Post by Tristan Rydralle on Aug 7, 2012 16:57:26 GMT -5
((OOC: This thread has already been graded.)
The weather was just as bleak and cold as it usually was, the skies a dull and dismal shade of grey. It was no different from anywhere north of the Neck, and in truth he expected no less. Not to be mistaken for dislike or complaint, Tristan was of the North and as such he preferred the cold weather. To him it was the sibling that he had never had, but was always there; constant, unyielding and steadfast. Besides his mother it had been the one consistent force in his life, and it was one of the main reasons that the South had never appealed to him; not to mention he always felt he wouldn’t feel comfortable in the heat the South was known for.
Tilting his head back, Tristan briefly looked at the sky before closing his eyes and deeply breathing in. The cold morning air rushed down into his lungs, partially numbing his throat on the way. There was no feeling like it, and it had become somewhat of a daily routine to him since leaving the farm. It reminded him where he came from, what he had left behind, but of all it reminded him never to forget his roots. However, his concentration was lost when a voice broke through the silence of the morning air.
“Rydralle. Hey, Rydralle!” the gruff voice exclaimed, in an attempt to catch his attention. Tristan opened his eyes and slowly turned his head to look at Gill Tanner, who was calling out his name from his position on the floor, where he had been sleeping. “Stop looking at the scenery and get your stuff together, we’re leaving soon I hear.”
“I was packed hours ago, Tanner.” Tristan replied with a smirk. He didn’t think Tanner had truly realised, but this had also become part of their morning ritual. Tristan would get up early, pack his belongings and admire the morning air, and then Gill would wake up and tell him to make sure he was packed; after all, repetition bred familiarity, and as soldiers familiarity was one of the few luxuries that they could afford.
Tristan moved over to Gill and lowered his hand, which he used to pull him up onto his feet once the other soldier had accepted the help. “Yeah, I figured as much.” he gestured to the floor behind him, to his own bags. “Mine are already packed too.”
Tristan cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, but as he looked at the floor behind Gill he could see that it was true. “You know something I don’t? You’re never packed.”
Gill rested a hand on Tristan’s left shoulder, before gesturing to the rest of the men, who were now in the process of getting their stuff together. “Word is we’re leaving earlier this morn, and we’re to reach our target by sundown.” Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but Gill simply shook his head. “I have no idea what the target is this time.”
Tristan sighed and looked out over the scenery. “Things have been getting worse and worse since Captain Thane took command…wouldn’t surprise me if our target wasn’t-”
“Don’t say it. It does you ill to think of such things, especially if Thane hears of it.” Tristan opened his mouth, as if to respond, but Gill raised a gloved hand and cut him off. “Seriously, don’t.”
“Just drop it Rydralle.” came a low grumble from the floor, as a boot flew past Tristan’s head. He glanced down to his right as Janse Grase rolled over and pulled his cloak over his head. Tristan moved over to him and gave him a soft kick in his side, which was immediately followed by a grunt.
“I’m not getting your boot for you.” But before Janse could even respond or retaliate, Gill had rushed over an yanked him upright, and was cut off yet once more.
“Shut it. Here comes Thane.” and just so, moments later Captain Thorne stepped into their view.
The short and scraggly man known as Captain Stantson Thane held little to no respect amongst his men, for he was a man who held command by right of family ties rather than having earned it. He held little battle experience, and the same could be said for many of the recruits under him, but he was always ready to make up for it with unnecessary brutality; though many simply believed it was a complex over his own height.
“Get your arses in gear you pathetic bunch of maggots!” the captain screamed roughly. He kicked a sleeping soldier in the gut with his armour plated boot. “We’re heading to…a village of Lannister supporters. Men who have betrayed the North! The Seven be good, we should reach it by nightfall.”
“Alright for some. That bastard has a blasted horse.” Janse mumbled from his position on the ground.
Captain Thane mounted his stallion and turned back towards the men under his charge. “We’ve got a full days march ahead of us!” and with that he turned his horse and broke into a steady trot.
Tristan sighed and bent down, grabbing Janse by his shoulder and yanking him groggily onto his feet, before picking up Janse’s bag and shoving it against his chest. “Hurry. Keep up…or get left behind.”
The march was without rest or respite, throughout the entire length of the day. It was tough on all, kitted in what little armour they had been allowed and with full packs on each of their backs. In the North the weather was always on their side, unlike the hampering heat of the South, though that was of little solace to the tired men under Captain Thane’s command.
