The Journey Continues

Symon and Mirmulnir had been journeying North for three, perhaps four, days now. The priest was not the best travelling companion the sellsword could have hoped for because although he rode upon a fine war horse he was very slow, he was keeping them back. Despite this they had traveled quite a long way since they met upon the Kingsroad and decided that they would journey North together and eventually head beyond the Wall, this was something Symon was truly looking forward to. It was the only place in all of Westeros that he had not visited and seeing it was one of the few dreams he had, Symon wanted to cross swords with wildlings, encounter White Walkers and whatever else lurked so far North that it had become the stuff of legends and was no used in stories to scare schildren. As much as he was looking forward to it, he knew it would be a very dangerous experience and he was glad of Mirmulnirs company on the journey.

They had now reached the war torn Riverlands. Since King Joffrey Baratheon had executed Ned Stark his son, Robb, had been marching South and battling Lannister forces alongside his bannerman. This was all well and good but it made travel very dangeous for men like Symon and Mirmulnir as everyone they encountered here would want to know which house they fought for and whose claim to the throne they supported, it did not even matter that they where neutral and had no part to play in what had become known as the War of Five Kings. Symon hated this as he was only just beginning to sleep easily at night now that he trusted the priest enough not fear being murdered in the night, he didn't consider Mirmulnir a friend, yet, but he most certainly did not consider him an enemy. The truth of that matter was that the man he had beeing hired to kill was growing on him with each passing day but he still a long way away from being loved, or even liked very much, by Symon.

From his travels Symon knew that the Riverlands had once been a beautiful place but that had changed since war had broken out. Tywin Lannister, one of the great lords in the Seven Kingdoms, was a merciless man who had ordered his men to ravage the land; they rode around killing men, raping woman, burning villages and stealing what valuables they could lay their hands upon. Symon was man who killed for a living but even he did not like what the Lord of Lannister was doing, instead of facing his enemy he was having innocent, peaceful, people murdered based upon where they lived not upon anything in particular they had done. The sellsword was not very fond of Lords, he knew this was hypocritical as he would gladly except gold to serve one, because they never did anything for themselves, they prefered to hide behind their men and in castles which made them they exact opposite of Symon, a man who had made his own way in life and did his own dirty work.

"We need to be careful here, Mirmulnir," Symon said, quietly, if anyone was near by he had wish to be heard, "We're very close to Harrenhal, which is being used a sort of base of operations by Lannister forces although I believe their Lord has taken to Kings Landing to fill the position of Hand. We have no part in their war but we will not be shown mercy no matter we tell them. It is quite possible that we're going to have to kill again today and the soldiers we could have to face here will be better trained and better armed than those bandits we faced a few ago and, truth be told, I fear for your life. Only one person riding along the Kingsroad today is particularly skilled at fighting and, I'm sorry to say, the person I speak of is me but worry not, I will protect you. You need not shiver with fear or go without sleep as long as I am by your side."

Symon was goading his travelling companion whilst making light of the situation they where in. Death was a really possibility and it was one the sellsword would rather not face whilst riding along the Kingsroad that day and, although he mocked him slightly, he knew Mirmulnir would be useful should they have to engage anyone in combat before the end of the day. Symon wanted to ride hard and make it out of the Riverlands before they could face any such danger and he intended to make it clear to the priest, he was done jesting and wanted Mirmulnir to understand that he was being deadly serious. He did not intend to be killed by Lannister, at least not before their journey was complete.

"For the last few days we've moved slowly North and it's because of you. You've been keeping most of us back but now we must hurry North and out of the Riverlands, the danger we face is very real and I will not die at the hands of soldiers simply because you will not speed up. If need be I will ride on and leave you to die, I can very well complete this journey alone and go beyond the Wall without you, I put up with you voluntarily and not out of necessity allow it will sadden me, if only slightly, if you die because I was just starting to like you."

In order to make things clearer than he alrwady had, Symon kicked his heels into his horses hindquarters and immediately picked up the pace. The sound of his mares hooves on the ground now made slightly more noise and his armour clinked a little bit more as he rode but if it meant getting through the Riverlands quicker, it would be worth killing anyone that heard the noise he was making. He wanted to make it out of this particular kingdom alive, he liked living.

( Word Count: 1013 )

Mirmulnir II Blackwyvern

The derelict state of the Kingsroad slowly dissipated the further North that the duo travelled, where there had previously been nothing slowing their progress by the time they reached the Riverlands they had passed a number of refugees fleeing south. Some walked on barefoot, their faces spotted with mud, the better off travelled atop mares and carts pulled by mighty oxen. Mirmulnir cast them sideways glances though he very rarely spoke or held his gaze for long. It was not that he did not want to converse with those below him, no doubt they had news to tell but he found himself extremely fatigued of late. He had only truly began to trust his travelling companion, the past few nights he had been casting strong protection charms around himself and his bedspread for fear the shadow would bury his sword in his back whilst he slept. He found that the magic was taking most of his energy during the days and the high priests slow pace was partly the result of his erratic sleeping patterns. With his hood drawn up over his head Mirmulnir found himself catching up on most of his sleep whilst in the saddle. When he was not conversing with the shadow he slept, or meditated as he would often inform his companion.

Today was no different.

The falling temperatures fazed the high priest little and he remained garbed in thin silks. He wore the same pristine whites he had worn the day he had met his companion though they showed no wear from the journey. They shone like fresh snow against the dank, greyness of the war torn Riverlands. There were no additions to his attire in the way of warming garments but he never complained about the chill, the red ruby he wore around his neck merely shone a little brighter the closer to the wall he travelled. Before he had left Lys he had always believed that R’hllor’s light shone brightly across all continents but it was becoming more than apparent that in Westeros the Great Others presence was strong. Each death strengthened the god of darkness and it seemed those who inadvertently worshipped him had no plans to cease. Had he been a true high priest of the red sect he would be obliged to do something, preach to them perhaps, but those days were gone, all he cared about at this precise moment was making it to the wall and then under it.

It was around this time that Symon spoke up, the first time that day really and his words caused the high priest to cock his head to the side slightly whilst he observed him. A poor attempt at a joke emanated from his mouth, he knew this because sarcasm was something he had had to gain a grasp of travelling with the shadow. Rocky as their introduction had been Mirmulnir found he was warming to the sellsword and when a few days ago he may have exploded with rage at being taunted, today he merely smiled nonchalantly, allowing the shadow to finish his jest. He knew that his composed manner often unsettled Symon and over the past four days he had done little to dispel his worries. Truth be told Mirmulnir knew of all the dangers that lay ahead of them, more so than even Symon perhaps but whenever he attempted to chastise him about picking up the pace he would always say the same thing, “The lord of light will guide the way….” Even now the words echoed around his mind and the look on the shadows face as he voiced his concerns to the high priest reeked of desperation, one could be forgiven if he assumed that Symon Balor was afraid of what lay ahead. A low laugh greeted his fears as Mirmulnir shook his head at his words. It seemed his response irked his companion, who with a distasteful look kicked his heels into his mare’s hindquarters and broke into something of a gallop down the kingsroad. Sighing, Mirmulnir followed.

The destrier took no time at all to catch Symon, receiving the command to gallop almost with pleasure. In a flash of red mane and white silks he was upon him, reigning in the horse to match the speed of the mare, dutifully the war horse obliged. With his right hand he swept down his long silk hood and turned his head to speak to Symon, raising his voice slightly over the clatter of hooves upon the paved road:

“It would seem that four days in my company has turned you into quite the canary and my how you fly little one! They are all around us my little bird, you can soar all you like but when they see you flutter your wings they will strike you down and parade their kill. Eyes follow us even now and there is no escape from them. Flying only serves to hasten those who would cause you harm into action.”

