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As far as Wrench can tell, belief has always been a useless concept. Nothing has ever been more or less so simply because he believed in it. That doesn't mean, however, that religion has played no part in the man's life to date. True, he's experienced it only tertiarily -- first through the eyes of his partner Grady's grandmother and later through Hanzee. And maybe he could have learned to appreciate the culture and the community and the ritual of it all if he'd been given enough time, but mostly what Wrench has come to learn is that it, like everything else in life, is transactional.

Give and take. A price and a reward. Do for me and I'll do for you. It may reduce the whims of the Gods to something profoundly human, but at least it's comprehensible. And Wrench knows what he's meant to do. It's easier when the expectations are clear.

Since arriving at Solvunn he's met men who have claimed to be Gods in their own right, and Gods who have claimed to be women. Maybe they're all liars or maybe it's all true. The simple fact is that it's easy enough to do what he's been asked. It gives Wrench purpose and if it grants him a bit of protection, all the better.

He deposits what he's brought into the untarnished basin in the middle of the spiraling grove and wipes his hands clean of blood. He's still crouched when the message comes through. Wrench would be a lot more startled by it if he didn't recognize the handwriting. Something in his expression shifts from anger to wariness to amusement and he stands.

Didn't peg you for a voyeur either, but here we are. Or here I am. Where the hell are you?

For as large of a man as he is, Sandor's always been surprisingly graceful. He moves lightly, doesn't make much noise, doesn't disturb the environment around him unless he means to. It shouldn't be so easy for him to go unnoticed, but often it is. Probably a little easier here, with Wrench occupied and Sandor's footsteps largely rendered irrelevant.

Watching's what he does. Standing silent in the background and just observing had been one of the most significant aspects of his job as a Kingsguard, and it's an easy habit to fall back into. He is, in many ways, very much a voyeur.

Fun as it might be to fuck with the guy, his answer comes after only a couple of silent seconds.

TURN AROUND, YOU NANCE.

He shifts vaguely in his stance against the tree, just enough to draw a little more attention to himself with the movement. Nothing so cheerful as a wave, of course — it's a half of a nod at best, if you're feeling charitable.

It's a misstep on Wrench's part, the kind that might've cost him his life if anyone here were gunning for it. He's spent the last decade of his life fending for himself and laying low. Only once or twice has he gotten sloppy enough that it's nearly cost him his freedom, which is better odds than the danger he faced daily when he was working for Fargo. Still, he knows it only takes one slip-up. One tiny mistake, enough for a clear shot, and it's over in an instant. Sandor might not have reason but he doesn't seem like the type to need it, as far as Wrench is concerned. This ought to teach him to be more careful.

He doesn't turn around immediately, mostly because he's loath to appear like the other man can give him any kind of command. Wrench spares a moment to straighten out the Darkwolf fur he's wrapped around his shoulders. Sandor can wait a few seconds for him to finish preening before he finally faces the man. When he does, the corner of his mouth edges up in a half-smirk.

Aw, were you looking out for me? He gestures vaguely in the direction of the man's sword.

Can't hold it against him, really. These woods are a big place. One man can't see everything all the time, not without an extra set of eyes at the back of his head. Sandor's spent the past couple of years picking his way through the wilderness trying not to draw attention to himself. It's no testament to any skill Wrench may or may not have, if you ask him — which is probably the kindest he'll ever be about anything, and therefor not something he'd actually say out loud.

He rolls his eyes faintly at the accusation.

BET YOU'D LIKE THAT.

Which is, of course, a pleasant, less than subtle insinuation that Wrench might want to play with his sword, if you catch his meaning. But no, he wasn't actually looking for the man. Call it a lucky stumble.

WHICH GOD ARE YOU BLOODYING YOUR HANDS FOR? WHAT MAKES THEM SO SPECIAL?

He is, admittedly, a touch curious. Not so much about the gods here in general, but rather about Wrench's interest in them. What is it about this one that's catching the man's favor? He can't say he'd personally trust one as far as he could throw them, he can't imagine what could inspire that sort of devotion in someone as new here as he is.

