tdm 05

[thestewards]

Though all the scars are healing
you’re always biting back
You know the struggle's real
I lie down then you attack

► All TDM threads may be considered canon provided both parties agree and are accepted into the game.

► Canon threads may be redeemed for influence and reputation depending on how you solve the issue at hand or how you engage with the prompt. They also count toward AC.

► Feel free to switch up your character's Jewel from thread to thread. Get a feel for how a Birthright Jewel may limit or enhance your character's abilities.

THE WAREHOUSE JOB
Master Tinker Mari is in a tizzy. Last night, supplies from her personal warehouse in Wall Town went missing. And not just any supplies. These supplies were prototype items fashioned for a project she’s working on for Grand Master Niall.

Having left multiple messages on Draega’s far-caster network, she’s finally gotten you to help her. She asks you to investigate the warehouse and track down her missing supplies. By the way, don’t try to crack the boxes. They’re lined with lead to protect you from some of the dangerous, uh, stuff (as she says) inside.

At the warehouse, you find the lock on the back door has been picked. From the door, you can see that no windows look into the alley, so no one could have seen the culprit. Inside the warehouse, you discover a floor covered in a white powder, but none of it has been disturbed except where the door swung inward. On the floor, an area clean of powder reveals where the boxes once stood. They could not have been dragged out of the warehouse. If they had, the powder would have been disturbed. Near the back wall, hidden by shadow, you discover a little glob of silt. Someone tracked this in from the docks.

Landens and Blood worked together to steal these items, and you suspect mercenaries are responsible. Do you go to the docks to investigate, or do you turn this information over to the Guilds and let them deal with this problem on their own? No one would blame you for the latter: if landens and Blood are working together, there are certainly muters on the mercenary ship where Mari’s supplies have been taken. Dare you take matters of the law into your own hands?


WILD WILD MEN
It’s nearly dusk. Pink and blue rays from the sun pierce a haze of sand on the horizon, obscuring the sunset and painting the sky with pastels. The world seems blurry and depth becomes an illusion. You know to be wary: this is the time when the wildmen come out of the hills to the south and west of Draega.

You’re standing guard at a farm where the spring planting is just mature enough that it could be pulled in. This is a dangerous time for the farmers. They can’t defend themselves against the wildmen that raid their fields, and there aren’t enough guards from the Queen’s First Circle to protect everyone.

A scream comes from the hills. It echoes through the still, night air. Wildmen dressed in rags and furs appear on the plains before you, their sight shields dropping. None of them wear a Jewel darker than Summer-sky, but they are all wild-eyed with rage and hunger. Subdue them however you can, but be sure to protect the fields at your back.


SPRING CLEANING
After the madness of the Black Widow coven invading Draega, Lady Fayura has asked Strangers to help weave cleansing webs. Just as there are webs that ensnare and damage the mind, there are webs that heal them, too.

She invites Strangers who have left the Residence to come spend the morning in her private garden, where she teaches them how to weave cleansing webs. These are simpler webs, built like spirals that trap oppressive psychic energy and purifies the air, removing those dark feelings. As she teaches you, she explains that the landens and slums were hit the hardest by the coven’s attack and that the most psychic damage was done in the slums and the area around the Guilds.

You could, she suggests, leave your cleansing webs there, but if you do, you can expect resistance. Strangers wear Jewels, and they will be viewed with distrust and wariness in the slums especially. The Guilds, she says, insist they can take care of their own, but this kind of psychic damage requires a web to help repair it.

The Blood in River East clamor for cleansing webs. Once, there were many more Black Widows, but that caste was nearly wiped out in the Cataclysm. There are few Black Widows among the Blood in River East who can do what Fayura teaches the Strangers, and the Blood are particularly susceptible to lingering psychic malevolence. If the effects of the webs aren’t removed, the Blood will twist and become even more dangerous than they already are. At least they won’t try to chase the Strangers out of River East.

But who you help is up to you. The choice is yours, Stranger.


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.] I admit: I'm a bit confused. Can anyone learn how to be a Black Widow?

