Tormund Giantsbane (Needs More Posts)
Jun 27, 2016 6:22:45 GMT
Terroan Storm and Brienne of Tarth like this
Post by tormund on Jun 27, 2016 6:22:45 GMT
CHARACTER NAME
Melikkeri
I. Canon Character or Original Role? Are They in the Wanted Ads:
- Canon, and no.
II. Allegiance/Loyalty of Character:
- Free Folk / Jon Snow
III. Romantic Interests (if any):
- Brienne of Tarth
IV. Current Location:
- The North
V. Occupation / Title:
- General in Jon Snow's army
VI. Face-Claim:
- Kristofer Hivju[
VII. Name the code word found in our Plot:
-
Hidden by Mel
VIII. Name any other characters you play here:
-
Sandor Clegane , Ramsay Bolton
IX. Do you have any questions? If so, please either state them here or contact the staff:
-
Nay
Tormund is a broad, giant man with a fearsome demeanor. He uses his strong demeanor as a tool in battle. He portrays a strength that is hard to match. A loyalty that is difficult to duplicate. He is a man of loyalty and respect. He is aware that his people's culture goes back for thousands of years. As such he is akin to keeping the tradition and culture. Therefore, on the oft time that an outsider occasionally wanders into his territory he will be cautious. It is here that he has grown up around his own kind enough to be wary. Outsiders are a difficult thing to comprehend. Although not many outsiders tend to wander beyond-the-wall; there is the oft time that someone will. Perhaps a member from another wildling tribe. On the off chance that a Crow stumbles into his kill sights he would not hesitate to erase them from this world. He is a ferocious and terrible fighter. A warrior that is born of the wildling fury and culture. Tormund possesses a great strength that adheres to a certain level of confidence. Even though he lacks in certain social skills his prowess in battle is often feared by some wildling tribesmen. Though the task of picking up arms against another wildling is something he cannot comprehend. Despite the various in-fighting done amongst warring clans. Tormund has a strong dislike for most of the in-fighting. However thanks to Mance Rayder's efforts to unite the North against a common enemy...
Tormund feels a bit better about the fighting. Though he knows the fighting will never stop among the free folk. He knows a bit about pride. Tormund is no stranger to letting his hubris get in the way. Especially when it comes to displaying his combat effectiveness. Most among his clan know how well he can wield a blade. However most also know about his lack in social skills. He often speaks loud, and makes open jests at others. He prefers to find the humor in the little and big things that constitute this world. This world that is full of evil and corrupted ideologies. Where he excels in being a good friend he lacks intensely in logic. He would prefer to pick up a battleaxe rather than talk things through. It is here that he is always ready for things to turn south. His intense demeanor always waiting for a fight. Even in negotiations about who gets to buy a quality roast from a vendor. Should the vendor look ill of Tormund's big unrelenting size. Tormund would not hesitate in resorting to violence. He loves the violence. As it is a part of the wildling culture. However much he would resort to the violence - he is still a very logical man. Deep down to the core the most visible thing is intimidation. He would consider talking things through to a certain extent. Though he is quick to draw the sword. It is here that he displays his affection existentially.
Should he draw his sword then it will be known that he doesn't particularly like that character. He is quick study however. Able to eye a person up and down and get a bead on who that person is. On the off-set he finds that he actually likes another person he will be open and make jests. It is his way of getting to know that person. He believes that his open jests are just a way of battering a person's defensibles. In hopes they will let their guard down. Though most men wouldn't ever let their guard down. Most often it results in undue violence. Tormund would still rather prefer to make jokes. Humor is the spice of life. As this world is often wrought with hatred. Tormund certainly has his own share of such animosity. He often lets it shine through inexplicably. It often gets him in trouble. Whereas he would fight back with no explanation at all. Should the need arise to pull steel and test the physical defensibles. He loves and thrives on the conflict. He finds the humor in conflict as well. Never letting the troubles or tragedies of the world bring him down. In order to lighten the load that this world often gives. He will often make up stories. Outlandish, and rhetorical stories that never have any meaning. Most people can pick up on the whimsical and unusual crudeness. Tormund lets people know in his stories that he can't be trifled with. Respectively.
