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The noise which emanates from the point of impact is much louder and more intense than any audible toast I'd ever heard before, so piercing and disorienting it stuns me for half a second, agitating me enough to blink.

When my eyes open again after a split second of total darkness, I am surprised to observe that the environs around me has melted away into black nothingness much like when I was looking at the interior of my eyelids. I was no longer inside the drinking establishment I was within mere moments prior and my friend Kaze was nowhere to be seen. Instead, before my eyes are a dozen robed, seemingly faceless figures arranged in a curved half-circle – all of whom are facing me.

They are unnaturally tall, looming over my sitting position. And despite their featureless visages, I can feel the disdain for my very existence pouring off these alien figures.

“THE TIME HAS COME FOR YOUR JUDGMENT, TRICK!” they all speak in unison, their voices possessing an otherworldly reverb that digs its way into my ears.

“W-what?” I stammer out my question, as ill-equipped as it is for the situation I find myself in. I want to stand up and stagger backwards, or perhaps flee – but I am unable to will my body into motion, paralyzed by some external force.

“WITH YOUR END, YOUR EXISTENCE SHALL BE JUDGED!”

“B-but I'm not dead!” I reply, confused and panicking.

“YOU PRONOUNCED THE DEMISE YOURSELF!”

I utter a nervous laugh in disbelief. “I was talking about retiring a meaningless online handle. The real me is still alive. I'm not dead.”

They laugh back at me, haughty and humorless. “THE ONLINE HANDLE WAS THE REAL YOU.”

“What?!” I react. “No, that's not true. My name is [REDACTED] not Trick. Who are you people?”

“YOU KNOW WHO WE ARE, TRICK!” they speak my online title with condemnation. “AND WE SHALL PRONOUNCE THE PUNISHMENT THAT COMES TO ALL WHO ARE JUDGED DESERVING FOR THEIR SINS!”

“W-what are you gonna do to me?”

“WHAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN DONE TO THOSE DAMNED! SENT BELOW TO A PRISON BEFITTING THE CRIMES YOU HAVE DONE UNTO OTHERS!”

“You're sending me to Hell?!”

“NO – SOMEWHERE FAR FAR WORSE.”

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The hooded figure in the center of the formation draws a rolled up piece of parchment out of its sleeve and unfurls the object, exposing the familiar image etched onto its surface.

My eyes bulge as I realize what doomed fate they intend for me. “No, no! Anything but that! Please, mercy!”

“THE ONLY MERCY YOU SHALL BE GRANTED IS THIS – CHOOSE WHERE YOUR RECKONING SHALL BEGIN!”

I stare at the map, dread coursing through me as I contemplate the nature of what form my just desserts shall take.

>Choose a location in Westeros

>>3929956
Iron islands.

>>3929978
Ah shit I left my name tag on.

>>3929946
Who are you stranger

>>3929956
Winderhold. Only place I know! That or the Land of Always Winter.

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>>3929984
Im an old joke

>>3929990
I swear I know your name from somewhere. Have we posted in the same quests? I think I've seen people talking about you.

>>3930002
>Have we posted in the same quests? I think I've seen people talking about you.

I was a divisive figure and QM for some time. If you and I interacted or you merely heard about me, 50/50 chance it was something negative.

>>3930033
I have no negative memories of you, and I'm pretty sure it was just people commenting on your GMing style, none of which I remember. I hope we become friends some day or I at least get to buy you a beer in heaven.

>>3929984
He's a fucking faggot who uses cancel tactics to drive Quests into obscurity and new QMs away from the board just because a character's name triggers him. He doesn't deserve the clean slate he's been given, but that's life.

Having said that, I legit wish you well, Trick, and can't hate on what you've gained in life. 4chan's a den of hyenas, and nobody can be blamed for seeking teh lulz and precious (You)s.

Yeah I just contradicted myself, and I meant every word of it. Fuck you, you glorious bastard.

>>3929946
Oh, and I'm seconding >>3929984.

>>3929956
>Land of Always Winter

>>3929984
>>3930065
>>3930066

I have no idea what Winderhold is, perhaps its simply a mispelling and misremembering of Winterfell.

So I guess we're going with The Land of Always Winter

>>3930061
>cancel tactics to drive Quests into obscurity
what did he mean by this?

>>3929956
DORNE
TRICK YOU FUCKING FAGGOT WELCOME BACK

>>3930071
I actually had a feeling my vote would be the one that picked the place, I'm honored :D

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This is actually happening to me. I naively thought I had escaped the enmity I had rightly earned from the universe via the grace of my relative online anonymity, but clearly the proverbial chickens had come home to roost: Divine retribution. Perhaps the one true religion of my universe is that of online responsibility – immorality and existence in the virtual world trumping that of the real one.

I can't be certain beyond the small scope I am being granted in this moment, but on some level an innate acceptance and understanding of some fundamental truth floods my brain and being. Not only is this real – this is deserved. A fitting return for all the evil I have done. All my flaws, all my mistakes, all my failings, all the wrongdoings and dark deeds I have performed over a long and illustrious career of shitposting and letting people down. Like a nazi being tried thirty years after the fact, I knew the specter of justice had finally come for me. And worser still, my guilt is so great that I cannot help but welcome its remorseless embrace.

