arr0s

[arr0s]

Her eyes stay on the fire, but they’re far away now—burning across time instead of wood. Something about the way Freydis speaks, the calm acceptance in her voice, strikes at places Arros keeps carefully walled off. And still, she doesn’t flinch from it. She finally glances sideways, studying Freydis —not with suspicion, but with the cautious reverence of someone looking at a blade that has already tasted blood, knowing exactly what it could do. She could still see him—Conri—in the corners of her waking mind. A warrior. A shield. The weight of purpose carved into his stance, just like it had been carved into hers. He had looked at her like he knew every inch of her grief. Like he carried it too. And worse—he had looked proud. Her fingers absently tracing the edge of her knee as she thought on Freydis' offer. There was something raw about it—rare, almost. Arros wasn’t used to being heard. To having someone simply… listen. "I - I don't think I can live up to these expectations of me. The guy - uh Conri. He seems so confident." shaking her head she looked up to make sure no one was eavesdropping on them "and I'm just scared all the time." She admitted and then rubbed her face, then, as if brushing off the admission as quickly as it came. Hoping to leave the subject at that.

“Tove, huh?” she says after a pause. “The name fits. There’s steel in it.” Her tone isn’t teasing, but there’s something soft to it. Respect, maybe. Or understanding.

She tilts her head, as if considering the shape of those words for the first time. Then she offers a bitter, half-formed smile. "I don't know." In all honesty she doesn't tend to think ahead that far - in the end she knows she'll have to die. So what was the point in dreaming. "I guess I've always wanted to have my own home, kind of secluded y'know away from everyone. If I made it out… I’d find a place like that. Build something small. Grow what I could. And maybe—” her voice dipped, almost too soft to hear “—find a girl. Someone kind. Who wouldn’t look at me like I’m something dangerous just for breathing.”

She sat with it a while. Let the quiet stretch out between them, not uncomfortable, but weighty. Her thumb brushed the edge of a callus on her palm, a slow, grounding motion. The fire popped softly.

“Suppose we win. All of it. The war, the kingdom, the godsdamned curse on the land.” Her eyes flicked to Freydis—not hard, not probing, just steady. “What does peace look like for you?”

“No, I suspect they aren’t,” Freydis agreed quietly as she thought of all she had seen and done in the past year. She studied Arros’ profile beside her and wondered if Arros was truly as steady as she came off. Those who were not in Freydis’ most cherished inner circle probably thought she was much stronger in spirit than she really was. Without her closest confidants, the loneliness would have been unbearable, a weight she wouldn’t wish on anyone. “It was frightening at first, but each steps feels a little easier, even if the future is uncertain,” Freydis said after a few moments. She knew Arros’ had a Red Hand emblazoned upon her chest as well, and she suspected she had dreamed of who Arros had been in the past when she learned how Glaceor had come to be as the shield was now. “But if you ever felt that way, too, I would listen.”

Freydis nodded in indication of her certainly. The veil had shown her far too much to deny how she had come to be here as she was, and stranger things yet. “I have uncovered more of who I was than others have I suspect, and there is a weight that comes with the knowing. Displaced grief, new fears, certainties and questions,” Freydis said somewhat ruefully after some time. “But still me, which is perhaps what makes it harder to carry. I have seen her, Tove. She seemed so much better equipped to shoulder it than I feel,” Freydis admitted. She was not too proud to admit to Arros when she was afraid. She stretched her hands toward the fire to warm them. “There have been moments where I allowed my own self-interest to blind me. But I’ve also found people I can trust, people who have reached out to pull me back from the precipice of my own ruin.” She hoped, for their sakes, to have been wiser for it now.

“In some ways, yes,” Freydis agreed quietly. “In others not as much.” She considered telling Arros about her hope of restoring the Arches in Iskaldrik after what she had experienced at the Standing Stones in the Feywilds and what she had learned from Deimos, but still wasn’t quite sure what the witcher would say. “What if the kingdom was reclaimed,” Freydis started, choosing her words carefully and turning to gaze back to Arros, “and the old ways were gone. No mines, no Watch. No ‘what you’re stuck with’. Who would you want to be?” Her brows were upturned in genuine interest as she asked. 

“I know,” she mumbled quietly at Arros’ warning to be cautious. But a moment later she looked back at Arros with a thin smile. “Well, there’s a war to be won. I’m just hoping it will all help me arrive prepared. That it will help all of us.”

[arr0s]

Torsten stood with his back to her, shoulders squared like he’d already made peace with what that mark meant. There was a steadiness to him she recognized—not in the way soldiers march or kings stand tall, but in the way people do when they’ve already given everything once and are still willing to give more.

She watched him in silence, the glow of the forge catching in his eyes, making them flicker like something burning. The hiss of hot metal met the open air as the red hand burned into the chest plate, fire light catching the sharp edges of the mark as it scorched the mithril. Arros stood just out of reach, her boots shifting on the ground, watching.