The greatest swordsman in all of Solvunn, come to protect me? Wrench lets the implication hang. Those words hover, tangible and looping in a casual script. For a moment it doesn't look like he'll add any more, but of course he does. Probably the only swordsman in Solvunn.

The questions lead him to pay a lingering glance at the shrine. By this late in the season, the Offering Grove has started to give up much of the fruit it bore just a few short months ago. The leaves have transformed and mostly fallen, leaving the circular pathway a little less of a lush, arboreal mystery. There are few signs remaining of the skirmish that took place here, save for some snapped branches and the very furs that Wrench has to keep his shoulders warm.

He can't fault the man his questions; from the state of the shrine Wrench must look truly devoted. But he doesn't feel that sense of fidelity that Sandor's accusing him of, so he shrugs his shoulders and stalks in the man's direction. Even if their communication doesn't require proximity, he's not eager to linger among the blood and the entrails. Maybe the God will come or maybe scavenging birds will find it first. Either way, he'd rather not be around when it happens.

Who'd you swing that sword for before you came here? Were they special?

If you squint, he might look faintly amused at that accusation — the greatest swordsman in all of Solvunn. He couldn't say whether or not it was even remotely true. He's hardly the most social sort, he hasn't met all the swordsmen in Solvunn. Hasn't even met all the Summoned in Solvunn, and it's not like there's more than a handful of them to be meeting. Of the few he's meet, though, he can't deny most of them don't look to be the steel-wielding type.

He's in a good mood today. More or less. As good of a mood as he's ever in. Claire's been healing his leg, so the stiffness is nearly all but gone. Most of his wounds from his near-death experience have healed at this point. The townsfolk here seem to appreciate the amount of labor he does for them, because they greet him with a warmth he never received back in Westeros. Maybe it's all these things together that leave him somewhat chattier than usual. Willing to indulge in a proper dialogue, rather than shutting it down at the pass.

So he answers with thusfar unusual honesty.

DEPENDS ON WHO YOU ASK. THEY CERTAINLY THOUGHT THEY WERE.

Can he read into the disdain there, given it's written in inflectionless text? Maybe the downturn to Sandor's lips help pass the sentiment along. As soon as Wrench is in proximity, he shifts into motion too, a slow ambling walk he obviously expects the other man to join him in. No sense standing around here. Might as well make their way back to some place with wine. While they meander, perhaps surprisingly, he elaborates.

I WAS A KINGSGUARD AND THE SWORN SHIELD FOR JOFFREY BARATHEON, KING OF THE ANDALS AND THE FIRST MEN, LORD OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS, PROTECTOR OF THE REALM, AND ALL THAT OTHER HORSESHIT. HE WAS A RIGHT LITTLE CUNT. THE ONLY THING THAT MADE HIM SPECIAL WAS SITTING ON A FANCY CHAIR.

Truth be told, Wrench isn't expecting much of an answer. Rather, he's anticipating that any response will be delivered in the form of some physicality -- maybe a shove into the nearest barren tree trunk, or a smack on the back of the head. At the absolute best, he expects that Sandor might generously share his middle finger. The earnest explanation is disarming.

He falls into step with Sandor. Or rather, as close as he ever seems to get. No matter who he's walking with, Wrench seems to want to remain a half-pace behind them. Whether it's to ensure they stay in his line of sight or to guard their back, it's not easy to tell. Not everyone takes kindly to the man hovering like a shadow, but the small overlap is hardly enough that one might notice when Wrench doesn't seem all that concerned with being quiet. Leaves crunch and the errant branch snaps underfoot as he walks out of the grove, considering what kind of place Sandor must have come from and trying not to compare it to the stories of knights and kings he's read before.

Cunt or not, you did your job. Did it well, I bet?

I was someone's muscle too. He called himself Moses, but I knew him before that name. I didn't do as good of a job, though. He's long dead.