[Aren's boyish voice is cheerful and amused.] Anyone can learn how to weave a tangled web. Indeed, Healers weave webs to make their healing more effective. Even though you can learn the Craft, that will never make you a Black Widow. You won't spontaneously manifest a snake tooth, for example!

[Evandra:] Well, that's a relief! We certainly don't need more chance encounters that leave us poisoned!

[Aren:] Quite so, Evandra! And recovering from a Black Widow's venom is a grueling process. There are few things more deadly.

[Evandra:] Let's take a minute to discuss antivenin and how our listeners can brew their own at home.

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.] …plenty of sun over the next few days. It's the perfect time for taking in the spring harvest. With all this sun, consider purchasing Sun Shield, a new cream produced by the Medico and Crafter Guilds to protect your skin from…

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.] News from the Queen's Court suggests that we'll soon know who attacked the city two weeks ago.

[Another man, nasally in tone. He doesn’t sound rushed so much as put upon.] That’s right, Garret. The Strangers have been investigating the Black Widow coven responsible for breaking a young witch and placing malicious tangled webs throughout the city.

[Garret:] A handful of suspects are being held in the Queen's Residence as deliberations take place. The Strangers…

Comments

jaime lannister | game of thrones

[goldfinger]

THE WAREHOUSE JOB

Jaime doesn't imagine himself particularly smart. Not really. Having just gotten here a few days prior with this bizarre jewel (that is, indeed, burning a hole in his pocket-- he doesn't know what else to do with it yet), the only reason he checks the warehouse out is because going too long with nothing to do will drive him mad.

He stands on the clean space on the floor where the door's upset the powder. He stares at the one area in the middle where the boxes had been. There are no footprints, no drag marks, nothing of the sort that suggests physical use... and then he remembers, his left hand going into his pocket to brush over the green jewel there, that there is magic in this gods forsaken land.

But how could the magic have been used? Jaime doesn't know how to use his own, so he can't really imagine anything. (And it's starting to show, in that he feels hungry and tired all the time, but so far he's doing well enough to pretend none of that is happening.)

He steps onto the powder, caring little for upsetting it as he makes his way to the blank space. Jaime crouches in front of it, frowning. Touching the clean space gleans nothing, so maybe...

The sound of footsteps has his head whirling around, and immediately he gets to his feet with his left hand tugging his sword out of its sheathe. He points it in the direction of the door.

Tone loud and commanding, he calls, "Who goes there?"

WILD WILD MEN

It's bewildering how much these "wild men" remind him of the Dothraki army. Though Jaime reels back in surprise when they appear (he's not used to the concept of magic, still), his expression hardens like a warrior's and he draws his sword, uncertain whether he's being brave or being foolish.

"Stay here!" he says to the person at his side, running in to charge, and-- made even more obvious by the darkness around them-- Jaime's sword shines the slightest bit, even without the moonlight filtering down on top of it.

The real shock is when he slashes at the first man (clumsily, of course) and the slash seems to create some green crescent in its wake: thin, yes, and not able to reach very far, but it cuts through three other men before it disappears into the air. Jaime starts, stunned for all of a moment, but another man swings at him and he lifts his right arm and hears the dull thud of metal against metal--

Gods, where in seven hells did that green shield come from!?

While some men go to attack him, however, the others run towards the person he left behind. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to split up.

SPRING CLEANING

Jaime is terrible at this. Absolutely terrible. He focuses, and his jewel continues to be weighty and annoying in his pocket, and no matter what he does he's incapable of making a web that lasts. This feels like his millionth attempt, and as he looks to his side where other Strangers seem to be making the webs with no issue, irritation and shame burn hot like twin swords stabbed into his belly.

"Blast," he mutters, lifting his arms to try again. Focus. He has to focus. He makes the first spiral, a big and clumsy curve, and then another, and another...

And then, unbidden, a brief thought of worry flits in his mind, and the forming spiral fades away with it.

"Fuck!"

WILDCARD

[ Like it says! HMU with a different starter or PM me if you want to figure something out. I'm open! ]

webs

[theladyofwinterfell]

You're concentrating too hard. You have to relax your mind and let your fingers just go where they want to go.

