Post by The Smith on Apr 2, 2008 23:08:41 GMT -5
"Grenn Rivers?"
The voice was a foggy, far away sort of thing, not at all familiar. It belonged to a man, that was obvious, a man who was not accustomed to raising his voice. Grenn was wading through grey mist, his body a thing of lightness, his mind bogged by stupor. Where was he, exactly?
"Grenn Rivers? Is that you there in the dirt?"
Is this a memory? He asked himself. A strange memory, perhaps from childhood? He had a nagging suspicion that he should be opening his eyes. Do I even have eyes? He thought to himself. Then he realized the absurdity of the internal question and realized he must be asleep. But this was much different than normal sleep. He felt as if he had to sleep more, as if he wasn't quite all the way there. Grenn tried hard to focus on the sounds, but his mind was a flighty thing, spurring and tumbling away from him, like grasping a rich pudding with a knife. His thoughts wanted to wander away from him.
"Mayhap he is dead?" Another voice, this time younger, less careful, a boy, perhaps, or a very young man. He couldn't have been beyond his first sprig of manhood.
"He's snoring you idiot boy. Fetch me some water to wake this lump up."
How would water wake up a lump? I remember when old Crast used to beat me, that would 'wake lumps' to be certain. Laren never raised a hand to me, though. Wonder who would have won in a scuff between the two. That was a stupid thought, Crast was three times as old as Mother, so he would have at least been twice Laren's age. That would have not been much of a contest. I haven't thought about Mother in some time, I wonder if perhaps she--
A searing cold stab. Grenn jumped up, fully awake now. He reached for his sword, scowling and sputtering oaths.
"A quick death you can beg for!" Grenn exclaimed, coming up to slice his assailants. But his scabbard was empty, and he grasped pure wind in the process. His body swayed almost drunkenly, his exhaustion an animal of burden. A tall, auburn-headed man stood before him. Not quite so tall as Grenn himself, but tall enough to take notice. Grenn saw that the man held an axe at the ready. He also saw the youth, afraid by his looks. Short, skinny, with the blushed cheeks of extreme youth. He was holding Grenn's sword.
"Gimme the blade, boy." He said, eyeing the two carefully.
"You are Grenn Rivers, no doubt?" The other man asked, his red cloak fluttering lightly in the breeze. The cloak moved just enough to allow Grenn to see the silver trout embroidered upon the man's blue doublet. Tully?
"I'm Grenn, ain't no rivers about it. 'Cept the river I'll leave the two of you in if you don't tell that boy to gimme my fucking sword." His breath came rough to him, and he panted as if he had run to meet them.
The man frowned, licking his lower lip. He flicked his head towards the boy. "Amory, give Rivers his sword back. I think we can trust him not to be stupid enough to attempt to use it."
Grenn smiled dangerously. "Stupid? Ah, yes, stupid. That would be the person who awoke a venomous beast by pouring a lake on his head."
The red haired man laughed. "Venomous beast? Where have you hidden him? I see only a poor bastard, sleeping on a tree with roots for his blanket. You're half dead."
Grenn threw his hand up in disgust. "Then let the other half die. Let me do as I wish, and in piece. Let a warrior die with honor."
Grenn had been almost to death. It had been three days since he had eaten anything other than a few blood gnats and a couple of handfuls of grass, and those were things he would rather die than to make another meal. He had eaten his horse when the rations had run out, and he had eaten the last of his rations, hoping to make it to a nice farmstead or some small traverse community before he began to starve, but he had walked and walked, and finally, hoping perhaps to suck the sap from the bark of the tree, had sat down before it. But his fatigue had gotten the better of him, and he had crumpled to a sound near-death. It was unfortunate, he had liked that horse. But it could not be helped. Had he not, he would not even be here this long, trading stares with this accomplished cunt dribble. He wasn't even sure how much time had passed since he had first come upon the tree, through it had been morning, and the sun was now on it's way to dusk.
"I have business with you, Rivers. You can die after that, I won't care a sight." He scratched his red moustache, turning to the boy.
"Amory, get Rivers the ewer and try and scrounge up some of those biscuits." The boy scurried off, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of being near Grenn any further. The red haired man turned back to Grenn and lowered his axe.
"I'm Arthur Tully, Ser Arthur Tully if you really feel like using the proper order of rank. But, something tells me that you aren't the formal sort." Arthur smiled at his own joke. Grenn internally wished he had the strength to smash the fucker's face in. Arthur caught his look.
"I was sent to find you, heard you were on your way back to Riverrun. Looks like you had a bit of a patchy journey. You're probably quite hungry, sorry the biscuits are probably all we have. We weren't set for a long trip."