This gruesome choice is but a twisted, mocking reflection of what is perhaps my first notable and most damnable crime against questing – the first step I, Trick, took on a path which led down a dark, dark road that has damned my immortal e-soul.

I breathe out a sigh of resignation, unwilling to deny or negotiate against my judge's decree. “This is to be a death sentence, isn't it?”

“CHOOSE!”

I scoff, more at myself for delaying than at the robed figures for chastising me. “Well if it's to be a death sentence, then a death sentence it is. I won't attempt to game the system by naively thinking I could conquer my own prison. I choose the Land of Always Winter.”

. . .

The robed figures exchange silent glances with one another, as opposed to staring eyeless daggers at me for once. It appears my answer has made even these unyielding creatures bend somewhat in disbelief.

The central one looks at me once more after a moment. “ARE YOU CERTAIN?” their voices boom again.

“If this punishment is meant to subject me to the horrors I subjected others, then it's only fitting it mirror and eclipse what I did to you.”

The robed figures remain silent, their faceless forms unable to express shock.

But they do not deny my assertion. I chuckle wryly to myself. “You did say I knew who you were. I believe the first thing I ever did to you was drop you into the middle of the icy North and freeze you half to death, isn't that right . . . Velo?”

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Again, more silence. I shrug. “Well then, send me to the Heart of Winter itself as naked as the day I was born, so I may freeze to death within the hour. It's the punishment I deserve and the equity you've earned for the mockery I twisted you into. I don't merely accept this poetic justice . . . I yearn for it.”

Silence hangs in the air of the empty void within which we reside for longer than the last two silences combined, potentially longer than the entire length of time I've spent so far in this world between worlds.

Eventually, however, the robed figures laugh, granting me the first glimpse of humanity I have yet to detect from their supernatural existence. “PERHAPS THERE IS HOPE FOR YOU YET, SHITPOSTER. THE LAND OF ALWAYS WINTER IT IS.”

They raise their arms to the inky black nonexistent sky. “LET THE WILL OF VELO BE DONE!”

And in the brightest flash of white I have ever seen, I am suddenly blinded and transported to somewhere far, far colder.

. . .

The Land of Always Winter is perpetually frozen, beyond the curtain of light at the end of the world. It is home to nothing that lives. And, true to my eternal perdition, I am naked before the unfathomable expanse of icy glaciers and bright, bright sunlight that shines down upon me. I am beginning to shiver and freeze almost immediately upon my arrival and do not hope to survive beyond the day. Still, I am grateful to glimpse this cold landscape, having only existed in my mind's eye up to this glorious moment.

. . .

My body grows numb and my eyelids are now heavy. The pain has subsided and all that's left for me to do is sleep an eternal slumber. I'm okay with this. I could have been tortured to death or burned alive or drowned at sea or stabbed with a sword and left to bled out in a ditch. This is something purer than that. I am content with my death.

. . .

Maybe it's simply a mirage concocted by my dying brain cells yearning to survive, but I think I glimpse a silhouetted figure off in the distance, outlined against the blueish off-white hues of my environs.

I squint to get a better look at the individual.

>Its a figure garbed in mottled blacks and greys, riding atop a mighty elk
>Its a figure with flesh as pale as milk, with armor that shifts in color with every step
>Its a figure with a shaggy head of hair and full beard, armed and armored in bronze

>>3930142
>Its a figure with a shaggy head of hair and full beard, armed and armored in bronze

>>3930142
>Its a figure with flesh as pale as milk, with armor that shifts in color with every step
Trick you gay nigger cuck

>>3930128
>“You did say I knew who you were. I believe the first thing I ever did to you was drop you into the middle of the icy North and freeze you half to death, isn't that right . . . Velo?”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcYz91OyplA
[1:01]

>>3930142
>Figure with pale flesh

>>3930142
>Its a figure with a shaggy head of hair and full beard, armed and armored in bronze

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>>3930142
>Its a figure with a shaggy head of hair and full beard, armed and armored in bronze

Trick the quest Hijacker
Trick the bane of Velo
Trick the scourge of /qst/
Trick the akun exile
Trick the meme vulture

>>3931042
>>3930481
>>3930154

Apologies. A combination of poor timing, a tie vote and my gf getting sick waylaid this update for quite some time.

Glad to see you back on ravaging /qst/. Honestly missed you, you fat faggot.

Trick, you live!

>>3929946
Fucking hell trick

thought you were dead

>>3930142
>>Its a figure with a shaggy head of hair and full beard, armed and armored in bronze

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It's a figure with a shaggy head of hair and full beard, armed and armored in bronze. While at first he starts out as little more than a spec on the horizon of this jagged, uneven landscape, I quite quickly notice his profile growing larger in size as I observe him.

The savage looking warrior is clearly approaching my position and as he finally nears enough for me to look the man in the eyes, I start to feel the full breadth of my situation. Here I am, kneeling upon the ice in the nude. I didn't expect to encounter another human being before my inevitable demise and now that I have, I can't help but feel vulnerable, self-conscious and actually quite silly.

