Watchers on the Wall: An RP of Ice and Fire
Oct 29, 2014 20:24:10 GMT -8
Post by Adlai Stevenson on Oct 29, 2014 20:24:10 GMT -8
"You came to us outlaws. Poachers. Rapers. Debtors. Killers. Thieves,"
Even over the howling, blisteringly cold wind, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont's steady voice boomed, unfettered.
It was a dark day at Castle Black. Which is to say, the sky bustled with thick streaks of gray cloud cover, wayward clusters of snow swirling and tumbling through harsh gusts of mountain wind, as a gaggle of shivering men in black cloaks stood in the meager excuse for a craggy, seven-walled sept. This, in and of itself, was nothing out of the ordinary, but with the sun's warmth barely penetrating the clogged heavens, events akin to these became much harder to endure, especially on the Wall. The Lord Commander, flanked by the senior members of the three orders - First Steward Bowen Marsh, First Builder Othell Yarwyck, and First Ranger Benjen Stark - had made this speech before, or several versions similar to it, and it would not be the last time. Despite the collective shudder through the small crowd below, the bald-headed man's stone face gave away nothing, from behind the altar.
"You came to us children. You came to us alone, in chains, with neither friends nor honor. You came to us rich, you came to us poor. Some of you bear the names of proud houses. Others have only bastard names, or no names at all. It makes no matter, all that is past now. On the Wall, we are all one house.
"At evenfall, as the sun sets, and we face the gathering night, you shall take your vows. From that moment, you will be a sworn Brother of the Night's Watch. All your crimes will be washed away, all your debts forgiven. So too you must wash away your former loyalties, put aside your old grudges, forget old wrongs and old loves alike. Here, you begin anew. A man of the Night's Watch lives his life for the realm. Not for a king, nor a lord, nor the honor of this house or that house. Neither for gold, nor glory, nor a woman’s love, but for the realm, and all the people in it. A man of the Night's Watch shall take no wife, and father no sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor. And you are the only sons we shall ever know.
"You have all learned the words of our sacred vow. Think very carefully before you say them, for once you have taken the black, there is no turning back. The penalty for desertion is death."
Not even shivers or shallow breath drew from the crowded men, now. The gravity of their collective situation, if it hadn't dawned on them yet, was as stark as the black of their cloaks.
"If there are any willing men among you who wish to leave our company," Mormont continued, stone eyes scanning each and every man before him. "Do so now. No one shall think the less of you."
Not as if any of us could, you old bear bastard, thought Conhur Serrett, his venom as bitter as the cold. He sniffed his runny nose, which matched his ears in their reddened state, punished by the wind. Gods help him if he doesn't figure each of us criminals and degenerates . . .
Some of the men shuffled a bit, but none left their spots.
The Lord Commander nodded curtly. "You may take your vows here at evenfall, before Septon Celladar and the First of your order."
"If any of you keep the Old Gods," First Ranger Stark interjected, stepping forward to look out upon the crowd. Mormont gave him a sideways glare for a moment, but quickly subsided. "You may make your vows before a great heart tree, just beyond the Wall."
Mormont nodded. Many Northmen like the honorable Starks were no believers in the Sept Gods; they had the 'blood of the First Men', after all. "Just as well. We have placed each of you in an order, as befits our need, and your own strengths and skills." The Lord Steward stepped forward and handed him a thin piece of paper. The Lord Commander unrolled it and began to read.
"Alynn, to the Builders. Athel, to the Stewards, Burdoc, to the Rangers. Conhur, to the Stewards,"
"Fuck me," Conhur muttered. He was barely audible, but the air from his breath was all too visible. The Lord Commander raised a brow, and continued.
"Charis, to the Rangers. Denys, to the Rangers. Daeron, to the Builders. Edwyle, to the Builders. Forde, to the Rangers. Goren, to the Stewards. Jurdon, to the Builders. Kyrnan, to the Stewards . . ."
The list rattled on for only a brief while - the number of recruits was unimpressive, this time around - and the Old Bear rolled up the paper. “Your Firsts will instruct you in your duties. May all the gods preserve you, brothers.” The Lord
Commander favored them with half a bow, and took his leave.
"Rangers, to me," the thin, bearded Benjen Stark called out when they left.
"Builders," announced lantern-jawed Othel Yarwyck.
"Stewards," finished Bowen Marsh.
As the grouped men began to disperse to their selective orders, from the concourse overlooking the sept, the airy rattle of an old man's laugh crept from one of the brothers in black's gray beard-enshrouded mouth.
"So, brothers, what do you all make of the new flesh?" asked Old Dae Shawney, his grin proud and amused.
A significantly younger man with brown hair and a neater beard grimaced smugly, hacking a wad of phlegmy spit over the balcony.
"Now now, Gareth," the elderly Ranger chided. The humor hadn't left his eyes.
"If these are the newest members of the Night's Watch," Gareth said grimly, arms folded in front of him. "May the Gods help us all. Old and new."