“That’s a bold choice,” she said, her voice flat, but something flickered behind her eyes. Torsten would wear his mark as a declaration, a challenge to the darkness. But Arros? She didn’t wear hers like that. The red hand on her chest stayed hidden beneath armour and leather, a quiet brand that tugged at something old and unrelenting. She could feel it there now, humming like a second heartbeat, like a curse that hadn’t spoken its name yet. The burden that mark carried pulled toward something inevitable and it would be a lie if she said she wasn't a little scared of it.

Her eyes cut sideways to him.

“How does all that weight on your shoulders feel?” she asked but she didn’t need an answer. No need. Some burdens don’t get lighter when spoken aloud—some just settle deeper in the bones.

location: Aventia notes: open to Red Hand girlies

They'd returned from the Spine with the answers that Torsten had gone looking for. Now, more than ever, the Kingsguard was keenly aware of the handprint that sat across his chest, just over his heart. The red, angry mark that had appeared across several others. They wore it under their clothes, like a secret to be kept buried but if Torsten had come to learn anything it was that he would not hide from the Shadow. In another life, it had fallen upon them and won the battle to lose the war. If sacrifice was what this handprint demanded, then Torsten would wear his like a badge of honour so those sworn to the Dark One would know at first glance that the witcher was resolved to fight until his bitter end.

There was a smith set up in Aventia, furbishing weapons for the mounting efforts, preparing and outfitting soldiers. Outside the forge, Torsten waited while the smith placed a red hand across the chest of the otherwise unblemished mithril plate.

[arr0s]

Arros studied the cutout Celaya had pointed to, eyes narrowing slightly. It was defensible, tucked against the rock with just enough space to keep them from being boxed in. The wind wouldn’t cut through as harshly here, and the elevation would give them a better sense of anything approaching.

“It’ll work,” she said simply.

She adjusted the straps on her gear, rolling a sore shoulder as she glanced toward the fading light. The past days had been heavy—physically, mentally. They had dug up things that couldn’t be buried again, uncovered truths that gnawed at the edges of everything they thought they knew. Even now, it sat in her chest like a weight she couldn’t name.

She didn’t talk much, especially not to people she hadn’t yet decided on. But Celaya wasn’t a stranger, not really. Another witcher, another blade honed by the same hands. They had made this trek together, seen the same things, and that counted for something.

After a pause, Arros flicked a glance toward her. “What do you make of all this?” she asked, voice steady but low. The words weren’t idle. They carried weight—an acknowledgement that whatever they had seen, whatever they had learned, it wasn’t just something to set aside and forget.

starter for @arr0s.

where: after path of the sword :*

when: they're trekking back to lysara

note: as requested through #plot-calls

"We could make camp here," the sun had set below the horizon nearly an hour ago, and soon the last wisps of light would abandon them on their trek back to Lysara. They'd made ample ground and though they'd learned hidden knowledge and unearthed pieces of themselves long buried, they still were not invincible to face whatever could slither in the dark. As rations lowered it would be best to camp in one spot and finish the route in the early morning when dawn was encroaching upon them, and from what Celaya had learned about Arros from this trek, she searched for their opinion. Celaya nodded to a small cutout of the jagged mountain, it seemed perfectly constructed to house them, shielding them from anything that crept through darkness and they'd be able to rest comfortably without fear of a true ambush.

[arr0s]

Arros huffed, not quite a laugh but something close. "Madness and sense aren’t as far apart as people like to think." She shifted, stretching one leg out and resting her arm over her knee, gaze settling on the fire rather than Freydis. Similar paths. Parallel struggles. Arros had spent much of her life believing she walked alone. That her path was carved by her own hands, and hers alone. The idea that it could have been tread before—by herself, by Freydis, by others long lost to time—was something she wasn’t sure how to swallow.

But she had seen him. The shade of the one before her. Conri.

Not in dreams, not in half-formed imaginings, but standing before her, watching. A warrior who fought before she did, who walked the same road and bore the same burdens. Sometimes she thought he was a specter of guilt, sometimes a warning, but more and more, she wondered if he was proof of what Freydis was saying. That she was simply the next in a long line of those who had come before—some doomed to fail, some struggling to make it right.

Arros kept her expression steady, but her thoughts moved like a blade against a whetstone, sharp and searching. A tether to the veil. That was not something she could claim to understand, not in the way Freydis did.

"You seem certain of it," she said after a beat, her voice quiet but not unkind. Her gaze lingered on Freydis, not searching for deception, but for something else—assurance, maybe, or doubt buried beneath conviction. "And you're still you, after crossing that line?" The question was simple, but it carried weight. Magic had a way of taking as much as it gave.

