|Nuances of the Seven|
|Summary:||Marsden and Einar talk again|
|Related Logs:||Matters of Religion|
|The labrynthine fortress of Grey Garden sprawls atop a bare, rocky hillock commanding the south-eastern quarter of Harlaw Isle. The countryside is largely bare, with thin soil over weather-worn rock.|
Several days have now passed since the latest engagement with the Ironborn, that which resulted in such gains for the besieging army. Nayland banners are flying from some of the towers, but that is not to say that the Harlaws of the Grey Gardens are yet fully subdued. Up within the labyrinthine rocks the discussions are apparently progressing but in the now sparsely populated camp below there is still a firm sense that the end is now in sight. There are still the odd pickets and patrols, but the camp itself is a more relaxed place than it has been in a long while. It's still fish for dinner though.
On his way down from some business or other across the bridge that so dominates the architecture, Einar still flicks his eyes about, just in case, but he's not actually expecting there to be any islanders hiding amongst the rocks. Not any more. It seems the weather has improved with the mood though, as his cloak is for once not draped over his shoulders, but then that might also be to do with not wanting to stress the healing wound across his chest with the weight. Still though, he's looking at ease with the situation, and life in general at this point, even if he is a tad more careful in his movements than usual.
There are no islanders hiding. Them that haven't surrendered or haven't been slaughtered in the taking of the walls and the village have all fled into the keep. So, whereas there may be a patch of violence here or there, it is for the most part done. Out, and lounging-well slightly lounging perhaps guarding the path into the town is a septon clothed in maile and in dark brown robes. His long spear leans lightly against his shoulder, as his shield serves for something to rest his back on. Helm down by a propped knee-and one can easily tell that Marsden Streem isn't taking the threat of retaliation too seriously.
There's a glance up as a party of men at arms slink by, and give way to the coming Flint lord. A slight smile shows on his scarred face, before his gloved hand is rising and waving. "Lord Flint." called out, as opposed to Northerner or Northman. Perhaps a bit respectable. "How's that wound comin?" Apparently all the healers in camp do talk at some point.
Einar gives the party of men a brief, if somewhat absent minded nod as they pass. He's not really paying enough attention for any more than that, his mind mostly elsewhere on other matters. Not far enough away though to miss the called greeting and he turns his head to where his ears tell him it originated. He appears to be in no great rush to get to where ever it is he's going and changes his course to step over towards the man responsible. "Septon," he greats in return, along with a slight inclination of his head. A quick glance down to his chest and then back to the other man before he answers, "Itching, now you mention it." It hadn't been, or at least, if it had, he'd been able to ignore it, but now he's thinking about it then yes, definitely itching.
"Itching is good." the halfsepton states as he shifts in his laziness-only for a moment. It doesn't seem he is in a hurry to stand or really get up from where he is. "It means your skin's trying to knit back together. So I think it's good. Any odd odor or colour you notice when you change bandages?" He might as well ask, it'll let him know if he needs to shift himself to take a look over the young man. "Also-don't scratch-but I believe you probably know that." He idly does scratch at his nose before he's drawing his legs in. "On yer way in?" As to which direction he doesn't clarify.
Marsden is quiet before he's looking back towards the compound, so to speak, before he is nodding idly at something unsaid. "Figure, Lord, we will be back home soon enough-unless the good King wants us on Pyke."
Einar is doing his best not to give in, but Marsden scratching his nose does not help. In an effort to not cave in subconsciously he clasps his arms behind his back and nods once at the particular instruction. "Not that I've noticed," he says in answer to the query, "well, besides that faint fishy smell that seems to have permeated everything within camp over the past weeks." As for where he's going? He notions with his head down towards the camp. "I was actually just going to see if the Charlton's maester was free, he said he wanted me to get it checked every few days, just in case. I'm afraid I’ve heard no news on the progress beyond this isle, but I shouldn't think we'll be here much longer no." If it's Pyke or home, or indeed one of the other isles though, that he doesn't know. Much as he hopes it's home.
