#int. w/ormir

[witchertorsten]

@ormir location: Nornwatch Keep notes: jesties, because this thread is so lighthearted.

Demons, traitors, and worse had followed them through the mountains. When they'd arrived in Nornwatch, a raven had been shot down flying from the Keep, bound for Yggdrasildal. It contained their location, numbers, and more. Torsten had found the man responsible, whatever his reasons; even under great duress, the traitor had bitten off his tongue before spilling anything. Death was the only other recourse, a message for others foolish enough to join him.

"Let this man serve as a reminder for all those who hinge their final glory at the end of the High King's justice;" dark eyes shifted to the man's neck laid across the ancient block - stained with the blighted blood of the legionnaires of old who'd been foolish enough to break their oaths. Cowards who'd run from the blight, or turned their back on the call to serve the dark instead. A pitiful end for the Norns to see their lives ended here. "May his soul find no place in lives to come, but instead land upon the shores of Nástrǫnd, eternally devoured alongside his kin: murderers and oathbreakers." A fell swoop brought the head to the awaiting basket before one squire fetched it to see it mounted upon the wall.

The blade was wiped clean, even spackled with blood. The witcher's armor refracted the dull light that filtered through the clouds above. The indomitable cold polluted this realm north of the Spine, and the acrid stench of blight stained the lands they stood in. While their High King remained under guard, Torsten would continue in this and the trials ahead. "My Lord," Torsten acknowledged as he slid his blade back into place in the same manner he'd done hundreds of times before. Behind him, the crowd had taken to dispersing. Their jeers at the man who'd have seen them all flayed by the invading magi had died off as their appetite for violence seemed temporarily satiated. Both a message and a distraction, it did the people good to have a face to momentarily assign to the enemy; now they had a mounted head to spit at as they passed.

[alucardrakul]

By now the dhampir could hardly recall what it was like to be a child, but he could empathize with the choice to spare their fledgling bodies the brutality of analysis. Distasteful just the same, but Iskrates did not discriminate and in Alucard's mind blood was only blood. He offered Ormir a nod in assurance, the body of the ensnared ghoul bound and contained as if he was restricted by sets of invisible bonds pulled taut by Alucard's mind. This was a simple inflection of his power, but as he turned the legionnaire's cloak turned with him as he answered the hand while making his way from the bowels of the Keep. The laboratory awaited.

"Alucard Drakul," the stitching on his cloak denoted the gold dragon under a bed of stars - the symbol for the Old God Lusacan, and his Church of Night. A cult that persisted in Veilcrest, headed by the Vampire Queen. "son of Vlad." There was a time when his father had been a terrible warlord, a general over the armies of the undead - now he was an elusive, enigmatic, and gregarious recluse. Whatever scientific brilliance his mind contained, he hoarded it from the rest of the world. Alucard called back over his shoulder toward the Hand of the King, "But I shed both my father and his name when I joined the Legion of the Dead." Fate may someday conspire to bring him face to face with his patriarch once more, but for now, Alucard would continue to work to dismantle everything the vampires of the Deadlands stood for.

The pair of lips that still drew breath were battered and raw from exposure and worsened by Ormir’s nervous habit of biting them in private. This is necessary, the strategist fought to persuade the soft, fallible man it shared a brain with. They will come to understand, the same voice cooed, even as the ghoul was ensnared and carted through thin air. It had been an Iskaran man only a few hours ago. Now, the corpse would be fulfilling its purpose in whatever dark, dingy approximation of an operating theater Nornwatch had. Ormir diverted his self-cannibalizing criticism to instead pick at the stranger’s intentions. What macabre hypotheses had this stranger already orchestrated for Iskaran bodies to answer? Flashing imagery of vivisections flashed behind his eyelids. It hurt to swallow against the dryness of his throat. Ormir decided he wouldn’t be requesting a tour of the facilities. It bore another reminder to himself: At the rate the blight was spreading, The Joining could soon be Iskaldrik’s last hope of survival. This was necessary.