Arros tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady on Freydis but not probing. "Sounds like you've made peace with it," she said quietly, as if testing the idea. She paused for a moment, glancing briefly at the fire before continuing. Her voice softened, the edge of her usual sharpness dulling just for a moment. "But if it helps you, I can’t argue with that." Arros said slowly, voice measured. "You don't have to explain it to me, I understand trying to make something useful out of what you're stuck with."

She hesitated, her jaw clenching for a moment as she fought back the urge to say more, to argue against it, but held her tongue. Instead, she turned her gaze to the flames, her hands resting on her knees, as if grounding herself. "just be careful."

Arros shook her head, brushing off the uneasy feeling that had settled in her chest. She let out a short, almost dismissive breath, as if she were shaking away the weight of those thoughts. Her gaze softened when it returned to Freydis, and she shrugged, trying to shift the mood. "busy year."

Freydis met Arros’ comment on disappointment with a wry smile. She was certain plenty had tried to kill each of them since they last saw each other, and more threats would find each of them still when they parted ways again. Her eyes shifted to Arros for a moment when she repeated the word fate, but a moment later she busied herself pushing around the rations that crackled in the pan above the fire. “Sometimes, yes,” Freydis responded quietly as she tended to her work. “But I have good reason to believe we walked similar paths in another life, that we fought parallel struggles against the same foe with different faces and names,” she continued before she sat back on her heels and looked at Arros directly. “I’m sure I sound like I’ve gone mad to you. I sound the same way to myself most of the time.” 

She enjoyed speaking, enjoyed sharing stories, resources, and information. At the risk of it seeming like nothing pleased her more than hearing the sound of her own voice and the tales of her own victories, she would have told Arros the full story of any of the events she chronicled. But she would want to hear of Arros’ adventure too, even if it had been mundane and boring–though she doubted it had been. 

Arros could have flinched or screamed, she could have lashed out at Freydis or chosen to pretend the pair had never existed, and though it would have wounded the veil maiden, she would understand. It was painstaking work to unpack the conditioning of Iskaldrik, the distrust and enmity of the old ways of the kingdom. Freydis imagined this was ten times harder for a Witcher but her position remained that the witchers were not amongst the heartless, they were amongst the most cruelly treated and twisted by Iskaran ways and this cruelty was perpetuated by the duty they were expected to carry out. 

“From what I understood, I would have been a druid in another time, but the circle I might have belonged to is gone now,” Freydis responded quietly, human again as she sat at Arros’ side. “But I believe that what I just showed you has more to do with a tether I have to the veil.” She wondered for a moment what Arros might think of her spell scar and the magic it imbued upon Freydis, but that was for another day. Baby steps. “Or perhaps from Nintra Siotta–unfortunately I find myself still bound to the pact with her I stumbled into.” She shrugged her shoulders trying to think of more of explanation, but quite recently Freydis had stopped questioning and started accepting. “I’m trying to forego the need for an explanation. An explanation wouldn’t undo it, and I don’t want to undo it either way,” Freydis explained, knowing this might be unsavory for Arros to hear. “I can leverage it to fight the Dark One. That’s my purpose–not questioning, not cowing from it: using it.”

[arr0s]

Arros huffed, a short breath through her nose that might’ve been amusement if one was willing to squint hard enough. Arros smirked, “I’d hope so,” she said, voice dry. “Would hate to disappoint.” Arros shifted, the weight of the shield maidens words pressing heavier than the silence that followed. She didn’t meet Freydis’ gaze immediately, instead letting the flickering fire dance in front of her. The chill in the air settled against her skin, a welcome relief from the memory of the blistering heat that had clung to her all day.

"Fate..." Arros murmured, almost as if tasting the word for the first time. Her fingers absently toyed with the edge of her sleeve, lost in thought. Her eyes drifted to Freydis, but only for a moment, before turning back to the fire. "I’ve never been one for destiny. But maybe… sometimes things just need to happen, and we’re the ones who make them mean something."

Arros let Freydis talk, listening with the quiet patience of someone who had spent her life learning to hear more than she spoke. The fire crackled between them, its warmth a stark contrast to the cooling night air. She watched the flames dance as Freydis listed off her feats—dracodiles, liches, druids, a queen’s request, the Wildlands, the dreamscape. The words built upon each other, layer after impossible layer, until Arros almost wanted to laugh. And here she thought she had been busy.

"This, too"

Arros didn’t react immediately, though she felt something twist low in her gut as Freydis shifted before her eyes. One moment, she was the shield maiden Arros had known, solid and steady, a warrior like any other—then the next, she was something else entirely.

The green tint to her skin, the quiet bloom of flowers in her hair, the eerie glow in her gaze—it was subtle, and yet it was wrong in a way Arros couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t fear that clenched in her chest, nor disgust, but something close to unease, something that dug in deep before she could rip it out by the root.

She had fought things that looked less human than Freydis did now. Had cut down creatures with eyes like that, with magic humming beneath their skin like a second pulse. She had bled against things like this.

