(no subject)
With a skin of mango wine in hand and his bow strewn haphazardly across his back, Theon Greyjoy was well on his way to being drunk under what few rays of sunlight peaked through the cloudy sky.
But as far as he was concerned, he deserved the private celebration for having successfully finished the jumble of treehouses he called his keep.
A beautifully crafted cluster of treehouses and no one with which to share them. How fitting.
Eying first the archery butts up ahead and next the mouth of his rapidly emptying wineskin, Theon tugged an arrow from his quiver and brushed his fingers through the fletchings. He was still a good shot. Still a fine warrior, if not a fine man.
After sucking the dregs of the sharp mango into his mouth Theon tossed the empty skin aside, rolling the sharp liquid across his tongue, savoring the last drop with bitter amusement.
Couldn't keep a woman for want of many. Couldn't keep a man for... for a number of silly reasons. The archery target swayed in front of him, went a little hazy where he stood. Theon scowled around his mouthful and went to swallow it down.
But suddenly, the second it hit the back of his throat, the sweetness turned sharp and heavy, a bitter, coppery scent overwhelming his sense of smell. Startled, he gagged a little, spitting up some of the wine onto his palm...
And balked when the splatter glimmered a deep red, filling the lines of his palm, hot and heady, and wrong. Abruptly, Theon doubled over and spat out the rest, a short stream of thick blood pouring from his lips, splashing the ground near his feet.
"The hells--" he sputtered, eyes wide, face contorted in shock, his feet carrying him clumsily backwards and away from the condeming stain. That'd been wine, an awful-tasting but noticeably clear wine, only moments before.
What was this... some sort of alchemy? Some sort of trick? A Stark playing at revenge? No, they weren't the playful type.
Disgruntled, Theon staggered back to his feet and hastily drew his mouth over his bare arm, blood smearing wet across his sunned skin. Staring unblinkingly at the drying line of red, he felt his lips begin to quirk a little.
When you looked at it one way, his luck really was sort of amusing.
In his dreams the kraken saw headless figures, once boys and men alike, stalking towards him with a reproachful jerk to their limbs. A dragging walk, a sidle even, for corpses should be shy; their looks were often lacking.
But now, as he slowly rolled the shock from his shoulders, wiped the blood off on his breeches, and lifted his head, Theon felt his life run cold, a chilled sweat breaking out along the hollows of his body.
For now those corpses, those maddening ghasts, the ones that visited him at least once a moon and left him raw and hollow come morning... now they came for him under daylight.
"...My gods," he croaked, all color draining from his cheeks, face slack with disbelief. Where the archery butts once stood, a row of ashen bodies came to life, dragging, sidling with sagging mouths and holes where their eyes should've been.
A king with a yawning gash in his belly, guts spilling out like syrupy licorice, long and glistening and red. A young woman in a bloodspattered birthing gown and a crown of flowers on her head, the hem bunched up between bloodstreaked thighs. A headless father with a sword of ice, roaches crawling up out of the crusted hole where his neck used to be.
And leading them all was a sight that made his knees buckle, a young Tully-haired king with a direwolf for a companion, bleeding profusely from a number of gashes and wounds, eyes alive with flickering flame. "Seven...," Theon managed, a weak murmur of dried lips as his shoulders slumped, body sagged.
"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" Theon asked the stationary archery butts, the words distant, hollow, but matter-of-fact. In his hands he clutched the solitary arrow with the last, lingering strength of a dying man, knuckles white and shaking.
[OOC: Approach with caution. He's talking to the wind and there's no blood in sight although he probably smells like liquor. ST and late tags welcome. ]
But as far as he was concerned, he deserved the private celebration for having successfully finished the jumble of treehouses he called his keep.
A beautifully crafted cluster of treehouses and no one with which to share them. How fitting.
Eying first the archery butts up ahead and next the mouth of his rapidly emptying wineskin, Theon tugged an arrow from his quiver and brushed his fingers through the fletchings. He was still a good shot. Still a fine warrior, if not a fine man.
After sucking the dregs of the sharp mango into his mouth Theon tossed the empty skin aside, rolling the sharp liquid across his tongue, savoring the last drop with bitter amusement.
Couldn't keep a woman for want of many. Couldn't keep a man for... for a number of silly reasons. The archery target swayed in front of him, went a little hazy where he stood. Theon scowled around his mouthful and went to swallow it down.
But suddenly, the second it hit the back of his throat, the sweetness turned sharp and heavy, a bitter, coppery scent overwhelming his sense of smell. Startled, he gagged a little, spitting up some of the wine onto his palm...
And balked when the splatter glimmered a deep red, filling the lines of his palm, hot and heady, and wrong. Abruptly, Theon doubled over and spat out the rest, a short stream of thick blood pouring from his lips, splashing the ground near his feet.
"The hells--" he sputtered, eyes wide, face contorted in shock, his feet carrying him clumsily backwards and away from the condeming stain. That'd been wine, an awful-tasting but noticeably clear wine, only moments before.
What was this... some sort of alchemy? Some sort of trick? A Stark playing at revenge? No, they weren't the playful type.
Disgruntled, Theon staggered back to his feet and hastily drew his mouth over his bare arm, blood smearing wet across his sunned skin. Staring unblinkingly at the drying line of red, he felt his lips begin to quirk a little.
When you looked at it one way, his luck really was sort of amusing.
In his dreams the kraken saw headless figures, once boys and men alike, stalking towards him with a reproachful jerk to their limbs. A dragging walk, a sidle even, for corpses should be shy; their looks were often lacking.
But now, as he slowly rolled the shock from his shoulders, wiped the blood off on his breeches, and lifted his head, Theon felt his life run cold, a chilled sweat breaking out along the hollows of his body.
For now those corpses, those maddening ghasts, the ones that visited him at least once a moon and left him raw and hollow come morning... now they came for him under daylight.
"...My gods," he croaked, all color draining from his cheeks, face slack with disbelief. Where the archery butts once stood, a row of ashen bodies came to life, dragging, sidling with sagging mouths and holes where their eyes should've been.
A king with a yawning gash in his belly, guts spilling out like syrupy licorice, long and glistening and red. A young woman in a bloodspattered birthing gown and a crown of flowers on her head, the hem bunched up between bloodstreaked thighs. A headless father with a sword of ice, roaches crawling up out of the crusted hole where his neck used to be.
And leading them all was a sight that made his knees buckle, a young Tully-haired king with a direwolf for a companion, bleeding profusely from a number of gashes and wounds, eyes alive with flickering flame. "Seven...," Theon managed, a weak murmur of dried lips as his shoulders slumped, body sagged.
"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" Theon asked the stationary archery butts, the words distant, hollow, but matter-of-fact. In his hands he clutched the solitary arrow with the last, lingering strength of a dying man, knuckles white and shaking.
[OOC: Approach with caution. He's talking to the wind and there's no blood in sight although he probably smells like liquor. ST and late tags welcome. ]