#which is trying to pull bone lord's horn as early as i can

[twinarmeowgeddons]

the lump

[shieldofrohan]

I was struck by your idea that there may be a Jonsa political marriage in TWOW or early in ADOS because I could NOT figure out why they made all those parallels between them and Ned/Cat in the show without addressing it. But, your idea worries me because in s7 they compared J/D to Rhaegar/Lyanna, and while I can't imagine Jon being unfaithful, Dany falling in love with Jon was what brought her North. So how does that/the love triangle we saw on the show play out if Jonsa is already married?

Hello @esther-dot! First of all thank you for your ask, people don’t ask me anything usually so your ask made me really happy. 

I wrote a long answer I guess, sorry :

First let me say that: I think we are giving too much credit to show. After S4 the show kind of stopped following the books. I mean look at the S5 Ramsay/Sansa nonsense. D&D made it clear that GRRM gave them some important scenes for them to work with so I see the show as a slide-show of some scenes from books tbh. For example the arrival of the Knights of the Vale was sth you can find the hints of it in the books. Or the trial and death of Baelish by the hand of Sansa. Even the death of Daenerys was foreshadowed in the books. But the plots to get to those scenes were all D&D if you ask me. So they had to fill the gaps and they did it how they wanted. 

At this point I really can’t see a version of Asoiaf without a jonsa plot. Jonsa is the most foreshadowed plot in the books. The hints are starting in the prologue of the AGOT and they keep going in the AFFC and ADWD, and you can even find hints in other books of GRRM. Jonsa foreshadowings are surrounded by marriage and children imagery. So not having a jonsa marriage or kids seems unlikely to me. 

I am looking at the j*nerys foreshadowings and they are all about them being enemies. For example these two chapters that follow each other:

“No. Dany shivered. No, no, oh no.“Are you deaf, fool?” Reznak mo Reznak demanded of the man. “Did you not hear my pronouncement? See my factors on the morrow, and you shall be paid for your sheep.” “Reznak,” Ser Barristan said quietly, “hold your tongue and open your eyes. Those are no sheep bones.” No, Dany thought, those are the bones of a child.”

[A Dance with Dragons; Daenerys]

*

Burning dead children had ceased to trouble Jon Snow; live ones were another matter. Two kings to wake the dragon. The father first and then the son, so both die kings. The words had been murmured by one of the queen’s men as Maester Aemon had cleaned his wounds. Jon had tried to dismiss them as his fever talking. Aemon had demurred. “There is power in a king’s blood,” the old maester had warned, “and better men than Stannis have done worse things than this.” The king can be harsh and unforgiving, aye, but a babe still on the breast? Only a monster would give a living child to the flames.

[A Dance with Dragons; Jon]

***

The next morning Xaro’s galleas was gone, but the “gift” that he had brought her remained behind in Slaver’s Bay. Long red streamers flew from the masts of the thirteen Qartheen galleys, writhing in the wind. And when Daenerys descended to hold court, a messenger from the ships awaited her. He spoke no word but laid at her feet a black satin pillow, upon which rested a single bloodstained glove. “What is this?” Skahaz demanded. “A bloody glove …” “… means war,” said the queen.

[A Dance with Dragons; Daenerys]

*

As they did their count, Jon peeled the glove off his left hand and touched the nearest haunch of venison. He could feel his fingers sticking, and when he pulled them back he lost a bit of skin. His fingertips were numb. What did you expect? There’s a mountain of ice above your head, more tons than even Bowen Marsh could count. Even so, the room felt colder than it should.“It is worse than I feared, my lord,” Marsh announced when he was done. He sounded gloomier than Dolorous Edd.Jon had just been thinking that all the meat in the world surrounded them. You know nothing, Jon Snow. “How so? This seems a deal of food to me.”

[A Dance with Dragons; Jon]

***

Dizzy, Dany closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she glimpsed the Meereenese beneath her through a haze of tears and dust, pouring up the steps and out into the streets.The lash was still in her hand. She flicked it against Drogon’s neck and cried, “Higher!” Her other hand clutched at his scales, her fingers scrabbling for purchase. Drogon’s wide black wings beat the air. Dany could feel the heat of him between her thighs. Her heart felt as if it were about to burst. Yes, she thought, yes, now, now, do it, do it, take me, take me, FLY!”

[A Dance with Dragons; Daenerys]

*

Jon clasped the offered hand. The words of his oath rang through his head. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.

[A Dance with Dragons; Jon]

***

I really try to see some romantic hints in those but I can’t find them. So why did D&D choose to do j*nerys instead of jonsa? Let’s face it: Their main audience are locals and Dany lovers. People were waiting them to bang... (ew). And when he was asked about Grrm’s intentions about Jon and Dany, Alan Taylor (director) said that he can’t tell what Grrm said because it is a S8 twist. So even the most j*nerys shipper director couldn’t confirm that j*nerys was sth Grrm told them about. What Grrm told them was a S8 twist, which turned out to be Jon killing Daenerys. I bet they chose the route of a romance instead of them being enemies (Dance of Dragons 2.0 ?!?!?!) so they could shock the audience with the final twist (a poor choice i must say).

So what I am trying to say is that: j*nerys is probably not a book thing. Or at least it can only be one sided in the books. Look at the S7-8 Jon Snow.. they made him so OOC to be in love with Dany... I am sure that Book!Jon won’t be in love with Dany. To be fair, I even can’t see Jon in Dragonstone or etc. Traveling during a White Walker threat is not a good idea. He won’t have such a time to go to DS and fall in love with someone like Dany. Dany is a combination of Cersei, Joffrey, Stannis, Selyse and Melisandre... Can you imagine Jon falling for those? No I don’t think so. I mean there is even dragon glass in Skagos... why would he bother to go DS? And we know that Dragons don’t like North and I can’t image using the fire threat to beat the ice threat... So her dragons won’t be the main forces against the Others. 

I tried to explain why Show!J*nerys was so forced to please the audience and how it was a fan service plot. But still an one-sided j*nerys can happen in the books. There are more foreshowings for this tbh. I am imaging an Aerys-Joanna-Tywin kind of triangle in the books. 

I mean look at this: (I have examined the Jon chapters that follow Dany ones in the ADWD and there were some interesting things. Maybe i’ll write a meta about them one day but for now let’s focus on one hint that I found interesting)

“I want to know. I never knew my father. I want to know everything about him. The good and … the rest.” “As you command.” The white knight chose his words with care. “Prince Aerys … as a youth, he was taken with a certain lady of Casterly Rock, a cousin of Tywin Lannister. When she and Tywin wed, your father drank too much wine at the wedding feast and was heard to say that it was a great pity that the lord’s right to the first night had been abolished. A drunken jape, no more, but Tywin Lannister was not a man to forget such words, or the … the liberties your father took during the bedding.” His face reddened. “I have said too much, Your Grace. I—”

[...]

How beautiful, the queen tried to tell herself, but inside her was some foolish little girl who could not help but look about for Daario. If he loved you, he would come and carry you off at swordpoint, as Rhaegar carried off his northern girl, the girl in her insisted, but the queen knew that was folly.

[A Dance with Dragons; Daenerys]

This is Daenerys’ wedding chapter and she learns about her father’s jealousy about Tywin and Joanna’s marriage. 

And bonus: she also wishes that Daario to take her away like Rhaegar did with his Stark lady. So in her wedding chapter she mentions the love between a Targaryen prince and a Stark lady. 

But she also knows that no one is coming for her. 

And Jon chapter follows this chapter. And he talks about: his dislike for Selyse and Melisandre, kinslaying, daggers in dark, the grey girl. So he won’t like Daenerys either, kinslaying is an important hint (both for Dany-Viserys and Jon-Daenerys) and I bet that Grey Girl is Sansa. 

Now we know that Dany is Aerys 2.0 with dragons and she will end what her father has started by burning down KL. So in this triangle Dany is Aerys. 

And who are Joanna and Tywin? 

The first J+T pair she’ll meet will be Aegon and Arianna probably. They are cousins too and Aegon chose not to be just a consort to his aunt by marrying her, so he’ll probably choose Arianne to gain Dorne’s support. I always consider Aegon (fake or not) and Arianne as a warning for Daenerys about Jonsa. Aegon has parallels with Sansa and Jon (secret identity with different hair color and secret Targ parentage etc). And Arianne has parallels with Sansa (The girl in the tower trope). So those two will be a test for Daenerys before she meets with Jon and Sansa. But her main test will be with Jonsa.

Jonsa fit into Joanna/Tywin pair more. They are cousins and they grew up together and after them being reunited they will be very important for each other. 

And let’s not forget about the fact that Tywin was the Hand of Aerys and he betrayed him and his son Jaime killed Aerys in the throne room... We are all aware of the parallels between Jaime and Jon already. But Jon was also her adviser and she wanted to rule the 7K with him. But in the end he betrayed her. I believe that Jon’s Ygritte arc might be useful for him to lure Dany into some false trust. But him sleeping with her and loving her and later lose her in his arms sounds like a cheap copy of Ygritte/Jon plot and it makes no sense. 

I think Dany will be taken with him and he’ll use this but it doesn’t mean that they will be lovers. Because it seems like Grrm is going to use RLJ in Jon’s romantic life (like he planned in the original/first outline with Jon-Arya romance). And RLJ has no effect on j*nerys. They can still f*ck and marry... 

I mean Grrm even put an uncle-niece marriage (Jonnel-Sansa Stark!!) in the Stark family tree to show that Starks have no problem with marrying with their uncles/aunts etc. Grrm only considers the marriages between siblings and parent-children as incest. So j*nerys is not a doomed love. But for jonsa; RLJ makes everything smooth. Therefore RLJ must be used in jonsa plot.

So Dany is the Aerys of the triangle and no Targaryen prince will come for her because they are busy with their Stark ladies. (Rhaegar- Lyanna and also maybe Jacaerys and Sara Snow?) 

To explain the early Jonsa political marriage, I must say that I was inspired by the Grand Northern Conspiracy. According to this theory, Howland Reed is the keeper of Robb’s Will about Jon and he is also the one who knows about RLJ. 

It does not go north with Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont, who expressly carry false letters, and is often feared lost at the Twins in the chaos following the Red Wedding. Another possibility, however, is that the document was secreted away in Hag’s Mire and has now been retrieved by Lady Stoneheart. Who in turn, for a real kicker of an ironic twist, delivers the suspected proof of Jon’s kingship to Greywater Watch for safekeeping, care of Howland Reed, who then knows more of the crowns Jon’s entitled to than any other man living in the world of ASOIAF.

https://zincpiccalilli.tumblr.com/post/52748381148

Let’s accept this theory and say that Howland has the Will. Without his proof other lords can’t just announce Jon as the KITN. I believe that Howland will be present at Winterfell to show the Will. But Howland was also a friend of Ned Stark. And he is loyal to House Stark. He kept RLJ as secret for years to protect the Starks and Jon from Robert’s wrath. But Robert is dead and he has no reason to keep this secret anymore. And I can’t imagine him sitting quietly while other lords declare Jon as the King while a true born Stark (Sansa) is sitting right there. He wouldn’t betray Ned’s memory like that. So he’ll spill the tea with RLJ too. And after that maybe Sansa will finally have some agency for her choice of husband. So them together will be the one answer of North’s all wishes. 

And let’s not forget that GRRM said he knows which characters will end up married. But in the show there was no marriage. So I am still waiting a marriage. 

And even with an early Jonsa marriage, Jon and Dany might still meet. Imagine S7 with a married Jonsa. Jon leaves Sansa to fight a battle. It would be a great parallel with NedCat. Ned left Cat while she was pregnant to go to war. And maybe there will be rumors about Jon and Dragon Queen just like how Ned betrayed Cat. But like Ned, Jon would be loyal to Sansa and North too in truth. 

Maybe Jon will gain Dany’s trust and help her against Aegon. And return she’ll accept to help North. But in the end I don’t think that Dany will come/or stay in North. Also in the Jon chapter that comes after Dany one, Jon was warned against Dragons:

“Salladhor Saan?” “The Lysene pirate? Some say he has returned to his old haunts, this is so. And Lord Redwyne’s war fleet creeps through the Broken Arm as well. On its way home, no doubt. But these men and their ships are well-known to us. No, these other sails … from farther east, perhaps … one hears queer talk of dragons.” “Would that we had one here. A dragon might warm things up a bit.” “My lord jests. You will forgive me if I do not laugh. We Braavosi are descended from those who fled Valyria and the wroth of its dragonlords. We do not jape of dragons.” No, I suppose not. “My apologies, Lord Tycho.”

