Latest Shouts In The Shoutbox -- View The Shoutbox · Rules -  


  Reply to this topicStart new topicStart Poll

» IN WOLF'S CLOTHING, Robb Stark | Bandit King
YRION SAND
 Posted: Nov 7 2015, 07:09 PM
Quote Post
Group Icon
29
years old
A bastard born BANDIT KING.
from Sunspear
played by: M-Dawg (Matthew)


Plot: The Bandit King's arrival was marked with death and despair. At least, that was the idea ... before he accidentally passed his message on to the wrong man. And Robb Stark of the North, no less!

Though the Bandit King called Crackclaw Point home … he could very easily see himself settling into the Summerhall.

There was still the pomp of nobility that the Targaryens brought with them wherever they went and the lords and ladies were still sneering and scowling at anyone they viewed as beneath them. ut It wasn’t for them that the Bandit King could call this place home, but for the actual land itself. While the Crownlands seemed intent on proving to the world that it was the home of Kings, the Stormlands appeared far more utilitarian and functional. At least that was the case to the King’s eyes. It was a place that tested the strong and culled the weak. No wonder the Baratheons had found it such a favourable place. All the Bandit King needed to do now, was destroy the lords and he could claim this place for his own.

But he was getting ahead of himself. It did not hurt to plan, but it certainly was no point getting his hopes up. It was still early in the afternoon, the sun at its hottest. Shining down on them all, for a place called the ‘Stormlands’, he expected there to be more clouds. Although, they were also residing in a place called ‘Summerhall’, so in truth, the Bandit King didn’t know what to expect in that regard. Yet here he was, having travelled furthest from the Point since establishing his foothold there. He’d left his faithful Commander in charge, while he rode here with a few of his vassals and soldiers.

This was a great opportunity to take care of some business. After all, with so many lords and ladies here as well as many events, it would be easy to slip a knife between ribs or leave a few drops of poison on goblets. And it would all start now. He had enjoyed the revels of the tourney, but business called. The Bandit King was going to leave ruin in his wake. His operatives were all ready set throughout all of Summerhall. All he needed to do now was to pass on the order and four lords and two ladies would be found dead within the hour.

The finery and silks of the event made it easy to spot where his men were. Clad in simple cloaks – enough to pass, but not enough to be mistaken – the Bandit King made his way through the crowd. He was a silent and careful creature, wading through bodies without touching them and he made sure not to draw attention until at last, he arrived at the back of one of his men. It would be a subtle message, one that all of his men were waiting for. Back to him, the Bandit King craned his neck ever so slightly and whispered his command:

“Inform the others. We strike now, before the sun sets. The four lords and three ladies. Let the night run rampant with terror.”

He stood there for a moment, waiting for recognition of his command. And he waited a bit more. Slowly, the Bandit King turned around. And what he saw made even his jaw drop. This was no bandit of his. Instead, he found himself face to face with a pale-skinned, dark haired man. The furs on his back were dark enough to easily be mistaken for one of his bandits. But now, looking at him from the front, it was clear that he had made a mistake. A very big mistake. Well, Bandit King … how are you going talk your way out of this one, he thought to himself.


PM
^
ROBB STARK
 Posted: Nov 15 2015, 12:51 AM
Quote Post
Group Icon
16
years old
you know nothing [s]Robb Stark[/s].
from Winterfell
played by: OS


Holding his head above the sea of people was perhaps the easiest thing that Robb had accomplished in this entire Tourney. His head swimming from the constant chatter and overwhelming amount of spiced liquor that his cousins were intent on introducing him to. While his father was off conversing with his beloved blood brother, Robb let his mind wander. To the windows, where the thunder and constant hum of storms rumbled in the distance. While the castle was immaculately kept, it still held a chill within the air. Or perhaps it was enough for him to comfortably wear the furs his clansmen so easily donned.

Once Steffon had left his side, the north man found he had a moment to himself. The buzz of the party still resounding lowly in his ears, echoing and humming within even the quietest parts of his solitude. A tension had been slowly coiling in his muscles, long since the sun had sunk below the high rise of the rocky hills that guarded Summerhall. Tightening a calloused hand around the empty chalice that filled his palm, one that had been emptied for some time. Only filled from the requests of Elinor, or Steffon. Both who seemingly were in the company of the other more often or not. Now, with the lacking presence of either, Robb found the bottom of the silver lined metal his only companionship.