Grenn growled. Why was this man speaking to him so conversationally? If only his body didn't feel so heavy with aching weakness, he would cut the man's head from his throat in an ironic cascade of delightful scarlet.
Instead, he simply said, ''Why?"
Arthur looked confused. "You're aware you are a Tully, yes?"
Grenn had expected more of a lead up to this statement, perhaps a chance to allow him to guess at his parentage. He knew that he was a Tully, at least, the misdirected firings of a Tully youth. He had tried to forget his lineage as much as possible. What did it matter anyhow? He was a bastard, and a wayward. A sometimes mercenary and an all-time failure. At least, this is what he believed. The only thing he valued was his ability with the sword. He knew he could survive most fights unscathed, and probably could at least kill whoever it was that would eventually take him down.
"Yes, I am aware that a Tully crawled his way into my mother's cunt, if that's what you mean. All the more reason for me to behead any trouts I happen across." He had not lowered his sword, but gave a feeble wave of the blade. Arthur shook his head.
"In this condition, that damned squire of mine could disarm you with a toothpick."
Grenn barked a laugh. "Well send him at me." Amory suddenly appeared at Arthur's side, carrying a pitcher and a bread satchel. He seemed to understand what was being said, and he promptly stepped back, quivering. Grenn laughed, pointing a lazy sword tip at him, though his eyes stayed on the Tully.
"See, he wets his breeches at the thought of fighting a real man. Nothing like swatting each other with sticks in the training yard, I'll bet. Or swatting your cocks together in private, maybe." He cast what he thought might appear to be a knowing glance. Amory looked appalled.
"Let him state his case, Amory. A man who cannot reason, resorts to fighting. A man who cannot fight resorts to insults. A man who does not know how to insult, stands before you now." Amory looked afraid to laugh, but Arthur held no such reserve. He chuckled in a fashion that one might deem mighty, and turned back towards the horses. Amory dropped the food and drink on the ground before him, and rushed after his mentor.
"I don't need to insult the likes of you!" Grenn called, reaching down for the ewer of water. "Your mother did that enough for you when she spread her doughy thighs for whatever slimy seed swallower calls itself your father." He took a long draft from the pitcher, sighing heavily afterwards, and poured the remainder of the water over his face and head. Maybe that will wash some of the lice out.
As he was starting on the hardened bread, Ser Arthur's shadow fell over him. Grenn looked up, his mouth full, crumbs tumbling from his partially opened lips. The red haired knight held what appeared to be clothing. He dropped it before Grenn and sighed. "Change into this, you'll definitely want to look presentable."
Grenn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then spat in the dirt in front of Arthur. "You may have fed and watered me, Tully, but that doesn't make me your little lilac. You have yet to tell me why I should even come with you, let alone why I should look so clean. Save your clothing for the next little boy you rip the clothes off of." Arthur said nothing and so Grenn stood and moved back to the tree, where his rucksack sat. A robin had been sitting upon the leather, but when the mercenary approached, it took flight. Grenn snatched his bag from the ground and shook it, looking at the knight.
"Happens I got some clothes o' my own, right here in my little sack, so keep your nobleman's frillery. I'll take my own decoration."
Arthur shrugged. "Suit yourself, I would have left them in your care to do what you would with them, wear them, sell them, it matters not. Your father is the one who wanted you to have them."
Grenn should have been startled. His father was alive, and wanted to see him. It did not surprise him however, in fact, it was fairly predictable.
"Probably wants me to be dressed all pretty for when he chops my head off. Lords rarely want to see their bastards other than to kill them."
Arthur chuckled. "Well, good thing then that your father is no lord. For whatever reason, beyond me, your father wishes to see you. My job is to deliver you." He flicked his head towards the horses, Amory was leading them towards the two men. "Are you ready to go?"
Grenn took a deep breath, clenching his fist on the grip of the sword. "A moment." He said, unlacing his breeches.
"What are you doing?" Arthur asked, perhaps thinking the man mad. Truth be told, perhaps he was mad.
"All that water has made my bladder quite full." He said, removing his member from his breeches. "I must bleed my lizard. Excuse me for being so crude." With those words, Grenn eschewed a surprising amount of urine, the stream directed at the pile of clothing Arthur had tried to give him. When he was finished, he laced himself back up, grinning wide. He pointed to the unoccupied horse milling about. "I claim that one. Let's go."
****
Grenn Rivers narrowly avoids starvation and dehydration.
Ser Arthur Tully and Amory Wode lead a disgruntled, yet thoroughly relieved mercenary to meet his father in Riverrun.
