Return of House Mudd

The Silent Weave

The journey to Hammerford was uneventful, but the stillness of the countryside did little to calm Hosteen's thoughts. His mind churned with the details of his plan, each step calculated to ensure success. Hammerford was not a grand castle like Seagard or Riverrun; it was a modest fortress, a reflection of Pemford's middling status among the Riverlords. Yet, its walls and towers represented power and control, the very things Pemford had abused at the expense of Gravesham.

As the castle came into view, Hosteen reined in his horse and paused to study it. Hammerford was perched atop a gentle hill, its walls of gray stone rising against the backdrop of a darkening sky. A single tower loomed over the keep, its silhouette stark and unyielding.

"A symbol of oppression," Hosteen murmured, his voice barely audible over the rustling of the wind. "But even the strongest walls can crumble."

He urged his horse forward, his armor catching the fading light and gleaming faintly.

The gates of Hammerford were manned by a handful of guards, their livery bearing the Pemford crest—a falcon clutching a silver crown. Hosteen approached them with the practiced air of a knight accustomed to respect.

"Who goes there?" one of the guards called out, his tone wary.

"Ser Hosteen," he replied, his voice steady and authoritative. "A knight of the Riverlands. I seek an audience with Lord Pemford."

The guards exchanged glances before one stepped forward. "What business brings you to Hammerford?"

"Matters of justice," Hosteen said simply, his words carrying the weight of unspoken truths.

After a moment's hesitation, the guards allowed him entry.

The courtyard was a hive of activity despite the hour. Stablehands darted between the stables and the barracks, while servants carried supplies into the keep. Hosteen dismounted and handed his reins to a stable boy, who eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

Inside the keep, the atmosphere was subdued but tense. The great hall, modestly adorned with banners of House Pemford, was a far cry from the grand halls of more powerful lords. Hosteen moved through the space with purpose, his eyes scanning every detail.

He found an empty chamber near the hall and shut the door firmly behind him.

The moment Hosteen decided to ward Hammerford, the weight of the task settled on his shoulders like a mantle. Casting a ward over a structure as large as a castle—small as it may be in comparison to other fortresses—was no small feat. It required precision, stealth, and an unyielding focus. As he stood in the dimly lit chamber, the faint hum of the truth ward still resonating in his ears, he reviewed his options.

The ideal method for such an endeavor would have been to use a wardstone—an artifact capable of holding vast reserves of magical energy. A single wardstone, if properly enchanted, could anchor a ward strong enough to encompass the entire castle with little need for additional reinforcement. Unfortunately, wardstones were rare and required materials capable of channeling and storing immense amounts of magic. Obsidian, with its deep roots in the myths and legends of Westeros, might have sufficed, but Hosteen had no access to it—not yet.

His mind drifted toward the castle walls. If he couldn't use a wardstone, he would have to take the more laborious route: inscribing runes directly onto the castle's structure. The runes would act as conduits, forming a web of magic that stretched over the entire castle. It would be a painstaking process, requiring him to etch the symbols into key points—corners of the outer walls, the highest tower, and the deepest foundations. The runes would have to be precise, and his magic would need to flow evenly through them all, like blood through veins.

Hosteen took a deep breath. He had little time and even less room for error.

Hosteen spent the next hour exploring Hammerford under the guise of familiarizing himself with the castle's layout. He moved with deliberate ease, studying the architecture and marking the points where he would need to work. The castle was a modest affair, with a central keep surrounded by a low wall and a single tower rising above it all. The battlements were sparsely patrolled, and the guards, while dutiful, seemed unremarkable.

His path took him to the outer walls first, where he noted the four corners that anchored the rectangular structure. He would need to place runes there to establish the ward's perimeter. Next, he examined the keep itself, identifying the highest points and the lowest—the tower's peak and the foundation stones beneath the great hall.

By the time he returned to the chamber he had claimed for himself, the plan was fully formed in his mind. He would begin with the outer walls, working his way inward. The challenge would be avoiding detection. Any interruption could disrupt the delicate balance of the ward, and if Lord Pemford's men discovered his work prematurely, the entire plan could unravel.

