agentleooc | tdm 03

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tdm 03

Oh we were comin' around You threw me back down
You had my trust in your hands You gave it up again

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VIGILANDEN JUSTICE
Newcomers may have heard: just two weeks ago, the Blood attempted to sabotage the power plant just outside the city. For a brief time, the city plunged into darkness and during that time, Councilwoman Vera was shot and killed in the Old Town Bazaar by a young landen man. A small flower now grows where she died. No matter how many times it’s torn up, it grows back.

Following these events, the Strangers overwhelmingly chose to aid the power plant that keeps the lights on. With the perception that the Strangers are on their side, young landen men and women have grown bold. In the night, they creep into River East, where the Blood live.

Some of these gangs of landens do little more than paint Guild symbols on the walls of Blood homes: a hexagon with circles at each joint for the Guilds as a whole, the Tinker's hammer, the needle and jewel of the Crafters, the double-arrow of the Hunter Guild. They cover walls with incendiary words—words like bleeder and bastard.

Others are not so kind. They bring portable muters with them and break into homes. They steal both precious and mundane possessions, frighten children, and terrify parents. They go to the single altar in Draega and smash the treasures of the Blood’s faith, knocking over candles and lighting tapestries that honor the Darkness on fire.

Have you friends in Draega already? Perhaps you met someone at breakfast at the Queen’s Residence, and now as you walk the streets together, you come across one of these landen gangs. The news is full of reports about what they’re doing. Now, it seems, the choice is yours. Do you stop them or join them? The Queen has asked you to help broker peace between the landens and the Blood, but she’s also given you the worst freedom of all: that of choice. Perhaps you think it best to support these gangs in their desire to even the odds against the Blood.

WARM FRONT
The explosion at the power plant caused a surge of power that damaged elektriline heaters in homes across Draega, leaving many in the cold. The Queen, seeing her people in need, immediately dispatched her court to provide heating spells for these homes. She also asked the Strangers, both those still living at her residence and those living throughout the city, to lend their aid, too.

Members of the First Circle provide a quick lesson on how to cast warming spells. These can be wrapped around people or attached to items, such as small stones or large ovens. Depending on how much power is infused into the spell, it can last for an hour or two or upwards of a few days (especially when cast by a darker Jewel).

Many in the First Circle insist on going to the homes in River East—the Blood homes, places where they are more likely to be welcomed. Some certainly choose this because being around the landens makes them nervous and uneasy, but some outright refuse to help the landens, especially those who live in River North where the Guilds do their business. Prince Barret and Lords Jared and Yarl in particular won’t go to the landen parts of town, leaving you and your partner to canvas Old Town, River North, and perhaps even the slums to see if anyone would like your help.

Certainly, this will not be easy, and the Queen has promised a silver mark for each household you and your partner help.

POISONED GNATURE
Warmer weather claws its way across the land, lifting the temperatures above freezing for the first time in months. While much of the city reacts with relief, and the air in the Bazaar improves in spite of the violence and tension that hovers over the city like a black cloud, the farmers outside the city walls are dealing with their own troubles: cold-resistant mosquitoes carrying disease from the frigid mountains of Askavi.

Stagnant water fills troughs and furrows in the earth, becoming a toxic breeding ground for more of these awful pests. The mosquitoes have little interest in humans, but they’re hungry for animal blood. Most animals bitten by the mosquitoes die within a day, their meat rendered inedible.

Food is already scarce and stores run thin. If more animals die, people won’t just be a little hungry or disappointed in the tasteless porridge many are serving as a hold over until summer, they will starve.

The landen Guilds provide a thick, smelly paste that can be spread over the animals, and the Queen requests the Strangers aide the farmers. She, too, can be found working among the stables with Prince Verim or Prince Allairavar at her side, doing her part to ensure the city remains fed.

AIR TIME
Whether you catch the news on a Far-caster in the city or you're spinning the dial on your own device, you'll hear…

etiquette with evandra and aren
[Evandra's voice is a little bit rough and a little bit husky, the kind of voice that gives bad ideas to young men and headaches to fathers.] …understanding that some people— [She’s being polite about it, but she definitely means the Strangers.] —don’t know how to address a Queen!

[Aren’s voice is chipper and bright. He sounds more like an eager boy than the full-grown man he is.] Quite right, Evandra. For Blood females, remembering titles is easy. Every witch you meet should be addressed as Lady.

[Evandra sounds a little surprised.] Even though male castes have different titles of address, a witch is always called Lady?

[Aren:] That she is! A working Healer or Priestess should be addressed by their caste, but if you’re just being polite in casual conversation, calling her “Lady” is enough!

[Evandra:] As they say: whether warm or rainy, when you meet on the street, you address her as Lady.

the weather
[A soft-spoken man’s voice rumbles out of the Far-caster. He’s pleasant to listen to, with a soothing cadence to his voice.] …rains coming out of Askavi over the next week. Farmers are advised to cover their plants. When outside in the rain, Blood should shield and landens should wear heavy cloaks to protect their skin. Worried about lesions from the rains? The Medicos have a new salve that…

the news
[The man speaks at a brisk pace, hurried and harried as though he has too much to say and not enough time to say it.] …appointing someone new to the Ebon Council?

