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A Game of Hodor vs The Walking Carl

Why do people keep yelling the same thing over and over again?

It is dark and it is cold and everything should be still and peaceful.  Everything is not.  The forest has shed its forest sounds.  There are no birds in trees, nor even insects.  There is no breeze.  But there is the crunch of leaves, felled branches and twigs.  Deadfall, they call it.  They call it deadfall.

In the woods they walk.  They walk when they should not and it has become a defining characteristic, a madness they flout.  These Walkers.  These White Walkers.  These once men, now dead, who refuse to stay dead.  Who now seek to kill.  Is this what Hell is like?  Which Hell?

The voices of men rip through the night.  Real men, whole and alive.  For now.  Real men ravaged by fear but set by determination.  The Walkers are reality, not just a nightmare.

“Carl!” The cry pierces the night.  The White Walkers hear and know.  But what do the Walkers know?  Hunger.  Need.  Drive.  Purpose.

Does this Carl have the same condition as I? Certainly no end of irony for us to all meet up and die in the woods together.

“Hodor!”  Urgency muddled in near gibberish.

Dear Diary, I think the zombies are learning how to talk or something, just not very well.  And one of them has a kid on his back.  Maybe they were re-enacting Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.

“Carl!”  Is it a rallying cry?  A woman’s voice this time, shouting, desperate.  Is it a signal?  Over and over again they ry.  The Walkers acknowledge and continue forth, eager to oblige the demands of the living, to answer their calls and bring forth the cold.  Black hands, eyes of milky white and blue skies.

I must admit, I left any serious reflection of faith behind long ago, neither the Mother nor any of the Seven have seen fit to answer many of my prayers, but I’m praying now – some of these White Walkers are far less white than they should be.  Green, almost.

“Hodor!”  An explosion of sound destroys the night.

Dear Diary, my dad and Darrell just started shooting.  I can see them from the tree I’m in and none of the Walkers are going down.  They all have blue eyes, too.  And that guy with the kid on his back is screaming like a banshee.  I’d just like to point out that this is some straight up crazy shit.

A vicious growl and from the darkness come wolves.  Massive, fearsome beasts, tearing at dead flesh, white and rotten green alike. Arrows now, flaming, piercing bodies.  The White Walkers fall, the green stagger on.

“Carl!”

I’m being chased by a rotting torso.  This is the more horrible forest in which I have ever been.

“Hodor!”

Dear Diary – holy shitballs!  Wolves just ate a bunch of the walkers and there’s exploding heads and everything is crazy!  This is the best!

The direwolves retreat into shadows and the chaos turns to calm.  The smell of death, of gore and old blood, hangs heavy in the cold air.  As quickly as it began it is over again.  The living flee to what they consider safety.  The forest grows quiet again.

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