( Sansa isn't entirely certain of Ser Jaime's presence here in Draega but Lord Tyrion has said he means no harm and Jaime had never hurt her when he was on the Kingsguard. It's not much to build trust upon, but it is something, and she'd rather have him an ally than an enemy. Of people to show up from Westeros, it could certainly be much worse.

When it comes to the webs, she's no expert. Still, she's found it does come easier if she just trusts her mind to guide her hands and doesn't try to force it. It requires a sort of floaty blankness that doesn't come naturally. )

It's easier if you just let your mind go blank. Stop thinking of doing well and just...do it.

[goldfinger]

[ Jaime gives her a look. ] Easier said than done.

[ But still-- some help is better than none, he supposes. And in a hilarious sort of roundabout way, it wasn't like he didn't ride North to serve this girl and be of considerable use to her to begin with.

Does she really need a man to make webs for her, though? Clearly she does better than he by all sorts of standards. ]

Is your mind blank, then? When you do this? Somehow I find that hard to believe.

[ Is he stalling? He might be stalling. ]

[theladyofwinterfell]

My mind is never blank, Ser Jaime. I just have the ability to temporarily blank it for the purposes of completing these webs. It's not really different than the rote repetition one needs in needlework.

( Sansa gives him a little smile, just the barest upturn of her lips before she sets it in more neutral lines. )

I cannot imagine Lord Tywin felt the need for you to have an embroidery tutor at Casterly Rock, did he?

[goldfinger]

No.

[ Jaime can think of only one instance in which an empty mind is possible, and that is when he goes to battle. Swordfighting is an art, and art is a thing that you feel... except, well, he hasn't been much of an artist ever since he lost his hand. ]

No, my father wanted me to be a proper heir and lord. It was Cersei who did the needlework, but she wasn't much for it, either.

[ The memory of her stings. It makes the next web Jaime tries to make fade away before it really takes shape, too. ]

...this is impossible. I can't do it.

[theladyofwinterfell]

Think of something you do well, Ser Jaime. Think of how you can do it by rote without concentrating intently on it. That's the way your mind must be to do the web.

( Sansa touches her hand to his forearm, wanting to encourage him a bit. )

You're new to Craft and you know as well as I do that this isn't something we do in Westeros. You're doing fine.

[goldfinger]

[ The touch, while comforting, confuses him. It is perhaps the most gentle he's ever been treated by a Stark.

And so he frowns, uncertain how to cope with it, and looks down at his hands-- the gold one, the flesh one-- instead. ]

All throughout my ride to the North, I never expected you to be kind to me. [ The way it's phrased, one would assume a "but" would follow.

Alas, Jaime only lifts his hands again, even if the gold one doesn't move. Something he does well... he shuts his eyes, thinking of battle, thinking of the way things used to be, thinking of his sword's weight in his right hand instead of his left...

Oh, the spiral he forms is still clumsy, yes. Still awkward and new in the way that children form their letters. But it grows, gradual and steady, and Sansa may very well start to feel the slightest bit calmer, lighter, maybe even happier, from it. ]

[theladyofwinterfell]

( The web seems to be forming and Sansa wonders whether or not her comfort has anything to do with it stabilizing. Perhaps it does, because Ser Jaime feels calmer, or perhaps he's just able to better visualize it now. )

Your brother trusts you. I trust your brother implicitly. It's not much of a leap to trust you. If you've ridden North for us, you're taking a great risk. That's not something you do without being honest.

[goldfinger]

[ The mention of Tyrion surprises him and then concerns him, in that order. Jaime's web starts to shiver in its presence, uncertain and mildly unstable, and his brows knit together as he considers it. ]

You spoke with Tyrion about me?

[ It's difficult for him to focus on anything else when his family is involved, that much is certain. ]

When he came with the Dragon Queen? When did you-- [ The threads of calm crack with anxiety. ] Is he here?

[theladyofwinterfell]

I asked if I was safe from you, yes. If you were aligned with Cersei, I would have given you wide berth. He assured me I was safe and I trust him. And yes, he's here. He's been here for a while.

( Sansa gives him a tight smile. She doesn't know what happens with the Dragon Queen or if a war is coming. She only knows about the here and now. )

The only thing I know about Daenerys Targaryen is that my brother told me he'd bent the knee to her by raven.

