<hr/><hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://i196.photobucket.com/albums/aa248/Impervium2401/Capture-1.png)</div><strong>Name</strong>: Maester Owell (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=202982.msg9928170#msg9928170)<br/><strong>Where</strong>: Dining Hall, Greyhold<br/><strong>Tagging</strong>: Lord Lewys Greystark, Tybolt Greystark, Lowell Greystark, and Leynir Greystark<br/><strong>Current State</strong>: Alert<br/><hr/><hr/><br/>It was early yet when Owell rose that morning.<br/><br/>Grumbling as he did whenever he was gripped by the insomnia, he had cast his gaze west and seen a swollen moon lying low in the starry sky.  Given the phase and altitude, it was an hour or more until dawn.  Good enough.<br/><br/>Owell ran his fingers over his chain as he rose to sit on the edge of the cot.  After all of these years, he had finally begun to think of it as his chain, rather than<em>the</em>chain.  The chain that had forced him, both physically and metaphorically, out of the Citadel’s observatory and into a life of servitude.  He had been bitter at first, furious even, but Greyhold had proved to be more welcoming than he had imagined.  Lord Lewys, despite his quiet suspicions, was quite supportive of his research, and Owell had found that educating his children and treating their illnesses brought its own sort of satisfaction.  With time, even the dull monotony of the Maester’s more mundane duties had begun to bother him less.<br/><br/>Maesters were, in many hidden and subtle ways, the grease that kept the great wagon of civilization running smoothly.  Most of their duties were performed out of sight, just as the lubricated axle was hidden within the hub of the wheel.  And like the wagon, they were expected to always be available.<br/><br/>His movement had stirred the ravens.  Their squawking had filled his chamber.  Or were they already chattering about when he rose?  He hardly ever heard them anymore.  Wagons never slept, and neither apparently did Maesters.<br/><br/>Calming the ravens was simple enough.  Apparently a correspondence had arrived in the dead of night, a letter from the Lord Ondrew Locke.<br/><br/><em>I am bereft as I write this</em>his Maester had written,<em>but the ferocious storms that have plagued our coast have brought me low with a coughing sickness.  I cannot attend your son’s wedding.  Please accept my deepest regrets, but know that Leynir…</em><br/><br/>The tepid apologetics and well wishes continued for quite some time, but it was likely for the best.  Lord Locke was an old man who had never been overly fond of Lord Lewys.  The Lockes of Oldcastle and the Greystarks of Greyhold shared a bitter history stretching back to the Bolton rebellion, and the bad blood between them had never fully cleared.<br/><br/>Owell set about the remainder of his early duties: feeding the ravens, forecasting the weather, and all of the other tasks that kept the wagon trundling along.  As he worked, a second raven arrived, it’s letter bearing the seal of the Master of the Coin: taxes.  When the sun crested the horizon an hour later, he had already broken his fast on hardtack and apple and descended the forty one steps from his rookery-come-observatory, his leather writing roll and a fareye for Leynir buried within his deep pockets.  As he had predicted, the day was warm, just above freezing, with a gentle wind swirling the occasional flurry of summer snow to melt on the moist ground.  The frayed hem of his robes was soon dark with snowmelt as he crossed the parade ground to the main hall of Greyhold.  The links of his chain clinked merrily as he walked: silver on brass, bronze on copper, red gold on black iron.<br/><br/>He arrived to find Lord Lewys already seated in the dining hall.  The food had not yet arrived, so Maester Owell seized the opportunity to settle the tax issue.<br/><br/>“Lord Lewys,” Maester Owell said, bowing his head respectfully as he approached the head of the table.  “If I may?”<br/><br/>After the older man nodded, he procured the letter from his pocket.  Maester Owell had broken the seal when he read it, but the golden wax was all the evidence needed.  “A raven just arrived bearing these debts.  