#( troupe 1: nornwatch tower )

[rykardthebarbarian]

For: @lunadarkwoodx Where: Nornwatch Tower - Courtyard  When: Flashback to the first few days after the troupe arrived at Nornwatch.  Notes: Training help connect

For many of the refugees that had escaped to Nornwatch Keep, war and the destruction that came as a result of it were just stories. Stories of atrocities happening on distant lands, far from the lives they carved out for themselves. Nothing like that would ever happen in Iskaldrik…until the Magi attacked. Amongst the group were merchants, tailors, farmers, cobblers, and carpenters. But a smithing hammer held similar properties to a war hammer, and a battle ax was just a more aggressive rendition of a woodcutter’s ax. For the first time in many of the survivor’s lives, they found themselves reaching for weapons that they had never fathomed even wielding before. The effort was inspirational to some, yet futile to others. Rykard saved his own broad judgements and instead focused his attention on those that seemed to stand a fighting chance. 

“Here,” a large hand wrapped around the handle of a massive battle axe, gripping it near the top near the blade as he offered it to Luna. The weapon was heavy, but the giant of a man made it seem light as a feather in his hand.  He passed it off to Luna with the confidence that she could lift it high enough to use it.  In an ideal circumstance, he would have something with less weight for her to practice with. But Rykard himself was forced to learn on weapons much too heavy for him when he was just a boy, and those early experiences honed him into the fierce warrior he was today.  “Hold it with both hands and give it a swing,” the Barbarian encouraged.

[lunadarkwoodx]

Where: Nornwatch Tower, Troupe 1

A fortnight was nothing in the chasm of time, a frenzy revibrated through her bones and yet she tried to keep the monstrous creature that carried grief in its maw from turning into beast and losing control. Luna had never seen anything but the Ironwood trees, had kept mostly the company of her father and now both were out of reach. Decay is what Luna tastes in her mouth and she knows its from the land, the Earth has always been alive and speaks to those who listen.

Dead trees consume the land and a lump is present in Luna's throat, it wasn't that long ago that she was in her protected and sheltered cabin in the grove of wild and full trees. A Darkspawn lets out a howl and it's not the same as the Wolves that visit her dreams. "What was that?"

[blightedmikhael]

who? open to the troupe where? Nornwatch Tower when? who knows, they are hangin' at the end of the world

Concerns upon concerns weight on his mind the more time he is left alone to sit upon them. Their time in their tower is indefinite, the seconds pacing slowly as every moment that passes brings him closer to discovery. A month ago— Abyss, two weeks and a day ago, discovery would be his main concern. Yet, despite still ranking relatively high amidst his many— and increasing — concerns, discovery no longer ranks first. The Iskaran Kingdom had fallen on the span of a day, and with it the most pressing threat of discovery. What could the Witchers do now, surrounded by supernaturals as they are? What could the Witchers do now, that the mines were not a convenient tomb for anything deemed not human enough? What could they do, with increasingly limited resources, when faced with the sheer number of supernaturals he had seen through their desperate journey to safety? The true number of supernaturals remained a mystery even to him, but his Infernal Sight did not simply go away in times of great danger and he had caught more than a glimpse of non-humans as they traveled the darkened tunnels.

Discovery remained a concern, always, but there were more pressing matters to attend. Rationing, assuaging fears, inspiring hope, deescalating conflict. As much as Mikhael hated to admit it, the surviving Witchers had been working around the clock to keep the peace, but there were only so many of them and their priorities were clear: the nobility above the commonfolk, the royal above all else. Their hosts had their own concerns as well, so he had taken it upon himself to make his rounds through the less monitored groups of refugees and offer a kind word and a warm smile to try and keep the morale. It is crucial, now more than ever, to keep the will to live going, for without it? Without it the chances of survival dropped drastically, and he is determined to push those chances up with all he has.

He is not made by determination alone, though, and even the most devout must rest. He is resting in one of the many spiraling staircases found across the keep, chin in hand as his gaze is lost in the horizon, when he hears steps approach and he lifts his head, a brow raised in polite inquiry.