The expression on the stranger's face is nearly inscrutable, save for the obviously wary quality to the way his experienced eyes study me. Likely a product of his harsh environment, I have no doubt I must be a most peculiar sight to this man.

“Are you a madman?” He eventually asks me, his voice gruff and jaded, yet somehow packed with curiosity.

It takes me several long moments to decide, but I do give an earnest answer to his earnest question. “Yes, I am. Are you a Thenn?”

He nods. “I'm on lookout for the white shadows. I've never seen a living man in their domain before, let alone a naked one. How did you get here?”

“By fate,” I answer.

He grunts. “Is this a trick?”

I smirk. “No. It's the Trick.”

“You shouldn't be alive.”

“And yet, despite that, I still am. In a place from which nothing living should arise or flow. A land antithetical to life and synonymous with death – a graveyard.”

The wildling looks down at the ground, quietly pondering on how to proceed. “This is an ill omen,” he mutters aloud.

>I ask for basic food, clothes and equipment
>I ask for an audience with Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall
>I ask to be taken to the land of the Thenns
>write-in

And it is late, so no update for quite awhile. This quest will be slow going for the most part.

>>3931669
>I ask for an audience with Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall
"I might as well ask this, if possible some clothes I'm alive but this is not exactly a comfortable existence"

>>3931669
>I ask to be taken to the land of the Thenns

>>3931643
>>3931639
>>3931638
I see the old fellowship is coming back together

>>3931669
>Food, clothes, equipment

>>3931669
>>I ask for basic food, clothes and equipment
>>I ask for an audience with Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall

>>3931681
>>3932163
>>3933184


“Perhaps not,” I suggest to the superstitious scout, my own perspective on the situation radically different from his own. By choosing this place in particular for my arrival, I had consigned myself to death in payment for my misdeeds. But this chance encounter is so preposterously unlikely I can't simply write it off as mere, coincidental luck. Choosing suicide by exposure again – when it seems clear to me there is some other path being presented for my atonement – would be silly. “Bizarre though it may seem, I might be the harbinger of your people's salvation, if you only could grant me audience with the King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

He squints at me, reluctance plain as day on his face about fulfilling my request as any good and rational logic would dictate. However, the supernatural is often at odds with logic. “You won't survive the journey,” he responds, harping upon an obvious truth.

“I admit,” I reply, “I would need to rely completely upon your assistance to make the trek. Food, clothing, equipment – and rather promptly too. I'm so cold I think I might perish within the hour. It is much to ask for from a stranger, but the future of the free folk may depend upon completing this task.”

The Thenn stares down at me in harsh, contemplative silence.

“You know the white shadows are coming to claim you all. I can't promise I'll be able to stop it, but my counsel can aid Mance Rayder in his efforts.”

Further quiet ensues.

The wildling sighs in surrender. “You'll likely die regardless. But I will attempt to guide you south, madman. I am called Isorn. And who are you?"

>Madman suits me just fine
>Trick, the first and the last
>Write-in

>>3933262
>Trick, the first and the last

>>3933262
>Trick

>>3933262
>>Write-in
Mills, The second

>>3933262
>>Trick, the first and the last

>>3933262
>Trick, the first and the last
"Im the only trick that matters and one unto myself

>>3933262
Mills, the rapist of Rhodesia

>>3933262
Mills,the nigger

>>3933262
Mills the madcunt

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For a moment I ponder whether I should title myself by some pseudonym to distance this rebirth of mine from my prior life back on planet Earth – perhaps Mills, as a clever inside joke to myself in homage of one of my most colorful characters. I quickly decide against it, however. Mills may be one of my most interesting creations, but he is a product and symptom both of my misguided actions which landed me in this prison. “Trick,” I tell the wildling. “The First . . . and the Last.”


Fortuitously for myself, Isorn's encampment is not far from where he had ventured forth to accost me. The Thenn scout who was tasked with the duty of keeping whatever eyes possible on the Others which seek to destroy the realms of men, beginning first with those unlucky enough to have been born on the wrong side of the Wall, turns out to be a very meticulous and prepared individual, Perhaps it was for those obvious qualities that he was selected for this necessary labor in service of his people and Magnar. Isorn offers me the spare set of clothing he brought with him on this scouting mission of his, complete with sturdy boots and a ratty cloak: a whole outfit meant to replace whatever portion of his current garb might rip or tear on any of the jagged rock or spiky glaciers which populate the inhospitable landscape. Thankfully, our builds are similar enough and as such his clothes fit me adequately, although the boots are a tad tight on my feet.