Mirmulnir brought his horse closer to Symon’s, until it seemed they would almost collide before he reached over and grabbed the reigns, pulling the mare and the destrier to a halt. A serious expression had found its way upon his face and as he held Symon’s gaze he reached into his silks, bringing out as he did so a handful of parchment. They were small in his long spindly hands, notes, like the sort that would be carried by ravens to and fro. After a brief pause he spoke in that soft tone of his:

“Where ravens fly words follow. Catch the raven hear the words. R’hllor leads the way my shadowy friend, trust in the light, have faith in his high priest and no harm will befall us.”

He emptied his hands of the letters, allowing them to flutter into Symon Balors lap. Upon closer inspection he would realise that over the four days of travelling Mirmulnir had, somehow, been intercepting Lannister communications and directing them both into the gaps in their defences. There were perhaps a dozen or so messages, the most recent being liberated from its messenger this morning. Whilst the priest had preached that R’hllor would be the force that guided them through the throng of Lannisters he had been in fact, all the while, been giving the red god a little help on the ground. Sometimes god’s needed help to provide their blessings; Mimulnir knew this better than most. He smiled politely at Symon before pulling his hood back over his head:

“You were right about one thing though shadowman, the road ahead will be dangerous. Better to seek refuge in one of the towns or villages further down the road, we might have to travel hard to find one that hasn’t been lain waste too but it is a price worth paying. Even Mirmulnir must eat, drink and sleep....and there is a storm coming.”

WC: 1152

Initially Symon had been slightly angry with Mirmulnir for riding alongside him, grabbing his reins and stopping his mare from galloping along the Kingsroad at full speed but he knew the priest's words where correct. It did not matter how quickly they rode through the Riverlands, the duo would eventually encounter some kind of threat to their lives. He knew that the Riverlands would be full of soldiers from both sides, Lannister and Stark, and neither of them could be consider safe; every man involved in the fighting was a merciless killer and would not spare two travellers simply because they claimed they supported neither side. As they where passing Harrenhal an encounter with Lannister men was much more likely because they had taken the supposedly cursed castle, Symon was a not superstition man and consider ghosts just as fake as Gods but it could not be denied that Harrenhal was a very unlucky place. Almost every Lord or Lady that came into possession of the castle and the lands surrounding suffered from severe bad luck, most of the time this meant death but most recently the "curse" had resulted in Janos Slynt, a commoner who had been raised to lordship by King Joffrey, had been sent to the Wall to live the rest of his life in the Nights Watch.

Symon had known that Mirmulnir had many special talents, he had learned as much when they had fought bandits on their very first day of travel and the priest had unleashed his magic upon them, but he was still suprised to see that his companion, who was almost a friend, had been intercepting Lannister communication without the sellsword even knowing of it although he had not paid the follower of the Lord of Light much attention since he had grown to trust him. There was one thing Symon did not like, perhaps even hated, about Mirmulnir, he understood that he was a religious man and had great faith in his chosen God but he simply would not shut up about R'hllor had how he was watching over and guiding them on their travels North. Symon had once been a Faceless Man and in the Temple of Black of White they had worshipped the Many Faced God but he had grown disillusioned with religion over time as he had not been able to choose a God to worship for himself, when his father had traded him to the Faceless Men for an assassination he had been made to worship their God although he would admit that he initially liked the concept of one God of Death that represented all ther Gods of Death.

"Mirmulnir I feel it is only fair to warn you that I will cut out of your tongue if you do not speaking to me about R'hllor. If I was at all interested in your God I would be a Red Priest too and, as you can plainly see, I am not," Symon said, with an air of distaste, "but I will admit I am impressed by your abilities, how did you manage to intercept all of these messages?"

Although he could read well Symon had no real interest in the contents of the messages that Mirmulnir had handed over to him, he glanced at them and saw that each one had been intended for Harrenhal which meant that the priest had been intercepting messages from soldiers out in the field that been intended from their commander. The sellsword had previously thought that they would ride through the Riverlands without taking any particular side in the war but it appeared that Mirmulnir thought different, if any Lannister men encountered them and saw the intercepted messages they would believe that the two reasonably innocent travellers where on the side of the Starks. Symon did not fear many things but one of the few fears he had was being grossly outnumbered in battle because, for most of his life, he had moved in the shadows and killed selected targets with discretion, quietly. Despite having a man capable of performing magic riding alongside him and a sword sheathed by his side, Symon did not think they would fair well if they came face to face with a dozen well armed, well armoured men. The Riverlands would likely be the death of them if they where not careful, with this in mind Symon spoke once more.

"If you're quite done with those letters, Mirmulnir, I would prefer it if you where to burn them. You can continue intercepting messages as long you dispose of everything you take when you're done with it, if we run into any Lannister men and they see the letters that you have taken they will assume we are Stark men and will show no mercy but if they think us common travellers there is a chance they will not harm us."

Despite his words Symon knew that they would shown mercy if they encountered any soldiers, the innocent folk in the villages of the Riverlands had been raped, killed or both by Lannister men and they would not treat two travellers any differently.

"I am unsure of this idea of yours, to find a village or town that we can spend the night in. If we are lucky enough to find one that has not been ravaged by brigands or soldiers there's the chance that they attack whilst we are but I would die in comfort than out here on the Kingsroad, so we will ride hard and find somewhere to spend the night."

Symon kicked his heels into his mare again and set off at a gallop once again. If they where to find a town or village he would prefer it if they do so very quickly as it would be a great shame if they arrived just in time to see the place go up in flames, that would be very disapointing. The sellsword wanted drink some wine and find a nice whore before all of the wine was stolen and all of the whores raped by soldiers.

( Word Count: 1009. )

Mirmulnir II Blackwyvern

Mirmulnir “tssked” as Symon issued forth idle threats from his mouth with regards to R’hllor. It was true that the high priest spoke his name often whilst conversing but if he was to ever find forgiveness in the eyes of god he had to worship and believe in him. The shadowman was making this increasingly difficult, moaning like a whore every time the lord of light was brought into the conversation. Mirmulnir had long since stopped attempting to scold his blasphemy, better not to grace his folly with a response. With regards to the messages, he had his ways. Though not particularly secret or magical they worked but he would be damned if he was going to share any of his secrets with Symon. He was always quick to scold when he was presented with things he did not understand, his mind was closed and until he learned to appreciate the values of Mirmulnir’s knowledge and expertise he would remain in the dark where he belonged. Hidden from view under his drooping hood he spoke calmly and softly, his voice but a whisper on the wind:

“Leave the thinking to me my dear shadow. Save yourself for the men you so fear, your talents lie in dancing the dance of death, no point in trying to teach you knowledge. We all must play with the toys that god has given us. You have your sword, I have my tricks.”

Contrary to whatever Symon Balor believed Mirmulnir had in fact not picked any sides in the war of the crowns. Though he had been intercepting Lannister communications the absence of Stark ravens was merely a matter of geographical location. After all, it only made sense that on the kings road from Kings Landing to Harrenhal there was going to be a copious amount of ravens flying to and fro the capital and the keep. He would have said so much had the next sentence from his mouth not infuriated him so. It was one of Symons qualities, to annoy Mirmulnir and he knew there was nothing more irritating to the high priest than ordering him what to do. After kicking his heels into the hindquarters of his mount to catch up with Symon he flung his head to the side and threw the man a stony stare before scolding him:

“Do not presume to tell me what to do shadow. Were it not for me you would have been travelling upon this road deaf, blind and dumb. It is I who has looked out for you, scouted the roads ahead and chosen our pathways with caution whilst you followed. I will do what I please and if these Lannisters think I will readily submit to being searched like a convict they will learn otherwise.”

