HIE THEE HITHER | open + human au

There was a thudding of hooves as the Warden pulled his horse round, slowing it until it trotted to a stop by the deer's carcass. Fortinbras slid from the saddle and offered Macbeth a hand. [b]"Good shot. Surprised it only took one." [/b]he cocked his head and eyed the quiver on the other's back. "You must have some excellent steel at the end of those. I don't believe we've met, by the way. What's your name?"

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Hunting was basically the only worth while past time in the North and the Bolton was obviously quite invested in it. But, he rarely had time to go out and about because of his workload and his scheming. It was more of a once a month thing to him now.

The man had been traveling south, heading towards King's Landing when he heard a voice in the forest. It sounded rather familiar, after all, the Hand did speak quite a bit. That man did not earn the position for no reason. But anyway, that was enough to pique the northerner's interest. Tugging the reins, he maneuvered his black stallion in an attempt to find the source of the sound and he succeeded quite quickly. His eyes first traveled from the faces of the other men and then to the dead doe on the ground. It had been killed with one arrow, it seemed. Either Macbeth was a good shot or lucky. "I'd pay to see a competition between you and Lord Stark," the Bolton would remark, a hint of humor present in his tone as he drew his mount to a stop.
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[center]WILL YOU BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS?

Fair enough, but it was still more than he could do. Fortinbras was hopeless with a bow, which was one of his major weaknesses; he'd take a sword or a spear over a bow any day, as his aim was gods-awful and despite countless tutoring attempts he had made no progress, and thus had sworn them off completely. His copper eyes followed the Lord of Dreadfort as he made his approach, offering a slim smile and a courteous, "Lord Bolton, good day." the dark-haired Hand had no true feelings on Dominus, not being aware of his true nature; in fact, he felt quite bad for the man what with Shavronne's death and everything. A widower's life was not one he had enjoyed, and he was quite glad to be rapidly approaching husband status again. "You'll need more than luck to defeat Lord Stark, I'm afraid." chuckled Fort, his mind drifting to the Northern Warden.

Her equine was sprinting through the forest, and she knew she looking like a lunatic. With her dark hair flopping every which way, her body looking like a noodle, and her shaky, out-of-breath voice, she was a mess. "Slow your ass down," she yelled to her large horse, panting. After a minute or two of yanking the reins back, her horse - who she wanted to slaughter right then and there - slowed to a stop. Taking a deep breath, Meg pulled the hair out of her face and dismounted only to find that there were others only a few feet away. Making a disappointed face, the woman strolled over slowly, pulling the horse by the reins beside her. "Hey, strangers," she said, trying to avoid talking about what just happened. She looked at the dead deer on the ground. The sight caused her to remember a little hunting trip with the previous king. Good times.

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Luck? Perhaps, or maybe humble? He didn't know the other man, it could be a whole load of things. The wind was right, the air was crisp, hell, even the stars could just be aligned for Macbeth. "Nonetheless, it was a good shot," Dominus would respond without the intentions to decieve anyone for once. A lucky lotto draw was a win in the end after all. The end results are what mattered.

"Lord Lynderly," he would then return the favor to the Hand. Fortinbras was a man of great power but the Bolton didn't have too many opinions on them yet. Gleaning from accounts and rumors, the northerner had heard of the other man's extreme work ethic and the effort they had put in to raise themselves to this position. And of course, who could forget how house Lynderly seemed to continuously blossom, but it was short lived like a violet. "What brings you out on this fine day?"

As soon as he uttered those words, a familiar female face would appear. No, not one he had paid but someone who had recently returned to their lands. She seemed to have struggled with her mount, perhaps it had been badly tamed and she had been gypped? Or maybe it was just a wild ride? He would cast a quick glance to Macbeth and take note of their remark, brave weren't they? "Did you happen to run into some bandits?" The Bolton would then query, it was another explanation why she hauled ass.
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[center]WILL YOU BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS?

"Hah. You're funny," she replied to the Scottish man, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Yeah, okay, avoiding what just happened was out of the question, then. Her horse then pushed her with its nose, causing her to stumble forward. It took her a couple of seconds for her to compose her anger, and when she looked up, she was glaring daggers at, not just the horse, but everyone else there, daring them to say anything about it.

Hearing Dominus speak, her dark eyes flashed over to him. What did he mean by that question? Did Westeros usually have bandits around here? Her eyebrows furrowed before she shrugged, giving up. "No," Meg said, not wanting to glance back at the horse behind her. She was going to eat it whenever she could. "So, what are you boys doing out here? I never got the invite."