[goldfinger]

[ All Jaime hears, all that echoes in his small, one-celled brain, is the fact that Tyrion is here. His family is here. One of the only people in the entire world that Jaime could ever care about is here.

And he's wasting his time making ridiculous green spirals! ]

Daenerys Targaryen is violent with fire and aggressive about her power and that's all I need to know not to trust her. [ His web starts to pulse with darker energy, fraught with the pure simplicity of his anger, his hatred, when he'd seen his men burn by dragon fire, and when he'd smelled that unforgettable scent of burning flesh.

The web shudders before Jaime breaks it, swearing under his breath. He'd failed that attempt, too. ]

Perhaps your brother made a good decision for the fight against the dead, but Tyrion's a fool for wanting another Targaryen on the throne. [ And that's all he has to say about that.

He looks at his hands, clenching his left, and then shakes his head. Jaime can't bring himself to look Sansa in the eye. ] ...I trust he's all right here? Somewhere safe?

[theladyofwinterfell]

Perfectly safe. Between you and I, Ser Jaime, I don't trust Daenerys Targaryen one whit. Her father murdered my family. I might not have been born yet, true, but I don't think it's wise to bend the knee to some woman who's never even set foot in Westeros and thinks she ought to be queen just because her name is Targaryen.

( Sansa sighs a bit, frustrated, and rubs the bridge of her nose. This is frustrating talk for her and it seems it's also frustrating for Ser Jaime. )

Tyrion is perfectly safe. He lives in the Queen's residence, same as I do.

[goldfinger]

[ Jaime is relieved by this, and it shows as he relaxes in a way he didn't think he had to. Tyrion is safe. Tyrion is all right. Though he worries Cersei may appear and he'll know nothing of how to deal with her, he tells himself to deal with one problem at a time. ]

...it may be some time yet until we return to the Seven Kingdoms, in any case. No use fretting over the Targaryen girl now. [ Or Cersei, he imagines, who's gone just as mad with power and paranoia as Aerys had been when Jaime sank his sword into the mad man's back.

He grunts, bringing his hands up once more. Focus. Focus on the things you're good at. And again, Jaime tries to weave a web as he did earlier. ]

I can tell you one thing, at least. Should you ever raise arms against her, I'll fight for your side.

fighting some WILD MEN

[garmr]

Sure.

[Guts isn't usually the one left to hold the fort, but he wasn't going to say no. Better if he gets space to do his work. Jaime won't find too much help in the magic department from him, anyway. He is only marginally more experienced from being forced to adapt rather than enthusiasm to learn, and it still took a bit of concentration to actually make his rock do some work.

Fortunately, that didn't stop him from being a big dude with a really big sword. That giant heap of metal wasn't built for dueling humans, that's for sure. It'd be a miracle if the thing held an edge at all - much less anything approaching the fine cut of a proper steel blade. No, it looked like it was made for beheading a dragon from the sheer weight and size alone. No elegance at all, except perhaps in the masterful way he managed to wield it.

Guts lets the first crowd of wild men come to him, sword gliding into a lowered stance. He focuses his jewel's energy to form a thin line of Opal up the entire six feet of cutting edge. It'd taken a month to get that far - but it was good enough to break these shields. When he swings, it slices through the entire wave around him with the stroke, severing his opponents from their lower torsos in one fell swoop.]

or being a complete and utter failure, in jaime's case :3c

[goldfinger]

[ Jaime is able to kill one more before he turns to make sure that his companion is all right-- and, gods, he's more than all right, that much is for sure. It looks as if he'd been able to do what Jaime did except ten times more graceful, and while this hurts his pride a little, the sound of an angry call behind him has him whirling around instead.

He holds his sword up to block a hit and hears the shatter of metal from the other side; he doesn't think he's ever been this strong before, this destructive, and he wonders if this is what that woman meant when she bestowed the jewel upon him. In any case, Jaime yelps as an axe just barely misses him as he bends back, and then he shifts his weight forward to slam his head into the man's chest and send him back.

He sticks his sword down into him and the glowing green thing from earlier doesn't happen again. Still, it does the trick.

