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Narnia Plot : Post Four :
Aug. 5th, 2012 02:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
onlythefireThe trip to the tower was one best forgotten-- as was the terrifying flight of them on owl's backs. If anyone had chosen to stay behind, there could be little blame. Even though the owls were obviously having the minds of men, and even though they were taller than the Imp himself, that did not make the ride comfortable, safe, or pleasant.
When they arrived, the camp had been there so long it was almost a town-- a town in disrepair. The tent pegs were rusted into the ground, the banners so faded with age and grime they were indistinguishable, the rocks around the fire pit so blackened with years of torching they looked in danger of crumbling at a touch. The people scattered through the camp weren't human: there, a man with leaves instead of hair; there, a woman with airy wings sprouting from her shoulders; there, a dwarf sharpening a handful of arrowheads. Sandor looked around with a dubious expression; after being flown through the night in the clutches of a giant owl, not to mention the dozens of other talking beasts he'd encountered, there was almost nothing he wouldn't believe of this place, but it was hard to imagine them finding help here.
There was a rustling further ahead, and a pair of huge hunting hounds approached. "Greetings," one said. That hadn't gotten less strange, yet. "What brings you to Lord Sestertian's camp?"
Sandor wasn't going to be the one to step up and reply. He hadn't been following those bloody signs so much as trying to make good on his promise to keep Sansa safe from any undue Lannister attention. He wasn't here for the lamppost or whatever the rest of them were on about; he was here to make sure she got back to the station alive.
Someone else had answered the dog's question, and the second hound replied. "Lord Sestertian came to this forest seeking the White Hart. He vowed not to return home until it was captured. That was some forty years ago." A murmur went through their small group; Sandor exchanged glances with the man beside him, who looked as startled to hear the dog's pronouncement as he was himself. "Until the Hart is caught, he cannot leave."
The alternate meaning of the hound's words sunk in; until the Hart was caught, they wouldn't be able to finish their task, which would mean another failure when they returned to the station. Sandor didn't much care about that either, but he knew the others probably did.
When they arrived, the camp had been there so long it was almost a town-- a town in disrepair. The tent pegs were rusted into the ground, the banners so faded with age and grime they were indistinguishable, the rocks around the fire pit so blackened with years of torching they looked in danger of crumbling at a touch. The people scattered through the camp weren't human: there, a man with leaves instead of hair; there, a woman with airy wings sprouting from her shoulders; there, a dwarf sharpening a handful of arrowheads. Sandor looked around with a dubious expression; after being flown through the night in the clutches of a giant owl, not to mention the dozens of other talking beasts he'd encountered, there was almost nothing he wouldn't believe of this place, but it was hard to imagine them finding help here.
There was a rustling further ahead, and a pair of huge hunting hounds approached. "Greetings," one said. That hadn't gotten less strange, yet. "What brings you to Lord Sestertian's camp?"
Sandor wasn't going to be the one to step up and reply. He hadn't been following those bloody signs so much as trying to make good on his promise to keep Sansa safe from any undue Lannister attention. He wasn't here for the lamppost or whatever the rest of them were on about; he was here to make sure she got back to the station alive.
Someone else had answered the dog's question, and the second hound replied. "Lord Sestertian came to this forest seeking the White Hart. He vowed not to return home until it was captured. That was some forty years ago." A murmur went through their small group; Sandor exchanged glances with the man beside him, who looked as startled to hear the dog's pronouncement as he was himself. "Until the Hart is caught, he cannot leave."
The alternate meaning of the hound's words sunk in; until the Hart was caught, they wouldn't be able to finish their task, which would mean another failure when they returned to the station. Sandor didn't much care about that either, but he knew the others probably did.