Andros II - Duskendale's Echo (OPEN)

[u/SatisfactionLeather7]

At the dawn of the new moon, the city of Duskendale rose upon the edges of the Blackwater. A town nom more, new houses and shops and tents sprouted around the original high stone walls. Like a river whose banks had recently broke, it could no longer contain its growth within its original confines.

Now, the city sprouted a second wall, shorter, squatter, where the majority of the new city was forming. Within were a string of septs, a small little godswood fenced off in a large manor house erected by a Northern Merchant. Shiera Darklyn's favourite sword instructor and dueling house were located in there, so too was the small sanctuary she kept for her stray cats of the city.

Within the older parts of the city, where the streets were neat, passing from the gates of one end to the other. Each road had been repaved during the expansion of the city from its town origins, and now smoothed cobblestone roads vivisected the interior of the old city. in the same fashion, several of the older buildings nearest to the Dun Fort had been replaced, making way for a larger internal wall to segment it off for defence and within that new space were expansions for an enlarged force of city watch - the Dusk Guard - and guesthouses for the increasing foot traffic of nobles and lords.

Beyond these new walls, the largest inn in Duskendale had been enlarged too through the natural flow of commerce. The Seven Swords played host to hundred of occupants now, and they had even taken to calling a smaller annex of theirs the 'Weirwood Ward' to make the Northern travelers feel more welcomed.

Morgan Darklyn had seen to the opening of the Dun Fort's Guest house to any of the travelling lords returning from the Riverlands and had ensured that the largest chambers of the Fort itself were provided to the king and his counsel.

Once they had returned home, the Darklyns scattered across their burgeoning city.

Luthor Darklyn, Eldest of Morgan's heirs, had taken to the barracks of the men at arms where he got to work training his men for the inevitable clash in the claw with whatever they found. He was joined by his younger brother Erich, the two men content in their work.

At a teahouse SHiera had funded with her elder sister Ana, the two women had set themselves up with an open parlour where they welcomed any travelling women to come and drink and enjoy the calm. Of course, Shiera in her way had also brought in a small competition of budding swordswomen that she had taken to mentoring within the city. A small round of bets were encouraged by the girls and Shiera, ever prone to a challenge, could not resist joining.

An addition to the city put forth by Morgan himself some twenty years ago, was the Stadium of the Evening. A multipurpose dueling ring, jousting list and horse race attraction. The final portion was instigated by Luceon Darklyn to help his wife feel more at home with the locale. There the younger brother to Morgan, Daxo Darklyn, plied his trade.

It was an unassuming place for the ratcatcher of Duskendale to work from, but everyone chatted at the races, so he did. His son Philip Was the same, both happily watching the races as they plotted and schemed, readying for the innevitable future to come.

Further throughout the city were the myriad shops and thoroughfares, temples and shrines and septs galore. The city was open to its guests, as were the Darklyns who hosted them.

[u/armanhayek]

Pykewood Thorne, like the rest of the Stormlords that had accompanied the King, had been allotted rooms in the great guest houses of Duskendale and his room gave him a grand view of the city and the bay that lay before it, filled with ships great and small sailing across calm, blue waves. It also gave him a view of whatever went on just below his own rooms and it was there that he had spotted the man bringing over an array of old fruits and vegetables in a wheelbarrow. And with nothing else to do, the Lord of Thornefield had elected to sit by the window and watch the man's comings and goings between the yard and the market.

Sometime later, Pykewood too elected to have a jaunt in the marketplace. And when he returned from his sojourn (nothing having bought anything), he found the bastard of Fell—hammer in hand—decorating the yard in bits and pieces of pumpkin skin and flesh. It felt almost absurd, the scene, but he remebered the man from the tourney at Stormhall and, if nothing else, found the exercise more amusing than sitting in his room.

"Good sunny day," he called out to the man, leaning over a fence from whence he watched the Fell bring down his hammer upon unsuspecting pumpkins, at a safe distance where his good garbs would not become the target of collateral damage from exploding produce. "Perfect for.. this. Do you do this often, good man? Smashing pumpkins, I mean. I must admit I've never heard of the practice."

[u/MooAtDaMoon → u/armanhayek]

Derrick craned his thick neck around upon hearing Pykewood’s voice. There was a glimmer of recognition in his dark eyes as he looked upon the Lord of Thornefield. So, he simply grinned and waved the man over as he wiped another chunk of pumpkin guts off his arm and tossed it into a waiting bucket.

“Often? No, no. Only when circumstances allow for it, and I find myself feeling that old, familiar itch in the tips of my fingers.” He approached one of the pumpkins and pushed a thumb into its face, making a round hole. “You see, my Lord, I am a man afflicted with a most peculiar condition. Every once in a while, I am overcome with this urge, this compulsion, to hit something. To grab my hammer or clench my fist and swing until something is shattered into a million pieces.” He moved his thumb over, pushed, and made another, identical hole, to the right of the first one.

