Ossinett

Eight flayed men were strung up in the forest, their bodies equidistant in a circle clearing. At their centre, a great pile of bloody flesh and was carefully laid out in spiral. The sight was hideous but what truly stuck out was the smell, the smell of death so cruel lingered in Ser Don's nose as a unsettlingly familiar guest. The sooner they moved on from Stormberg's vicious forests the better, even war in the south was favourable to whatever horror this was. The Cornayan Fa

Bill watched closely as Ser Robert’s horse kicked and snarled, torrents of icy winter breath firing from its nostrils like the flames of the dragon that crested its rider’s helm. No wonder the brute had gained such a fearsome reputation; he was a tower of black steel and fury astride a beast that towered over any other knight’s steed. The Warren knight gave a glance down at the squire beside him, some poor girl of fifteen wrapped up in the purple, navy and yellow of her knigh

The sand here was warm and soft, not like the thick brown mud of home. Ser Hal walked the beach towards the high cobblestone wall, the gaudy banners of House Bing fluttering gently in the warm wind as he made his way across the sand. Ahead, palm trees bordered the crooked gatehouse - rowing boats at their feet and a pair of gibbet irons affixed to the wall beside them. In the right iron, a brightly coloured bird picked ribbons of scarlett meat from a withered corpse's forehea

Slowly the water pushed in and out of the dark corridors, in and out like the rising and falling of Gathric's breath. The candle in his hand offered little warmth in contrast with the salt water flowing around his lower legs, the icy water taking the sodden books and tapestries adrift in a dance of in and out. It was as if the corridor itself was a diaphragm to the heaving, dying lungs of Deepcairn above them. The chamber narrowed as he walked deeper, the water rising higher

Brimmouth Bridge stood ahead of the group like a monster snarling and spitting, the unwelcoming air assaulted the nostrils with the smell of death and the spices trying to disguise it. The walls were high and well patrolled, the stained cloaks of their guards hung desperately to the memory of when they were once a shade of blue or white - though their memory was failing. House Brimmouth are a minor house of Southshire, positioned along the central road through the forested hi

To anyone else, having a son risen to the ranks of the Thronesguard would be a great honour, but to Lord Stormer it was a sign of disgrace. "A man should rule not serve!" he cried out at the news of Ser Jerrod's appointment, "It is the caitiff who plays the part of another's dog, trapsing behind and jumping at command! No son of mine will play the cur!". The old nobleman had spat loudly as he spoke, his wine-stained tunic scattering with the debris of his evening meal. House

Garrick stood on the sand, his hand raised to block the afternoon sun as it beat down hard on the damp, brown sand. The screech of the dragon in the distance broke through the crashing of the waves, the rising steam of water boiling at its breath painted the horizon with a misty whitewash. The castle stood ahead of them, the low tide gently lapping at stone pathway that cut across the strand as if all the chaos of the siege was irrelevant to it. He supposed it was, to nature

Though known for its mountains and rivers, Southshire plays host to many stocked hunting forests throughout its lands - the largest and most famous being found within the Vale of Oldreach, though countless others appear further southwest towards the Bay of Swords. Predominately, the game of these forests are deer and rabbits - the bears and wolves of these lands have largely been hunted to extinction, though wild boar and small amounts of wildcats still remain. These animals