Post by The Smith on Sept 24, 2013 23:03:10 GMT -5
“Move your damn legs, boy!” the grizzled master-at-arms barked, “You’re too big now for me to carry you around like I used to!”
It had been months since Oswyn original injury and the progress had been slow at best. The only sign of optimism was that after hours of grueling attempts each day at physical rehabilitation, he could now feel his legs. The terrifying eternal numbness had instead been replace by searing pain, the muscles in his legs weak and shriveled from the muscle dystrophy inherent in the paraplegia. Maester Edgar, stroking his greasy black moustache, had recommended an increase in the intensity of the exercises in order to return the heir to Storm’s End to his former strength. Splints had been placed on both legs to prevent muscle contractures and aid in the rehabilitation.
So it was on this day that Ser Arthur Connington, a man in his early sixties, was trudging around the courtyard of Storm’s End with Oswyn’s arms draped around his neck. The disabled heir was dragged along, legs dragging along the cobblestones and sometimes catching one with his foot and attempting to push off, hissing in agony as pain shot up the useless appendage.
“You think that’s bad, do you lad?” Connington asked, grunting with each arduous step. “Should be relieved. Told Maester Edgar and you lord father we should just toss you in Shipbreaker Bay and see what’s what. Sink or swim!” he exclaimed with a bark of laughter.
This continued for hours, the odd pair making laps around the drum tower. Occasionally they would pass a group of knights or archers training in the yard, who would avoid eye contact lest they snicker. This was likely as much through fear of the temperamental Connington as it was desire to avoid slighting their future lord. When the two were exhausted, they both collapsed upon the cobblestones, staring up at the nimbus clouds as the strong seaborne winds sent them lazily over the curtain wall.
“It’s hopeless, Arthur.” Oswyn said morosely after a long moment of silence, wondering if he would ever stand upon the battlements of his beloved keep again. “Can I even be a called a knight anymore?”
“Nonsense!” Ser Arthur scoffed, sitting up to look at the man he had taught to hold a sword many years ago. “We’ll have you up in running in no time. You’ll always be a knight, Oswyn, a title earned in sweat and blood. Nothing and no one can ever take that form you! In the meantime, you’ll just have to be a knight of a different sort.”
That evening, laying sullenly upon his bed, Oswyn considered the words of the old knight. He glanced to the small desk Maester Edgar had moved to serve as a makeshift bedside table. Upon it sat stacks upon stacks of missives, reports, and correspondence the master had left in the hopes that the heir would take a greater interest in matters of state in his disabled condition. Next to the stack was a sizable decanter of burnt wine. Night after night since his return, Oswyn had reached for the brandy, drinking himself into a morose stupor only to be awoken the next morning by Ser Arthur.
This night however, was not like the others.
“A different sort of knight…” he mused, the words of his taskmaster echoing in his brain as he reached for the stacks of parchment rather than the caramel colored crutch. Pouring himself into the wealth of information, Oswyn read through the night, occasionally pausing for a few moments to pen a letter with ink and quill.
When the morning sun arose, bringing with it Ser Arthur blustering into his chambers, he was met with surprise by an alert Oswyn rather than the hung-over and depressed wreck he had come to expect. On one side of the heir sat the stack of read papers and on the other sat half a dozen newly written letters, folded and sealed with the Baratheon seal.
A warm smile spread to the old knight’s face as he revealed an ornate blackthorn cane from behind his back and tossed it over, Oswyn catching in deft hands.
“Hope you slept well, lad!” he said with a grin that promised a new day of torment. “Today we’re doing the stairs.”
Oswyn to advance from Novice to Apprentice Intrigue
Oswyn to progress in his recovery to the point of being able to move around with reliance on a cane
It had been months since Oswyn original injury and the progress had been slow at best. The only sign of optimism was that after hours of grueling attempts each day at physical rehabilitation, he could now feel his legs. The terrifying eternal numbness had instead been replace by searing pain, the muscles in his legs weak and shriveled from the muscle dystrophy inherent in the paraplegia. Maester Edgar, stroking his greasy black moustache, had recommended an increase in the intensity of the exercises in order to return the heir to Storm’s End to his former strength. Splints had been placed on both legs to prevent muscle contractures and aid in the rehabilitation.
So it was on this day that Ser Arthur Connington, a man in his early sixties, was trudging around the courtyard of Storm’s End with Oswyn’s arms draped around his neck. The disabled heir was dragged along, legs dragging along the cobblestones and sometimes catching one with his foot and attempting to push off, hissing in agony as pain shot up the useless appendage.
“You think that’s bad, do you lad?” Connington asked, grunting with each arduous step. “Should be relieved. Told Maester Edgar and you lord father we should just toss you in Shipbreaker Bay and see what’s what. Sink or swim!” he exclaimed with a bark of laughter.
This continued for hours, the odd pair making laps around the drum tower. Occasionally they would pass a group of knights or archers training in the yard, who would avoid eye contact lest they snicker. This was likely as much through fear of the temperamental Connington as it was desire to avoid slighting their future lord. When the two were exhausted, they both collapsed upon the cobblestones, staring up at the nimbus clouds as the strong seaborne winds sent them lazily over the curtain wall.
“It’s hopeless, Arthur.” Oswyn said morosely after a long moment of silence, wondering if he would ever stand upon the battlements of his beloved keep again. “Can I even be a called a knight anymore?”
“Nonsense!” Ser Arthur scoffed, sitting up to look at the man he had taught to hold a sword many years ago. “We’ll have you up in running in no time. You’ll always be a knight, Oswyn, a title earned in sweat and blood. Nothing and no one can ever take that form you! In the meantime, you’ll just have to be a knight of a different sort.”
That evening, laying sullenly upon his bed, Oswyn considered the words of the old knight. He glanced to the small desk Maester Edgar had moved to serve as a makeshift bedside table. Upon it sat stacks upon stacks of missives, reports, and correspondence the master had left in the hopes that the heir would take a greater interest in matters of state in his disabled condition. Next to the stack was a sizable decanter of burnt wine. Night after night since his return, Oswyn had reached for the brandy, drinking himself into a morose stupor only to be awoken the next morning by Ser Arthur.
This night however, was not like the others.
“A different sort of knight…” he mused, the words of his taskmaster echoing in his brain as he reached for the stacks of parchment rather than the caramel colored crutch. Pouring himself into the wealth of information, Oswyn read through the night, occasionally pausing for a few moments to pen a letter with ink and quill.
When the morning sun arose, bringing with it Ser Arthur blustering into his chambers, he was met with surprise by an alert Oswyn rather than the hung-over and depressed wreck he had come to expect. On one side of the heir sat the stack of read papers and on the other sat half a dozen newly written letters, folded and sealed with the Baratheon seal.
A warm smile spread to the old knight’s face as he revealed an ornate blackthorn cane from behind his back and tossed it over, Oswyn catching in deft hands.
“Hope you slept well, lad!” he said with a grin that promised a new day of torment. “Today we’re doing the stairs.”
Oswyn to advance from Novice to Apprentice Intrigue
Oswyn to progress in his recovery to the point of being able to move around with reliance on a cane
Hope you all are well and happy.