"Apologies, am I in your way? Shall I move?"

[steadythora]

when?: early morning after the last night where?: what remains of nornwatch tower who?: the babes that are there kith kith

Thora watched them build the pyre as she cleaned her sword, though she didn't help. There were so many that had come so far only to end up beneath a fire, her own mother among them. Thora's stomach could barely handle it. It churned in disgust and twisted in anger, coiling into knots as she contemplated her life over the last few weeks. The circumstances of the Iskarans weren't random, someone was going to pay. Good thing too, she thought, because I actually enjoy wiping blood off my steel.

Not one for commiserating, Thora seemingly broke out of her trance-like state when Kari shifted her attention, growling in warning as she always did when someone stepped too close to her companion. The pyre no longer interested her, and neither did discussion beyond what came next. The wolf settles once Thora pets her neck. "You look well enough," she interjects abruptly as if she hadn't been soullessly breathing in smoke and death. "Have you been around? Do others seem ready to move? The longer we stay the higher chance there'll be another attack."

[hiddenvaldis]

who? open to non troupe where? mercury's bazaar when? during the troupe 1 plot drop

The thing about rumors is that despite every attempt to stop them, they will only grow and grow and grow. In time, they will change and twist and bend, but the kernel of truth will always remain. Anyone keen enough can dig past the shell to find the pearl within, and Valdís delights of working out the precision necessary to do it. It's a test for a skill she rarely gets to use on the Sea's Peril and one she does not want to lose. Her occasional trips to hostile shores is more than enough to keep her sharp, and as good excuse as any to supervise the crew manning the merchant ship to ensure there isn't any funny business going on.

Mercury's Bazaar is an excellent place to start on her meandering journey through the streets of Eterna — a pulse point of commerce, all merchants flock to it's streets and in between the banter and barter the truth slips from careless lips. Not quite as careless as those found in the bars, but in plan daylight the clientele will probably be worthless to her.

Stopping before a booth full of books, she allows her eyes to move languidly across the covers. She is trying to figure out if there is any worthy addition to her personal library when she feels someone loom over her shoulder, blocking the light.

"You mind?" She snipes, glancing back to send the interloper an accusing look. "You are hogging the light. Move."

[heroic-ignus]

Location: Nornwatch Tower.

Time: Morning.

Situation: Troupe 1 - Refugees.

The old metal armor, darkened and matted by time, was starting to feel heavy - not because of the weight it carried physically, but the psychological one that turned him into a wall of protection to the refugees he accompanied. Were him to travel alone as he always did, he'd already have reached Lysara at this point, however, what was left of light inside of him ordered him to help those in need, even though he could feel the darkness slowly but surely taking over his mind. The beast inside of him growled and howled, hidden but ever-present, thus announcing the monthly notice of the necessity that corrupted his soul - the urge to taste blood slowly becoming unbearable.

Deep in thoughts, it was only when someone sat at his table that all surrounding noise came back to him. As his gaze sliced through the room, no other empty seats, women, children, the elder, that hall filled to the brim with refugees from the war that had come to Iskaldrik. "Easy prey... Delicious innocent flesh... Eat... Consume... DEVOUR..." The deep growl filled his mind once again, and as to shake those thoughts away, a sigh. "I wonder how long until we're ready to resume this journey..." He muttered to himself, although it could be seen as a question to the other person in front of him. His gaze finally fixed on that person. "I think I'll never get used to the weather on these parts..."