I dress myself in what Isorn has graciously granted me. Then the wildling bids me to sit for several hours before a lit fire so that I may warm myself as much as possible before we begin the long trek back to civilization that, according to his conjecture, will blacken and deaden my various digits and extremities – maybe my whole foot, and even my life if I'm not more careful! I could lose all that, true, but despite the grim portents of my future, I smirk sardonically to myself at the karmic prospect of catching frostbite and potentially losing a pinky toe just like the fate I had so casually doled out to my protagonist Velo at the start of that quest. It was such a petty, vindictive consequence that I had inflicted upon him in the opening salvo of that unnatural war betwixt author and audience I so imprecisely considered an interactive story. Velo's suffering was a conduit for a mean-spirited lesson I had intended to teach the very players of my quest, which I practically considered subhuman, the grim nature of the setting they were to immerse themselves in – a lesson which failed to take root, if it's efficacy may be judged by some of the truly idiotic actions they chose to partake in later on in the narrative.

But what it was, truly, was a mean-spirited, spiteful act of passive aggressive, sub textual preaching – an unspoken lecture as to the depths of what I believed were the players' initial stupidity in choosing such a cold, forbidding climate to be the starting point for a naked, reborn and resource-less character. And yet, here I am, making the exact same idiotic choice for myself when the stakes are actually on the line, because I stupidly chose to just give up and die when faced with the deserved consequences of my actions, rather than use my head. At least I can pat myself on the back that I don't treat myself with any less vitriol than I do others.

Truthfully, every element of that thread was a warped battleground of the intended relationship between a quest master and his readers – tainted from the beginning. Velo the QM, a deceitful, duplicitous /pol/tard acting precisely in the manner he would antisemitically characterize as jewish behavior, secretly railroading his story from the sidelines by masquerading as just another player in his fanfic on tracks, intending to rip all narrative control from his players without them ever knowing if he had somehow managed to maintain the deception considering his pitifully low IQ. And then there were the meme vultures, who descended upon Velo and his quest in its death throes to cannibalize and feast upon it once the scheme was revealed, a thin veil of moral vindication disguising their selfish desires for jollies and lulz as befitting the cesspool that is 4chan culture. Finally then there was I, TrickQM – colloquially referred to as “King of Shitposters” in certain circles – who had come to crack open the corpse and take a big, fat shit in the proverbial chest cavity of the deceased, ruined quest. I had malicious intentions like the rest, even though I might have pretended otherwise when I stole the concept right out from under the distraught Velo. I was there to laugh at an inferior manipulator, writer and person, lampoon and mock the pathetic excuse for a man by turning him into a running joke and perhaps, somehow, perversely combine my love of the A Song of Ice and Fire novels, communal storytelling and my immense propensity to shitpost into an unholy trinity of filth. I was striving for fulfillment and meaning in the muck of base conduct, like the gutter goblin I genuinely am, making trash angels in the garbage.

Isorn taps me on the shoulder, drawing me out of my thoughts. “We should start moving now, Trick.”

I nod in agreement with my wildling guide's informed assessment. “I'm ready.”

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The two of us march and hike across the frozen, uneven landscape, traveling as fast as I possibly can to escape the territory of the White Walkers before sundown brings wintry death in one form or another. Break after break of me stopping to catch my breath, Isorn eventually elucidates upon an ultimatum that if I continue to slow him down, he will leave me to die to preserve his own life. I apologize profusely and struggle to maintain his rigorous pace, my chest rapidly deteriorating into hot, shredded fire. At least the exercise keeps me warm.

. . .

We escape the comparatively flatter terrain of the Land of Always Winter into the rocky region of the Frostfang mountain range. Already half-dead from exhaustion, the snow-capped peaks appear just as foreboding to me as the nearly equally inhospitable climate I just left. A cruel and inhospitable wilderness of stone and ice extends before me endlessly in every direction I can see all the way to horizon, one blue-grey summit rolling after the other. I nearly surrender myself to the elements once more as I observe the gauntlet still seemingly before me. As Isorn begins to ascend the steep incline, I commit to the act of hiking myself to death.

Once my thighs and the soles of my feet have surpassed the point of immense pain and drifted into the much preferable realm of sluggish numbness, Isorn finally finds the cave he was apparently searching for that be our lodgings for the night.

As he starts a fire and generously shares some extra rations of dried elk meat he had been keeping on his person, I drift back into idle thoughts of fancy and nostalgic memories of quests gone by. I think back to Raian's three kingdoms quest, which first drew me into the world of questing when I was merely a participant and voter, hiding behind anonymity as was and still is proper etiquette on 4chan. This was way back when the /qst/ board was still a twinkle in the eye of some anti-quest faggot and most all questing was done on the /tg/ board. I used to frequent that board a lot and when my good pal Kaze informed me of an engaging quest set during the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, I decided to check it out.

It immediately hooked my interest and that was when my fascination and obsession with questing began. Despite being a neophyte to the craft, during the proto-origin of my online handle's birth, I remember conducting myself as a veritable shitposter since I was so easily able to get away with it. There were many hostile arguments with other anonymous posters about befriending Sun Ce or waifuing Lu Bu's daughter or bickering about tactics during battle. I was often rightly called out as a Ce-fag and I would respond back to posts of 'Ce-fag pls' with no u tier arguments like 'Ce-fag pls fag pls' which would elicit a similarly recursive response that would go on and on for several iterations until other posters unrelated to the argument would yell at us in annoyance to just shut up and fuck already. I laugh to myself about the various debacles and situations that were gotten into during the short stint of that quest's existence, some involving me and some involving the other arm-chair general tier players who would fuck up tactics so badly that the QM – Raian – would harshly and rightfully punish us. It was a fun, engaging and interesting quest with a lot of engagement from the community. There were actual negative consequences to our actions, rather than the Gary Stu power fantasies that most quests consisted of in that era. It felt real, like an actual game with nearly infinite possibilities to continue.

