Post by The Smith on Sept 5, 2008 21:19:00 GMT -5
As I stepped off the merchant cog which had carried me and my staff from King’s Landing to Oldtown, I took a moment to reflect the good fortunate which my old master, Lord Francis Varner, had fallen, in beginning his organization, at the heart of Oldtown. An ancient city, the oldest, indeed in all of Westeros, and home to man of the Kingdoms most important institutions. For it was here that the Maesters kept their citadel, training future acolytes in the knowledge they would bring to keeps across the land. It was also the home of the great Starry Sept, where generations of Septons had learned the methods of devotion to the Seven. While the Great Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing was bigger, and the home of the High Septon, leader of the faith, it was Oldtown where their spiritual home resided.
Make no mistake. Neither of these great institutions had answered to Lord Varner. Nor do the answer to me now. But many of their members do. You see, it was in Oldtown where they had made their first youthful indiscretions. Broken vows, Bedded women, or borrowed sums they could not pay back. And we had been watching.
I pulled my traveler’s cloak tighter around me, as I traipsed through the mud and mire of the harbor streets.
“‘cuse me ser, but might’n you be interested in a tour of Oldtown?” A familiar voice propositioned. Laying up against the wall.
“I’m familiar enough with Oldtown, Farnsworth,” I said, as my eyes adjusted and took in the man’s visage. Farnsworth was a bum, a drunk an a ne’er-do-well, but his eyes saw everything. After all, who would notice such a man, the small begging bowl filled with a few coppers and the odd wooden penny? I added a few silver stags, as I squatted down to look the man in the eye.
“Thank you milord, thank you kindly.” He said, quickly snatching the silvers away, and tucking them inside his shift, leaving just the few coppers and the wooden penny.
Farnsworth knew, as all beggars instinctively do, that to have an empty bowl was as disastrous as to have a full one. Something about the disgust we humans feel for our truly helpless brethren. More likely to turn on the sick and and eat them…
Like Rats.
My thoughts drifted temporarily to the rats in the walls, and than to the Eyeless horror. The Beetle had expressed no surprise when I spoke of it. I couldn’t help but wonder what else the hoary lord of Lannisport knew about the Cult of the Dead God which he wasn’t telling me. I supposed I would have to learn more on my own.
Which is what brought me to Oldtown, and the Citadel.
“Milord, you’ll find the fella you’re after at the Dog and Pony, he’s in Room 2B, on the second floor. And forgive me for saying so milord, but it seems you’ve grown a tail. Man in a brown tunic and cowl, over there talking to the fishmonger.”
“Thank you Farnsworth, I appreciate the warning.” I rose, and dusted off the front of my cloak, taking the opportunity to gaze at the man the beggar had spotted. Indeed, the man was adequate, but not good, and his clear lack of interest in his conversation with the fishwife was evident by his repeated glances in my direction.
Having said my goodbyes to Farnsworth I moved through the thickening crowd towards the shop keeping district.
My shadow stayed with me, and I made not attempt to lose him, until I reached the deep recesses of the Volante quarter. Merchants from Volantis had once done a sizeable amount of Oldtown trade. Now most of these small businesses paid Lady Varner for the privilege. Across the river, were the larger trading houses, which did business exclusively under the authority of the Hightower, filling the Lord Paramount of the Far Reach’s coffers. So it had been since the early days of the Far Reach’s separation from Highgarden.
What I was looking for though, was not commerce, but the little telltale sign of graffiti on the wall behind a butcher’s shop. As I passed I cross my hands before my chest and stretched languidly. Just another traveler, taking in the sights of Oldtown, and finding it not as exciting as he had hoped for.
I turned the corner just in time to see a pair of boots attached to legs beneath a brown tunic being pulled back into an alley.
It pays to have friends.
I arrived at the Dog and Pony after a lengthy walk, and in my anticipation took the steps up to the second floor two at a time. I wrapped three times against the wooden door, which opened slowly.
The gnarled face of Maester Totson, Third Librarian of the Citadel, and keeper of some of its most obscure and darkest texts peered from behind the door.
“You’re late.” He said, in a huff.
“I apologize; I was delayed by matters out of my control.”
“Ah, so there are matters outside of your control!” Totson said, something like a smirk growing on his face.
“Not many.” I retorted, “Did you bring them?”
“Yes, everything you requested, and some I thought might serve us well, and did you bring yours?”
“I did.” I replied, removing a black leather-bound book from the satchel at my shoulder, and handing it to the man.
“Can you… read it?” I asked, pausing to chuckle as I realize the mere sight of the book had caused me to lower my voice conspiratorial. Totson examined it carefully.
