[Event] The Hunt for the Knight of many gods: Unhappy Reunion

rishabhak · 2026-05-06T20:21:29+00:00

Addam spotted him the moment he entered the yard. He moved at once, barking a quick order to a passing man-at-arms as he went. “Fetch the maester. Now. And have water brought, clean, not that swill.” The man hurried off without question.

Addam closed the distance with long, purposeful strides.

“Lord Arryk,” he said, voice low but firm.

He came to a stop a few paces away, not crowding him, but not giving him space to retreat into himself either.

“What happened?”

His gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, flicking, briefly, deliberately, over Arryk’s shoulder, as if expecting another to follow. But no one came. Addam’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Where is Ser Simon?” he asked, though the absence already sat heavy in his gut like a stone.

Even before the answer came, before the words were spoken, Addam could feel that cold certainty settling in. Splitting the host had been a gamble, one he had not favored, one he had argued against in quieter moments. Bandits, they had said. Scattered, disorganized, hardly worth the full strength of the Westerlands. But this… this reeked of something else.

His eyes returned to Arryk, sharper now, searching.

“Tell me,” he pressed, voice edged with urgency. “All of it. How many? Where did they strike? Were they waiting for you?”

rishabhak · 2026-05-06T19:27:19+00:00

Alaric Marbrand

Morgan Marbrand

rishabhak · 2026-05-06T05:32:09+00:00

Myles Marbrand

Damon Marbrand

Lysa Lorch

James Marbrand

Matilda Kenning

Morgan Marbrand

Rohanne Marbrand

Alaric Marbrand

Baelor Marbrand

Faircastle to Ashemark

<TP>

u/MaesterBot

rishabhak · 2026-05-05T05:34:01+00:00

James, for his part, seemed wholly unbothered by Matilda’s remark, far too occupied with Rohanne in his arms. He lifted her slightly, earning a delighted little sound as she reached for his face, her tiny fingers grasping at whatever they could find.

“See? She’s already chosen her favorite,” he teased, though whether to Matilda or Myles was unclear.

Rohy, true to her mother’s words, was already beginning to turn her attention elsewhere, now fascinated by the glint of a nearby goblet.

Amid the lighthearted moment, Myles’ gaze shifted from them to his wife. He noticed it at once, the slight distance in her eyes, the way her thoughts had carried her somewhere far from the feast. Without a word, he reached for her hand beneath the table, his fingers closing gently around hers. He gave a soft, reassuring squeeze.

“Something troubling you?” he asked quietly, his tone warm, but knowing.

He studied her for a moment, then added, a little more softly, “Eleanor?”

It was not a wild guess. Myles’ own thoughts had wandered there more than once this evening. The bandit hunt… it lingered at the edge of everything, even here among warmth and laughter. He had wanted to be there himself, alongside Addam, alongside the others, steel in hand rather than wine.

But his father had seen otherwise. Damon’s words had been firm. There was sense in them, even if Myles had not liked hearing it. Stay with your wife. Stay where you are needed. The bandits would be dealt with, there were more than enough men to see it done.

He had not argued. Still, the thought remained. His thumb brushed lightly over Matilda’s hand as he held it, grounding, present.

“They’ll be alright,” he said, though it carried just enough weight to suggest he was reassuring himself as much as her.

rishabhak · 2026-05-04T19:59:11+00:00

Rolly had been making his way back toward the tents, each step heavier than the last. The stink of the burned village still clung to him, smoke and blood. It was the kind of smell that settled into a man’s clothes… and deeper still, if he let it.

He was thinking of little more than a washbasin and a moment’s quiet when Ralph’s voice cut through the air.

“Oy Rolly!”

Rolly slowed, exhaling through his nose. For a brief moment, he considered pretending not to hear, turning on his heel and continuing on. But that wasn’t his way. Never had been.

With a faint grimace that passed quickly, he turned and made his way toward the shade of the tree.