And yet, it ended. The QM eventually – after less than twenty or so threads – simply gave up and abandoned us, having grown weary of the concept or the constant bickering and complaining of the players or maybe he just got a girlfriend and realized that getting laid was more important than entertaining spergs.

Whatever the reason, I remember feeling so heartbroken that I suggested to Kaze, who was equally let down by the quest being dropped, that maybe I'd pick up Raian's quest from where it left off to continue the story and maybe give it the proper conclusion the narrative deserved.

My friend had simply shaken his head, dismissed the idea as disrespectful and told me if I was going to make a Three Kingdoms quest to simply re-start it with a new protagonist, unrelated to Raian's. Kaze has always been my wisest sempai, but despite his accurate suggestions and protests, looking back on it now, the premature demise of Raian's Three Kingdoms Quest was likely the moment on conception for the creature known as Trick – forever driven by disappointment and the desire to see that beautiful story about Zhu Xing told in its entirety.

Before I can dwell any longer on modern day nerds making up fanfiction about ancient china men, Isorn tells me to get some sleep.

I quickly realize I'm mentally and physically exhausted and so I do as the Thenn bids, laying my head down on the softest rock I can find and discovering that it is ever so easy for my eyelids to close and for my consciousness to drift off into the realms of sleep.

>>3939113
>Wake up

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>>3941126

After waking up the next morning, our trek, something straight from out of the frozen depths of Hell, lasts another full day and night of endurance hiking through the ups and downs of the Frostfangs' least treacherous mountains. Isorn divulges little information about himself over the course of the journey, his opinion of me bordering on superstitious scorn fueling his refusal to socialize. I'm driven much more heavily by my inability to spare the effort it would require to talk rather than move.

And so we continue, until we finally descend into a large valley dotted with various dwellings and thousands of rugged people going about their daily business. Patches of hardy plant life carpet the meadow floor of this semi-secret refuge of life. I realize upon viewing the multi-colored rainbow of blues, scarlet, russet and gold below that this is the first time I've seen actual grass and flowers here in Westeros.

“Is this Thenn?” I inquire of my wildling guide, relief filling me up from head to toe at the first sign of true respite displays itself before me.

He nods. “It is, Trick.”

“Is Mance Rayder here?”

Isorn shakes his head. “Farther South still, encamped along the Milkwater. The Magnar is soon to leave to join him, along with most of our warriors and people.”

I ruminate quietly about where precisely that might place me in the timeline of events for A Song of Ice and Fire, but otherwise the last leg of our expedition unfolds uneventfully.

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I catch many stares from the men, women and children I pass by as we wend our way through wooden cabins and igloos. These are the stares of insular, rustic people untrustworthy of strangers and foreigners when they are subjected to just such an irregular occurrence. I avoid eye contact as best as possible, sticking closely to Isorn. Eventually we encounter other soldiers in the Magnar of Thenn's military forces, who seem to be of a higher rank than Isorn judging by the manner in which they address and converse with him.

“Who is this stranger?”

“I discovered him while scouting Their territory. He seeks an audience with the King Beyond the Wall.”

“Bah. He's a wight. Burn him and be done with it.”

“He lives and breathes. His eyes are not blue. He says he wants to help us.”

“ONLY I DECIDE WHO GOES TO MEET THE KING BEYOND THE WALL!” a distant voice declares, as the individual in possession of it strides into the middle of Isorn's argument with his fellow tribesmen. All the Thenns immediately take several steps back to make way for this man's arrival upon the scene, apparently having eavesdropped somewhat on the exchange which just occurred between his underlings.

The man is tall and lean, bald and clean shaven, with grey eyes, a straight nose and no ears to speak of – clearly having been hacked off due to frostbite earlier in his life.

Garbed in bronze scale armor – carrying a helmet in one hand and a weirwood spear topped with an ornate bronze head in the other – he cuts an imposing figure as befitting his status as the Magnar of the Thenns.

He walks right up into my personal space, looking me directly in the eyes no less than an inch separating his nose from mine in what is unmistakably an attempt at intimidation.

The Magnar studies me closely, sizing me up for his eventual evaluation.

>Meet his stare
>Look down at the ground
>write-in

>>3941759
>Meet his stare
>write-in
"your going to headbutt me aren't you"

>>3941759
>>Meet his stare

>>3941759
>Look down at the ground

If we meet his stare we might start crying

>>3941759
>>Meet his stare

I meet his stare straight on without flinching, unwilling to back down or show weakness in this moment face to face with a hardened warrior and killer.

Seconds pass in silence as Isorn and his fellow soldiers apprehensively watch the interaction take place.

