Post by Maldon Ryswell on Apr 20, 2013 19:35:09 GMT -5
It had been years since Maldon Ryswell had set foot in the Rills but he was growing ever closer to doing so with each passing hour. His brother, Lord Rodrik Ryswell, had ordered him out of the Rills and he had complied; his loyalty to his house had been unwavering but he deeply regretted not standing up to his brother on that occasion. The unhappy years that followed that day had been spent in the service of various lords, ladies and traders but no one could replace his true lord and no castle or keep could replace his true home. Maldon had always longed to return home and now he was finally going to do so.
He had been traveling for days and had encountered many dangers along the various roads and pathways leading north. Almost all of Westeros was at war, conflict was growing more and more difficult to avoid and a man like Maldon, an old man, almost always seemed like an easy target for bandits. He was not all that he appeared to be though; in his youth he had been a great knight, a knight that fought in battles and a knight that saved lives. He had once been known through the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros for his skill with a blade and, even though he was well past his physical best, Maldon was still more than a match for most common bandits. In fact, on the road to the Rills he had already cut down three vagabonds that thought they could rob him.
So far, on his journey home, Maldon had rode for many hard miles but the final stretch was going to be by far the worst; it had been a few years since he had faced the fierce cold of the North, it was going to slow him down and readjusting to it was going be hard. He could feel the cold throughout his body despite the fact his cloak was wrapped tightly around him, Maldon knew that he was going to have to stop at the next village he found in hopes of purchasing warmer clothing for the remainder of his journey. When he was younger man, Maldon could have made it to the Rills from his current location in just a day or two but, in his current condition, he needed to rest more frequently.
A necessity for Maldon was a strong horse and they didn't come much stronger than his current mount; a large, muscular, brown stallion that wouldn't have looked out of place on the battlefield. The old man's reason for needing such a strong mount was that he had never been much of a rider, it was one of his major shortcomings and a skill that he had never worked very hard on improving. Once he had made it to the Rills, if his brother decided to let him stay, Maldon was going to sell the horse to someone younger and stronger as he felt such a fine horse deserved a much better rider than a slightly overweight knight.
After another hour or so of slow paced riding along the road, Maldon saw what appeared to be a very small village. It was snowing and, unfortunately, the snow was impairing his vision slightly which meant he could not be sure just how many buildings there where up ahead. He gently spurred his horse one, causing it to move from a light trot to a gentle gallop in a few short seconds. The stallion carried Maldon quickly to the edge of the village where he pulled on the reins in order to slow the animal down; something was not right about what he saw before him, there was a strange absence of life from the village.
Maldon climbed down from atop his steed, still holding the reins, and walked slowly into the village. It was extremely small, consisting of just four or five homes and what looked like an inn for passing travellers. Usually even the tiniest of villages showed signs of life but Maldon could not see or hear a single person. He decided that he should approach the inn, that was where he would most likely find someone selling some form of warm clothing; traders selling goods at travellers frequently did so at inns. He led his horse to a small stable, which was deserted, and tied him there.
Upon reaching and opening the door of the inn, Maldon knew that something horrible had happened in the village; a man and two women lay dead on the floor. A forth individual, a middle aged man with black hair, was still breathing but appeared to have been severely wounded.
"What happened here?", Maldon said, approaching the injured, most likely dying, man.
"Wolves", he responded, "wolves."
"Wolves?", the old knight inquired, unsure of what the man meant.
"Soldiers. Soldiers with the direwolf of House Stark as their sigil but, I tell you, these weren't good men. They spoke of desertation"
"That I can see, friend. Where are these men now?"
"They left minutes before you arrived... please, a drink."
Maldon ventured behind the bar and selected a bottle of wine. He brought it to the dying man, removed the stopper and lifted it to his lips for him to drink. Maldon had killed men in his time but not in this fashion; he had only slain his enemies, never innocent people.
"Do you know where these men where going?"
"No," the man said, stopping for another sip of wine, "but evil men such as those likely visited the other folk of the villages..."
