon the high walls you spotted a few glimpses of the bronzed, shaved heads and gleaming spears of what must be the Unsullied, here, down on the ground, you saw only bored, belligerent, fork-bearded city watchmen, the likes of which you had seen at Runestone and White Harbor.

Spoiler: Qohor, City of Sorcerers

Passing your way beneath the shadow of the great stone walls, you gawked about at the city much like a foreigner, which you supposed you still were, and might always be considered so no matter how many namedays you spent under its protection. While not as cramped as the tales you had heard of the other so-called 'Free Cities', there were many hundreds of hundreds of people more than at the Dreadfort. Every few paces you heard the cry of a street-side peddler crowing that his bauble would please the Black Goat when worn round the neck, or that her pigeons or rats or any other manner of vermin would be a worthy sacrifice for the god. Slaves marked with an iron collar clamped around their neck flitted about the city, the gleaming metal and reminder of that most un-Westerosi of traditions giving you an uneasy feeling deep within your bones.

A few men and women with sooty faces and grimy, blackened hands caught your eye as having no goat-related objects about their person, gaining instead a few baleful glares of those festooned with the imagery of the goat god. Throughout it all, a chanting rumbled throughout the city, following you wherever you stepped. Words, crept into your ears, eerie syllables in some heavy accent of High Valryrian, others in a tongue you knew naught of save that it made the hairs on your arms stand up. The City of Sorcerers indeed.

As you made your way towards what the caravan masters assured you was the well-supplied foreign quarter, a high-toned shout pricked your ears, and running towards you saw a squealing, plump, angry pig, oinking its displeasure to the heavens. Quickly following it was a young woman, brunette and clad in grimy vest and trousers like a man's, looking for all the world like a blacksmith of some sort. Taking a moment to think about it, this was Essos, so she probably was a blacksmith.

"Stop that pig however you can!" The woman's voice, powerful and strong, bellowed out at you.

You knew the pig would come across your path, and a few instincts cried out at you to act. One piece of your mind recalled your dream, the sharp, talon-like claws that could slice the animal to ribbons and let you feast upon it raw. A part of your mind that thought that perhaps relying on a strange dream was not the best strategy for dealing with this, and perhaps you should simply stretch out your leg and trip the pig, in case the blacksmith girl wanted to keep it alive. A third part of you, remembering the second motto of your lord father, 'a peaceful people, a quiet land' mused that you could simply walk aside and let the blacksmith and her pig continue the chase without a fuss. Whatever decision you chose to make, the pig was rushing into your path, and would be running into you soon.

How shall you deal with the pig?



[] Use the claws from your dream on the pig

[] Trip the pig, the blacksmith might want it alive

[] Do nothing, this is not your place to interfere.



OOC: Here's your first real decision: what first impression do you want to make on Qohor?

Also, I tried reading the ASOIAF wiki about Westerosi (and Essosi) coinage and the amounts seemed confusing so for convivence's sake, I'm going to treat most coinage as the standard D&D "100 coppers equals a silver, 100 silvers equals a gold", unless there's a better way.

 

[Miriam]

First Day of the Ninth Month, Year 292 after Aegon's Conquest

You extend your boot-clad foot forward, catching the pig and stopping the momentum of its hooves. The pig squeals, tripping over your foot, its hooves skidding upon the streets of Qohor.

You hear a few short breathes, feminine in tone, mixed with rather more earthy exclamations of profanity in a rather melodious and slightly lisping, if out of breath accent of Low Valyrian. Steelshanks had spent a few coins paying a merchant to teach you the rudimentaries of the language, close and yet so far from the formal High Valyrian you were used to. Still, you could understand the particulars of the woman's curses upon the pig, the pig's mother and father, and all its ancestors unto the third generation.

Gained Simple Proficiency in Low Valyrian language.

The woman herself comes into view, dashing up and grasping the pig rather firmly, you suspect to avoid a repeat of its previous escape. The… lady blacksmith, you suppose, sighs in satisfaction, then turns to you, eyeing your look for a moment. Her expression turns to a careful shrug, being focused on not jostling the pig.

"Thank you for the assistance in this matter. This little one was supposed to be a sacrifice, but it seems to have taken a liking to ruining it. No matter, I'm sure it can serve as dinner instead."

She gives a curt smile to you, only having a slight start when meeting your Bolton eyes. Good woman, far too many Valemen in your years as squire had flinched at meeting that pale gaze. The talk of sacrifice only… marginally soured it.