His suggestion had been a completely valid one and later upon reflection Mirmulnir would dispose of the messages he had gathered but at the current moment his pride ruled his head and thus his mouth. The duo had bickered almost every day of their journey over something but it seemed that this was their way. They were both proud in their own right and in a very short period of time they had both learned that neither took criticism particularly well. When he had said his piece the high priest settled his eyes upon the road and began to ride hard down the path. They rode the majority of the way in silence whilst Mirmulnir brooded. His mutterings were incoherent but every now and again you could catch a snippet of his words “insolence….shadow…..high priest…..Lys.”

Afternoon turned to dusk which turned to night and when the moon shone high in the star blotted night sky the duo finally arrived in a small village that showed signs of life. From afar candles shone in windows casting a golden glow against the black of the evening. As they approached cautiously, the sound of music began to drift in the air from what could only be the local tavern. The tune was a solemn one and there was little ruckus in the way of partying and laughter. There would be food though; wine for the shadow and a bed for each if they decided to spend the night. Pulling lightly upon the reigns Mirmulnir brought his mount to a halt, signalling for Symon to do the same.

“It would be unwise for me to proceed any further garbed in the fashion which I am. If we are to pass ourselves of as innocent travellers the finest silks in Essos will surely portray us as liars. Stand as look out as I dress myself in something more appropriate.”

With that he jumped from his saddle and slowly began to rummage through his saddlebags, pulling out as he did so a change of clothes. Retreating into the woods that flanked the pathway he set about stripping and then re-dressing. When he re-appeared five minutes or so later Mirmulnir had undergone something of a transformation. He had shed his long white silks and stood before Symon garbed in a more simple fashion. His breeches were made of black linen and he wore a simple, plain white buttoned doublet under a long deep green cotton cape fastened with a polished silver broach. At his side he had fastened the sword that he had liberated from the bandit he had slain four days previous, there was nothing fashionable about the weapon but he felt it gave him an air of authority that would serve him well in the village. When he approached Symon from the treeline he nodded his head curtly and gazed down at his black leather riding boots before proclaiming that:

“This seems more fitting. Shall we?”

The pathway down to the village was steep but in a moment or so both the mare and the destrier had descended safely and began to carry their riders through the quiet street. Thatched cottages were erected on either side of the road on which they travelled and the majority had their shutters pulled tight over their windows. It was unsurprising that the war had yet to reach the sleepy village, it was well out of the way and unless someone was actively seeking to find it it seemed unlikely they would happen upon it by chance. Mirmulnir and Symon had only learned of its location from some refugees they had passed earlier on in the day and when cross referenced with the tattered old map of Westeros that they had managed to pick up from a fleeing vendor for a copper piece, they had confirmed its existence. The high priest shuffled in his saddle slightly ruffling his flowing platinum blonde locks as he spoke:

“You visit these sorts of holdings all the time I’m sure, perhaps you should find us somewhere secure to stable our mounts. It would be unfortunate were we to lose them whilst we ate and drank. The wall is still some way away and walking doesn’t quite have the same charm as riding. Remember we are ordinary travellers, if you have to pay to have them tied up pay the money and keep your sword sheathed, we don’t want to draw any more attention than we have too. I’ll go and order in some wine and what not. I’ll await you in the tavern.”

And with that he dismounted. Mirmulnir handed his reigns to Symon before strutting of in the direction of the inn, whistling a merry tune as he did so. It was quite unlike the high priest but his new change of garment had stipulated a change in mind set. He felt part of Westeros at this particular moment and odd as it was it made a nice change to being an outsider on the run. With that he pushed open the door off the inn and proceeded inside. When Symon next found him he would be pleasently surprised to see that Mirmulnir, in addition to drinking from a cup himself had ordered Symon a drink also. It was a thoughtful gesture of companionship and the most sentimental he was likely to get from the high priest.

WC - 1,358

Symon was not used to being told what to do without some form of payment but, even so, he had stood as look out whilst Mirmulnir changed from his fine silks into clothes more befitting of a common traveller and now he was leading his mare and the priests destrier towards the stables that lay at the side of the inn they planned to spend the night in. The sellsword was glad that he would have a bed for the first time in a few days because, truth be told, the time spent sleeping upon the hard ground was hurting his back and an injury midway through a long journey was a never a good thing as it left you vulnerable as well as slowing you down a great deal. Symon took his companion words to heart and promised himself that he would pay to have the horses tied up if must and would do his absolute best to avoid having to draw his sword whilst they stayed in the small village which was in suprisingly good condition in comparasion to everything other town or village he had seen since they had reached the Riverlands, most of them had been burned down to the ground and littered with dead bodies. The sellsword had almost reached the stable, which was suprisingly empty but that could probably be attributed to people fleeing the war torn land, when he heard a voice from the darkness.

"Those is some fine horses you got yourself there," said the voice which was deep, gruff and belonged to a man.

"We'll be taking those," chimed in a second voice, again that of a man.

"You will not be taking anything from me," Symon said, his confidence obvious from his tone of voice.

"You gonna stop us?", the first man said as the would be horse thieves emerged from the shadows, they wore no armour but both carried swords.

"I believe so, I doubt either of you knows how to handle a blade very well," the sellsword said mockingly. He noted that they wore black leather which meant that they where likely to be deserters from the Nights Watch.

"We'll see who's laughing when you're dead and I'm riding you're horse!", Symon had managed to piss one of them off anyway, he released the reins of the mare and the destrier, drew his sword and advanced to meet the men. He hoped the horses would not get frightened and run off.

The larger of the two men, the one with the deep voice, attempted to make their fight a quick one. He swung his longsword towards Symon but he slow and his attack was easily parried, the sellsword followed his parry up with a punch from his left hand which caught the man square on the jaw and sent him stumbling away in pain. Symon turned to concentrate on the other man and found that had gone around him and was attempting to mount the mare but the sellswords horse was struggling against the stranger so much that he was finding it impossible to get foot into the stirrup. Symon was upon the man in no time at all, he charged into him shoulder first and sent him sprawling on to the ground, the pain in his shoulder was a small price to pay for the safety of his horse. Whilst the would be horse thief was on the ground Symon drive his sword into the mans chest and left him to bleed to death, he was a thief and a crave who did not deserve a quick nor clean death but a prolonged and painful one. He pulled his sword from the dying man and turned around to face his friend.

The deserter was clearly very angry. His mouth was bleeding, two of his teeth where missing and he was very red in the face. Symon had hurt him but physically, when he punched him in the face, and emotionally, when he killed his friend, but the sellsword felt no pity for the man who would have killed him and take the horses given the chance. The fight might have been interesting had the deserter not been so angry and careless, he swung his longsword towards Symon a few times but each strike was either dodged or blocked very easily, the sellsword would have went in for the kill but he was having too much fun with the man. Every now and then he would insult the mans fighting ability or honour which served the purpose of making him even angrier and even more careless, if that was even possible. After a few minutes of pissing the man off Symon decided it was time to put an end to the fight and kill the deserter, after one particular quick dodge he was able to punch the deserter in face once again and follow through with a sword thrust to his stomach. He pulled his sword out of the dying man, the second in but a few minutes, sheathed it, walked back to the horses and casually led them to stables where he tied them up.