It was easy to get lost, within the rising swell and pull of the current between the people. All who had come from far and wide to celebrate the 300 year ruling of their Targaryen sovereigns. The colours of almost every banner intermingled among the rest. Either showing their respects by merit or the unwillingness to make a statement of not showing themselves, by sending a representative of their house and region. Yet the quiet wolf stilled at the presence of another behind his shoulder. Feeling the itch of his pursed knuckles consider the sword belt at his hip. “Inform the others. We strike now, before the sun sets. The four lords and three ladies. Let the night run rampant with terror.”

Peering over his shoulder, it was a slow pivot to face the deep bass toned man standing behind him. Lines carved themselves into his impassive features. Deep as the ravines that ran along the ice laced ridges of the North. The stranger before him seemed to recognise his mistake, only moments after the words had been uttered from his lips. Words that would bring him his death. Words that were whispered to the wrong ears. Every fibre in his being tensed, yet beneath the cloaks and furs, his shoulders did not move. Nor did his muscles coil to the weapon at his hip.

"Oh no, do go on." Eyes the colour of the summer sky blazed with all the chill of winter. Words laced with poison, spoke with such slow merit that Robb surely hoped his tone was weighed before the other man spoke once more. "I'm sure that Lord Mooton and his family would love to know who was reigning his terror on them. After all," Gaze blazing with his quiet temper. Yet his tone was still controlled and barely rose above his normal octave. "It's rather inconsiderate to leave them wondering." One would not want terror reigned on them without the benefit of knowing who brought such a storm. It was highly impolite.


PMEmail Poster
^
YRION SAND
 Posted: Nov 15 2015, 08:38 PM
Quote Post
Group Icon
29
years old
A bastard born BANDIT KING.
from Sunspear
played by: M-Dawg (Matthew)


Impolite and brash, arrogant and brisk, the Bandit King actually fit in at this tourney than he realised. It was part of the reason why he was so effective at his job. The subterfuge was useful, but it was his ability to blend into a crowd of nobles and be like them that separated him from other spies and information-gatherers. It was one of the great hypocrisies of his personality, the kind that he had not noticed. The fact that the Bandit King was so similar to the people he hated was completely lost on him. He was blind to the fact that it was not the cloak that hid him well, but the mask that he had adopted as a self-proclaimed ‘King’.

And now, here he was speaking with one whose status and position was well known throughout all of Westeros. It did not take the Bandit King long to realise that this was a man from the North. The furs that he had mistaken for the ragged clothing of his people was in fact finely produced, most likely taken from some proud animal that roamed their vast lands. Eyes that pierced deeper than any dagger met his own and the Bandit King found himself running through a thousand different possibilities, most of them involving unsheathing the blades he held. Should he try and kill the Northman and escape? No, that would draw more attention than feigning ignorance. Thankfully for the Bandit King, the Northman seemed to have a sense of humour and was not yet drawing his own blade. If it were a more easily frightened man, they would be forced to fight.

The Bandit King thanked his stars that, for once, he had found a lord who was deserving of his title.

So, when the Northman finally spoke, whimsical and arrogant, the Bandit King had only a few moments to decide on which of the scenarios he would follow. The Northman spoke of Lord Mooton and inconsiderate actions taken at a party such as this. And so, as if to appeal to the man’s humour, the Bandit King laughed in response. Not an overreaction, but just enough that it was hearty and rambunctious, matching the joviality of the events of the day. He then reached out, grabbing at the Northman’s shoulder. Not only was it an attempt to create an immediate social interaction, but it was also to see whether the man was armoured.

There was no heavy plate, obviously, but he identified boiled leather, beneath. He knew lots about the Northmen, but only through reputation. He had never visited that freezing wasteland, far more accustomed to the warm sands and plains of Dorne. Even the Free Cities had their endless dunes, offering a welcoming heat from the sun above. But the North was harsh and it was relentless in this, as if testing its people. Only those who could handle those harsh conditions were worth living in the North. The Bandit King was confident that he could handle it. He just did not have the time right now, that was all. Besides, what was the point in mastering the North, when he could so easily claim the Crownlands, instead?

