Post by The Stranger on Jul 28, 2008 10:55:23 GMT -5
he tiny man dug his shining black blade deeper into the white flesh before him, his green eyes focused intently on the task at hand. Beneath his knife a thick line of sticky red appeared where he carved, beading, then hardening like tears.
Olander Reed stepped back from the weirwood planted before him to appraise his work. The face was a sorrowful one to look upon, its thin mouth twisted with grief, empty eyes hollow and filled with pain. Even the blood-like sap dripping towards the ground looked like tears frozen in time. The crannogman allowed himself the enjoyment of grin as tiny as he was, pleased with his work.
In the Dawn Age, the Children of the Forest had carved many such heart trees to watch over their realm, to grant them sight beyond their own, to see the secrets beneath the world. The three that Olander had planted in the center of the yard of Moat Cailin to resemble its three towers were but saplings now, but with time they would grow to rival even the massive curtain wall that would surround his castle, and watch over his children, and their children after.
The first face carved faced to the north and east, setting in its sight over leagues and leagues of northland White Harbor, and the White Knife feeding through it into the Bite; further north, past Castle Cerwyn to Winterfell and further to Long Lake and the homes of the mountain clans; further past the Weeping Water and Last River, looking to the Dreadfort, to Last Hearth, to Karhold, which were north of Ramsgate and Widow’s Watch, and far across the Bay of Seals to Skagos.
Olander’s smile widened at that. Osha was a sweet wife, dutiful and doting, yet with wits enough to be useful and give her husband no pause about the fate of their children. What was more, sweet Osha was well liked in her father’s home of Last Hearth and her mother’s home of Castle Cerwyn, and had many close friends both highborn and low within each castle, and several acquaintances in both the luxurious and exotic goods-filled White Harbor and other surrounding castles, towns, and keeps. Olander’s wife had many friends, and friends liked to gossip. So too to the east lay his lovely cousin Pypar Karstark, so devoted to her new husband. She lacked for no company nor comfort from home, Olander had ensured, and the retinue of hand-maidens and servants that accompanied her were both attentive observers, perhaps a tad… nosy, and very, very social.
With his first work finished, Olander turned his attention to the second weirwood, just westward of the first. The obsidian in his blade set to work carving away the white bark to reveal the soul of the tree. This face was directed to the north and west, seeing all the land of the north that the first tree did not. Borrowton, Torrhen’s Square, the Rills, the Stoney Shore, Deepwood Motte, and even Bear Island, all had seen men stationed there during the defense of the north; men stationed by the hand of Olander Reed. Men liked to talk, men liked to make friends, but above all men liked gold. What the scowling carved eyes and grimacing slash of a mouth of the weirwood would gaze towards, the very real eyes and very real mouths of friends would find any and everywhere the heart tree couldn’t.
The third and final hear tree sat just south of the first two. With his dragonglass dagger in hand ,Olander began crafting his final face. His mossy eyes were aglint with a hunger beneath them as he worked, feeling the pull in his heart of things hidden beyond human sight. The face was facing south, out over the Neck, over the villages of the Fenn, the Moss, and the Marsh; over Greywater Watch and his kin; over his father and his southron gods, over his mother’s icy visage; over the bogs and marshes and wetlands and swamps; over his home.
Ever since Olander’s grandsire has passed on, and his father taken reign of the Neck, the people of the crannog had been touched with woe. Disease gone unchecked, feuds between long blood-tied kin gone unresolved, intruders gone unscathed, people unhelped and wants and wishes unheard. The illness of Lord Bennard Reed had been whispered a gift of the Old Gods, for the leadership of his son was the strong hand needed to guide the crannogmen into rights. Olander Reed had never lacked for friends amongst his own people.
The obsidian blade rose and fell and rose again in brutal hacks and slashes, the black point carving deep into the red sap and white bark of the weirwood. The hands of the tiny crannogman were guided by a primal urge, a deep seeded instinct of creation and worship to his gods’ will. With an inner strength he attacked the carved face until the dragonglass blade in his hand shattered, bringing him into the wet, chilly present. Olander was panting, and a sweat clung to his body like a cold embrace. Stepping back, the crannogman looked up to view the heart tree, and face he had carved.
It was laughing.
