A fool who loved his King too much and forgot his Gods
One of the things Davos had most liked about the isle of Tabula Rasa was how lively it felt. To him, after the war in Westeros, it had been a wonderful thing to arrive at a place which seemed to be brimming with life and youth and hope.
It did not seem that way to him anymore. Mayhap there had been more disappearances than normal recently, or mayhap it had just been that he'd been more closely affected himself of late, but to him it seemed as if the island was grieving. Babe and Eden had left, o'course and young Cuthbert and his friends and, perhaps worst of all, poor Vanessa's son had been sent back to his battles and his death. And to him every day the island seemed more like Dragonstone after the war, a land suffocating in grief and fear.
The resemblance came to him anew when he reached the bonfire on the beach he'd been walking towards and saw, to his horror, that the gods were burning. It was something that he had seen before and never forgotten, and so first he thought it but a memory and tried to blink away the image in front of them. But the gods were still there when he opened his eyes again, and he recognized the familiar scent in the smoke. Varnish and paint and despair.
For a moment, he stood still as he remembered the mother's voice in his head, "You burned us," she had whispered and he had cried, and despaired and then admitted the truth. He had let her burn and he could not do so again.
The seven statues were big, carved from the masts of ships and then gilded and jeweled so as to be beautiful, and the fire was bigger still. The sensible part of Davos, the part that got him labeled craven, knew that there was little he could do by himself, the fire was too big and he had nothing at hand to extinguish it. But those were his gods carved on those statues and he knew as much as had ever known anything that he could not watch them burn again.
He stripped off his cloak without really thinking about it and then dropped his luck and his charm and his sword into the sand. And then he took a deep breath and walked into the fire, holding his cloak before him to ward off the flames.
It was the mother he went to, proud and merciful, and burning with a sword thrust though her heart. And he wrapped his cloak around it and reached out to pull her from the flames, feeling the pain rush though him as he did so, even through the glove he wore on his left hand. The statue heaved over and Davos tried to hold onto it, but the smoke was in his eyes and in his throat and there was pain coming from everywhere.
And behind him the gods were still burning and, between blinks, Davos could see the strangers' face melt as he pulled himself to his feet, and started retreating from the fire. The mother was still alight he managed to notice, once he felt sand beneath his feat again, but she had fallen off the pyre at least.
And he did not have time to deal with that just yet because, to his horror, he found that his breeches had caught fire and he could do nothing but panic. He had lost his gods to this fire, and his ship and his men and four of his sons and he feared it more than anything. The sea was too far away and so he fell to the ground instead, trying desperately to douse the fire with sand.
(OOC: See this post in Slated. In short, Davos has set himself on fire and would appreciate some help.)
It did not seem that way to him anymore. Mayhap there had been more disappearances than normal recently, or mayhap it had just been that he'd been more closely affected himself of late, but to him it seemed as if the island was grieving. Babe and Eden had left, o'course and young Cuthbert and his friends and, perhaps worst of all, poor Vanessa's son had been sent back to his battles and his death. And to him every day the island seemed more like Dragonstone after the war, a land suffocating in grief and fear.
The resemblance came to him anew when he reached the bonfire on the beach he'd been walking towards and saw, to his horror, that the gods were burning. It was something that he had seen before and never forgotten, and so first he thought it but a memory and tried to blink away the image in front of them. But the gods were still there when he opened his eyes again, and he recognized the familiar scent in the smoke. Varnish and paint and despair.
For a moment, he stood still as he remembered the mother's voice in his head, "You burned us," she had whispered and he had cried, and despaired and then admitted the truth. He had let her burn and he could not do so again.
The seven statues were big, carved from the masts of ships and then gilded and jeweled so as to be beautiful, and the fire was bigger still. The sensible part of Davos, the part that got him labeled craven, knew that there was little he could do by himself, the fire was too big and he had nothing at hand to extinguish it. But those were his gods carved on those statues and he knew as much as had ever known anything that he could not watch them burn again.
He stripped off his cloak without really thinking about it and then dropped his luck and his charm and his sword into the sand. And then he took a deep breath and walked into the fire, holding his cloak before him to ward off the flames.
It was the mother he went to, proud and merciful, and burning with a sword thrust though her heart. And he wrapped his cloak around it and reached out to pull her from the flames, feeling the pain rush though him as he did so, even through the glove he wore on his left hand. The statue heaved over and Davos tried to hold onto it, but the smoke was in his eyes and in his throat and there was pain coming from everywhere.
And behind him the gods were still burning and, between blinks, Davos could see the strangers' face melt as he pulled himself to his feet, and started retreating from the fire. The mother was still alight he managed to notice, once he felt sand beneath his feat again, but she had fallen off the pyre at least.
And he did not have time to deal with that just yet because, to his horror, he found that his breeches had caught fire and he could do nothing but panic. He had lost his gods to this fire, and his ship and his men and four of his sons and he feared it more than anything. The sea was too far away and so he fell to the ground instead, trying desperately to douse the fire with sand.
(OOC: See this post in Slated. In short, Davos has set himself on fire and would appreciate some help.)