Post by The Stranger on Apr 10, 2008 12:25:57 GMT -5
It was fucking cold.
Of course, when it wasn't fucking cold, it was blisteringly hot, but given the choice between the two, Mortimer would have said to hell with the whole thing and hopped the next ship for more temperate climes.
But he didn't have a choice between the two. He simply had his duty. Of course, he likely still would have said to hell with it, but in this case the duty was looking to be more and more fun. And who his target was only helped matters.
Tallahar Tyrell was one of that worst sort of lords: that sort which is utterly convinced of his own rightness, no matter how strong the evidence directly in his vision. And somehow, he had usually managed to come out on top. Well, if Mortimer did his job right, here, at least a little bit of his unlikely success would be taken away.
And so, here he was. It was an unlikely scenario, an Ironman dressed in the garb of a Tyrell guard, but, truth be told, it had not been all that difficult. Any group of soldiers larger than three or so attracts followers, and minstrels are inevitably among them. Mortimer, of course, was a minstrel extraordinaire.
For a few days, he had played that part, as Wat of the Strings. He could say, with no small amount of pride, that the soldiers and other followers had enjoyed his work immensely.
But presumably, when they discovered the rest of his work in the morning, they would likely enjoy it rather less. Finding a friend and fellow soldier dead had a way of souring moods. Wat of the Strings, however, would remain simply a fine musician in their minds: obviously, the guard had been stabbed by Tansy, the whore lying next to him, who had summarily chosen to end her own life. Truly a shame.
So, that cunning bit of misdirection behind him, Mortimer, or rather Tym (He thought that was the guard's name, anyway), stalked toward Tallahar Tyrell's tent. Stalked may not be the right word. Stalking would look suspicious. To the outside world, he was merely walking. The stalking took place only in his own mind. Or, it could be argued, the stalking was what was really took place, and his walking was merely a construct in the minds of other, seeing what they wanted to see. But that was neither here nor there. He had arrived at the tent.
There was a clean chamber pot in his hand, for that was what he was there for. Tyrell may have been a lord, but he still pissed and shit like any other man. In fact, he did it more than most, with all the shit that came pouring out of his mouth. The guards on the tent waved him in with hardly a second glance. They would also be rather put out in the morning.
And so, here he was. In a tent, somewhere around midnight, with the Dawn Craven himself, Tallahar of House Tyrell, Lord of Dawnrose Keep. Quite the dawn motif he had going, it was a shame he wasn't born a Dayne. Then he could be Tallahar Dayne, the Dawn Craven, Lord of Dawnrose Keep, The Sword of the Morning (Though he would likely have it changed to the Sword of the Dawn), Wielder of Dawn, Dawniest of the Dawny, Dawn Dawny Dawn Dawn.
Right. Anyway. Here he was, Talladawn Tyrell, snoring a bit. It was tempting to just kill the man, but that would be unnecessary. So, instead, he approached the bed, next to which sat the package Mortimer had been sent to retrieve. A fine-looking sword, Roseblood, but it would look far better somewhere else, and perhaps in a slightly different form. But that was not his to worry about.
So he picked up the sword, put down the chamber pot, and pulled out the razor that had been inside it. Then it was just a few quick, silent cuts, and there was a handy door, where some clever Ironborn had left a handy horse tied up earlier in the evening.
It would have been perfect if only there had been a sunset to ride off into.
Results:
Mortimer's Disguise improves to Apprentice
Roseblood is stolen from Tallahar Tyrell
Of course, when it wasn't fucking cold, it was blisteringly hot, but given the choice between the two, Mortimer would have said to hell with the whole thing and hopped the next ship for more temperate climes.
But he didn't have a choice between the two. He simply had his duty. Of course, he likely still would have said to hell with it, but in this case the duty was looking to be more and more fun. And who his target was only helped matters.
Tallahar Tyrell was one of that worst sort of lords: that sort which is utterly convinced of his own rightness, no matter how strong the evidence directly in his vision. And somehow, he had usually managed to come out on top. Well, if Mortimer did his job right, here, at least a little bit of his unlikely success would be taken away.
And so, here he was. It was an unlikely scenario, an Ironman dressed in the garb of a Tyrell guard, but, truth be told, it had not been all that difficult. Any group of soldiers larger than three or so attracts followers, and minstrels are inevitably among them. Mortimer, of course, was a minstrel extraordinaire.
For a few days, he had played that part, as Wat of the Strings. He could say, with no small amount of pride, that the soldiers and other followers had enjoyed his work immensely.
But presumably, when they discovered the rest of his work in the morning, they would likely enjoy it rather less. Finding a friend and fellow soldier dead had a way of souring moods. Wat of the Strings, however, would remain simply a fine musician in their minds: obviously, the guard had been stabbed by Tansy, the whore lying next to him, who had summarily chosen to end her own life. Truly a shame.
So, that cunning bit of misdirection behind him, Mortimer, or rather Tym (He thought that was the guard's name, anyway), stalked toward Tallahar Tyrell's tent. Stalked may not be the right word. Stalking would look suspicious. To the outside world, he was merely walking. The stalking took place only in his own mind. Or, it could be argued, the stalking was what was really took place, and his walking was merely a construct in the minds of other, seeing what they wanted to see. But that was neither here nor there. He had arrived at the tent.
There was a clean chamber pot in his hand, for that was what he was there for. Tyrell may have been a lord, but he still pissed and shit like any other man. In fact, he did it more than most, with all the shit that came pouring out of his mouth. The guards on the tent waved him in with hardly a second glance. They would also be rather put out in the morning.
And so, here he was. In a tent, somewhere around midnight, with the Dawn Craven himself, Tallahar of House Tyrell, Lord of Dawnrose Keep. Quite the dawn motif he had going, it was a shame he wasn't born a Dayne. Then he could be Tallahar Dayne, the Dawn Craven, Lord of Dawnrose Keep, The Sword of the Morning (Though he would likely have it changed to the Sword of the Dawn), Wielder of Dawn, Dawniest of the Dawny, Dawn Dawny Dawn Dawn.
Right. Anyway. Here he was, Talladawn Tyrell, snoring a bit. It was tempting to just kill the man, but that would be unnecessary. So, instead, he approached the bed, next to which sat the package Mortimer had been sent to retrieve. A fine-looking sword, Roseblood, but it would look far better somewhere else, and perhaps in a slightly different form. But that was not his to worry about.
So he picked up the sword, put down the chamber pot, and pulled out the razor that had been inside it. Then it was just a few quick, silent cuts, and there was a handy door, where some clever Ironborn had left a handy horse tied up earlier in the evening.
It would have been perfect if only there had been a sunset to ride off into.
Results:
Mortimer's Disguise improves to Apprentice
Roseblood is stolen from Tallahar Tyrell
Hope you all are well and happy.