Post by The Smith on Oct 9, 2013 19:51:54 GMT -5
They left him in a small Sept. It was in one of the more respectable areas of the city, and brief hours before the babble of noise outside had penetrated the house of the gods, a combination of the merchants calls, the drumming of horse hooves, and the voices of the denizens of the city. Gradually the noise had died down, muted by the setting of the sun. Inside the Sept it gradually grew darker, until the faces of the gods were solely illuminated by the candles that had been lit for them earlier in the day.
Lord Aurane had already spoken the words, touching Leyton briefly upon each shift garbed shoulder. The ceremony had been held at the Lannister manse, high up upon Aegon's hill, looking down upon the expanse of the city beneath it. Damon had been conspicuously absent, but the other Lannisters had deigned to attend, or had been forced to by their father. Lord Aurane had gone so far as to arrange for Leyton to stand vigil in the Great Sept, and to be anointed in the morning by one of the Most Devout. Leyton had politely rejected the generous offer. Unlike his longtime master, he had never been one for pomp. He had opted instead to stand vigil in the neglected and small sept, a fair distance from the seat of the queen, much to the delight of its frail elderly Septon, who Leyton gathered, had not anointed a knight for the better part of two decades. The likenesses of the gods had watched on as the old man had searched the Sept for the oils that he would require in the morning, just as they watched Leyton now as he knelt motionlessly before the Warrior. The single candle that had been lit for the Stranger went out first, dimming a corner of the Sept. Leyton was aware of the darkness behind him, yet he spared it no thought, focused entirely on the Warrior before him. The unmoving statue gazed down upon him, and Leyton found himself taken back to the stepstones. He had seen an unnatural amount of death and suffering at a young age, he realized. Images he had thought long forgotten surged up from the recesses of memory, overwhelming his mind's eye.
Men, stumbling through the waves, caught by well flighted bolts from the bluffs above them. Piercing death from a distance. They were dragged down by the weight they bore, under the water that soothed their screams of agony.
Waves washing blood ashore as Lord Aurane stood observing the lifeless beach alongside him. The enemy repulsed. The Westerosi victorious. The prickling sensation in his foot that captured his attention. The realization that a small, sharp rock had eluded his armor and cut the sole of his foot. Sharp pain distracting him from the moans of the exhausted casualties littering the beach. The bodies of the dead.
An ambush on a barren plain. The ground coming to life with the movement of the foe. The glimmering knights of the westerlands flailing. Falling. Grey earth slick with life. Dismounting from his horse to pull a wounded knight to his feet and falling, the slickness of the soil saving him from the whistling bolt that flew above his head, felling his mount. Lord Aurane riding down a fleeing enemy, sending him spinning with a movement of his arm that cleft into his armor, unleashing a fountain of blood.
The sharp pain of the bolt breaking through cold steel as he threw himself before Lord Aurane. Unimaginable pain as he lay on the ground. His armor growing sticky and war with blood. Surges of men before him, screaming dying. A fluid field before him. The left flank wavering then rallying under the flying fish. Dots on the wall rising then falling the Martell sun in their midst. The Lion standing proudly in against a surge of cavalry, a tide of men rushing to their aid. The enemy in flight. Arms, lifting him, carrying him from the field. His foot aflame.
War was not a game of cyvasse, an emotionless affair of intellect. War was a dance, the steps the spilling of blood. The lost lives bringing the dancers into a brief embrace, broken by the weaker partner. The sheen of sweat on the body of the dancer who does not know the steps. The one who falters when the dance becomes difficult.
The candles had all gone out, save the two lit before the warrior. They were now small in stature, the flames all but submerged in the blood of the candles, the cost of maintaining the light. Yet they did not go out. They did not even flicker, leaving Leyton illuminated under the Warrior until the break of day.
Leyton is anointed as a Knight
Leyton gains Noteworthy + Land Battle
Leyton gains Beginner Dancing
Lord Aurane had already spoken the words, touching Leyton briefly upon each shift garbed shoulder. The ceremony had been held at the Lannister manse, high up upon Aegon's hill, looking down upon the expanse of the city beneath it. Damon had been conspicuously absent, but the other Lannisters had deigned to attend, or had been forced to by their father. Lord Aurane had gone so far as to arrange for Leyton to stand vigil in the Great Sept, and to be anointed in the morning by one of the Most Devout. Leyton had politely rejected the generous offer. Unlike his longtime master, he had never been one for pomp. He had opted instead to stand vigil in the neglected and small sept, a fair distance from the seat of the queen, much to the delight of its frail elderly Septon, who Leyton gathered, had not anointed a knight for the better part of two decades. The likenesses of the gods had watched on as the old man had searched the Sept for the oils that he would require in the morning, just as they watched Leyton now as he knelt motionlessly before the Warrior. The single candle that had been lit for the Stranger went out first, dimming a corner of the Sept. Leyton was aware of the darkness behind him, yet he spared it no thought, focused entirely on the Warrior before him. The unmoving statue gazed down upon him, and Leyton found himself taken back to the stepstones. He had seen an unnatural amount of death and suffering at a young age, he realized. Images he had thought long forgotten surged up from the recesses of memory, overwhelming his mind's eye.
Men, stumbling through the waves, caught by well flighted bolts from the bluffs above them. Piercing death from a distance. They were dragged down by the weight they bore, under the water that soothed their screams of agony.
Waves washing blood ashore as Lord Aurane stood observing the lifeless beach alongside him. The enemy repulsed. The Westerosi victorious. The prickling sensation in his foot that captured his attention. The realization that a small, sharp rock had eluded his armor and cut the sole of his foot. Sharp pain distracting him from the moans of the exhausted casualties littering the beach. The bodies of the dead.
An ambush on a barren plain. The ground coming to life with the movement of the foe. The glimmering knights of the westerlands flailing. Falling. Grey earth slick with life. Dismounting from his horse to pull a wounded knight to his feet and falling, the slickness of the soil saving him from the whistling bolt that flew above his head, felling his mount. Lord Aurane riding down a fleeing enemy, sending him spinning with a movement of his arm that cleft into his armor, unleashing a fountain of blood.
The sharp pain of the bolt breaking through cold steel as he threw himself before Lord Aurane. Unimaginable pain as he lay on the ground. His armor growing sticky and war with blood. Surges of men before him, screaming dying. A fluid field before him. The left flank wavering then rallying under the flying fish. Dots on the wall rising then falling the Martell sun in their midst. The Lion standing proudly in against a surge of cavalry, a tide of men rushing to their aid. The enemy in flight. Arms, lifting him, carrying him from the field. His foot aflame.
War was not a game of cyvasse, an emotionless affair of intellect. War was a dance, the steps the spilling of blood. The lost lives bringing the dancers into a brief embrace, broken by the weaker partner. The sheen of sweat on the body of the dancer who does not know the steps. The one who falters when the dance becomes difficult.
The candles had all gone out, save the two lit before the warrior. They were now small in stature, the flames all but submerged in the blood of the candles, the cost of maintaining the light. Yet they did not go out. They did not even flicker, leaving Leyton illuminated under the Warrior until the break of day.
Leyton is anointed as a Knight
Leyton gains Noteworthy + Land Battle
Leyton gains Beginner Dancing
Hope you all are well and happy.