The journey had been silent, for the most part, the repetitious noises of footsteps and rustling armour helped the passing hours, but towards mid-afternoon the men’s spirits picked up and their marching was met with boisterous laughing, songs and jostling. Captain Thane had screamed back at them on more than one occasion, warning them to keep quiet and orderly, threatening them with death if they disobeyed his orders, though that was only ever met with laughter from the men; he who had not earned respect could not command it.
However, as the sun began to fall so did the high spirits of the men, but as the sun began to caress the distant horizon the village finally came into view as they crested a hillside. Smoke drearily lifted from several thatched houses down in the valley below as men chopped wood and beat iron, women hung washing out to dry and cooked by open windows, and children played in the dwindling rays of the sleepy sun; the smell of the home cooking was enough to make anyone salivate like a rabid dog.
Before unrest could stir too intensely amongst his men, Captain Thane spoke up. “Settle down you pieces of dirt!” he bellowed, turning his horse in a full circle. “Now dig in, because we camp here tonight! Cold rations and no fires; we don’t want to give away our positions. Tomorrow we wipe the enemy out!” and with that he moved through the men, without another word.
Tristan, Gill and Janse moved off from the main bulk of the group, dropping their packs besides a fallen log, but as Tristan moved to sit down he was stopped as another pack landed at his feet with a thump.
“You forget yourself Bastard? That’s our spot.” the shrill, recognisable voice of Theomar Hailsop ripped through the relative silence of the air. Tristan turned to face the Theomar and his two goons, the brothers Edric and Dickon Saltcliff. The brothers were twins, and it was easy to tell, in fact the only difference between them was that Edric wore his heir wet and slicked back, while Dickon let it hang over his face.
“Did you say something Sopy?” the nickname for Theomar had stuck since its first use, much to his clear dislike. However, before he could even retaliate Tristan had bent down, picked up his own pack and turned to leave. Gill looked on incredulously. “Rydralle, what are you doing?!”
Tristan stopped, but didn’t turn to face any of them. “…suddenly this area doesn’t seem as nice as it did. Lets move.” Gill hesitated, if only for a moment, before sighing, grabbing his own pack and following suit. Janse, however, stood his ground, arms crossed and face firm.
“Problem ‘Greasy Grase’?” Theomar’s thin, wiry smirk only made Janse that much more frustrated. His fist clenched and shook when Tristan grabbed his wrist. The two friends exchanged succinct looks before Janse finally gave in, grabbing his pack and following Tristan away from Theomar and the Saltcliff brothers.
It only took them a few minutes to find a new spot. It was a little further away from the rest of the group, but Tristan always preferred the solitude. Besides Gill and Janse, Tristan didn’t really like anyone else. The rest weren’t like the three friends, they were all just like Thane and Hailsop, and while they mostly ignored this fact, tonight Tristan’s mind would not allow him to.
“Something’s not right.” he muttered under his breath, as he almost robotically sharpened a stick with his skinning knife.
“Did you see the flags flying in the village?”
“You heard the captain. Lannister supporters. It’s all the same. Crimson, gold, lions; the usual.”
“They were flying crimson alright, but it was the flayed man of House Bolton, and the grey wolf of House Stark was there too.”
“Dire Wolf.” Tristan corrected.
“Whatever, but you know what that means? They’re Northern men.” Janse exclaimed in a hushed whisper. This caused Tristan to stop carving the wood, and to look up at his friends.
“…best left not thought about.” Gill stated, though his voice was unsure.
“The North? That would make them as they seem - innocent men, women and children. You can’t ignore that Gill!”
“I can and I will.” his voice was still unsure, but he was quicker to reply now.
“How can you say that?”
“Because what choice do we have?” he quickly spat back. “Refusing orders? Mutiny? Desertion? Those are your only options, and they all mean the chopping block.”
Tristan fell silent at that. Gill was right, those were the only options available to him, but would he be able to do such things knowing it would mean the end of his life? He didn’t want to die, there was still so much he wanted to accomplish, but was that worth throwing aside the morals and values that his mother had always installed in him? He had no response.
“Exactly…just go to sleep.” and with that Gill rolled over.