Tormund is crude, brash, and loud. He plays nice but can drive a hard bargain. His loyal to a word even if his view on life is certainly unconventional. He knows how to play rough. But can often possess a softer side. Especially when it comes to the sanctity and preserving the integrity of his people. Ever since the death of Mance Rayder things have changed. Tormund has become a bit more serious. A little bit more of a contender in the theater of war that purges the continent. He knows the times for jokes is now over. With the talk of war along the horizon with the long-time nemesis of the free folks - the Crows are no longer the issue. He feels the pressure as the one that the free folk often look up to with Mance's passing. He is willing to take on the burdens. But is weary to be a leader of a population large and ancient. He feels he can never truly fill Mance's empty void. Never live up to his legend, his name, his memory. Though he continues to fight in his iconic vision. That the free folk would one day unite under the same flag. March together. Kill together. Dine together. Even if the idea was to unite the tribes for war. Tormund knows the time for absolute assimilation is the key to survival. For the Ancient Ones have awoken. He has seen their presence. The challenge they present. So he aligns with a Crow.
In order to secure survival for his people.
Tormund was born amongst the ice could crevasses of the great North. It is all he has ever known. Even as a young boy he had presented uncanny strength. Not in the physical sense. In spirit and emotion. His passion often being the driving force of his childhood. He would feel these feelings. Strange feelings. His mother had explained that humans are created to love other humans. But even then love is a fickle and tumultuous thing. One thing that a wildling really needs in order to survive is strength. Ever since the talk the young boy had grown fond of spiritual success. He would often find himself on the wrong end of the stick with the other boys. Fist fights would break out. As was a common thing among his tribe. Boys were a symbol of physical strength. They would fight over the smallest detail. From the way one looked at a fine young lady, to acquiring supper for the family for a night. Tormund realized at a young age that he loved conflict. In fact he thrived on creating conflict. He would often be rejected by the other boys and their circles. That didn't bother Tormund one little bit. For little boys who created circles to protect themselves numbers. Well, circles were a shape, and circles could be broken. Break a circle and the shape is incomplete. Tormund would often laugh at the way the others would huddle together swapping stories. Like little girls gossiping over a boy.
They paid him no mind, and he paid them none in return. They were just dumb children at the time. Children that would believe anything they were told. Especially stories about demons in the woods. An ancient race of unstoppable warriors that were conceived generations ago. To Tormund, however, it was just a thing. A story that was told to the children to keep them awake at night. As with all things in this life - things were just simply things. Things couldn't hurt or kill or maim. A man with a sword and a shield. Now that was a formidable sight. The things that go bump in the night were never a thing that troubled Tormund. However, he had always been a skeptical man. He knows that some things cannot be explained. Such as warlocks with blue lips that were sighted at one point or another. It was the concept of such an idea that was hilarious. Tall, lanky, men with blue lips. It didn't so much as give Tormund nightmares but gave him a new story to perceive. His stories were often lewd. He left no detail out. Even going so far as to marry a bear in order to survive the cold. He had met the tribe and fell in line with a clan of bears. He married the female bear in order to stay warm that night. Only realizing that the bear was the wife of a shaman. So he killed the shaman and consummated his marriage.
It was just a thing. Things couldn't hurt. No matter how weird or unusual. Stories were told to entertain or humor. Scare or frighten. Tormund had grown up finding the humor in most things. He had never experienced true combat with another human. However he would often hunt with some tribesmen to provide for their families. Whereas such unconventional stories were born. Men snuggling men to keep warm. Such as the hunting went on cold nights. Most stories were often too outlandish. Some members of his hunting party would stand up to Tormund. He would just laugh, HAR!, at the pettiness and move on. It was when his father went off to fight. That night their camp was overrun with Crows. Brothers in Black from the infamous Wall of Ice. Tormund picked up a sword and begun to help defend the settlement. He was at that point confident enough to swing one. Though the settlement was lost to the Crows many of the wildlings escaped. Including Tormund. His mother brought them to a much larger settlement that was run by a man named Mance Rayder. It was then that his mother went off to fight Crows. Neither his father or mother ever returned. As he came of age he wanted to help defend the free folk from the Crow's incursions. He joined with a band of men and spearwives to secure an area. They had been successful in wiping out the Crows stationed there. Taking the land for their own.