[A Dance with Dragons; Jon]

Maybe Dany will want sth more from Jon and will be jealous of Jon and Sansa just like her father was jealous of Tywin and Joanna. Maybe Jon will betray her in most unexpected time just like Tywin betrayed Aerys. 

Btw I am still waiting for a battle between Daenerys and Jon in Trident after he betrayed Dany. (You know Dany dreamed about a fighting against an usurper in ice armor in Trident... Jon will be the Usurper because he’ll be the King of North and Dany will see North as a part of her Kingdom.)

So my timeline would be like this:

- Jon and Sansa reunite and take North back

- The Will and RLJ happen and they unite their claims by marriage

- A dance between Aegon and Daenerys and she loses a dragon

- Jon gains her trust only to use her and pacify her to protect the North during the Dance

- Him refusing the bend the knee and them becoming enemies

- Daenerys loses one of her dragons

- Daenerys and Euron being a chaotic duo for Westeros

- Daenerys burns down KL and marches to North for revenge

- North (aka Jon) vs Daenerys in Trident

- Daenerys dies and Drogon gets hurt

- Jon refusing the throne so he can go back to North (the Duncan of Dragonflies jumped out)

- Bran becomes King

- Jon returns North to fight against the Others etc. (I refuse believe that he’ll be punished and sent back to Wall? Grrm literally has to kill him to free him from Night’s Watch so I don’t see him returning there)

- Epiloge. 

***

Well I talked too much about too many things but I hope my answer was not such a bullsh*t :) 

Thanks again for the ask. Let me know your thoughts. 

[jedimaesteryoda]

Septon Meribald: Septon to the Poor

Septon Meribald is a character who we see for a short while through Brienne’s POV in A Feast for Crows, and manages to become a popular minor character in both the book and series. Alongside Arya’s journey through the riverlands from ACOK to ASOS, Brienne’s journey highlights the effects of war on the civilian population, and Meribald serves as an important voice for the smallfolk during this arc. Meribald as per Martin’s characterization, wouldn’t be out of place in any medieval fantasy when you first meet him, but is also a three-dimensional character with a past that would make him out of place in that same setting. He is best remembered for his “Broken Men” speech in the chapter we meet him. The speech is eloquent in how it captures some of the grim realities of war, and contains some of Martin’s best prose. However, while I will analyze his speech, I think he deserves a more thorough examination and analysis based on more than just one speech.

Introduction:

"There's a man," Ser Hyle said. "A septon. He came in through my gate the day before you turned up. Meribald, his name is. River-born and river-bred and he's served here all his life. He's departing on the morrow to make his circuit, and he always calls at Saltpans. We should go with him."

- AFFC Brienne V

The donkey carried such a heavy load that Brienne was half afraid its back would break. "Food for the poor and hungry of the riverlands," Septon Meribald told them at the gates of Maidenpool. "Seeds and nuts and dried fruit, oaten porridge, flour, barley bread, three wheels of yellow cheese from the inn by the Fool's Gate, salt cod for me, salt mutton for Dog . . . oh, and salt. Onions, carrots, turnips, two sacks of beans, four of barley, and nine of oranges.”

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald is introduced as a traveling septon who works and lived in the riverlands his whole life.

Circuit riders, as they were called, were a not uncommon feature in the early United States, especially west of the Appalachians as many settlers pushed westward. With an increase in the US population and many people living in rural areas, the Methodist church had to deal with too few ministers to staff parishes in these small, rural and some of them, new communities. They also had to deal with the fact that permanent, full-time ministers weren’t economical and have enough “work” in a community with a very small congregation. The US Methodist Church dealt with this issue by assigning ministers multiple officiates in an area that formed a “circuit” as the minister was to travel to and attend each parish on a regular basis.

Meribald is a septon in this vein who makes his regular circuit providing religious services to the villages that are too small and poor to have a septry as well as distributing food to the poor. He provides both material and spiritual sustenance to the smallfolk throughout the riverlands.

“The septon could neither read nor write, as he cheerfully confessed along the road, but he knew a hundred different prayers and could recite long passages from The Seven-Pointed Star from memory, which was all that was required in the villages. He had a seamed, windburnt face, a shock of thick grey hair, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Though a big man, six feet tall, he had a way of hunching forward as he walked that made him seem much shorter. His hands were large and leathery, with red knuckles and dirt beneath the nails, and he had the biggest feet that Brienne had ever seen, bare and black and hard as horn.”

- AFFC Brienne V

“I have a weakness for the orange, I confess. I got these from a sailor, and I fear they will be the last I'll taste till spring."

- AFFC Brienne V

His unkempt appearance of a windburnt face, leathery hands, dirt-filled nails, and black, hard feet give the picture of a man who has lived a hard life without much of anything in the way of luxury, and if anything, avoids it. He is a down-to-earth man whose only luxury he’ll let himself have is oranges, and he gives most of those away. His feet show that he doesn’t own any shoes, something even most smallfolk wear, and he goes barefoot with a simple wooden staff like the popular Saint Francis of Assisi (more on him later). The dirt in his nails show he doesn’t seem to adhere to the maxim of cleanliness being close to godliness, and with his bare feet, give him a kind of earthiness, being close to the land and its people. Septon Meribald is described as tall, but his posture makes him appear smaller, a physical representation of Meribald’s humble attitude with the way he lowers himself towards the people he interacts with. Generally, they are the smallfolk where a septon like himself would normally enjoy a marginal higher status, and one can see the gentleness he shows towards them. He confesses “cheerfully” his illiteracy, which resulted from a lack of formal education that is usually provided by maesters to the upper classes in castles and the Citadel. That is part of his veneration of simplicity rather than anti-intellectualism with all the passages and prayers he knows he learned by rote like Brutha from Practchett’s Small Gods. His unkempt appearance and illiteracy also give the misleading impression of a man who seems simple, but actually possesses a profound intelligence.

Septon Meribald walking beside them with his quarterstaff, leading a small donkey and a large dog

- AFFC Brienne V

Septon Meribald is always accompanied by two animal companions: a donkey and a dog. The donkey is an animal that features prominently in the Gospels. It was used to carry the pregnant Virgin Mary to the inn where she gives birth to Jesus, and later was used as a mount for Jesus upon entering Jerusalem. Donkeys were (and still are) used as beasts of burden meant for carrying loads on their backs and pulling carts and plows. They also were occasionally used as mounts by those who were too poor to afford horses. They were and still are considered to be the cheapest form of agricultural power after human power. That is opposed to the more expensive stallions, especially coursers and destriers, that are often used for cavalry or war chariots. That Meribald would use a donkey as opposed to a stallion fits perfectly with his veneration of poverty and simplicity as well as his anti-war views which we’ll get into later.

"It must make for a lonely life, septon."

"The Seven are always with me," said Meribald, "and I have my faithful servant, and Dog."

"Does your dog have a name?" asked Podrick Payne.

"He must," said Meribald, "but he is not my dog. Not him."

The dog barked and wagged his tail. He was a huge, shaggy creature, ten stone of dog at least, but friendly.

"Who does he belong to?" asked Podrick.

"Why, to himself, and to the Seven. As to his name, he has not told me what it is. I call him Dog."

- AFFC Brienne V

"Dog keeps me safe upon the roads, even in such trying times as these. Neither wolf nor outlaw dare molest me when Dog is at my side."

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald is also accompanied by his Canine Companion, a large sheepdog he simply calls “Dog.” Dog isn’t used for hunting, a common leisure activity for aristocrats as well as one of survival for smallfolk, nor is he a regular pet. He appears to just be Meribald’s traveling companion as well as protector. He is described as a big dog that is capable of killing wolves, but is nonetheless friendly. The Starks and their direwolves will make you forget that wolves have a history of usually being portrayed in literature, especially religious texts, as evil with the shepherd protecting his flock from wolves is a common trope in Christianity. Dog fulfills the function of a sheepdog for Meribald, protecting him from wolves and outlaws, and his presence helps to emphasize Meribald acting as a shepherd to the smallfolk wherever he goes. Meribald’s treatment of Dog is unusual compared to other dog owners in both Westeros and real life. He doesn’t do something so simple as name the dog, because the way he sees it, he doesn’t own Dog, and thus, has no right to impose a name on him. Meribald treats Dog, not as a pet, but as belonging “to himself, and to the Seven,” an autonomous creature entitled to the dignity and respect of a living being. People demonstrating their humanity or lack thereof through their treatment of animals and relationship with nature is a trope used throughout fiction. Fantasy is no exception with Tolkien portraying the good races, like elves, as in harmony with nature while portraying the bad races, like orcs, as at odds with nature, exemplified by the eagles and trees (Ents) aiding the good races against the bad. Francis of Assisi even remarked on the connection between man’s relationship with animals and that with his fellow man: "If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men." He wasn’t the only one to observe that. Philosopher Immanuel Kant stated “He who is cruel to animals becomes hard also in his dealings with men. We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals.” Meribald’s treatment of Dog makes him stand out in his treatment of all life as deserving of kindness and compassion, including those valued the least by society: the poor and animals.

"The brothers will ferry us over on the morning tide, though I fear what we shall find there. Let us enjoy a good hot meal before we face that. The brothers always have a bone to spare for Dog." Dog barked and wagged his tail.

- AFFC Brienne VI

"And your tides," suggested Meribald. Dog barked agreement.

- AFFC Brienne VI

"I shall make time," said Meribald, "though I hope you have some better sins than the last time I came through." Dog barked. "You see? Even Dog was bored."

- AFFC Brienne VI

"Gladly," said Meribald. Dog barked.

- AFFC Brienne VI

"It is being common-born that is dangerous, when the great lords play their game of thrones," said Septon Meribald. "Isn't that so, Dog?" Dog barked agreement.

- AFFC Brienne VII

"We'll have silver. Else you can sleep in the woods with the dead men." Willow glanced toward the donkey, and the casks and bundles on his back. "Is that food? Where did you get it?"

"Maidenpool," said Meribald. Dog barked.

- AFFC Brienne VII

It helps that the author manages to give Dog an almost human-like quality. There are plenty of scenes where Dog barks right after Meribald says something as if Dog understands what he is saying and expresses agreement with him, and even Meribald acts as if Dog actually does. It manages to emphasize the bond between the two as fellow companions with Dog providing protection and Meribald providing food.

Backstory

Now, we go into Meribald’s personal backstory. We learn from the start that he is a lowborn riverman, the son of a peasant. We learn about his life before becoming a septon, and what likely led him to become one. We’ll start with the earliest, his part of the past he mentions right after he delivers his “Broken Men” speech that explains a large part of his character.

The quiet stretched and stretched, until finally she said, "How old were you when they marched you off to war?"

"Why, no older than your boy," Meribald replied. "Too young for such, in truth, but my brothers were all going, and I would not be left behind. Willam said I could be his squire, though Will was no knight, only a potboy armed with a kitchen knife he'd stolen from the inn. He died upon the Stepstones, and never struck a blow. It was fever did for him, and for my brother Robin. Owen died from a mace that split his head apart, and his friend Jon Pox was hanged for rape."

"The War of the Ninepenny Kings?" asked Hyle Hunt.

"So they called it, though I never saw a king, nor earned a penny. It was a war, though. That it was."

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald is a veteran of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and he fought when he was just a boy aged no older than thirteen. It puts his comments to Podrick Payne: "I have never known a boy who did not love the Warrior” in another light. Meribald was probably no exception to the rule. He had his head filled with the songs praising war when he first enlisted to avoid feeling left out, and thought it would be a glorious adventure the way Quentyn Martell did of his journey to Daenerys. This romantic notion is further emphasized by his older brother William saying Meribald could be his squire as if he were a knight, which the protagonist in these kinds of songs usually is. And as is the case in the series, these romantic notions crashed into brutal reality as Meribald lost his three brothers along with a family friend. It is no secret that war can be a traumatizing experience with many veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I once studied alongside a veteran of US wars in Iraq and Afghanistan in college who was around my current age. He confessed to suffering from PTSD to the point that when he sat down for lectures he always sat at the end of the seat rows so no one could sneak up on him. Of course, while he was an adult when he fought, Meribald was still a child, even by Westerosi standards. His knowledge of broken men is so detailed, because he was one. His words at the end of the chapter show that the trauma from that experience still haunts him to the present-day. After the war, Meribald couldn’t adjust to life like it was before, and that experience is ultimately what led him to decide to become a septon.