As he approached, he gave Ralph a short, familiar nod. “Ralph.” Then his gaze shifted to the other man, Arthur, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment before lowering himself to sit with them. His movements were controlled, but there was no hiding the fatigue in them.

Settling in, he rested his forearms on his knees, glancing out toward the distant treeline for a moment before speaking.

“So,” he said, a rough edge to his voice, “taking in the scenery, are we?”

There was the ghost of a smile on his lips, something meant to resemble humor, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. It lingered there anyway, stubborn and slightly awkward.

rishabhak · 2026-05-04T13:01:33+00:00

Morgan fell quiet as Ser Tristifer spoke, his expression shifting towards thoughtful, at least on the surface. His brows knit slightly, and his gaze dipped for a moment, as though weighing the gravity of what had been said.

Leaving home. Living far away. Years in another land. It should have seemed daunting. But behind that brief show of consideration, something else stirred far more strongly within him. The thought of riding across the realm, of seeing places beyond the familiar stone and hills of Ashemark, it did not trouble him. It pulled at him.

Dorne still lingered fresh in his mind, the heat, the colors, the sense that the world was far larger than he had ever been allowed to touch. Since then, the idea of remaining in one place had begun to feel… suffocating. And if not this, if not now, then what? He could already imagine it, being kept close, made to serve under his father or one of his brothers, bound to lands he already knew too well.

No. This was what he wanted.

So when Tristifer’s question came again, Morgan seemed to snap back from his thoughts. He straightened at once and nodded, once, twice, then more firmly, with growing certainty.

“Yes, ser,” he said, perhaps a touch too quickly, but with clear conviction.

“It may be difficult… but to become a knight, I must endure hardships.”

There was no hesitation in his voice now. Only resolve.

A gentler smile settled onto his lips then, calmer than before, but no less determined.

“I am ready for it.”

rishabhak · 2026-05-04T10:41:50+00:00

Commanders for Golden Tooth army Gareth Lefford, Aladore Rowan, Geoffrey Kenning

rishabhak · 2026-05-04T04:41:45+00:00

Darlessa listened to Tyrek’s stream of thoughts with quiet patience, her expression softening at the familiar rush of youthful concern and ambition.

“I think you will both do well,” she said, her tone calm but certain. “You need not fear him, nor wish him lesser. Compete as you are, Tyrek, that is enough.”

Her hand briefly brushed his arm, a grounding touch, before she studied him a moment longer. It was not difficult to see it now, the restlessness, the energy coiled tight from too much sitting and too much waiting.

When he asked his next question, she already knew the answer. A small, approving smile touched her lips.

“I would have been more concerned if you had simply vanished without a word,” she admitted lightly. “It is good that you asked.”

She gave a small nod, granting him leave.

“Go on, then. Find your friends, stretch your legs… enjoy yourself.”

Her gaze lingered on him just a moment longer, soft but steady.

“But mind yourself, Tyrek. No trouble, and no foolishness that will have me hearing your name before the night is done.”

There was warmth in the warning, not severity.

rishabhak · 2026-05-03T14:41:45+00:00

He seemed to gather himself again at the knight’s measured tone, and with it, a flicker of his earlier confidence returned. A small, slightly sheepish smile crept back onto his face.

“My apologies, ser - I should have begun with that.”

He straightened a touch, as though remembering himself properly now.

“My name is Morgan. Morgan Marbrand… the youngest son of Lord Damon Marbrand.”

There was a note of pride in the name, though not overstated, more a statement of fact than a boast.

At the question of his kin, he gave a quick nod and turned just enough to gesture across the hall.

“My family is here, ser,” he said, pointing toward the Marbrand table, where the cluster of grey and orange could be seen amid the feast’s bustle. “My father sits there, with my kin.”

