Post by The Smith on Jun 18, 2009 17:19:00 GMT -5
It had been a full day and night, and another day, and still Talyn had not returned to the small camp of the Traitors’ Sons, and frankly, William “Old Dog” Hill was beginning to get worried. He gathered up the small company’s leaders, and the few veterans of the Last Battle, and spoke to them, in reassuring tones:
“Aight, I’ll be quick with it, ‘cuz I know everyone’s concerned. We done came down here on Captain Talyn’s orders, and it ain’t necessarily what we signed up for. Now he’s gone in there into that old stone monstrosity and he ain’t come out yet,” Hill examined the men in the command tent pointedly. “Now as I figure it, we’ve got too options. We can sit ‘round with our thumbs up our asses, we can bugger off down the road, or we can find out what the hell’s going on.”
Jack “Red Cap” Sawyer nodded, “I think we’re best off with some of both. Whatever happened that’s keeping the Captain tied up, we can guess that it’s not by his choice. This means we’re not surrounded by friendly troops. So I’d propose while the majority of the company strike camp through stealth, slip out by the ones and twos, and a select group search Harrenhal and recover Talyn.”
Old Dog nodded, “Aye, does everyone agree then?” There was a mumble of agreements.
“Alright, you older veterans are responsible for seeing that the others get themselves organized. Leave everything in place, but weapons and armor. No tents should be broken down, nor supplies packed. No one leaves camp until they get their order. When we go, we meet up once we are out of site of the main camp, and hightail it to Saltpans, then on north-wise. Meanwhile, Jack, you and I are going up into the Harrenhal to find Captain Thatcher. The rest of you are dismissed.”
The lieutenants and veterans headed out, and began to quietly spread the word that there would be a departure from camp, and Jack and Old Dog sat quietly in the tent, considering the issue.
“The only ones I’ve seen go into the keep itself is those masked fucks,” Old Dog said, stroking a few of his chin hairs in thought.
“Well than, we’ll need to get ourselves a pair of masks than, if that’s the only option,” Jack replied.
After some consideration, the two sellswords thought they had devised a plan to acquire their disguises.
When darkness fell, Hill and Sawyer made their way towards the latrine trench. Every camp had one, it was always on the outskirts, and nobody wanted to stand near it. Especially not sentries. And the best part about it, everyone has to go eventually, even vicious fanatics.
The two masked men were standing over the edge of the trench, their hands on their cocks.
They did not speak, or whistle as they did their business, they just stood solemnly. It seemed the Cult even pissed mystery.
Old Dog struck first, burying the blade of his dagger between the man’s third and fourth rib, as the westerman’s gnarled old hand covered the cultist’s mouth. The blade sliced through the man’s lung, and the only he made was a low gurgle for air.
Simultaneously, Jack brought his shortsword down, piercing his target through the collar bone and down into the man’s heart. He died instantly.
Without a word, the two men stripped the masks from the corpses, and put them on.
“Gods, I can see why this one wore a mask,” Old Dog said, as he rolled the body into the urine and feces filled trench.
“I can’t see anything in this thing, how do they fight in these things?” Jack replied as he did the same, but the old bandit just shrugged.
“I’ve worn more uncomfortable things to hide my face. Once used a pair of a lady’s unmentionables as a mask, little frilly lacy things, but that was only a one time thing.”
“Shh…. Let me do the talking when we get up there,” Jack said. The Old Dog was not known as the most persuasive man. Not without his mace anyway. He nodded in agreement. The two masked men moved confidentially back to the camp and up to the portcullis of Harrenhal.
“Raise the gates, two coming in,” Jack said gruffly as he approached the guard on the other side.
“Under whose authorization?” the guard replied, scratching at the nape of his neck where the mask had chaffed the man raw.
“Who do you think? The Bitch Queen is near and we were told to double check on the cistern and the provisions and then report back to Ryker,” Jack replied, dropping one of the few names they had.
“Eh… that seems odd,”
“Well, I don’t make the orders, I just follow them, so open the hell up.”
The Cultist seemed about to raise another objection, but then changed his tone, and reached for the lever to raise the portcullis.
With a stern nod, Old Dog took the lead, pushing past the guard by the gate, with Jack not far behind.
“This place is huge, how will we ever find him?” Jack whispered.
“Well, figure they are going to want to keep him somewhere hard to get to. But I don’t think they are like to put him in the dungeon. For one it’s the obvious choice, and two, he is Thatcher’s son right? So I think an upper floor room is the more likely.”
“Well yes, but in which tower?”
“Ah… there I have no idea.”
Fortunately, the massive size of Harrenhal made it indefensible with the few thousand cultists available. Instead they seemed to have consolidated themselves mostly in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths and the Kingspyre. The two sellswords ambled cautiously through the dark and shadowy hallways, doing their best to blend in.