"Going barefoot was my penance. Even holy septons can be sinners, and my flesh was weak as weak could be. I was young and full of sap, and the girls . . . a septon can seem as gallant as a prince if he is the only man you know who has ever been more than a mile from your village. I would recite to them from The Seven-Pointed Star. The Maiden's Book worked best. Oh, I was a wicked man, before I threw away my shoes. It shames me to think of all the maidens I deflowered."

- AFFC Brienne V

We learn that for all his saintly qualities, Meribald is still human. He ashamedly admits that in violation of his vows of celibacy, he abused his position as a septon by going to isolated villages seducing inexperienced, young women while preaching. His war experience likely plays into that early part of his career. People have different ways of dealing with pain as Robert did with womanizing and drinking, and the trauma from the War of the Ninepenny Kings likely played a role in Meribald’s womanizing. His biography doesn’t exactly make him a complete saint, although to be fair, the Church is filled with saints with worse records than Meribald’s. Famed theologian St. Augustine of Hippo had a history of frequenting prostitutes and womanizing including impregnating the daughter of the wealthy Roman family he served. St. Moses the Black was a former highwayman who robbed and likely murdered a number of people. St.Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuits, was a military man with a history of gambling, womanizing/whoring, and brawling and dueling, especially since he was sensitive to insults. It does make one wonder what standards are used for picking saints.

The reason he doesn’t wear shoes is because he went barefoot as penance for his womanizing ways. The act itself of throwing away his shoes basically symbolized a turning point for him in terms of personal development by turning back on his old ways akin to Jean Valjean of Les Miserables deciding to turn a new leaf after his remorse over stealing from Petit Gervais. Meribald’s backstory shows him to be, not a born saint, but a flawed human being who had to undergo some personal growth to become the man he is today.

Faith and Philosophy

He led his donkey down the slope, beckoning them to follow. "If you would sleep beneath a roof tonight, you must climb off your horses and cross the mud with me. The path of faith, we call it. Only the faithful may cross safely. The wicked are swallowed by the quicksands, or drowned when the tide comes rushing in. None of you are wicked, I hope? Even so, I would be careful where I set my feet. Walk only where I walk, and you shall reach the other side."

The path of faith was a crooked one, Brienne could not help but note. Though the island seemed to rise to the northeast of where they left the shore, Septon Meribald did not make directly for it . . . His footprints filled up with water as soon as he moved on. By the time the ground grew firmer and began to rise beneath the feet, they had walked at least a mile and a half.

- AFFC Brienne VI

Essentially in this scene, with his staff, he is Moses leading his followers through the Red Sea to a literal land of milk and honey: the Quiet Isle. His footprints filling with water is could also be referencing Jesus walking on water. I think this passage can itself be an allegory for the path to spirituality/enlightenment with a priest leading his followers through treacherous terrain to safe haven. As Meribald probably sees it, it isn’t a direct, straight path, but a longer, crooked path as Brienne notes. In Herman Hesse’s most famous novel, Siddhartha, the titular character starts out as a Brahmin’s son wanting to achieve enlightenment, becomes an ascetic, and then becomes a merchant gambling, making love to a courtesan and living a hedonistic lifestyle. He later finds himself having sunk so low he goes to the river to commit suicide, only to reconsider at the last minute. He finds a teacher in the ferryman, and by “listening” to the river, finally achieves the enlightenment in his older years that he started out seeking as a teen. Meribald’s own path to spirituality was similar: a peasant’s son from the riverlands who became a soldier, and later as a result of that, became a broken man and a septon who slept around in spite of his vows of celibacy until he reformed into the man we meet in A Feast for Crows. Given his own story, he knows that people can change, and there can be bumps and turns along the road to faith and personal development.

History shows that everyone approaches faith differently. Interpretation of Scripture can largely depend on the interpreter. As Reza Aslan pointed out, up to the Civil War, people on both sides of the debate over slavery used the Bible to support their arguments, including drawing from the same passages. It can go both ways; people will draw values from Scripture and at the same time, people will often insert their own values into Scripture. To give an example, Meribald is like the last High Septon AKA the High Sparrow in being a barefoot, traveling septon from the riverlands with sympathies towards the smallfolk, but his approach and practices separate him from the more zealous, power hungry High Septon, especially in their attitudes towards armed conflict given Meribald’s experience as a soldier. There are also people who use faith for their own self-aggrandizement from bishops and popes of medieval times all the way to televangelists and megachurch pastors of modern-day.

In Geoffrey Chaucer’s magnum opus, Canterbury Tales, alongside some bawdy tales, there was some commentary on the Roman Catholic Church in the subtext. In the first group of pilgrims being made up of aristocrats, one sees the problems of corruption within the Church represented by the Monk who liked to ride, hunt and wear expensive clothes in violation of his vows of poverty, and the corrupt Friar who took bribes for offering absolution, preferred associating with the wealthy over the poor and slept around in violation of his vows of celibacy. Martin is similar with his treatment of the Catholic Church analogue in his series with the Faith of the Seven, and the corruption within the institution is plain to see. The High Septons and Most Devout wear cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver along with the High Septon wearing a crown made of crystal and spun gold. The first High Septon we see is given to the vice of gluttony as demonstrated by his obesity when the rest of King’s Landing was starving in A Clash of Kings to the point that Moon Boy jokes about it. Among the Most Devout, Septons Raynard and Ollidor visit brothels in King’s Landing, and Septon Luceon (Frey) served Arbor gold and suckling pig to thirty of the Most Devout in an effort to buy their votes for his campaign to be the next High Septon. The process seen for selecting the next High Septon among the Most Devout mimics actual history when the college of cardinals would elect a new pope with many bribes and deal making behind the scenes to win, or rather buy, cardinals’ votes for the preferred candidates. A number of the Most Devout and the High Septon (the fat one) would fit right in with the Monk and the Friar’s group. However, in one of the last groups consisting of the very poor, one finds the Parson.

But rather would he give, in case of doubt,

Unto those poor parishioners about,

Part of his income, even of his goods.

Enough with little, coloured all his moods.

Wide was his parish, houses far asunder,

But never did he fail, for rain or thunder,

In sickness, or in sin, or any state,

To visit to the farthest, small and great,

Going afoot, and in his hand, a stave.

This fine example to his flock he gave,

That first he wrought and afterwards he taught;

Out of the gospel then that text he caught,

And this figure he added thereunto-

That, if gold rust, what shall poor iron do?

For if the priest be foul, in whom we trust,

What wonder if a layman yield to lust?

And shame it is, if priest take thought for keep,

A shitty shepherd, shepherding clean sheep.

Well ought a priest example good to give,

By his own cleanness, how his flock should live.

. . .

He had no thirst for pomp or reverence,

Nor made himself a special, spiced conscience,

But Christ's own lore, and His apostles' twelve

He taught, but first he followed it himselve.

-Canterbury Tales: General Prologue (Translated for modern audiences)

I glimpse the castles of the great lords only at a distance, but I know the market towns and holdfasts, the villages too small to have a name, the hedges and the hills, the rills where a thirsty man can drink and the caves where he can shelter. And the roads the smallfolk use, the crooked muddy tracks that do not appear on parchment maps, I know them too.

- AFFC Brienne V

While acknowledging the pervasive corruption within the Church, Chaucer wasn’t wholly cynical towards the Church and Christianity. He uses the Parson as an exemplary character, and puts him in the group where Chaucer made each person, although very poor, represent all the Christian virtues. The Parson is a model cleric who lives a simple life of poverty, travels far to reach his parishioners, and shares his income and goods with the poorest of them. The Parson practices what he preaches, setting an example for his parishioners, and serves as a representation of the ideals of Christianity. The clergy closer to the aristocrats tend to be corrupt while the ones closer to the poor tend to be virtuous. Meribald would fit right in with the Parson’s group. His speaking of being far from castles, but visiting the towns, holdfasts and villages demonstrate his association with the smallfolk and poorer members of society while foregoing association with the aristocrats. While he is not opposed to aristocrats as shown by his treatment of Brienne, Hyle and Pod, he prefers to be with smallfolk. His parish is effectively the riverlands within his circuit; he always travels far to attend to people, and gives his food to the poorest parishioners. Meribald is to the Faith in this story as the Parson is to the Church in Chaucer’s: he is a representation of his faith’s ideals of humanity, peace, charity and justice. He provides a direct contrast to the corrupt clerics who run the Faith. As Victor Hugo told his son in response to his opposition towards making a bishop, Myriel, "a prototype of perfection and intelligence" in Les Miserables: “I cannot put the future into the past. My novel takes place in 1815. For the rest, this Catholic priest, this pure and lofty figure of true priesthood, offers the most savage satire on the priesthood today.”

His association with the smallfolk can be seen further in his preference among the Seven.

"I have never known a boy who did not love the Warrior. I am old, though, and being old, I love the Smith. Without his labor, what would the Warrior defend? Every town has a smith, and every castle. They make the plows we need to plant our crops, the nails we use to build our ships, iron shoes to save the hooves of our faithful horses, the bright swords of our lords. No one could doubt the value of a smith, and so we name one of the Seven in his honor, but we might as easily have called him the Farmer or the Fisherman, the Carpenter or the Cobbler. What he works at makes no matter. What matters is, he works. The Father rules, the Warrior fights, the Smith labors, and together they perform all that is rightful for a man. Just as the Smith is one aspect of the godhead, the Cobbler is one aspect of the Smith. It was he who heard my prayer and healed my feet."

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald’s preference for the Smith is very much in line with Jesus and Isaiah of favoring peaceful, productive labor over war and conflict (swords beaten into plowshares). Meribald’s comments on the Cobbler reveal an understanding of the ideas behind it, and it further emphasizes his association with the common people by preferring the common-oriented Smith over the more aristocrat-oriented Warrior. His statement regarding the Smith, and extending it to other tradesmen, even farmers and fishermen, displays a social consciousness, an acknowledgement that the laborers and craftsmen are the ones who actually add value to society and keep it running as opposed to the generally unproductive warrior caste that rules over Westerosi society. As the smith creates the “bright swords of our lords” suggests, he points out that even the martial aristocrats are wholly dependent on this segment of society that they usually look down on. His own personal experience with war would also make him reluctant to favor the Warrior. He himself knows the negative effects war can have just going by the speech he is best known for.

"More less than more. There are many sorts of outlaws, just as there are many sorts of birds. A sandpiper and a sea eagle both have wings, but they are not the same. The singers love to sing of good men forced to go outside the law to fight some wicked lord, but most outlaws are more like this ravening Hound than they are the lightning lord. They are evil men, driven by greed, soured by malice, despising the gods and caring only for themselves. Broken men are more deserving of our pity, though they may be just as dangerous. Almost all are common-born, simple folk who had never been more than a mile from the house where they were born until the day some lord came round to take them off to war. Poorly shod and poorly clad, they march away beneath his banners, ofttimes with no better arms than a sickle or a sharpened hoe, or a maul they made themselves by lashing a stone to a stick with strips of hide. Brothers march with brothers, sons with fathers, friends with friends. They've heard the songs and stories, so they go off with eager hearts, dreaming of the wonders they will see, of the wealth and glory they will win. War seems a fine adventure, the greatest most of them will ever know.

"Then they get a taste of battle.

"For some, that one taste is enough to break them. Others go on for years, until they lose count of all the battles they have fought in, but even a man who has survived a hundred fights can break in his hundred-and-first. Brothers watch their brothers die, fathers lose their sons, friends see their friends trying to hold their entrails in after they've been gutted by an axe.

"They see the lord who led them there cut down, and some other lord shouts that they are his now. They take a wound, and when that's still half-healed they take another. There is never enough to eat, their shoes fall to pieces from the marching, their clothes are torn and rotting, and half of them are shitting in their breeches from drinking bad water.