The short walk back to the Inn took less than a minute and when Symon walked inside he was Mirmulnir sitting at a table, patiently awaiting his return. The priest had done a good job of making himself look like a common traveller, the only that made him stand out in a crowd now was his bright hair but nothing could be done about that. The sellsword was pleasantly suprised when he saw that his companion had ordered him a drink whilst he had been outside slaughtering attempted horse thieves, a slight smile played on his lips when he sat down at the same table as Mirmulnir, thinking that he would repay him by purchasing both of them something nice to eat for dinner. He let his eyes study the inn, there where a few people sitting around eating and drinking, but he did not see anything that interested apart from a few pretty serving girls and although he had seen much more beautiful women on his travels through Westeros it had been quite a while since a woman had warmed his bad and he decided it would be his objective for the night to bed one of the women.

"Thanks for the drink, Mirmulnir," Symon said, still smiling, "I tried to keep my sword sheathed as you said but two thieves, deserters from the Nights Watch to be exact, tried to take our mounts. They're dead now though."

Symon downed his drinked quickly, he really needed it after his little fight, and called one of the serving girls over. He spoke to her very politely, something he was sure she was not used to, and asked her to bring both he and his travelling companion another drink even though he wasn't sure if Milmurnir even wanted one. Symon aslo asked for some stew to be brought to the table and, with a smile in his direction, the girl hurried off to fetch what he had ordered. He was trying to repay his companions kindness and strengthen their relationship with one another, Symon was hoping that the two of them would, eventually, become friends. They disagreed and argued with one another quite a lot but company was something the sellsword was not used to and riding alongside Milmurnir had been very enjoyable for the most part, he hoped that the priest would survive their journey through the Riverlands and their adventure beyond the Wall.

"I quite like this place," Symon said, sound happier than he had all day, "I really the village isn't burnt to the ground and, as for the people, I hope they aren't raped and killed by soldiers."

He was in a very good mood at the prospect of food, drink, and a bed for the night. Symon was also pleased to see the serving girl returning with their drinks and the stew he had ordered, he payed her and set about devouring as much of the stew as he possible could as travelling and fighting had left him very hungery. Once the sellsword had eaten his fill of the delicious food, he left some for Mirmulnir and began to down his second beer of the evening.

( Word Count - 1376. )

Mirmulnir II Blackwyvern

The wine which he sipped was by no means up to the standard he had been used to in Lys but as Mirmulnir supped at the red liquid he found himself savouring the taste. They had ridden for four long days and the plain taste of water grew boring extremely quickly, any flavour upon his tongue was well received. The high priest was not left waiting for his companion too long and when the wooden door of the inn was flung open Mirmulnir signalled with his hand so that Symon could better see where he sat. As he strolled over to the table, a satisfied grin plastered across his face, Mirmulnir saw the glint in his eye as he passed some of the serving wenches. Instantly his mind fluttered to women. How long had it been since Symon had last bedded a woman? More importantly how long had it been since he himself laid with one? Had he the energy to expend he would have joined in the games Symon no doubt planned in his mind but the road had been long and he found himself limp at the thought of a tumble with any of those women.

When his companion took the spare seat beside him and spoke of his confrontation outside Mirmulnir merely eyed him for a moment. Was there any point in berating his actions? If his story was to be believed he was entitled to defend himself with any means at his disposal and yet it drew unnecessary attention to their presence. Perhaps if the high priest kept hammering the swordsman some of the words would eventually penetrate his thick skull? He “tsssked” to show his dissatisfaction but he was unwilling to lecture Symon in front of all those whom they shared the room with. Mirmulnir supped at the wine cup for a moment before adding calmly:

“If you are laying waste to men in this village I do so hope that you have had the sense to conceal their bodies? If the shouts of “murder” resound it will be the strangers in the corner who the locals point to……Good job with the horses though.”

Was that praise? It had sounded like acclamation yet it was added on at the end of his spiel in a hushed and hurried tone. It had been Mirmulnir who had stated the importance of looking after their mounts; he could not chastise his companion for carrying out his orders. When Symon downed his cup in a few large gulps a sigh emanated from Mirmulnir’s lips, you were meant to savour wine; perhaps he had been wrong to buy the man such a beverage, it only made sense that a simple man would have simple tastes. His mischievous flirtation with the serving girl produced another sigh and as he sat close-by he did all he could do display his displeasure through body language. She was a filthy little thing, pretty enough face but her dirty brown locks looked matted with dirt and smoke, not usually the sort of thing the piqued his interest. His opinion of her changed dramatically when she returned to the table with dinner.

The high priest waited patiently for Symon to take his share before he delved into the pot with his wooden spoon and shovelled the delicacy into his mouth. The flavours were fantastic and has he chewed the carrots and meat he found it within himself to extend the feeling of gratitude to his companion. The fruits and exotic vegetables of Essos were forgotten for a time, all that mattered was the stew and the crusty black bread that accompanied it. Washing down a large mouthful with his wine he wiped his face on the back of his hand before replying to Symon’s statement:

“If they are your serving wench will be the first one taken, don’t let your feelings obstruct our vision. We are destined for the North; these people mean nothing to us. When we leave this place we shan’t return, we will put it from our minds and if it does burn we won’t be any wiser for it. Talking about the North I have been thinking, as I often do. I think it is perhaps time I learned how to wield a sword effectively. It would be advantageous to my cause if I were able to fight with a weapon against unskilled opponents so that my magic may be better cast elsewhere when it is needed most. I’ve also decided that you are going to be my teacher. When we reach that wall I want to have a decent sword-arm and a better weapon than this at my hip…”

He gestured towards the brittle iron blade that was sheathed at his waist. He had asphyxiated its owner with his magicka and whilst it was all well and good he could not do that to every enemy that crossed his path. Mirmulnir offered a small smile as payment; it would be no small task to teach him how to flail a sword with some conviction and coherence. It was a skill he had never attempted to build upon, sure he had wielded ceremonial swords before but to his knowledge he had never slain a man with steel. Beyond the wall it was imperative he had more than magic up his sleeve. Though he would not tell Symon, not even Mirmulnir was sure if his magic would work beyond the wall, he had been surprised it worked at all in Westeros. R’hllor was the source of his power, he had merely refined the art with expertise from Asshai and there were no guarantees R’hllor held any presence in the far North. Without the god of light, there was no magic.

Another round of drinks were ordered and paid for by the high priest, who seemed much more agreeable after a cup or two of the thick red liquid. He was by no means drunk but he was merry enough to converse in a befitting manner. His riddles he would save for another day. As it seemed the night would be one of merriment the door to the inn was thrown open once more bringing with it a cold gust of wind and four mailed men, crimson cloaks cascading down their backs like rivers of blood. Their armoured boots boomed on the wooden floor as they entered and at once the room fell silent. Not even Mirmulnir dared speak for those brief moments; a glance at those longswords swinging at their hips was enough to stay his tongue. He did however cast a thoughtful look to his companion as one of the crimson cloaked men ordered everyone outside. Speaking in a hushed tone before he rose Symon Balor was reminded about what the high priest had said earlier, they had a goal and it was not to die here. Straightening his cloak Mirmulnir began to set about exiting the tavern behind the terror stricken locals. His keen gaze fell upon the brunette wench who had caught Symon’s eye earlier, then shifted to the crimson cloaks that eyed her up like a predator did his kill.