[thequeendomhq]

Journey To The Queendom

Helskorn Bastion, watcher of the Veiled Sea and gateway to Iskaldrik, has kept a vigil over the churning tides of the unchartered waters for over a thousand years. Built at the height of the First Age, the braziers atop the Iskaran watchtowers, once lit, could be seen by the next watchtower in the distance. This way, it’d take only a few short hours for the High King to know when invaders descended upon their shores. The Iskarans were once raiders, warriors that earned their salt by traveling on longboats to the fertile lands of the South, returning to the cold dominion of their Kingdom with the fruits of their labors. In time, Iskaldrik found the worth of their mines and left behind their raiding system for one meant to cultivate relationships with other nations: trade of their precious stones, metals, and coveted ironwood. Iskaran metals are highly valued, but their practices are not. Since the Dark Age, any magic has been outlawed in Iskaldrik, and those who work the mines are those who have been caught performing it. Helskorn Bastion, watcher of the Veiled Sea and gateway to Iskaldrik, has kept a vigil over the churning tides of the unchartered waters for over a thousand years. Since the First Age, it stood as the guardian of the Iskaran Southlands. From the nearby settlement of Hrafntun, their tower vigil saw a flicker from the distant coast followed by nothing. A trick of the light? Anyone could taste the acrid presence of magic; it permeated the air. Still, even for a witcher who happened to be passing through, it was stronger than anything they’d ever encountered before. Within the hour, Hrafntun had fallen, but not before their watchtower went up. Soon, all of the Southlands knew that Iskaldrik was under attack. Then, the Coast was alight with vigilant flames as the warriors of Runestone Keep charged to meet the invaders in the fields below and prepared to fight in martial combat against whatever swords, spears, arrows, or mana were thrown their way. Witchers at the head, ready for the charge, were met with something else entirely. More fearsome than the Blighted tales of old and far more daunting than any darkspawn, orc, witch, or wolf. Could mountains fly? The people would ask that as the fog parted and razor-sharp peaks blotted out the moon and the stars themselves. Raiders of the sky on crystalline vessels buzzed through the air; magic and weapons of mana rained down upon the people below. Hrafntun was gone, and Runestone Keep followed as ethereal flames so bright that those who stared at them for too long went blind fell upon the coast. The fire of Heimdall’s Watchtower changed color before the invaders destroyed it entirely, signaling one thing to the people of Iskaldrik; run. Across the countryside, homes were met with a mythical blaze, powers so potent that while the witchers could match it, they were still vastly outnumbered and overwhelmed. Their duty was to their King, so at the signal, those stationed across the Kingdom retreated to the safety of Yggdrasildal’s walls alongside the people of Iskaldrik, who were now forced to flee their homes. Yggdrasildal, a sanctuary of the strongest stone, a relic, and a castle from the Age of Enlightenment, it had resisted the flames of an Old God in the Dark Age; now it stood against the might of a lost empire of magi, Aetheron. Through hidden channels, the witchers led the refugees towards hidden catacombs beneath the city, channels that wound through the deepest depths of the mountains. For a fortnight, they traveled without the light of the sun, with nothing but the ethereal glow of the stones to guide their way until, at last, they emerged on the Northern side of Ymir’s Spine, in Hrimthur’s Wastelands and Nornwatch Tower, the last bastion of Iskaldrik’s Legion of the Dead.

An ode to the Legion of the Dead: "To the wisest I sang. To the wing'd cup-bearers of the tall sky-vaulting..."

ooc info

The Kingdom of Iskaldrik was attacked by the Lost Empire of Aetheron, a magocratic society that disappeared over three thousand years ago.

Over the last two weeks, refugees have begun to pile into Nornwatch Tower along the northern edge of Iskaldrik.

Nornwatch Tower is the last bastion for the Legion of the Dead, an assembly of soldiers from across Taravell who are sworn to protect the realm against The Blight.

At present, there is a ceasefire at Ardentgate between Lysara and Astoria.

Our journey will begin with the refugees heading on the next leg of the trek towards the neighboring Queendom of Lysara, where they hope to find sanctuary and asylum.

[blightedmikhael]

who? @etienneulven where? Nornwatch Tower when? Troupe 1

Mikhael had found nothing of use on the woods, or at the very least, nothing he could share. Nothing but a solitary rock. Not quite a king's bounty, but lovely to look regardless. Palm sized and rough enough to feel but not to harm, it looked startlingly similar to the rings found on a tree stump once cut but had the hard consistency of rock. Constant touch would likely smooth the rough edges, but on the mean time it would do nicely as a soothing motion, he thinks, he hopes. A worthy offering even if it isn't he thinks, and hopefully enough to bring a smile on the kind looking werewolf he had found sorting through rocks more than once in their journey. No rock had seemed to measure so far, but with so little to amuse oneself with, Mikhael is looking forward to see if his rock will pass muster.