"If they want new boots or a warmer cloak or maybe a rusted iron halfhelm, they need to take them from a corpse, and before long they are stealing from the living too, from the smallfolk whose lands they're fighting in, men very like the men they used to be. They slaughter their sheep and steal their chickens, and from there it's just a short step to carrying off their daughters too. And one day they look around and realize all their friends and kin are gone, that they are fighting beside strangers beneath a banner that they hardly recognize. They don't know where they are or how to get back home and the lord they're fighting for does not know their names, yet here he comes, shouting for them to form up, to make a line with their spears and scythes and sharpened hoes, to stand their ground. And the knights come down on them, faceless men clad all in steel, and the iron thunder of their charge seems to fill the world . . .

"And the man breaks.

"He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them . . . but he should pity them as well."

- AFFC Brienne V

This is the speech that earned Meribald his notoriety among the fandom. It is one of the few times where GRRM is very on the nose, and hammers his message into the text explicitly. The speech is a beautiful passage that stands as the biggest denunciation of war in the series, and showcases the anti-war stance of Martin, himself a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War. Every battle that the reader has seen firsthand or been informed about is generally through the view of a member of the nobility, including Davos, who while being born one of the smallfolk, is still a nobleman. The lords are first and foremost a warrior caste who have usually trained for battle their whole lives up to that point, and usually go to battle well-armed, armored and mounted. Here, Meribald presents a very thorough, eloquent and articulate view of war through the eyes of the smallfolk who often lack the extensive military training and armaments of the lords, and yet, make up the majority of feudal armies that engage in battle.

In battle, the smallfolk in these feudal levies can take wounds, both physical and mental, from the injuries sustained in battle, the act of killing itself, the terror of the battle and seeing the people they knew die in gruesome fashion. After battle, they strip the dead of necessities like armor, clothes, weapons and any coin the bodies may have on their persons. Due to the poor supplying of feudal armies, if the infantrymen want to eat, they have to resort to foraging, or taking supplies by force from local smallfolk. They also kill the livestock as part of chevauchee, and rape the local women, since law enforcement is notoriously difficult in warzones. Then, after having undergone so much trauma, some men break during battle and desert. Broken men are deserters suffering from PTSD, usually in an unfamiliar land, where their feudal obligations to serve their lords no longer mean anything nor their fear of divine judgement, but everything takes a backseat to survival. They have often retained their weapons or at least some of them, along with the tactic of foraging. The application of these things can usually result in broken men engaging in banditry to survive. Even when the war is over, the effects of it can remain.

"It is being common-born that is dangerous, when the great lords play their game of thrones," said Septon Meribald.

- AFFC Brienne VII

Meribald’s anti-war attitude is drawn not just from his personal experience as a soldier and broken man, but likely witnessing the destruction and suffering among civilians in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and the War of Five Kings. Along his circuit, he likely has seen villages and towns destroyed and people ravaged by the Lannisters, Brave Companions and Starks. His comments on the smallfolk suffering when the lords go to war is comparable to the observation made by Varys: "The High Septon once told me that as we sin, so do we suffer. If that's true, Lord Eddard, tell me … why is it always the innocents who suffer most, when you high lords play your game of thrones?” The smallfolk always bear the greatest costs of war from the broken men to the foraged, and even massacred, smallfolk. With Meribald’s words, we can look at Tyrion’s description of the army defeated by Robb at Oxcross being largely made up of “raw—apprentice boys, miners, fieldhands, fisherfolk, the sweepings of Lannisport,” in a new light, with much of the people killed in battle being poor smallfolk who are there by circumstance.

They can often be the group in battle to suffer the highest casualties and receive the fewest personal gains. The former is especially true given as Gendry points out: "Knights and lordlings, they take each other captive and pay ransoms, but they don't care if the likes of you yield or not." Highborn combatants are worth ransoms or can make useful hostages, creating an incentive to capture rather than kill them while lowborn combatants have no wealth or connections to call upon, and as prisoners-of-war would be just more mouths to feed in an army that crawls on its stomach, leaving little incentive to capture them.Excluding chivalry, with exceptions like Elia Martell, Lord Hewitt’s daughter and Bracken’s daughter, highborn women usually have some protection from rape via their status with anyone knowing her family would have swords to call upon to defend her honor while women among the smallfolk have no such protection with no swords to call upon. The lords can be rewarded with lands and castles for their services and ransoms from captured lords or knights in service while the smallfolk see hardly any of those rewards, except small ones such as the loot they can obtain if they sack someplace, or strip a dead body. If they’re really lucky, and perform some great feat, like saving a lord in battle, they can be richly rewarded with gold, lands, a keep and their sons serving as squires, or essentially be welcomed into the nobility and get a foot through the door into lordship for their families. That was the case with Ser Bartimus and the man-at-arms who saved Ser Harys Swyft in the Battle of the Blackwater. To borrow from the American Civil War, Westerosi wars can be perfectly summed up as a “rich man’s war, but a poor man’s fight.”

We come across examples of both broken men and raided smallfolk in Brienne’s POV with the raid on Saltpans led by Rorge. We see much of it caused by broken men, and an example of a lord neglecting the obligations of his status.

"Back on the road, the septon said, "We would do well to keep a watch tonight, my friends. The villagers say they've seen three broken men skulking round the dunes, west of the old watchtower.”

"Only three?" Ser Hyle smiled. "Three is honey to our swordswench. They're not like to trouble armed men.”

"Unless they're starving," the septon said. "There is food in these marshes, but only for those with the eyes to find it, and these men are strangers here, survivors from some battle. If they should accost us, ser, I beg you, leave them to me."

"What will you do with them?"

"Feed them. Ask them to confess their sins, so that I might forgive them. Invite them to come with us to the Quiet Isle." 

-AFFC Brienne V

"Ser Quincy is an old man," said Septon Meribald gently. "His sons and good-sons are far away or dead, his grandsons are still boys, and he has two daughters. What could he have done, one man against so many?"

- AFFC Brienne VI

It was Hyle Hunt who finally put words to what all of them had realized. "These are the men who raided Saltpans."

"May the Father judge them harshly," said Meribald, who had been a friend to the town's aged septon.

- AFFC Brienne VII

Where everyone else, is faulting Ser Quincy Cox for not defending his town when it was brutally sacked by Rorge, Meribald is the only one that tries to express some understanding towards Cox. He says that Ser Cox was likely afraid for his family as well as himself, and knew he couldn’t have done much against the raiders. This can be partly due to Meribald himself being a veteran, and knowing what it is like to be afraid facing an onslaught. He was also willing to help three broken men who he knew might be dangerous and potentially harm him by giving them food, knowing they might be starving, and an offer to perform services for them and take them to the Quiet Isle for refuge. One of the closest times we’ve ever gotten to Meribald judging and badmouthing someone is his comments regarding the hanged raiders of Saltpans. He doesn’t show pity for the hanged men likely being broken men despite his words in his famous speech, and deviates from “May the Father judge them justly” to “May the Father judge them harshly.” Of course, in this case, his anger is completely and understandably justified. Meribald’s comments regarding Ser Cox when taken with his sympathy towards broken men show him to be a compassionate man who tries to be understanding and avoid judging people too harshly. This can be partly given to him acknowledging his own mistakes in the past, and thus, be less judgmental towards others’ shortcomings as opposed to someone like the inquisitorial High Sparrow

Meribald’s background largely influenced his own approach to life and faith. His experience in the War of the Ninepenny Kings gave him anti-war views, and his past mistakes helped him to acknowledge that people are people and anyone can fall off track. His experience as one of and interactions with the smallfolk as well as the hardships they face explain his smallfolk-centric worldview. We can look at a historical figure in Catholic Church hagiography that likely inspired Meribald’s character.

Meribald’s Real-Life Counterpart

If there is any historical influence for Meribald, it should be obvious for anyone who has even a basic knowledge of Catholic saints: Francis of Assisi. To give a little basic info, he is one of the patron saints of Italy and the environment, the eponym for San Francisco (in a way fitting with the city’s liberal reptuation) as well as Pope Francis and founder of the Order of Friars Minor, more commonly known as the Franciscan Order. He is also described as the first to receive the stigmata, or receive wounds/marks on his hands, feet and side corresponding to Christ’s wounds from his crucifixion, and credited with creating the first Nativity scene. Francis is a very popular saint, even in Protestantism with Franciscan orders in the Anglican and Lutheran churches, given he embodies many of the qualities that one would look for in a saint. It is said no one was more dedicated in imitating Christ and carrying out the Christ’s work in Christ’s way than Francis to the point that he is even sometimes described as alter Christus, or literally “another Christ.” It comes as no surprise then, that he was canonized less than two years after his death.

Francis was born Giovanni di Bernardone in 12th century Assisi, the son of a wealthy cloth merchant and a noblewoman from Provence. He was informally called Francesco or “the Frenchman” by his father to honor his business success and enthusiasm for French things. Francis wore lavish clothes, and was known to be one of the biggest party animals in town. Albeit, better born than Meribald, Francis shared the commonality of being a veteran whose war experience caused him to re-evaluate his life. Francis originally wanted to be a knight joining in Assisi’s war against Perugia. He was taken prisoner at the Battle of Ponte San Giovanni, and spent a year imprisoned in Collestrada where he suffered a long fever. During the fever, he started to re-evaluate his life. Two years later, his search for victory and glory lead him to leave to fight for Apulia, serving under Count Walter III of Brienne (I kid you not). Apparently, a strange vision made him return home to Assisi. Francis later decided to foreswear his inheritance and become a wandering beggar, and taking Christ’s words literally, stripped himself of the lavish clothes he once liked to wear, and replaced them with a coarse woolen tunic tied with a knotted rope in place of a belt. He traveled from place to place, working to rebuild ruined churches in the countryside of Assisi and Umbria, nursing the sick, including the outcast lepers and giving alms to the poor. He preached brotherly love, peace and penance to the ordinary people in the countryside despite not being an anointed priest. Francis, as Meribald does, celebrated and venerated his poverty, and traveled the countryside preaching and giving aid to the poor. Win Wenders, when talking about the film he made about Pope Francis, described St. Francis as having “an incredible social consciousness, and identified with the outcasts and the poor of his time, and really lived a life of radical solidarity with the poor and outcasts.”

Francis also went so far as to go over enemy lines during the Fifth Crusade to speak with Sultan al-Kamil of Egypt to convert him, or be martyred in the attempt (he failed at both). Francis and Meribald fought wars in their youth only to become men of peace when they grew older in both word and action. There are legends such as Francis healing a leper through prayer. Another being one of his friars scolding three robbers for stealing food and drink from Francis’s monks, and Francis responding by having his friar apologize to them and give them bread and wine. Those three robbers would be moved enough to join Francis’s order. It reminds me of Meribald’s comments regarding what to do if three broken men in the dunes come upon them: "Feed them. Ask them to confess their sins, so that I might forgive them. Invite them to come with us to the Quiet Isle."

Francis is the patron saint of animals and the environment given he displayed kindness and respect towards animals in a way Meribald wouldn’t disapprove of if Dog is anything to go by. He saw nature as a “mirror of God,” and he referred to animals as “brothers and sisters.” His attitude towards animals would have been met with approval from the SPCA and other animal rights organizations with words such as “Not to hurt our humble brethren is our first duty to them, but to stop there is not enough. We have a higher mission - to be of service to them whenever they require it.” There are stories and legends of birds gathering to hear him preach, half-frozen bees crawling towards him to be fed and the famous tale of the Wolf of Gubbio.

The story goes that the town of Gubbio was terrorized by a large wolf that preyed originally on its flocks, then also began to feed on the townspeople and finally switched to eating only people. It supposedly could not be harmed by an weapon, devouring anyone who tried to kill it. Francis went up to confront it and chastised the wolf for its actions, with the wolf responding by bowing its head in submission. Francis than made a deal with the wolf: “I promise thee that thou shalt be fed every day by the inhabitants of this land so long as thou shalt live among them; thou shalt no longer suffer hunger, as it is hunger which has made thee do so much evil; but if I obtain all this for thee, thou must promise, on thy side, never again to attack any animal or any human being; dost thou make this promise?" The wolf placed a forepaw in Francis’s outstretched hand in agreement to the oath. Francis then walked with the wolf following him to town to the surprise of the townspeople. The wolf died two years later, and the town was saddened given he had become a symbol of Francis’s sanctity and divine power. The legend says they gave the wolf an honorable burial and later built a church at the site.