For the most part, the enemy paid them no mind, as if they were simply invisible. Perhaps because constantly masked, none of the castle’s occupants knew any of the others, or possibly because with the secrecy of their masters’ dealings, there was no way to determine who was or was not operating on official business.
After a long and exhausting search however, Old Dog and Jack were no closer than they were in the beginning.
“Blast, I’ve no idea where to look now,” Old Dog confessed. Jack nodded, his own legs exhausted from the numerous steps they’d gone up and down searching every floor of the great and ruined tower. The Stormlander leaned his back against the cold stone wall, and shrugged.
“I don’t know how he gets himself into these mes…”
“Shh….” Jack said, raising a finger, “did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That sound, it was like… a man crying out. Listen.” The Old Dog followed Jack’s motion and pressed his ear to the stone as his comrade suggested. And true enough he could hear the sounds of groaning, “…..stop …please….stop,” the voice seemed to be saying. Each pleading word followed by a loud “thump.”
“Bastards. That’s got to be Talyn, and they are torturing him!” Old Dog said, placing his hand on the mace tucked into his belt.
“If we keep our heads close to the wall, we can hear it as it gets louder, that’ll mean we’re getting close!” Jack confirmed, as the two men moved down the hallway with renewed urgency stopping ever so often to listen for the pleading sounds which were becoming more high pitched and feverish.
“Gods, I’d have thought him made of stern stuff,” Old Dog said,
“We’d best get there soon.”
As they turned the corner, Jack put his hand on Hill’s arm, and slowed his pace. There was a single Cultist standing before the door, his hands across his chest.
“We were told you relieve you,” Jack said as they approached the man.
“What? I heard no words to that affe…” the man said before collapsing like a sack of shit, as the Westerman brought his mace down on the top of the man’s skull.
“Well that was subtle,” Jack said, sniffing the air as though offended.
“No time!” Dog said, throwing off the bar on the door, and stepping inside…
“Stop torturing the Captain!” he yelled, even before settling his eyes on the room…
Which consisted of a large four poster bed. Visible on the bed was the delicately arched back of a slender feminine frame, rising up to a short red mop of hair. A pair of men’s feet were visible at the bottom of the bed.
“Doesn’t look like any torture technique I know about,” Jack said with a snicker, as he dragged the unconscious cultist inside and shut the door behind them.
Results: Old Dog Hill and Jack Sawyer find Talyn Thatcher and Kyma Targaryen.
Old Dog Hill to Expert Stealth
Old Dog Hill to Noteworthy Dagger
Jack Sawyer to Expert Disguise
Jack Sawyer to Noteworthy Persuasion.
“Aight, I’ll be quick with it, ‘cuz I know everyone’s concerned. We done came down here on Captain Talyn’s orders, and it ain’t necessarily what we signed up for. Now he’s gone in there into that old stone monstrosity and he ain’t come out yet,” Hill examined the men in the command tent pointedly. “Now as I figure it, we’ve got too options. We can sit ‘round with our thumbs up our asses, we can bugger off down the road, or we can find out what the hell’s going on.”
Jack “Red Cap” Sawyer nodded, “I think we’re best off with some of both. Whatever happened that’s keeping the Captain tied up, we can guess that it’s not by his choice. This means we’re not surrounded by friendly troops. So I’d propose while the majority of the company strike camp through stealth, slip out by the ones and twos, and a select group search Harrenhal and recover Talyn.”
Old Dog nodded, “Aye, does everyone agree then?” There was a mumble of agreements.
“Alright, you older veterans are responsible for seeing that the others get themselves organized. Leave everything in place, but weapons and armor. No tents should be broken down, nor supplies packed. No one leaves camp until they get their order. When we go, we meet up once we are out of site of the main camp, and hightail it to Saltpans, then on north-wise. Meanwhile, Jack, you and I are going up into the Harrenhal to find Captain Thatcher. The rest of you are dismissed.”
The lieutenants and veterans headed out, and began to quietly spread the word that there would be a departure from camp, and Jack and Old Dog sat quietly in the tent, considering the issue.
“The only ones I’ve seen go into the keep itself is those masked fucks,” Old Dog said, stroking a few of his chin hairs in thought.
“Well than, we’ll need to get ourselves a pair of masks than, if that’s the only option,” Jack replied.
After some consideration, the two sellswords thought they had devised a plan to acquire their disguises.
When darkness fell, Hill and Sawyer made their way towards the latrine trench. Every camp had one, it was always on the outskirts, and nobody wanted to stand near it. Especially not sentries. And the best part about it, everyone has to go eventually, even vicious fanatics.
The two masked men were standing over the edge of the trench, their hands on their cocks.
They did not speak, or whistle as they did their business, they just stood solemnly. It seemed the Cult even pissed mystery.