Did it well; Sandor pulls a face, something not quite a grimace, not quite a sneer. It falls roughly in between the two, equal parts disdainful at himself and disparaging of the King in one go. It's a matter of both pride and shame that he turned on his masters. Spent too long being a loyal hound to fuckers that didn't deserve it. To be fair, shit like that's exactly the reason he swore no oaths. If reality were like the songs or the stories, he'd have taken his vows and there'd be no greater dishonor than his desertion. But then, if it were a song, he'd never have had a reason to desert in the first place.

He's hardly surprised to learn that Wrench was a guard. Might be from different worlds, but some habits — such as falling into line right behind his shoulder, for example — transcend these boundaries and become a constant. So long as there are men, there are killers, and people who hire other killers to protect themselves from them.

Something viciously wry colors Sandor's face, and the smirk he shoots briefly Wrench's direction.

I DID IT WELL UNTIL I DIDN'T ANYMORE. TOLD HIM TO GO FUCK HIMSELF. HE'S LONG DEAD, TOO, AND THE WORLD'S A BETTER PLACE FOR IT.

It's the kind of revenge story Wrench can appreciate even if he can't relate to. By the time he finally died, Moses had become something unrecognizable to the tall man who served him. A gluttonous, contemptible shell of his former self. But then again, Moses had always been a mask for the man Wrench thought he knew better than most. It didn't mean the man deserved to die. No man deserves to die any more than they deserve to live, as far as Wrench is concerned. Death is merely an inevitability. If someone doesn't help a person on their way to it, something else will soon enough.

And now what's left for you? What do you do with yourself when your service is no longer needed?

Maybe it's obvious by now that Wrench is avoiding the question about the God, or maybe he's answered it in all of his questioning. Some of the other Summoned might consider him unanchored. Since his arrival, Wrench hasn't tried very hard to find a place to call home. Apart from what's useful to him in any given moment, he hasn't concerned himself with possessions. If someone were to ask him the same question he's just posed to Sandor, he might not have an answer.

And isn't that a question? What is left for him? Realistically, after leaving King's Landing he could've done whatever the fuck he wanted. Could've gone to Bravos, settled down as a sell sword, lived at a brothel, fucked his share of whores and downed his share of wine. He could've found a little homestead and tried his hand at farming. Could've fucked off and never seen a drop of blood again for the rest of his days.

But what had he done instead? Immediately gathered up a Stark girl and took it upon himself to escort her home, under the guise of making a quick penny selling her back to her family. As though any amount of coin was worth the trouble of carrying a Stark across Lannister territory in the middle of a fucking war.

At length, he finally answers;

FIND SOMEONE ELSE WORTH SERVING.

He shoots Wrench a sideways look, studious, considering.

IS THAT WHAT YOU'VE DONE?

In other words, yes, Wrench had rather been answering about his god through his return-fire questions, in some ways. Or at the very least, the diverted conversation wasn't so far from the original point that it was hard to tie right back to it. The unanswered portion is: what makes this god worthy?

Not one week back Wrench was traipsing a volcanic landscape and watching his fellow Summoned work together in an effort to heal draconic hatchlings. He ought to know by now that this place is nothing like the world he came from. For some reason, though, he still expects it to operate by the same rules. Wrench still believes that if anyone were to discover the things he did before coming to this place, he'd be the next corpse burned to ash in the middle of the commune. Despite the kinds of lives others have managed to create for themselves here in Solvunn, his own feels finite and limited. He can scarcely begin to imagine what else he could do for himself when there are no options available to him back home. Just subsist. Stay on the run and avoid capture. Never let yourself need to come up for air.

Don't ever let anyone tell you you're not every bit as smart as you look.

He stalls his next step, just in case Sandor decides to take a swing at him for that. It puts Wrench an extra pace behind the taller man, but he's quick to catch back up when he's sure any retribution for the joke won't be overly-painful.

Maybe I'm just curious. They say magic in this place comes from the Gods, but it seems like everyone except me arrived already magical.

Shocking though it may be, he does not actually make to swing at Wrench. He's a soldier, he's spent the better part of his life surrounded by other soldiers. The company he keeps is crass and full of assholes. If he couldn't take a joke about himself made by people he's decided are more or less worth tolerating, he'd have been fucked a long time ago.