The voice was a foggy, far away sort of thing, not at all familiar. It belonged to a man, that was obvious, a man who was not accustomed to raising his voice. Grenn was wading through grey mist, his body a thing of lightness, his mind bogged by stupor. Where was he, exactly?
"Grenn Rivers? Is that you there in the dirt?"
Is this a memory? He asked himself. A strange memory, perhaps from childhood? He had a nagging suspicion that he should be opening his eyes. Do I even have eyes? He thought to himself. Then he realized the absurdity of the internal question and realized he must be asleep. But this was much different than normal sleep. He felt as if he had to sleep more, as if he wasn't quite all the way there. Grenn tried hard to focus on the sounds, but his mind was a flighty thing, spurring and tumbling away from him, like grasping a rich pudding with a knife. His thoughts wanted to wander away from him.
"Mayhap he is dead?" Another voice, this time younger, less careful, a boy, perhaps, or a very young man. He couldn't have been beyond his first sprig of manhood.
"He's snoring you idiot boy. Fetch me some water to wake this lump up."
How would water wake up a lump? I remember when old Crast used to beat me, that would 'wake lumps' to be certain. Laren never raised a hand to me, though. Wonder who would have won in a scuff between the two. That was a stupid thought, Crast was three times as old as Mother, so he would have at least been twice Laren's age. That would have not been much of a contest. I haven't thought about Mother in some time, I wonder if perhaps she--
A searing cold stab. Grenn jumped up, fully awake now. He reached for his sword, scowling and sputtering oaths.
"A quick death you can beg for!" Grenn exclaimed, coming up to slice his assailants. But his scabbard was empty, and he grasped pure wind in the process. His body swayed almost drunkenly, his exhaustion an animal of burden. A tall, auburn-headed man stood before him. Not quite so tall as Grenn himself, but tall enough to take notice. Grenn saw that the man held an axe at the ready. He also saw the youth, afraid by his looks. Short, skinny, with the blushed cheeks of extreme youth. He was holding Grenn's sword.
"Gimme the blade, boy." He said, eyeing the two carefully.
"You are Grenn Rivers, no doubt?" The other man asked, his red cloak fluttering lightly in the breeze. The cloak moved just enough to allow Grenn to see the silver trout embroidered upon the man's blue doublet. Tully?
"I'm Grenn, ain't no rivers about it. 'Cept the river I'll leave the two of you in if you don't tell that boy to gimme my fucking sword." His breath came rough to him, and he panted as if he had run to meet them.
The man frowned, licking his lower lip. He flicked his head towards the boy. "Amory, give Rivers his sword back. I think we can trust him not to be stupid enough to attempt to use it."
Grenn smiled dangerously. "Stupid? Ah, yes, stupid. That would be the person who awoke a venomous beast by pouring a lake on his head."
The red haired man laughed. "Venomous beast? Where have you hidden him? I see only a poor bastard, sleeping on a tree with roots for his blanket. You're half dead."
Grenn threw his hand up in disgust. "Then let the other half die. Let me do as I wish, and in piece. Let a warrior die with honor."
Grenn had been almost to death. It had been three days since he had eaten anything other than a few blood gnats and a couple of handfuls of grass, and those were things he would rather die than to make another meal. He had eaten his horse when the rations had run out, and he had eaten the last of his rations, hoping to make it to a nice farmstead or some small traverse community before he began to starve, but he had walked and walked, and finally, hoping perhaps to suck the sap from the bark of the tree, had sat down before it. But his fatigue had gotten the better of him, and he had crumpled to a sound near-death. It was unfortunate, he had liked that horse. But it could not be helped. Had he not, he would not even be here this long, trading stares with this accomplished cunt dribble. He wasn't even sure how much time had passed since he had first come upon the tree, through it had been morning, and the sun was now on it's way to dusk.
"I have business with you, Rivers. You can die after that, I won't care a sight." He scratched his red moustache, turning to the boy.
"Amory, get Rivers the ewer and try and scrounge up some of those biscuits." The boy scurried off, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of being near Grenn any further. The red haired man turned back to Grenn and lowered his axe.
"I'm Arthur Tully, Ser Arthur Tully if you really feel like using the proper order of rank. But, something tells me that you aren't the formal sort." Arthur smiled at his own joke. Grenn internally wished he had the strength to smash the fucker's face in. Arthur caught his look.
"I was sent to find you, heard you were on your way back to Riverrun. Looks like you had a bit of a patchy journey. You're probably quite hungry, sorry the biscuits are probably all we have. We weren't set for a long trip."
