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Post by The Weirwood on Jan 17, 2016 1:10:47 GMT
Due to the small size of the city, most of the visitors have set up camp outside of the city walls. The two nations have set up camps along either side of the City away from one another.
The Northern camp rightly set on the Northern side of the city, is proving to be less then trustful of their southern neighbors and have set up a pretty defensible perimeter at their edges. With only a few sturdy fences and actual guards on perimeter there is nothing overtly threatening like they are expecting a fight, old habits and discipline is strong enough to make them cautious enough to be safe and vigilant.
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Post by King Artys V Arryn on Jan 17, 2016 2:13:25 GMT
It was mid-morning when the Sky Blue Banners of House Arryn started dotting the horizon; above them, five little black silhouettes flew along the lines. Consisting of around forty men, The Vale's entourage was one of the first to arrive, a predictable outcome considering Gulltown's proximity to Cracklaw Island. The King had ordered for them to settle near where the border between the Northern and Southern camps would be, although not easily, the Vale dealt with difference a little more tolerantly than their fellow Northmen.
King Artys flew Alys, the eldest of the eagles, it's age and experience reflecting not only on it's slightly discolored feathers, but also in the way she flew, every and each wingbeat gentle and millimetrically calculated to balance comfort and energy spending. Alongside him flew Eddard and his wife, on Cloudstrider, the Queen's Consort, considerably smaller than Alys, but with a grayer coloration; Yohn, his Grandson, who rode on the plain-white Snowpiercer, the latest hatchling of the brood, no older than three years old, unlike his parent's (and partially influenced by his, also young, rider), he flew in a much more erratic, and energy consuming, manner, often diving or barrel rolling over the ground band; the fourth eagle was Crimson Hunter, rode by Queen Ysilla, she had a reddish brown feather coloration; and finally, Nightshade, a black brute of a beast, ridden by one of Arty's most trustworthy officers.
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Post by The Weirwood on Jan 17, 2016 4:55:03 GMT
Dorran Stark sits at one of the many camp fires in the Northern encampment. It was probably due to him being there that the north's camp was guarded well. He sits with several of his brothers enjoying a horn of ale as they watch the Vale Lord fly over the camp.
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Post by Mortifer the Monstrous on Jan 17, 2016 5:09:37 GMT
The camp shakes, glasses of water ripple, and a few tents fall over. Some began screaming about an earthquake. It is some time before the source of the commotion is visible over the horizon; a massive mammoth carrying a proportionally massive man upon its back. Jotun, the mammoth in question, lumbered into camp, almost crushing a few squires as they scampered out of the way. Two direwolves, grown to the size of ponies, flank the mammoth, Skoll and Hati snarling and bearing their fangs at any that came to close.
The giant of a man dismounted, wiping sweat from his brow as it was far colder this far south than he was used to. He raised his arms above his head, massive Valyrian steel axe on his back, as a group of Wildings on shaggy horses rode up behind him.
"Where the fuck is the mead at you milkdrinkers?" Mortifer roared, pounding a fist to his chest.
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Post by The Weirwood on Jan 17, 2016 5:19:11 GMT
A squire that must have been almost crushed when the mammoth came strolling in, shakily held out his own horn of mead. He looked up at the monstrous man paler then a coat of fresh snow in the far North. "Y-y-you c-c-an have m-mine, Milord." He says seeminly swallowing his own tongue with the last word.
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Post by Mortifer the Monstrous on Jan 17, 2016 5:22:18 GMT
Mortifer looked at the horn with disdain, slapping it out of the lad's hand.
"What is this thimble? I drink it by the barrel, boy!" he roared, spittle flying in the squire's face. "Gods damn kneelers."
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Post by The Weirwood on Jan 17, 2016 5:28:21 GMT
By this time the squire was sitting in the mud already fucking terrified of the man, as he tried to almost spider crawl away without taking his eyes off of the man. When he was a short distance away he turned scrambled up and nearly sprinted away.
Over in the distance Mortifer can clearly see a vendor who was selling his stores, the man behind the stall is closing his eyes and seems to be muttering a prayer.
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Post by Mortifer the Monstrous on Jan 17, 2016 5:32:14 GMT
Mortifer watched the squire run off with disdain and a long sigh, throat parched. He lumbered over to the stall, staring down at the vendor like an ant.
"Mead." he intoned.
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Post by The Weirwood on Jan 17, 2016 5:35:59 GMT
The vendor turns a bright shade of pink as he points to a barrel behind the stall. "That'll be a silver moon for the whole barrel. Please." He states in a whisper shaking very obviously.
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Post by Mortifer the Monstrous on Jan 17, 2016 5:41:24 GMT
Mortifer looks to the barrel, then to the stall owner, then back to the barrel. He shoves the vendor aside and picks up the mead, placing the heavy oak and iron vessel on his shoulder like it weighed nothing
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Post by The Weirwood on Jan 17, 2016 5:47:17 GMT
The vendor involuntarily raises a hand and tried to mutter "stop" as if to try and stop the man from walking off, thinks really damn hard for a second and decides he likes his head right where it is and leans heavily on his stand for a few seconds breathing heavily.
By this time Dorran notices the King beyond the wall has arrived and is standing several paces away from Jotun the mammoth, "You might need to actually pay the next one, Otherwise they are all going to leave and there will be nothing for anyone." He states with a small chuckle.
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Post by Mortifer the Monstrous on Jan 17, 2016 6:01:58 GMT
Mortifer sets the barrel down, takes the axe off his back, splits the barrel, and picks it up to begin guzzling directly from it.
"Can cross that sea when I get to it." he remarked, after he had drained a quarter of the barrel. "Tastes like cat piss and is weaker than a southron's sword arm."
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Post by The Weirwood on Jan 17, 2016 6:11:50 GMT
Dorran watches the man, "Well come see me next time you need something, I had my men pack a few of our own barrels. Nothing quite like home brew when you are home sick or sick of the shit they have down here rather."
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Post by Mortifer the Monstrous on Jan 17, 2016 6:40:20 GMT
The Wilding grunted his approval, taking a seat atop the notably less full barrel.
"Once I've quenched my third, will need to find a woman to steal." he remarked, as if discussing the weather. "Never had southron cunny."
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Post by The Weirwood on Jan 17, 2016 6:55:56 GMT
"Not much is different really." Dorran replies, "They aren't accustomed to your traditions in the Far North. So if you want some fun with your sport, go for any that have a man with them." Dorran says laughing, "The more men the more fun I imagine."
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