Under the cover of darkness, Hosteen began his work. Armed with a small knife enchanted for precision, he moved to the first corner of the outer wall. The air was cool and still, the only sounds the distant murmur of the river and the occasional call of an owl.

He knelt by the stone and began to carve, his hands steady despite the tension coiled in his chest. The rune was complex, a mixture of the First Men's symbols and the magical sigils he had learned in his previous life. Each line had to be exact, each curve imbued with intention.

As the rune took shape, Hosteen whispered the incantation that would bind it to the ward. A faint glow emanated from the symbol as his magic seeped into it, solidifying its power. The glow faded after a moment, leaving the rune etched into the stone like an ancient scar.

One corner done. Seven more to go.

A Narrow Escape

The next two corners went smoothly, though the work was slow and painstaking. It was at the fourth corner that Hosteen encountered his first challenge. As he crouched by the wall, his knife poised to begin the inscription, the sound of footsteps reached his ears.

He froze, his heart pounding. The steps were growing louder, accompanied by the murmur of voices. Guards on patrol.

Hosteen pressed himself against the wall, his cloak blending into the shadows. He held his breath as the guards passed, their torchlight flickering against the stone.

"Bloody boring night," one of them muttered. "Nothing ever happens here."

"Quiet," the other replied. "Lord Pemford doesn't pay us to complain."

Their voices faded as they continued down the wall, leaving Hosteen alone once more. He exhaled slowly, his grip on the knife tightening. The interruption had cost him precious time, but he couldn't afford to rush. He waited until he was certain the guards were out of earshot before resuming his work.

With the outer walls completed, Hosteen turned his attention to the keep. The tower loomed above him, its peak shrouded in darkness. The thought of climbing it was daunting, but there was no other way. The rune needed to be placed at the highest point to ensure the ward's coverage.

He found a narrow staircase spiraling up the inside of the tower and began his ascent. The climb was steep and claustrophobic, the air growing colder with each step. By the time he reached the top, his muscles ached, but his determination burned brighter than ever.

The tower's roof was flat and open to the night sky. Hosteen moved to the center and knelt, his breath visible in the chill air. Here, the rune would be the ward's keystone, connecting all the others in a seamless web.

He worked quickly but carefully, the knife carving into the stone with a faint scraping sound. The rune here was larger and more intricate than the others, requiring a greater concentration of magic. Hosteen channeled his power into the symbol, feeling the surge of energy as the ward began to take shape.

When the rune was complete, he stood and surveyed his work. The magic was invisible to the naked eye, but he could feel it—an intricate network of power stretching across the castle, ready to enforce the truth upon all who entered.

The night was heavy with silence as Hosteen descended into the cellar of Hammerford. The stone steps were cold beneath his boots, the air growing damp and earthy with each step. A single torch mounted on the wall illuminated the narrow passageway, casting long shadows that danced in the flickering light. This was the final step of his plan: to carve the last of the stabilizing runes in the deepest part of the castle.

The cellar stretched before him like a labyrinth, lined with wooden barrels and crates stacked high with provisions. The faint smell of aged wine and dried meat lingered in the air. At the far end of the room, near the foundation stones, was the perfect spot for the last rune. It was a place of power, where the ancient stone walls seemed to hum faintly with the history of the castle.

Hosteen knelt before the wall, his knife steady in his hand. He began to carve, each line precise, his magic flowing into the stone as he worked. The runic network was almost complete, and once this final piece was in place, the no-lies ward would extend its influence over the entire castle.

As he etched the intricate spiral of the stabilizing rune, the faint sound of voices reached his ears. His hand froze.

"You sure you heard something down here?" one voice said, gruff and skeptical.

"Aye, I'm sure," replied another. "Sounded like someone moving about. Orders are to check anything suspicious, remember?"

Hosteen cursed silently. The guards must have been drawn by the faint noise of his carving or perhaps had noticed the soft glow of magic from the previous runes. Either way, they were coming closer.

He quickly concealed the knife within his cloak and rose to his feet, stepping back into the shadows of the room. The cellar was cluttered enough to provide some cover, but if they got too close, there would be no avoiding confrontation.

Two guards appeared at the entrance to the cellar, their torchlight piercing through the gloom. Both men were stout and heavily built, their surcoats bearing the hammer sigil of House Pemford.

