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Post by Horas on Oct 15, 2008 0:18:58 GMT -5
Situated along the Red Fork of the Trident, Raventree Hall is the ancestral home of House Blackwood. Raventree Hall is an old castle, sturdily constructed of stone, and houses one of the largest Godswoods south of the Neck.
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Post by Horas on Oct 15, 2008 1:28:48 GMT -5
News of the upcoming tourney has reached Raventree Hall, its practice yard is abustle with dozens of young knights hoping to sharpen their skills before they depart.
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Post by Ollie on Oct 15, 2008 13:19:54 GMT -5
"Put yer back int'a it!" a gruff voiced man shouted at the yard full of aspiring sers, swinging his own blunted blade at the man unlucky enough to be chosen to train with the Master-at-Arms himself. "Check! Parry! Thrust! No, not jus' wiff yer arm, wiff yer 'ole body!"
Ser Dunnock had aged like a fine wine. A fine, strong wine spilled down a wench's bodice and onto the tavern floor. His formerly shock red hair was now mostly a dark grey, a dusting of glowering embers still struggling to keep the flame burning. His face was deeply lined, as tough a boiled leather when it called for it, or kindly as a father when not. Muscles still churned underneath his light frame, and the vigor still burned in the gut of the Bloody Sparrow.
"Alright boys, 'nuff fer t'day! Go on and put up yer gear an' eat well t'night, we leave jes' as soon as Lord Terrence's guest arrives!"
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Post by Horas on Oct 15, 2008 13:56:28 GMT -5
"Dunnock, you old bastard, take it easy on 'em!" The words are harsh, but the tone is light, and the exclamation is followed by a burst of laughter. "They won't be any good to my cousin if you work them all to death in the training yard!"
Ser Daeron Blackwood rides into the courtyard, then dismounts and hands the reins to a stable boy. Horas Blackwood's eldest son had grown into a man, though all could agree he did not resemble his father in the slightest. Where the Crow was short and slight, Ser Daeron is robust and hearty with broad shoulders and a flat stomach. A thick dark beard clings to his jaw, despite the summer heat, and today it frames a wide smile.
"What's this about guests now, Sparrow? Terrence never tells me about this sort of thing until they're right upon us."
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Post by Ollie on Oct 15, 2008 16:10:46 GMT -5
Ser Dunnock smirked at Daeron's quip, reaching up to clap him on the shoulder after striding across the yard. "Well, 'is lordship told me 'imself that 'ee was expectin' guests. Some outriders came by, said their lord'd be 'ere by nightfall."
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Post by Horas on Oct 15, 2008 16:18:36 GMT -5
Daeron shrugs. "Probably just some of Terrence's Riverlord friends, come to travel with him to the tourney. If you see Jory, tell the bastard he still owes me fifty stags."
"Will you be traveling with us to the tourney then, Dunnock?" Daeron asks.
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Post by Ollie on Oct 15, 2008 16:41:06 GMT -5
The Master-at-Arms rattled his sword in its scabbard, rolling his eyes coyly. "Oh, I dunno. Y' think it'd be fair t' give these boys the hope o' winnin' some glory, only t'snatch it away when I enter the fight?" he drawled, chuckling throatily. "Eh, I don't see rightly why not. Plus, someone oughta watch milord's back while he goes trampsing about King's Landing, right?"
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Post by Horas on Oct 15, 2008 16:49:49 GMT -5
"Oho," Daeron retorts, "With those old bones of yours, some young buck is like to break you in two in the melee. You'd just better feel lucky that I'll be watching your back."
Daeron grins, then walks over to a rack of practice weapons. He selects a flail, hefting it experimentally. "What do you say to a bit of practice? We can't have our Master-at-arms getting rusty training green boys."
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Post by Ollie on Oct 15, 2008 20:04:46 GMT -5
"Ha!" Ser Dunnock spat, stretching his arms as he limbered up. He fetched a blunted blade from the rack and unslung his shield, readying both before he faced off against the Blackwood.
"C'mon then. Les' see if th' old sparrow can teach th' young crow a new song," he growled with a red smile.
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Post by Horas on Oct 15, 2008 20:11:29 GMT -5
Ser Daeron unslings his own shield, and begins whirling his flail overhead, a grin on his face. "We'll see if your swordsmanship can match up to your talk soon enough, Dunnock," he smiles, then leaps forward in attack.
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Post by Horas on Oct 15, 2008 21:02:29 GMT -5
///////////////////
Daeron offers his hand to help Dunnock to his feet.
"Well, you're more of a challenge than Terrence, I'll give you that," Daeron says with a crooked smile.
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Post by Ollie on Oct 15, 2008 21:25:44 GMT -5
Dunnock clasped the had offered firmly and hauled himself up. "Hah! An' I rightly hope you lot t'were watchin'!" he bellowed with a bark of laughter at his trainees. "Cause that's how y'beat th' best swordsman in Westeros!"
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Post by Horas on Oct 15, 2008 21:33:11 GMT -5
The trainees clap at the fight. A few hoot derisively at Dunnock's proclamation, but in good spirit.
"Let's get something to drink," Daeron suggests, "Or do you still have duties to attend to?" His tone makes his stance on said duties rather clear.
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Post by Ollie on Oct 15, 2008 21:44:11 GMT -5
The Bloody Sparrows opinion of duties were more or less in line with Daeron's, though much less public. "Benn, Gerald. Since I mustn't o' drilled th' proper way t' care fer yer mail and weapon, you two 'ave the pleasure of caring for the entire barrack's gear t'night. Th' rest of ye are dismissed!"
After the men had scatted in a mostly-cheerful mood, the Master-at-Arms (gingerly) threw his arm around the younger man's shoulders and walked with him to the hall. The tough demeanor he had worn before the soldiers had been replaced by a tired sigh and a wince. "Ye put t'thirst in me wiff that mace o' yers, raven. I'll surrender, if ye get me to th'ale."
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Post by Horas on Oct 15, 2008 22:01:02 GMT -5
Daeron lets the smaller man lean on him as they walk into the grand hall. "ALE!" Daeron shouts, "We need ale for the wounded man!"
A pretty wench hurries along with the requested beverages, and sets them down as Daeron and Dunnock sit down at the empty benches. "Ale fixes all ails," Daeron quips, then laughs at his own joke and takes a deep drink.
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