However, it was a different story for Tristan. For hours he sat there in the dark, the sound of his two friends sleeping met only by the Northern wind as it blew through the surrounding trees and bushes. Despite this the silence of the night did not help settle the raging whirlpool that was his thoughts. He had been in turmoil ever since his conversation with Gill and Janse a few hours previous, and now that the moon was high in the nights sky he had finally come to as solid a decision as he feared he would ever make.
The young man slowly stood, so not to wake his companions, collected his travelling pack and picked up his longbow, before silently sneaking away from where they slept. He would desert during the night, while all slept and none could stop him. If caught it would mean certain death, nothing less than an execution, and though he could not stop what was to happen to the people of the village, he could make sure he was no part of it.
The path towards the edge of the forest was directly through the centre of the camp, where everyone was sleeping, and so the journey was a tediously slow one. Moving through the camp was akin to stalking prey while hunting, and that was something he was good at. Slowly but surely he made his way through the camp, edging ever closer to the exile that his morals were forcing him into, though he had no time to consider the finer details of the situation, as his concentration was focused elsewhere.
Suddenly the snapping of a twig to his immediate left caught his attention, but before Tristan could even turn to look a sharp rush of pain seared through his left calf. He grunted quite loudly, only just managing to raise a hand to cover stifled, yet involuntary cry of pain. Moving more on instinct than thought, Tristan lashed out with the far end of his wooden longbow, a resounding thump of wood against something echoed through the area.
He quickly glanced down, noticing his attacker was none other than Theomar, who was unconscious and sporting a bleeding gash just above his left eye. The bastard had tried to sneak up on him. Tristan looked down to his leg and found that the pain was due to a dagger having been stabbed through his calf. Pulling it free would cause the wound to bleed more, but he could not run while the blade was still in his leg as it would tear the wound apart. No, it had to be removed.
Without hesitation Tristan grabbed the dagger by the handle and yanked it free from his leg, with a spurt of blood. He grunted in pain yet again, his legs feeling as if they could hardly support his own weight because of the numbness the pain was causing him. Nevertheless, he staggered onward and into the forest beyond the camp. His desertion had been discovered, and though Theomar had been knocked unconscious, it would only be a matter of hours until either the sun rose and showed that he was gone, or that Theomar awoke and made sure everyone knew.
Time was of the essence, and with his injury it was a luxury he no longer had.
Total Finished Word Count: 2,340.
The weather was just as bleak and cold as it usually was, the skies a dull and dismal shade of grey. It was no different from anywhere north of the Neck, and in truth he expected no less. Not to be mistaken for dislike or complaint, Tristan was of the North and as such he preferred the cold weather. To him it was the sibling that he had never had, but was always there; constant, unyielding and steadfast. Besides his mother it had been the one consistent force in his life, and it was one of the main reasons that the South had never appealed to him; not to mention he always felt he wouldn’t feel comfortable in the heat the South was known for.
Tilting his head back, Tristan briefly looked at the sky before closing his eyes and deeply breathing in. The cold morning air rushed down into his lungs, partially numbing his throat on the way. There was no feeling like it, and it had become somewhat of a daily routine to him since leaving the farm. It reminded him where he came from, what he had left behind, but of all it reminded him never to forget his roots. However, his concentration was lost when a voice broke through the silence of the morning air.
“Rydralle. Hey, Rydralle!” the gruff voice exclaimed, in an attempt to catch his attention. Tristan opened his eyes and slowly turned his head to look at Gill Tanner, who was calling out his name from his position on the floor, where he had been sleeping. “Stop looking at the scenery and get your stuff together, we’re leaving soon I hear.”
“I was packed hours ago, Tanner.” Tristan replied with a smirk. He didn’t think Tanner had truly realised, but this had also become part of their morning ritual. Tristan would get up early, pack his belongings and admire the morning air, and then Gill would wake up and tell him to make sure he was packed; after all, repetition bred familiarity, and as soldiers familiarity was one of the few luxuries that they could afford.
Tristan moved over to Gill and lowered his hand, which he used to pull him up onto his feet once the other soldier had accepted the help. “Yeah, I figured as much.” he gestured to the floor behind him, to his own bags. “Mine are already packed too.”
Tristan cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, but as he looked at the floor behind Gill he could see that it was true. “You know something I don’t? You’re never packed.”
Gill rested a hand on Tristan’s left shoulder, before gesturing to the rest of the men, who were now in the process of getting their stuff together. “Word is we’re leaving earlier this morn, and we’re to reach our target by sundown.” Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but Gill simply shook his head. “I have no idea what the target is this time.”