Grenn growled. Why was this man speaking to him so conversationally? If only his body didn't feel so heavy with aching weakness, he would cut the man's head from his throat in an ironic cascade of delightful scarlet.
Instead, he simply said, ''Why?"
Arthur looked confused. "You're aware you are a Tully, yes?"
Grenn had expected more of a lead up to this statement, perhaps a chance to allow him to guess at his parentage. He knew that he was a Tully, at least, the misdirected firings of a Tully youth. He had tried to forget his lineage as much as possible. What did it matter anyhow? He was a bastard, and a wayward. A sometimes mercenary and an all-time failure. At least, this is what he believed. The only thing he valued was his ability with the sword. He knew he could survive most fights unscathed, and probably could at least kill whoever it was that would eventually take him down.
"Yes, I am aware that a Tully crawled his way into my mother's cunt, if that's what you mean. All the more reason for me to behead any trouts I happen across." He had not lowered his sword, but gave a feeble wave of the blade. Arthur shook his head.
"In this condition, that damned squire of mine could disarm you with a toothpick."
Grenn barked a laugh. "Well send him at me." Amory suddenly appeared at Arthur's side, carrying a pitcher and a bread satchel. He seemed to understand what was being said, and he promptly stepped back, quivering. Grenn laughed, pointing a lazy sword tip at him, though his eyes stayed on the Tully.
"See, he wets his breeches at the thought of fighting a real man. Nothing like swatting each other with sticks in the training yard, I'll bet. Or swatting your cocks together in private, maybe." He cast what he thought might appear to be a knowing glance. Amory looked appalled.
"Let him state his case, Amory. A man who cannot reason, resorts to fighting. A man who cannot fight resorts to insults. A man who does not know how to insult, stands before you now." Amory looked afraid to laugh, but Arthur held no such reserve. He chuckled in a fashion that one might deem mighty, and turned back towards the horses. Amory dropped the food and drink on the ground before him, and rushed after his mentor.
"I don't need to insult the likes of you!" Grenn called, reaching down for the ewer of water. "Your mother did that enough for you when she spread her doughy thighs for whatever slimy seed swallower calls itself your father." He took a long draft from the pitcher, sighing heavily afterwards, and poured the remainder of the water over his face and head. Maybe that will wash some of the lice out.
As he was starting on the hardened bread, Ser Arthur's shadow fell over him. Grenn looked up, his mouth full, crumbs tumbling from his partially opened lips. The red haired knight held what appeared to be clothing. He dropped it before Grenn and sighed. "Change into this, you'll definitely want to look presentable."
Grenn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then spat in the dirt in front of Arthur. "You may have fed and watered me, Tully, but that doesn't make me your little lilac. You have yet to tell me why I should even come with you, let alone why I should look so clean. Save your clothing for the next little boy you rip the clothes off of." Arthur said nothing and so Grenn stood and moved back to the tree, where his rucksack sat. A robin had been sitting upon the leather, but when the mercenary approached, it took flight. Grenn snatched his bag from the ground and shook it, looking at the knight.
"Happens I got some clothes o' my own, right here in my little sack, so keep your nobleman's frillery. I'll take my own decoration."
Arthur shrugged. "Suit yourself, I would have left them in your care to do what you would with them, wear them, sell them, it matters not. Your father is the one who wanted you to have them."
Grenn should have been startled. His father was alive, and wanted to see him. It did not surprise him however, in fact, it was fairly predictable.
"Probably wants me to be dressed all pretty for when he chops my head off. Lords rarely want to see their bastards other than to kill them."
Arthur chuckled. "Well, good thing then that your father is no lord. For whatever reason, beyond me, your father wishes to see you. My job is to deliver you." He flicked his head towards the horses, Amory was leading them towards the two men. "Are you ready to go?"
Grenn took a deep breath, clenching his fist on the grip of the sword. "A moment." He said, unlacing his breeches.
"What are you doing?" Arthur asked, perhaps thinking the man mad. Truth be told, perhaps he was mad.
"All that water has made my bladder quite full." He said, removing his member from his breeches. "I must bleed my lizard. Excuse me for being so crude." With those words, Grenn eschewed a surprising amount of urine, the stream directed at the pile of clothing Arthur had tried to give him. When he was finished, he laced himself back up, grinning wide. He pointed to the unoccupied horse milling about. "I claim that one. Let's go."
****
Grenn Rivers narrowly avoids starvation and dehydration.
Ser Arthur Tully and Amory Wode lead a disgruntled, yet thoroughly relieved mercenary to meet his father in Riverrun.