Tormund displayed great prowess in battle. Especially in beating back the vile Crows. So much so that Mance had taken an interest. The would be King-Beyond-The-Wall kept his a close eye on Tormund Giantsbane. As the years passed Tormund grew more proficient in his work. Often leaving no Crow alive during a scouting expedition. No sooner had Tormund joined Mance's own scouting party then Mance had taken him aside. The man told him of great plans that were being developed. That a war was coming. Just brewing on the horizon. Tormund was always ready to defend the wildling realm against intruders. Tormund was now in a circle. Something that he would never have dreamed. Albeit, being a part of something much greater than his owl little world gave Tormund a boost to confidence. He became a man that was a formidable ally. He never left Mance's side and would often participate in battle plans. Strategy sessions in locking down a certain valley. Tormund was soon becoming Mance's right hand. He would have it no other way. Almost looking up the man as a father figure. The man even treated him as if he were his own blood. In being a part of Mance's clan, Tormund grew stronger, more independent. He sired five children who now live among different clans in the free folk realm. He has gone on many missions for Mance. Even leading his own expeditions into the wild. His shared hatred for the Crow was growing. Until... cold.
The dead were waking. It was known widely among the tribes. And then a Crow walked into Mance's tent. And everything changed forever.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. The snow felt heavy underfoot. It was cold. Too bloody cold. That never stopped a wildling from chasing down his prey. A scouting party had been dispatched from a sleepy free folk town. It was an active staging area for such parties. Four bowmen, two swords, and a spearman were put together. In order to push back a Crow advance from The Wall. Well that had gone to shite. They were beset upon by the ugly bastards. Six of the Crows in total. One of the bowman started to fire letting arrows loose. He was lucky enough to catch one such runner in the leg. While the other scattered to flank. One helpless Crow lay in the snow, trying, feebly, to crawl away, leaving a hot steamy trail of blood. Tormund jumped to order as he pulled out his sword and charged forward. It was then that the spearman turned the spear end over end to parry a blow from a Crow on the right flank. It had turned to unorganized chaos. Better to end it quick, Tormund thought. He set himself on the Crow that was crawling like a little worm. He pushed the Crow on his back with the toe of his boot. His eyes were glazed over with pain. An arrow would do that. Tormund took a look at the leg. It was straight through. It missed a bone. HAR! Tormund let out a loud laugh. As the Crow looked up at the Giantsbane.
Tormund stood over the man with sword in hand. The Crow had begun to writhe in pain, gritting visibly. Looks like the little Crow got winged. Now it can't fly away to it's perch. Tell the others. Go on. Tell them. Tell your brother Crows that we are here. the Crow looked doubly confused. It did know it had an arrow through the leg, yes? Tormund batted his chest with a closed fist. Little Crow men! We are over here. One of yours seems to have been injured. Little Crows! when no response came Tormund looked back down. He gave the man a charming smile as the Crow continued to bleed. Tormund traced the blood streak back to the point of impact. The point where the man had fallen. He had left a messy indentation in the snow. His spearman was locked in a dance with another Crow. Tormund returned to his catch on the ground. By this time the Crow had drawn his blade, holding it up, defensibly. Tormund let his head fall back between his shoulders as he roared. As the Crow turned to the good leg, bracing himself, Tormund stood firm, watching. The Crow began to stand, wobbly at first, sword clutched in hand, fire in his eyes. That did not stop Tormund from finding this little man to be quite the little brave Crow. Tormund's eyes sparkled. He parried a swing from the Crow. Then another. And another. You are a weakling! Tormund said loudly, firmly.