Tristan sighed and looked out over the scenery. “Things have been getting worse and worse since Captain Thane took command…wouldn’t surprise me if our target wasn’t-”
“Don’t say it. It does you ill to think of such things, especially if Thane hears of it.” Tristan opened his mouth, as if to respond, but Gill raised a gloved hand and cut him off. “Seriously, don’t.”
“Just drop it Rydralle.” came a low grumble from the floor, as a boot flew past Tristan’s head. He glanced down to his right as Janse Grase rolled over and pulled his cloak over his head. Tristan moved over to him and gave him a soft kick in his side, which was immediately followed by a grunt.
“I’m not getting your boot for you.” But before Janse could even respond or retaliate, Gill had rushed over an yanked him upright, and was cut off yet once more.
“Shut it. Here comes Thane.” and just so, moments later Captain Thorne stepped into their view.
The short and scraggly man known as Captain Stantson Thane held little to no respect amongst his men, for he was a man who held command by right of family ties rather than having earned it. He held little battle experience, and the same could be said for many of the recruits under him, but he was always ready to make up for it with unnecessary brutality; though many simply believed it was a complex over his own height.
“Get your arses in gear you pathetic bunch of maggots!” the captain screamed roughly. He kicked a sleeping soldier in the gut with his armour plated boot. “We’re heading to…a village of Lannister supporters. Men who have betrayed the North! The Seven be good, we should reach it by nightfall.”
“Alright for some. That bastard has a blasted horse.” Janse mumbled from his position on the ground.
Captain Thane mounted his stallion and turned back towards the men under his charge. “We’ve got a full days march ahead of us!” and with that he turned his horse and broke into a steady trot.
Tristan sighed and bent down, grabbing Janse by his shoulder and yanking him groggily onto his feet, before picking up Janse’s bag and shoving it against his chest. “Hurry. Keep up…or get left behind.”
The march was without rest or respite, throughout the entire length of the day. It was tough on all, kitted in what little armour they had been allowed and with full packs on each of their backs. In the North the weather was always on their side, unlike the hampering heat of the South, though that was of little solace to the tired men under Captain Thane’s command.
The journey had been silent, for the most part, the repetitious noises of footsteps and rustling armour helped the passing hours, but towards mid-afternoon the men’s spirits picked up and their marching was met with boisterous laughing, songs and jostling. Captain Thane had screamed back at them on more than one occasion, warning them to keep quiet and orderly, threatening them with death if they disobeyed his orders, though that was only ever met with laughter from the men; he who had not earned respect could not command it.
However, as the sun began to fall so did the high spirits of the men, but as the sun began to caress the distant horizon the village finally came into view as they crested a hillside. Smoke drearily lifted from several thatched houses down in the valley below as men chopped wood and beat iron, women hung washing out to dry and cooked by open windows, and children played in the dwindling rays of the sleepy sun; the smell of the home cooking was enough to make anyone salivate like a rabid dog.
Before unrest could stir too intensely amongst his men, Captain Thane spoke up. “Settle down you pieces of dirt!” he bellowed, turning his horse in a full circle. “Now dig in, because we camp here tonight! Cold rations and no fires; we don’t want to give away our positions. Tomorrow we wipe the enemy out!” and with that he moved through the men, without another word.
Tristan, Gill and Janse moved off from the main bulk of the group, dropping their packs besides a fallen log, but as Tristan moved to sit down he was stopped as another pack landed at his feet with a thump.
“You forget yourself Bastard? That’s our spot.” the shrill, recognisable voice of Theomar Hailsop ripped through the relative silence of the air. Tristan turned to face the Theomar and his two goons, the brothers Edric and Dickon Saltcliff. The brothers were twins, and it was easy to tell, in fact the only difference between them was that Edric wore his heir wet and slicked back, while Dickon let it hang over his face.
“Did you say something Sopy?” the nickname for Theomar had stuck since its first use, much to his clear dislike. However, before he could even retaliate Tristan had bent down, picked up his own pack and turned to leave. Gill looked on incredulously. “Rydralle, what are you doing?!”
Tristan stopped, but didn’t turn to face any of them. “…suddenly this area doesn’t seem as nice as it did. Lets move.” Gill hesitated, if only for a moment, before sighing, grabbing his own pack and following suit. Janse, however, stood his ground, arms crossed and face firm.
