Post by The Stranger on Apr 25, 2008 19:35:09 GMT -5
The sticky red mess would stain the crow’s black leathers, to be sure. Not that they were of any high quality, rotted and threadbare as they were. Furthermore, even if they had been supple and mastercrafted, it would be of little consequence to the crow what state his leathers were, what with the barbed head of trident exploded through his throat. With a wet gurgle, the last deserter of the Night’s Watch fell to his knees, and crumbled into the boggy peat.
*****
Olander gave a quiet, dry chuckle as he recalled the memory. Finishing his thin ale, the crannogman leaned back in his seat and called for another, the fire behind him crackling merrily in the Winterfell tavern. The sentries had been easy to overcome, mostly inexperienced green boys and tired old men. The small band of crannogmen the heir to Greywater Watch had lead made quick work of the deserters and bandits ill-suited for the swamp. Grim work, but just.
*****
The dawn had not yet burned away the night’s fog, and the mist that hung heavy to the water’s of the Neck felt cool on Olander’s wet face. His scouts had returned to him in the night with word of the trespassers. Having failed to locate the toothless man called Drett who stood sentry, the band decided to press south, hoping to have the crime of desertion forgotten in the south.
Tepid water rippled around Olander’s chin as he skulked through the swamp. The water here was only waist deep, but the lordling had ordered his men to crouch deep in the waters, to better hide themselves. They clung to reeds and lurked near the twisted trunks of trees and slathered their faces with mud and moss. And that was how they waited, hidden in the swamps surrounding the narrowest point in the causeway that stretched through the Neck.
“- don’t give five fuckin’ shits wot y’think ‘bout Drett!” echoed a voice through the morning fog.
“Jus’ ain’t right leavin’ ‘im back there, Byren. S’all I’m sayin’,” a second voice responded calmly, but louder.
“It’s ‘is own damn fault fer getting’ tricked by some angry knight’s shade or nabbed by one o’ them fuckin’ frogeaters,” the one named Byren said, “We’d leave you jus’ as quick as we left that ol’ cunt-mouth, Dunswyk, if you was fuckin’ fool ‘nuff t’ get captured or lost.”
Olander could shapes darkening in the mist, several burning brands held high in the air. From across the causeway came the low thrilling cry of a swamp gull. Olander’s tepid eyes shimmered as he rose a short stub a reed to his lips. With a shrill blow, the whistle echoed across the swamp, and the deserter’s froze in their tracks. One of the crows craned is head this way and that, trying to get a better look through the mist.
“Didja ‘ear tha’? What in th’ seven ‘ells woz tha’ noise? ‘Ere, listen t-”
Unfortunately for the crow, he would never hear the noise, nor any noise ever again, after Olander’s trident drove in his temple and sent wicked steel into his brain. With a chilling silence, the crannogmen rose from the bog and fell from the trees, brisling with mud, moss, reeds, and branches.
A cry went up from the crows, and they went for their weapons. No sooner than their blades cleared leather, however, the crannogmen were on them. Arrows flew fierce and deadly, biting deep through the rotted leathers and soiled linens the deserter’s wore. Gigs slashed and pierced, spearing chests and goring bellies. Daggers flashing polished bronze in the fallen torchlight lopped fingers and hands, slashed faces and arms. Within a few short minutes, the flown crows lay slain, all except one tiny man, thrown down his sword.
“Yield! I yield! Dun kill me, sers, I beggin’ of ye! I’s born in th’ Neck! I’s a right crannogman, s’true! Please sers, I ain’t raped that girl like Lord Marsh said! I ain’t never want’d be a crow!” the small crow cried, his green eyes flowing with water.
Olander’s men cleared as their lordling approached the deserter. Reed canted his head to the side impassively, as if inspecting the man. “Crannogman you might have been, but no more,” Olander said quietly, his tepid eyes flickering, “You swore an oath before the Old Gods the minute you became a man of the Wall, and you broke that vow the minute you deserted your brothers. You are no more a brother of the Night’s Watch than you are a crannogman; Crannogmen keep their vows.”
And with that, Olander Reed drove the point of his trident through the throat of the deserter. He moaned, and let a wet gurgle escape his lips before falling limp, blood streaming down his chest.