But this was Freydis.

So Arros said nothing of the momentary shock that had curled like a fist in her ribs. She only huffed, giving a slow, considering nod as if she had expected nothing less. "Well. That's new." Her gaze flicked to the attentions of the other witchers, wondering if they had seen what she just did and whether or not they would react. Thankfully, it went unnoticed. "How? How did this happen?"

She kept her tone neutral, but something about it must have given her away, because her gaze flicked toward Freydis’ hands, noting the faint shimmer still clinging to her fingers. Arros had always known magic unsettled her—not in a way she liked to talk about, but in a way that had never quite faded, no matter how many mages or druids or enchanted blades she had fought beside.

“I’ve heard Ankhuria is perilous,” Freydis responded, her brows lifted for a moment before her face broke into a welcoming smile displaying that she was pleased Arros had abandoned her watch to join her at the fire. “Quicksand, scorpions, blistering heat, shifting sands,” she listed playfully, “But I would certainly like to think it would take something much more than that to fell the great Arros.” 

She patted the patch of dry earth beside her not long before Arros occupied it. Watching Arros stretch out reminded Freydis to unclench her jaw, loosen her shoulders. She rolled them once or twice as a chilled evening breeze brought the fire’s warmth closer to the pair of them. Freydis was beyond grateful for the cooler temperature after the sun had fallen below the horizon. She stretched her back before giving Arros’ a sidelong glance, “I thought I’d die under all that plate in the heat of the day.” 

“It’s been suggested to me lately that many of the present events we’ve lived through are fated,” Freydis told Arros. Perhaps the veil maiden’s hopeful optimism that the idealized future she fought for was possible made it feel like fate, and Arros’ unwavering pragmatism read it as inevitable. Either way, Freydis was glad it had come to be so. Much of what made the constant state turmoil and battle bearable were those who fought at Freydis’ side. 

Freydis let out a sharp laugh when Arros asked what Freydis had been occupied with since they last spoke, half genuine and half ironic. “We could talk until the sun came up and probably not cover all of it,” Freydis responded. She considered which might be more important. She gestured toward Micefang, the construct happy to keep Etienne and Goose company across camp. “I acquired him helping free a dracodile from captivity. Some time that, the queen of the Wildlands asked that I might lead Haven’s forces at Aventia. When the Wildlands became endangered, I helped her and others cleanse the land,” she continued. “I helped a dreams druid cleanse part of the dreamscape in tel’aran’rhiod and have started to learn more about the art of dreaming. I assisted a party in saving druidic standing stones in the feywilds as well as another group to exterminate a lich in Hestia’s Cove.” She glanced at Arros before shifting into her fey form–a normal shield maiden one moment and a veil maiden with softly green tinted skin, antlers, swirling green-violet eyes, and spring blooms in her hair. “This, too.” She planned to shift back before it garnered too much attention amongst the other Witchers she did not know half as well.

[arr0s]

Arros eyed Talisa with the patience of someone who had been strong-armed into far too many things in her life. The sheer earnestness of the woman was almost impressive—relentless, even. Her name hung in the air between them, an offering, an expectation. "Arros."

Arros had already resigned herself to whatever this was the moment Talisa latched onto her arm like a particularly stubborn leech. She could have shaken her off, could have given her a glare sharp enough to cut, but something about Talisa’s sheer determination—her complete disregard for Arros’ unwillingness—made it clear that resistance was futile. When Talisa tugged her forward, she let her.

The Legionnaire lingered a step behind, arms still crossed as she surveyed the palmist with a cool, measured gaze. The woman looked entirely too composed, her rings catching the low light, her expression unreadable but knowing. Arros had met enough fortune tellers, soothsayers, and charlatans in her time to know the type.

Talisa, of course, wasted no time. "Two palm readings, please," already sliding the payment forward like this was the most natural thing in the world. When the palmist questioned who was first, Arros didn't move. But, she could feel Talisa's expectant stare even before she turned. Sighing through her nose, shifting her weight, then taking a seat.

"I'll go first," Arros said, the words heavy with a mix of curiosity and something like challenge. "Let’s see if you’re actually worth the coin we paid." She offered her palm to the palmist with a single raised eyebrow, clearly skeptical but willing to indulge for the moment.

Clearly Talisa wasn’t paying the best attention as she found someone to join her in having her palm read. If she had been, she would have selected someone who looked like they were having at least a little fun. The blonde woman she’d randomly picked from the crowd looked like she was part of a hostage situation, not a festival. Regardless, the Steel refused to let her hopes and dreams of having a genuine palm reading be dashed. Or really, any palm reading at all. Talisa was perfectly capable of twisting any vague truth revealed by the palmist, real or fake, into something that fit her precise worldview and lives experiences. 

