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- Plaineview inc
He took a pull of his wineskin, tasted the brackish, sour red within, swallowed, and breathed out the scent of wine. Tendrils of warmth snaked through his chest and down into his stomach, while his head swam in the lake of wine already consumed.
The world rocked gently back and forth, though whether that was because he was in saddle or from the wine he’d swilled he was uncertain. The muffled sound of hooves in sand beneath him and the gentle whickering of geldings about him painted the soundscape of the desert, while the heat provided the tone for the ride. The men he escorted were as complacent and subservient as their geldings, and Sandor was left to puzzle after whether or not he and his stallion boasted the only bollocks of the lot.
The stallion, Stranger, was black of fur and blacker of temperament. Though handsome, the heavy courser took after his owner, and to all but Sandor was unmanageable. Despite this both rider and steed had forged a bond as strong as iron and The Hound gave and received loyalty to the powerful mount that was otherwise foreign to him. The warhorse stood near as tall as a destrier. Coupled with the Hound who towered over most men head and shoulders, broad and strong, the two gave off a fierce aspect.
It was this aspect that made him sought after on Mesa Roja as an armed escort. He’d ridden with outlaws for a time, different bands, and each grew to find his company as sour as his wine over time. Over the years he’d found himself alone time and again, save for Stranger, and that suited The Hound well enough. Words were wind and men were full of them, but lacking in value or substance. Bandits turned meek as field tills when a battle shifted; he’d learned to trust in little and less save good steel and good wine when it could be found, or poorer vintages when it couldn’t. …oft than not it couldn’t.
In larger settlements, in taverns, one might trade good coin for skins of stronger stuff. Stuff they say came from Kraw, where grapes grew as large as a man’s head, or Opealon where learned men kept vines tended by the hand of knowledge generations old and honed like Valyrian steel.
When work was plentiful and coin flowed stronger than any river on this barren planet Sandor enjoyed the good stuff. Those times seemed to evaporate as quickly as the streams in the heat of the badlands these days, however, with the expansion of big business across Mesa Roja. Oh, factions ebbed and flowed to be certain, but few flourished like the rare and few oases the planet hosted.
Plaineview Inc was one such. A magnate, Daniel Plaineview, had the mines and trade of this region by the throat. A lion among men whose regalia were plain values and pragmatism, his empire grew by the day, and a dog knew his place. The Hound tread the wake of Plaineview’s rising star and devoured his leavings. Wherever Plaineview Inc sprouted up, jobs followed, and so did Sandor. The most recent of these was a simple task: escort a flock of sheep carrying some contraband as they made their way to Karim to trade their wares to the blameless nobility. Lately some of Plaineview’s dealings had gone teats up, which drew dogs like Clegane himself by the dozens ready to fill their pockets with a piece of the man’s wealth. The Seven knew he had enough of it, after all, and he knew the worth of a good sword as asset protection.
The hastened sound of hooves behind him prompted Sandor to loosen his sword in his scabbard should he need to draw naked steel; though when he turned his head he found no threat. Only one of the feckless tradesmen. Gelding on a gelding, he thought. When the man saw Sandor’s smirk he paled, and The Hound knew that his face was a frightening thing to behold. In his youth his brother, Gregor Clegane, had planted Sandor’s face into a brazier for playing with one of his toys. As a result half of The Hound’s face was a ruin of burnt skin that wore only the stump of a melted down ear, tight burnt skin that never quite closed on that side of his mouth, and scarred flesh that wrapped around his left eye. Sometimes, when the wine was unable to swallow his dreams, he relived that moment and was reminded of why he hated man.
“Err, Ser,” quavered the man, a chin-less bag of flesh and bones dressed in silks and turban to ward off the sun. He addressed Sandor with the knight’s honorific, though it had been a long time since Clegane had been a knight, and even then the title had been tenuous at best. “T-the…the sun grows l-low…and…the men…the men think…”
“Spit it out,” Clegane’s voice was the harsh sound of stone on stone. His eyes, full of rage, bore down on the man who withered beneath his gaze. “Or have you lost the use of your tongue? Mayhaps I’ll relieve you of it, and shove it up your arse.”
The man’s tongue flicked over his chapped lips, while his eyes flicked to Clegane’s sword hand which rested dutifully upon the hilt of his longsword. The man waned and reined up short, and Sandor had to stop along with him, annoyed.
“The men would like to make camp,” the man spat out all at once.
“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” grumbled Sandor. “Be about it, then. See to it a fire is started, and get to work on a stew. If I arrive on camp and there’s nothing to eat, I’ll have roast gelding.”
The sheep returned to his flock, leaving Sandor alone at the mouth of the canyon. Though he derived no pleasure in admitting it, it was better to set up camp in the canyon while they could before braving the open desert beyond. Bandits and worse would await them out there, and though he was not green to these rangings, he knew that a man bereft of caution was soon find himself bereft of life as well. He swung both legs from saddle, dismounted from Stranger, hitched the horse to a nearby husk of a tree, and began to untack his mount. He nursed his wineskin liberally while he was about the task, and when he was finished the world seemed to move beneath his feet unbidden. He was not green to this sensation, either. He was taken abed by wine most nights, as she was the only woman who might gaze upon his face without disgust.
He unpacked a pelt from his saddlebags, removed his sword belt and placed it beside the place he’d chosen to bed down loose in its scabbard, and arranged the saddlebags to act as a makeshift pillow. He did not, however, remove his mail. Beneath the airy silk all men of the desert wore, lest they fall victim to the arid climate, The Hound always wore mail unless he was scouring it. Better than a dagger in the belly while he slept.
He honed his blade with oil and whetstone while he filled his belly with wine. After awhile, the sun went down, and when he’d had his fill of a beef and barley stew the sheep had throw together as well as the sour red he always carried, the Hound found himself in fitful slumber, dreaming of braziers and Hellfire.