"I'm Sahbra Mott, Blacksmith of the Street of Strangers. I serve foreigners and visitors to Qohor."

Spoiler: Sahbra Mott

The smirk that jumps to your lips is almost involuntary.

"It must be well that it isn't the Street of the The Stranger, else I might be worried about dying by your work."

Sahbra Mott rolls her eyes.

"You must be Westerosi, they all make that jest."

Unsure of the etiquette of meeting a female blacksmith you merely incline your head in greeting, remembering to introduce yourself.

"Domeric. Just… Domeric for now." You are unsure of how long your father's threadbare explanation of sending you on a tour of Essos will linger, and you do not want to cause him shame by trumpeting the name of your House while the sin of kinslaying remains upon you.

Sahbra nods back, then looks you over once more, seeing your rather… meager possessions. You fight the urge to blush, though her gaze does not seem to promise romance in the least.

"Catching that pig was helpful, Domeric. Do you have an inn to stay at? If not, there's a bedroll at my forge. Used it myself when I was an apprentice, don't need it now that I own the place."

How odd Qohorik is that a strange blacksmith woman can invite a foreign man to her dwelling. Perhaps it is your formative years in the Vale but as the objection rises to your lips, Sahbra shakes her head.

"Your virtue will be safe under my roof, Westerosi. I much prefer damsels in my bed, and currently, I've none of those besides. Still, if it discomforts you, there's an inn, the Crooked Ser its called, ah, on account of some Westerosi sellswords betraying the city back when the Dothraki invaded, back a few centuries ago. It's well-regarded among foreigners, so seems most have no hard feelings. So, what'll it be, Just Domeric?"

[] Take Sahbra's offer, and head to her smithy.

[] Head to the Crooked Ser (Sahbra estimates it to cost 2 Silver Hoofs a night)







OOC: You would not believe the week and a half I've had. Very, very difficult and with very little motivation to write. I wanted to get at least this done though.

Incidentally, I have two different ideas, one for both of these choices, I don't want to railroad you into either, got exciting plans.

 

[Miriam]

On the Currency of Qohor

Scribed by Maester Pol of the Citadel

While the city of Qohor has existed as one of the "Free Cities" for the over thirteen hundred years since its founding, its currency and coinage is rather newer. Qohor's status as an autonomous city under the auspices of the Valyrian Freehold meant that the Freehold's currency was Qohorik currency, no more, no less. While it traded in various currencies during those years, especially those from eastern Essos, it always took and paid its coin in the Valyrian currency. It was not until the Doom of Valyria and the ensuing Century of Blood that Qohor stretched its numismatic wings and created its own currency, directed as always by the mysterious and obscure priesthood of the Black Goat. In order of least to most valuable, the Qohorik coinage is as follows, one hundred of the smallest coinage equaling one of the larger coinage, in the Valyrian fashion:

Copper Horn: This coinage is the most used of the Qohorik currency, being the most cheaply made and easy to pay in. This coin is most often used for petty labor and small purchases, such as a day's work as a menial laborer, or a single orange or piece of cooked meat. It bears the curved horn of a goat, the appendage being seen as the least important aspect of the Black Goat.

Silver Hoof: This coinage is used for more skilled labor, an artisan's work or the price of the purchase of an unskilled slave, for example. It is decorated with the hoof of a goat, which the priests of Qohor's deity claim tramples the foes of the god. Whoever those foes may be is beyond the grasp of your humble author, though one notices many references to the "trampling of beards" in the rhetoric of the priests, and a longtime visitor to the Free Cities can easily notice the antipathy between Qohorik citizens and those of Norvos, the capital of the cult of the Bearded God and sometime ally of Qohor.

Golden Goat: This coinage is used for fine works, exceptionally skilled labor, though even a bag full of golden goats cannot buy the secrets of Qohorik metalsmithing, nor safe passage out of the city once the secrets are obtained by other means. Regardless, the coins are decorated with the full head of a sinister goat, the eyes etched deep into the coin, and seeming, perhaps, to follow the bearer of said coins. Or such is the traveler's tale.


OOC: Couldn't sleep before my dentist appointment, so I made this. Hope this is helpful and adds flavor to the currency, and shows the biases of Maester Pol, who in canon was thrown out of Qohor and had his hand cut off for trying to discover the Qohorik secrets of metalsmithing, especially the secret of Valyrian steel...