“No children.” He amended, adding a leaden quality to his voice. The Interim King did his best to convey that this particular line in the sand was carved deep. As sources of laughter dwindled around the camp, parents would be owed the solace of a proper burial. It was a fragile bit of dignity they couldn’t afford to lose. As for the rest of them… “You’ll only treat the ones that can no longer be made comfortable, and I trust will do so exclusively in the pursuance of a cure.” ‘Treatments.’ ‘Cures.’ The words were bent almost beyond recognition, as if they’d been corrupted by the blight themselves. None of this instilled any sense of pride in him. Ormir had almost choked on the sliminess of the conditions as he spoke them, but it was better the contract slither in and find a hold within their memories than exist anywhere on parchment.

In the rotting silence left behind, The Hand honed his attention on the Legionnaire who’d propositioned the idea. The noble’s eyes slatted. “Who are you, exactly?” What did he stand to gain in making such a risky request in the first place? Establishing trust was less important with both of their necks on the line, the strategist in Ormir understood. The man in him, doomed to be a moral creature ever at odds with logic, was starved to understand the motive.

[witchertorsten]

Desperation was in the bones of the Iskarans, rampant through the cold air that whipped against the Spine to the South. This world was their nation, but they might as well have landed on foreign shores. The blight beneath them, the enemy at their backs, now more than ever they could hardly afford to quarrel among one another. Unfortunately that when it came to Iskaran stubbornness, Torsten was far from immune.

"Tensions are high in every corner of the Keep, none are immune." It wasn't an apology, but it was as close to what Torsten could manage at present. Real fear permeated this fortress and with the absence of a clear chain of command, there was an opinion in every corner on the best course of action. Ego saw to it that all parts wished to prove themselves the most capable leader. The Hand, The Princess, and The Heir had each taken to walking taller - and they weren't alone. Torsten was not immune to this either, The First was gone, someday the day would come when they would need to choose another. All men with ambition were dangerous, but these were dangerous times. "When I am relieved, I'll find you later and we can come to terms on the best course forward. The Lord Hand speaks for the King, I would be remiss not to listen."

Torsten’s mannerisms shaped the words differently in his mouth, his lighter timbre, the distinct roll of his cadence, but they were so stubborn and high-minded that may as well have been decreed from Orhan’s lips. Oh, yes. The Raven-feeder ached to spill blood upon this hill, if only for a second, fleeting taste of conquest over the man he’d already condemned to a living hell. The realization effectively snuffed the enthusiasm to rage his way onto the same executioner's block. Ormir prickled, but the edges of his mouth made a forcible tug upwards. He’d pulped his fingernails, rent his nerves raw in the past from clawing against stone walls. This conversation had become circular and they each had better things to do with their time than starting a pissing contest in the town square over a freshly-shorn head. Tactical retreat was an old friend who was overdue a visit. He was confident he’d find the right leverage he needed with the Witcher, in time. He’d have to.  Ormir drew emotion in on tense reins, as best he could. The Hand opened his mouth and a hollow echo of Orhan’s diplomacy filtered out. “I understand. On behalf of our High King, your continued fealty in such adversarial conditions is most esteemed,” The sharp blade of spite was now sheathed. Ormir’s breath escaped through a penitent smile that stopped below his eyes. “Please forgive my… indecorous phrasing, and a point made in poor taste. I attempted to lecture a Witcher, one who’s graciously purged us of another parasite, about what is and isn’t ‘decent,’ and made myself a hypocrite in the same breath. The irony is not lost on me.” The warm metallic twang lingered in his mouth, and he fought to un-imagine what the inside of a basket would look like.

[witchertorsten]

Venom well received, Torsten drank poison for a decade to be the warrior that stood in front of Ormir today. A man, that he invariably respected a great deal. One that he'd sworn himself to protect, but one that he was inherently weary of. Ambitious men rarely cared to draw a line in the sand that they were not willing to cross. His position hinged upon Orhan's sickness, and Afshin not stepping up to take the throne for himself. Still, the huscarl was the High King's most trusted advisor and his oldest friend, that reason alone would be enough for Torsten to put stock in the other's decisions, and the consequences that would come to pass. Torsten was not a diplomat, he was a sword, one sharpened by the nation he served for a singular purpose.