All he does is shoot Wrench a flat, unimpressed look that quite clearly reads: shut the fuck up, you cunt.

In a way, it's almost a shame that he was brought here before he had the chance to get to know Thoros better. Wrench might remind him of the bald cocksucker a little. If he's going to give the man shit for anything, it would be for being a bloody coward and falling back a step in the first place. Take your licks like a man, you bloody girl.

I THOUGHT THE MAGIC CAME FROM THAT BIG FUCKING ROCK EVERYONE'S ALWAYS GOING ON ABOUT?

Pain -- real, actual pain -- has never been much of a deterrent for Wrench. He might jerk and flinch away like he's trying to incite Sandor into some kind of slap-fight, but he's never been one to cower or run in the opposite direction from the real thing. Like the towering man, his body bears plenty of signs of the violence that's plagued the better part of his existence. But unlike Sandor, Wrench has the ability to keep most of that hidden. It's likely that anyone who's spent any amount of time looking at the man has probably already reached the conclusion there's something rough and dangerous about him, but maybe Wrench isn't as far from passing for normal as he's always thought himself to be.

Rock?

Or maybe he's a complete fool.

It's probably no surprise that he's missed some of the finer details of the history that surrounds this place. For anyone else, that might be hard to do. The Summoned have held plenty of meetings and spent countless hours debating it. Various townspeople proclaim it at every opportunity. But what information Wrench has gathered has been particularly limited.

We were brought here to fight over a rock?

He kind of missed his welcome speech.

At this, Sandor does actually stop in his tracks to stare at the guy for one long, absurd moment. By his count, Wrench has been here near two months longer than Sandor has at least. For him not to have picked up on this yet is just bloody absurd.

Eventually, he lets out one sharp bark of a laugh — and with every bit of sass his soul can possibly manage:

OH, DON'T LET ANYONE TELL YOU YOU'RE NOT EVERY BIT AS SMART AS YOU LOOK EITHER, YOU GINGER FUCK. HOW FUCKING LONG HAVE YOU BEEN HERE?

What an absolutely delightful turn-about. Thank you for giving him this opportunity to return fire less than two sentences later.

AYE, WE'RE WARRING OVER A BIG BLOODY ROCK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CONTINENT. I DON'T SUPPOSE YOUR NEW GOD HAS ANY INPUT ON THAT?

Well, maybe turnabout's fair play after all. Wrench doesn't roll his eyes at that. He doesn't give Sandor the satisfaction of proving that he realizes his own words have been used against him. Instead, Wrench pretends to preen. He ruffles a hand through his overgrown, unwashed curls and stands a little prouder. Puckers his lips as though the man has really paid him some kind of a compliment.

Not long enough to have taught everyone sign language just yet.

It's evident he thinks his misunderstanding is justified, but Wrench doesn't seem bitter. On the whole, he appears disinterested in this new revelation. If better understanding the source of the magic changes his life in some discernible way, he doesn't know how. Unless the rock is unlocking some magic portal back home, Wrench doesn't know how much attention it deserves to be paid. Even if it were he's not yet convinced he'd have reason to step back through the door.

I don't know. We mostly just walk hand-in-hand by the water. I guess I could ask her the next time I see her.

This time he pitches his eyes so far backward his irises practically disappear.

Has anyone ever told you you're an annoying fucker, Wrench? If not, maybe they ought to start. He shakes his head, fatigue on his features, and peels his eyes away to settle them off into the distance again. Down the path, the taverns and shops begin to creep into view. It's the former he means to lead them to, because he's been sober all day and if he's going to keep putting up with this cunt he's going to need a drink. Walk hand-in-hand by the water, he says.

FUCK OFF.

He doesn't believe for a second any god would deign to set foot down here on solid earth and take a stroll with any mortal peasants. They surely never did anything of the sort back where he's from — not even for those bloody lunatics that follow the Lord of Light, for all the hands-on miracles he seems to perform for them.