The world rocked gently back and forth, though whether that was because he was in saddle or from the wine he’d swilled he was uncertain. The muffled sound of hooves in sand beneath him and the gentle whickering of geldings about him painted the soundscape of the desert, while the heat provided the tone for the ride. The men he escorted were as complacent and subservient as their geldings, and Sandor was left to puzzle after whether or not he and his stallion boasted the only bollocks of the lot.
The stallion, Stranger, was black of fur and blacker of temperament. Though handsome, the heavy courser took after his owner, and to all but Sandor was unmanageable. Despite this both rider and steed had forged a bond as strong as iron and The Hound gave and received loyalty to the powerful mount that was otherwise foreign to him. The warhorse stood near as tall as a destrier. Coupled with the Hound who towered over most men head and shoulders, broad and strong, the two gave off a fierce aspect.
It was this aspect that made him sought after on Mesa Roja as an armed escort. He’d ridden with outlaws for a time, different bands, and each grew to find his company as sour as his wine over time. Over the years he’d found himself alone time and again, save for Stranger, and that suited The Hound well enough. Words were wind and men were full of them, but lacking in value or substance. Bandits turned meek as field tills when a battle shifted; he’d learned to trust in little and less save good steel and good wine when it could be found, or poorer vintages when it couldn’t. …oft than not it couldn’t.
In larger settlements, in taverns, one might trade good coin for skins of stronger stuff. Stuff they say came from Kraw, where grapes grew as large as a man’s head, or Opealon where learned men kept vines tended by the hand of knowledge generations old and honed like Valyrian steel.
When work was plentiful and coin flowed stronger than any river on this barren planet Sandor enjoyed the good stuff. Those times seemed to evaporate as quickly as the streams in the heat of the badlands these days, however, with the expansion of big business across Mesa Roja. Oh, factions ebbed and flowed to be certain, but few flourished like the rare and few oases the planet hosted.
Plaineview Inc was one such. A magnate, Daniel Plaineview, had the mines and trade of this region by the throat. A lion among men whose regalia were plain values and pragmatism, his empire grew by the day, and a dog knew his place. The Hound tread the wake of Plaineview’s rising star and devoured his leavings. Wherever Plaineview Inc sprouted up, jobs followed, and so did Sandor. The most recent of these was a simple task: escort a flock of sheep carrying some contraband as they made their way to Karim to trade their wares to the blameless nobility. Lately some of Plaineview’s dealings had gone teats up, which drew dogs like Clegane himself by the dozens ready to fill their pockets with a piece of the man’s wealth. The Seven knew he had enough of it, after all, and he knew the worth of a good sword as asset protection.
The hastened sound of hooves behind him prompted Sandor to loosen his sword in his scabbard should he need to draw naked steel; though when he turned his head he found no threat. Only one of the feckless tradesmen. Gelding on a gelding, he thought. When the man saw Sandor’s smirk he paled, and The Hound knew that his face was a frightening thing to behold. In his youth his brother, Gregor Clegane, had planted Sandor’s face into a brazier for playing with one of his toys. As a result half of The Hound’s face was a ruin of burnt skin that wore only the stump of a melted down ear, tight burnt skin that never quite closed on that side of his mouth, and scarred flesh that wrapped around his left eye. Sometimes, when the wine was unable to swallow his dreams, he relived that moment and was reminded of why he hated man.
“Err, Ser,” quavered the man, a chin-less bag of flesh and bones dressed in silks and turban to ward off the sun. He addressed Sandor with the knight’s honorific, though it had been a long time since Clegane had been a knight, and even then the title had been tenuous at best. “T-the…the sun grows l-low…and…the men…the men think…”
“Spit it out,” Clegane’s voice was the harsh sound of stone on stone. His eyes, full of rage, bore down on the man who withered beneath his gaze. “Or have you lost the use of your tongue? Mayhaps I’ll relieve you of it, and shove it up your arse.”
The man’s tongue flicked over his chapped lips, while his eyes flicked to Clegane’s sword hand which rested dutifully upon the hilt of his longsword. The man waned and reined up short, and Sandor had to stop along with him, annoyed.
“The men would like to make camp,” the man spat out all at once.
“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” grumbled Sandor. “Be about it, then. See to it a fire is started, and get to work on a stew. If I arrive on camp and there’s nothing to eat, I’ll have roast gelding.”
The sheep returned to his flock, leaving Sandor alone at the mouth of the canyon. Though he derived no pleasure in admitting it, it was better to set up camp in the canyon while they could before braving the open desert beyond. Bandits and worse would await them out there, and though he was not green to these rangings, he knew that a man bereft of caution was soon find himself bereft of life as well. He swung both legs from saddle, dismounted from Stranger, hitched the horse to a nearby husk of a tree, and began to untack his mount. He nursed his wineskin liberally while he was about the task, and when he was finished the world seemed to move beneath his feet unbidden. He was not green to this sensation, either. He was taken abed by wine most nights, as she was the only woman who might gaze upon his face without disgust.
He unpacked a pelt from his saddlebags, removed his sword belt and placed it beside the place he’d chosen to bed down loose in its scabbard, and arranged the saddlebags to act as a makeshift pillow. He did not, however, remove his mail. Beneath the airy silk all men of the desert wore, lest they fall victim to the arid climate, The Hound always wore mail unless he was scouring it. Better than a dagger in the belly while he slept.
He honed his blade with oil and whetstone while he filled his belly with wine. After awhile, the sun went down, and when he’d had his fill of a beef and barley stew the sheep had throw together as well as the sour red he always carried, the Hound found himself in fitful slumber, dreaming of braziers and Hellfire.
Quest - Just Business
WC: 1261/5000]