When the cold night wind struck his face outside he was greeted by a familiar scene all around. Crimson cloaks, too many to count, ushering people out of their homes and into the centre of the village. White faced mothers held sleeping children in their arms as they hastened to obey their orders. Young boys, brave once, clung to their mothers skirts as they sought to hide their faces from their gaze. Standing on the steps of the inn the high priest felt a hand pull him around to face one of the soldiers. He wore an iron helm that hid much of his features and his shaggy black beard hid the rest. With breath that made Mirmulnir’s eyes water he spoke:

“Soldier are ye, fancy yersel a swordsman dae ye lad? Ye’v got a fair head o white hair there, got that Targaryen look aboot ye. Mad king murdered ma pa he did. I should cut those filthy locks fae yer head ye inconsiderate little whelp, get yer filthy Targaryen arse over there before I introduce my fist tae yer face…”

And this would be where Symon Balor found him, a look of utter defiance upon his face that was a plain indication he was preparing to address the man in the only way he knew how, with scorn…..

WC - 1,411

Symon and Mirmulnir had been having an unusually good time in the Inn, with a few glasses of wine in him the priest was made for better conversation and the same could be said for the sellsword. They had enjoyed their drinks, they had enjoyed thier stew and Symon had a feeling he was going to enjoy the serving girl in his bed tonight as he could already tell that she liked him, he had been very kind to her since he had entered the inn and their eyes had met quite a few times since she had brought him his stew. His travelling companion had glanced at her with distate but Symon knew that his friend, he considered him one now, was used to having the finer things in life and had probably bedded many beatiful women that charged extortionate prices for the pleasure of their company. It had been a good night and it had looked like things where only going to better until the door to the inn opened and the Lannister soldiers entered, Symon knew they where Lannister men because they wore the crimson colours of the house and they where relatively close to Harrenhal. He was not sure what the high priest was doing but before he rose he had reminded of his own words, they did not want to die here, they wanted to make it North to Wall but even so Symon was reluctant to lets the villagers suffer at the hands of the soldiers.

Mirmulnir had made his way to the door and outside, from what Symon could see from his seated position, there where even more men in crimson cloaks forcing the people to gather in the middle of their village. One of the Lannister men had made the mistake of grabbing and berating the high priest and, at that very moment, Symon knew that there was no way they would be leaving the small village without at least some bloodshed. The soldiers within the Inn itself where not paying the sellsword much attention, even though he was the only man who had not heeded their orders to get up and get out, their eyes lay upon the serving girl he had grown fond of in the few hours he had spent in the inn and Symon knew that they where intending to rape her. The sellsword also knew that things had changed, he had once been a man without honour but he had enjoyed his time in the village so much that he was not going to allow the men to harm the serving girl. Symons had went his already blood-stained sword, he purposely scraped it along the side of his sheath in order to draw the attention of the scum that stood before him.

"Look lads, this ones got some fight in him!"

"He must be brave.. or a fool!"

"Mayhaps he just has a death wish"

"I may be a fool but I'm a better sword than the three of you put together. All your capable of is the murder and rape of innocent people."

Working off of the top of his the former Faceless Man formed a battle plan. He placed his foot understand one of the small seats that lined the tables of the inn and kicked it at one of the soldiers, it flew through the air and struck him square in the chest causing him to fall flat on his back. Symon stepped on to the table he had been seated at with Mirmulnir for the entirity of the evening and leaped from it into the space between the Lannister man and the serving girl, he did not intend to allow them to lay a hand on her that night or any other night. The space between the bar and tables was not wide enoiugh for three armoured men at once which meant they would have to come towards Symon one at a time or find a way to walk through solid wood. The first of the Lannister men came at the sellsword quickly and slashed at him with his blade but Symon was not playing around as he had been with the brigands he had encountered four days ago or the two Nights Watches deserters that had attempted to steal his mare and Mirmulnirs destrier earlier that evening, this time he was fighting seriously. He parried the mans strike and drove his sword to the side forcefully, he then stabbed the man the chest and kicked him backwards off of the end of the blade, the dying soldier fell into his ally and trapped him under his weight.

Symon waited until the soldier that was being held down to the ground by his dead ally and shifted the weight off of his body and was trying to get back to his feet, whilst he on his knees and about to rise back to his full height the sellsword struck him across the head with the flat of his sword and caved it in. Two of his enemies where now dead and the third, whom he had had knocked to the ground with the stool, was stepping over their bodies in order to fight Symon for himself but thankfully he was a large, slow, man and just as he was taking his final step to engage the sellsword in combat he struck hard and fast. The soldier fell to the ground with Symons balde embedded in his side, he was still alive but the former Faceless pulled his blade out and began to hack the injured man repeatedly in the side until he was sure he would never make it back to his feet. He had no idea what to do now that those men inside the Inn where dead, for the moment he and the serving girl where safe but that was just a temporary thing as he knew more men would be upon him in no time what so ever.

"Thank you for savin-"

"You can thank me when the rest of them are dead."

Symon was not sure what had compelled him to save the girl. She was, after all, only a serving wench in a tiny inn which would probably be burned to the ground if the Lannisters had their way. Earlier in the night there had been the prospect of having the girl spend the night with him but that still did not explain why he killed three men for her sake and probably cost himself his life in the process, it was possible that he was finally developing a sense of honour and that's what had made him do it. Symon was now sweating and some of his enemies blood stained his clothes but he was still, thankfully in one piece but was in need for refreshment before he could possible carry on fighting against the soldiers that had come to the village. He reached over the bar and helped himself to a bottle of their finest wine, the owner of the inn could try to charge him for it if they where both still alive at the end of the night. Symon raised the wine to his lips and drank hurriedly as he knew his break from fighting would be short, he knew was going to have kill again if he wanted to get out of the village in one piece. He hoped Milmurnir was prepared for battle too, he would need to be if they where going to survive the night.

The sellsword was unsure what to do with the serving girl now that he had saved her life, he did not know rather he could bring her with him on his journey North, if he lived to see another day, but it was unlikely that she would travel with them. Milmurnir would not take kindly to her and it would be impossible for her to go beyond the wall with them anyway. Symon liked her but he knew she would have to go South rather than North if there was any hope for her survival, if the Lannister men could be driven out of the village then the girl and the rest of the villagers could go to Kings Landing just like the other refugees from the other towns, villages and holdfasts that had been ravaged. He finished drinking his wine and was preparing to go outside to face the rest of the soldiers, this moments could be his last and because of that he turned and kissed the girl before turning away and walking towards the door. That kiss could be the very last pleasure he took from life.

( Word Count - 1435 )

Mirmulnir II Blackwyvern

Mirmulnir had been about to open his mouth and fire off a witty retort to the guardsman that had reprimanded him when shouts began to sound within the inn. There was no doubting what had transpired and when the sound of steel upon steel drifted to his ears his fears were confirmed. Unable to stick to their plan Symon had obviously drawn his sword and set about the crimson cloaks that had befallen the village. It was not his surprise that irked him but the fact that once again the faceless man had dragged the high priest into another one of his fights. Although it was plausible that in this case there was no possible alternative but blood, at the current moment, Mirmulnir found himself silently cursing his companion. It was alright for him, he had a skilled sword arm and if they survived the fight he would suffer from nothing more than muscle aches come the morrow. Mirmulnir had no such skills and fighting drained him physically and mentally for days afterwards.

Yet there was no turning back.

The crimson cloaked soldier before him turned his back to march back into the inn and the high priest saw his chance. Sly as ever his right hand found the hilt of his sword and in one swift motion he had unsheathed the iron blade, plunging it into the man’s back as he did so. There was little more than a grunt as the blade pierced the woollen cloak and the mail worn under it. Blood began to gush from the wound and after forcing the blade through the man to the hilt, Mirmulnir finally felt the soldier go limb, falling to the floor shortly afterwards. For a moment he could not help but gawp at what he had done. The deed had been messy and unclean; blood covered his hands and much of his sleeves not to mention the ground beneath his feet. The sword he had wielded, now embedded in his victim, would be impossible to pull free. Mirmulnir had little upper body strength and he knew that as he turned around crimson cloaks would be falling over themselves to slay him. It was an unfortunate turn of events, moments earlier he had been enjoying food and drink, now he was most likely about to be sent to the eternal flames that his god reserved for blasphemers and traitors. Sighing, he wheeled about to face whatever was being sent his way.

