Ode to Defeat (Open to All)
May 31, 2013 3:33:26 GMT
Post by Baelor Karatus on May 31, 2013 3:33:26 GMT
On and on they had droned. For hours it had seemed like, though at this point Baelor could no longer be sure. Starring into the stone hearth in the shape of an open dragon's maw a massive fire raged, and of course where a fire raged in Dragonstone the followers of the Red God where always on hand. They rambled of it's beauty, of it's purity, of how their God spoke to them through the flames. Tilting his head to the side, he starred into the flames wondering, not for the first time, if they truly could see visions within the flames or if it was merely their mind playing tricks upon them. Faith was a dangerous thing, and fanatical faith even more. Lifting his mug, Baelor took another sizable swig of ale, feeling the liquid rush down his throat, some dribbling from his chin to run down his broad chest. To him it was all nonsense, foolish rubbish brought over seas and loved by the desperate. Though, that was an opinion he'd never share out loud. He rather enjoyed not being engulfed by infernos, and such words had a way of getting one burned at the stake in these times.
Flames. All he'd ever seen in flames was good men burning. Whether it had been on the Blackwater or in the 'cleansing' flames this new Red Priestess was so keen on throwing men and women to who dared have their own opinions. Gritting his teeth against growing frustration Baelor raised his mug to his lips once again and drained the remainder of ale in a single gulp. Slamming the mug down upon the heavy oak table top, the soldiers discussing their new God lapsed into silence to look upon him. Baelor cast them a stern look, his fierce gaze holding all of theirs, and silence remained total. "I wish to be alone with my thoughts. Leave. Now." His tone carried nothing of a request, but an order, and an order expected to be followed at that. The men stood, and giving him the proper respect filed out of the massive hall without another word. Sighing to himself, the axmen glanced over at a waiting servant, indicating he was ready for another mug. For an instant he read hesitation upon the young boys face, knowing Baelor had already consumed a warriors amount of ale, though it was obvious the Bull was in no mood to be questioned so the young servant brought him another without further question.
He knew within himself he shouldn't have snapped at the soldiers, but he couldn't help it. He was a pious man himself, though his allegiance firmly stood with the Seven, but they where fighting a war. They where losing a war at that, and all these men could talk of was how their one true God would deliver them all from evil, how he would illuminate the path to truth and justice for them all. Where was that justice upon the Blackwater? Where was their Fire God as a rather unholy fire consumed so many hundreds of good men. In his drunken stupor he could hear their screams as if he still stood upon the deck of his ship watching it for the very first time. It was the kind of repulsive memory that would haunt him to his dying day, as it should have been. That single sight had been more horrifying than anything else witnessed to him in warfare before that moment. The melting flesh falling away from bone, the sound of pitiful and terrified screams, the stench that seemed to burn it's way forever into his nostrils. Growling to himself he took another long drink, the ale seeming to be in that moment his only way of self-purification.
Absentmindedly, Baelor stretched out his free hand, his finger tips caressing the polished and oiled shaft of his battle ax. The weapon lay carefully upon the tabletop, resting upon his bear-pelt cloak. Starring lovingly at the shined to perfection double-headed blades he watched the fires reflection dance and flicker within. The way it seemed to bring the two bulls carefully worked upon the weapon to life, to make their locked horns seem in that moment all to real, the fight they waged to be happening before him and only for his eyes to witness. His gaze remained locked upon the weapon, the sound of clashing blades filling his ears as he continued to focus intently upon the bulls etched into the steel weapon. To say he'd been a different man since Blackwater Bay was to point out the obvious, but who hadn't been changed by that night? The battle had seemed so sure, so secure. Even despite the Imp's craftiness at the employment of wildfire things had still seemed to be going their way. Baelor could still feel the thrill of Mail-Breaker cleaving through that ragtag force the Lannisters had managed to field that night. The elation racing through his blood at the feeling of battle, at the feeling of purpose met. Then it had all gone from perfect to terrible.
Renly.
