Post by The Smith on May 30, 2009 18:37:22 GMT -5
His first life ended quick enough, Dyther Morrigen later considered in his small black tent. The Fist of the First Men had certainly seemed empty that night, moon in the air, a few clouds obscuring it from time to time. Banefort had said they'd be there for half a night's sleep before moving on to meet with some wild men of one tribe or another, Thenns or ice river cannibals no doubt. Dyther liked ice river cannibals; if they wanted to eat you they'd fight fiercely until the time to eat you came. Wights probably tasted terrible.
He heard a shout, some man calling out a warning, and his hand was on his dragonglass blade even as the first undead caming shambling. Many, too many, he thought, even for the whole army. Obsidian was useless against wights, so he went for his sword and a torch. It seemed like hours passed as he lit them on fire and sliced off their heads. He saw Ser Jarrett Morrigen, his distant cousin, fine with a blade, fall to three Others, taking two with him, and many others dying. "Fall back! Fall back!" Banefort's voice struck over the commotion.
For the first, but not the last time, the Army of the Evernight's raid party broke utterly, men abandoned to fear fleeing all about, their rationality telling them to do so meant death and resurrection, their instinct telling them only to get away from this cursed place. The others moved silently, hacking them apart. Dyther came across one, dove to a side and trew his blade, his aim true, the dragonglass melting through it. He kept moving and took his blade, running with a half dozen men, none looking back at the disaster that befell the Fist.
///
It was three days after Lord Banefort's eight and last expedition that Dyther Morrigen returned to camp, bloody with both the new wights he had slain and the animals he'd eaten. He had a giant spider leg shell serving as a cast for his hurt shin, his scabbard serving as a crutch as he had made his way to the small host of Westeros. The memories of the last week were faint, mostly just blending in with his other ill-fated expeditions. Banefort wasn't very successful, but if a man could stay alive under HIS command, then he could surely never die.
He did, as men welcomed him in shock, allow himself some whiskey and a recollection of his tell. He decided to tell the truth, as no lie was more implausible. "It was a waterfall that saved me. The wights had me'n Rodrick Stahl of the Landing backed against it. Lord Banefort had retreated east, but we were cut off and went south into the freezing river. They followed us of course, and at last we had to turn and fight, but then old Rodrick said "Jump!" and did, and damned if we didn't. Eighty feet we plunged into a river, and I felt my leg snap. Rodrick was all right, though, so we kept going.
The next day, we saw one of those Icicle cavalry, on the spider. He smelled us out and came for us with a lance, and I missed my throw with my dagger. Rodrick took the hit and killed it in one blow, then the spider too." There was a note of admiration in his voice. Spiders were damned tough. "Well, after it died, Rodrick joined the gods, and I burned him as appropriate, then damned if I didn't take a little souvenir to help me walk." The men hooted, and one called out.
"Ye got more lives than a damned cat! Dyther Fucking Nine Lives Morrigen!" The men chuckled, and from thence that was his byname. Where Banefort was unlucky for slaughtering all his men time and again, Dyther was praised for his inability to let chance end his life.
///
The Final Battle was never more ironically named, Dyther considered as he nursed his wounds after the fight, looking over the dragonfire-scarred land. This is the First Battle of the new age, an age of reclamation. He'd done his share, he thought, Others and wights had fallen to his blade by the tens it seemed, but in the end all it took were a few women and their flying lizards. He'dtaken cuts, and a wight had tried ripping his arm off, but some man had helped him. Fighting with an injured leg sucked, to be sure, but he had survived yet again, where so many had not.
Over the next days he watched as the politics settled in, as his king knelt to some woman, and at nightfall he turned south, to the Great Wall that had protected them so long, and in the end would prove an obstacle to their return. He idly wondered whether he had a tenth life in him.
He heard a shout, some man calling out a warning, and his hand was on his dragonglass blade even as the first undead caming shambling. Many, too many, he thought, even for the whole army. Obsidian was useless against wights, so he went for his sword and a torch. It seemed like hours passed as he lit them on fire and sliced off their heads. He saw Ser Jarrett Morrigen, his distant cousin, fine with a blade, fall to three Others, taking two with him, and many others dying. "Fall back! Fall back!" Banefort's voice struck over the commotion.
For the first, but not the last time, the Army of the Evernight's raid party broke utterly, men abandoned to fear fleeing all about, their rationality telling them to do so meant death and resurrection, their instinct telling them only to get away from this cursed place. The others moved silently, hacking them apart. Dyther came across one, dove to a side and trew his blade, his aim true, the dragonglass melting through it. He kept moving and took his blade, running with a half dozen men, none looking back at the disaster that befell the Fist.
///
It was three days after Lord Banefort's eight and last expedition that Dyther Morrigen returned to camp, bloody with both the new wights he had slain and the animals he'd eaten. He had a giant spider leg shell serving as a cast for his hurt shin, his scabbard serving as a crutch as he had made his way to the small host of Westeros. The memories of the last week were faint, mostly just blending in with his other ill-fated expeditions. Banefort wasn't very successful, but if a man could stay alive under HIS command, then he could surely never die.
He did, as men welcomed him in shock, allow himself some whiskey and a recollection of his tell. He decided to tell the truth, as no lie was more implausible. "It was a waterfall that saved me. The wights had me'n Rodrick Stahl of the Landing backed against it. Lord Banefort had retreated east, but we were cut off and went south into the freezing river. They followed us of course, and at last we had to turn and fight, but then old Rodrick said "Jump!" and did, and damned if we didn't. Eighty feet we plunged into a river, and I felt my leg snap. Rodrick was all right, though, so we kept going.
The next day, we saw one of those Icicle cavalry, on the spider. He smelled us out and came for us with a lance, and I missed my throw with my dagger. Rodrick took the hit and killed it in one blow, then the spider too." There was a note of admiration in his voice. Spiders were damned tough. "Well, after it died, Rodrick joined the gods, and I burned him as appropriate, then damned if I didn't take a little souvenir to help me walk." The men hooted, and one called out.
"Ye got more lives than a damned cat! Dyther Fucking Nine Lives Morrigen!" The men chuckled, and from thence that was his byname. Where Banefort was unlucky for slaughtering all his men time and again, Dyther was praised for his inability to let chance end his life.
///
The Final Battle was never more ironically named, Dyther considered as he nursed his wounds after the fight, looking over the dragonfire-scarred land. This is the First Battle of the new age, an age of reclamation. He'd done his share, he thought, Others and wights had fallen to his blade by the tens it seemed, but in the end all it took were a few women and their flying lizards. He'dtaken cuts, and a wight had tried ripping his arm off, but some man had helped him. Fighting with an injured leg sucked, to be sure, but he had survived yet again, where so many had not.
Over the next days he watched as the politics settled in, as his king knelt to some woman, and at nightfall he turned south, to the Great Wall that had protected them so long, and in the end would prove an obstacle to their return. He idly wondered whether he had a tenth life in him.