The only issue, of course, is that in the time it takes Jaime to pull his sword out with his one good hand, he's barrelled into and slammed down into the grass. His sword falls from his hand and lands far enough away he can't reach it with his scrabbling fingers, but a hand does wrap around his throat and press in.

And Jaime gasps, struggling, trying to use his weight to push the decidedly large man off of him. There are the beginnings of a pair of glowing shields trying to form on either of his forearms, but they flicker in and out of existence to match the panicked state of his mind.

The other wild men deem Jaime dead; they won't need more than one person to kill him. And so the last few roar in their charge towards Guts and the field he's meant to protect. ]

hes doing his best...

[garmr]

[Well, shit. There goes his partner, down on the ground. Guts grumbles on his end, but figures a handful of crops aren't a fair trade for this guy's life. He charges forward through the group like some steel-armored battering ram, far swifter than his size would suggest. Another stroke of his sword cleaves an opening through them, leaving more bisected bodies splattered on the ground.

The wildmen's shields made his crossbow pretty useless when he didn't know how to tip the arrowheads proper, and so he runs Jaime's attacker through with the length of his sword, whetting the point with jeweled power. Of course, it is less sword thrust and more like impaling a man through the chest on a construction beam, but it gets the job done. Sorry about all the blood there, buddy.

The survivors now had a choice between continuing their rather one-sided fight or running off to raid what they'd originally came here for. And with a good number of them dead and in pieces, they take the second option. Run, run right into the field.]

[goldfinger]

[ Strictly speaking, there are worse things than being covered in a gushing, obscene river of blood. The fact that Jaime had been choking from pressure around his neck and is now choking on however many litres he's swallowed from the impact of the attack is irrelevant; at least this time he can turn over and spit all the blood out.

He's gasping for air, and while the taste of metal ought to be disgusting in any other situation, he doesn't think he minds it. At least he's alive. At least they... well, he's assuming they succeeded, if the hollering sounds of the other wild men fading into the distance is any indication.

Oh, he can't get up. Jaime stares, instead, at the shape of his partner and his obscenely huge sword.

Then remembers to kick the lower half of the body still on him off. ]

What in seven hells [ gods, his voice is raspy ] is that sword about? [ Jaime doesn't really know how to express gratitude very well. Confusion, though? That works just fine.

He sits up, wincing, and reaches for his sword. When his fingers wrap around it, there is a brief glow of green before it fades away. Bizarre. ]

Have they all gone?

[garmr]

[Ever the eloquent man, Guts grunts at him in a way that suggests he gets that question a lot. It is his large pointy friend, and that's all Jaime needs to know.

He glances back to where the other survivors went, only to find them still running. The field was a bit damaged, but one or two guys stealing some crops wasn't the same as the whole raiding party. Good enough, he supposes. Maybe if they share the what they got, the hunger will be sated enough to keep them from coming back.]

We're done here, unless you plan on chasin' them.

[He kneels down to help him up, but pauses when he realizes they'd both be reaching for each other's metal hands. Well, then. The iron palm had a magnet that allowed him something of a grip on the metal tang of his sword, but gold was one of the many things it couldn't hold.

Instead, he reaches under his arm to support him from there.]

[goldfinger]

[ Jaime feels like a child, being held at his arm as he gets to his feet, but he does his best not to pay too much attention to the crippling sense of shame that it evokes. At least he's back up. His hair is dripping blood, and there's blood in his beard, and he's sure his clothes are unsalvageable, but this is probably better than being dead.

He feels at his neck with his flesh hand, frowning. It'll bruise, for sure. ]

No... no, it won't be worth it. [ The chasing, that is. Jaime sheathes his sword again, looking back where they came from. He runs his fingers through his hair to hold it back; the blood being sticky enough to keep it neat ought to be disgusting, but he's accepted he won't get to clean it off until morning comes, anyway. ]

Did they take anything?

[ He didn't really notice. ]

[garmr]

Whatever two sets of hands can run off with.

[He looks at Jaime with a completely straight face, as if being drenched in repulsive amounts of body fluids was something Guts dealt with pretty often. Maybe that’s how he ended up with his name.

