ʟᴀᴅʏ sᴀɴsᴀ sᴛᴀʀᴋ: ᴀʟᴀʏɴᴇ sᴛᴏɴᴇ (
steeledskin) wrote in
eachdraidh2014-05-20 11:17 pm
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(second lemon cake) video ✧ locked to seelie
Dear fellows and members of the Seelie court -- [ the voice which addresses the locket is composed and clear and perfectly conscientious. but the girl whose image accompanies the voice looks a little less than all those things. her dark-dyed hair is fastened in an uncommonly simple braid...and if one looks very closely, she can be seen to have a haggard look about her. she's somewhere outside and all her caution is bent at hiding a panic she doesn't want to share with strangers. nor with those few genuinely waiting on her return. ]
I don't want to alarm any of you. Indeed, I speak to the very opposite of that effect. It's -- [ her gaze flickers 'off-screen' for a moment ] -- it's Alayne Stone. Those of you who are acquaintances [ not friends ] ought to know that I've found myself...left behind. I'm sorry. It should not have happened. But I suspect I won't make Caer Glaem again for some time. [ the fault of the matter is a little trickier than that, but she knows better than to play with implications. so after a steadying breath, she presses onwards. ] Or we won’t -- because I'm not alone. [ i have nymeria, she thinks but doesn’t dare to say. just like how sansa wants to speak directly to those who know her for who she really is -- but instead: ] I have a knight with me.
Don't I, Ser Gendry? [ and she twists her locket, letting it capture the surly blacksmith who stands a few paces away from her with an irritated expression. his armour is dented and blooded and the man sags with an obvious exhaustion. ser gendry is a man who looks and feels beaten, but it does not stop him from standing tall. he is a talisman of sorts: a warning, to any sansa fears might prey upon what would otherwise be a journey fraught with vulnerability. ser gendry is here; she is protected, albeit not happily so. he at last looks towards her and her locket and grumbles an unhappy agreement to her statement, which is accompanied by a nod. ]
A lady needn’t despair when she’s so well accompanied. Instead, my thoughts are with the returned; I pray the High Queen’s desired prize was taken without steep costs or losses. [ following this, there is no formal farewell. no official sign-off. her attention lingers, perhaps waiting for one or two responses in particular. ]
( ooc; sansa and gendry are now officially stranded and making their long way back to caer glaem -- and it’ll take them at least two months, though they’ll be reachable by locket at their respective ic inboxes. but for now, responses to this post will receive replies from one or the other or both!)
I don't want to alarm any of you. Indeed, I speak to the very opposite of that effect. It's -- [ her gaze flickers 'off-screen' for a moment ] -- it's Alayne Stone. Those of you who are acquaintances [ not friends ] ought to know that I've found myself...left behind. I'm sorry. It should not have happened. But I suspect I won't make Caer Glaem again for some time. [ the fault of the matter is a little trickier than that, but she knows better than to play with implications. so after a steadying breath, she presses onwards. ] Or we won’t -- because I'm not alone. [ i have nymeria, she thinks but doesn’t dare to say. just like how sansa wants to speak directly to those who know her for who she really is -- but instead: ] I have a knight with me.
Don't I, Ser Gendry? [ and she twists her locket, letting it capture the surly blacksmith who stands a few paces away from her with an irritated expression. his armour is dented and blooded and the man sags with an obvious exhaustion. ser gendry is a man who looks and feels beaten, but it does not stop him from standing tall. he is a talisman of sorts: a warning, to any sansa fears might prey upon what would otherwise be a journey fraught with vulnerability. ser gendry is here; she is protected, albeit not happily so. he at last looks towards her and her locket and grumbles an unhappy agreement to her statement, which is accompanied by a nod. ]
A lady needn’t despair when she’s so well accompanied. Instead, my thoughts are with the returned; I pray the High Queen’s desired prize was taken without steep costs or losses. [ following this, there is no formal farewell. no official sign-off. her attention lingers, perhaps waiting for one or two responses in particular. ]
( ooc; sansa and gendry are now officially stranded and making their long way back to caer glaem -- and it’ll take them at least two months, though they’ll be reachable by locket at their respective ic inboxes. but for now, responses to this post will receive replies from one or the other or both!)
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They had been stranded together for hours, yet she had not yet lost an ounce of her manners. He was ever a ser and she seemed ever (at least in her words if not her looks) eager to agree with his verdicts. Agreement was an easier way to spend her energies; to fight him, she thought, would be exhausting.
Sansa fought back the temptation to lift a foot and rub at her heels through leather soles. At least she had dressed plainly for the quest; at least she'd had the common prescience to change her fine dress for something more comfortable before the High Queen had even spirited her away from Caer Glaem. It was still a dress, of course. But it had a cream-coloured apron still stained with smudges of blood. Not hers, but that of someone else. Someone she'd clumsily treated at the support base before everything had fallen apart. Before she'd ran -- and therefore hauled Gendry into this misery alongside her. Sansa did feel bad about it, but she thought that to acknowledge her error might invite his wrath.
And he, she suspected, must be capable of so much wrath.
"We'll continue. Southwards, if it please you."
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He kicked at the grass. "It ain't me that needs pleasing," he grumbled. "But we'll move on, once Arya's wolf gets back. M'lady."
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"You're...quite right. I'm sure of it." And yet she stood on her sore feet and looked about them and then looked at the sky and remembered what the Elvenking had told her. "Do you -- do you think it might rain?"
Perhaps she should prepare her sleeve for soaking. How did one do that, anyway? Simply hold it out and wait? The point was moot, she supposed, so long as the sky was dry.
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"No. Not anytime soon, at least. We're lucky for that, at least. Last thing we need is to get caught in some bloody storm."