“We’ll see what you say when you’re proven wrong,” Talisa all but sang as she ignored the crossing of the Legionnaire’s arms. Some people just didn’t know how to enjoy a little frivolous fun! “What do you mean, what is my plan? We pay the palmist, the palmist reads our palms, do you not know how commerce works? Now, come on!” Her hand wrapped around the elbow of one of Arros’ crossed arms and she nearly dragged her to the stall before pausing. “Oh–and to ensure we’re getting a true blind reading, I’ll tell you my name here. It’s Talisa.” She waited expectantly to learn the name of her unlikely company. 

As they approached the stall, the palmist seemed to expect their arrival. She sad with her hands steepled, her long lacquered nails only outshined by the many glimmering rings that adorned her thin fingers. She smiled with a sense of sanguinity and nodded serenely at the chairs across the table, which was draped in fine silks and lavishly embroidered textiles, waiting for one of her customers to speak first. “Two palm readings, please,” Talisa chirped, sliding the payment for herself and Arros over as promised. 

“And which of you would like to have their reading first?” the palmist questioned, her thin hand hovering palm up above the tabletop in invitation.

[arr0s]

Arros slowed, just enough to glance his way, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her hood. A man at ease, watching the world move like it had nothing to do with him. She knew his type.

"Progress?" she echoed, voice dry. "Haven’t had much time for it. Been too busy keeping my head above water."

She let the words settle, her gaze flicking past him to the ships casting away into the open sea. There was something about ports—about people always leaving—that made the air feel heavier. Or maybe that was just her. "Besides," she added, "what’s there to celebrate? The world keeps turning whether we bleed for it or not."

She shifted her weight, rolling one shoulder. "But you seem comfortable enough. Maybe you can tell me—what’s worth celebrating today?" There was a slight challenge in her tone now, the faintest edge of curiosity laced with something wry. If he wanted a conversation, she’d give him one.

starter for @arr0s.

where: progress day

when: day 1 or 2 ya kno

note: as requested, lmk if its okie

Ryu never cared for a witcher, didn't quite sympathize with them nor did he care to really villainize them either. One had joined Seraphiel's crew anyhow, so it was safe to say they had their uses if they wished for it. Ryu had pulled up a chair at Tiber Bay's port, watching the merchant vessels and various noble boats cast away, his feet kicked up as the witcher walked right by. Curiously, with an edge of instigation, he sat up enough to gather her attention, "What progress are you celebrating today?"

[arr0s]

Arros barely acknowledged the tap on her arm, but the small voice that followed it caught her attention. She glanced down at the boy, who was staring at her, his eyes wide with that kind of awe only the young could manage. His words floated up to her, almost too bright in the air.

Arros didn’t have to think about it for long. The weight of that word, Legionnaire, hung heavy around her shoulders, and she had long stopped wearing it with pride. It was a title earned in blood and sacrifice, but not one that felt any warmer because of it. Still, there was no denying the truth of it.

Before she could turn away, the teacher—Sylvie, she assumed—approached her with a practised smile, as though she were about to ask about the weather. Arros’ gaze flicked over Sylvie, noting the soft kindness in her face, then dropped back to the boy, whose eyes were shining with that unearned hope.

“Yes," she said, her voice sharp, as if the word itself weighed too much to say without irritation. "I’m a Legionnaire."

The boy’s excitement only grew, but Arros didn’t share in it. She crossed her arms over her chest, her stance firm, as if ready to turn and leave the moment the conversation was over. She wasn’t here for questions, for idle chatter. She was here to pass through, not to be the subject of some child’s hero worship. "any other questions?"

with: @arr0s when: progress day! where: the streets of Eterna notes: uwu ??

Progress Day was a prime opportunity to expose her little ones to new things - contraptions, places, and people, from all walks of life. Anything and everything outside of the Lower City was new to many of her students - it wasn't hard to turn a simple walk through the streets into a learning opportunity. "Miss Frenzel!" A tiny voice piped up from beside Sylvie, and an even tinier hand began to tug on her arm. The teacher followed her pupil's gaze, finding he was almost hypnotized by a woman in the near distance - blonde, beautiful, and clad in majestic armor.

"Do you think she's a Legionnaire?" the child whispered in awe, barely able to contain his excitement. Having grown up so sheltered, and only recently arriving in Lysara, Sylvie had yet to meet a Legionnaire herself. She'd heard tales of their heroics, of them flying into battle on griffons. It was that same mythical creature, emblazed on the other woman's armor, that had Sylvie hopeful her student was correct.

"Well, why don't we ask her? Come on, let's not be shy." She nudged the boy's shoulder, wanting to challenging him but in a gentle manner. He grabbed Sylvie's hand and guided her over to the stranger, and Sylvie offered the woman a bright and kind smile. "Excuse me, miss? Would you happen to be a Legionnaire? My little friend here would love to know."

