nightcomes:
QOREN BORE THE RED ROBES of the lord of light with all the pride of a king and his crown. he had heard tales of the ironborn, with their quaint little mythologies of a fickle god who lived in the ocean like a fish. fisherpeople, thieves and ore-miners, he supposed, were in need of comfort that the sea on which they travelled would not chew them up and spit them out. never had he met a believer of this strange old-world persuasion.
“i am sure that is a convenient reason for his worship being confined to a few desolate islands,” a smile quirked at the corner’s of the red priest’s lips. “and the ships of the rats who disperse from them.” he waves his fingers idly through the candle-flame lighting the table on which the tankards of ale sit. qorens is untouched. “only light can make a place holy. and only one god gives light, brother.”
a dismissive attitude shifts back, tide replacing it with something a bit more familiar to the rumors that swirled around the bone hand’s heir — — there’s something quite off about him, even by ironborn standards ... perhaps not all of him came back to life, and he’s been wandering about the world half a ghost for all his life. the lazy hand clenches shut for a moment and then rises again, his pointer and thumb dipped into his own ale, dampening the pads, before reaching out and pinching out the flame. derran looks at the red priest as if he has proven his whole point ( in his mind, he has to some extent : light is surely not that powerful when it can be so easily taken away, but the sea can not be removed ), silent for a long moment.
‘ i am not your brother, ’ he corrects, finally breaking the moment. ‘ my brothers are those who have been drowned in the waves and brought back stronger than iron. ’ it’s not a casual endearment to be shared between strangers, especially not with greenlanders. the other’s accent was unfamiliar, likely not of westeros, but in some way all who weren’t born of the islands were green. ‘ hardly rats, but if it is a comfort to discredit us as such i will let you have it. ’
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timestamp : the requiem / spring , 486 ac. location : eyrie , the vale tagging : @eskirmir ( victarion greyjoy )
as displeased as derran is with his location, he’s begun to at least find things to consider and keep his mind busy. latest on the list was whether the greenlanders found any peace in death, surrounding themselves with rocks and still air. it’s reflections on these, if you could call them that and not judgements, that find their way into the journal he keeps — — something to write about when there was little else to keep his attention. he feels cut off here from that which grants him power, and he does his best to ignore it.
‘ has anyone killed each other quite yet ? ’ he asks, hearing the sound of someone entering his chambers. only victarion or his sister would find the will to do so, he assumes, and so the question is well suited for either of them. ‘ it’s been quite a boring affair thus far. ’ the morbid shadow of a man turns in the chair, looking up at his friend. ‘ — — at least it would be something different. ’
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nightcomes:
QOREN THE RED TRUSTS NOONE. in this rocky, mountainous land of barbaric, blind unbelievers and crude temples to the seven pretend gods, there was nowhere for trust to lay it’s flaming red head. his eyes flick around to every person he passes, intense and unyielding, scoping out who’s ears may be burning for the word of his god, the true god. some, the idiot smallfolk with rudimentary seven pointed stars on leather cords around their neck, look ripe for the picking. others, like the blue-eyed man drinking ale as though it is in shortage, he can see are wizened, laying on the floor of the orchard, unplucked in their prime and therefore a wasted soul in the eyes of r’hllor’s humble servant, sent to collect harvest.
at least, the man’s rough tongue speaks a modicum of truth. the people could not see him yet, but the sun shone, and thus he was here. as he was everywhere. “in time, he will come.” his accent, licked with the intonations of his braavosi upbringing and the rare rounded prefix of dorne he could not lose. “the lord of light is everywhere. these nonbelievers are merely too blinded by their false gods to see him.”
they had reached a similar conclusion it seemed, yet their directions from entirely different maps of the world. the cartographer of his own mind was not expecting an answer, and so narrowed eyes turn upon the figure with the unfamiliar accent and bright robes. ‘ unlikely, ’ he replies before the other continues, word sharp like a rocky crag on the cliffs of old wyk. the drowned god would not stray from his home, and they were foolish if they stayed here for too much longer. they prospered in his seas, with his salt. however, then the other continues and derran sighs, setting the cup down with a solid sound of metal on wood, as his head tilts to the side to consider the mislead fanatic he had found himself in conversation with. ‘ oh. ’
' greenlanders change their gods as the wind changes course, so i’m sure you’ll find a few to ... ‘ he trails off for a moment, finishing the sentence with a dismissive wave of a ring - clad hand. ‘ whatever it is you seek to convince them for. ’ the hand returns to the able. ‘ my god will not come to this keep though, for this is not a holy place. ’
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timestamp : the requiem / spring , 486 ac. location : eyrie , the vale tagging : @nightcomes ( qoren sand )
like so much water runoff, the ironborn had arrived in the vale; building in volume and dragging things along with them. a queen pulled by duty, a brother for a sister, and then a friend for a friend — — suddenly the drowned god’s favorites stood in halls quite unfamiliar to them, separated from their waters and ships. it did not sit right with derran. the water here had no character, no salt or metal to its taste. while a fresh spring might be a sign of life for some, it was an abysmal sight to he who guaranteed his life by brined waves.
at least he looks miserable enough to be respectful of the dead — — a sour expression painted on his features, though its unclear if it is simply his distaste for being here or the physical impact of the sudden shift in elevation. likely both, and drink has offered little comfort. then again, there was usually something acetic in the look of the thunderer’s captain. he gazes out the window, looking over the mountains that were, for once, below him.
‘ no god here, ’ he murmurs to himself, before taking another swig. they had removed themselves from his home.
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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐃'𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃
𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐌, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤, or the knave, represents the card between queen and ten. he is known as a trickster, and is associated with historical courtly warrior figures like hector of troy, lancelot, and the warrior priest judas maccabeus.
𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐉𝐎𝐘, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 is the highest ranked of the faces, just above the queen. the rest of the deck falls under him, and takes its face from the great ruler generals of history - the biblical david, charles the great, julius caesar and alexander the great.
𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐖𝐘𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐉𝐎𝐘, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 or the dame is the card ranked between the king and the jack - in some italian decks she holds the same role and value as the king himself. her face is borrowed from warrior queens throughout history, such as pallas athene, goddess of war, and the jewish queen judith, of holoferenes’-severed-head fame.
( @eskirmir @drownaed )
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𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐌 . lord of old wyk, heir of the bone hand, and second in command of the iron fleet. faithful servant of the drowned god. when songs are sung, their verses speak of boy in a grip, like cataleptic rigidity, the fatal hold of ancestral ghost stories and paternal devotion, swirling in the water below like an eddy that threatens to pull everything under ; blood spilled in the water, life is gifted to the waves and is granted in return ; iron skeleton braves any storm with confidence, for death has come and his price already paid ; divinity is in his bones and he will not squander it. / intelligent & assured, morbid & zealous / information .
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misty
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