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"Maybe if I whistle, she'll come--" her attention slewed back to Nymeria, and how Gendry rightly wanted to wait for the wolf to return before moving on. It was wholly possible that she was their best shield. "May I? Whistle?
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"If it pleases," he said, repeating her earlier statement. "You know more of wolves than I do."
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She turned away from him so she might stick the tips of two fingers in her mouth and give a staccato blast. Like birdsong, really. Sansa hadn't learned much from her brothers nor from Theon, but one day they did endeavour to teach her how to whistle. It seemed to be so close to music that she'd allowed herself to be taught -- and here she was, whistling powerfully and shrill.
Silence followed. Sansa turned back. "It mightn't work," she confessed. "I've never had to call back a wolf. Lady never wandered so far as Nymeria seems to do."
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"There's lots of wolves in the Riverlands. More than ever, these days. They say it's a huge wolf pack, led by some monster she-wolf. They've gone savage of late, not just attacking game in the forest, but attacking men. It don't matter to them if it's Frey or Bloody Mummers they kill, or just poor shepherd folk." He shook his head. "We'll be lucky if these woods are only half so dangerous as our own."
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"Th-then I am fortunate to have you with me," she said -- hoping once again that the sheer force of her support and gratitude might somehow soften his steel.
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"We've got our own wolf, though. And you Starks seem half-wolf. So it's not wolves we'll need worry about." He said it all as a kind of reassurance to her, but leaving the possibility open of other dangers. "I just wish I'd talked to that big, bloody dragon like I told Stiles I would."
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Sansa wrapped her cloak around her body. She was glad for it. "I'm not convinced that dragons can be trusted to take to obedience any more than wolves can, Ser Gendry."
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With how big the dragon was, they might be halfway back to Caer Glaem if they were allowed to ride him.
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"Dragons. Horses. A cart. Any of it would be useful. I wish we had a wheelhouse." Her tone was not chiding. She did not scold him. But she did play the patsy -- fake-naively wishing for what they did not have so she might obliquely impress upon Gendry that pining for dragons would not help them now. Let him scold her for pining, then. And thereby correct his own pining in the process.
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He dismissed the thought. And the thought of dragons as well. It was only because of Daenerys he even cared about his Targaryen blood. He had not revealed to her he was Baratheon, but he'd had a queer hope that when he did, he might persuade her in some way to look past his father and see a kinship instead. He thought of how close he'd come to swearing his service to her in her stupid, hopeless cause.
Well, now his sword only belonged to him. He did not foresee offering his service anywhere for some time.
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Adequately self-effaced and humbled, she offered little more than a bare curtsey before the sound of paws on the mossy twig-strewn ground called Sansa to twist where she stood. Here padded Nymeria, her muzzle still wet -- there must have been a stream where she'd roamed, and she must have drank deep. Sansa envied her for she was just now understanding that the parching sting described by Thranduil was cutting across her tongue.
She knelt and pressed her cheek against Nymeria's neck. The wolf allowed it, and for that she was more than grateful. "Thank you," she whispered to the direwolf. Understanding implicitly that her whistle had not commanded the creature, but had instead been like a question. Nymeria had deigned to answer it.
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"We should move on. We'll need to find food and water before it gets dark."
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Not the same one that Nymeria found, of course. For Sansa was not keen to leave the narrow road. But perhaps if they followed it a little longer they might cross some tributary or creek. She winced as the direwolf shook herself and splattered water drops from her muzzle all over. The maiden wiped at her face. In another moment or another time, she might have laughed. Today, it merely felt as though she was miming wiping tears from her cheeks.
"And if we do, we ought to drink from...high up -- in the stream." She spoke as if she barely understood what those words meant, but as if she hoped Gendry did. She looked to him for direction as she stood straight.
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"A stream," he agreed as he voiced a certainty he didn't feel. At least in the lead she didn't have to see his angry certainty morph into worried fear. "That should be easy to find."
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"Roads must cross streams all the time. I would think."
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His armor rattled as they continued and if they hoped to have stealth, they would have none with the clanging noise he made in each and every step.
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After a short spat of walking, she piped up: "We are aiming for the Station, are we not?" Sansa sounded hopeful.
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"Maybe," he answered vaguely. "I don't know. Everyone in our court will know it's where we're heading. Who's to say the Unseelie won't find out as well?"
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"Not that I disagree," Sansa tried to mend the damage she imagined must have been dealt. "That is, you're right in that the obvious move is not necessarily the safest." -- even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own. And that was what they now were: humble pieces on their own, torn between what everyone else was telling them to do and what felt right. But her heart ached to see her sister again, and if meeting Thranduil at the Station brought her nearer to that...
"The Kingslayer will only expect us to go to the Station," she sounded heartbroken as conceded the point. They were two lost souls and their best strength, she thought, might come from refusing to make the moves others expected from them.
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"If we cross the river to the south, we'll be in Seelie lands. If we can find a crossing, I think we should try it. If we can't, then Station might be all that's left for us."
He wasn't sure of this as a plan. But his sense of navigation was ill refined and he reckoned heading straight south would be the most sensible path. After all, it was just like when traveling with Arya. If they had kept going north then, they would have found the Trident. Well now, it was the same, only south. This time he would need the good sense to avoid trouble.
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Her head turned. She looked at Nymeria. At least the wolf brought no judgement. By cause-and-effect she'd once gotten that protector lost as well, the same night she'd lost her own wolf. But Nymeria was not cruel. Wild, perhaps. But not cruel.
"South is good. His Grace, King Thranduil, suggested we ought to go south. Even if we never make the Station, it seems as good a plan as any. And if you think it is as well..." She trailed off. Even she was beginning to hear how grating her constant agreement was becoming. "Is it hot in all that metal?"
Perhaps concern would serve her better.
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