[arr0s]

She moved without thinking, falling into old habits, ensuring the perimeter was secure before she allowed herself a moment’s breath. The others worked around her, the quiet camaraderie of shared survival settling over them like an old, worn cloak. She had not realized how much she missed it—the silent understanding, the way no one needed to ask what had to be done.

When she saw Freydis waving her over, Arros hesitated for only a second before making her way toward the fire.

The legionnaire huffed a quiet laugh, the sound brief but real. “It would take more than that to finish me off.” She lowered herself onto the ground beside her companion, stretching out aching limbs. The fire’s warmth seeped into her skin, but the weariness in her bones remained.

Arros considered her words for long moment, eyes fixed on the flames. “Neither would I,” she admitted, voice quieter now. “But here we are.” She glanced at Freydis then, something unreadable in her expression. “Maybe some things are inevitable."

She was glad to see Freydis again, though she didn’t know how to say it in a way that would not feel foreign on her tongue. Gratitude, affection—these were things that still felt too large to carry, too delicate to hold without crushing them. But she had not forgotten. She had not forgotten the hands that pulled her from the depths of the deaths door, the steel-eyed determination that had fought for her when she could not fight for herself. Freydis had been there when it mattered most, and that was not something Arros would ever take lightly.

So instead, she let silence say what she could not. She let the firelight catch the edges of something softer in her gaze, let the weight in her posture ease, if only slightly. The past had not been kind to them, nor had the present. But for tonight, at least, they were alive. They were here. And for now, that was enough. "What have you been up to since we separated?" it had been what, nearly a year since she's seen the shield maiden, she had found Torsten missing a limb - but Freydis appeared to still be intact.

who: @arr0s where: The Lostlands/Wastelands when: One of the first nights of the Torsten's The Path of the Sword personal quest notes: let me know if you need any tweaks!

The journey through the Lostlands and Wastelands were as grueling as Freydis remembered them. This time, they had the benefit of preparation, of basic necessities like water, rations, and camp supplies. She wasn’t sure if it was the memories if what they had once endured in this region or just a hard day’s work that seemed to cause her feet to drag as the first pastel vestiges of sunset tinged the sky a pinkish orange. Within an hour, the sun was down, and a fire was built. Freydis didn’t mind cooking for the night as others pitched in by completing other tasks. When she saw Arros passing, she waved her over. “Just when I was beginning to worry the sands of Ankhuria had swallowed you whole, here you are again,” Freydis called out to her before motioning an invitation for Arros to join her. There hadn’t been much time for talking up to this point, but she figured she would take advantage of the rest period. “It’s been too long since we ventured out together, although if someone had told me we’d end up back here together I don’t know if I would have believed them.” 

[arr0s]

CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT || ANIMAL REPRESENTATION

Arros would be best represented by a stray dog—but not the kind that’s gentle or tame. She is the scrappy, battle-worn stray that has seen both the depths of loneliness and the raw power of loyalty.

Stray dogs survive in the harshest conditions, enduring hunger, pain, and abandonment. They are shaped by instinct and necessity, learning to trust only when there is no other choice. Arros, too, has spent much of her life alone, surviving on her own strength, mistrusting anyone who might show kindness. But like a stray dog, she has learned that loyalty can be earned, and that there is power in choosing to stand with others, not just beside them.

She is the kind of stray that bears scars, whose past has shaped her into something strong, but with the heart of one who has known how to fight for what truly matters. She doesn’t run from danger, and she doesn’t back down. She may bite when threatened, but beneath it lies the fierce loyalty she’s learned to give those who’ve earned her trust. Just as a stray dog can learn to love again, Arros has learned that she doesn’t have to fight alone, and that strength lies not just in survival, but in the bonds she chooses to build.

[arr0s]

Arros had been walking through the crowd, eyes scanning the faces that surrounded her, her mind far from the noise and bright colours of the festival. She wasn’t one for celebrations. They felt too fleeting, too… useless. There was no fighting here, no battle to prepare for. Just people, lost in the noise of the world spinning without them. But then, a voice cut through the din—a familiar voice. The recognition was instant.

Her body tensed, instincts kicking in before logic could catch up. Magic. She knew that voice, and she remembered the magic that had once made her wary, the very magic she had seen as a threat. In the past, it had been the reason for her distrust, the reason she had sent Nuvi away to the mines, away from everything she had ever known. Magic wielders were dangerous—at least, that was what she had believed then.

But it wasn’t that simple anymore. The words were a little too chipper, and for a moment, Arros caught a glimmer of the same woman who had been trapped with her in the caves, struggling to survive just like the rest of them.

Arros hesitated before answering, a rare flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. The question, innocent as it was, made her stop and think. She was no longer the same woman who hunted magic or wielded a witcher’s blade. She was something different now—part of the Legion, carrying a different kind of weight. “Surviving,” she replied, as if that simple word could encompass the year that had passed since they’d last crossed paths.