((Right, then! So, if your character is a new recruit to the Watch, have them gather around the First officers of their respective orders. If they're veterans, perhaps have them up overlooking the new batch of recruits, Daemon and Gareth have said their piece.))
Even over the howling, blisteringly cold wind, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont's steady voice boomed, unfettered.
It was a dark day at Castle Black. Which is to say, the sky bustled with thick streaks of gray cloud cover, wayward clusters of snow swirling and tumbling through harsh gusts of mountain wind, as a gaggle of shivering men in black cloaks stood in the meager excuse for a craggy, seven-walled sept. This, in and of itself, was nothing out of the ordinary, but with the sun's warmth barely penetrating the clogged heavens, events akin to these became much harder to endure, especially on the Wall. The Lord Commander, flanked by the senior members of the three orders - First Steward Bowen Marsh, First Builder Othell Yarwyck, and First Ranger Benjen Stark - had made this speech before, or several versions similar to it, and it would not be the last time. Despite the collective shudder through the small crowd below, the bald-headed man's stone face gave away nothing, from behind the altar.
"You came to us children. You came to us alone, in chains, with neither friends nor honor. You came to us rich, you came to us poor. Some of you bear the names of proud houses. Others have only bastard names, or no names at all. It makes no matter, all that is past now. On the Wall, we are all one house.
"At evenfall, as the sun sets, and we face the gathering night, you shall take your vows. From that moment, you will be a sworn Brother of the Night's Watch. All your crimes will be washed away, all your debts forgiven. So too you must wash away your former loyalties, put aside your old grudges, forget old wrongs and old loves alike. Here, you begin anew. A man of the Night's Watch lives his life for the realm. Not for a king, nor a lord, nor the honor of this house or that house. Neither for gold, nor glory, nor a woman’s love, but for the realm, and all the people in it. A man of the Night's Watch shall take no wife, and father no sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor. And you are the only sons we shall ever know.
"You have all learned the words of our sacred vow. Think very carefully before you say them, for once you have taken the black, there is no turning back. The penalty for desertion is death."
Not even shivers or shallow breath drew from the crowded men, now. The gravity of their collective situation, if it hadn't dawned on them yet, was as stark as the black of their cloaks.
"If there are any willing men among you who wish to leave our company," Mormont continued, stone eyes scanning each and every man before him. "Do so now. No one shall think the less of you."
Not as if any of us could, you old bear bastard, thought Conhur Serrett, his venom as bitter as the cold. He sniffed his runny nose, which matched his ears in their reddened state, punished by the wind. Gods help him if he doesn't figure each of us criminals and degenerates . . .
Some of the men shuffled a bit, but none left their spots.
The Lord Commander nodded curtly. "You may take your vows here at evenfall, before Septon Celladar and the First of your order."
"If any of you keep the Old Gods," First Ranger Stark interjected, stepping forward to look out upon the crowd. Mormont gave him a sideways glare for a moment, but quickly subsided. "You may make your vows before a great heart tree, just beyond the Wall."
Mormont nodded. Many Northmen like the honorable Starks were no believers in the Sept Gods; they had the 'blood of the First Men', after all. "Just as well. We have placed each of you in an order, as befits our need, and your own strengths and skills." The Lord Steward stepped forward and handed him a thin piece of paper. The Lord Commander unrolled it and began to read.
"Alynn, to the Builders. Athel, to the Stewards, Burdoc, to the Rangers. Conhur, to the Stewards,"
"Fuck me," Conhur muttered. He was barely audible, but the air from his breath was all too visible. The Lord Commander raised a brow, and continued.
"Charis, to the Rangers. Denys, to the Rangers. Daeron, to the Builders. Edwyle, to the Builders. Forde, to the Rangers. Goren, to the Stewards. Jurdon, to the Builders. Kyrnan, to the Stewards . . ."
The list rattled on for only a brief while - the number of recruits was unimpressive, this time around - and the Old Bear rolled up the paper. “Your Firsts will instruct you in your duties. May all the gods preserve you, brothers.” The Lord
Commander favored them with half a bow, and took his leave.
"Rangers, to me," the thin, bearded Benjen Stark called out when they left.
"Builders," announced lantern-jawed Othel Yarwyck.
"Stewards," finished Bowen Marsh.
As the grouped men began to disperse to their selective orders, from the concourse overlooking the sept, the airy rattle of an old man's laugh crept from one of the brothers in black's gray beard-enshrouded mouth.
"So, brothers, what do you all make of the new flesh?" asked Old Dae Shawney, his grin proud and amused.
A significantly younger man with brown hair and a neater beard grimaced smugly, hacking a wad of phlegmy spit over the balcony.
"Now now, Gareth," the elderly Ranger chided. The humor hadn't left his eyes.
"If these are the newest members of the Night's Watch," Gareth said grimly, arms folded in front of him. "May the Gods help us all. Old and new."
((Right, then! So, if your character is a new recruit to the Watch, have them gather around the First officers of their respective orders. If they're veterans, perhaps have them up overlooking the new batch of recruits, Daemon and Gareth have said their piece.))