“ . . . You're going to headbutt me, aren't you?” I can't help but ask, attempting to dispel the tension.

WHAM!

His perfectly smooth cranium rocks forward, smashing into my face and more than likely breaking my nose, judging by the immense pain and the disturbing crunching noise that comes from its crumpling. I fall backward from the force of the blow and, in a rather ironic fashion, land gently on my ass in a soft pile of snow. Blood starts to pour down my face from my nostrils and I instinctively reach up with my right hand to cover my face, doing my best not to scream or seethe in agony.

The Magnar of Then scoffs, spitting on me as he seems to determine my worth lacking in his estimation.

“He's no dead man,” Styr remarks upon that truth, informing his nearby subjects. “And certainly no ghost. But he doesn't strike me as anything special. Ordinary flesh and blood – feeble and yielding flesh at that.”

“I found him naked, sitting peacefully within the dominion of the White Shadows, uncaring about the bitter cold,” Isorn vouches for me. “He shouldn't be alive.”

Styr, The Magnar of Thenns – as I recall his name from my extensive knowledge of the books despite my precarious predicament – ruefully smirks. “Rumors abound that some men consort with the white shadows, revering them as the true Cold Gods of the North, going so far as to offer up their very babes as sacrifice to those terrible creatures for protection. Do we have a godly man in our midst?”

I shake my head as blood trickles out from between my fingers, staining the snow beneath me crimson.

“I'm no kinslaying, daughter-fucking, Other-worshipping, Crow bastard like Craster!” I declare emphatically in defense of my character, removing my hand from my face so all these rough men might peer upon my bloodied visage.

To my great surprise, The Magnar starts to guffaw at my comment along with several of his subordinates. I take the momentary reprieve from scornful and potentially lethal judgment to stand back up, regaining my footing.

When the laughter ceases, Styr looks at me with what appears to be some genuine measure of respect in his gaze. “Well spoken,” he says simply.

I shrug. “Well I am a shitposter. Insulting creepy, ugly fucks like that Crow cocksucker is sort of my specialty.”

The Magnar of Thenn laughs once more, before squinting his eyes at my choice of words. “Shit . . . poster?”

“Uhhhh,” I vocalize as I think of how to explain my unnecessary outburst. “Like a bard or a jester who specializes in insults.”

"You and the King would get along," he mutters unhappily under his breath. "Who are you?”

“Trick,” I state my name. “The First and the Last. I seek to counsel Mance Rayder, The King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

Styr looks me up and down once more, skeptical of my wish as any man in his position has every right to be. “And what counsel do you have to give?”

>I know how to kill the White Walkers
>I know how to get all of you safely to the other side of the Wall
>Write-in

>>3944446
>I know how to kill the White Walkers

>3944446
"Wow where do i start, I know a way to deal with the wall more or less, I know how to kill White Walkers, I can sure as hell work up some improvements to your arsenal provided those above or below are not utter meme lords and broke gun powder again and frankly it's going to help me orientate myself"
List them off on our fingers as we go

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I instantly begin to cackle at the Magnar of Thenn's question, rather than allow myself even a moment to appear daunted by such a probing attempt to disprove the usefulness of my offer. “Wow!” I exclaim, throwing my head, eyes and hands up to the cloudy, blue sky above us. “Where do I even begin?” I clap my hands together, rubbing the palms furiously against one another to drum up suspense in Styr and his soldiers, eliciting strange looks they share betwixt each other, silently questioning my sanity. “Let's start simply then: I know how to kill the White Walkers.”

Isorn sighs out. “Truly a madman.”

The Magnar snarls. “You might well be the last ancestor-forsaken trick played upon my people, if you continue to speak such nonsense in my presence.”

“It's a true claim, though,” I insist. “They can be slain with but a single blow by a weapon made of frozen fire. Obsidian. Dragon glass.”

Styr squints at me as I tell him this fact, his expression perturbed when he finds himself forced to consider my assertion. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because the Children of the Forest have wielded blades and arrowheads of obsidian since the Dawn Age. Ask any of your giant allies, or better yet, look at the ancient corpses of those slain in their feuds with the Children. Don't you find it strange they were able to fight back the white shadows, but were so easily conquered and scattered by the first men and the andals when conflict broke out between them? Yet you can scarcely imagine yourself defeating a foe those forest sprites your ancestors so easily rebuffed were able to handle. The Children helped the kneelers build their wall at the end of the Battle for the Dawn, when they joined forces. And later still the Children would gift the Crows one hundred obsidian blades every year before they cut off contact and retreated back into their forests. You think the Crows wanted obsidian weaponry to kill you when their own steel would more than suffice?”

Styr's face sobers immensely as he can't help but hear the logic in my words. “How do you know this?”

“Because I've seen it,” I ominously reply with my honest answer.

“Greenseer . . . ” the men around us whisper the title, adorning me with it so easily and with such intimidated awe at my affected tone that I have to resist greatly not to roll my eyes. Within a couple days I've passed myself off as a bard and now a prophet, becoming a gigantic rip off of my own quest protagonist, I now realize. How quickly have I defaulted back to the mediocrity of predictability.