"And you? You look - well you look like you're doing alright.." her gaze steady but not judgmental. No doubt Nuvi looked much better than the last time Arros laid eyes on her. It's amazing how different you can look when you're not covered in mud and blood and on the brink of death. There was a flicker of respect in her eyes now—Nuvi had proven herself in the caves, after all, just like Arros had. "You look like you're enjoying yourself here." A ghost of a smile played at her lips, "I can't say I care much for -- all this."

who? @arr0s where? Eterna when? Progress Day, Day 2

Festivals were always a nice break to the relentless desire for answers, and Nuvi had taken the time out of the day to explore Progress Day with the glee akin to that of a child in a candy store. Her work is all about Progress, even if it manifests in an entirely different manner than that of the Tower, so she is beyond delighted to have the opportunity to zoom around the place, gathering information and making notes about possible updates to her own research tools. Anything to improve her data gathering, anything to get closer to the truth. She is finishing her visit to one of the exhibits, when she spots a familiar face on the crowd. 

Instinct has her freezing at the sight of the witcher that doomed her to the mines, her spine straightening up as her eyes bounce around for an escape room. Then, logic takes hold and she recognizes the face as Arros, and a tentative delight blooms on her chest. They are not exactly friends, but after surviving all they did together, she can’t declare the witcher her enemy either. 

“Arros! Long time no see,” she comments as she approaches slowly. “How have you been faring?”

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Arros stalked through the festival grounds, her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders as if it could shield her from the sheer absurdity surrounding her. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meats, spiced ciders, and something suspiciously floral that made her nose twitch. Colourful banners fluttered overhead, strung between wooden stalls overflowing with useless trinkets and gaudy baubles.

The festival-goers were a writhing mass of joy and chaos, cheering as a fire-breather exhaled a plume of green flame into the sky. Nearby, a bard strummed a lively tune on a lute, his lyrics extolling the virtues of some long-forgotten hero. Arros rolled her eyes. She didn’t belong here. She had no patience for song or spectacle, no interest in drunken revelry or overpriced charms peddled by wide-eyed merchants. And yet, she lingered.

Arros turned her head just enough to glimpse the speaker—a woman, poised and confident, gold coins glimmering between her fingers. She gestured toward the shadowed alcove where a hunched figure waited beneath a tattered canopy.

“It will be fun,” she added, smiling like she already knew the legionnaire's answer.

Arros exhaled sharply through her nose. Fun was the last thing she expected. But the promise of a test, of seeing whether the so-called mystic was a fraud, was enough to keep her feet planted. “Doubtful,” she muttered, crossing her arms. But against better judgment she nodded. "What is your plan?"

Who: @arr0s Where: The streets where celebration is When: Progress Day Celebration (Days 1 or 2) Notes: Let me know if you need any changes!

The crowds the Progress Day festivities drew in further attracted opportunists. Some were thieves, others pickpockets, and others yet trying to make an honest (or dishonest) copper. Of course, there were the formal exhibitions and the booths stocked to the brim with finery that merchants and traders had held onto for the last year to showcase at this most important event. Surely Talisa would comb through the wares on display to add to her horde. If she was feeling charitable enough, she might even select something as a gift for Fyren to try to lift his spirits regarding the fate of Falon’Din. But for now? For now she was far more interested in the street performers and those who set up shop to peddle some sort of service instead. 

The first of these smaller, service based vendors the Steel simply could not resist was a palmist. The mysticism and drama around a palm reading was the type of indulgent, preternatural activity that Talisa thought to be a lark. Of course, there was no way to intuit whether or not the palmist stationed in the shadows between the city’s structures was worth their salt without the risk of paying a few coins to a potential crook. But Talisa did also value a second opinion to help cement her opinion of whether or not the reading was genuine. She glanced at the person next to her clad in some armor she had seen around several times and likely wouldn’t have recognized if she wasn’t already familiar with the Legionnaire Hakon. “You wouldn’t happen to have any interest in finding out if that palmist is veritable, would you?” she asked the woman beside her. She lifted a hand, two glimmering gold coins affixed between her thin fingers rather than just one. “I’d be happy to pay in exchange for your judgement on their authenticity. It will be fun.” 

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The progress day festivities was something that Arros couldn't get a grasp on, never in all her life had she seen so many people in one area who weren't fleeing from danger. She watched the magicians and charlatans flaunt their wares and strange equipment, stuff she couldn't even fathom the purpose of. This was some sort of hell it wold seem. Some stupid brightly coloured hell that smelled like sweet treats and sweat. It was almost a relief when she was called aside, a familiar bark from her old friend. "Disappointed?" Arros snorted. "Funny, I keep coming back. Meanwhile, your wit hasn’t resurrected once."

Arros frowned, eyes narrowing as she studied Torsten. Something felt off. It nagged at the edges of her memory, just out of reach. The man's stance was different, his balance subtly adjusted. But then she saw it. Torsten was missing an arm.

