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Post by The Forgotten God on Oct 11, 2012 0:20:23 GMT -5
A small, nameless hamlet, one of thousands spread throughout Westeros. It has perhaps forty houses and a large mill, in addition to a sept and a tavern. Dense woods surround the south side of town, facing Mason Keep.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Oct 11, 2012 0:31:54 GMT -5
About a mile outside the village, the horses slow. Ser Markus, in the front, raises a hand. "There's a few injured people ahead!" The night is dark and moonless, but the stars provide a faint glow.
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Post by Ser Gerold Sand on Oct 11, 2012 1:00:35 GMT -5
Ser Gerold scanned the area. "It could be a trap." He said just loud enough so that only those in their group could hear. Gerold remembered all too well being ambushed by Lordsbane. He said a quick prayer to the Warrior then to the Father.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Oct 11, 2012 14:08:26 GMT -5
"I don't think so, they look pretty messed up." Ser Markus looks about each side of the woods. "Your call, Ser Ghaston."
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Kurts
Prince
Posts: 3,760 
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Post by Kurts on Oct 11, 2012 14:59:42 GMT -5
"Check it out, but remain alert." Ser
Gaston replied, knowing all too well that bandits often took advantage of the charity of just men.
He dismounted and slowly approached the injured, shield in hand and free hand near the pommel of his blade.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Oct 11, 2012 15:03:40 GMT -5
Ser Markus draws Dawn, the pale blade glowing lightly in the starlight, and approached. "Arrow wounds, dressed in watchmens' clothes, ser. The blood hasn't all dried yet."
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Post by Ulfric Harlaw on Oct 11, 2012 15:54:56 GMT -5
Oberyn held his spear clenched in a fist with knuckles white from the strength of his grip. He remained ahorse, but leant down over the flanks of his mount to examine the men on the ground, searching for any sign of a direction in which their attackers might have gone.
[Observation: 45]
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Post by The Forgotten God on Oct 11, 2012 15:57:07 GMT -5
Roll: 102
The only intelligent way for the attackers to go owuld be either down the road they just came, or towards the village.
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Post by Ulfric Harlaw on Oct 11, 2012 16:00:54 GMT -5
"They must have continued into the village; either that or we are a group of blinded fools and rode right past them," he said slowly. "Darien, Beric. Ride back the way we came, a mile or two. Go slowly, and look out for an ambush. If you see any hint of them, give two blasts on your horn. Even if you're fighting for your lives, we must know if they have gotten behind us."
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Post by The Forgotten God on Oct 11, 2012 16:02:29 GMT -5
His two men nod and head off. Ser Markus looks ahead. "Several different fletchings here; at least a half dozen different bows."
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Post by Ulfric Harlaw on Oct 11, 2012 16:16:16 GMT -5
"Half a dozen bowmen will mean at least twice as many men ready for close quarters, if they've any sense at all. If there is one thing that the Lordsbane is not, it is a fool," he said with a dour expression. He tried to do a quick head count of the men with him, and then gazed toward the village, barely able to make it out in the dim light.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Oct 11, 2012 16:27:30 GMT -5
Altogether, they have fifteen men, with the two gone to the south.
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Kurts
Prince
Posts: 3,760
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Post by Kurts on Oct 11, 2012 17:38:06 GMT -5
Gaston remounted his steed after inspecting the bodies, listening to Lord Yronwood's observations.
"We clear the village house by house then. Even the dark cannot hide the godless."
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Post by The Forgotten God on Oct 11, 2012 17:50:06 GMT -5
Ser Markus nods as they ride into the small town.
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Post by Ulfric Harlaw on Oct 11, 2012 18:43:54 GMT -5
Lord Oberyn keeps his wits about him, and his eyes scan over their surroundings as they come into view in the moonlight. Moving among houses, searching for brigands who could spring out behind any corner and attack with the element of surprise, was hardly ideal, but he could see no alternative. He was able to pick out more than a dozen spots where an ambush could be easily sprung; places where he would have set his men, if he were planning an attack while under the cover of darkness.
At the edge of the town, he dismounted, passing his reins off to a squire, and hefted his spear. He was lightly armored, though slightly heavier than the average Dornishman, with a breastplate of overlapping steel scales over his chainmail. He wore greaves, vambraces, and carried a round shield of middling size, but his helm had remained in his tent. Gesturing for his men to do the same, he began to move slowly through the seemingly deserted village, with his spear ready to attack.
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