Marsden snorts, before he's chuckling. "Have yer servant or yeoman tie your hands when you sleep Lord. And pray he's an honest man, an won't slit your throat. That itching will ruin th' work if you scratch it. And it'll bring infection out here." Said simply, before he is nodding. 'Aye, well Harlaw does smell like one giant cunt." Did a Septon just say that? Why it seems so, but Marsden is going on as if he were talking like any pious old churchmouse would. "You should let it breathe some. By the fire so you get better, drier air." he advises, before finally with a sigh the halfsepton is pushing himself up with a grunt.
"Don't think I have either, yet. We have to make of course old Rogr Harlaw surrender which will be a bit harder now-what with them slaughter we did in the labyrinth-and of course the fact that the Mallisters botched up that fucking duel." A grunt. "But, my belief is that Lord Nayland will get em to come out one way or another."
Einar does not respond to that suggestion with anything more than a faint smile, he's not yet had an issue when sleeping, beyond the pain of the first night, but will find a solution for night time itching as and when it becomes a problem. The next of Marsden's comments similarly receives a silent answer, and a blink. Shock? No, but certainly surprise and a little bit of mental recalculation before he latches onto the healing advice instead. He nods first, then repeats, "Dry air eh? GOod thing the weather has changed then, nothing quite like a spot of warmth to chase away those dank days." As for the Nayland's chances, the lad gives a noncommittal shrug. "I hope so," he offers with a glance back towards the fortification, "I believe that discussions are ongoing with the Lord Harlaw about such things, which bodes well." Or at least, it bodes better than if no discussions were ongoing. "Only time will tell I suppose."
Marsden merely nods. "Of course dry air. You need the thing to breathe, and moisture outside of flushin' a wound will just make it worse." said plainly before he's stretching out his legs, before he's bending down to scoop up his helmet. "I suppose it will." Marsden repeats with a faint nod. "It is known, that the bloody island is under submission-with the exception of what we have going on here. And I imagine lord Tytos will want some reasonin' as to why this all stymied like hell." But, then it is a siege so it could be expected. "You in a hurry to get home, Northman?"
"Here and Ten Towers I believe," Einar recalls, "the two fortifications of House Harlaw as opposed to their bannermen." Better prepared maybe? Or just with more to lose? "Although last news I heard through was that their main seat could not hold much longer. Much like here I suppose." Speculation yes, but based on what he knows and has heard. As for Lord Blackwood, well, he'll get his account, several in all likelihood. "I'm sure there will be many questions to ponder over when they is done," he agrees though, both with regards to the attack on the isles, and how the Ironborn managed to get so far without their plans being noticed and stopped in the first place. "Depends on your definition of hurry Septon," he answers after a moment, "I won't miss this place, I'll grant you that, but neither would I leave before we are done. And yourself?"
"Ah, Ten Towers. Well if she's still standing by the time we're done here, I imagine we'll march up there to lend a hand. Nothing like pressin' a siege when you have the signs of more troops headed up your arse." A chuckle to that before he merely tucked the helm under the crook of his other arm. Content to lean on the spear, Marsden is silent for a moment-before a half shrug is given. "I don't know." Marsden offers. "I haven't weighed out my prospects as to where I will be going once we go back. I'll prolly need to talk with Ser Bruce and Ser Rygar, as they are my current employers." A shrug all the same. "We'll see as to what my lords want before I make a move." the chaplain admits. "But here or there, As long as there are good souls to serve an it keeps me fed. I'll be happy."
Einar hadn't particularly pictured Marsden as a Septon bound to a particular Sept, and not just because the man is here with the troops. He nods though at the confirmation of his suspicions, still keeping his hands carefully out of the way. A thought then occurs, in the way they sometimes do and he asks, "Have you spoken with the Ironborn Speton at all? I know he was badly wounded in the fighting," indeed, the lad had put a crossbow bolt in the man himself, "but I'm curious as to why this cadet branch does not follow the same God as the rest. It explains Ser Harres' vow as a knight, which had been a bit of a puzzle, but then just sets the question one stage back." Maybe it's because he doesn't follow the main Gods of his own people, that he's so intrigued, maybe it's just youthful curiosity, either way he's interested in any news that might be forthcoming.