"How many?"
"Three. All of them armed."
"I promise you, they will not go unpunished for this. I will find them and I will make them pay for that have done," Maldon said, solemnly. Scenes such as this sickened him.
"Go, find them... leave me to die. I kn- I know it's too late for me to be saved."
Maldon reached out and gave the dying man's hand a squeeze. He got to his feet and made his way to the door; his main objective was now to find the men that commited such heinous crimes in this village.
It didn't take long to find them.
"Cor! Will, look at this horse!", a voice called out. It was deep, gruff and, most likely, belonged to one of the deserters.
"What horse?", another voice, that of Will, responded.
"This one! In the stable!"
"That horse weren't there before. Someone else is here, Walder."
"Then we'll kill him like we did the rest and take this here horse."
Their brief exchange of words was enough for Maldon to known he had found the killers. He stepped round the corner, heading in the direction of the stables. The two man had heard the crunch of his boots in the snow and where looking in his direction; Will and Walder big men, they where both armed and they where a lot younger than Maldon.
"It's just an old man. nothin' to worry about," one them said. Maldon drew his sword.
"That's a fine piece of steel for such an older bugger," the other muttered.
"If I'm so old, then you shouldn't have much trouble killing me."
"We won't. Why're you so keen to die?", Walder asked, simultaneously advancing towards Maldon.
"I'm not keen to die, I'm keen to kill two of the scoundrels that came to this village and murdered innocent people."
This made both Will and Walder laugh. They weren't taking Maldon seriously but this was something he had grown to expect; once you reach a certain people automatically assume you're completely useless when it comes to combat.
"You make me laugh, old man, maybe I'll give you a quick death!", Walder exclaimed, still giggling. The deserter continued towards what he thought was a harmless old man and attempted to cut him down with one powerful slash; Maldon easily parried his strike and smiled.
"You know, I expected better but I suppose you're all talk, like most young men," Maldon said calmly; Walder attempted to slash him once more but his attack was parried again. At this point Will was beginning to advance to assist his friend which caused Maldon to decide that he was going to have to make quick work of Walder. After a third parry, the knight thrust the tip of his sword into the murderers belly, twisted it, in order to make the wound as deep as possible, and quickly withdrew it, causing him to keel over in great pain. Once he was on the ground, he was no longer a threat.
Will, being an absolute fool, did not hesitate and re-think his strategy after seeing his friend die before him; he simple rushed towards Maldon and swung wildly. His swing was avoided, he lost his balance, he fell and he was immediately stabbed in the back. All that Maldon needed to do now was find the third and final murderer. Rather than going looking for the deserter, he simply stood at the stables and waited for his next victim to come to him; eventually he would start looking for his now dead friends and his search would, at some point, bring him to the stables.
Maldon had been standing, casually rubbing the mane of his horse, for less than five minute when the final deserter rounded the corner from the direction of the Inn and spotted his dead friends.
"Shit, Will! Walder!", he exclaimed, he then laid eyes upon Maldon and his bloodsoaked blade, "You did this!"
"Yes. I killed your friends; they deserved it. What you did here today was unforgivable."
"I'll kill you!", the deserter shouted, drawing his sword and recklessly charging towards Maldon. The knight sensed another quick fight.
The third man was slightly better with his sword than the first two had been; he didn't mindlessly swing, he was slower and more calculated in his approach. He attempted to cut Maldon twice but had each of his attacks easily parried before evading an attack from the knight.
"You're a lot better your friends."
"Shut up. Don't even talk about them, you killed them."
"You should have considered the repurcussions before you killed those innocent people in the Inn."
The army deserter thrust his sword towards Maldon but missed his mark, resulting in a cut from the same sword that had claimed the lives of his two friends. Once he had been injured, despite the mildness of the wound, he seemed to lose his focus and resorted to the same tactics that cost his friends their lives; swinging wildly and hoping to make contact with something. Maldon parried and evaded the deserters attacks before delivering a well timed, fatal, slash to his throat.