Crazy enough, during the renovation of the Church of Saint Francis of Peace in 1872, the same church where the wolf was said to be buried, under a slab near the wall of the church they found the skeleton of a large wolf that was likely several centuries old. They reburied the wolf skeleton inside. My guess is that in real-life, a wolf may have preyed on Gubbio’s flocks, and Francis came up with a simple solution: feed the wolf and it wouldn’t have to feed on their flocks. The description of the Wolf of Gubbio does also bring to mind a certain canine in the series.

“They say the pack is led by a monstrous she-wolf, a stalking shadow grim and grey and huge. They will tell you that she has been known to bring aurochs down all by herself, that no trap nor snare can hold her, that she fears neither steel nor fire, slays any wolf that tries to mount her, and devours no other flesh but man."

- AFFC Brienne V

I wouldn’t be surprised if a similar situation happens with Meribald regarding a seemingly invincible, large wolf terrorizing the riverlands, devouring its flocks and people: Nymeria. Dog wouldn’t be able to protect him from Nymeria if she came upon him, and Meribald, being a man of peace, would deal with her in a way that men of war have tried and failed to do. I’m willing to bet money on it.

Conclusion:

Meribald plays the role of guide for his fellow travelers as well as the reader, and the mouthpiece of the author on war. Being the only one among the group who is one of the smallfolk and not the nobility, he provides a much needed perspective on war through the eyes of 99% of the population. His good-natured, country bumpkin-esque appearance masks an intelligent man with profound insight on war, society and faith. He probably has a worse background prior to joining the Faith and shortly after than most of the Most Devout and High Septons, but he turned out a better man than any of them. He is the closest to a saint we’ve seen in this series, more so than any other septon we’ve encountered. Hopefully, I think we will meet him again in the series, and I look forward to hearing what more insights he has.

[varietydisco]

Bunny in a Bunny Suit

Characters: Arthur Morgan & John Marston, Hosea Matthews, Dutch van der Linde, Susan Grimshaw, Mac & Davey Callander Rating: Teen and Up Tags: Pre-Canon, Family dynamics, Trans Male Characters, Vague descriptions of non-sexual nudity, Silly but not technically crack Word Count: 3k

Description: Arthur tells young John an unfortunate lie. (Namesake: Bunny in a Bunny Suit by Simone Whittaker)

Part 3 of the Coming of Age series

1885

The first thing Arthur was greeted with upon riding into their temporary home— an abandoned, but well-off ranch on the plains— was Susan trudging over. She wore a lemon-soured expression that made Arthur briefly consider turning around and heading back for the mountains.

John leaned to one side and looked around Arthur’s shoulder to see what was happening.

“Afternoon, miss Grimshaw,” Arthur greeted. He touched the brim of his hat as he brought his horse to a slow stop beside the pasture fence.

As he lifted his leg, about to swing himself off the horse, Susan hurried her pace and waved her arms.

“Oh, no you don’t!” She exclaimed. “Don’t you boys even think of coming in here.”

“What? How come?” Arthur asked. “Did we get evicted while we was gone?”

Susan’s war-path came to a sudden stop and she huffed. With one finger held up at the boys, she turned back on her trail and went for a bucket of supplies hanging on a fence post a few feet away.

“…What’s she got?” John whispered.

“Somethin’ to beat us with, probably.” Arthur replied.

Bucket in hand, Susan stormed her way back over to the boys. Her expression never shifted once.

“I could smell you both comin’ a mile off,” She spat. “Just take one look at yourselves— you’re both disgusting.”

“I missed you, too.” Arthur said. “And why yes, we are safe and sound. Thanks for askin’.”

Susan huffed. “Take this down to the pond and go wash yourselves, before you even think of comin’ into the house.” She shoved the bucket up towards John, who awkwardly took it. The boy shot Arthur a quizzical look, his brows furrowed, then set it in his lap.

“You can’t be serious.”

Susan crossed her arms firmly. “Don’t test me, Morgan.”

Arthur groaned. He took his hat off and hooked it onto the horn of his saddle. His face was caked with dirt and sweat, and so were his clothes.

“We just finished a three-day huntin’ trip gatherin’ food for you lot, and we don’t even get a thank you.” He waved his hand back at John. “Marston here even caught his first rabbit. Not that you cared to ask any.”

“Good for him, doesn’t change that stench that followed you both home,” Susan made a shooing motion with her hand. “Leave what you caught here and get your asses down to the pond to wash. Don’t bother coming back until you’ve scrubbed every inch.”

“Lord Almighty,” Arthur mumbled. He reached back and elbowed John. “Hand that bucket over and unload the horse.”

John furrowed his brows.

“Why me?”

“‘Cause you smell the worse, and I want Grimshaw to get a good whiff.”

Susan scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, grow up, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckled at that, while John eventually forked over the bucket and slid off the back of Boadicea. Silently, Arthur got a kick out of watching John fumble to untie their kill from the wagon and less silently did he enjoy watching Susan pluck at strands of John’s greasy hair while shaking her head in disgust.

Once the whole ordeal was done, John climbed back up, and the boys hit the trail again. As they approached the pond a few minutes later, John spoke up and said, bitterly, “That Grimshaw sure is a spitfire, isn’t she?”

“Not exactly the word I’d use to describe her most days, but that’ll work alright,” Arthur replied.

He rode Boadicea down a small, grassy slope which lead them to the pond’s bank. Mosquitoes and other bugs danced over the water’s silky-smooth surface. A frog leapt over a lily pad, and some birds chirped from the surrounding trees. The scene was pretty enough to have been a painting; Arthur only felt a little bad that they were about to use this pond to wash their asses.

Arthur pulled the horse to a stop and motioned his hand to John.

“Alright, let’s get this over with. Jump in.”

John faltered a second. “You ain’t serious. Clothes an’ all?”

“Naw, you’re right.” Arthur swung his leg and slid off the horse’s back. “Take your clothes off. We’ll have to burn ‘em at this point anyway, no sense in gettin’ them damp.”

John’s cheeks reddened. “Not you, too.”

“Yeah, me too. Now that Grimshaw’s mentioned it, and I’m standing down-wind of you, I can’t help noticin’ how ripe you are.”

Arthur swaggered towards the water. He made swift work of his coat and his shirt, both of which were promptly tossed aside onto some rocks. He scanned the water all the while and savoured the feeling of the early summer sun on his body.

He figured this place wouldn’t be too bad of a spot to stay for a while, assuming they didn’t plan any big commotions yet. The law was getting stricter about things like that and people like them, and frankly Arthur could have used a little peace and quiet for a while.

And there was that sweet girl he met in town— Mary Gillis. If nothing else, Arthur wouldn’t mind sticking around just to see her again. If he kept a low enough profile for a while, he might even have the chance to ask her out for a dinner, or something to that extent.

Caught in his own thoughts, Arthur stopped paying any attention to John, who was slowly taking care of his own clothes. Arthur only came back to reality when John announced, “Don’t look, okay?”

Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t even wanna look at you dressed. I promise you, I ain’t lookin’ now.”

Keeping good to his word regardless, Arthur turned halfway to the side, putting his back fully to John. He kicked his boots off, then draped his pants over the rock with his shirt. Eager to get washed and return to camp, Arthur took off for the water.

It was warm at first against his feet as he waded in, though the farther in he went, the cold seemed to creep up his hairy thighs and straight through his bones. Instead of lingering on it, Arthur took a dive into the shallow water. He swam for a bit, letting the water rush over him and clear his senses; when he needed to breathe again, his toes found the soft, muddy bottom of the pond and he stood upright. Arthur burst to the surface, water cascading down his heavy-set body. He glanced around, wiping the water out of his eyes, and then fully turned to the shore.

“Hurry up and get in, Marston.” He called out.

John clutched the bucket to his chest unsurely. He still had his underwear on, but if he wanted to ride back to camp with a chapped ass, that was going to be his own issue. After a few long beats, John started wading out into the water.

He got to about his knees before stopping.

“It’s too cold,” he complained.

“S’ not so bad once you get in further. Also, shut up and throw me some soap.”

John rooted through the bucket with a grumble. He then tossed a bar to Arthur underhanded; Arthur lurched forward to catch it, but just barely.

“Christ!” Arthur scoffed. “What a shitty hand you’ve got.”

John frowned hard. His cheeks went red again as he dumped the bucket of its contents— another bar of soap and a wash brush— then filled it instead with water. He poured it over his head while Arthur started soaping himself up.

“Can’t throw, can barely shoot… It’s a wonder what Dutch sees in you at all.” Arthur called out. “Guess he likes projects.”

John’s cheeks flared hotter as annoyance built inside of him. Soaking wet, he threw the bucket aside and snatched up the soap instead.

“At least I’m not a butterball,” John snapped.

Arthur snorted a laugh. Quickly, he dunked his head underwater, then worked the soap into his hair.

“Butterball, huh? That’s a big word for you.”

“Would you just fuck off already?”

Arthur laughed again. It was so easy to get on John’s nerves, it almost made him understand all the grief Hosea and Dutch used to give him.

“I oughta wash your mouth out with soap. Save Grimshaw doin’ it herself.”

“I’d like to see you try, fatty.”

Arthur cocked his brow. For a long moment he stared at John, quietly sizing him up, before a smirk took his lips. John busied himself with scrubbing and soaping, so he didn’t notice Arthur approaching at first.

“I reckon you should come take a dip with me, Marston.”

John’s eyes widened with fear. He took half a step back, his hands going up.

“Don’t you dare. I can’t swim, you know that.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Arthur grinned. “Promise I won’t throw you out far… Just enough to let the eels get a bite in of your toes.”

“That ain’t funny.” John warned. He took another step back.

“Sure it is. At least to me.”

John stared at Arthur for half a moment, then turned and bolted for the shore.

Arthur gave immediate chase, laughing.

“Come on, not afraid of a little water, are ya?”

John was quick to scramble ashore, crying out, “Don’t you dare!” all the while. Arthur could have easily chased him the whole way, and maybe even caught the little bastard, but he started laughing too hard to make it far.

Arthur stopped a few feet from the shore, hands on his knees, while John scampered away to go hide behind an indifferent Boadicea. Arthur took a long moment to catch his breath, before he stood back up straight. He pushed his wet hair out of his face, then cleared his throat.

“Goddamn, you’re somethin’ else, boy.” Arthur laughed. He paused, smiling, before noting the weird expression on John’s face.

John’s head poked out barely over the top of Boadicea’s saddle. His brows were knitted tight together and his mouth was slightly open with disbelief.

Arthur’s smile slipped off. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure something wasn’t coming up behind him; sure enough, all he saw was an expanse of water and the swaying, shady trees around its edge. He looked back at John, lips pursed.

“What? You got a problem?”

“Where’s…” John started, his voice slow and confused. Maybe a little scared. “Where’s your dick at?”

Arthur glanced down, mostly confused himself. The water came up to the middle of his thighs, gently lapping at the back of his legs. He took half a second to process everything, before he realized. John was so fresh in the gang, he didn’t know a damn thing.

Immediately, Arthur knew the right thing to do. He should sit down, give John the whole spiel Hosea had given him years ago, about people and norms and bodies…

But he wasn’t going to do that. Instead, Arthur gasped in fake terror.

“Oh my god. It must’ve fallen off.”

John’s voice cracked as he exclaimed, “What?!”

“I can’t believe this,” Arthur continued, voice taut with faux panic. “I had it just a second ago— oh my god. One of the eels must’ve taken it.”

John’s face went white as a sheet. His body was stiff.

“All these years, I thought Hosea was pullin’ my leg when he said your dick would fall off if you played with it too much, but he was tellin’ me the truth this whole time!”

“You ain’t for real,” John managed, weakly. His own voice was high-strung with panic he tried to keep control of.

“Look, you can even see for yourself. It sure as shit ain’t there!”

That much was true. Arthur had a mat of hair that went down from his large chest to his stomach and between his legs, but there was nothing else to be seen. John desperately wanted to believe that this was a practical joke, but there was no conceivable way he could think of for Arthur to pull it off. Literally.

Except, after a few long, dramatic pauses, Arthur cracked. He barked a laugh, one which made John’s shoulders tighten and his cheeks flare cherry red. Before he could snap at Arthur, Arthur pushed all his hair back away from his face and waved his hand.

“Ah, I’m just messin’ with ya,” Arthur drawled. “That old thing fell off years ago.”