The scene that greeted him was ominous. Crimson cloaks, hearing the commotion and witnessing Mirmulnir’s attack on their comrade seemed to emerge from every crevice. They pushed through terror stricken crowds, emerged from thatched cottages and all wore that determined expression upon their faces that signified their intent. There would be no mercy for any who stood in their way and he himself had already been marked for death. He counted at least fifteen and more seemed to pop onto his radar before he could ascertain the true figure. All wore armour and all wielded swords forged from steel that looked sharper than any he had seen before, though this may have been an exaggeration. There was little time to dwell on the dangers before him as his first assailant was upon him. With his long sword he swung in an arc with the intent of separating the high priests head from his body. Nimbler than he looked, Mirmulnir ducked under the blow, moving towards the soldiers left. His course took him into the path of another crimson cloak and although he managed to avoid the man’s wild swings he felt a cut open on his shoulder from a stray attack. Grimacing as he felt his life’s essence seep from his body it became apparent that he was going to have to do something. Mirmulnir could duck and dive all he liked but the crimson cloaks kept coming at him with more vigour than last. When a spotted faced youth came at him the high priest could take no more. He allowed the crimson cloak to swing and miss and when he was off balance Mirmulnir swept him of his feet with a well placed kick to the back of his knees. In a flash he had the youth’s sword and without hesitation he plunged the steel into his chest. There was a moment of victory that Mirmulnir allowed himself to enjoy before looking up and being snapped into reality.

There was panic now; it was no longer a scuffle between two strangers and the crimson cloaks. Buoyed by Symon’s stand within the inn and by his own antics the locals had begun to fight back with them. The men wrestled soldiers to the ground, caving in their skulls with rocks whilst sustaining huge losses of their own. The woman and children were scattered to the wind, running in any direction that took them away from their attackers and in the confusion many of them had escaped into the woods surrounding the village. The moans of pain and the clashing of steel ringed in Mirmulnir’s ears and in the chaotic melee he had totally lost sight of his companion. Soldiers continued to pursue him, driving him further from the inn as they did so. They slashed left and right and the high priest ducked, dived and parried, counter-attacking when he deemed possible. Before long he had slain another two crimson cloaks, though sustaining further injuries of his own. Still his attackers pushed him back until Mirmulnir, bloodied and tired found himself on the outskirts of the village near the stables. He heard mocking voices insult him as he held his new sword out, waiting to parry further blows but he paid them little heed. There were still seven or so crimson cloaks closing in on him and even as they came the high priest knew he was approaching the end of his bravery. The pain from his wounds slowly crept upon him as the adrenaline seeped from his body and as his back made contact with entrance to the stables Mirmulnir knew he what he had to do if he wished to survive.


Turning the short sword upon himself he dragged the blade down diagonally from the top of his shoulder, across the chest stopping at the lower stomach. The steel cut through cloth and skin alike, spilling forth blood as it did so. His attackers paused, dazed by the scene before them, their hesitation allowed Mirmulnir the time he needed to complete the ritual. His mouth and tongue danced in unison, spilling forth harsh words in the cold language of Asshai. The night seemed to grow colder as Mirmulnir rattled through his ritual, arms outstretched and head thrown back gazing into the sky, his blood began to run black, dampening the grass around his feet. The high priest quickly fell silent, eying his attackers as he did so before completing the ritual in the common tongue. Eyes narrowed he scanned confused and worried faces, “The night is full of terrors….” Shaking of his drivel the crimson cloaks raised their swords and began to stride towards him but before they could close the distance between themselves and him a shadow had begun to rise from the black blood that continued to spill forth from Mirmulnir’s huge wound. It rose swiftly, difficult to make out in the darkness with common eyes but it lingered for a moment as if to eye up the Lannisters, who had once again paused in their tracks, swords poised to strike.

The shadow was not human and certainly not of this world. It rose from the ground and slithered upwards into the sky like a great snake until it reached its full size, something approaching ten metres. Though impossible to know the shadow took the form of its master’s life essence, assuming the body of the wyvern for which his family were famous. With a great bellow which made even the hairs on the high priests neck stand to attention it swooped down upon the crimson cloaks who didn’t even have the time to howl their terror before it began to rip them asunder. As soon as the shadow had sprung into action the killing was over and as it flapped its spindly black wings, soaring into the sky, the great wyvern exploded into a million black particles before disappearing as quickly as it appeared, leaving Mirmulnir to take in the horrific bloody scene it had left behind. Mirmulnir had only called forth the beast thrice in his life including tonight and it never got easier, the recovery always took longer. Slumping to his knees the high priest felt all energy leave his body and he would curl into a ball like a young child before allowing the tiredness to overcome him. Slipping out of reality he entered a fantasy in which his dark dreams became reality, he always saw the shadows in his dreams, the terror of bringing them to life would never leave him. To outsiders he would look dead no doubt but even now the great wound he had opened to call forth the shadow was closing. The sounds of the battle were slowly drifting away, whether Symon had survived his own battle he knew naught but he was alive and that’s all that mattered…..

WC - 1555

After the commotion in the Inn Symon darted outside into the cold night air and saw that quite a bit had happened in the short time it had taken him to dispose of his enemies and save the serving girl from rape and certain death. He liked this new sense of honour that he had suddenly begun to develop since sparing Mirmulnirs life mere days in the Kingswood because it made the former assassin feel as though he fought for something more than the joy of killing a man, he was now finally growing to understand why the knights he had previously called fools lived their lives and fought the way they did. Outside of the inn fighting had broken out everywhere, it appeared as though the villagers had been inspired by Symon and Mirmulnirs fight back against the Lannister men and had decided that they would join in on the small battle themselves although it had not worked out well for most as they wore no armour and carried no effective weapons. The sellsword, an occupation he believed he would retiring from, could not see his travelling companion anywhere which was somewhat relieving as it meant he was not amongst the dead laying on the cold, hard, ground.

Some of the soldiers in crimson cloaks had died in a variety of ways, ranging from stab wounds to having their head bashed in with rocks, but quite a few where still fighting against the villagers and happened to be winning but Symon was determined to change that. He still had his sword in his hand and no one had even come close to inflicting injury on him yet so he joined in the battle with some degree of confidence which was only bolstered when the first Lannister man he encountered was dead, or at leaste gravely wounded, with just one thrust of his blade. The next man he faced was not quite so easy to defeat and was able to parry several of Symons strikes and became to first man to land a strike on him; the Lannister soldiers sword caught him a glancing blow on the upper arm and left him bleeding although that particular soldier would never live to tell anyone of the events that occured in the village that night as Symon had taken his head off with a powerful swing of his sword. The former faceless was not fighting as well he could have despite his confidence; he was worried about Mirmulnir and the possible arrival of Lannister reinforcements.

Symon made the decision that he would fight his way towards the stables whilst hoping that his travelling companion would have had the common sense to go there rather than trying to defeat each and every one of their enemies alone. He was forced into a detour from his chosen path to the stables, straight through the middle of the village whilst cutting down every soldier that got in his way, when he saw one the crimson cloaks cornering a woman and child that had tried to flee the battle. Despite having once being a deadly, vicious, assassin Symon had never once struck a woman or a child and didn't particularly like men that did so. He approached the soldier and just as he rose his hand to hit the woman in the face Symon kicked him in the lower back causing him to fall into a disguisting pile of horse shit, the crimson cloak rose to his feet and drew his fine steel sword with the intention of killing Symon where he stood but he just wasn't skilled enough to do so. The Lannister soldier swung and swung again but was unable to hit his target no matter how hard he tried to, eventually the sellsword was able to step inside the mans guard and thrust his blade into the mans stomach. He was pleased to see that the mother and child had fled.