[Another man, nasally in tone. He doesn’t sound rushed so much as put upon.] It’s hard to say, Garret. With the Strangers in the city, it’s likely that Lord Grejor is waiting to see if any are willing to bring the young assassin to justice.

[Garret:] The landen who killed Councilwoman Vera is a member of the Crafter Guild and is currently being held by the Queen. There have been reports that the Queen means to implement some new process for judging offenses by the end of the week…

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He pauses, a tension entering his shoulders and edge of the psychic air around them. For a few seconds, Guts simply stares at the mare's neck, fingers sunken into the thick winter fur. The animal seemed to respond in kind, ears pulling back and nostrils flared. For all the fond memories that came to him in this place, they always lead to that same cursed end.

"I ain't a knight," he says, the dim knot of emotion evaporating with the silence," - Never was."

He lowers down to scoop more of the paste into his palm.

For a moment, Sansa is swiftly reminded of the Hound. He'd always bristled at being called a knight even though he was more knightly than some of those who'd taken the vows and insisted on being called Ser. Sensing the tension, she seeks to soothe it.

"It isn't a bad thing," she says quietly. "Though I understand not wanting the label. I knew a man who would do the same, back home, though he was very much a knight in all but title."

He laughs, and more than anything it is a sound tainted with weariness. No, he doesn't feel like he did anything to deserve that comparison.

"Can see why he would. Honor doesn't stop people from bein' dead. You just do what you can to stay alive."

The tension does fade, as intended, even if what mostly replaces it is a bone-deep fatigue to his movements. The horse in front of him is still twitchy, pawing the ground with discomfort once the first layer of paste gets applied. This, at least, was a problem that could be solved with a little more patience.

Edited 2019-03-09 18:54 (UTC)

"Yes, I do believe the two of you would have common ground. I hesitate to say you would be friends, as Sandor Clegane doesn't make friends easily if at all, but you'd certainly find a kindred spirit in him."

Sansa laughs lightly, good-natured. "But please know the knight comparison is truly a compliment. Honor takes many forms."

"..."

Sansa gets a look over the shoulder, puzzled more than anything else. He must really be going soft if that's the first impression she got.

Then again, he wasn't plagued by the spirits of the dead quite like he was back home. He even managed to get a good night's sleep once or twice since his arrival. There was less reason to bite anyone who got remotely close. Still, it would only be fair to offer a warning.

"Don't know how long you'll keep thinkin' that if we stick around."

"I've been around much worse than you, I assure you of that. Gruff exteriors will hardly cause me to shy away," Sansa says, laughing softly. "As I said, my friend from home who bristled at the title knight was much the same."

The Hound would hate this place, she thinks. He isn't a person who is driven to altruism naturally and only in situations when it involves someone he cares about. Helping Fayura wouldn't be enough of an incentive for him, she doesn't think.

"But, of course, you're welcome to try and change my opinion."

Guts has seen enough of how men treat women to know refuting the point would just seem childish. If her home was anything like his, she would have definitely seen worse with a pretty face like that.

Still, part of him resented that he let himself be so easy to read. The cursed brand on his neck had brought down so much death and catastrophe, it was difficult to think of himself as anything but a walking disaster. Though, in that vein, what would one more death mean to the cumulative whole?

In the end, what he ends up doing is making huffing noise not unlike the disgruntled horses around them, and turning his back to keep applying more mud.

“Suit yourself. It’s your life.”

Sansa can sense it's time to change the subject and so she turns her attention to the horse instead of to Guts. She tips her head a bit, curious.

"What does the mud do, exactly? As I woefully admitted before, I know very little of horses."

He allows himself to get lost in the repetitive motion for a little while, rubbing the paste into the big, twitching flanks in front of him. The horse seems to have calmed down after her initial reticence, enough to look away at other things and let the work be done.

"Imagine the smell is to keep the bugs off. The Guilds said a plague is what's been killin' them."

Or at least, that's his understanding of it.

"I see," Sansa says. It's soothing to watch him work on the horse, honestly, and while she's not much help she doesn't mind sticking around for the company. For all that he's gruff, he is interesting and that's enough to draw her to him and seek his friendship.

"I suppose it makes sense that the mud would drive them away. It would keep them from smelling the horseflesh as easily."

“We’re just lucky these bugs stick to animals,” he adds, sounding a bit more relaxed once she had moved the focus of conversation off him. As long as too many personal questions weren’t thrown his way, he didn’t seem to raise his hackles much.

Guts was the type to return the courtesy, at least. He’s happy to sit in silence over probing into her past, even if she was a noble. Old habit, mostly. Mercenaries almost never brought up each other’s history - made it easier to avoid drudging up old feelings on the job.

"Yes, yes we are. I've never liked outdoor work. My sister, Arya? She's happiest wielding a sword or riding a horse or mucking around in mud. I've always been too prim for those sorts of things."

Perhaps she should have done a little more of it, seeing as how her life's led her to need to fight a little, but those things are in the past.