"Who's down here?" one of them called out, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

Hosteen didn't respond. He stayed perfectly still, watching as the guards advanced further into the room.

"Probably just rats," the first guard muttered, but his companion shook his head.

"No rat makes marks on a wall," he said, pointing to one of the earlier runes Hosteen had carved. Though faint, the magical glow still lingered, a telltale sign of his work.

The second guard's hand went to his sword, his posture tense. "Whoever's here, show yourself! You've got no business sneaking around!"

Hosteen stepped forward slowly, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. His face was calm, though his mind raced with the spells he might need.

"Peace, sers," he said, his voice steady. "I mean no harm."

The guards narrowed their eyes, their suspicion evident.

"Who are you?" one demanded. "And what are you doing down here?"

"A craftsman," Hosteen replied smoothly. "Hired by your lord to repair the castle's foundations. These old stones need reinforcing, as I'm sure you know."

The guards exchanged glances, their skepticism deepening.

"At this hour? Alone? Doesn't sound right to me," said the second guard. He drew his sword, the steel gleaming in the torchlight. "You'd best start talking sense, or we'll have to drag you to the captain."

Hosteen sighed, realizing there was no way to talk his way out of this without arousing further suspicion. He would have to act quickly and decisively.

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned his wand from within his sleeve. Before the guards could react, he whispered a spell under his breath, the words flowing smoothly as magic surged through him.

"Obliviate."

The spell struck the first guard squarely in the chest, his eyes glazing over as the enchantment took hold. The second guard managed to take a step forward, his sword raised, but Hosteen was faster. A second spell hit him, and his expression slackened, his movements stilled.

Hosteen stepped closer, his wand still raised as he spoke in a calm, commanding tone. "You've found nothing unusual down here. You'll return to your patrol and forget you ever saw me. Do you understand?"

The guards nodded dully, their faces blank.

"Good," Hosteen said. "Now go."

They turned and shuffled out of the cellar, their footsteps fading into the distance. Hosteen waited until he was certain they were gone before lowering his wand.

Hosteen returned to the wall, his movements more urgent now. The interruption had cost him precious time, and he needed to finish the rune before anyone else came looking.

He crouched down and resumed carving, the knife gliding smoothly over the stone as he completed the intricate design. The rune's spiral expanded outward, its edges interwoven with smaller symbols that pulsed faintly with magical energy.

As Hosteen carved the final rune into the damp stone wall of the castle's cellar, the entire network of his work pulsed subtly. For a brief moment, he felt a vibration under his fingertips—a sign that the intricate web of magic he had designed was complete. The sensation wasn't physical; it was a ripple in the arcane energy that now connected every corner of Hammerford.

He stepped back, his breathing steady despite the hours of meticulous effort it had taken to create the ward. His eyes scanned the faint lines of the rune glowing softly before fading into invisibility, leaving no trace of his work to untrained eyes. This was the last piece of the puzzle.

The castle was now encased in a magical net—a subtle but powerful lattice of energy that remained dormant until triggered. Hosteen's design ensured that the ward was not always active; instead, it would require an intentional infusion of magic to awaken. When activated, the ward would bind the truth to the lips of anyone within the castle walls, rendering lies impossible. It would persist for 48 hours, long enough to serve its purpose but without permanently altering the castle's nature or usability.

Hosteen ran his hand along the stone wall, feeling the faint hum of potential. "It's ready," he muttered to himself, the words carrying a sense of accomplishment mingled with caution. He knew this was no ordinary piece of spellwork. The intricacy of the design, the precision of the runes—every element had been crafted with the understanding that it might determine his success or failure.

The decision to create a temporary ward had been deliberate. A permanent truth-binding enchantment would have been a blight upon the castle, a constant intrusion that no lord would tolerate. But this temporary version was perfect. It would serve its purpose when needed, and once its magic dissipated, the castle would return to its natural state.

This, however, presented a challenge. Hosteen had no way of knowing when Lord Mallister's negotiator would arrive. The ward would only remain active for 48 hours once triggered, meaning he couldn't afford to activate it too soon. He would have to stay close to Hammerford, waiting for the moment to unleash its power. Timing was everything.