The Crow grunted at took another swipe. This time Tormund stepped back as the swing missed altogether sending the Crow into the snow. HAR!" the Crow rolled over grimacing, looking up at the sky, with exhaust filling his body. Just kill me, you filth. Tormund eyed the man as he spoke his first words. But did not say a word. I heard you wildling filth were supposed to be good fighters. So far all you have done is take advantage of a cripple. that had done it. HAR! You admit that you are a crippled Crow. it was then that the Crow turned abruptly over and took another swing from his stomach. Tormund stepped back, kicking the sword out of the Crow's hand. I hear that the Crows are just as miserable fighters as they are lovers. How do you not keep women on that Wall o' yours? the Crow did not answer. Do you snuggle each other closely for warmth? Or is brotherly love forbidden? Forbidden brotherly love? the Crow cursed loudly as he grunted in pain. HAR! You are an unimpressive Crow. An unimpressive little man. Who cannot fight or love. What do you do then? by this the time it had seemed the Crow had given up. He lay on his back looking up at the clouds passing overhead. Tormund kicked the sword over. It skittered in the snow. Tormund said not a word. It took a moment for the Crow to acknowledge the sword. Pick it up, Crow.
All the humor had drained from Tormund's tone. The Crow made a scoff and continued to nap on the ground. You are as useless as my hairy ass crack. We will scale your giant wall of ice. Slaughter all you men in black. Then make love to your southern women. I hope the women are better at hand to hand combat. HAR! that did it. The Crow at once turned over scooping up the sword. He took a few hobbled one-legged jumps swiping furiously at Tormund. Who was forced to step back with each parry. Their sword locked and banged as steel met steel. The Crow was gaining strength. Tormund parried nonetheless until he found an opening. He snagged the wrist out of the air laying his own sword over the opposite soldier, holding the Crow's side arm out and away. Good job, Crow! Now try to kill me. If you can the Crow drew his head back and headbutted Tormund on the nose. Tormund grunted as he landed a hook punch to his gut. Both men fell backwards grunting in pain. The Crow fell back over, while Tormund stumbled a few steps back. Then the Crow was back on his feet and jumped splaying his arms out to the side. Tormund, wide eyed, caught the Crow in both arms, both men fell over to the snow, wrestling. They fumbled a bit as they searched for purchase. Both men grunting as they wrestled. It lasted for several minutes.
It was then that both men realized they were no longer armed. They separated and crawled for their swords. The Crow managed to get a knee and launched forward into the snow. Tormund scooped his up and turned. Just as the Crow lunged point first. Tormund parried, spun, and back handed the Crow hard. As Tormund came back around an arrow flew past him. It caught the Crow dead center and flew him off his feet. He crumpled in the snow. Little Crow could fight! Tormund panted loudly. HAR!
- Canon, and no.
II. Allegiance/Loyalty of Character:
- Free Folk / Jon Snow
III. Romantic Interests (if any):
- Brienne of Tarth
IV. Current Location:
- The North
V. Occupation / Title:
- General in Jon Snow's army
VI. Face-Claim:
- Kristofer Hivju[
VII. Name the code word found in our Plot:
-
Hidden by Mel
VIII. Name any other characters you play here:
-
Sandor Clegane , Ramsay Bolton
IX. Do you have any questions? If so, please either state them here or contact the staff:
-
Nay
PERSONALITY
Tormund is a broad, giant man with a fearsome demeanor. He uses his strong demeanor as a tool in battle. He portrays a strength that is hard to match. A loyalty that is difficult to duplicate. He is a man of loyalty and respect. He is aware that his people's culture goes back for thousands of years. As such he is akin to keeping the tradition and culture. Therefore, on the oft time that an outsider occasionally wanders into his territory he will be cautious. It is here that he has grown up around his own kind enough to be wary. Outsiders are a difficult thing to comprehend. Although not many outsiders tend to wander beyond-the-wall; there is the oft time that someone will. Perhaps a member from another wildling tribe. On the off chance that a Crow stumbles into his kill sights he would not hesitate to erase them from this world. He is a ferocious and terrible fighter. A warrior that is born of the wildling fury and culture. Tormund possesses a great strength that adheres to a certain level of confidence. Even though he lacks in certain social skills his prowess in battle is often feared by some wildling tribesmen. Though the task of picking up arms against another wildling is something he cannot comprehend. Despite the various in-fighting done amongst warring clans. Tormund has a strong dislike for most of the in-fighting. However thanks to Mance Rayder's efforts to unite the North against a common enemy...