"Total opposites, huh? Don’t imagine you two got along much."

That managed to get a quirk of amusement out of the corners of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but it was a little break from his long-suffering frown. He's surprised to hear any Lord or Count allowing that kind of thing from their daughter. Then again, a girl with a rebellious streak probably didn’t care much about what her parents thought.

"If you don't like to get dirty, you may want to step back some. Don't think the horse is gonna like gettin' this stuff on her face."

Guts gives a brief glance to the rope on the wall and iron arm hooked next to it. Stubborn as he was, this kind of work had definitely been easier back when he had two hands. He may have to get the prosthetic mucked up a bit in the end.

Sansa steps back a bit, as he instructs, but not so far that they cannot continue their conversation. She does like him for all that he's gruff with her and if it takes a bit more from her to get him to like her, so be it.

"My sister isn't a typical lady, no. She's...well, my father doted upon her and entertained her differences. He loved me just as much, I think, but he certainly catered to Arya's desire to be anything but a proper young girl."

Guts steps towards the ropes as Sansa speaks, though he doesn’t offer much in return beyond a listening ear. Once his good hand is cleaned on a rag, he grabs his elbow brace and slips it on. The iron forearm is then locked into place with an unwieldy clunk. Its metal fingers are fixed in an immobile clasping position, which he uses to hang the loops of rope off of.

He returns to her, but rather than a response, one end of the rope is outstretched towards her. Looks like he didn’t know much about being a proper lady, either.

“Grab this.”

Sansa grabs it and holds it tight, waiting for his next instruction. She isn't sure what he needs for her to do, precisely, but she's certainly able and willing to aid him in any way she can.

"I've got it for as long as you need. Just let me know when I can let it go, all right?"

“Yeah.”

Guts would like to think he was mostly doing this to get her working if she was going to stick around, but her willingness to help still left its good impression.

“Just hold her head still. If you loop the rope around your wrist, you’ll have a better grip.”

He turns to the horse, using the other end of the rope to start making a halter around its long head. This part, at least, didn’t seem seem to bother it at all.

Sansa makes a loop around her wrist, as instructed, and holds the rope tightly without making it taut. She imagines pulling on the horse's head will only stress it and defeat the purpose of what they're doing.

"Horses are finicky things, aren't they? Much too much trouble to deal with on a regular basis. Still, we're beholden to them all the same."

“Haven’t traveled with one in a while,” he admits. It’s been nearly two years, for that very reason.

“They don’t react well to the undead.”

Once the knots are tightened in place, he gets a handful of the paste, and the horse gives the rope a few hard tugs in response. It was less fear and more out of a disgruntled stubbornness. Despite not liking the business of having something that foul hear it’s nose, it didn’t look like they would be dealing with any full-on panic.

Sansa arches a brow at that. She’s heard the stories from Jon about the army of the dead but this man doesn’t look like one of the White Walkers. He looks normal to her, all told, and she wonders what she missed.

“From what I know of the undead, you don’t look to be among them. Forgive my bluntness, of course.”

"Guess the sleep's makin' me look like part of the living again."

The misunderstanding actually does get full-on grin out of him, good-natured if still quite tired. The horse, inversely, manages to look equally unhappy as paste is slathered onto its head. A hoof paws the ground.

"I was bein' chased by spirits, hungry for warm flesh and blood. Didn't follow me here, though. Not yet."

"I see. Well, it's quite fortunate you've made it here to Hayll and not trapped by whatever was after you. It sounds as if it would be an unpleasant way to go."

Sansa knows quite a bit about unpleasant ways to die, as it is, and it isn't something she'd wish on someone she likes. Guts is an acquaintance, yes, but she likes him well enough. She likes to think her judgment's gotten better over the years.

As a person who also enjoys being alive, he’d appreciate the sentiment. He wonders if Sansa was escaping anything herself. Her family life didn’t seem particularly unpleasant by what she was telling him, but there was something about the way she handled herself that hinted at a quiet resilience. It was unlike most noblewomen he’s met - even if it was merely in handling the physical labor without complaint, or shrugging off his less courtly mannerisms.

His thoughts are interrupted, however, once he ties the halter off the horse’s head. With a snort from the big animal, he gets shoved backwards hard enough to nearly knock him off his feet, though he manages to keep both feet balanced on the ground. The pungent mud was smeared across his clothes, but he seems to take the show of frustration with good enough humor.

“Heh. Think she’s done.”

Edited 2019-03-17 09:06 (UTC)

"You'll need a bath but these horses will be better for your efforts. I'm sorry I wasn't more help - I'm not used to stable work, I'm afraid."

Sansa's talents are in managing a household. She knows how much grain one needs to feed a horse but she doesn't exactly know how to feed one herself.

"You were kind to be patient with me."

"Got this crap smeared on its head," he says bluntly,"S'all that matters, doesn't it?"

Everyone had their strengths and weaknesses. He just happened to know horses and had a high tolerance for getting covered in gross sludge. When they were all down there in the dirt, there was nothing more to it than that.

He makes his way over to retrieve the rest of the rope from her.

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tdm 03

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