disco elysium-like: theon in winterfell, adwd
You stand over the parapet. All around you the crossbows are whistling in flight, nocking, tensing. Far off to the north was a warhorn sound.
LOGIC: Stannis. Our only hope, if we can reach him.
PERCEPTION: The cool air stings against your face. Time slows to a crawl.
ENDURANCE [medium: failure]: Look at you, thinking you could play the hero like the songs. You must be fucking insane. That's it, isn't it? The Bastard must have flayed your brain too.
SHIVERS [challenging: success]: The snows whispered in the autumn air, falling like ash. Like tears. Somewhere, deep beneath the bowels of the earth, the dead kings stand vigil over stone tombs, the swords stern and sturdy in their hands. In the heart of the woods the weirwood waits with its knowing red eyes.
SUGGESTION: Reek...reek....
INLAND EMPIRE [trivial: failure]: It rhymes with Mozambique.
ENCYCLOPEDIA [easy: success]: What the fuck is Mozambique?
A bolt passed within a foot of you, shattering the crust of frozen snow that had plugged the closest crenel. Holly and Frenya were as good as dead. There was no sign of the other spearwives.
HALF-LIGHT: If they take us alive, they will deliver us to Ramsay.
COMPOSURE [formidable: success]: You feel Jeyne in your arms. She was the only warmth in the world.
CONCEPTUALIZATION [challenging: success]: You've only seen Bran climb these walls a hundred times. It's just like that, see? Just the other way round. All you have to do is fall.
PAIN THRESHOLD : Just like Bran.
LOGIC: There's nothing else to do.
INLAND EMPIRE: No chance, and no choice.
-1 Internalized Dog Motif.
-1 Missing fingers.
-1 Life is not a song.
+1 The old gods know your name.
VOLITION: Deep breath in, out.
PAIN THRESHOLD: This is going to hurt.
You grab Jeyne about the waist, and fly.
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