I fear the crown has increased the tax on our land yet again, although it’s still well within the means of the coffers.  I suggest we pay it in full, but these tax raises are worrying.  Perhaps we should petition Lord Stark?”<br/><br/>Lord Lewys nodded with an emotionless smile.  The man’s mind was obviously elsewhere, if not on the imminent wedding, then on the tragedies of the past.  Like many old men, Lord Lewys too often dwelt on what he had lost: two wives, Ceridwen and Elayne, his brothers Edric and Lewyn, his sister Arwyn.  Even his sole surviving sibling, Tybolt, had fled shortly before Maester Owell had arrived at Greyhold, never to be seen again.  All Lord Lewys had left were his children and his mother, and poor Maiev’s mind was slowly slipping away.<br/><br/>Taxes were the least of his concern now.  Maester Owell would handle the issue.  Giving Lord Lewys the peace of mind to enjoy the wedding of his firstborn son was the least he could do.<br/><br/>As the children filtered in, Maester Owell sat at his tiny writing table beside and behind Lord Lewys’s stone chair and began scratching out a draft of Greyhold’s reply to King’s Landing.  He smiled fondly as Elise walked in, but the stern look Septa Rosine gave him sent him back to his writing.  It was probably for the best, given the disconcerting rumors he knew were circulating throughout the castle.<br/><br/>Erik’s loud entrance didn’t even raise his head.  The boy was headstrong and boisterous, and none too fond of him.  His raucousness had become as familiar as the squawking of the ravens.<br/><br/>Maiev, however, sent Maester Owell leaping to his feet, nearly knocking the ink jar over in the process, but it was just another one of her dreams.  He was beginning to fear she was succumbing to senility, a terrible wasting illness of the elderly that ate away at their minds until they were just children trapped in dying bodies.  He would ask Lord Lewys for permission to brew her a draught after breakfast, but—<br/><br/>Yet another interruption broke his train of thought as the servant boy Lan rushed in with news of a visitor.  The tidings perked Maester Owell’s ears, and he hastily cleaned up his writing kit in anticipation.  By the time the man entered the hall, he was standing in his expected position: a pace behind and to the left of Lord Lewys, close enough that he could lean forward and whisper in his ear, but far enough back that it was clear he was just a Maester, a servant to the realm.<br/><br/>His eyes went wide as soon as he saw the man’s flowing red robes.  He had seen dozens of red priests when he had lived in the observatory in Norvos.  Their brilliant attire was unmistakable.<br/><br/><em>”Well met, traveler! What brings you to our castle? Please, come in and sit at our table with us. Know the hospitality of the Old Gods.”</em><br/><br/>Maester Owell leaned forward as Lord Lewys stood, and kept pace as he walked forward.<br/><br/>“My Lord, I am certain that that man is a red priest, an acolyte of R’hllor, the Red God from beyond the Narrow Sea.”<br/><br/>He could hardly keep the awe out of his voice as he spoke.  One simply did not see red priests on Westeros, let alone in the heart of the North where the old gods still held sway.<br/><br/><em>“Gods be good! Can it be…? After all those years? Tybolt?”</em><br/><br/>Maiev’s announcement stunned Maester Owell even more than the red robes had.  Tybolt?  Tybolt Greystark had become a<em>red priest</em>?  Somehow, the Maester managed to hide his surprise as he diligently followed Lord Lewys, but his mind was racing behind his calm expression.  Why had Tybolt adopted the Lord of Light as his god, and why had he brought him here?  Was the man mad enough to show up to his nephew’s Northron wedding wearing those red robes?<br/><br/>The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and a sudden sense of dread gripped his heart.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Stats</div><div class="spoiler_body"><strong>Equipment</strong>:<br/>-- Writing Kit (parchment, ink, quill, sand)<br/>-- Far Eye<br/>-- Taxation Letter<br/><strong>Combat</strong>: I don't really know what to put for this yet.<br/><strong>Intrigue</strong>: Same here...</div></div>