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Post by Amelia Royce on Sept 7, 2011 11:54:45 GMT -5
"Outnumbered and yet still superior!" Frances shouted with a laugh. "Let's not die in this piece of shit wasteland," He adds, before suddenly lunging into his own charge at the approaching riders, a Dornish battle-cry on his lips.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 8, 2011 4:47:49 GMT -5
///
The blood-soaked field falls silent save for the panting of the surviving combatants. Cree Humble binds his wounds and mutters curses to himself, something about letting Clarence Blackwall take his place and how he was a fool for refusing. Ser Hollis still absently carries the head he's ripped from an opponent about with his left hand as though it's been forgotten and it's weight is unnoticed. Lord Corbray examines Cassandra's leg wound. "It'll hurt a few days."
"I know that!" she snaps, tying a bandage around it. "I've been stabbed before gods damn i!" The Valeman just shakes his head in amusement as he wipes the blood off his dark sword. Dondarrion assists the wounded Islander, and Ser Hollis approaches Frances.
"Out of practice, Dornishman? Grow soft living on a ship." His voice has no sign of amusement or mocking. By his reputation Frances hadn't been sure he was even clever enough to understand wit, but his latest actions hinted at some primal cunning for war.
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Post by Amelia Royce on Sept 8, 2011 8:50:57 GMT -5
"I was feeling generous," Frances replied, finding his spear and cleaning it. He notices the carried appendage and nods at it. "Head."
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 8, 2011 8:53:34 GMT -5
"Ugly head," Hollis says, as though agreeing to something profound. He tosses it into the air, takes his great mace, and bats it four hundred feet away. "Uglier now."
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Post by Amelia Royce on Sept 8, 2011 8:56:59 GMT -5
Frances shakes his head with a chuckle before making his way back to his horse. "Now that that's dealt with we should continue on," He mutters to no one really.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 8, 2011 8:58:20 GMT -5
Lord Fillmore nods agreement. "Staying here will only attract predators. Best find a village."
Cassandra speaks up. "Eight miles or so along the road and we'll find shelter."
The group continues, though Humble doesn't look good at all.
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Post by Amelia Royce on Sept 8, 2011 9:04:10 GMT -5
"Need some wine?" Frances asked humble, riding alongside him and holding the bottle out. "Being away from the sea must get to you."
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 8, 2011 9:08:06 GMT -5
"A bit. It's the dry air; got me all confused. I forgot I'm supposed to hit them with my mace, not my head." Even in pain, Creed Humble keeps his dry wit. He drinks the wine. "Same color as my blood. Maybe it'll serve to replace it."
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Post by Amelia Royce on Sept 8, 2011 18:05:20 GMT -5
Franches chuckled. "Long as you don't fall from that damn saddle, 'cause I ain't picking you up." He took the wine back and had a large gulp himself before putting it away.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 8, 2011 18:30:41 GMT -5
After an hour of hard riding, everyone's battle wounds ache in the cold desert air. The group sees the outpost Cassandra spoke of, perhaps a hundred dwellings and a small stone fortress. The six head to the outpost, where they're admitted and taken to beds which, while not particularly comfortable, are still warmer and far better than sleeping exposed on the dusty road.
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Post by Amelia Royce on Sept 8, 2011 18:41:17 GMT -5
Frances slept for about an hour, before waking up and swiftly getting dressed. He decided to take a little look round the dwelling and started off by moving down a side alley, sticking to the shadows.
(Sneaking)
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 9, 2011 2:49:16 GMT -5
He sees a bunch of little houses, a small farmers' market, and what appears to be a house of worship. Then he spots the tavern.
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Post by Amelia Royce on Sept 9, 2011 9:11:11 GMT -5
Frances decides the tavern would be the best place to overhear any useful information. He makes his way to the door and slips through it, sitting down at an isolated table.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Sept 9, 2011 22:15:20 GMT -5
At the late hour, every table is pretty well isolated. The barkeep is surprised to see a stranger, a non-local one at that, and babbles to Frances in Valyrian or some bastardization of it. He holds out a bottle of wine.
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Post by Amelia Royce on Sept 12, 2011 7:42:37 GMT -5
"Why not," Frances replies, taking the bottle and uncorking it. "How much?" He asks, rubbing his fingers together to indicate money.
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