Post by The Stranger on Aug 2, 2008 16:31:22 GMT -5
The white flesh beneath his fingers was begging to be carved. She was begging, and Olander Reed was pleased to grant her every wish.
“The smith called her Gods' Eyes,” Myrrah said, twirling her skirts Olander had given her about as she danced in the middle of the room. They were a pretty, soft silk, purple as the flower in her hair and twice and beautiful. Her brother was such a sweetheart, she reflected, and the trip to Pentos hadn't been half-bad. She even had a little fun!
Olander said nothing, but let his hand walk up and down the weapon before him. It's three prongs of starmetal were white as milkglass, as the snows of the North, as the smooth, unadorned weirwood of it's handle. Each of the razor prongs caught and refracted even in the low candlelight. The iron bands around the weirwood were as deep black as the waters of the Neck. Around the head, and on each grip, were elaborate scenes of animals, trees, and thick foliage.
It wasn't the trident itself that made him smile then, but rather the fresh, untouched weirwood of the haft. “She is more than eyes of the Old Gods,” he said, not to Myrrah in particular but moreso simply aloud. “The eyes may see, but that does not mean they have a vision. The Old Gods granted me their guidance, their sight, to find this weapon, and so shall this weapon be their weapon... their tool.”
The obsidian dagger was in his had, though Myrrah could not say from where. She stood by silently as her brother began to carve into the white skin of the weirwood haft, revealing the rich, red flesh beneath. “The Old Gods watch over us all, Myrrah. Only the few are granted sight beyond that of this world,” he told her, strips of white falling to the rushes. “It is their sight that guides us, to guide their will.”
More white fell away to reveal sanguine pulp. Olander continued his work in a fervor, words and lessons spilling from his mouth in a torrent. The Old Gods guided his mouth, his hands; they set him on the path would be taken. Myrrah sat by dutifully, listening with rapt attention. Dusk faded and night grew, faded to the dawn. Olander's sister was long asleep by then, but he worked on regardless.
Letting the dragonglass blade fall from his hand, Olander held the trident aloft in his hands. From spearhead to haft, the white weirwood was adorned with red. Red eyes and red mouthes. Red faces beneath his hands, scowling, crying, laughing. Red like the blood of the First Men, red like the hands of the Old Gods, red like the faces of the heart tree. What the gods guided him too, what their sight showed him beyond his own vision, what tool they had granted him would see their will be done.
“Gods' Sight,” he declared, whisper voiced. He slept then.
And he dreamed.
The beasts raged in his mind, the gold and the grey. Six gashes in the oak, the paw ensnared. Bending, breaking, gnawing, howling. Sap gushing, crushing, wounds festering, and death, red death.
He woke at midday, though it felt as if had not slept at all. The slight crannogman's tiny chest could hardly contain his throbbing heart, and rivulets of sweat coated his body. It was only after he had penned and sent the first letter that he found Myrrah had gone. It bothered Olander none. He knew what was to be done now, and it was not she he needed to see, but his father.
==========
Olander gains Apprentice Greenseeing
Olander gains Novice Mysteries of the Children of the Forest
Olander Reed wields the starmetal trident, named Gods' Sight.
“The smith called her Gods' Eyes,” Myrrah said, twirling her skirts Olander had given her about as she danced in the middle of the room. They were a pretty, soft silk, purple as the flower in her hair and twice and beautiful. Her brother was such a sweetheart, she reflected, and the trip to Pentos hadn't been half-bad. She even had a little fun!
Olander said nothing, but let his hand walk up and down the weapon before him. It's three prongs of starmetal were white as milkglass, as the snows of the North, as the smooth, unadorned weirwood of it's handle. Each of the razor prongs caught and refracted even in the low candlelight. The iron bands around the weirwood were as deep black as the waters of the Neck. Around the head, and on each grip, were elaborate scenes of animals, trees, and thick foliage.
It wasn't the trident itself that made him smile then, but rather the fresh, untouched weirwood of the haft. “She is more than eyes of the Old Gods,” he said, not to Myrrah in particular but moreso simply aloud. “The eyes may see, but that does not mean they have a vision. The Old Gods granted me their guidance, their sight, to find this weapon, and so shall this weapon be their weapon... their tool.”
The obsidian dagger was in his had, though Myrrah could not say from where. She stood by silently as her brother began to carve into the white skin of the weirwood haft, revealing the rich, red flesh beneath. “The Old Gods watch over us all, Myrrah. Only the few are granted sight beyond that of this world,” he told her, strips of white falling to the rushes. “It is their sight that guides us, to guide their will.”
More white fell away to reveal sanguine pulp. Olander continued his work in a fervor, words and lessons spilling from his mouth in a torrent. The Old Gods guided his mouth, his hands; they set him on the path would be taken. Myrrah sat by dutifully, listening with rapt attention. Dusk faded and night grew, faded to the dawn. Olander's sister was long asleep by then, but he worked on regardless.
Letting the dragonglass blade fall from his hand, Olander held the trident aloft in his hands. From spearhead to haft, the white weirwood was adorned with red. Red eyes and red mouthes. Red faces beneath his hands, scowling, crying, laughing. Red like the blood of the First Men, red like the hands of the Old Gods, red like the faces of the heart tree. What the gods guided him too, what their sight showed him beyond his own vision, what tool they had granted him would see their will be done.
“Gods' Sight,” he declared, whisper voiced. He slept then.
And he dreamed.
The beasts raged in his mind, the gold and the grey. Six gashes in the oak, the paw ensnared. Bending, breaking, gnawing, howling. Sap gushing, crushing, wounds festering, and death, red death.
He woke at midday, though it felt as if had not slept at all. The slight crannogman's tiny chest could hardly contain his throbbing heart, and rivulets of sweat coated his body. It was only after he had penned and sent the first letter that he found Myrrah had gone. It bothered Olander none. He knew what was to be done now, and it was not she he needed to see, but his father.
==========
Olander gains Apprentice Greenseeing
Olander gains Novice Mysteries of the Children of the Forest
Olander Reed wields the starmetal trident, named Gods' Sight.