“Fuck that,” I casually curse. “I'm nothing so wise, magical and respectable as a greenseer. I'm a shitposter who just happens to know a bit more than your average schmuck. If you wish to call me anything, call me Brownseer – For I have the Shit Sight and experience the Shit Dreams.”

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“Because Lords knows that's what season 8 was,” I tack on in a mutter no one else can hear, for they are too busy laughing at my elementary school level humor. Apparently poop jokes do well with wildlings.

Once The Magnar has finished chortling at my comedic downplaying of my bullshit knowledge, he nods sagely. “You seem to know much. I will take you along with my forces when we march South. Mance may be the judge of you.”

. . .

As luck would have it, the morning of my arrival and Isorn's return is to be the day the vanguard of the Thenn's forces head out, leading the riverside trek to where Mance Rayder's wildling army is encamped along the Milkwater.

And when I say luck, I don't mean good luck. Styr decides it is most important I make it to The King Beyond the Wall as fast as possible. So rather than getting a day to rest and recuperate in the valley of Thenn, instead I'm conscripted into what feels like a forced march to my aching, weary muscles.

Isorn informs me the march to Mance Rayder will take a week of travel and after I stop considering suicide, I then begin to consider how I should spend the scant few hours of free time I will be afforded during this death march.

>Ingratiate myself with Styr, the Magnar of Thenn
>Befriend Isorn, the Thenn scout who discovered and saved me
>Befriend Sigorn, the son of the Magnar
>Acquire a weapon and learn how to swing it
>Acquire armor and learn how to wear it
>Write-in

>>3947859
>Acquire a weapon and learn how to swing it

>>3947859
>Acquire armor and learn how to wear it
Get used to wearing something to protect us from harm, getting hurt sucks ass and fighting to the death is hardly something to look forward to

>>3947859
>Acquire a weapon and learn how to swing it

(1-25) Stone Axe

(26-50) Stone Spear

(51-70) Bronze Axe

(71-90) Bronze Spear

(91-100) Bronze Sword

Rolled 62 (1d100)

>>3949396

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Rather than waste my precious free time interacting in-depth with minor characters destined for death, irrelevance or otherwise, instead I decide to spend my waking hours practicing some small measure of self-defense. I am sure this will come in handy in the future. I approach the closest thing the Thenns of the scouting vanguard have to a quartermaster and politely beseech him for any weapon their rabble can spare. While I don't hold out hope for anything of quality – due to my uncertain, lowly station in their purview and the fact that wildlings lack the means of producing anything amazing with their meager resources in this cold hellhole – I am either charismatic or lucky enough to snag a hefty axe with a gnarled wood handle and a sharp bronze head. Veins of bronze spiderweb their way through the caves in the valley of Thenn and are thus the most common metal this more orderly, militaristic clan of free folk use for their armor and armaments. With a hand-me-down set of their garb and a surplus weapon clenched tightly in my clutches, I'm looking quite the part as just another wildling among many.

Whenever we halt our rapid march down the stony banks of the milky white Milkwater for nightfall, I ignore the screaming protests of my muscles and instead practice swinging my axe so that I may grow accustomed to using it for the bloodier of its intended purposes. A portion of this practice involves chopping down nearby trees for firewood that I bring back to the Thenns' rather organized encampment and add to the pile for our campfires. My contributions are paltry in comparison to my experienced, battle-hardened traveling companions, but it's enough to earn me a hot meal without chastisement or earning a sword through the belly. I at least demonstrate the axe I wield is better put to use in my hands than left unattended.

For a week we doggedly follow the course of the river, moving closer and closer towards Mance Rayder's host. If I thought I was half-dead before after merely two days of hiking through mountains in the freezing cold, then I must be close to ninety percent dead with the compounded physical stress of seven days marching.

But, somehow, I continue to survive on rationed food and terrible sleep in the bitterest, wintry cold imaginable. My arms and legs never falter and collapse beneath my weight in exhaustion and, against all odds, frostbite does not claim my extremities. In fact, near the end of the trek, I begin to feel more robust than I have in a long time of laying in my bed for ten hours straight playing Alice-Soft eroge video games on my compute for the in-depth strategy mechanics.

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True to Isorn's information, we spy Mance Rayder's host upon the seventh day, nestled snugly amidst a valley within the Frostfang mountain range much like the valley of Thenn had been. Snows and pale mists swirl along the river that leads up and through the many hundreds of recently congregated tents. Even at this distance, I can see woolly mammoths and giants among this enormous army – sights both fantastical and otherworldly.

Before I can indulge much from the vantage point I have chanced upon, the Magnar of Thenn quickly approaches me from behind and grips my shoulder to seize my attention.

“I will take you to the King's tent directly,” Styr informs me. “He will measure your true worth.”

This wildling leader then guides me down into the valley, directing me through the hodge podge of temporary dwellings before depositing me unceremoniously outside a great tent made from the white pelts of snow bears and topped with the antlers of a giant elk. Styr tells me to wait outside and enters through the opening flap, leaving me alone for several minutes while I anxiously freeze my nuts off.