"I've had aided Maester Tymothy with him, if that is what you are asking? And we have talked on some things. Ulf the Dry is indeed Dry. He's not much of a drinker of any spirits, even when offered. I can tell you he is truly dedicated to the Warrior, which suits as to how he ended up here." A faint smile there on the other septon as he continues that easy lean. "I have not asked him that, yet. Brother Ulf is still regaining his strength-and is under Charlton care so I cannot linger too much without over suspicion." After all, cannot have someone think he'd be selling information over to the Naylands, that might take away glory from the little house. "Either way, he seems tolerable of the drowned god. And by that I mean Brother Ulf knows how to work between the delicate tensions that serving on this island offers. He's also lucky because he is the Harlaw's chaplain. By that I think he serves the Lord here and no one else."
Listening carefully, so as not to miss any of what is imparted, Einar nods as the Warrior is mentioned and then, once Marsden is finished, he adds, "He was calling upon the Warrior to aid him during the fighting, as were many." The Septon in front of him as well if he recalls correctly. "I'll admit that I know little of the faith of the many here, but from what I have heard I can see why the Warrior might be favoured." He can't see many big, burly Ironborn on their knees before the Mother, nor the Maiden. "I shall have to enquire as to his progress when I am down there," he states simply enough, "I think there might be an interesting discussion to be had, once he's up to it, with regards to how the Nuances of the faith change in such different surroundings." Hmm, comparative theology, he's used to it with surroundings dominated by the Old Gods, but not yet the Drowned one.
"Makes sense. I was calling on the warrior and the Father that day." Marsden offers before he's turning his head to sneeze. Nose wiped on his sleeve before he is looking back to Einar. "We apparently know little about anyone's faith, Einar. That is usually a private thing. After all I thought you prayed to trees-and I was wrong wasn't I? I can say seeing how we have met an Ironborn septon, that not all of them drink seawater and pray to a dead man." he offers before the grin tugs at his visage again. "You know, you start talking about theology and I will do my damnedest to get you out of becoming a knight and set you on the course to becoming a good septon." Something, he was not. "It's still not too late you know. Unless you have an issue.."
"Warrior and Crone," EInar admits, but then, of all of the seven, or seven aspects of the one depending on your point of view, it's possibly the Crone that he prays to most. "Well, if nothing else comes from this venture, we can at least say we've learnt something," He answers, although, it does rather look likely that putting down a bloody rebellion will come out of it as well. "I'll happily talk theology until Winters cease to threaten, but the path you offer is one that is no longer open. I am duty-bound elsewhere and take the path to knighthood in part at least for the holy vow it will allow me to make, in compensation for that which I would wish to." He glances round briefly at that, checking for others within earshot, but for now, the way seems quiet enough.
"Myself? I usually pray to the Father, and then when war comes-well you know." A shrug there before he is shrugging all the same. "And the mother. It's odd thing to state where you have placed yourself isn't it?" the Septon asks before he is looking back to the young Flint. "Well then, I suggest you find a good Sept to do it at. You're a northman so I don't know who or where you'd find the septon to do it, but I would suggest Riverrun or perhaps one of the Freys.." A glance there towards Einar. "Have you thought that out-how'd it work I mean? Given your family's leanings?"
"I would say you can tell a lot about a man from the pattern of his prayers," Einar says in response, "but as we've already agreed, perhaps to say we can speculate a lot is more accurate." But yes, it is odd, but then to be fair, talking in depth about his faith in anyway is odd for the lad, as mentioned, his family don't in general lean the same way. He looks down to the ground and then back to Marsden, shrugging faintly as he does so. "I won't claim to have everything planned," not least because that'd be presumptuous, "but it is something I've thought on. There are Septs back home, but they are few and far between. Winterfell has one for Lady Stark's use for example." At least for now he's forgotten about the itching, but still, it feels a tad bittersweet to be talking of such things. After a moment or two's silence he adds with another shrug, "there are options."
"You'd be correct." Marsden counters, before he's putting his helmet on. "Well." the septon says with a wry look before he is nodding back to the other. "At least you have options, some men do not even see those." A tap of his spear to the ground, before he is turning and gingerly scooping up his shield. "And remember, you always have options in life. Duty bound or not." A grin all the same, before the septon is turning to head on into the village proper, from the bridge. His business? All his own.