Tormund feels a bit better about the fighting. Though he knows the fighting will never stop among the free folk. He knows a bit about pride. Tormund is no stranger to letting his hubris get in the way. Especially when it comes to displaying his combat effectiveness. Most among his clan know how well he can wield a blade. However most also know about his lack in social skills. He often speaks loud, and makes open jests at others. He prefers to find the humor in the little and big things that constitute this world. This world that is full of evil and corrupted ideologies. Where he excels in being a good friend he lacks intensely in logic. He would prefer to pick up a battleaxe rather than talk things through. It is here that he is always ready for things to turn south. His intense demeanor always waiting for a fight. Even in negotiations about who gets to buy a quality roast from a vendor. Should the vendor look ill of Tormund's big unrelenting size. Tormund would not hesitate in resorting to violence. He loves the violence. As it is a part of the wildling culture. However much he would resort to the violence - he is still a very logical man. Deep down to the core the most visible thing is intimidation. He would consider talking things through to a certain extent. Though he is quick to draw the sword. It is here that he displays his affection existentially.
Should he draw his sword then it will be known that he doesn't particularly like that character. He is quick study however. Able to eye a person up and down and get a bead on who that person is. On the off-set he finds that he actually likes another person he will be open and make jests. It is his way of getting to know that person. He believes that his open jests are just a way of battering a person's defensibles. In hopes they will let their guard down. Though most men wouldn't ever let their guard down. Most often it results in undue violence. Tormund would still rather prefer to make jokes. Humor is the spice of life. As this world is often wrought with hatred. Tormund certainly has his own share of such animosity. He often lets it shine through inexplicably. It often gets him in trouble. Whereas he would fight back with no explanation at all. Should the need arise to pull steel and test the physical defensibles. He loves and thrives on the conflict. He finds the humor in conflict as well. Never letting the troubles or tragedies of the world bring him down. In order to lighten the load that this world often gives. He will often make up stories. Outlandish, and rhetorical stories that never have any meaning. Most people can pick up on the whimsical and unusual crudeness. Tormund lets people know in his stories that he can't be trifled with. Respectively.
Tormund is crude, brash, and loud. He plays nice but can drive a hard bargain. His loyal to a word even if his view on life is certainly unconventional. He knows how to play rough. But can often possess a softer side. Especially when it comes to the sanctity and preserving the integrity of his people. Ever since the death of Mance Rayder things have changed. Tormund has become a bit more serious. A little bit more of a contender in the theater of war that purges the continent. He knows the times for jokes is now over. With the talk of war along the horizon with the long-time nemesis of the free folks - the Crows are no longer the issue. He feels the pressure as the one that the free folk often look up to with Mance's passing. He is willing to take on the burdens. But is weary to be a leader of a population large and ancient. He feels he can never truly fill Mance's empty void. Never live up to his legend, his name, his memory. Though he continues to fight in his iconic vision. That the free folk would one day unite under the same flag. March together. Kill together. Dine together. Even if the idea was to unite the tribes for war. Tormund knows the time for absolute assimilation is the key to survival. For the Ancient Ones have awoken. He has seen their presence. The challenge they present. So he aligns with a Crow.
In order to secure survival for his people.
HISTORY
Tormund was born amongst the ice could crevasses of the great North. It is all he has ever known. Even as a young boy he had presented uncanny strength. Not in the physical sense. In spirit and emotion. His passion often being the driving force of his childhood. He would feel these feelings. Strange feelings. His mother had explained that humans are created to love other humans. But even then love is a fickle and tumultuous thing. One thing that a wildling really needs in order to survive is strength. Ever since the talk the young boy had grown fond of spiritual success. He would often find himself on the wrong end of the stick with the other boys. Fist fights would break out. As was a common thing among his tribe. Boys were a symbol of physical strength. They would fight over the smallest detail. From the way one looked at a fine young lady, to acquiring supper for the family for a night. Tormund realized at a young age that he loved conflict. In fact he thrived on creating conflict. He would often be rejected by the other boys and their circles. That didn't bother Tormund one little bit. For little boys who created circles to protect themselves numbers. Well, circles were a shape, and circles could be broken. Break a circle and the shape is incomplete. Tormund would often laugh at the way the others would huddle together swapping stories. Like little girls gossiping over a boy.