Old Dog struck first, burying the blade of his dagger between the man’s third and fourth rib, as the westerman’s gnarled old hand covered the cultist’s mouth. The blade sliced through the man’s lung, and the only he made was a low gurgle for air.
Simultaneously, Jack brought his shortsword down, piercing his target through the collar bone and down into the man’s heart. He died instantly.
Without a word, the two men stripped the masks from the corpses, and put them on.
“Gods, I can see why this one wore a mask,” Old Dog said, as he rolled the body into the urine and feces filled trench.
“I can’t see anything in this thing, how do they fight in these things?” Jack replied as he did the same, but the old bandit just shrugged.
“I’ve worn more uncomfortable things to hide my face. Once used a pair of a lady’s unmentionables as a mask, little frilly lacy things, but that was only a one time thing.”
“Shh…. Let me do the talking when we get up there,” Jack said. The Old Dog was not known as the most persuasive man. Not without his mace anyway. He nodded in agreement. The two masked men moved confidentially back to the camp and up to the portcullis of Harrenhal.
“Raise the gates, two coming in,” Jack said gruffly as he approached the guard on the other side.
“Under whose authorization?” the guard replied, scratching at the nape of his neck where the mask had chaffed the man raw.
“Who do you think? The Bitch Queen is near and we were told to double check on the cistern and the provisions and then report back to Ryker,” Jack replied, dropping one of the few names they had.
“Eh… that seems odd,”
“Well, I don’t make the orders, I just follow them, so open the hell up.”
The Cultist seemed about to raise another objection, but then changed his tone, and reached for the lever to raise the portcullis.
With a stern nod, Old Dog took the lead, pushing past the guard by the gate, with Jack not far behind.
“This place is huge, how will we ever find him?” Jack whispered.
“Well, figure they are going to want to keep him somewhere hard to get to. But I don’t think they are like to put him in the dungeon. For one it’s the obvious choice, and two, he is Thatcher’s son right? So I think an upper floor room is the more likely.”
“Well yes, but in which tower?”
“Ah… there I have no idea.”
Fortunately, the massive size of Harrenhal made it indefensible with the few thousand cultists available. Instead they seemed to have consolidated themselves mostly in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths and the Kingspyre. The two sellswords ambled cautiously through the dark and shadowy hallways, doing their best to blend in.
For the most part, the enemy paid them no mind, as if they were simply invisible. Perhaps because constantly masked, none of the castle’s occupants knew any of the others, or possibly because with the secrecy of their masters’ dealings, there was no way to determine who was or was not operating on official business.
After a long and exhausting search however, Old Dog and Jack were no closer than they were in the beginning.
“Blast, I’ve no idea where to look now,” Old Dog confessed. Jack nodded, his own legs exhausted from the numerous steps they’d gone up and down searching every floor of the great and ruined tower. The Stormlander leaned his back against the cold stone wall, and shrugged.
“I don’t know how he gets himself into these mes…”
“Shh….” Jack said, raising a finger, “did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That sound, it was like… a man crying out. Listen.” The Old Dog followed Jack’s motion and pressed his ear to the stone as his comrade suggested. And true enough he could hear the sounds of groaning, “…..stop …please….stop,” the voice seemed to be saying. Each pleading word followed by a loud “thump.”
“Bastards. That’s got to be Talyn, and they are torturing him!” Old Dog said, placing his hand on the mace tucked into his belt.
“If we keep our heads close to the wall, we can hear it as it gets louder, that’ll mean we’re getting close!” Jack confirmed, as the two men moved down the hallway with renewed urgency stopping ever so often to listen for the pleading sounds which were becoming more high pitched and feverish.
“Gods, I’d have thought him made of stern stuff,” Old Dog said,
“We’d best get there soon.”
As they turned the corner, Jack put his hand on Hill’s arm, and slowed his pace. There was a single Cultist standing before the door, his hands across his chest.
“We were told you relieve you,” Jack said as they approached the man.
“What? I heard no words to that affe…” the man said before collapsing like a sack of shit, as the Westerman brought his mace down on the top of the man’s skull.
“Well that was subtle,” Jack said, sniffing the air as though offended.
“No time!” Dog said, throwing off the bar on the door, and stepping inside…
“Stop torturing the Captain!” he yelled, even before settling his eyes on the room…
Which consisted of a large four poster bed. Visible on the bed was the delicately arched back of a slender feminine frame, rising up to a short red mop of hair. A pair of men’s feet were visible at the bottom of the bed.
“Doesn’t look like any torture technique I know about,” Jack said with a snicker, as he dragged the unconscious cultist inside and shut the door behind them.
Results: Old Dog Hill and Jack Sawyer find Talyn Thatcher and Kyma Targaryen.
Old Dog Hill to Expert Stealth
Old Dog Hill to Noteworthy Dagger
Jack Sawyer to Expert Disguise
Jack Sawyer to Noteworthy Persuasion.