The sticky red mess would stain the crow’s black leathers, to be sure…
==========
Olander Reed increases from Noteworthy to Expert Spearfighting.
Olander Reed increases from Noteworthy to Expert Ambushing.
*****
Olander gave a quiet, dry chuckle as he recalled the memory. Finishing his thin ale, the crannogman leaned back in his seat and called for another, the fire behind him crackling merrily in the Winterfell tavern. The sentries had been easy to overcome, mostly inexperienced green boys and tired old men. The small band of crannogmen the heir to Greywater Watch had lead made quick work of the deserters and bandits ill-suited for the swamp. Grim work, but just.
*****
The dawn had not yet burned away the night’s fog, and the mist that hung heavy to the water’s of the Neck felt cool on Olander’s wet face. His scouts had returned to him in the night with word of the trespassers. Having failed to locate the toothless man called Drett who stood sentry, the band decided to press south, hoping to have the crime of desertion forgotten in the south.
Tepid water rippled around Olander’s chin as he skulked through the swamp. The water here was only waist deep, but the lordling had ordered his men to crouch deep in the waters, to better hide themselves. They clung to reeds and lurked near the twisted trunks of trees and slathered their faces with mud and moss. And that was how they waited, hidden in the swamps surrounding the narrowest point in the causeway that stretched through the Neck.
“- don’t give five fuckin’ shits wot y’think ‘bout Drett!” echoed a voice through the morning fog.
“Jus’ ain’t right leavin’ ‘im back there, Byren. S’all I’m sayin’,” a second voice responded calmly, but louder.
“It’s ‘is own damn fault fer getting’ tricked by some angry knight’s shade or nabbed by one o’ them fuckin’ frogeaters,” the one named Byren said, “We’d leave you jus’ as quick as we left that ol’ cunt-mouth, Dunswyk, if you was fuckin’ fool ‘nuff t’ get captured or lost.”
Olander could shapes darkening in the mist, several burning brands held high in the air. From across the causeway came the low thrilling cry of a swamp gull. Olander’s tepid eyes shimmered as he rose a short stub a reed to his lips. With a shrill blow, the whistle echoed across the swamp, and the deserter’s froze in their tracks. One of the crows craned is head this way and that, trying to get a better look through the mist.
“Didja ‘ear tha’? What in th’ seven ‘ells woz tha’ noise? ‘Ere, listen t-”
Unfortunately for the crow, he would never hear the noise, nor any noise ever again, after Olander’s trident drove in his temple and sent wicked steel into his brain. With a chilling silence, the crannogmen rose from the bog and fell from the trees, brisling with mud, moss, reeds, and branches.
A cry went up from the crows, and they went for their weapons. No sooner than their blades cleared leather, however, the crannogmen were on them. Arrows flew fierce and deadly, biting deep through the rotted leathers and soiled linens the deserter’s wore. Gigs slashed and pierced, spearing chests and goring bellies. Daggers flashing polished bronze in the fallen torchlight lopped fingers and hands, slashed faces and arms. Within a few short minutes, the flown crows lay slain, all except one tiny man, thrown down his sword.
“Yield! I yield! Dun kill me, sers, I beggin’ of ye! I’s born in th’ Neck! I’s a right crannogman, s’true! Please sers, I ain’t raped that girl like Lord Marsh said! I ain’t never want’d be a crow!” the small crow cried, his green eyes flowing with water.
Olander’s men cleared as their lordling approached the deserter. Reed canted his head to the side impassively, as if inspecting the man. “Crannogman you might have been, but no more,” Olander said quietly, his tepid eyes flickering, “You swore an oath before the Old Gods the minute you became a man of the Wall, and you broke that vow the minute you deserted your brothers. You are no more a brother of the Night’s Watch than you are a crannogman; Crannogmen keep their vows.”
And with that, Olander Reed drove the point of his trident through the throat of the deserter. He moaned, and let a wet gurgle escape his lips before falling limp, blood streaming down his chest.
The sticky red mess would stain the crow’s black leathers, to be sure…
==========
Olander Reed increases from Noteworthy to Expert Spearfighting.
Olander Reed increases from Noteworthy to Expert Ambushing.