They paid him no mind, and he paid them none in return. They were just dumb children at the time. Children that would believe anything they were told. Especially stories about demons in the woods. An ancient race of unstoppable warriors that were conceived generations ago. To Tormund, however, it was just a thing. A story that was told to the children to keep them awake at night. As with all things in this life - things were just simply things. Things couldn't hurt or kill or maim. A man with a sword and a shield. Now that was a formidable sight. The things that go bump in the night were never a thing that troubled Tormund. However, he had always been a skeptical man. He knows that some things cannot be explained. Such as warlocks with blue lips that were sighted at one point or another. It was the concept of such an idea that was hilarious. Tall, lanky, men with blue lips. It didn't so much as give Tormund nightmares but gave him a new story to perceive. His stories were often lewd. He left no detail out. Even going so far as to marry a bear in order to survive the cold. He had met the tribe and fell in line with a clan of bears. He married the female bear in order to stay warm that night. Only realizing that the bear was the wife of a shaman. So he killed the shaman and consummated his marriage.
It was just a thing. Things couldn't hurt. No matter how weird or unusual. Stories were told to entertain or humor. Scare or frighten. Tormund had grown up finding the humor in most things. He had never experienced true combat with another human. However he would often hunt with some tribesmen to provide for their families. Whereas such unconventional stories were born. Men snuggling men to keep warm. Such as the hunting went on cold nights. Most stories were often too outlandish. Some members of his hunting party would stand up to Tormund. He would just laugh, HAR!, at the pettiness and move on. It was when his father went off to fight. That night their camp was overrun with Crows. Brothers in Black from the infamous Wall of Ice. Tormund picked up a sword and begun to help defend the settlement. He was at that point confident enough to swing one. Though the settlement was lost to the Crows many of the wildlings escaped. Including Tormund. His mother brought them to a much larger settlement that was run by a man named Mance Rayder. It was then that his mother went off to fight Crows. Neither his father or mother ever returned. As he came of age he wanted to help defend the free folk from the Crow's incursions. He joined with a band of men and spearwives to secure an area. They had been successful in wiping out the Crows stationed there. Taking the land for their own.
Tormund displayed great prowess in battle. Especially in beating back the vile Crows. So much so that Mance had taken an interest. The would be King-Beyond-The-Wall kept his a close eye on Tormund Giantsbane. As the years passed Tormund grew more proficient in his work. Often leaving no Crow alive during a scouting expedition. No sooner had Tormund joined Mance's own scouting party then Mance had taken him aside. The man told him of great plans that were being developed. That a war was coming. Just brewing on the horizon. Tormund was always ready to defend the wildling realm against intruders. Tormund was now in a circle. Something that he would never have dreamed. Albeit, being a part of something much greater than his owl little world gave Tormund a boost to confidence. He became a man that was a formidable ally. He never left Mance's side and would often participate in battle plans. Strategy sessions in locking down a certain valley. Tormund was soon becoming Mance's right hand. He would have it no other way. Almost looking up the man as a father figure. The man even treated him as if he were his own blood. In being a part of Mance's clan, Tormund grew stronger, more independent. He sired five children who now live among different clans in the free folk realm. He has gone on many missions for Mance. Even leading his own expeditions into the wild. His shared hatred for the Crow was growing. Until... cold.
The dead were waking. It was known widely among the tribes. And then a Crow walked into Mance's tent. And everything changed forever.
ROLE PLAY SAMPLE
Crunch, crunch, crunch. The snow felt heavy underfoot. It was cold. Too bloody cold. That never stopped a wildling from chasing down his prey. A scouting party had been dispatched from a sleepy free folk town. It was an active staging area for such parties. Four bowmen, two swords, and a spearman were put together. In order to push back a Crow advance from The Wall. Well that had gone to shite. They were beset upon by the ugly bastards. Six of the Crows in total. One of the bowman started to fire letting arrows loose. He was lucky enough to catch one such runner in the leg. While the other scattered to flank. One helpless Crow lay in the snow, trying, feebly, to crawl away, leaving a hot steamy trail of blood. Tormund jumped to order as he pulled out his sword and charged forward. It was then that the spearman turned the spear end over end to parry a blow from a Crow on the right flank. It had turned to unorganized chaos. Better to end it quick, Tormund thought. He set himself on the Crow that was crawling like a little worm. He pushed the Crow on his back with the toe of his boot. His eyes were glazed over with pain. An arrow would do that. Tormund took a look at the leg. It was straight through. It missed a bone. HAR! Tormund let out a loud laugh. As the Crow looked up at the Giantsbane.
