BoredOnion — Roleplayer Guild

Sven Stormeye - On Storrold's Point, at the Eastern Edge of the Haunted Forest

Sven was cold. 

He always was when he first woke. The cold was there perpetually; it was the one thing he did not forget. It was familiar, and he was glad to feel it there every time he returned to the waking world. Taking a quick glance at the still slumbering Yin, he unraveled himself from the various furs piled on the ground of the tent, dressing hastily and stepping outside into the blistering cold, gazing on the camps from the slight hill his tent was perched on.

The sun had not yet risen over the Bay of Seals, though he doubted the sun would be seen today; there had been much too many heavy clouds in the sky for that. It’d better not snow, Sven thought as he went to the side of his great fur tent, to the long fallen tree that his host had brought to him at his request. It had only just taken shape, the shape of a long, sturdy canoe that four men could lay down in comfortably. It was not the largest canoe that the free folk were building, those were the ones that carried their supplies, their very livelihood. It would do for Sven. He started a fire, then began working on the inside of the boat, bringing a sharp stone hatchet across the top of the trunk, shaving the wood off stroke by stroke by the flickering light of the fire. With each slow stroke, the scent of fresh pine in the air was renewed. By the time he had made a slight concave in the canoe, the camp had started to emerge into the cold, dimly lit day.

“I don’t understand why ye insist on a damned tree canoe,” the familiar voice of his wife said. “Ye’re a fool for it. A skin and bone canoe would’ve been done yesterday.”

“Not about m’speed,” he grunted. “About th’ strength o’ th’ boat.”

She tsked. “Ye need any help?”

“I would appreciate it.”

She moved the scrap wood from the canoe onto the fire, picked up a hatchet, and started working the trunk. They worked until they felt familiar pangs of hunger deep in their stomachs. Sven stood back, arms sore, and admired his work. A few more days of work, and their vessel would be complete. The same could likely be said of the rest of their ragtag fleet, for by next week, it was believed that they would have enough—over 40 thousand—to depart.

The real question was whether or not the wights would get to them first. Ever since they had been forced from the seat of the Fist of the First Men, they had to run, to the east, to the Bay of Seals. The others were not particularly fast, but they were, either way, continuously moving. They did not have to eat or sleep like normal men beyond the wall, so they did not rest, and, eventually, they would reach the coast, and slaughter them like dogs.

The free folk would be long gone by then. They had to be.

Sven sauntered back into his tent, picked up a leather sack of dried meat, and walked back out, eating as he walked. “I’m ’eading to the west watch. Need an update on th’ wights, and th’ man who’s meant t’watch for them.”

Yin nodded, her eyes not leaving her work. He smirked slightly, throwing the bag of meat onto Yin’s work. After receiving Yin’s fullest scowl, Sven smiled, for he knew that while her face said one thing, her deep blue eyes said another, glinting with mischief and adoration. He scratched his beard, then started down the well-worn path down the hill, towards the western watch. Silently, Sven mulled over the fact that no one was trying to kill each other actively. While but a year ago the tribes would have slaughtered each other, they worked together to an extent. This must’ve been what it was like t’be Mance, he thought, passing by the toiling free folk, nodding slightly at any who noticed him. After a thirty minute walk to the west, he reached the hastily built wall at last.

“Any wights?” he called to a young wildling perched in one of the few trees left standing in the camp. The lad had likely not even had his thirteenth nameday yet, much less lain with a woman. 

“None t’be seen from ‘ere, King Stormeye.”

Sven scoffed slightly at the title. He had become used to it, but that did not mean he liked it. “Did th’ scouting party come back?” he asked, squinting into the dense forest mere yards from the edge of camp.

The lad shook his head. “Not that I know, King Stormeye.” He paused. “They’ve been gone f’r a week. D’ya think they're alright?”
“T’be honest with you, lad, I don’t know. Either th’ walkers are further than we thought, or something happened.”

The boy shuddered. “D’ya think we’ll get out of ‘ere, lord?”

“Aye, if th’ Gods will it.” The boy seemed content with this answer. “Where’s th’ West Watch captain?” Sven prompted. “What was ‘is name?”

“Bjorn, King Stormeye,” the lad blurted. “’E’s over in th’ tent with th’ auroch horn onnit.”
“Thank ye. May the Gods watch over ye.”

The boy fell silent, and as he returned to his vigil, Sven brushed the heavy hide tentflap to the side. Instantly, he was barraged with the familiar smells and sounds of sex, and sighed as he saw the rustling under the furs.

“Bjorn!” he boomed, startling the writhing ball of limbs and hair. “Should ye not be at your post?”

Bjorn sat up, his black hair wild and tangled, but no more so than it usually was when Sven saw him, and gave a crooked-toothed smile. “But, Stormeye, m’lord and liege and savior, there is another post that needs t’be tended to. It’s a very urgent matter.” Sven scowled at the wildling man. There were many wildlings who felt like his lead was good for the wildlings; many others fought it tooth and nail, even though they took up space in the camps. Bjorn was one of them.

“If ye can’t do your job, ye can’t be posted at it, Bjorn. Tomorrow, expect t’be replaced.” Sven silently enjoyed himself as Bjorn’s face contorted from one of glee to one of anger.

“You bastard!” Bjorn howled. ‘E may not care for th’ fleet, but by th’ Gods does ‘e care for ‘is abandoned responsibilities.
“If ye ‘ave a problem with my decisions, I’m sure the wights will gladly take ye in as one of their own. Now, would ye like t’ take care of yer thrice-damned responsibilities?”

Sven took the stunned silence as a yes.

“I expect ye to report, Bjorn. For th’ good of our people. I hope t’ here from ye soon, friend.” Then, swiftly, he pushed the tent flap open and began the trek back home, finishing what he had intended to finish much earlier than he thought he would. As he walked through the camp, back towards his tent, the wind picked up, howling like a direwolf. The cold breath rushed through the path carved through the camp like a raging river, blowing his hair back and stinging his face. Yet again, he was cold. But it was a good thing.

For the cold reminded him that he was alive.
BoredOnion Member

"Lord of Bones? More like Lord of Shit."

Status

Recent Statuses

Bio

Most Recent Posts