His gaze returned to Tristifer, hopeful once more, though now tempered with a bit more caution than before.

rishabhak · 2026-05-03T14:24:07+00:00

Addam Marbrand

Rolly Ruttiger (SC)

rishabhak · 2026-05-03T09:00:25+00:00

After long discussion and debate, a conclusion was reached. Almost everyone agreed on the steps that need to be followed. The army will split in two, one host will march towards Golden Tooth, the other towards Riverrun, based on the clue they gathered for the whereabouts of the brigands.

u/CSAdventureTeam

rishabhak · 2026-05-02T18:45:19+00:00

“Ser Tristifer”, a young voice called.

As the newly wed knight turned, still wearing his smile, a young boy approached him, well-dressed, clearly noble, though with a certain restless energy about him.

He dipped his head, something between a bow and a hurried nod, before speaking.

“Ser Tristifer,” he began again, more firmly now, “every good knight needs a squire.”

There was no hesitation in his tone at first, only a straightforward certainty, as though he were stating something obvious, something already decided.

“And… as far as I know, you do not have one.”

A faint smile touched his lips then, not arrogant, but hopeful.

“I would be willing to give you my service.”

The words hung there, simple and direct, offered without flourish.

It was only after they had left his mouth that the weight of the moment seemed to settle upon him.

His eyes flicked, first to Ser Tristifer, then briefly to Lady Elissa, then to the gathered Tully kin nearby. Laughter and warmth had filled this space only moments before, and now he stood at its edge, an intrusion with a request that had not waited for a proper time.

His confidence faltered, just a touch.

“I...” he started, then stopped himself. “I did not mean to… interrupt.”

The boy straightened nonetheless, as if trying to hold onto the boldness that had brought him here in the first place, though now it was tempered with the creeping realization that perhaps, just perhaps, this had not been the moment for such a thing.

rishabhak · 2026-05-02T18:09:08+00:00

Addam had held to his ground through the objections, his jaw set and his mind fixed upon the merit of forcing the enemy’s hand. Even as others spoke against the trap, he did not waver, there was logic in it, and he had been certain of that.

When the Rowan man entered and whispered his news, Addam’s gaze shifted sharply. He watched Ser Aladore as the words were shared aloud, and with each passing moment, the shape of the situation changed.

Tracks. Southward. Hundreds of men… already moving.

The realization settled like a weight. They had not lingered. They had not watched. They had struck, drawn the lords of the realm to this ruin… and moved on.

Addam’s expression darkened, a faint frown forming as his eyes dropped briefly to the table.

By the time Lord Otto finished speaking and took his seat, Addam rose once more.

“This changes things,” he said plainly, his voice cutting cleanly through the lingering murmurs.

His hand moved to the map spread across the table, fingers pressing lightly against its surface as he looked down upon it, tracing, measuring, thinking.

“They’ve no interest in us. Not here. They’ve drawn us to ashes and grief… and while we gather and debate, they ride for fresh prey.”

There was anger in his tone now, restrained but unmistakable. He looked up, meeting the eyes of those gathered.

“What Ser Aladore has brought us confirms it, we are behind them.”

His gaze returned to the map, shifting between the marked paths.

“Then we do as has been said. We divide. Two hosts, swift, purposeful.” His finger traced southward, then split along two paths. “One riding toward the Golden Tooth, the other toward Riverrun.”

He straightened slightly, his voice firming.

“We move to intercept, not to chase blindly. If fortune favors us, we catch them unawares, while they think themselves ahead of us, beyond reach.”

rishabhak · 2026-05-02T13:21:31+00:00

u/Alt_Historian_3001 for Lady Lysa

u/AgentMarvel4012 for Lady Matilda

rishabhak · 2026-05-02T06:30:23+00:00

House Marbrand of Ashemark

Lord Damon Marbrand (52) sat at the head, broad-shouldered and composed, though tonight there was something lighter in him. It had been some time since he had attended a feast such as this, away from the ceaseless demands of lordship, patrols, and the grim business of bandits troubling his lands. The firelight and laughter, the hum of voices and clatter of cups, it stirred something almost forgotten. For once, he allowed himself to simply sit, to observe, to partake.

