Artemis97
2013-07-25, 09:50 PM
Dark Wings and Dark Words
The household and many of its retainers are gathered in the Great Hall for the evening meal. It is simple fare, but plentiful and filling. Roasted mutton and potatoes served along side a brothy vegetable soup, heavy on the onions, and loaves of coarse dark bread. Tankards of ale and wine dot the tables, of a decent quality, tasty though nothing to boast about, but it would still certainly get one drunk if enough were imbibed.
Although House Francig had suffered losses in recent memory, the castle was still a thriving place. Men joked and laughed, flirting with the kitchen maids who served them. Dogs lurked beneath the tables, darting between legs or laying their heads on laps in a hope to snap up a fallen scrap of food or a discarded bone. The atmosphere of the hall was warm, familiar, comfortable.
The messenger that approached Lord Francig went almost entirely unnoticed by the majority of the hall. A thin tube of parchment was passed to the nobleman, a note brought on the wings of a messenger raven. Those nearby might spot the blue wax seal of House Arryn of the Eeyrie, lords of the Vale. Lord Francig broke the seal and read the missive carefully. His eyes widen and he reads it again, and thricemore before his shoulders sag in sadness. Slowly, the lord stands, banging his fist upon the table and calling for silence.
"My friends," his hoarse voice echoes through the hall, "dark words reach us today. Lord Jon Arryn, our liege lord, Master of the Vale, Warden of the East, and Hand of the King, has passed from this world. May the Seven watch over his soul."
The household and many of its retainers are gathered in the Great Hall for the evening meal. It is simple fare, but plentiful and filling. Roasted mutton and potatoes served along side a brothy vegetable soup, heavy on the onions, and loaves of coarse dark bread. Tankards of ale and wine dot the tables, of a decent quality, tasty though nothing to boast about, but it would still certainly get one drunk if enough were imbibed.
Although House Francig had suffered losses in recent memory, the castle was still a thriving place. Men joked and laughed, flirting with the kitchen maids who served them. Dogs lurked beneath the tables, darting between legs or laying their heads on laps in a hope to snap up a fallen scrap of food or a discarded bone. The atmosphere of the hall was warm, familiar, comfortable.
The messenger that approached Lord Francig went almost entirely unnoticed by the majority of the hall. A thin tube of parchment was passed to the nobleman, a note brought on the wings of a messenger raven. Those nearby might spot the blue wax seal of House Arryn of the Eeyrie, lords of the Vale. Lord Francig broke the seal and read the missive carefully. His eyes widen and he reads it again, and thricemore before his shoulders sag in sadness. Slowly, the lord stands, banging his fist upon the table and calling for silence.
"My friends," his hoarse voice echoes through the hall, "dark words reach us today. Lord Jon Arryn, our liege lord, Master of the Vale, Warden of the East, and Hand of the King, has passed from this world. May the Seven watch over his soul."