The annoyance at being laughed at evaded John’s face. In its wake, his eyes snapped open wide again as the colour flooded from his cheeks.

“Yessir, probably when I was about, oh… Twelve, thirteen.” Arthur turned around, trudging back to the water. “I shook it too many times whenever I went to take a piss and one day the damn thing just popped right off in my hand. But never mind that.”

Arthur splashed around, rinsing the soap out of his hair and off his body. Dropping the topic altogether, he said, “Best hurry up an’ finish washin’, Marston; supper won’t wait on our accounts.”

Uneasily, John trailed back to the water. He didn’t have an appetite for supper any more.

                                                     —30—

“If I may,” Dutch announced, as he stepped from the stairs to the open main-floor of the cottage. “I’d like to call a meeting for a moment.”

Hosea, Susan, Mac, and Davey sat around the big dining table in the center of the room, caught amid a poker game. Arthur was across the room, in the kitchen corner, digging through one of their boxes of liquor. Oil lamps burned on the walls, lighting the room in a flickering glow. Smoke hung heavy in the air.

Hosea was the first to look up first from his cards to Dutch. He waved him over.

“Only if you make it quick,” Hosea replied. His eyes returned to the table. “We were having an intellectual and in-depth conversation about politics before Arthur returned, so he didn’t feel left out for not understanding.”

A couple chuckles came from the table. They continued to play as Dutch came around and slid into what was presumably Arthur’s empty spot between Hosea and Davey.

“This involves you too, Arthur, so pay attention,” Dutch said.

“I can hear you just fine. Go ahead.” Arthur grumbled, as he pawed fruitlessly through a rattling box of empty bottles.

“Alright. Now I want adult, honest answers here,” Dutch began. He picked up Arthur’s cards, looked them over, then showed them to Hosea. “I just spent an hour painstakingly talking to the boy, John, about something he was told recently.”

Hosea scanned the cards quickly and nodded silently. Dutch turned them to Davey.

“Alright. What was it?” Hosea asked. He pushed a sizable number of coins into the pot in the center of the table.

Arthur, notably, was silent in the background.

Dutch placed Arthur’s cards back down. He kept his face stony as he could. “Someone, supposedly, convinced the boy that his pecker was going to fall off.”

Davey laughed first, loud and hard. Mac quickly followed with his own chortle. While they both got a kick out of the idea, Susan bit back a grin and Hosea smirked, nodding to his cards. Arthur, in the background, didn’t even try to can his snorting laughter.

Dutch fought hard to keep a stern expression. His lips twitched.

“This ain’t no laughing matter. That boy was scared shitless.”

Mac’s hand shot out to grab onto Hosea’s shoulder. He gripped it, while the rest of his body shook with laughter. Hosea laughed himself, though quieter and more contained.

“You boys are awful,” Susan chided with a smirk. She swatted Davey on the shoulder. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Davey kept laughing. He had already been hitting the bottle since noon, so his laughter carried farther and longer than anyone else’s. “Don’t hit me! I didn’t do it. Wish I had, though.”

“Here, here.” Mac replied.

Dutch turned to his left. “Hosea?”

Hosea patted Mac’s hand, shaking his head. “I would’ve told you already if it were me.”

“And it wasn’t me,” Dutch said, “So it had to have been one of you unlawful bunch.”

Dutch’s eyes roamed across the table and then settled on Arthur in the corner. Innocently, he continued to root through the box with one hand, while he used the other to wipe his mouth.

Dutch narrowed his eyes a little.

“Was it you, Arthur?”

“Me? No, never.” But Arthur couldn’t keep his straight face this time. His cheeks split with a crooked smirk behind his hand.

Dutch scoffed.

“Your poker face is laughable, son. That’s why you’re losing so badly.”

“Actually, it’s ‘cause I’m playin’ with a room full of cheaters… But sure. We’ll go with that.”

Dutch waved his hand.

“Go up there and apologize to the boy, will you? Hell, apologize to me, too, because I spent an hour trying to convince him otherwise and speaking on behalf of topics I am not qualified for.”

“I’m sorry you had to be in the same room as him for that long.”

“Arthur!” Dutch snapped. “Get going! Be the bigger man.”

Arthur had a little, stupid smirk about him as he left the kitchen and crossed the room instead. He slapped Dutch’s shoulder as he walked by.

“You know, if Hosea had done this to me, you wouldn’t have said a word,” Arthur commented. “How come Marston gets all the special treatment?”

“If Hosea had done it, I wouldn’t have to handle it.”

That was all Dutch had to say on the matter, so the rest of the group quieted around the table. Arthur trudged up the stairs, feet pounding the whole way, and eventually they disappeared. Once he did, Dutch tossed Arthur’s cards aside.

“You’re handling the next crisis,” He said to Hosea.

“I figured about as much.”

Then, with a smile, Hosea laid down his winning hand and reaped his rewards from the middle of the table.

[rioswriting-blog]

Draven Barratta the Animal of Luskan

(This is set in The Forgotten Realms on the Sword Coast and is a lead-in for my character in our D&D campaign)

My love

I am writing this to you in one of the rare moments of clarity I find. As I am sure you may have noticed they are becoming fewer and further between. I fear that my mind will continue to degrade until such time as I am unrecognizable from the man I once was. I am writing this that if one day I am to complete my great hunt and pass onto the next world you will be able to read and perhaps understand why at the end I was the mindless beast that I had become. I do not have many memories of my life before I was a gladiator, before the change. I know I was once human, at least I think I was. My parents were not the best parents, they were abusive and I suffered greatly during my time with them. They saw that I had everything I need but I spent most of my time with them in fear, huddled in the corner, like a scared helpless animal, or a pathetic abused pup.  I wonder my dear, have you ever seen an abused animal backed into a corner? Some say snakes will not bite unless you back one into a corner or a helpless dog will become all the more ferocious like the wolf when abused for too long. Such is what happened to me, one day enough had become enough, the stick can only be used so long without the carrot being needed. I lashed out with all the might I could manage, I am not proud of what I did, I struck my father once, twice, thrice and on the fourth such time, he stopped struggling. While my mother survived my rage she held no pity for me, she loved my father dearly and was deeply saddened by his death. She fled to tell the city guard of my actions leading to the chain of events that sees us in our position we are at today. I hold no blame for her for this, blinded by grief as she was. She held no love for me but loved my father more than life itself, I do not know if I would do the same in her position so I will not judge her. I was sent to a gladiator school for my crimes, trained to die for the enjoyment of others. The training was brutal, days and nights I would spend getting stronger, tougher. My days became the same I would wake up, train, eat and in the evening's spa against the other gladiators. These sparring fights were brutal, if we win we got better quality food then the gruel they fed us normally. Have you ever seen caged starving animals fight over scraps of food? It is not a pleasant site the stronger get stronger while the weaker get smart or die. I was one of the weaker ones in those early days, I remember many nights sitting awake my belly rumbling for food but not being able to sate my hunger. It was on one such night two ten days out from my scheduled debut fight against some unnamed Gladiator from the sword coast. I was expected to lose the fight, thrown to the wolves so the speak and I was scared. I remember that night sitting awake on the walls that surrounded the school when I first saw it, a bull, its long horns sticking out from the long grass that surrounded the school. I do not know what came over me, maybe it was malnutrition maybe it was a calling from Baphomet, I decided to hunt it. I stalked the beast and had it cornered surprised when it stood on its hind legs right in front of me, I was shocked, I had never seen a Minotaur before little own one that I would one day learn to be a Shaman. The Minotaur did something to me which marked me, a strange mark down the side of my body as it fled into the plains. Disappointed at returning marked and empty handed I bedded down for the night weary of what was to come. The first thing you feel the day of a fight is dread, a nervous energy that does not shift, it sits in your gut like a lead weight slowing you down, The same feeling will follow you whether it is your first fight as a weakling human or your one-hundredth fight as the beast. That day was the worst though, I was pitted against a sadist who seemed to take pleasure in how slow and painful he could kill me. I still remember clearly as if it were yesterday, the pain of his sword lancing down my back. The fight seemed to drag on for hours as he slowly picked apart my weak body. I remember him standing over me, the fear I had felt when my father stood over me returned as did a singular sound, a hunting horn from a great distance. I could tell by my opponents face he did not hear it. The horn sounded again, this time loud enough to cause pain, blackness consumed my vision and what I saw in front of me I will remember till the day I pass. I was not aware at the time, how could I have been? What stood in front of my vision was Baphomet the Demon Lord. His voice was so terrible I still hear whispers of it in my mind to this day. It said to me that it would teach me how to hunt, give me the power to kill, grant me a release from the fear I felt my entire life allowing me to instill it in others. I accepted. What happened next I was unsure of my memory became murky, I remember my body being wracked with pain, like a fire raging through my body, I remember my senses sharpening, I remember the feeling if rough horns pushing through my skin out of my skull. I opened my eyes, my skin once a tanned colour had become ash white, I had taken on fiendish features, my fingers were claws and I had a tail I did not before. In my hands, I held a strange weapon I had never held before, a Greatsword with bone-like wicked looking spikes sticking out of the hilt. This sword I later named the endless hunt which as you know I carry to this day. The transformation must have shocked my opponent for he stood before my new form slack-jawed, his arms hanging by his side his sword hanging loosely from his hand. Turning on his heels he ran terrified of my new appearance. My senses sharpened almost as if his running triggered something in me, something more bestial, my vision almost narrowed till I could no longer see anyone other then my prey, my hearing was muted as only his footfalls registered in my ears. I chased him down surprised by my own quickness catching him easily, I reached up around his throat and lifted him off the ground, I was much stronger than I ever thought possible, pulling him close to my face I looked him in the eyes and was shocked to see my appearance reflected in his eyes. Gone was the boy scared of the world, replaced with a snarling monster two huge horns jutting forward from the monsters brow and tusks jutting up from his mouth. Lifting the Endless Hunt light as a feather with my new found strength I drove it up through his chest, the hot splattering of his blood raining down across my arm giving me an almost copper taste in my mouth as if I could taste the blood on the air. That first kill will always stick in my memory, the day my life changed, gone was the scared boy, the abused pup frightened of a much larger world. In his place was the beast, that day I took the name Draven Barratta which you know me by now. That night after the thrill of battle had worn off was the first night I felt the urge. It starts as an itch you see, deep in my skull which over the next few nights grows to almost physical pain as my senses expand. Picture your skin being so sensitive even the brush of cloth against it is enough to send lances of fire through your veins, or your hearing so sharp that a footfall is enough to wake you, your sense of taste becomes so sharp that even the cooks preparing a carcase for cooking is enough to send your mouth watering with uncontrolled hunger as the copper taste of blood will not leave your mouth. My trainer and I tried many ways to stop this urge, or to at least lessen the effects of it, we drugged me to the stage where I couldn’t function but still, the urge persisted. I found drinking helped lessen the effects but it did not completely remove them, the only way to remove the effects of the calling is to chase, to hunt and to kill, to instil in those the fear that I had instilled into me as a child. I am not proud of the beast that I become during this, but I am glad for the guidance I find in you during the worst of these moments. This cycle continued on for months and months, I would suffer in training camps from the urge. Beating my training partners did nothing to quench this urge in me for I was forbidden to spill their blood or to taste of their flesh. My only reprieve came from my scheduled appearances in the arena where I was allowed to unleash my fullest potential on those put against me. I quickly became a crowd favourite, the roar of the crowd and the urge pushing me to braver and braver displays of fighting prowess. This was my life for many moons until that day we met. I remember that day well, it had been near two weeks since my last hunt and I was deep inside of the urge not even the calming voice of my trainer was able to cut through the cloudiness of my mind. He had kept me chained and weighed down with great balls of lead to stop me from tearing him or another student apart. I remember vaguely him saying something about me fighting one of my own kind and that you were well known. I did not care at the time, it was finally a time to end my suffering at the hands of Baphomet if even for a short time. I remember I was dragged into the arena my sword appearing in my hand as it had a will of its own, the roar of the crowd matching that of me as the chains were finally released. I saw you standing there across from me, what a pitiful sight I must has been to you, a snivelling mess of a creature compared to your grace and elegance. I remember looking into the porcelain mask you wore, the confusion and beauty of its design driving me to greater anger. I thought our fight was to be an easy one for me I charged in trying to end you quickly the Endless hunt becoming a blur in my hand as our dance increased in intensity. You seemed to move like the wind constantly changing direction driving my anger to new heights. What a sight we would have made the two of us, so evenly matched, trapped in an endless dance where the first to misstep would be their last. You pushed me to a new level of the urge that day, the frustration at not being able to hit you and your refusal to run angered me, your constant cuts against my flesh, too weak or off center stung but caused no damage driving me into a further frenzy, then it happened. The first misstep in the dance was yours, the slight shift in your left boot in the sand giving away your next strike, I reacted faster than I ever have before launching a flurry of attacks at your mask finally forcing you to match my strength for strength, a contest much more in my favour. I knocked off your mask and finally saw your face. I know not what I saw under the mask for the next few moments are lost to me in the sea of my memories, I remember a feeling of cold dread as my body refused to respond to my commands as your eyes overtook my mind cutting through Baphomet’s urge. It was at that moment I had all the clarity I needed the peace of your gaze settling my mind. I still hold to my story in saying that you cheated me that day with your next attack, but I do so in jest. I ended up somehow on my arse in the sands of the arena you standing over me blades at my throat. I know not why you spared me that day but I am glad you did I felt a strong connection to you and once I was granted my freedom from the arena I was glad you let me accompany you on your journey. I am glad you seem to understand the urges I go through and are often to calm me out of the urge or at least provide me with someone to hunt when you are unable to. I know not why you are heading towards this Yawning Portal tavern in this Waterdeep. I do not know that if in my mindless ramblings if I have mentioned why I want to head there, but it is said that Baphomet lives at the end of a great maze, and I for one cannot think of a greater maze then that which lies underneath the Yawning Portal. I intend to hunt the Demon Prince himself strike him from my mind and free me from my urges. I feel the itch starting to return as we travel in this wagon towards Waterdeep. I look at you sitting across from me in the back of this wagon, your mask still in place the mark still left in there from when the Endless Hunt caught you and I smile. I do not remember your face, but I hope that one day I will be able to see it and remember it once more. But for now I must end this letter and hunt, not the higher races but I feel a doe may suffice for today. I hope this letter provides you with some clarity as to why I am who I am. Thank you, for everything, yours trulyDraven Barratta the Animal of Luskan.