Closing his eyes and turning his head away from the weapon, Baelor tore his hand away from the ax and stood upon shaky legs, stumbling for an instant before his powerful arm shot out to secure his position by gripping the tabletop. That damned man in Renly's armor! In the heat of the moment, with the full chaos of battle erupting around them it had seemed a ghost walking among them, but not just walking, cleaving it's way through their ranks. Killing without care, without mercy; fighting as a true warrior. Looking back on it he felt shame to have been fooled by such a trick, to have allowed momentum to shift when he should have driven Mail-Breaker into the chest piece of that emerald armor and hacked the heart from that pretenders body. Feeling his jaw clench in the tell-tale sign of his own anger, Baelor pushed away from the tabletop and swung to once again look upon the fire. In a sudden fit of rage he hurled the chair he had been sitting upon into the massive hearth, the dragon's maw seemingly swallowing the wooden chair and welcoming it to the fire. That man Tywin, he'd been to blame for it all. Once again he'd acted at the precise moment to see himself to advantage.
Glancing over, he noticed the servant starring at him with wide eyes. In that moment a memory of Dashiel assaulted his mind, a particular memory that left a sour taste in his mouth. It had been a night like this, Baelor left to one of his drunken rages as he recalled war and battle and blood, he'd shouted at the night sky in hatred and anger only to find his son, no more than six or seven, starring upon him in fear. The guilt he'd felt was mirrored within him in that very moment. The strong where meant to be seen as pillars in times of despair, to be what the weak needed. He'd scared his son because of his own foolishness just as he was scaring this servant now. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Baelor allowed that easy grin of his to spread upon his lips, ale soaked beard shimmering in the firelight. "Apologies, lad. It's hard to think of the men I lost, the brothers in arms I saw perish. Perhaps I have had enough." Handing the mug back to the servant, he waved a hand in dismissal much to the servants relief. The boy made quick time in retreating from the Hall, leaving Baelor completely alone. The silence was near complete, only the howling wind could be heard faintly, and that Gods damned ever crackling fire before him.
Turning his gaze back to the flames, he found his grin turning to a bitter smile. "The night is dark and full or terrors..." The words left his lips with just a hint of mockery, of harsh distaste. "Does burning good men help illuminate the path to our destruction...?" The question fell so quietly from his lips that he himself barely heard it asked, and he realized in that moment he was blaming this New God for their troubles. Blaming all these heretics and fanatics. Blaming their blind loyalty. They should have been trusting in sound strategy and sharp steal, in strong sword arms and brave hearts. Gods and their tricks they played upon men. Turning from the fire, Baelor sat down heavily upon a new chair, his gaze falling back to his ax once again.
"Bring me more ale!" His voice boomed out through the empty Hall, echoing off the walls. He knew he'd sent the lad away not a moment before but he didn't care. He was drunk, he was mad, he wanted blood, he wanted revenge, he wanted his wife and his children, he wanted this war over, he wanted Stannis upon the Iron Throne, he wanted off this dreary island. But all Baelor had in that moment was a fire roaring before him as if to mock him, a black feeling in his heart, and a desire to drink it all away.
Flames. All he'd ever seen in flames was good men burning. Whether it had been on the Blackwater or in the 'cleansing' flames this new Red Priestess was so keen on throwing men and women to who dared have their own opinions. Gritting his teeth against growing frustration Baelor raised his mug to his lips once again and drained the remainder of ale in a single gulp. Slamming the mug down upon the heavy oak table top, the soldiers discussing their new God lapsed into silence to look upon him. Baelor cast them a stern look, his fierce gaze holding all of theirs, and silence remained total. "I wish to be alone with my thoughts. Leave. Now." His tone carried nothing of a request, but an order, and an order expected to be followed at that. The men stood, and giving him the proper respect filed out of the massive hall without another word. Sighing to himself, the axmen glanced over at a waiting servant, indicating he was ready for another mug. For an instant he read hesitation upon the young boys face, knowing Baelor had already consumed a warriors amount of ale, though it was obvious the Bull was in no mood to be questioned so the young servant brought him another without further question.
He knew within himself he shouldn't have snapped at the soldiers, but he couldn't help it. He was a pious man himself, though his allegiance firmly stood with the Seven, but they where fighting a war. They where losing a war at that, and all these men could talk of was how their one true God would deliver them all from evil, how he would illuminate the path to truth and justice for them all. Where was that justice upon the Blackwater? Where was their Fire God as a rather unholy fire consumed so many hundreds of good men. In his drunken stupor he could hear their screams as if he still stood upon the deck of his ship watching it for the very first time. It was the kind of repulsive memory that would haunt him to his dying day, as it should have been. That single sight had been more horrifying than anything else witnessed to him in warfare before that moment. The melting flesh falling away from bone, the sound of pitiful and terrified screams, the stench that seemed to burn it's way forever into his nostrils. Growling to himself he took another long drink, the ale seeming to be in that moment his only way of self-purification.