Finally finishing his fake laugh, the Bandit King sighed and said, “Oh, good sir, I admit, I mistook you for another. My words of rumour were not meant for the ears of a Northman. All the same, it would seem such ears have misinterpreted my meaning. I do not mean ‘reign’, but rather, ‘rain’. And those in Lord Mooton’s inner circle know that ‘Terror’ is the name of his falcon. So you see,” he went on, quite happy with the fabrication that he had constructed in such a short amount of time, “I refer to the fact that Terror has rained on us. Quite heavily, in fact. It took my hours to get it out of my cloak! I was merely hoping to give Lord Mooton a taste of his own Terror.”

Yes. Because bird shit was far more believable than widespread fear and assassination. Then, hoping to turn the conversation away from the assassinations he had just failed to commit, he said:

“Consider yourself among the lucky ones, good sir, that you have not had the misfortune of Terror’s rain upon you. Although I hear you Northmen are easily irritated. I imagine Terror’s reign would incite another rebellion, if it landed on you lot.”


PM
^
ROBB STARK
 Posted: Dec 16 2015, 06:34 AM
Quote Post
Group Icon
16
years old
you know nothing [s]Robb Stark[/s].
from Winterfell
played by: OS


Crowded and flushed room swelled around him, like a rising tide. Moving and swaying with the steps and breath of the others that swarmed within. Robb could almost hear the disgust that would have beheld in his Grandfathers voice if he had laid his gaze on the sight before him. A simmer of amusement rippled through his stoic frame, "Greenlanders, so oblivious to their own pretentiousness that they complain when they spot others." As always, Robb held the neutral middle ground when it came to those debates. Mostly they lay between his Aunt and her father, they were surely only to increase once Elinor returned to Winterfell. For from what he could read between the elegantly scripted scrawl of letters that she had been sending him, there was something that would most likely keep her in the Greenlands.

Without the weight of his pelt lined cloak lining his shoulders, the North man felt lighter than he had for what felt in centuries. The raven that was so newly nestled in the Stormlands rookery bore him news that winter was closer than anyone could have expected. While the letter held other orders, that pertaining to him returning to his blistering homeland with his grandmother in tow, Robb was still mulling over how on earth he would make a miracle like that happen. But he had time, the tourney was not yet over, nothing was forcing their hand yet. The remainder of his family were in their appropriate keeps to help them prepare for the blistering season that would soon fall upon them. There was no need for him to remain here.

The Silent Wolf's features remained, as if carved from stone. Unforgiving gaze was settled on the other man's almond hues. So in his element with the lies he so carelessly weaved with a thieves tongue. There was no doubt that he was mistaken for another, the realisation settled in the pits of his throat and the stoic expression that remained in place as the stranger before him spoke. "Do pray tell then," His tone sounded almost bored, glancing over the other man's shoulder as if he were looking for something in particular. Feeling as though the story was as real as the smile that was plastered on his features. "Where is all of this bird shit you intend to rain?" The wolfs features shifting into one of expectancy. Not quite sure how dim witted the stranger perceived him to be, but he was not about to pretend in this charade.

A twitch of his lower lip was the only semblance of recognition Robb gave to his comment, brows shifted as he drank from the chalice that had been cradled near his chest. Forgotten until this moment, debating whether or not to bother answering the jab. "It was not the North that started the rebellion." The mad king had, with his insanity he was going to burn the seven kingdoms to the grounds, just to be king of the ashes. Robb said simply, peering deeply into the depths of the liars gaze. It was Dorne, they had been the ones who had to be beaten bloody on the battlefield before they finally submitted. "It was never conquered." When Aegon and his sisters had taken Westeros, the North knelt. They were still true to their old ways. Nor did they run away with their tail between their legs when their alliance was questioned. "And you sir, should consider yourself lucky that the guards have not been alerted." His tongue threatened lowly, his words holding all the weight and power that his sword did. "Now do you wish to keep lying to me," Stepping closer with ease, his stature straightening almost lazily. "Or should I leave it to my wolf to ask the truth from you?" Vargo was so very interested in politics.


PMEmail Poster
^
1 User(s) are reading this topic (1 Guests and 0 Anonymous Users)
0 Members:

Topic Options Reply to this topicStart new topicStart Poll