[ He didn’t linger in the church long. The chapel itself served as nothing but temporary shelter from the bitter cold. Roose was no stranger to the cold and had in fact experienced the bitter loathing of many winters in his lifetime. The only difference being that the North was familiar territory. He knew its layout and terrain like the back of his own hand. Here? Well—this place, Norfinbury, had become something of a irritatingly tiresome mystery.
And this chapel? Yet another redundant riddle that he didn’t have the time or desire to solve. The various saints appeared to be nothing more than nameless lords and ladies of a past he’d never known. Insignificant and far from divine. No, the only use for this chapel was its potential for carrying any sort of useful supplies. As a Bolton, Roose felt practically naked without his blade. It was practically an extension of himself. A tool that created the symbol of their house: the flayed man.
However, he quickly realized that the chances of finding a blade in some sort of, he presumed, holy house, was highly unlikely. Roose, looking as unimpressed as ever, let out a short, almost tired scoff. Then, with a swish of his cloak, he pivoted, marching down the aisle toward the doors of the chapel and thrusting them open with both gloved hands.
The bitter cold that hit him was almost welcome. He glanced down at the various bodies scattered along the streets, his expression hardly changing at the sight. One in particular lay face down, strewn over the chapel steps and made his way over to it. Roose gave it an unceremonious kick, flipping the corpse over. He was silent for a moment, tilting his head slightly, still unflinching at the sight of the lifeless stranger. ]
Whilst I came seeking resources, you likely came seeking sanctuary. At the very least, I suppose we share the bitter feeling of disappointment.
[ A pause. Then, still maintaining the very same deadpan. ]
Shared.
NETWORK; PROMPT 1
[ Okay, so it probably took Lord Bolton here a good couple of days or more to figure this fucking thing out, but somehow he’s managed. Throughout this process, he’s been forced to endure the Stark-level whinging and moaning of the other “citizens” of Norfinbury. That in addition to juvenilely tragic solutions to the problems all of them seem to be facing.
Anyway, he finally opts to make his voice heard. Giving one very helpful, very dry suggestion. It's hard to tell whether he's serious or not. He sounds serious. But. ]
Perhaps one of you should indulge us all with some form of report on what happens when one actually opens the door.
[ Preferably someone armed that can feasibly report back. But hey. Also wouldn't hurt to weed out the ignorantly stupid thorns from the gene pool while we're at it too. ]
Roose Bolton | GoT/ASoIaF
[ He didn’t linger in the church long. The chapel itself served as nothing but temporary shelter from the bitter cold. Roose was no stranger to the cold and had in fact experienced the bitter loathing of many winters in his lifetime. The only difference being that the North was familiar territory. He knew its layout and terrain like the back of his own hand. Here? Well—this place, Norfinbury, had become something of a irritatingly tiresome mystery.
And this chapel? Yet another redundant riddle that he didn’t have the time or desire to solve. The various saints appeared to be nothing more than nameless lords and ladies of a past he’d never known. Insignificant and far from divine. No, the only use for this chapel was its potential for carrying any sort of useful supplies. As a Bolton, Roose felt practically naked without his blade. It was practically an extension of himself. A tool that created the symbol of their house: the flayed man.
However, he quickly realized that the chances of finding a blade in some sort of, he presumed, holy house, was highly unlikely. Roose, looking as unimpressed as ever, let out a short, almost tired scoff. Then, with a swish of his cloak, he pivoted, marching down the aisle toward the doors of the chapel and thrusting them open with both gloved hands.
The bitter cold that hit him was almost welcome. He glanced down at the various bodies scattered along the streets, his expression hardly changing at the sight. One in particular lay face down, strewn over the chapel steps and made his way over to it. Roose gave it an unceremonious kick, flipping the corpse over. He was silent for a moment, tilting his head slightly, still unflinching at the sight of the lifeless stranger. ]
Whilst I came seeking resources, you likely came seeking sanctuary. At the very least, I suppose we share the bitter feeling of disappointment.
[ A pause. Then, still maintaining the very same deadpan. ]
Shared.
NETWORK; PROMPT 1
[ Okay, so it probably took Lord Bolton here a good couple of days or more to figure this fucking thing out, but somehow he’s managed. Throughout this process, he’s been forced to endure the Stark-level whinging and moaning of the other “citizens” of Norfinbury. That in addition to juvenilely tragic solutions to the problems all of them seem to be facing.
Anyway, he finally opts to make his voice heard. Giving one very helpful, very dry suggestion. It's hard to tell whether he's serious or not. He sounds serious. But. ]
Perhaps one of you should indulge us all with some form of report on what happens when one actually opens the door.
[ Preferably someone armed that can feasibly report back. But hey. Also wouldn't hurt to weed out the ignorantly stupid thorns from the gene pool while we're at it too. ]