At any rate, he seems content enough to let Wrench carry on without answering the question proper. If he wants to keep his reasons to himself, if he wants to be cagey about his new worship habits, so be it. Maybe he just picked one at random. Not like it's any of Sandor's fucking business anyway. He can't be arsed to push any harder for a reason that rings genuine.

It may seem by his non-answers that Wrench is trying to craft every excuse to shut down Sandor's present line of questioning, but this is exactly what he doesn't want. When the man offers that tired expression of finality, it feels in part like a loss. From a half-step behind the tall swordsman, Wrench's shoulders sag. He sucks in a breath and holds it in his lungs, waiting in anticipation of something more. A change in the direction of the conversation, or even a more specific insult about the kind of man Sandor considers him to be. It doesn't come. Instead, the scene around them remains still and silent as they continue to trudge back toward civilization.

Well, not entirely silent. Eventually -- though longer than one might expect -- Wrench blows out that lungful of air in an unhappy-sounding sigh. He steps over the fallen brush with less concern for the twigs he snaps underfoot. His presence gets louder. It's a conversation that he's wanted to incite, and he would have taken it in any form. Maybe he's better-practiced at the abrasive, challenging kind. Maybe he's found it an easier tool for keeping people talking. But whether intentionally or not, Sandor's stumbled on the best defense he possibly could have: silence.

What were you doing in the grove? He finally needles. You pay this much attention to everyone?

Wrench is in for a rather miserable time of it if he gets disheartened by answers that seem to shut him down. That's a good fifty percent of any given interaction with Sandor, who'd shut down any sentient being from a talking mouse to a talking god if he had so much as the slightest inclination. If he notices the other man's shoulders sag, or his posture slump, he doesn't remotely acknowledge it.

They trudge along, with Wrench stomping his way through the underbrush with a herd of cattle, earning an absent but pointed look from his walking companion when his foot snaps down on a broken branch. It reads really, must you? Not that it hardly matters, they're not stalking anything, it's just a reflex to take any possible opportunity to express his annoyance at literally anything.

NO, JUST YOU. YOU'RE SPECIAL.

The sarcasm here is so profound, it's practically tangible. Just in case it still somehow flies over Wrench's head, though, he adds on:

YOU OWN THE FUCKING GROVE NOW OR SOMETHING? SEEMS PUBLIC ENOUGH TO ME.

The truth of it is less interesting than it might seem. He'd stumbled across Wanda the other day at a deeper shrine, making her own offerings. She's made a few valid points about understanding the locals, about understanding their habits. Knowing the culture, and the gods they worship. He's got nary a scrap of fucking faith himself, but it pays to know the world around him. This lot, these villagers, seem obsessed with the fuckers — more so than the typical pious folk where he's from. Seeing Summoned, who aren't native to this world, falling into similar worship habits? It's... curious.

Didn’t I tell you I was elected king of the grove? It happened just before you got here. Unanimous vote and everything.

At least Sandor doesn’t have the corner market on sarcasm. Wrench grins at him when he earns a backwards glance from the other man, exaggerating his smile to reveal the slight gap between his two front teeth. It manages to make him look a whole lot more boyish than he’d generally abide, but Wrench has to suspect that Sandor makes everyone look like an overgrown child by comparison. Sure, there’s something about his face that his build can’t quite conceal. Something sad and almost puppylike. But he imagines Sandor would be loath to hear as much.

The man’s asked enough questions now that maybe at least one of them deserves an honest answer, though. Wrench walks a few more paces in silence, until they break through the swirling treeline and start to push away from the little sanctuary for the gods.

I killed a couple of creatures in there a few months back. I guess some kind of a rift opened? Like what brought us here, maybe, except this time it was dragons and wolves and glowing skeletons.

Anyway, I protected the shrine. Wasn’t trying to, but it happened, and I guess the god liked it.

PEOPLE DON'T VOTE FOR KINGS, YOU BLOODY JACKANAPE

Comes the immediate answer, accompanied by another deep rolling of his eyes. If Kings were chosen by vote, they'd have gotten rid of that little shit Joffrey before he even finished his first week on the bloody throne. Beheading Ned Stark would've made sure of that.