He can glimpse a little of the resigned shame in the other Stranger, or was it just displeasure? Either way, he looked like a cat that’d been dumped in a river. Utterly miserable. He didn’t know much about Jaime’s history, but he was taking it pretty well to not be retching. Good for him.

Guts starts to clean the blood off his own sword, shaking a good amount off with a few vertical strokes. It was too wide for a proper sheath, so he simply hooked it to some leather loops on his back]

There’s a well on the other side.

[And with that, he turns to start walking off. He figures they may as well start a patrol around the field til the next raid comes around.]

[goldfinger]

[ Two sets of hands isn't much. Jaime doesn't doubt that means another group might come to make up for it. ]

Right. [ He'll go to the well to wash his mouth and get a good shake and spit for the blood between his teeth, but besides that he figures he ought not to waste any time. When he comes back only the space around his lips and some parts of his beard are clean; he wonders if he ought to smudge everything around to make it equal.

The first thing he says as he approaches Guts once more is: ] I was told Craft could make shields out of nothing.

[ He spares a glance at his forearm, lifting it slightly, and then frowns. ]

I made one. Here. Somehow. Surely we can shield these... crops somehow, yes?

[garmr]

Not too good at Craft. I stick to what my hand knows.

[Regardless, he seems willing to entertain Jaime's idea.]

Some of the others can hold a shield up all night. Maybe you'll have an easier time of it, with that rock of yours.

[Some basic shields, at least, he can teach. Maybe not one of that size and consistency, but the concept was simple enough. Pulling a dagger free from his belt, he focuses on spreading a field of Opal over the blade, giving it the shimmering lines his sword had earlier.]

Try keepin' it steady on somethin' smaller, first.

[goldfinger]

Gods. [ The shine of Opal over the dagger is bewildering. Having performed the same act with his own sword earlier, maybe he shouldn't be too surprised, but Jaime's not sure how that even happened at all. ] That's a shield?

[ The concept of wrapping a shield around a blade is almost hilarious, but in a way Jaime supposes he understands the basics of it. If people are fortified by shields, then surely weapons can be as well-- he'd just never quite considered it to be able to happen without the talents of a smith.

All he has is his sword, so that's what he unsheathes.

But, of course, nothing happens. He tries to change his stance and nothing happens; tries a few practise swings and nothing happens.

Jaime frowns. ]

...I can't seem to make it green.

[garmr]

You're thinkin' too hard about it.

[He seems sympathetic to Jaime here, at least. He was in the man's position just a month ago. He's still in that position, honestly. They're lucky they managed to trip onto the one or two scraps of Craft that didn't come too difficult to him.

He watches Jaime swing his sword a few times to no avail before stepping in.]

The shield is like your sword - it ain't gonna move well if you think too much about how you're gonna use it. You just gotta feel it, like it's an extension of your body.

[goldfinger]

[ The joke's on Guts-- Jaime hasn't felt like his sword is an extension of his body in years. The look he gives him isn't especially faithful, and neither is his comment of, ] You understand that's very vague, don't you? [ But he has to admit this much: Guts doesn't have to help him, and for that, Jaime owes him for expending this much effort to begin with.

He sighs. It's suitably dramatic, very highborn. Jaime doesn't have the patience to learn anything he isn't already instantly good at. ]

"An extension of my body". [ His tone is lofty, dreamy. Jaime shakes his head from side to side, then works to loosen his grip and tighten it once more. ] Right...

You might want to step back.

[ Because Jaime is shutting his eyes, focusing on the weight of the sword in his palm, and lifting it up over his head with his fingers curled close to the guard. The palm of his false hand presses to the butt of his sword as he takes up a proper stance, and he makes a stab, a swing, and upward slide.

His feet move as he slashes, moving through drills he'd memorised as soon as he was old enough to hold a sword. He counts in his head, feels the beats under his feet, and he goes, and goes, and goes...

And the edge of his blade colours green while he's not looking, Craft sent flying at a nearby tree and cutting through a fourth of it with a deathly, ugly sounding crrrrkkk.

Jaime's eyes fly open, and with it the glow of his sword sizzles before it fades away. ] Fuck.