“Problem ‘Greasy Grase’?” Theomar’s thin, wiry smirk only made Janse that much more frustrated. His fist clenched and shook when Tristan grabbed his wrist. The two friends exchanged succinct looks before Janse finally gave in, grabbing his pack and following Tristan away from Theomar and the Saltcliff brothers.
It only took them a few minutes to find a new spot. It was a little further away from the rest of the group, but Tristan always preferred the solitude. Besides Gill and Janse, Tristan didn’t really like anyone else. The rest weren’t like the three friends, they were all just like Thane and Hailsop, and while they mostly ignored this fact, tonight Tristan’s mind would not allow him to.
“Something’s not right.” he muttered under his breath, as he almost robotically sharpened a stick with his skinning knife.
“Did you see the flags flying in the village?”
“You heard the captain. Lannister supporters. It’s all the same. Crimson, gold, lions; the usual.”
“They were flying crimson alright, but it was the flayed man of House Bolton, and the grey wolf of House Stark was there too.”
“Dire Wolf.” Tristan corrected.
“Whatever, but you know what that means? They’re Northern men.” Janse exclaimed in a hushed whisper. This caused Tristan to stop carving the wood, and to look up at his friends.
“…best left not thought about.” Gill stated, though his voice was unsure.
“The North? That would make them as they seem - innocent men, women and children. You can’t ignore that Gill!”
“I can and I will.” his voice was still unsure, but he was quicker to reply now.
“How can you say that?”
“Because what choice do we have?” he quickly spat back. “Refusing orders? Mutiny? Desertion? Those are your only options, and they all mean the chopping block.”
Tristan fell silent at that. Gill was right, those were the only options available to him, but would he be able to do such things knowing it would mean the end of his life? He didn’t want to die, there was still so much he wanted to accomplish, but was that worth throwing aside the morals and values that his mother had always installed in him? He had no response.
“Exactly…just go to sleep.” and with that Gill rolled over.
However, it was a different story for Tristan. For hours he sat there in the dark, the sound of his two friends sleeping met only by the Northern wind as it blew through the surrounding trees and bushes. Despite this the silence of the night did not help settle the raging whirlpool that was his thoughts. He had been in turmoil ever since his conversation with Gill and Janse a few hours previous, and now that the moon was high in the nights sky he had finally come to as solid a decision as he feared he would ever make.
The young man slowly stood, so not to wake his companions, collected his travelling pack and picked up his longbow, before silently sneaking away from where they slept. He would desert during the night, while all slept and none could stop him. If caught it would mean certain death, nothing less than an execution, and though he could not stop what was to happen to the people of the village, he could make sure he was no part of it.
The path towards the edge of the forest was directly through the centre of the camp, where everyone was sleeping, and so the journey was a tediously slow one. Moving through the camp was akin to stalking prey while hunting, and that was something he was good at. Slowly but surely he made his way through the camp, edging ever closer to the exile that his morals were forcing him into, though he had no time to consider the finer details of the situation, as his concentration was focused elsewhere.
Suddenly the snapping of a twig to his immediate left caught his attention, but before Tristan could even turn to look a sharp rush of pain seared through his left calf. He grunted quite loudly, only just managing to raise a hand to cover stifled, yet involuntary cry of pain. Moving more on instinct than thought, Tristan lashed out with the far end of his wooden longbow, a resounding thump of wood against something echoed through the area.
He quickly glanced down, noticing his attacker was none other than Theomar, who was unconscious and sporting a bleeding gash just above his left eye. The bastard had tried to sneak up on him. Tristan looked down to his leg and found that the pain was due to a dagger having been stabbed through his calf. Pulling it free would cause the wound to bleed more, but he could not run while the blade was still in his leg as it would tear the wound apart. No, it had to be removed.
Without hesitation Tristan grabbed the dagger by the handle and yanked it free from his leg, with a spurt of blood. He grunted in pain yet again, his legs feeling as if they could hardly support his own weight because of the numbness the pain was causing him. Nevertheless, he staggered onward and into the forest beyond the camp. His desertion had been discovered, and though Theomar had been knocked unconscious, it would only be a matter of hours until either the sun rose and showed that he was gone, or that Theomar awoke and made sure everyone knew.
Time was of the essence, and with his injury it was a luxury he no longer had.
Total Finished Word Count: 2,340.