Never, ever call him puppylike unless you want a fist to the throat, Wrench. Even if he does look a bit like a basset hound, as his nickname rather implies.

He does stop in his tracks to level Wrench with an incredulous look when that explanation follows.

"Dragons," he echoes, forgetting for a moment to send it in brain-text. "You're telling me you protected that rock from dragons? The fuck you did."

That’s what made it so incredible. It was the first ever democratic election of a monarch. They said I was just so inspiring.

Is it clear that Wrench never paid much attention in history class? Oh well. He’s certain his insistence will make Sandor roll his eyes, and from a half-step behind the man comes a quiet, unintended smirking. It’s as if Wrench can’t keep his amusement to himself.

But when the man speaks instead, all humor drops. He pushes a bit forward, trying to reposition him to catch those words as they’re spoken. It’s a feature of being taken off-guard that Wrench even tries. At any other time he’d probably roll his eyes and insist Sandor find another way to communicate whatever he’s saying, but he’s caught up in the moment and in trailing the man back for a drink. That earns an added effort.

What, you know about dragons? I didn’t see them myself. Not that time.

Opinion changed fast, I guess. Went from killing dragons and things like it to trying to protect their eggs.

Sandor's flat, dead stare through the line of horseshit Wrench tries to sell him is absolutely unmoved. Does he know exactly what democracy is? Not entirely, though he can more or less piece together the context clues. It doesn't matter, he knows shit talk when he hears it, and he is Fully Unimpressed, thank you kindly.

AYE, I KNOW ABOUT DRAGONS. THEY USED TO KEEP THE SKULLS OF DRAGONS IN THE RED KEEP. YOU'D BE LUCKY TO MAKE HALF A SNACK FOR ONE, LET ALONE DEFEND YOUR BLOODY SHRINE FROM IT.

All the same, he can't help but privately agree — from what he's heard, from the things that happened just before they pulled him through, it's a hypocritical turn-around. Slaughtering the monsters threatening innocent lives, to then trying to save them. He can't say he understands, but he also can't say he's too interested in trying.

He sets off at a walk again, recovering his steps, striding purposefully toward the tavern.

HOW'D YOU KNOW YOUR GOD LIKED IT, ANYWAY? THEY GIVE YOU A SIGN OR A WRITTEN FUCKING PROMISSORY NOTE OR SOMETHING?

It’s not like Wrench to pass judgment on the whims of others. Rather, it isn’t in his nature to try too hard to assert his own opinion on what other people do. He largely considers it none of his business. If there’s a need for him to interject, someone else will make that judgment call for him, and by that point it won’t matter what the person has to say for themselves anyway. But want of conversation makes him a little more earnest, and confusion over the political whims that govern this place leaves him wondering how others interpret the choices they’re given. He’s spoken to Wanda about it a bit, but he has to admit that the woman seems a world away from himself.

Honorable, that is. Deeply concerned with the wellbeing of others. Self-sacrificial. All things that Wrench doesn’t see in himself.

It wasn’t a dragon I killed. They were something called darkhounds. Overgrown wolves with acid in their spit.

An old lady told me.

Sandor sees some of the same things in Wanda. Maybe not so much with the self-sacrifice and the honor, but he can fully see the deep concern for the wellbeing of strangers. She takes initiative in caring for the Summoned, in bringing them together. She seems like she has a purpose, she seems sure of herself, she seems driven. She has the necessary qualities and breeding of a leader, and the right amount of kindness that Sandor feels fine enough falling into line behind her.

He wonders if she knows that if she chose to make a stand, chose to take something by force, she'd have at least two loyal, relatively strong henchmen to help her take it. Wonders whether or not she'd use them. Whether or not she'd need to, considering the raw power of magic she's got under her control.

They reach the tavern. He pauses with his hand on the door to shoot Wrench a sideways look.

AN OLD LADY TOLD YOU?

Open | November

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