FIGHTING A BOAR ISN'T THE SAME AS FIGHTING A MAN, YOU TWAT. ANY STUPID WHORE WITH A KITCHEN KNIFE CAN MANAGE A BOAR.
Except Robert Baratheon, apparently, but fuck him. Who cares about the king of wine and swine anymore? His wife surely doesn't, and the remaining Starks hardly knew the man for anything but a drunk.
At any rate, he hardly waits for Wrench to lay a hand on the blade before he's already turning and stomping right back out again, ducking his head on his way through the threshold so as to not crack it on the slightly too short framing. He expects Wrench to follow, and doesn't so much as glance back to make sure of it.
Solvunn is not a particularly militaristic faction, and their options for training grounds leave something to be desired. It's alright, they don't need much, he's hardly preparing a battalion of gold cloaks here. He leads them instead to what surely must have been a goat pen or something — a wide circle of grass fenced off and separated, so pedestrians don't wander into the line of fire and take a bruise to the face from a wayward blow. There he stands, his own blunted training blade hanging lazily from one hand as he waits for Wrench to follow in.
no subject
Except Robert Baratheon, apparently, but fuck him. Who cares about the king of wine and swine anymore? His wife surely doesn't, and the remaining Starks hardly knew the man for anything but a drunk.
At any rate, he hardly waits for Wrench to lay a hand on the blade before he's already turning and stomping right back out again, ducking his head on his way through the threshold so as to not crack it on the slightly too short framing. He expects Wrench to follow, and doesn't so much as glance back to make sure of it.
Solvunn is not a particularly militaristic faction, and their options for training grounds leave something to be desired. It's alright, they don't need much, he's hardly preparing a battalion of gold cloaks here. He leads them instead to what surely must have been a goat pen or something — a wide circle of grass fenced off and separated, so pedestrians don't wander into the line of fire and take a bruise to the face from a wayward blow. There he stands, his own blunted training blade hanging lazily from one hand as he waits for Wrench to follow in.