"You enjoyin' killin' my men?", a gruff voice said from behind Symon.

"It's not much a challenge," Symon said turning around to face the man, he was dressed in finer armour than any other soldier had been.

"Well, I'll be puttin' an end to it," the man, whom Symon assumed was the captan of the crimson cloaks, said. The talking was over.

The captain drew a sword that was not particularly fine but looked as though it had been used in battle and Symon could not help but wonder how many mens lives it had taken for the Lannisters. The captain didn't give the sellsword the slightest chance to prepare himself for the fight and was upon him in no time but couldn't quite land a strike upon Symon as he was being weighed down by the heavy mail that he wore across his torso for protection in battle although it would do him no good if he made the slightest mistake against his current enemy. When the captains strikes began to slow Symon knew it was his turn but he too did no damage as each of his blows was skillfully blocked by the crimson cloak, he was well trained and fought well for a common soldier which Symon believe that the man could have been a knight with his level of ability. Each of them tried to break the others defence time and time again but they seemed to be evenly matched although the sellsword did have the injury on his upper left arm hindering him slightly.

"Ya fight well.. you can't be a common villager," the captain said, panting slightly, whilst he deflected one of Symons blows.

"I'm not, I'm a sellsword.. used to be a Faceless Man," the words suprised the soldier, he could tell, "You fight well for a common soldier.."

"Aye, well, thats what I am.. a simple captain," although not completely suprised, Symon had expected the captain to hold a knighthood considering his skill with a sword.

The two men continued to swing their swords at one another with little success but Symon could tell that his enemy was tiring faster than he was due to his heavy mail which had slowed him down for the entirity of their fight. If the sellsword was to be perfectly honest he would admit that the soldier was at least his equal and could have beaten him had he not been weighed down but Symon wasn't prone to being perfectly honest and would never admit that someone was better than him. He continued to rain blows down on the captain until his opponent lost his footing and stumbled slightly but he gave him the chance to steady himself before striking again and drawing first blood in their close fight; his blade caught the captain on his left thigh and gave him a shallow but long cut that would distract him until his death at Symons hands. The captain fought well for at least another five minutes and even managed to give Symon another cut, this time it was straight across his left cheek and would have taken his off had he not been able to jump backwards, but the soldier was tired and the sellsword was not, allowing him parry a strike, move to his left and slash the captain across the abdomen and end the battle.

"That was close.." Symon said, hurrying towards the stables even though he wasn't even sure if the captain was dead. A quick glance around the viallge alerted the sellsword to the fact that all of Lannister men and villagers where dead or had run for their lives.

When he arrived at the stables he was surprised to see that Mirmulnir had done quite a bit of work and around half a dozen of the crimson cloaked Lannister soldiers lay dead on the ground. Symon's travelling companion was on the ground too but he was still alive, something had caused him to pass out. The priest wasn't a very large man and it was easy for the sellsword to lift him over his shoulder and carry him to his large destrier which, Symon was relieved to see, along with his mare had not been harmed or stolen in the midst of battle. They had to move quickly if they wanted to get out of the now abandoned village before any soldiers that had escpaped with their lives returned with reinforcements but speed would be hard to achieve with a passed-out high priest. Symon lifted Mirmulnir up to his saddle and allowed him to slump forwards upon the destriers neck, he did not intend to go far and it would okay for his friend to sit in such a position for just a few minutes, the sellsword took the reins of both horses in his hands and led them genly into the forrest surrounding the small village; he was careful in the path he chose as he did not want his companion to be thrown from his destrier.

After a short walk that lasted no more than fifteen minutes Symon released the reins of the horses and hoisted Mirmulnir down from the back of his fine steed and layed him upon the ground. He was carrying a few injuries but did not appear to be seriously, physically, hurt but the sellsword decided that he would allow his friend to sleep whilst he stood watch for what was left of the night; he would wake him in the morning or sooner if any more danger came their way through the night.

( Word count - 1576. )

Mirmulnir II Blackwyvern

For what seemed like an eternity Mirmulnir remained in his unconscious state, trapped within his mind, reliving his darkest thoughts without hope of release. He thrashed and dripped cold sweat yet he did not wake, he couldn’t. All night his ordeal lasted, ending only when Symon shook him back and forth the next morning to end his slumber. For a moment he sat up dazed, unaware of where he was or how he came to be there. The events of the previous night were something of a blur save for one memory that came to him crystal clear. A dark shadow emerging from the earth, born of his own blood bringing forth its wrath to the world of mortals, instinctively his hand moved to his chest gliding over a newly formed scar as he did so. Mirmulnir continued to pour sweat as his eyes scanned the makeshift camp that Symon had erected. A small fire, almost burned out, had been constructed nearby and the high priest shuffled over to it in the hopes of warming his body. He had hoped to see something swirling in the flames that he could use to his advantageous but R’hllor was not to be found. Instead Mirmulnir muttered some morning prayers before rising and delving into the saddlebags of his destrier. He had been pleasantly surprised to see that Symon had managed to save both mounts from the village and though he did not say so, he was quietly impressed.

After a quickly prepared breakfast of hard bread and cheese Mirmulnir finally broke the silence between himself and Symon. Far from his usually coolly composed manner his tone was slightly dreamy, betraying his still hazy state of mind. “Those crimson cloaks, it seems queer that they would have arrived shortly after us. We would be wise to ensure that we cover our tracks more effectively this day, lest we find the crimson cloaks follow us north. Your sword served you well last night I see, I am glad, this journey would be considerably more difficult without you.” It was unlikely that the Lannisters had followed their trail to the village but it seemed odd to the high priest that the very village they settled down in was the next on the Southerners hit list as it were. Though he took no side in any wars he found himself developing a deep seething hatred for the crimson cloaks and the trouble they had caused them. Ripping a piece of bread from the loaf before him Mirmulnir chewed as he contemplated. Though his memory was still cloudy details slowly returned to him. He could almost feel the warmth of the fire which they had sat beside at the little thatched cottage like inn the night previously. He remembered eating a splendidly cooked stew and warning Symon that he should stay away from the serving girls. It was around this time he remembered another detail, the black cloaks that had attacked his companion looking for some swift coin. Yes, it seemed clearer now. The runaways must have left their trail into the village uncovered; it was surely them that brought the crimson cloaks upon the village, not himself and his shadowy friend. The blame then lay with those men that had been slain, justice had surely been served. Nodding to himself he allowed his concerns to circle closer to home.

In the way of wounds, Mirmulnir had sustained more than he would have liked. His self inflicted gash aside there were several angry looking cuts on his shoulders and upper arms. Where there were no slits in the skins there were blue and black bruises. The high priest had always managed to maintain a pristine physical appearance. His skin was always milky white and moisturised with milk and honey, his nails were always polished and painted but now he looked no cleaner than the sellsword he travelled with. Bringing his right hand closer to his face he observed his long nails, sighing as he did so. His clothing too was tainted. That white buttoned doublet he had worn was now spotted with dirt, dust and grass stains, here and there his own blood and that of the slain was splashed. His breeches were ripped at the left knee and the sword he had once worn was gone from his waist. No doubt it was still embedded in the soldier he had plunged it into, a shame, he had felt safer with it at his side, it made him look considerably more menacing. Yet there was little time to dwell on what was lost, they were both alive and so the journey would continue. Picking himself up from the floor he spoke once more, “Do you have a route in mind for which to travel? I remain weary from last night’s events and have little desire to continue my navigation duties.” With four long strides he closed the distance between his destrier and himself, in a moment later he had mounted up and though it pained him to do so he refused to allow the weakness show upon his face.

