| A Bear's Claws |
| Summary: | The two Mormont sisters' usual bickering goes awry. |
| Date: | Date of play (11/04/121) |
| Related: | None |
| Players: |
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The morning sun has just reached the top of the builngs' roof in the Appletree Wynd, Lady Ulyka Mormont's mood has just reached the bottom. Tiny driplets of salty sweat glisten on her forehead while she swings the blunt steel in her hands. Obviously neither her leathery pants, nor her quilted shirt are clothes she feels most comfortable in, even if they seem to flatter the movements of her muscular body by far more than the lilac linnen that is her coice of preference.
"It has been an hour now. Can we stop for today? I highly doubt that I have to protect anyone from the Wildlings in this bloody heat," she says to her sister, lowering her sword.
"We're not training so you can defend against Wildlings today, but tomorrow." Still, Maera sighs and lowers her own practice sword, "You can have a break." Then there's another sigh followed by, "You know, Ulyka, there are plenty of girls who would envy your position. Girls who are forced to wear gowns, and forced into marriages they have no choice in." She lets out a disgusted noise, and throws her practice sword into the bucket where they are kept, "You just take everything for granted, don't you?"
Heedlessly Ulyka drops practice sword on the grass and walks over to her skin of water hanging at the stable's door. She takes a deep gulp, then another one before brushing a sweaty wisp of hair off her forhead and answering in her usually, slightly scathingly voice. "It is not all bad, Maera. There is a reason why men are taught to use the sword and women to use the needle. Maybe we are more gentle, easier to cry and to be tempted."
With the last words her dark eyes meet those of her sister.
"And maybe, as much as I train, I will never become good enough with my sowrd to be able to compete with anyone, but those with inferior weapons. My future husband will be scared by the muscles on my arms and. And I have still not bled," she adds in a bit of a lowered voice. "Maybe all the training disturbs my entrails. That's what two boys from the citadel said when they saw me and the Wulrus sparr."
"Give up, then." Maera blurts out suddenly. "Give up, and I'll find a Bolton or a Flint or a Umber for you to marry. Then you can turn your back on our people's traditions! Is that what you want?" Her murky blue-green eyes flash, and her usually monotone voice is raised in a growl. She's angry. "Go and be someone's broodmare, and do nothing useful or for yourself!" She points a finger at Ulyka's chest, "You insult me. You insult me, and you insult our sister's, and you insult our ancestoresses who had no choice but to pick up the sword and axe!"
"I insult you?" Ulyka's voice is lowered into iciness, while she attempts to push her sister's finger away. "You say it is me to insult our traditions? By the Bear's backside, neither the Old Gods, nor the new call it 'tradition' to let a sellsword in a maiden's bed if they are not to be wed. We are no Wildlings after all. Word is, our mother has never picked up axe and sword before she was made our father's broodmare, as you call it. Word is, that she has been happy. Not that I could ever tell myself, but… She and many other noblewomen from Winterfell to Lannisport became happy with their fate."
"Here. I pick up my sword," she says, reaching out for the blunt steel again "Let us show all of them our tradition, while keep calling us fools, hairy women and brutes behind our backs. Is that's what you want from me?"
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Maera=blades Vs Ulyka=blades
< Maera: Success Ulyka: Great Success
< Net Result: Ulyka wins - Solid Victory
"I am not just your sister. I am your Lady and Liege and you will /NOT/ question me! Your insubordination and disobedience will not be tolerated! How dare you lecture me on what I do!" She grabs up another training sword, and swings it at Ulyka's legs. However, she is so angry that she miscalculates her swipe, and the sword misses the girl by an inch. She tosses it down in a rage, and the wooden sword bounces off of the flagstones in the garden. She draws her dagger from her belt, and sighs, "This will hurt me more than it will you." And then…
She turns and goes inside. She heads for the stairs, presumably up into their room.
For an instance Ulyka just stands and stares at her sister. Reflexively she has jumped an inch away, as her sisters sword has swung after her, preemptively she has already wrinkled her mouth in pain. It takes her a heartbeat before she can get rid of the chains of surprise, another one before she is able to pick up both swords and go after Maera.
"Mae… Lady Mormont?" she asks, as she enters the door, the latter addressation filled mostly with concern, the pinch of mockery she may have added just a moment ago drowning in alarm. Nevertheless Ulyka is not a lady to show her concerns easily, her eyes remain fierce and daring, as well as the gesture with which she drops the steel, this time belonging to both of the sisters' practice swords on the wooden floor of their manse.
Maera goes up the stairs, and into their bedroom. She doesn't shut the door.
Ulyka follows, with furrowed brows and all her reluctant energy.
Maera comes to Ulyka's wardrobe, and throws it open. She takes out on of the girl's lavender gowns, and slashes at it with her knife! The fabric rends, and she uses her hands to tear it more.
"Maera, no!" an outcry rushes out of the girl's throat, higher, more piercing and way more desperate than anything the girl has uttered since both of them have left their home in the North.
"No!" she howls as though the linnen was not an attire but her very limbs. Then she urges forth, trying her best to get hold of her beloved gown and rescue it from its recless torturer.
Maera struggles against her sister for a moment when she tries to pull the garment from her, but Ulyka's attempt to save her gown only ruins it further. She releases it and slams the wardrobe shut. Turning around, she points to the bed. "Sit." She commands with a point of her finger, her tone as harsh as when she barks orders at men.
In utter terror Ulyka stares at the frayed linnen in her hands. In utter wrath she looks at her sister's face. Maera's single word, as sharp as it is, don't seem to be able to cross the veils of her fury.
Now it is her to growl, even to bare her teeth like a wild animal and to jump at her sister.
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Maera=brawl Vs Ulyka=brawl
< Maera: Good Success Ulyka: Failure
< Net Result: Maera wins - Solid Victory
As fierce as Ulyka is, Maera is older, stronger, and better-trained. She easily sidesteps the girl as she charges her, and turns quickly in an attempt to grab a hold of Ulyka's hand, and use the girl's momentum to throw her into the bed.
<FS3> Opposed Roll — Maera=brawl Vs Ulyka=brawl
< Maera: Great Success Ulyka: Good Success
< Net Result: Maera wins - Marginal Victory
The younger Mormont girl tries her best to withstand, ever muscle of her body tries to work against her sister's charge, yet still they fail. There she lies, breathing heavily, the veils of fury already making way for the salty veils of defeat conquering her eyes. Again she struggles to withstand, this time with an ounce more of success. Merely she manages to keep her tears in reins.
Maera breathes hard. She's not overly worked, but the blood is still coursing in her veins, "Ulyka, I don't want to have to do it, but I swear by the Old Gods and the New if you keep pushing me I will beat you!"
The fierce beast that has taken over seems to have vanished. Ulyka Mormont finally gives in, her body becoming limb and her mien softening from fury into despair. "How could you do that to me?" she asks, her voice now a bit hoarse a lot forlorn.
"Because you've become a demanding, mouthy little brat, and I'm not having it anymore." Maera says with a shrug, her voice returning to it's usual monotone. "We are not a rich house. I'm done with spoiling you. It's done nothing but cause me grief. You are a woman of Bear Island, and you will act it. No more southern fashion or hairstyles. Perhaps when you've proven to me you are worthy of a good gown we can have another made, but I see no reason to give an ungrateful, spoiled child anything."
Another reluctant tear crosses the younger sister's reddened cheeks. Her words, on the other hand, have completely dried up. Dishevelled, scant of breath and defeated she presses herself into the pillow. Her sobs are muffled, one of her hand still clings to a shred of lilac linnen.