Absentmindedly, Baelor stretched out his free hand, his finger tips caressing the polished and oiled shaft of his battle ax. The weapon lay carefully upon the tabletop, resting upon his bear-pelt cloak. Starring lovingly at the shined to perfection double-headed blades he watched the fires reflection dance and flicker within. The way it seemed to bring the two bulls carefully worked upon the weapon to life, to make their locked horns seem in that moment all to real, the fight they waged to be happening before him and only for his eyes to witness. His gaze remained locked upon the weapon, the sound of clashing blades filling his ears as he continued to focus intently upon the bulls etched into the steel weapon. To say he'd been a different man since Blackwater Bay was to point out the obvious, but who hadn't been changed by that night? The battle had seemed so sure, so secure. Even despite the Imp's craftiness at the employment of wildfire things had still seemed to be going their way. Baelor could still feel the thrill of Mail-Breaker cleaving through that ragtag force the Lannisters had managed to field that night. The elation racing through his blood at the feeling of battle, at the feeling of purpose met. Then it had all gone from perfect to terrible.
Renly.
Closing his eyes and turning his head away from the weapon, Baelor tore his hand away from the ax and stood upon shaky legs, stumbling for an instant before his powerful arm shot out to secure his position by gripping the tabletop. That damned man in Renly's armor! In the heat of the moment, with the full chaos of battle erupting around them it had seemed a ghost walking among them, but not just walking, cleaving it's way through their ranks. Killing without care, without mercy; fighting as a true warrior. Looking back on it he felt shame to have been fooled by such a trick, to have allowed momentum to shift when he should have driven Mail-Breaker into the chest piece of that emerald armor and hacked the heart from that pretenders body. Feeling his jaw clench in the tell-tale sign of his own anger, Baelor pushed away from the tabletop and swung to once again look upon the fire. In a sudden fit of rage he hurled the chair he had been sitting upon into the massive hearth, the dragon's maw seemingly swallowing the wooden chair and welcoming it to the fire. That man Tywin, he'd been to blame for it all. Once again he'd acted at the precise moment to see himself to advantage.
Glancing over, he noticed the servant starring at him with wide eyes. In that moment a memory of Dashiel assaulted his mind, a particular memory that left a sour taste in his mouth. It had been a night like this, Baelor left to one of his drunken rages as he recalled war and battle and blood, he'd shouted at the night sky in hatred and anger only to find his son, no more than six or seven, starring upon him in fear. The guilt he'd felt was mirrored within him in that very moment. The strong where meant to be seen as pillars in times of despair, to be what the weak needed. He'd scared his son because of his own foolishness just as he was scaring this servant now. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Baelor allowed that easy grin of his to spread upon his lips, ale soaked beard shimmering in the firelight. "Apologies, lad. It's hard to think of the men I lost, the brothers in arms I saw perish. Perhaps I have had enough." Handing the mug back to the servant, he waved a hand in dismissal much to the servants relief. The boy made quick time in retreating from the Hall, leaving Baelor completely alone. The silence was near complete, only the howling wind could be heard faintly, and that Gods damned ever crackling fire before him.
Turning his gaze back to the flames, he found his grin turning to a bitter smile. "The night is dark and full or terrors..." The words left his lips with just a hint of mockery, of harsh distaste. "Does burning good men help illuminate the path to our destruction...?" The question fell so quietly from his lips that he himself barely heard it asked, and he realized in that moment he was blaming this New God for their troubles. Blaming all these heretics and fanatics. Blaming their blind loyalty. They should have been trusting in sound strategy and sharp steal, in strong sword arms and brave hearts. Gods and their tricks they played upon men. Turning from the fire, Baelor sat down heavily upon a new chair, his gaze falling back to his ax once again.
"Bring me more ale!" His voice boomed out through the empty Hall, echoing off the walls. He knew he'd sent the lad away not a moment before but he didn't care. He was drunk, he was mad, he wanted blood, he wanted revenge, he wanted his wife and his children, he wanted this war over, he wanted Stannis upon the Iron Throne, he wanted off this dreary island. But all Baelor had in that moment was a fire roaring before him as if to mock him, a black feeling in his heart, and a desire to drink it all away.