Gazing down at Symon Balor failed to bring Mirmulnir joy for once; his grin gave way to a tight lipped frown and his usual sense of humour seemed to fail him. In truth he wanted away from this place as quickly as possible, not for fear of crimson cloaks but for the angry spirits they had left in their wake. Many men had died by their hands last night; it was unlikely they had passed over completely. Only now did the thought occur to him. Though he was no longer high priest, Mirmulnir remained a deeply religious individual, death troubled him, it was foolish and unlikely but as he considered the possibility he could feel their eyes upon him. His hairs began to stand to attention as a series of shivers traversed his spine. Shifting in his saddle he voiced his concerns to Symon despite knowing he would take him for a fool. “We must leave this place, routes can be drawn upon the road, I shall stay here no longer. Darkness fills these woods and the slain seek vengeance upon the living…..” Instantly his eyes began to dart left and right as a cold wind blew around their campsite. A raven called out and the high priest flinched. He held his hand before his face and watched it shake before curling it into a fist. They had no business in this forest, evil lurked within the trees and when the birds fell silent Mirmulnir took this as a sign to leave.

It would be an odd sight for Symon who had never known the high priest to show any sort of fear but he had managed to spook himself with his talk of spirits. Without waiting for his companion Mirmulnir wheeled his horse about galloped in the direction he believed the road to be. He glanced quickly over his shoulder before returning his gaze to the road. “The night is full of terrors, bring back the dawn…….the night is full of terrors, bring back the dawn. R’hllor hear our prayers, we your loyal subjects…R’hllor……the dawn….the dawn…….I am a loyal subject….” He continued to mutter to himself as he rode though after a few moments he had lost his way. The path had disappeared underfoot, replaced instead with the undergrowth of a new part of the forest. Pulling the reigns tightly he brought the destrier to a sudden stop causing the beast to call out in protest. He was lost.

WC: 1262

Symon had barely slept through the night for fear of Lannister reinforcements arriving at the village to find their fellow crimson cloaks dead and deciding to search the surrounding forest for anyone that may have played in their deaths. He had sat awake by his small fire and listened for footsteps in the night that, luckily, never came allowing for an hour or two of sleep before he rose, saddled his mare and shook Mirmulnir until he woken from his own slumber. The High Priest was looking worse for wear after the events of the previous night, he had been struck several times resulting in both bruises and cuts but nothing too serious; both of them had lived and that was what mattered at the end of the day. Milmurnir droned on and on for awhile but Symon wasn't really listening to what he had to say until he realised that his companion was afraid and seemed to think that the spirits of the men they had killed nor haunted the woods they made camp in, belief in spirits was something Symon would have to add to the list of bad things that came from believing in one of the many Gods worshipped in both Westeros and Essos. The sellsword rose to his feet with a sigh with he intention of riding on with his friend and travelling companion.

Symon would have rode on along the road North with his friend and travelling companion had the fool not mounted his horse and rode off in the wrong direction, he had been unconscious when they had come into the forest and did not know which way lead to the lead road or back to the village, which, all things considered, would be the last place he wanted to end up if he feared ghosts. Mirmulnir had been mutterring about the Lord of Light once more when had left their camp and a very small part of Symon felt the High Priest was more trouble than he was worth but in his heart he knew that that his companion was his only friend in all of the Seven Kingdoms and that it would be in both of their best interests where he to ride deeper into the forest and find Mirmulnir. The sellsword stomped out the fire, it wouldn't do to burn the forest down, and packed up what was left of their food in his saddle before mounting his mare and heading off in the same direction his companion had gone in. Whilst he looked around the forest Symon realised how easy it would be get lost as all of the trees, to which there seemed to be no end, looked alike which made it hard to differentiate between them. Symon hoped Milmurnir was not lost.

For the second time in as many days Symon feared for the life of his friend. Only the night before dozens of people had been slain in a village right beside the forest and, from his many years of travel throughout the world, the sellsword knew what kinds of animals would be attracted by the scents of blood and dead flesh. For all he knew there could be bears or wolves in the forest that would love nothing more than to get their paws on someone like Mirmulnir; he neither large or strong and carried no weapon although he was capable of what could be considered magic but Symon had a feeling that he had grown weak due to whatever had made him pass out the night before. He kicked his heels into his mare and picked up the pace, he knew he had to find his friend before something or someone else did so, they needed to get back on the road North in order to reach the wall and have the adventure they both sought in the lands beyond it. The two travellers had not had much luck in the early portion of their journey but things could only get better simply because it was impossible for them to get any worse.

“Mirmulnir!”, Symon called out, slowing his horse down to a trot now that he had been galloping for a few minutes, he truly hoped the High Priest would have been intelligent enough not to go too deep into the forest, “Are you there, friend?! We need to get back on the road!”

Calling out so loudly might have been a mistake. He was in a forest which was probably filled with vicious creatures that just happened to be located right by a village at which more crimson cloaked soldiers could arrive at any time if someone had managed to reach them with news of the events of the previous night. When Symon received no response to his shouts he trotted on a little bit further and then called out again to no avail, finding his friend was going to be harder than he had expected it to be but he was used to having to track difficult to find people down but usually his objective had been to kill his target, not to save their life. The sellswords life had changed so much in a short amount that it was hard to believe that not too long ago he had been a Faceless Man. It was at that moment that Symon realised he was being an idiot and climbed down from his position on top of the mare and told her to stay put whilst he took a few steps ahead. He had been ignorant of one of the easier ways to find Mirmulnir.

Symon lowered himself on to one knee and took a look at the ground just be sure he was going in the right direction, this was confirmed when he saw fresh hoof prints in the mud indicating that someone had ridden through the spot recently and that someone was most likely Mirmulnir. The prints where large and his friend rode upon a large destrier which further suggested that it had been that had been here. The sellsword climbed back on his mare and rode swiftly whilst looking at the ground the entire time in order to track the prints more effectively, it had been a stroke of genius to think of tracking the mud for hoof prints but it was something he should have thought of sooner, which would have saved him some time. Not too long after deciding to follow the prints of his horse Symon spotted his travelling companion up ahead, sitting upon his large horse and looking completely lost and clueless. When he was beside him the sellsword pulled his reigns and came to a halt. He was relieved to have found his friend but angry with him for the time he had wasted, they could have been riding north rather than sitting idly in the middle of a forest.

“What is wrong with you, Mirmulnir?” Symon said immediately after stopping his horse beside the High Priests, his anger was getting the better of him, “You’re an idiot. I’ve no known anyone as stupid as you in my entire life and, what makes it even worse, is that you think so bloody highly of yourself! ”

It was shame that his companion had chosen this particular day to do something so foolish as Symon had just started to like Mirmulnir the night before but now he was not entirely sure that he did, although that thought probably stemmed from his anger which would be quick to fade once he gotten everything off of his chest.

“I swear you’re going both of us killed if you do something this stupid again! What do you think will happen to us if you ride off in the wrong direction in some forest north of the Wall? And that’s if we even make it that far!”

Word Count: 1308.

A very interesting thread and a well thought out, and detailed storyline. It's a shame that Mirmulnir has been inactive. I would have liked to see where you two took your characters after this.

Symon Balor Rewards: 2,100G | 420xp
Mirmulnir II Blackwyvern Rewards: 1,800G | 360xp