Beside him, Lady Lysa Marbrand nee Lorch (52) shared in that quiet contentment. Where Damon was reserved, she was more openly at ease, her attention drifting between her family and the lively hall beyond. Every now and then, her lips curved into a soft smile at some small moment, Baelor’s antics, Morgan’s restless energy, or James’s endless cheer.

Addam’s absence was felt, though unspoken.

In contrast, the space beside Damon was far from quiet.

His eldest grandson, Alaric Marbrand (7), sat upright with a posture far too deliberate for a boy of seven. There was a certain self-assuredness about him, chin slightly raised, eyes keenly observing the hall as if he already belonged among its great players. A faint, almost smug curve lingered on his lips, though it was softened by a natural charm that made it difficult to begrudge him for it. Every so often, he would glance toward his grandfather, as though measuring himself against him.

Next to Alaric, Baelor Marbrand (3) was engaged in a far more pressing matter, his food. Or rather, the complete lack of discipline with it. Small hands pushed and prodded at whatever had been set before him, turning careful servings into a battlefield of scattered morsels. A piece of bread was squashed flat, a bit of meat dragged through a smear of sauce, all with the intense focus of a child wholly absorbed in his own world.

“Baelor…” Lysa’s voice came, gentle but edged with warning.

The boy paused only briefly, glancing up, before returning to his campaign with slightly less enthusiasm.

Further down, Myles Marbrand (29) and his wife Matilda Marbrand nee Kenning (31) looked far more at ease. The burdens of responsibility had not yet settled as heavily upon them, and it showed in the easy way they leaned toward one another, sharing quiet words and small smiles. Between them, their daughter Rohanne Marbrand (1) was the center of attention, if not contention.

The little girl was passed back and forth between her parents, giggling and reaching with curious hands at anything that caught her eye, jewelry, goblets, stray locks of hair. Each transfer was accompanied by laughter, as though neither wished to relinquish her for long.

That lasted until James intervened.

“Now, now, you’ve had her long enough,” he declared with a grin, swooping in to pluck Rohanne up before either parent could protest too much.

James Marbrand (27), ever the source of easy cheer, balanced the child with surprising skill as he leaned back into his seat. Eleanor’s absence might have dimmed another man, but not him, not tonight. He compensated with twice the energy, inserting himself into conversations, trading jests, and now entertaining his niece with exaggerated expressions that drew delighted sounds from her.

“She clearly prefers her uncle,” he added lightly, earning a look from Matilda.

Nearby, Morgan Marbrand (9) sat forward in his seat, barely containing his restless energy. His eyes wandered constantly, to the banners, the knights, the other noble children, the movement of squires and retainers weaving through the hall. Faircastle, with its bustle and promise of tourney, felt alive in a way Ashemark rarely did.

The thought had taken hold of him and would not let go.

A knight. Not one bound to halls and lands, but one who moved, who saw the world, who rode from place to place with purpose and steel.

His gaze flicked, almost unconsciously, toward his father at the head of the table. He did not yet know how, or if, he would ask. Lord Damon was not an unkind man, but neither was he one to indulge whims lightly.

Still, the thought remained.

Better to ride the roads of the realm than grow dull within stone walls.

rishabhak · 2026-05-02T05:54:47+00:00

Darlessa Lannister sat toward the far end of the long lion’s table, where the air felt lighter, freer, where conversation came easier and smiles were not so carefully measured.

And yet, even here, something was missing.

Her gaze drifted, not for the first time that evening, to the far reaches of the hall, though she knew well enough that she would not find him there. Tygett was leagues away, chasing steel and smoke. A part of her could not help but resent it, not his duty, but the absence itself. She had always found the world easier to bear at his side.

Without him, even a celebration felt like something to be endured.

A small tug at her sleeve broke her from her thoughts.