[wireslide]

Travel on an Interdimensional Ship

In which Kivair learns some lessons and almost accidentally kills Eli.

The bustle of the common area died down as the doors slid closed, and the ebon-skinned draenei sank carefully into a chair, rubbing at her forehead. A dark blue hand settled on her shoulder, and she lifted her head only slightly to accept the cup of tea from her aunt. "I do wish you'd see a medic, Kiva," the older woman sighed, settling herself on the low stool beside her niece's hooves, "they're becoming more frequent, and...well. Your eyes are starting to bulge a bit. I'm concerned at what that could mean." She reached out, tenderly brushing hair that glimmered like spun moonlight away from the heavy veil covering most of the darker exile's face.

Letting the steam from the tea wash over her closed eyelids, Kivair took a long moment before answering. It was also possible, given the clear amount of pain she suffered, that she was savoring the silence. When she opened her eyes, it was as though she'd uncovered two lamplights, bright enough to increase the light in the small family suite tenfold. She noted with a kind of wry amusement that her aunt looked away with a faint squint. "I'm fine, Iopa. I mean...I'm not, but the medics can't help me. This is the grace the Light gave me, powerful enough to drive me from Argus after my cousin and not put her in additional danger. There were always bound to be side effects to such a deal." She took a sip of the tea, then hefted it slightly in her aunt's direction. "Thank you, for this. How is Eli? She doesn't usually nap this late." Overbright eyes turned to one of the small doors off the suite.

Iopaani smiled, patting Kivair' s leg gently. "She woke from her nap early, and decided to 'help the talbuk remember what they are,' under her father's supervision. Konei promised he wouldn't let her try to mount any. How was training?"

The younger woman waved a hand. "Training is slow and boring and they've partnered me with the most ridiculous soft usuul of a priest. Scared of his own shadow, that one, much less the thought of actual Shadow. His healing prayers are powerful enough for an acolyte, I guess, but if he doesn't grow a spine sometime soon I may mistake him for a sea jelly and eat him." She took a gulp from her tea, frowning at it faintly.

"Most of us aren't as ready to raise arms as you are, Kivair," her aunt reminded her gently, "remember that you are late come to the ship, and the rest of us have already survived being driven off four worlds, not counting Argus." She brushed back her niece's hair again. "We cannot all be Vindicators."

The darker woman scowled and tossed back the rest of her tea, handing the mug back to Iopa. "He's a priest. A servant of the Light. He should be ready to raise a hand and decimate armies with holy fire. I don't expect you to understand, Aunt--you're just a livestock breeder's wife. You aren't Called by the Light like we are." By the small sound she made and the sudden flash of light in her palm, she wasn't expecting the slap her aunt laid across her cheek.

"Arrogant little girl, listen carefully." Iopa's full lips were pulled into a hard line. "We are all Called, and we all obey. An army marches poorly on its own hooves alone. No priest, not even Lord Velen himself, can call that much holy fire, or wants to." She grabbed one of Kivair's sweeping obsidian horns when the young woman started to look away. "The Light is gentle and compassionate more than it is blindly violent, and that is why we left. That is why your order makes up less than a tenth of our number, why there are three priests for every Vindicator, and why everyone else considers the lot of you a distasteful necessity. For the most part, daughter of my sister, we Exiled tend to believe that if you cannot let go of the violence within you, you should go back to Argus. We do not burn armies, Kivair. The Light humbled us, and every day you are told to abide by the same lesson." She released the horn with a flick of her wrist, wiping out the tea cup briskly as she walked away to put it in the cupboard.

Breath hissing between clenched teeth, Kivair forced the light around her fist to fade. "You sound like my mother," she managed huskily, flexing her fingers.

"One of us does," Iopa agreed mildly. "Go see to Eli, dear. She always makes you feel better." She busied herself tidying up the eating area as the Vindicator-in-training stomped out into the busy bustle of the Genedar's halls once more.

Kivair hardly noticed that most of the ship's inhabitants eased out of her way as she stormed through. Her cheek barely stung--Iopa hadn't struck her hard at all, only loudly--but her pride burned indignantly. She had given up everything to catch up to the Genedar, to be in her cousin's life. How dare her mother's twin treat her as though she had left nothing behind! A day didn't go by that she didn't miss her proper arms trainer, or her father's laboratory, or her grand set of rooms five times bigger than the family suite she shared with her cousin and her parents. She even missed the intricate patterns of her mother's court. What did Iopaani know? She was the twin of a Man'ari general, the former right hand of the Victor of Aldrachi, and she had given that up to marry a livestock breeder--not even a highly regarded one! Koneiithon had only had the remnants of his father's small stock and a bare twelve acres of land when Iopaani married him.

Kivair rounded a corner, almost running into someone in a priest's robes. She paid them no mind as they called after her, mind focused on fuming. At least when she had given up her life, it hadn't been for something as stupid as a man. It had been for family, for blood. And she remained willing to fight for her new life instead of constantly fleeing and later mourning those left behind. 'Better them than me,' felt like the attitude most Exiled held about those they left behind to be swallowed up by their pursuers.

She came to a stop at the fenced in area holding the livestock, then began slowly edging her way around towards the talbuk pen. There was enough of a crowd gathered that she had to push her way though, and once she saw her cousin, her heart stopped and the drums in her head got louder.

Elianaura, only living child of Koneiithon and Iopaani of the House Sabir, held one tiny, bright white hand under the jaw of the herd's Premiere, the most aggressive stallion on the ship, and spoke to him quietly as her father tied a blindfold around the talbuk's head. Once the cloth was in place, the Premiere snorted and pawed at the deck, throwing sparks, but little Eli only gently scolded him, and he stood stock still, trembling. Shooting her father a questioning look--Konei nodded--she began to slowly walk backwards, leading the blindfolded stallion forward in tiny steps.

Kivair clenched her fists again and suppressed the urge to scream. Her cousin's bones weren't done growing yet, and here her idiot father was putting her in danger, practicing Gunjika on an enclosed ship where a single miscommunication with the animal could cause a stampede! In a spaceship, a stampede would quickly turn into a meat grinder. She had to put a stop to this. She pushed her way further forward.

She saw the lead rope in her uncle's hand, saw the two ropers ready to offer extra restraint, but all her brain registered was her baby cousin inches away from several hundred pounds of unpredictable sharp hoof. She didn't notice the muted lash of light that cut into the blindfold, and perhaps just a little too far, slicing into the back of the talbuk's neck. She hadn't even felt her fingers move to cast the spell.

Time slowed to the spaces between terrified heartbeats. The talbuk screamed, reared, lashed out with his hooves as he lifted himself up above the tiny child, who fell backwards in surprise and desperately tried to scramble away. The hooves came down.

The bell-like sound they made when they hit the priest's shield was deafening, even from the edge of the corral. Kivair vaulted the fence and swept her cousin up in one arm, skidding away from the temporarily stunned animal all in one motion, as though she practiced rescuing children from irate livestock every ship cycle. She checked Eli frantically for injury as the ropers restrained the talbuk before he could start screaming again.

The child had the temerity to giggle as though she were being tickled. "Kiva! Oh, Kiva, did you see? I led him blindfolded and he followed! I'm going to be a Gunjika champion someday and win us all the best talbuk, just like Grandfather! Papa says the old tassle-tack is in the long term storage and when we find a new home he'll teach me how to use it!" She clapped her hands in delight and giggled again when Kivair hugged her tightly. "Did you see?"

Forcing most of the tremble out of her voice, the dark-skinned woman pressed a kiss into her cousin's jet black hair. "I saw, Eliana, that was very impressive. Maybe next time can wait until the talbuk has room to run away from you if it wants to?" She shot her uncle a look that could easily have killed him where he stood. Konei didn't even have the grace to look ashamed.

The tiny girl gave her cousin's suggestion a long moment of serious thought, then nodded. "I guess he can't have been comfortable at all, being all trapped and then blind. I didn't mean to upset him. I thought if we blindfolded him he might remember grass and sky and feel better."

"That's very thoughtful, little light, but he was born on the ship and talbuk don't have racial memories." Kivair stood, cradling her cousin in her arms.

Eli shrugged. "That we know of. But we don't know everything. Right, Kiva?"

Walking back through the crowd to settle her cousin on a window seat, the Vindicator-in-training sighed. "No, little light." She stared at the reflection of the priest behind them, barely noticing the stars streaking by. "I suppose we don't."

[heckboiandfam]

B.P.R.D. Case Files - Muller Incident

B.P.R.D.  / Bureau for Paranormal Research & Defense / Kaiser Müller Incident

Location – Chicago, Illinois / Apartment of “Jason Smith”

Subject – “Jason Smith” – formerly known as Kaiser Muller

Incident – Mysterious Cause of Death

Agents – Hellboy – left the B.P.R.D. in ’94; returned early 2017 after being thought deceased for several years/ Ashley Strode – former Navy; amateur exorcist of considerable skill

_______________________________________________________________________

November 2017 – The body of one ‘Jason Smith’ is found in his apartment. The deceased party is between 93 to 97 years old; forged birth records suggest the former, but may have been altered from the original documents.

It is known a large number of German soldiers after World War II (WW2) fled their country to avoid prosecution. For the most part, this was allowed after the surrender if the deserting soldiers were not persons of interest. However, after the rise of Neo-Nazism in the United States, the CIA began to track down and monitor those soldiers that successfully integrated themselves into American society. Jason Smith was discovered to be Müller nearly 60 years ago, but no action was taken against him.

Neighbors reported a lack of communication from ‘Smith’ for two days, followed by complaints of a foul odor. The owners of the building opened the door of his apartment to find him ‘horribly mauled’.

After police investigators were unable to determine that anyone had been in the room in two days, and were further concerned about the nature of ‘Smith’s’ injuries, the B.P.R.D. were notified of the suspicious death. Agents Hellboy and Strode were sent to investigate.

The following is a transcript of Agent Strode’s audio recording:

_____________________________________________________________________

Ashley Strode: This is Agent Ashley Strode, here with Agent Hellboy–

Hellboy: I DON’T like being called ‘agent’. When did they start that? When we got upgraded by the U.N.? It’s so pretentious.

