Post by The Smith on May 30, 2009 19:53:31 GMT -5
The cold ground ran red with blood, and it wasn’t difficult for Owen to discern from which side it had been shed. As far as he knew, spirits and dead men didn’t bleed. His charger pranced and reared under him, and the young knight was unsure whether she was antsy for a fight or just plain terrified. Somehow he imagined it was probably the latter.
He sat and watched the battle unfold before him, torn between his desire to flee before this ungodly foe and his hope to protect his fiercely guarded honor. More than anything, he was anxious. Anxious to die, anxious for glory, anxious for victory or defeat, it made no matter. Anything was better than the waiting. Yet there he sat, waiting.
He’d been charged with leading a small reserve cavalry, comprised mainly of the Western knights who had ridden North with him, though free riders and hedge knights were scattered among them. Three trumpet blasts would call him to battle, though he was unsure he’d be able to hear them above the thunderous roars of pain and agony. Men didn’t die quietly, he’d learned that lesson all too well in the past, though no Riverland foe had been half so daunting as the terrors that waited before him, all consuming and terrifying in every way.
Eventually, his question was answered. One, he counted, two, this is it, he thought, three, he’d already put his spurs to his mount before the sound reached him, her strong flanks kicking wildly, propelling him with menacing speed towards whatever fate awaited him below. His war cry echoed loud and long in his great helm, and he wondered if his men had followed him. He could scarcely blame them if they didn’t.
It seemed like only seconds and they were before him, his lance shuddering as it found it’s first target, his senses overwhelmed by an unearthly scream. The strike had been difficult, as his charger refused to continue along his planned course, scared witless by the beasts who would like nothing more than to kill them both. He pulled back his lance, and circled back, pleased that the lance had survived it’s stroke. He snuck a quick peak up at the tip and noted that the obsidian point was still intact, for which he thanked the Warrior with histories shortest prayer.
Another charged followed, then another, then a fourth. By this time, he was completely alone. Whether his men were dead, unhorsed or fled, he knew not, nor did he care. All that mattered was the lance and it’s dragon glass point. Never before had he managed four charges with the same lance, surely the Seven were with him today.
On his sixth charge, he was thrown from his horse, quite literally. Focused on the other before him, he never even saw the Wight, who made a surprisingly agile leap, his cold arms felt through his armor as the two of them crashed to the frozen earth beneath them. Blue eyes, terrible, cold, blue eyes were all Owen could see. Strangely, he found himself unable to look away, though it did not keep him from wrenching his dagger free of it’s sheath and driving it up under the dead man’s jaw. This bought him enough time to free his sword from it’s scabbard. He swung with a force he hadn’t known he possessed, freeing the dead man’s head from his shoulders. The body pressed on with the attack, though blindly, and it was soon hacked into little bits, Owen sweating violently despite the fact that he was freezing.
Owen fought on, knowing that he would not survive the day, cutting wights down left and right, though knowing it was only a matter of time before he went forth to meet his Gods face to face. He hadn’t brought any dragonglass besides the lance, without it, he knew he was as good as dead. Still, death with honor was better than life without, so he fought on with the wild abandonment of a cornered boar.
Just when he was sure it was over for him, he heard wings overhead, then saw fire shooting forth before him from the sky. He could feel the heat, and for a quick second, he marveled at the beauty of it. If I stay here I am sure to be consumed by it, he thought as he turned and began running for safety. That was the last thing he remembered when he woke in camp, though he was told he was knocked out cold and dragged to safety by Ser Jason Coolhearth, the battle won, though not without terrible consequences to the victors. The only injury he noted was a terrible headache, which subsided with a bit more sleep. He would have to speak to his Lord Father about building a beautiful new Sept in thanks to the Seven when he returned home, should his father still live. Still, a prayer would have to do for now. He prayed all day, thanking each of the Seven faces in turn, save the Stranger, taking neither food nor drink. He’d lived, so the Stranger would have to wait.
Ser Owen Lannister gains legendary lance
He sat and watched the battle unfold before him, torn between his desire to flee before this ungodly foe and his hope to protect his fiercely guarded honor. More than anything, he was anxious. Anxious to die, anxious for glory, anxious for victory or defeat, it made no matter. Anything was better than the waiting. Yet there he sat, waiting.
He’d been charged with leading a small reserve cavalry, comprised mainly of the Western knights who had ridden North with him, though free riders and hedge knights were scattered among them. Three trumpet blasts would call him to battle, though he was unsure he’d be able to hear them above the thunderous roars of pain and agony. Men didn’t die quietly, he’d learned that lesson all too well in the past, though no Riverland foe had been half so daunting as the terrors that waited before him, all consuming and terrifying in every way.
Eventually, his question was answered. One, he counted, two, this is it, he thought, three, he’d already put his spurs to his mount before the sound reached him, her strong flanks kicking wildly, propelling him with menacing speed towards whatever fate awaited him below. His war cry echoed loud and long in his great helm, and he wondered if his men had followed him. He could scarcely blame them if they didn’t.
It seemed like only seconds and they were before him, his lance shuddering as it found it’s first target, his senses overwhelmed by an unearthly scream. The strike had been difficult, as his charger refused to continue along his planned course, scared witless by the beasts who would like nothing more than to kill them both. He pulled back his lance, and circled back, pleased that the lance had survived it’s stroke. He snuck a quick peak up at the tip and noted that the obsidian point was still intact, for which he thanked the Warrior with histories shortest prayer.
Another charged followed, then another, then a fourth. By this time, he was completely alone. Whether his men were dead, unhorsed or fled, he knew not, nor did he care. All that mattered was the lance and it’s dragon glass point. Never before had he managed four charges with the same lance, surely the Seven were with him today.
On his sixth charge, he was thrown from his horse, quite literally. Focused on the other before him, he never even saw the Wight, who made a surprisingly agile leap, his cold arms felt through his armor as the two of them crashed to the frozen earth beneath them. Blue eyes, terrible, cold, blue eyes were all Owen could see. Strangely, he found himself unable to look away, though it did not keep him from wrenching his dagger free of it’s sheath and driving it up under the dead man’s jaw. This bought him enough time to free his sword from it’s scabbard. He swung with a force he hadn’t known he possessed, freeing the dead man’s head from his shoulders. The body pressed on with the attack, though blindly, and it was soon hacked into little bits, Owen sweating violently despite the fact that he was freezing.
Owen fought on, knowing that he would not survive the day, cutting wights down left and right, though knowing it was only a matter of time before he went forth to meet his Gods face to face. He hadn’t brought any dragonglass besides the lance, without it, he knew he was as good as dead. Still, death with honor was better than life without, so he fought on with the wild abandonment of a cornered boar.
Just when he was sure it was over for him, he heard wings overhead, then saw fire shooting forth before him from the sky. He could feel the heat, and for a quick second, he marveled at the beauty of it. If I stay here I am sure to be consumed by it, he thought as he turned and began running for safety. That was the last thing he remembered when he woke in camp, though he was told he was knocked out cold and dragged to safety by Ser Jason Coolhearth, the battle won, though not without terrible consequences to the victors. The only injury he noted was a terrible headache, which subsided with a bit more sleep. He would have to speak to his Lord Father about building a beautiful new Sept in thanks to the Seven when he returned home, should his father still live. Still, a prayer would have to do for now. He prayed all day, thanking each of the Seven faces in turn, save the Stranger, taking neither food nor drink. He’d lived, so the Stranger would have to wait.
Ser Owen Lannister gains legendary lance