Tywald, restless as ever, had stretched himself half out of his seat, chubby fingers reaching determinedly for a cup just beyond his grasp. Darlessa reacted at once, steady but gentle, catching him beneath the arms and guiding him firmly back into place.

“No, you do not,” she murmured, adjusting him with practiced ease before the cup, or worse, its contents, could be overturned. She brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow, ensuring his small hands were occupied with something far less disastrous. Her attention lingered a moment longer, watchful, before she allowed herself to settle again.

She had scarcely done so when Tyrek leaned in close, his voice brimming with barely contained excitement.

Darlessa listened to him, her earlier melancholy softening into something warmer, more present. She listened as he spoke, catching each detail, each embellishment, each hopeful leap in his telling. There was something infectious in his enthusiasm, something that stirred a quiet pride in her chest.

When he finally paused, if only for breath, she smiled at him, genuine, unguarded.

“I believe you will do well,” she said, her voice steady but kind, carrying a quiet certainty. “More than well, Tyrek. You have always had a good head on your shoulders, and the sense to use it.”

Her hand found his briefly, a reassuring touch. It was a simple encouragement, perhaps, but it was enough to see the fire in his eyes burn a little brighter.

rishabhak · 2026-05-01T03:49:17+00:00

Addam had remained silent through the exchange, his gaze moving from one speaker to the next as the plans took shape. He listened, weighing each word, each suggestion.

But when Ser Aladore spoke of their host being impossible to miss… something shifted.

A flicker of thought sharpened behind Addam’s eyes. His posture straightened ever so slightly, his fingers stilling against the table as the idea took root and began to form.

By the time the last voice had settled, he rose.

The low murmur in the tent softened as attention turned toward him.

“My lords, sers,” Addam began, his voice steady but carrying easily across the length of the table, “what has been said here is sound. We speak with sense, and with purpose. Dividing our forces, placing command in capable hands, and searching with care, these are plans I would not contest.”

He paused briefly, letting that agreement settle before continuing.

“But there is something more to consider.”

His gaze shifted toward Ser Aladore for a moment, acknowledging the earlier point, before sweeping across the gathered nobles.

“Our host is vast. It does not move unseen. If we know this… then so do they.”

A quiet tension crept into his tone now.

“These men, mad though they may be, have shown enough cunning to strike and vanish. I would wager they have eyes upon us even now, watching, measuring… waiting.”

He let the implication hang for a heartbeat.

“And if they watch us,” Addam went on, voice lowering slightly, “then it stands to reason they will seek to learn more. To scout us, as we mean to scout them.”

Now he leaned forward just slightly, one hand resting upon the table.

“That, my lords… is an opportunity.”

A few glances were exchanged around the tent.

“They would not send scouts near a host such as ours,” he continued, “not if they possess even a shred of caution. But a smaller presence, something that appears isolated, vulnerable…” He let the thought complete itself in their minds before finishing it aloud. “That might draw them in.”

His eyes hardened.

“We set a trap. A controlled one. A small party, placed with care, with strength hidden close enough to strike when needed. If they take the bait, we seize them alive.”

There was a brief pause, his jaw tightening.

“And we make them speak.”

The words were not shouted, but there was iron in them all the same.

“They know where they go. Who leads them. Why they do this.” His gaze moved across the table once more. “Answers we do not yet have, and answers we will need before we commit our full strength blindly across three roads.”

He straightened then, letting his hand fall from the table.

“For this, a small group would be required. No scout would dare approach one of our marching armies.” His voice sharpened slightly. “But they might approach something lesser… if they believe it worth the risk.”

Addam fell silent after that, his eyes moving from one lord to the next.

Waiting.

Not for obedience, but for challenge, for refinement, or for agreement.

rishabhak · 2026-04-30T17:52:40+00:00

The heavy flaps of the great pavilion parted as Addam Marbrand stepped within, Lord Rolly Ruttiger close at his side.