Tormund stood over the man with sword in hand. The Crow had begun to writhe in pain, gritting visibly. Looks like the little Crow got winged. Now it can't fly away to it's perch. Tell the others. Go on. Tell them. Tell your brother Crows that we are here. the Crow looked doubly confused. It did know it had an arrow through the leg, yes? Tormund batted his chest with a closed fist. Little Crow men! We are over here. One of yours seems to have been injured. Little Crows! when no response came Tormund looked back down. He gave the man a charming smile as the Crow continued to bleed. Tormund traced the blood streak back to the point of impact. The point where the man had fallen. He had left a messy indentation in the snow. His spearman was locked in a dance with another Crow. Tormund returned to his catch on the ground. By this time the Crow had drawn his blade, holding it up, defensibly. Tormund let his head fall back between his shoulders as he roared. As the Crow turned to the good leg, bracing himself, Tormund stood firm, watching. The Crow began to stand, wobbly at first, sword clutched in hand, fire in his eyes. That did not stop Tormund from finding this little man to be quite the little brave Crow. Tormund's eyes sparkled. He parried a swing from the Crow. Then another. And another. You are a weakling! Tormund said loudly, firmly.
The Crow grunted at took another swipe. This time Tormund stepped back as the swing missed altogether sending the Crow into the snow. HAR!" the Crow rolled over grimacing, looking up at the sky, with exhaust filling his body. Just kill me, you filth. Tormund eyed the man as he spoke his first words. But did not say a word. I heard you wildling filth were supposed to be good fighters. So far all you have done is take advantage of a cripple. that had done it. HAR! You admit that you are a crippled Crow. it was then that the Crow turned abruptly over and took another swing from his stomach. Tormund stepped back, kicking the sword out of the Crow's hand. I hear that the Crows are just as miserable fighters as they are lovers. How do you not keep women on that Wall o' yours? the Crow did not answer. Do you snuggle each other closely for warmth? Or is brotherly love forbidden? Forbidden brotherly love? the Crow cursed loudly as he grunted in pain. HAR! You are an unimpressive Crow. An unimpressive little man. Who cannot fight or love. What do you do then? by this the time it had seemed the Crow had given up. He lay on his back looking up at the clouds passing overhead. Tormund kicked the sword over. It skittered in the snow. Tormund said not a word. It took a moment for the Crow to acknowledge the sword. Pick it up, Crow.
All the humor had drained from Tormund's tone. The Crow made a scoff and continued to nap on the ground. You are as useless as my hairy ass crack. We will scale your giant wall of ice. Slaughter all you men in black. Then make love to your southern women. I hope the women are better at hand to hand combat. HAR! that did it. The Crow at once turned over scooping up the sword. He took a few hobbled one-legged jumps swiping furiously at Tormund. Who was forced to step back with each parry. Their sword locked and banged as steel met steel. The Crow was gaining strength. Tormund parried nonetheless until he found an opening. He snagged the wrist out of the air laying his own sword over the opposite soldier, holding the Crow's side arm out and away. Good job, Crow! Now try to kill me. If you can the Crow drew his head back and headbutted Tormund on the nose. Tormund grunted as he landed a hook punch to his gut. Both men fell backwards grunting in pain. The Crow fell back over, while Tormund stumbled a few steps back. Then the Crow was back on his feet and jumped splaying his arms out to the side. Tormund, wide eyed, caught the Crow in both arms, both men fell over to the snow, wrestling. They fumbled a bit as they searched for purchase. Both men grunting as they wrestled. It lasted for several minutes.
It was then that both men realized they were no longer armed. They separated and crawled for their swords. The Crow managed to get a knee and launched forward into the snow. Tormund scooped his up and turned. Just as the Crow lunged point first. Tormund parried, spun, and back handed the Crow hard. As Tormund came back around an arrow flew past him. It caught the Crow dead center and flew him off his feet. He crumpled in the snow. Little Crow could fight! Tormund panted loudly. HAR!
deltra of gangnam style
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