"Dissent is inevitable, particularly with traitors in our midst. This man conspired with the Aetherians, had he been successful then they'd have been upon this Keep in a fortnight. Perhaps they still might, but the hand of justice is the only reminder they have that we still have order in this chaos: their fear breeds its necessity. Lord Hand, I won't be a blade in the dark - perpetuating the rationale that so long as Iskarans disappear or die in the night, we cannot protect them." The First was absent, likely dead, but in matters of law and order the witchers were the judge, jury, and executioner. "But my Lord's advice is well received, the next traitor I kill will be given their last rites and a proper burial. As is customary. If you're so inclined, you can help us dig."

Ormir clamped down on the bitter scoff that nearly exploded out of him. Coward. The young Witcher’s sentiments were rooted in overly-quoted dogma – though Ormir felt the biting truth behind them. Torsten had always been bold, fueled by the righteous fire of the Witcher’s crucible. It branded his justice in terms of certainty. It was a quality befitting a fine knight, but a lousy politician. Right now, as far as Ormir was concerned, each survivor from High Hall was required to be both. There was a time, not so long divorced from the present, that Ormir would’ve carved expert selections for the birds from the head currently dripping down its stake. That was another life, one already surrendered to the vulgarity and cynicism of war. Even then, he’d favor himself as more of a craftsman than a butcher. Not that he was eager to return to old habits. “Perhaps it bears reminding that my charge, the whole reason I bear any differentiation at all from my kinsmen,” He gestured at the deep crimson smear where the corpse had been dragged away. “Is to preserve the modicum of decency we have left as a people. Maybe you’re fine clawing open frozen dirt to shit in at night and strewing intestines around as decoration, but I’m not demanding all of Iskaldrik join the King in his madness just yet. We’re not so desperate.“ Ormir lashed, savoring the burning certainty he tasted on his own lips. Perhaps it’s the language he understands best. He took a measured breath, feeling the air between them crackle like fat on a fire. It took a beat to find the softened cadence required to speak again. “Your talents, your training, neither are taken for granted by me, Torsten. All I’m asking,” Another beat, “Is for you to be tactful.”

[witchertorsten]

In the end, Torsten would fulfill his duty to the letter. His responsibility was to his nation and to the people who jeered at the body that would soon be rotting. The ground beneath them was rotted, the sparse animals of the wastes were rotted, and the blight held a strong grip over these lands. This would not be the first dissenter to be slain, but they'd have worse to fear than traitors in the days to come. Their magi pursuers, and if the taint took hold, ghouls among their flock. Torsten stood in the mithral armor of his peers, forged from mithral; it almost pulled what little light was left from the dark clouds above. There was nothing inconspicuous about him, but skulking about was not in his nature. Forthright, abject, and to the point, Torsten wouldn't permit questions put forth towards his character.

"Cowards spend their time skulking about in the dark, scheming, pulling strings through the shadows without seeing how they coil about their throats; if you wish for the enemies of our nation to be dispatched quietly, hire an assassin." Torsten did not mince his words; he didn't have the tongue or talent for flying or storytelling as the skalds did; he was a witcher and had no need for fancy dress. Dogmatic values and unrelenting resolve. Perhaps it was a marker of his youth, but Torsten believed with every fiber of his being in what they did and the weight of the responsibility that hung over them now. The witcher was characteristically resolved; his features hardened as if they'd been cut from the mountains the Iskarans had been mining for thousands of years. "With your life." Ormir was the High King's most trusted, The Hand that had held the nation together for three long years, that was a token of unrelenting respect. One that Torsten would not set aside easily. "The road ahead of us is long, and our safety not yet secured. My duty is to protect our King, should rebellion rise from within, it is to their peril. Put these thoughts from your mind and know that me and my kin will keep you and the rest of the Court from harm's way."

