(Ok, ok, I’ve kind of disappeared of the face of tumblr last week, except for unproductive procrastination, because of studying, sorry for that, I’m right back in).

If you want Mance for anything, message me and we’ll get it going! I (still) feel a little new, so I may require some extra poking, so don’t worry about it ;). And Mance being Mance is always up to the challenge! 

banegiant:

Rain.

Always fucking raining. As if he didn’t have enough shit to deal with. As if he didn’t need a bright bright goddamn bright sunshiny day tomorrow. 

Tormund paced back and forth in his small office, stopping to kick his chair every time his walking took him close enough to it. Soon the chair had been kicked to the wall, and following that every kick slid the chair along the wall, scraping audibly against the whitewashed stone. After about three or four minutes of this, Tormund spit into the wastebasket, spun on his toe, and walked over to the record player in the corner of the room. He flipped the record already on the spinner, placed the needle, and started the music. As “Telegram Sam” began filling the office, he ambled over to his desk, removed a half-filled bottle of scotch and a glass, and poured himself a small amount. He knocked back the alcohol, enjoying the smokiness it left in his nostrils, before leaning back his stiff-backed chair. 

Raining at the end of summer in London, he mused sardonically, who would’ve fucking thought it? Tormund sighed and checked his watch. Someone was due in about a half-hour for a last minute meeting about tomorrow’s rally. He couldn’t be arsed to check his schedule—where was it, by the way? Had he left it with Amina? If he had, it was locked in her office; today was her day off—but he was pretty sure the kid coming by was with the GFTU, a big boy in the musician’s union. 

“Musicians,” he deadpanned aloud, “musicians and fucking teachers.” After a pause for thought, he remarked to the empty room, “To give ‘em their due, though, teachers always marched with us. And I think I remember this ‘Raynor’ kid.” Now he was sure he did. Max Raynor or whatever his name was had been one of the protesters arrested in last year’s anti-Targaryen rallies. He wouldn’t have been memorable (there were so many jailed during those three wild days) but he’d kept a cool head about him and led the crowd in a few Phil Ochs classics as he was dragged off in cuffs. Style like that, Tormund could respect. The kid was late, though, not that he could be blamed in a downpour like this one. 

Tormund reached back into his desk, finding a second (dirty) glass. Scowling, he stood, began to walk to the door, thought better of it, filled his own glass, downed the scotch, then resumed his trip to the bathroom to clean the glass. Most fucking bosses have their own bathrooms. He had only himself to blame, though; it was his idea to convert an abandoned factory/warehouse complex to union space. 

He reached the bathroom and flicked on the light—and stood, tapping his foot, for the minute it took the electricity to flow and the lamp to glow. When the light came on, he made his way over to the only sink, rinsed the glass, and rubbed it dry with the untucked front of his button-up shirt. He hit the light switch on his way out—turned off on a dime, of course—and walked back to his office, listening to the pounding rain on the uninsulated roof and the growing strains of “Ballrooms of Mars”. He had just set the glass down on the end of the desk closer to the door and was fidgeting with his single other chair, trying to position it just right, when a knock came at the door.

“Agh! I mean, uh, come the f- come right in, uh-huh?”

It rained. It rained heavily and the traffic was moving slowly as hell. At first, Mance didn’t particularly care – the inside of his car was warm, Moanin’ was playing from the cassette and he wasn’t somebody that got angry over silly things like weather or traffic.

But then he glanced at wrist watch.

Well, damn.

He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to make it on time. Surely, Mance still didn’t particularly care, but he was also quite sure that Mance Rayder, the important representative of the Musicians’ Union should. Punctuality, he could almost hear somebody’s voice, shows that you taking it seriously. Makes you look professional. He rolled his eyes almost automatically. Like he wanted to be one of those professional politicians, that never got anything of any importance done.

Hopefully, Tormund Mawr wasn’t going to mind his lateness much. Mance remembered the man from many strikes (frankly, Tormund with his bold, loud attitude was hard to miss) and he was definitely someone he wanted to have on his side.

Eventually, he arrived at BANE union’s “office building” which looked suspiciously similar to an unused warehouse complex. Not that he minded, at least Mawr wasn’t one of those fancy pussies who liked to spend union’s money on getting himself “representative” (and useless) buildings. Plus there was no problem with finding a parking place.

The good parking place didn’t helped him much though and neither did sprinting to the building’s door – he ended up completely wet and his spirits ended up sinking a little lower again. Marches during pounding rain have never been successful. Goddamit London. Get sunny for tomorrow.

There was no reception in the building so he simply let himself in and scanned the dusty information board for the location of Mawr’s office. Second floor it was, apparently. He quickly got himself upstairs, jumping two or three stairs at the same time and there it was. A muffed version “Ballrooms of Mars” welcomed him. The man knew some good music. Maybe it was all going to be okay in the end, then. He knocked the door and then suddenly remembered that thanks to the rain he probably looked quite miserable. Oh well.

A surprised “Agh! I mean, uh, come the f- come right in, uh-huh?” came quickly. Mance turned the handle to open the door, entered right into the room and flashed his trademark grin while quickly scanning the office. It was small, with a desk, two chairs and and two glasses. And then there was the man too, standing next to one of the chairs and looking slightly confused (Better confused than irritated.).

“Hello on this not so beautiful day.” he said as he stepped towards Tormund. “Sorry for being late. The weather got the better of me.”. He extended his hand. “Mance Rayder from the Musicians’ Union. I don’t think we’ve ever formally met before – nice to meet you.”.

Empty right now, hopefully not for long ;).

Meet Mance.

Read More

Read More

Hello world.