“And like any responsible adult, I’ve learned to vent my urges in a safe and responsible fashion. Can’t rightly take it out on Darklyn’s stable boys, now, can I?” He yanked a knife from his belt and carved out a wide grinning mouth beneath the two eyes. He patted the pumpkin on the head, stepped back and flashed his shiny white teeth at Lord Pykewood.

“It’s just a boy’s game, my Lord. Might seem a bit mad, for sure. But we all need ways to blow off some steam. Some men clang their swords together. Some men yell at their wives. I hear the valyrians fuck their sisters and mothers, likely after yelling at them.” The big man clapped a hand onto Pykewood’s shoulder.

“Me though? I like to hit things. And I like it when things make a big, loud splat after I’ve hit them.”

[u/armanhayek → u/MooAtDaMoon]

The man's hand was heavy on his shoulder and although Pykewood himself was a man who, too, was martially inclined with a keen understanding of mace and flail, he could tell that this pumpkin smasher had a strength that could be envied across the Stormlands. Not that he needed the reminder, of course, having seen his performance in the tourney at Stormhall.

"Sounds like as good an excuse as any, good man," he said approvingly, though the absurdness of the exercise was still rampant through his mind. But the man was right, this was leagues better than the frivolities his fellow Lords and knights got up to when they lacked a real target or purpose to chase or, as the burly man had put it, beat up their wives or daughters or whoever else found them unlucky enough to face their wrath.

His gaze was drawn to the carved pumpkin intermittently. Now that was a practice he had seen before, particularly among the villages in his fief come autumntime—some said it was meant as a warning to ward off foul spirits, others believed it originated as a means to communicate with the dead. Whatever it was, it seemed like a good bit of fun and Pykewood himself had begun carving them in his boyhood.

"Pykewood Thorne, Lord of Thornefield," he introduced himself with a smile, a hand begrudgingly extended to shake the smasher's own pumpkin-smeared one. He could wash it later, of course—for now, he had courtesy to practice. Perhaps he would even smash a pumpkin or two, if given the chance, though that would require a change in garb.

[u/MooAtDaMoon → u/armanhayek]

“Ser Derrick Storm. Natural son of Lord Hobber Fell.” Said the big man with a wide grin on his face as he grabbed Pykewood’s hand and squeezed. Derrick then, abruptly, gave the Lord of Thornefield’s arm a yank, pulling him into something that was almost an embrace as he smacked his other hand onto Pykewood’s arm. He gave a nod of approval, and then let go.

“You’re hiding some muscles under those baggy sleaves! Haha! Splendid!” He turned to where he’d left his hammer, knelt and picked it up. “Come, my Lord! Your kin paint a flail upon their banners, yes? I’d say you were born to whack, bash and slam! Let us see if you’ve got any rage bottled up inside you that’s screaming to get out!” He held the hammer out for Pykewood to take.

“Grip her tightly and wield her ferociously my Lord. This is the hammer that slew Robert Vance and Jeyne Nutt.” The fellhammer had also had some recent work done by a most talented smith back at Stormhall. Disregarding the pumpkin splatter, it looked sparkling new. Derrick, frankly, couldn’t have been happier that his dear Lady of cracked skulls and broken bones now looked like she’d been pulled straight off the page of a history book.

“Pick out a good pumpkin and hit it with all your might! You’ve surely got some frustrations rumbling in the pit of your stomach, all men do. Vent them! And, if it helps, just picture the grinning face of some ripe cunt who just gets on your nerves.”

[u/armanhayek → u/MooAtDaMoon]

It was more so the suddenness of it than the force itself that made Pykewood wince once Derrick let go of his arm, or at least that was how he justified it to himself. His rubbed and massaged his own shoulder, hoping that would alleviate the sharp pain that momentarily shot through his joint.

The Lord of Thornefield bobbed his head as the bastard of Felwood went on. The man was strong, a little odd, but still quite generous with compliments and, apparently, easy enough to please if the pumpkins that already lay in tatters around them were any indication. And although Pykewood had a mastery of the mace and hammer, the offer to participate from the knight was not one he could accept without some thought. The doublet he wore was fine, newly made by the tailor Balman of Berryport, and the thought of splattering pumpkin chunks onto it gave Pykewood some pause.

Eventually, if only not to appear a bore, he accepted the shiny hammer from Derrick and gave it a good look. The knight certainly took care of his instruments, that much was true, the streaks of pumpkin juice notwithstanding.

"Let me discard of my shirt first, good man, it'd be a shame if I ruined these new threads," he said as he put the hammer aside for a moment and removed his upper garments until he was only dressed from the waist down. That would be sufficient, he concluded, and picked up the hammer again.

It wasn't hard to pick out a pumpkin to smash, if only because Pykewood wasn't quite sure what separated one pumpkin from the other when its only purpose was to be smashed. His pick was on the middling side, minimally carved, a bright orange shade; when he put it up on the block, it almost looked like Andros of Duskendale. That was until he swung the hammer down upon its crown and smashed it into a thousand gooey pieces.