====================
Olander Reed gains Expert Intrigue
Olander Reed gains Beginner Mysteries of the Children of the Forest
Olander Reed establishes a spy network in the North
Olander Reed stepped back from the weirwood planted before him to appraise his work. The face was a sorrowful one to look upon, its thin mouth twisted with grief, empty eyes hollow and filled with pain. Even the blood-like sap dripping towards the ground looked like tears frozen in time. The crannogman allowed himself the enjoyment of grin as tiny as he was, pleased with his work.
In the Dawn Age, the Children of the Forest had carved many such heart trees to watch over their realm, to grant them sight beyond their own, to see the secrets beneath the world. The three that Olander had planted in the center of the yard of Moat Cailin to resemble its three towers were but saplings now, but with time they would grow to rival even the massive curtain wall that would surround his castle, and watch over his children, and their children after.
The first face carved faced to the north and east, setting in its sight over leagues and leagues of northland White Harbor, and the White Knife feeding through it into the Bite; further north, past Castle Cerwyn to Winterfell and further to Long Lake and the homes of the mountain clans; further past the Weeping Water and Last River, looking to the Dreadfort, to Last Hearth, to Karhold, which were north of Ramsgate and Widow’s Watch, and far across the Bay of Seals to Skagos.
Olander’s smile widened at that. Osha was a sweet wife, dutiful and doting, yet with wits enough to be useful and give her husband no pause about the fate of their children. What was more, sweet Osha was well liked in her father’s home of Last Hearth and her mother’s home of Castle Cerwyn, and had many close friends both highborn and low within each castle, and several acquaintances in both the luxurious and exotic goods-filled White Harbor and other surrounding castles, towns, and keeps. Olander’s wife had many friends, and friends liked to gossip. So too to the east lay his lovely cousin Pypar Karstark, so devoted to her new husband. She lacked for no company nor comfort from home, Olander had ensured, and the retinue of hand-maidens and servants that accompanied her were both attentive observers, perhaps a tad… nosy, and very, very social.
With his first work finished, Olander turned his attention to the second weirwood, just westward of the first. The obsidian in his blade set to work carving away the white bark to reveal the soul of the tree. This face was directed to the north and west, seeing all the land of the north that the first tree did not. Borrowton, Torrhen’s Square, the Rills, the Stoney Shore, Deepwood Motte, and even Bear Island, all had seen men stationed there during the defense of the north; men stationed by the hand of Olander Reed. Men liked to talk, men liked to make friends, but above all men liked gold. What the scowling carved eyes and grimacing slash of a mouth of the weirwood would gaze towards, the very real eyes and very real mouths of friends would find any and everywhere the heart tree couldn’t.
The third and final hear tree sat just south of the first two. With his dragonglass dagger in hand ,Olander began crafting his final face. His mossy eyes were aglint with a hunger beneath them as he worked, feeling the pull in his heart of things hidden beyond human sight. The face was facing south, out over the Neck, over the villages of the Fenn, the Moss, and the Marsh; over Greywater Watch and his kin; over his father and his southron gods, over his mother’s icy visage; over the bogs and marshes and wetlands and swamps; over his home.
Ever since Olander’s grandsire has passed on, and his father taken reign of the Neck, the people of the crannog had been touched with woe. Disease gone unchecked, feuds between long blood-tied kin gone unresolved, intruders gone unscathed, people unhelped and wants and wishes unheard. The illness of Lord Bennard Reed had been whispered a gift of the Old Gods, for the leadership of his son was the strong hand needed to guide the crannogmen into rights. Olander Reed had never lacked for friends amongst his own people.
The obsidian blade rose and fell and rose again in brutal hacks and slashes, the black point carving deep into the red sap and white bark of the weirwood. The hands of the tiny crannogman were guided by a primal urge, a deep seeded instinct of creation and worship to his gods’ will. With an inner strength he attacked the carved face until the dragonglass blade in his hand shattered, bringing him into the wet, chilly present. Olander was panting, and a sweat clung to his body like a cold embrace. Stepping back, the crannogman looked up to view the heart tree, and face he had carved.
It was laughing.
====================
Olander Reed gains Expert Intrigue
Olander Reed gains Beginner Mysteries of the Children of the Forest
Olander Reed establishes a spy network in the North