Her first instinct wasn’t shock or concern—it was confusion. Had it always been like that? Her mind scrambled, trying to pin down a recent image of Torsten, whole or otherwise, but all she found was a maddening blur of past battles and half-remembered faces.

“…Was it always like that?” Arros asked before she could stop herself.

@arr0s location: Mercury's Bazaar probably, Eterna notes: Progress Day vibes, he don't know what's going on

There was always more going on than Torsten cared to entertain. He'd recovered physically from the wounds he'd sustained a little over a month ago, but the echo of his failure still settled in his bones. Arros, of all people, was perhaps the last face he'd expected to see in Eterna. Torsten, it seemed, had become all too comfortable with the notion that there were simply people he'd never seen again. Grateful as he was the Queendom had offered Iskarans refuge, ducked below some extravagant display of magic and some entertainer sending whirring, mechanical doves fluttering from his hat, he couldn't help but wonder if this was where all witchers had come to die.

"Back from the dead," Torsten commented, aiming to get Arros' attention. "again."

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Arros took a deep breath, the weight of the unspoken words settling heavily in her chest. She sat there for a long moment, eyes cast down, the hum of the fire crackling in the silence. Her fingers flexed around the soapy rag, but she wasn’t really looking at it anymore. There was something she had to say—something that had been gnawing at her for a while. Her eyes darted to the werewolf, her jaw clenched, but she made herself speak anyway—slowly, deliberately, like she was testing the words before they left her mouth.

"Does it ever... get easier? To live with it? To be with it?" Arros's voice was rough, but there was a flicker of something softer beneath it—an attempt at something resembling connection. All her adult life she'd been trained to kill beasts, not understand them. It was quicker and easier to kill them before they transformed; so conversations were out of the question.

She let the question hang between them, unsure if she'd even know what to do with the answer, but it was something she needed to ask. For a moment, it was as though they weren’t just survivors of their own bloody worlds, but two people trying to make something out of the wreckage.

The words felt awkward, uncomfortable on her tongue, but Arros didn’t flinch away from them. It was something she needed to say, even if it didn’t make everything right. She owed Luna this much, at least.

"I’m sorry," she added, the apology heavy in the air, unadorned but sincere. "I know I’m not good with... words, but you deserve better than what I gave you."

A sideways smile and Luna wouldn't ask for more, she knows that Witchers are a complex species, most were emotionally constipated and since she had underwent her Werewolf transformation she had avoided them for the most part even though they had control over the magic populace in places like the city of Eterna and the realm of Lysara where magic was celebrated in different ways from the witches in the tower or the silver elven out in the Silverlands. Arros's question might seem gruff in nature and yet despite the denial of care, the fact that she verbalized that she didn't when in the homeland Luna would have been sent to the mines or the worse for the wolf that existed within meant there was a form of acceptance within the indifference.

"Yeah, becoming a werewolf and the joining were all wrapped in one horrific traumatic experience. There was never any time to explain when we were fighting for our lives and I didn't quite understand what had happened yet, the werewolf gene had always existed within me and only comes to fruition when a kill is committed, killing the Broodmother and drinking her blighted blood brought a whole new world of change." She lifted the soapy rag to her axe.

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A familiar face. Arros couldn't suppress the slight curve of her lips when Luna spoke, and memories surged back, unbidden. The snowy tundra and the darkspawn infested caves - she would've been long dead without the help of the other. At the back of her mind she wondered how the other women had faired - hoping they too were still alive. These weren’t necessarily good memories, but seeing Luna again was undeniably nice. Since joining the Legion, Arros hadn’t really made any friends—or enemies, for that matter. She’d just been floating through the motions, keeping to herself with no one to talk to. Not that she was much of a conversationalist anyway, though it wasn’t for lack of trying.

"Yeah. I’m glad you’re alive," was all she could manage. Her attempts at politeness had improved, but they still felt somewhat awkward. As Luna sat down to clean her weapon, Arros bluntly asked, "Are you still a werewolf?" She wasn’t sure if the transformation to join the Legion would affect that affliction, though she doubted it. "Not that I care," she quickly added, clearing her throat. "Just curious."

The Ones who were Taken and undergone the joining had disappeared on missions over mountaintops and had journeyed bravely into the darkness, it hurt too much to ask of their fates, to find if they had become lost in the cold, died by blade or by mind, the calling had finally arrived for them.

It was a relief to know that Arros had returned to them, looking no less for wear and with the same snarly arms length disposition, Luna had learned a lot of the practices of the Witchers since the invasion had happened and yet she couldn't help the bond of shared trauma that she felt connected her to the scarred Witcher.

"I wouldn't dream of asking." She laid her axe out by the fire light and reached for the water, taking a cloth she soaked it in the sudsy water and set to work. "You've been gone awhile, it's not easy being the new kid on the block, you were missed."