AS: I… kinda agree. Anyway, Hellboy and I are IN the apartment–

HB: Smells like ass.

AS: It does.

HB: Probably because they tore up the old man’s guts, huh? Reeeeally dug into him.

AS: Uhm… Yesssss… they DID, didn’t they… We’re, uhm, looking at the deceased–

HB: So he was a Nazi, huh?

AS: Can you stop?

HB: Stop what? I’m not touching him.

AS: I mean stop interrupting. I’m trying to explain what we’re seeing.

HB: I thought the crime scene guys already took videos and photos and whatnot?

AS: Yeah, they DID. But they want our commentary on what we see. And you’re interrupting me talking. Anyway, looking at the deceased. Man in his late 80s–

HB: Nineties, for sure.

AS: LATE 90S THEN. And he’s clearly been… attacked.

HB: Tore his arms off first. They’re over there, and there. I’m pointing, nerds that’re listenin’ to this shit later, at the arms. Popped them right off him. Effortlessly. Seen it before. Elephant demons, yetis, that drunk demigod bastard in Rome? They weren’t cut off. This is pulling. The muscles tore, popped up into the skin a bit, but not much because he was old and they were atrophying. Loooks like… bone. Yeah, the bone mostly just came right out the sockets. Don’t ya think, Strode?

AS: -silence-

HB: Yup, yup. Oh. Yeah. Now I’m looking at… the body itself. And yep, they popped his arms right off him. Shoulders are all messed up. Skin definitely just tore away, like tissue paper–

AS: He WAS a Nazi. But he was a deserter.

HB: What was that?

AS: He was a Nazi. But he ran after the war. Lived a peaceful, quiet life. Never caused any trouble.

HB: Good for him. Still, trouble caught up to him, didn’t it? Anyway… looks like someone bit his neck. Something with… some pretty gnarly teeth. Just bit a nice hunk out of him. Don’t think they spat it out, either, unless you wanna go digging through the pile of this poor bastards–

AS: -whispered- Do you HAVE to be so rude? I mean, he’s dead.

HB: -not at all hushed- Yeah. Dead. Probably because he was a Nazi. Might’ve kept something spooky. For old time’s sake. Something that dug out his guts like they were a damn dog trying to bury a bone on the beach. Sometimes, kid, bad things happen to good people. And other times? If they’re a bad person? The bad thing happened cuz of that.

AS: …Right. Okay. Anyway… I don’t really sense or see anything occult around here, do you?

HB: Nope. But we’ll find out once the other guys get finished bagging and tagging everything, won’t we?

_____________________________________________________________________

Among the deceased’s belongings was a journal, dating back to WW2. After it was scanned and archived, Agents Strode and Hellboy looked over the notes on a flight to Germany.

_____________________________________________________________________

AS: So… sometime in December of 1944–

HB: What?

AS: WHAT what?

HB: December 1944?

AS: That’s what it says.

HB: Where was he? He mention–

AS: Nooo, Big Red, he’s nowhere near England at the time. Says that he’s… yeah, he’s in Germany. This isn’t Project Ragna Rok at all. Let me finish. It looks like Muller and some friends went wandering off from base camp because they were bored. They went walking and, in his own words, he says they went from a snowy part of the forest and into ‘forest blacker than night’. With blue, glowing dew.

HB: Sounds like they were drinking or smoking something to me…

AS: No, I doubt it. Because what it says next is that he saw ‘gates of horn and ivory’. Which is–

HB: Yeah, it’s a Greek thing. True dreams, false dreams. ‘True’ ones come through the horns, the others through the ivory. The old man said it was sort of like an old Greek pun.

AS: Oh. Uh… Yeah, that’s been highlighted by our analysts as significant. It’s mentioned in The Odyssey. Homer, Socrates, Virgil… A bunch of more modern poets, they mention them. Anyway, it seems like these guys come up to these gates and look through. Uhm… Muller says some interesting things about a kingdom, but one without a king. Things are dusty, unused, dead, and abandoned, but they can’t get in.

HB: Uh-huh… a kingdom. Behind dream gates. A kingdom of dreams. Got it.

AS: You’re skeptical.

HB: You sure this is an actual account, or is he just some undiscovered modern poet that liked Greek and Roman shit?

AS: I’m GETTING there. So, some of his friends, they go on about Himmler, it seems. Probably about his crazy theories about an ancient Aryan kingdom? That stuff is only crazy theories, right? I mean, other than the Hyperborean stuff. That’s not the same, though, is it?

HB: Should probably ask Howards about it when we get back. I’m not an expert.

AS: Okay. Anyway, so… uhm… Muller deduces that they’re not in Germany anymore–

HB: So he was a smart guy.

AS: Yes. Hush. He deduces they’re not in Germany anymore, and they start walking. And then… Okay, yeah, so he sees… a scarecrow fighting off a raven, a dinosaur, and then a British librarian stops them to talk.

HB: Yeah, none of that makes any sense at all. What’s this librarian got to say?

AS: Stuff about… they’re intruding? They found a ‘Soft Place’, where the real world and the, uhm… ‘Dreamscape meld into one’. The librarian also says that ‘the Lord’ is away, and that they should leave, so they start to… kinda against their will, maybe? He writes it weird. But, they lose a guy, a fellow soldier. Like he got lost in the Dreamscape. Says he’d been running, I think? Acting strange. They went to look for him again, but couldn’t find him.

HB: So… Nazis found a Dreamland of Oz, lose a guy, walk away, and lose a guy there. Weird.

AS: Aaaand that’s why we’re going to Germany. To find out if anyone else knows about this ‘Soft Place’ or ‘Dreamscape’ in the area. We found out where Kaiser Muller’s base camp was in December 1944, and we’ll be searching the area as best we can.

_____________________________________________________________________

After arriving in Germany, Strode and Hellboy searched the forests around where Muller’s base camp would’ve been based on old records. They spent two days searching for anything, as well as questioning the locals about anything that might corroborate Muller’s account of the area.

While they found nothing about Muller himself, signs pointed to other things, local police were dealing with violent attacks by Neo-Nazi gangs that were rising up in the area, mostly small towns with dissatisfied youths. There were a string of violent deaths and attacks, with older men torn apart in their homes by mysterious intruders, or beaten to death by Neo-Nazis. Further investigation hinted that some of these men were also formerly associated with the Nazi regime, but had gone into hiding for one reason or another. Authorities had neglected to contact the B.P.R.D. to avoid scandal.

The only things that were said came from older sources, individuals who were nearly Muller’s age, speaking of the Dís. Disir are Norse spirits, known as either simple spirits, ghosts, or even goddesses. The suspected forest was noted to be haunted by the elderly, but the few young people who lived in the area either had not visited the forest in question due to lack of interest.

However, once Strode and Hellboy’s search extended into the night, they were accosted by something. Strode described that it was ‘initially’ a purely unseen force that lifted Hellboy by the coat and began to drag him through the tree tops. However, Hellboy was able to interact with the unseen assailant, and injured it enough to force it back to ground.

Strode’s account then explains that the assailant became visible to the naked eye as a ‘hag’, with grey hair, tattered robes, wrinkled and dead skin, a toothless mouth, and long, claw-like nails. The hag violently attacked Hellboy, but they seemed on mostly equal footing. The hag spoke in what Hellboy assumed was ‘Ancient Norse’, but after nearly 20 minutes of fighting, Strode managed to catch up with them, and utilize her own talent at subduing spirits to assist Hellboy in the fight.

Upon partially entering an astral plane, Strode said she saw the ‘hag’ as what she clearly was; a ‘radiant woman of spectacular naked beauty that was nearly blinding’. Scholars are now looking into the possibility that, in the prehistoric period of Germany, tribes worshiped this Dis as a forest goddess, but climate changes left the area infertile and absent of wild game, forcing them to leave, and leading to what is known as ‘spiritual decay’ in the area.

After subduing the Dis by force and spiritual warding, Strode and Hellboy began their interrogation, which was somewhat hindered by the fact the spirit in their custody only spoke German, despite our translators being able to determine that she had a full grasp on what her captors spoke about.

_____________________________________________________________________

AS: Are you sure you’re–

HB: I’M FINE.

Dis: Du wirst bezahlen! (You will pay!)

HB: The hell is she saying now?!

AS: I don’t speak German goddess, I’m sorry! Are you SURE–

HB: The hell do you mean ‘goddess’?

AS: I’m looking at her purest self. She’s definitely some kind of higher spirit, or a goddess, from how she, uh, looks.

HB: Well I’m glad you think she’s pretty.

Dis: Die Frau sieht mich mit Verlangen in ihren Augen an. Ist sie eine, die nur Frauen liebt? (The woman looks at me with desire in her eyes. Is she one that only makes love to women?)

AS: She’s being talkative now, in any case…

HB: Uh-huh… Whatever. Just… let’s ask her some questions.

Dis: Ich werde nicht ein Sklave der Dämon des Abgrunds sein! (I will not be a slave to the Demon of the Bottomless Pit!)

HB: Lady… we were just looking for some magic dream gates, okay? And sure, we heard you MIGHT be in the area, but goddamn, do you have to be so rude?

Dis: Du wirst hier nicht die Tore der Träume finden. (You will not find the Gates of the Dreaming here)

HB: Speak English!

AS: Maybe she can’t?

HB: Bullshit.

Dis: Der Traumlord hat die Tore zu meinem Wald geschlossen. Der Sohn von Nott spricht nicht mehr zu mir, und das seit vielen, vielen Jahren nicht. Er wird dafür bezahlen, dass er mich vergisst! Haben wir uns nicht geliebt ?! Bin ich nicht gut genug für ihn, nachdem er sich verändert hat? (The Dream Lord has closed the gates to my forest. The Son of Nott speaks to me no longer, and has not for many, many years. He will pay for forgetting me! Did we not love one another?! Am I not good enough for him now that he has changed?)

AS: She said… something about a ‘Lord’. We’re looking for a ‘Lord’, yes, but I don’t understand why you’re so angry, or why you attacked us?

Dis: Der Herr der Träume wird mich richtig ansprechen, sobald ich auf seinem neuen, jungenhaften Hals stehe und ihn zwinge, meine Macht zu erkennen! Denn ich besitze den Traumstein! (The Lord of Dreams will address me properly once I stand upon his new, boyish neck and force him to recognize my power! For I possess the Dreamstone!)

HB: She’s just babbling.

AS: She’s sayin’ something–

_____________________________________________________________________ Strode’s account says that Hellboy struck the spirit several times in the face, asking different questions every time – Who are you? What are you doing? Who are you working for? What is your ‘deal’? What does this ‘shit’ have to do with Nazis?

Strode says that it was very ineffective, as the only thing the Dis had to say between strikes were various swear words and slurs, until she began to repeat the same thing over and over again.

_____________________________________________________________________

Dis: Sandman! Sandman! Sandman!

AS: Wait, she’s actually saying something now! Stop hitting her! HELLBOY!

HB: I ain’t hittin’ her no more, just shakin’ her. Say that again, ya biddy, loud and clear?!

Dis: Sandman! Sandman! Ich habe seinen Traumstein! (I have his Dreamstone)

HB: Sandman? What is she talking about?

AS: No clue, but… I’ve been recording this, so our guys can translate what she’s said so far–

HB: You’ve been… Strode, you and that goddamn phone–

AS: AND I know, I think, how to bind her so we can transport her, just give me a moment…

_____________________________________________________________________

Strode’s attempt to bind the Dis for further transport failed, resulting in her escape. After their return, translators determined that this spirit was angry at what is likely the unknown ‘Lord’ of the ‘Dreamscape’. She refers to him as the ‘Son of Nott’, a Norse goddess, the personification of Night, and claims to speak of a ‘Traumstein’ or ‘Dream stone’ of some kind in her possession.

It is not conclusive that she is directly related to the deaths and attacks, but the B.P.R.D. will be dispatching Agent Johann Kraus to further investigate these occurrences. Agents Strode and Hellboy will return to the off-world office to resume their duties there.

It is the opinion of Director Manning that Hellboy’s use of force was ‘excessive’ and ‘not a viable means to obtain information’, while Strode’s inability to bind the spirit for future interrogation, while unfortunate, did not overshadow her professionalism in the field.

A new case file will be started to investigate ‘Lord Sandman‘, if such a being exists and it is related to these deaths.