The chill at Nornwatch penetrated every pore, sinking right down to the marrow. The sharp, whipping breeze buffeted The Raven-feeder’s raw skin, reddening the flesh not clothed or warmed by his white-trimmed beard. His jaw was locked taut as he watched the spectacle made by treason, cracked lips held in a line. The witcher boomed in disparagement of the accused man’s life, forfeit to any trial or servitude, and Ormir’s stomach churned as the blade was cleft through the air to meet unworthy flesh. Whack. The air drummed with the wings and croaks of ravens. A stifled breath of relief from Ormir after the deed was done. A nuisance was pruned, one more parasite plucked off their back and squashed between their keen fingers. Fat beads of blood burned like embers into the snow, and Ormir tasted the release of hot copper thawing the air as strongly as though it was his own, coated on his tongue. Ormir swallowed the pulse creeping up through his throat and tightened up.

Once the crowd had thinned to his liking, the Hand cut through the clearing to the silver-haired man. “A good show. All very evocative.“ Ormir smiled faintly, walking at arm’s length from the crimson spray on the ground. The corpse knelt at Torsten’s feet had stopped gushing, and the birds were beginning to clamor for their meal. Ormir extended a hand towards the barracks in a clear gesture: Walk with me. 

“This man you butchered was a no-one, and he won’t be the last no-one to break.” He spoke low and even once they were alone, masking his sternness with congeniality for any piqued ears to disregard. The next words that he spoke revealed claws beneath their finery. “I require delicacy from you in this, Witcher. We’ve enough problems clawing at our throats. My people are scared, they’re starving, they’re doubtful. There’s no need to court a rebellion by gifting any martyrs to them. When the next crop comes, I expect you to dispatch them quietly.” Ormir whispered. Even in the depths of his madness, Orhan’s vestigial power elevated him as a symbol - a flame of hope trembling against the dark. But any rival gust would easily overtake him, and leave them vulnerable and quaking in the night. Orhan’s stare bore, black and dissecting, into the minute tugs and tells of Torsten’s face, seeking truth. “Can I trust you?”

[alucardrakul]

Machinations were simple enough to recognize, the vampires of Veilcrest whispered in stark secret with the weight of the voice that they carried within their breasts. They enforced their will on the world they inhabited, whether those who worked under them were aware of it or not. The Hand’s words were carried with a specific, measured meter to shirk the responsibility should news of this come to blowback on him. Even if the Legion was successful, there were very few among the Iskarans who would look at the sanction of this work as honorable. Ormir struck Alucard as a man who would do whatever was necessary to see himself actualized, and to hold his rank and stature. Ambition fit the mantle of many, after all, who in their right mind wouldn’t want to be King? Alucard said nothing of this though, he was a shadow, a legionnaire, and a dead man already. They were aligned here in their allegiance against the dark, but the thought did not evade the dhampir that the Hand might have made a strong addition to their Order in another life. 

In his holding the ghoul screeched, the vile sound of its claws raking against the walls of the cell raised the hair on the back of the dhampir’s neck but he kept his red eyes fixed upon its gray form, undaunted. He had spent a great deal of time staring into the face of the blight, it didn’t both him to watch it spend and bent the body of one that had become afflicted by the taint. 

“Blight consumes and rots until it is all that remains. The closer they are to life, the better.” Otherwise, the only thing they’d have to study would be the blight itself, and Nornwatch Keep was not in short supply of darkspawn. The Legion was not bound by Iskaran laws, personal obligation kept Alucard from acting without some fair warning. The dhampir stepped forward and bound the ghoul’s limbs before it was lifted and carried toward the cell door, “Across Taravell, there are few who covet secrets more than the Legion of the Dead: should word of this spread, your name will not follow.” From within invisible bindings, the ghoul writhed as the cell creaked open while the monster was carried aloft. “I can keep you informed of any progress Iskrates and I make, with discretion, if you wish.”