“The cover text is some corruption of the Old Language. The inside, is a hodge-podge. I see some high valyrian, some of the languages of the east. It will take time, but I believe I can make sense of it.
“Good, get to work, and I shall begin my own research.” I said.
“Are you sure this wouldn’t be easier if you told me what you are looking for?”
“If I told you Maester, you wouldn’t believe me.” I replied, as a settled in to one of the two reading desks in the room, and cracked open the first tome, a thin layer of dust rising into the air.
After six hours, my eyes were straining, and I was struggling to stay upright. There was useful information here, and no doubt a man of pure intellect like Maester Totson found it fascinating in its own right. But I was not here simply for idle curiosity.
There was the story of certain cults of the God of Night and Terror, the enemy of the Fire God Rh’llor across the Narrow Sea which had some promise. They shared details, such as the focus on eyelessness as a symbol, and even plucking the eyes of high ranking members. But such cults did not share my enemy’s intense focus on life after death, nor stories of a dead god that would rise. As for resurrections, it was the Fire Priests who were famed for restoring life to the dead, rather than their ancient… mythic opponent.
There were alleged cults of Wildlings beyond the wall who worshiped the legendary others, but the Citadel’s many volumes seemed to dismiss this as stories from bored brothers of the Night’s Watch. I after my own experience in Bronzegate, I was disinclined to dismiss such tales quite as easily as the masters in their cloistered cells.
‘Master Flea, take a look at this.” Maester Tetson rested a piece of draft parchment before me, in his delicate calligraphy. I read it aloud.
“Lo, be wary of steel which burns with the fiery light of the stars, for it is hateful to his Eyes.”
“That phrase corresponds to this diagram,” The maester said, gesturing to the volume I had taken from the creature in the basement of Bronzegate. It showed some kind of stone being melted down, and than, in the neighboring diagram, a sword being forged. The drawing was incomplete, but the markings on the blade were enlarged for clarity. As I thought about stars and metals, and swords, I recalled for a moment something Lord Varner had told me once. Of the location of certain materials which would one day be of use, but what use he did not or could not say.
“It reminds me of the old stories of the Lightbringer…” Totson said, “Isn’t it funny that so many cultures share similar stories.”
“I’m thinking about writing a chapter myself,” I replied, as I stood, collecting the remaining translation, and my stolen text back into my satchel.
“Thank you for your help Maester.”
“Your welcome.” He replied, as he began packing up his own volumes.
“Needless to say…” I began…
“We didn’t meet, this didn’t happen. I know I know.” Totson said, with a brief smile, as we parted ways.
Results:
Flea moves to Grandmaster Espionage
Flea moves to Novice Higher Mysteries.
Make no mistake. Neither of these great institutions had answered to Lord Varner. Nor do the answer to me now. But many of their members do. You see, it was in Oldtown where they had made their first youthful indiscretions. Broken vows, Bedded women, or borrowed sums they could not pay back. And we had been watching.
I pulled my traveler’s cloak tighter around me, as I traipsed through the mud and mire of the harbor streets.
“‘cuse me ser, but might’n you be interested in a tour of Oldtown?” A familiar voice propositioned. Laying up against the wall.
“I’m familiar enough with Oldtown, Farnsworth,” I said, as my eyes adjusted and took in the man’s visage. Farnsworth was a bum, a drunk an a ne’er-do-well, but his eyes saw everything. After all, who would notice such a man, the small begging bowl filled with a few coppers and the odd wooden penny? I added a few silver stags, as I squatted down to look the man in the eye.
“Thank you milord, thank you kindly.” He said, quickly snatching the silvers away, and tucking them inside his shift, leaving just the few coppers and the wooden penny.
Farnsworth knew, as all beggars instinctively do, that to have an empty bowl was as disastrous as to have a full one. Something about the disgust we humans feel for our truly helpless brethren. More likely to turn on the sick and and eat them…
Like Rats.
My thoughts drifted temporarily to the rats in the walls, and than to the Eyeless horror. The Beetle had expressed no surprise when I spoke of it. I couldn’t help but wonder what else the hoary lord of Lannisport knew about the Cult of the Dead God which he wasn’t telling me. I supposed I would have to learn more on my own.
Which is what brought me to Oldtown, and the Citadel.
“Milord, you’ll find the fella you’re after at the Dog and Pony, he’s in Room 2B, on the second floor. And forgive me for saying so milord, but it seems you’ve grown a tail. Man in a brown tunic and cowl, over there talking to the fishmonger.”