Now that he had avenged the lives of the villagers, there was no reason for Maldon to stay in the village. He helped himself to Walder's cloak, which had a very small amount of blood on it, before freeing his horse from the confines of the stable and remounting him. He had served justice to murderers and it made him feel good.
Word Count: 1,854.
He had been traveling for days and had encountered many dangers along the various roads and pathways leading north. Almost all of Westeros was at war, conflict was growing more and more difficult to avoid and a man like Maldon, an old man, almost always seemed like an easy target for bandits. He was not all that he appeared to be though; in his youth he had been a great knight, a knight that fought in battles and a knight that saved lives. He had once been known through the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros for his skill with a blade and, even though he was well past his physical best, Maldon was still more than a match for most common bandits. In fact, on the road to the Rills he had already cut down three vagabonds that thought they could rob him.
So far, on his journey home, Maldon had rode for many hard miles but the final stretch was going to be by far the worst; it had been a few years since he had faced the fierce cold of the North, it was going to slow him down and readjusting to it was going be hard. He could feel the cold throughout his body despite the fact his cloak was wrapped tightly around him, Maldon knew that he was going to have to stop at the next village he found in hopes of purchasing warmer clothing for the remainder of his journey. When he was younger man, Maldon could have made it to the Rills from his current location in just a day or two but, in his current condition, he needed to rest more frequently.
A necessity for Maldon was a strong horse and they didn't come much stronger than his current mount; a large, muscular, brown stallion that wouldn't have looked out of place on the battlefield. The old man's reason for needing such a strong mount was that he had never been much of a rider, it was one of his major shortcomings and a skill that he had never worked very hard on improving. Once he had made it to the Rills, if his brother decided to let him stay, Maldon was going to sell the horse to someone younger and stronger as he felt such a fine horse deserved a much better rider than a slightly overweight knight.
After another hour or so of slow paced riding along the road, Maldon saw what appeared to be a very small village. It was snowing and, unfortunately, the snow was impairing his vision slightly which meant he could not be sure just how many buildings there where up ahead. He gently spurred his horse one, causing it to move from a light trot to a gentle gallop in a few short seconds. The stallion carried Maldon quickly to the edge of the village where he pulled on the reins in order to slow the animal down; something was not right about what he saw before him, there was a strange absence of life from the village.
Maldon climbed down from atop his steed, still holding the reins, and walked slowly into the village. It was extremely small, consisting of just four or five homes and what looked like an inn for passing travellers. Usually even the tiniest of villages showed signs of life but Maldon could not see or hear a single person. He decided that he should approach the inn, that was where he would most likely find someone selling some form of warm clothing; traders selling goods at travellers frequently did so at inns. He led his horse to a small stable, which was deserted, and tied him there.
Upon reaching and opening the door of the inn, Maldon knew that something horrible had happened in the village; a man and two women lay dead on the floor. A forth individual, a middle aged man with black hair, was still breathing but appeared to have been severely wounded.
"What happened here?", Maldon said, approaching the injured, most likely dying, man.
"Wolves", he responded, "wolves."
"Wolves?", the old knight inquired, unsure of what the man meant.
"Soldiers. Soldiers with the direwolf of House Stark as their sigil but, I tell you, these weren't good men. They spoke of desertation"
"That I can see, friend. Where are these men now?"
"They left minutes before you arrived... please, a drink."
Maldon ventured behind the bar and selected a bottle of wine. He brought it to the dying man, removed the stopper and lifted it to his lips for him to drink. Maldon had killed men in his time but not in this fashion; he had only slain his enemies, never innocent people.
"Do you know where these men where going?"
"No," the man said, stopping for another sip of wine, "but evil men such as those likely visited the other folk of the villages..."
"How many?"
"Three. All of them armed."
"I promise you, they will not go unpunished for this. I will find them and I will make them pay for that have done," Maldon said, solemnly. Scenes such as this sickened him.
"Go, find them... leave me to die. I kn- I know it's too late for me to be saved."