Additionally, the price for a night at the inn has been changed to two Silver Hoofs, which as far as Domeric can tell, was not too out of the ordinary for foreigners in the other Free Cities and their adjoining towns.

 

[Miriam]

Also I'm still having trouble writing the next update, so this is as good a place as any to put the Character Sheet vote I think. Not sure how to make an encouraged write-in works, but here goes.

[] Domeric Bolton Character Sheet
-[] Write in Domeric's character sheet.

For thematic purposes, I'd like to have at least one Necromancy school spell included in the vote.

 

[Miriam]

First Day of the Ninth Month, Year 292 after Aegon's Conquest



Truth be told, your decision was quicker to make than you yourself expected. Even if Sahbra had not preferred damsels in her bed, your pragmatism, perhaps born of long centuries of Bolton caution, won out over the chivalry of the Vale, where nearly a full fourth of your seventeen namedays were spent. You nodded to her, accepting her offer with little hesitation.

Sahbra broke into a large smile, and still grasping the recalcitrant pig in her arms, began to guide you to her smithy, cleared pleased to have the opportunity to talk to a foreigner about her home.

"Over there is the Street of Beggars, they say that at the city's founding, the priests declared that foreigners to the city should sit with the beggars, lest they pollute the air of the righteous. Uh, present company excluded. That little stone building at the head of the street is the Crypt of Varoquo. They say he was a high priest of the Black Goat torn to shreds by jealous rivals while walking the city. They buried him here to deny him a place among the faithful."

You listened as the young smith chattered on about the city, nodding at the appropriate times, your demeanor somber and almost grim on the outside; like your father, smiling never came naturally to you. Perhaps Boltons were not intended to smile, though Sahbra's attempts to keep the pig that started your acquittance with her in her arms were enough to draw a slight smirk.

Your journey took you into the Street of Strangers, Sahbra's string of commentary cutting off as you caught sight of her smithy. It… wasn't quite as she had described. Namely, her tools were scattered across the floor, her forge dark even though it was backlit by the noonday sun, and pieces of her metalsmithing shattered and cracked in a corner.

And perhaps most importantly, there was a large, muscular man covered in coal soot and clad in rough leathers rummaging through the smithy, muttering to himself in a thick, earthy accent. It did not escape your notice that the broad hilt of a mace lay strapped to his leg. He turns with a start as the sound of your footsteps approach the forge, watching both of you as your leisurely walk turns more tentative.

"Damn you, you were supposed to be here, little smith-girl. Would have been so much easy to slit your throat when you were busy forging. No matter." His hand went to his mace, pulling it out with a grunt, hefting it as his gaze dropped to you. "You are in the wrong place, at the wrong time, boy. You'll have to die with her."

Sahbra dropped the pig, which ran squealing off, you suppose never to be seen again, or to end up in a beggar's stew, but your thoughts were far from such matters. Indeed, deep within your blood, you felt the same hunger as in your dark, bloody dreams, a ravenous pit that urges you to feed, that gives you a peculiar feeling of power in your limbs….

Seeing the fine Qohorik steel in the man's hand, and the murderous glint in his eyes, you know that either he dies, or you and Sahbra do. What do you do?



[] (Write-in Battle Plan)

OOC: Sorry again for the delay, I had to rewrite this a couple of times as I wasn't happy with it. I'm still not too happy but it's something, at least.

 

[Miriam]

Bolton Lords of the Dreadfort Since Aegon's Conquest, And Their Epithets:

Roose "the Leech Lord"
Rodrik "the Regretted"
Belthasar "Brotherkiller"
Rogar "Godsworn"
Benjicot "Redsmile"
Cregan "Corpsefeast"
Barth "Blackheart"
Dorren "Sevencleft"
(Regent) Barba "the Bride"
Roose "Redfather"
Rodrik "Rhuemy Rodrick"
Rogar "the Ravenous"
Rodrik "the Resolved"
Barth "the Banished"

OOC: As there are no canon Lords of the Dreadfort besides Roose Bolton, I decided to at least make some up and give them fun nicknames. I hope most of them have a spooky Bolton feel. You'll definitely find out about a few of them as the adventure goes on... And for those who have read Fire and Blood, Barba Bolton is the canon one, who participated in the Maiden's Day Ball. I tried to give as many as I could Northern names starting with "R", "D", and "B", as that appears to be the theme for canon Bolton names. Cregan is the only one I couldn't manage to fit with the naming scheme.