“Thank you Farnsworth, I appreciate the warning.” I rose, and dusted off the front of my cloak, taking the opportunity to gaze at the man the beggar had spotted. Indeed, the man was adequate, but not good, and his clear lack of interest in his conversation with the fishwife was evident by his repeated glances in my direction.
Having said my goodbyes to Farnsworth I moved through the thickening crowd towards the shop keeping district.
My shadow stayed with me, and I made not attempt to lose him, until I reached the deep recesses of the Volante quarter. Merchants from Volantis had once done a sizeable amount of Oldtown trade. Now most of these small businesses paid Lady Varner for the privilege. Across the river, were the larger trading houses, which did business exclusively under the authority of the Hightower, filling the Lord Paramount of the Far Reach’s coffers. So it had been since the early days of the Far Reach’s separation from Highgarden.
What I was looking for though, was not commerce, but the little telltale sign of graffiti on the wall behind a butcher’s shop. As I passed I cross my hands before my chest and stretched languidly. Just another traveler, taking in the sights of Oldtown, and finding it not as exciting as he had hoped for.
I turned the corner just in time to see a pair of boots attached to legs beneath a brown tunic being pulled back into an alley.
It pays to have friends.
I arrived at the Dog and Pony after a lengthy walk, and in my anticipation took the steps up to the second floor two at a time. I wrapped three times against the wooden door, which opened slowly.
The gnarled face of Maester Totson, Third Librarian of the Citadel, and keeper of some of its most obscure and darkest texts peered from behind the door.
“You’re late.” He said, in a huff.
“I apologize; I was delayed by matters out of my control.”
“Ah, so there are matters outside of your control!” Totson said, something like a smirk growing on his face.
“Not many.” I retorted, “Did you bring them?”
“Yes, everything you requested, and some I thought might serve us well, and did you bring yours?”
“I did.” I replied, removing a black leather-bound book from the satchel at my shoulder, and handing it to the man.
“Can you… read it?” I asked, pausing to chuckle as I realize the mere sight of the book had caused me to lower my voice conspiratorial. Totson examined it carefully.
“The cover text is some corruption of the Old Language. The inside, is a hodge-podge. I see some high valyrian, some of the languages of the east. It will take time, but I believe I can make sense of it.
“Good, get to work, and I shall begin my own research.” I said.
“Are you sure this wouldn’t be easier if you told me what you are looking for?”
“If I told you Maester, you wouldn’t believe me.” I replied, as a settled in to one of the two reading desks in the room, and cracked open the first tome, a thin layer of dust rising into the air.
After six hours, my eyes were straining, and I was struggling to stay upright. There was useful information here, and no doubt a man of pure intellect like Maester Totson found it fascinating in its own right. But I was not here simply for idle curiosity.
There was the story of certain cults of the God of Night and Terror, the enemy of the Fire God Rh’llor across the Narrow Sea which had some promise. They shared details, such as the focus on eyelessness as a symbol, and even plucking the eyes of high ranking members. But such cults did not share my enemy’s intense focus on life after death, nor stories of a dead god that would rise. As for resurrections, it was the Fire Priests who were famed for restoring life to the dead, rather than their ancient… mythic opponent.
There were alleged cults of Wildlings beyond the wall who worshiped the legendary others, but the Citadel’s many volumes seemed to dismiss this as stories from bored brothers of the Night’s Watch. I after my own experience in Bronzegate, I was disinclined to dismiss such tales quite as easily as the masters in their cloistered cells.
‘Master Flea, take a look at this.” Maester Tetson rested a piece of draft parchment before me, in his delicate calligraphy. I read it aloud.
“Lo, be wary of steel which burns with the fiery light of the stars, for it is hateful to his Eyes.”
“That phrase corresponds to this diagram,” The maester said, gesturing to the volume I had taken from the creature in the basement of Bronzegate. It showed some kind of stone being melted down, and than, in the neighboring diagram, a sword being forged. The drawing was incomplete, but the markings on the blade were enlarged for clarity. As I thought about stars and metals, and swords, I recalled for a moment something Lord Varner had told me once. Of the location of certain materials which would one day be of use, but what use he did not or could not say.
“It reminds me of the old stories of the Lightbringer…” Totson said, “Isn’t it funny that so many cultures share similar stories.”
“I’m thinking about writing a chapter myself,” I replied, as I stood, collecting the remaining translation, and my stolen text back into my satchel.
“Thank you for your help Maester.”
“Your welcome.” He replied, as he began packing up his own volumes.
“Needless to say…” I began…
“We didn’t meet, this didn’t happen. I know I know.” Totson said, with a brief smile, as we parted ways.
Results:
Flea moves to Grandmaster Espionage
Flea moves to Novice Higher Mysteries.