Ormir felt every hair on his body bristle. A sheet of foreboding encompassed him in the same slow, suffocating spread of tar. They could argue semantics, but as far as many Iskarans were willing to accept, The Joining was no cure. It was punitive for a reason: A lateral transformation into an indentured corpse, or a painful death felt without the balm of battle. But the Blight was not selective about its hosts. Men, women and children were withering in the unforgiving winter around them, and they’d been bereft of soul and glory from the first feeble cough it stirred in them. The caged ghoul gave a sudden, piercing shriek. This could be a mercy to them. No, not even a mercy – a miracle. A chance to reclaim their souls. A chance to earn back their strength by show of valor and ride victorious into Valhalla defending those they loved in life. Not to mention the reinforcements it would provide for their cause. The Interim King stroked the graying hair that shadowed his jaw. He resisted the nervous urge to pace.

An absent span of time passed before his own soul was settled enough to speak again. The Hand scanned their vicinity and held his voice at a controlled volume. “The crown shows little leniency in such nuanced matters,” Ormir began, “On the King’s behalf, understand that I am expressly forbidden from permitting experimentation of this nature. Execution would be a guarantee for any Iskaran who allowed for any variant of…” Was it considered torture, desecration? Morally, it all struck the same sour chord in him. “Irreverence toward his people. But The Legion’s pursuits are their own, and we’ll not stand in the way of life-saving progress being made. Stewardship may change hands when a vessel ceases to be Iskaran.” Part of him had withdrawn from the light, was numb and disconnected to the words that manifested from his lips. Ormir had never cut any birdfeed from his fallen brethren, nor had he taken from kills that weren’t his to claim. There was sanctity in death to be respected. 

“How,” The question started, stopped, and bolted back into the safety of his private thoughts. It was reshaped, however unpretty, by the clearing of his throat before it was presented again. “How fresh would you need them?”

[alucardrakul]

Morality had no place among the Legion of the Dead, their compass was pointed towards the point that served all of humanity - from murderous dregs to the most highborn above. The blight's promise was annihilation, the darkest of the dark, and an end to the turning of the wheel. For thousands of years the Legion had worked in secret, in war they were victorious, in peace they were vigilant, and in death there was sacrifice.

"There is." Alucard had probably said too much already, Vlad aside, there was one cure but there was no way it could be dispersed to so many. Nor should it. "The Joining." The ghoul was too far gone, its mind eroded but those who'd only contracted the taint might still be saved. The Legion didn't take those who were of no use to it, and there was precious little of the resource required to save the many Iskarans who'd fallen sick. "Iskrates and Deidameia keep their secrets close, but the ritual is a roll of the dice. Death, or the remainder of their life sworn into our Order." Alucard could smell it wafting off the pitiful creature, the blight stricken in its blood. Human and darkspawn all at once, mindless. "By studying these beasts Iskrates might be able to extend the ritual to others, if they are worthy."

The keep had bottled every offensive smell within its walls, and was working on inventing new ones. Ormir maintained a contemptful distance from the wall of cells, whether the occupants were infected or not. He skirted eye contact, numbed himself to the lancing criticism and threats that were lobbed from the cells with intent to maim. If the crown he wore was anything but figurative, his next walk through these halls would be met only with silence, and the ravens would eat well. But no, he was sleek and slippery and merciful. He’d dispatched himself here with a purpose: to observe. So Ormir observed the ghoul as it twitched and chittered in the shadows, feeling the creep of dread as deep and black as the shadows along the dark stone.

His counterpart pupil, whom he recognized as a member of the Legion, broke the silence first. This request was shaping up to be indelicate, crude, and morally fraught – the kind the High King would have shot down outright. Ormir was nauseated with relief that someone else had volunteered it first. “Might we?” Ormir mock-humored, as he turned from one undead to speak to another. Steel eyes clashed against uncanny red, and the man’s pupils recoiled instinctively. Defeat hollowed his expression as he spoke. “There is no cure,” The Iskaran stated. “Not one either of us can afford to wait on, anyway. If we stay, the Aetherons will be cracking battering rams into your gates and raining fire on your ranks within a tenday.” But the seed was planted days prior, when the first had started to turn, and it didn’t take much ruminating for roots to burst through. If not a cure, there were still plenty more insights to be pried out of this mess. “What do you know of this?” Curiosity itched.