Maldon reached out and gave the dying man's hand a squeeze. He got to his feet and made his way to the door; his main objective was now to find the men that commited such heinous crimes in this village.
It didn't take long to find them.
"Cor! Will, look at this horse!", a voice called out. It was deep, gruff and, most likely, belonged to one of the deserters.
"What horse?", another voice, that of Will, responded.
"This one! In the stable!"
"That horse weren't there before. Someone else is here, Walder."
"Then we'll kill him like we did the rest and take this here horse."
Their brief exchange of words was enough for Maldon to known he had found the killers. He stepped round the corner, heading in the direction of the stables. The two man had heard the crunch of his boots in the snow and where looking in his direction; Will and Walder big men, they where both armed and they where a lot younger than Maldon.
"It's just an old man. nothin' to worry about," one them said. Maldon drew his sword.
"That's a fine piece of steel for such an older bugger," the other muttered.
"If I'm so old, then you shouldn't have much trouble killing me."
"We won't. Why're you so keen to die?", Walder asked, simultaneously advancing towards Maldon.
"I'm not keen to die, I'm keen to kill two of the scoundrels that came to this village and murdered innocent people."
This made both Will and Walder laugh. They weren't taking Maldon seriously but this was something he had grown to expect; once you reach a certain people automatically assume you're completely useless when it comes to combat.
"You make me laugh, old man, maybe I'll give you a quick death!", Walder exclaimed, still giggling. The deserter continued towards what he thought was a harmless old man and attempted to cut him down with one powerful slash; Maldon easily parried his strike and smiled.
"You know, I expected better but I suppose you're all talk, like most young men," Maldon said calmly; Walder attempted to slash him once more but his attack was parried again. At this point Will was beginning to advance to assist his friend which caused Maldon to decide that he was going to have to make quick work of Walder. After a third parry, the knight thrust the tip of his sword into the murderers belly, twisted it, in order to make the wound as deep as possible, and quickly withdrew it, causing him to keel over in great pain. Once he was on the ground, he was no longer a threat.
Will, being an absolute fool, did not hesitate and re-think his strategy after seeing his friend die before him; he simple rushed towards Maldon and swung wildly. His swing was avoided, he lost his balance, he fell and he was immediately stabbed in the back. All that Maldon needed to do now was find the third and final murderer. Rather than going looking for the deserter, he simply stood at the stables and waited for his next victim to come to him; eventually he would start looking for his now dead friends and his search would, at some point, bring him to the stables.
Maldon had been standing, casually rubbing the mane of his horse, for less than five minute when the final deserter rounded the corner from the direction of the Inn and spotted his dead friends.
"Shit, Will! Walder!", he exclaimed, he then laid eyes upon Maldon and his bloodsoaked blade, "You did this!"
"Yes. I killed your friends; they deserved it. What you did here today was unforgivable."
"I'll kill you!", the deserter shouted, drawing his sword and recklessly charging towards Maldon. The knight sensed another quick fight.
The third man was slightly better with his sword than the first two had been; he didn't mindlessly swing, he was slower and more calculated in his approach. He attempted to cut Maldon twice but had each of his attacks easily parried before evading an attack from the knight.
"You're a lot better your friends."
"Shut up. Don't even talk about them, you killed them."
"You should have considered the repurcussions before you killed those innocent people in the Inn."
The army deserter thrust his sword towards Maldon but missed his mark, resulting in a cut from the same sword that had claimed the lives of his two friends. Once he had been injured, despite the mildness of the wound, he seemed to lose his focus and resorted to the same tactics that cost his friends their lives; swinging wildly and hoping to make contact with something. Maldon parried and evaded the deserters attacks before delivering a well timed, fatal, slash to his throat.
Now that he had avenged the lives of the villagers, there was no reason for Maldon to stay in the village. He helped himself to Walder's cloak, which had a very small amount of blood on it, before freeing his horse from the confines of the stable and remounting him. He had served justice to murderers and it made him feel good.
Word Count: 1,854.