Eventually, he sticks his ear-less, chrome dome back out into the open air and nods for me to come inside.

I do as is suggested and immediately find myself in the presence of a slender man of middling height, with long brown hair that has mostly gone to gray, a sharp face with shrewd brown eyes and laughter lines at the corner of his mouth. Garbed in wool and leather, a slashed cloak of black wool and red silk drapes over his outfit and in his hands rests a lute which he casually strums.

Mance Rayder – the King-Beyond-the-Wall – regards me with a cautiously suspicious glance.

“I'm told you wish to give me counsel on how to save my people, Trick the Shitposter,” he speaks smoothly.

Mance pauses for a long moment.

“I'm listening.”

>You need obsidian. As much as you can acquire. And Valyrian steel, if you can find it.
>You need to parley with Lord Commander Mormont. A truce must be established so we can fight the true enemy together
>I know how to lead your people across the Wall to safety. Once there we can figure out how to handle tension between us and the kneelers
>Write-in

>>3949446
>Write-in
"Dragon glass is how you kill your foes properly, i would say Valyrian steel but well that's not going to happen. I'm not sure who is in charge of the Night's Watch at the moment but if it's Mormont still we need to show him the true enemy, he'll want proof naturally which will be the hard part. If we can't convince them with sweet we go for the bitter and threaten to take the wall down with the Horn. God does anyone even know what year it is as far as the Southerners refer to them?"

>>3949446
>You need obsidian. As much as you can acquire. And Valyrian steel, if you can find it.

>>3949446
>>I know how to lead your people across the Wall to safety. Once there we can figure out how to handle tension between us and the kneelers

KILL, RAPE ALL KNEELERS

“Dragon Glass is what your army requires to kill your foes properly. You'll need obsidian – as much as you can acquire. I told the Magnar of Thenn as much.”

Mance glances down at his musical instrument and idly plucks a string as he listens to my words.

“My followers have found many an obsidian relic among the dead along the Milkwater,” he responds to my claim. “Collecting the frozen fire should not prove difficult.”

“I'd also suggest dragon steel – Valyrian steel. I believe it should be just as effective if not greater at slaying the Others. However, that will be a much rarer material to come by.”

“Verily,” the King-Beyond-The-Wall seconds simply. “Tell me, have you seen a white walker slain by weapons of obsidian?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“And do you believe if I armed every man, woman and child in my camp with a dagger or spear made of obsidian – presuming it works as effectively as you claim – that we would prevail against them in battle?”

I grimace at that pointed question. “Likely not,” I answer honestly. “Not upon an open field at least – so close to their domain, with the winds of Winter working against you. You'll need a defensive position. You need to be on the other side of the Wall.”

Mance Rayder quirks a wry smile. “My former brothers will do their best to prevent us from accomplishing that feat.”

“I know, I know,” I commiserate. “I'm not precisely sure who's in charge of the Night's Watch at the moment, but if it's still Jeor Mormont –”

“It is,” the lute player interrupts.

“Okay, good,” I mutter quietly. “If we can provide him proof of who the true enemy is, we might be able to get the free folk safely past the Wall without bloodshed. The proof will naturally be the hard part, but happening upon an opportunity to speak with the Old Bear will also be difficult . . .Gods, does anyone even know what year it is as far as the Southroners refer to them?” I look around the tent upon asking my question, peering at some of the different faces in the great tent besides Mance and myself, who have remained quiet so far throughout our brief meeting. Besides Styr, there is a man with a massive belly, broad chest and a beard as white as snow. There are also two women – a beautiful blonde with high, sharp cheekbones and a plainer one with a kindly face when compared to the rest of the expressions I receive from the other occupants of the tent.

I have a strong hunch about precisely who these people are.

“Two Hundred and Ninety Eight years since Aegon's Landing,” Mance Rayder answers my question, drawing my attention back to the man in charge.

“Are you aware of any news about things happening in the realm of the Kneelers?”

“My sources have informed me the King of the Kneelers himself is planning to visit Lord Stark of Winterfell.” Mance graces me with a broad grin. “I plan to attend.”

I blink several times, before my vast stores of knowledge return to me in full force. “Oh! You do, don't you?”

The King-Beyond-the-Wall shrugs. “The most daunting challenge shall be climbing the Wall. After that, it should be a trivial matter for one more bard among many to slip in unnoticed.”

“You don't know the half of it,” I mutter under my breath.

>Allow me to accompany you
>Well you go have fun with that

>>3955249
>Allow me to accompany you
I don't actually know all that much about GoT, so I have no clue what most of this means unfortunately. Fuck it, time to wing it.

>>3955249
>Allow me to accompany you
Inb4 the alternate trick OCs are there to

>>3955263
>I don't actually know all that much about GoT, so I have no clue what most of this means unfortunately. Fuck it, time to wing it.

>[If you don't know the lore that well, this game takes a preconceived idea that the MC has perfect knowledge and memory of events in the books, ergo feel free to read articles on the Wiki about the subjects mentioned if you feel lost.]