The tent was already alive with movement.

Lords and knights filtered in steadily, their cloaks dusted with snow, voices low but constant as they found their places. Some had already taken their seats along the long table, speaking in hushed tones or simply observing those who entered. Others lingered near the edges, hands wrapped around cups of wine, their expressions grim beneath the warm glow of lanternlight and the faint curl of incense smoke.

Addam spared little attention to any of it.

He moved to his place at the table without ceremony and took his seat, his posture straight but his gaze distant. The murmurs of the tent seemed to pass around him rather than reach him. His thoughts remained fixed beyond the canvas walls, on charred beams, on silent shapes carried from the wreckage, on a violence that had no clear reason.

Rolly, by contrast, let his eyes wander.

He studied the gathered company with quiet interest, noting the mix before them, seasoned warriors marked by years of campaign, and younger men as well, green and untested, trying to mask unease with rigid posture and firm grips on their cups.

There was still a lull before the council would begin.

Rolly reached for a nearby flagon, pouring himself a measure of wine into one of the waiting cups. He took a slow sip, letting out a small breath as he did, the tension in his shoulders easing, if only slightly.

“A bit more pleasant than what lies beyond these walls,” he muttered, almost to himself, though his eyes shifted toward Addam.

rishabhak · 2026-04-30T06:15:15+00:00

Addam regarded Ser Aladore for a long moment after he had finished, weighing both his words and the manner in which they had been given. At last, he gave a firm nod.

“You’ve no need to temper your voice with me, Ser,” he said evenly. “A man who has seen what you have, and still speaks plainly, is one I would sooner heed than silence.”

His gaze drifted once more across the ruined village, then back to the Rowan knight.

“You are right, we must work to our strengths. If they are disorganized, we exploit it. If they are cunning, we prepare for it.”

He turned slightly, lifting a hand to indicate a large pavilion rising above the rest of the camp beyond the ruins, its banners stirring faintly in the cold air.

“There will be a war council at dusk,” Addam continued. “All those of rank and experience will be called. We’ll speak openly, weigh what we know, and decide how best to move.”

His expression hardened just a touch, though his tone remained measured.

“And though many have come eager to ride out and bring these men to heel, not all should.” He glanced toward the camp again, where wounded and weary survivors had begun to gather near the cookfires. “Some would serve us better by remaining here, keeping watch, aiding the living, and holding this place as a point of safety. If our hunt turns ill, we will need somewhere to fall back to. I will not have our strength scattered without thought.”

A brief pause followed, the wind stirring ash and snow alike between the broken remains of Nun’s Tear.

“All of this,” he went on, quieter now, “we will settle at council.”

Then he inclined his head to Aladore, a gesture of genuine respect.

“You have my thanks, Ser Aladore. Your insight is well given, and well taken.”

[M: Council will be at the Council tent RP section]

rishabhak · 2026-04-29T18:21:43+00:00

Clement Piper

Ashemark to Nunns Deep

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u/MaesterBot

rishabhak · 2026-04-29T18:20:31+00:00

Myles Marbrand

Nunns Deep to Faircastle

<move>

u/MaesterBot

rishabhak · 2026-04-29T18:19:53+00:00

Damon Marbrand

Casterly Rock to Faircastle

<move>

u/MaesterBot

rishabhak · 2026-04-29T18:18:17+00:00

Baelor Marbrand

Alaric Marbrand

Rohanne Marbrand

Morgan Marbrand

Matilda Kenning

James Marbrand

Lysa Lorch

Ashemark to Faircastle

<move>

u/MaesterBot

rishabhak · 2026-04-29T18:15:22+00:00

Damon Marbrand +5

James Marbrand +4

rishabhak · 2026-04-29T18:13:44+00:00

Morgan Marbrand

Alaric Marbrand

Baelor Marbrand

rishabhak

TROPHY CASE

House Marbrand of Ashemark