"I found this one in the woods," he comments nonchalantly as he opens his gloved hand to show the slightly taller man, eyes on the other as he is curious how he will react. "It's a different shade than the ones in the tunnel, but I still thought you would appreciate it."

[haelimthewatcher]

THE WATCHER

Skeleton |❅| Biography |❅| Connections |❅| Pinterest |❅| Playlist

A witcher was too precious to spend their life in the mines, so instead they sent you to Nornwatch. To a dying tower at the edge of the Blight, it was here that you would stand and remain. Here that you would live out what years you had left until the madness of the Calling took you, or your own brief life finally expired. At Norwatch you stayed until the refugees of your once proud people came scratching at the door; your sentence was lifted, the Iskarans needed you. Your King needed you. How convenient.

INTRODUCTION

Haelim Wormwood / 39 / Witcher / Legionnaire

2nd generation born Iskaran. Born from a fully Sinarian merchant family who settled in Iskaldrik to make some mining money. Son of his Sinarian mother and some full-blooded Iskaran who turns out to be a witch that had been in hiding his magic for ages.

6 year old Haelim accidentally used magic and it killed another little boy. Mum told the Witchers, who sent her husband to the mines and her son to become a Witcher.

They didn't think he'd survive - people gave him the nickname Wormwood (derogatory) but he liked it and abandoned his family name for it. Because fuck his family.

Went on to commit his own horrors from adolescence into early 20's as a fully-fledged Witcher until he started to see more kids getting taken, kids just like he'd once been. Empathy is re-unlocked and he starts committing crimes (turning blind eye to magic, taking coin and favors for no mines.)

Found out. They sentenced him to Nornwatch and to the Legion. He's been in the Legion AND in Nornwatch for the past 16 years.

He knows that he has little life left to live as both a Witcher and a Legionnaire. However, the Calling gives him purpose and he will not ignore it. He's in this Blight darkspawn killing business for life.

Wyvern rider for the past many, many years. Though Fate brought him to Daewonsa twice, only the second time did the two of them form a bond.

TROUPE 1/REFUGEES: He'd been there for the Nornwatch attack and subsequent journey but, during King's Road, he was in King Orhan's party with Alucard. Vicoya and Riandur were the only Legionnaires ahead with the squad, as you know. King Orhan was taken, Haelim couldn't find Alucard, so his wyvern took him back but he met some lone escapers en-route and took a while to help get them to where the refugees were. He did not witness the barrier coming down and only got to the border after it was down. Those who knew him probably thought he was lost or dead.

[heroic-ignus]

Location: Nornwatch Tower.

Time: Night.

Situation: After The Last Night.

Closed: @vuldak-juneau.

Alder couldn't sleep. Evey time he closed his eyes he could feel that terrifying presence lurking around in the shadows, waiting for him to lose consciousness so it could emerge once again to feast. His hearbeat rate was unstable as the stress and the exhaustion from the fight had still not been relieved. If not because of his sword expertise it would be hard to explain the absence of bruises and cuts on his skin after the battle that left the Nornwatch Tower in such a state, but as a blademaster of the Warrior's Guild he managed to avoid suspicions so far. Even so, that had caused the forces within the walls to become alert to any abnormal behavior, which was stopping him from visiting Lor as much as he needed for guidance and connection.

With his sword sheathed by his waist, in light armor instead of his usual heavy plates, he traced his path in the shadows, avoiding the possibility of being seen, only to find another figure trying to sneak out during the night. Alder approached the shorter figure with silent steps, noticing that she carried what he believed to be her belongings with her. "It would be foolish to try to sneak out at night, when the weather is colder and darkness is all around, alone..." He spoke, revealing himself. Although he would have prefered to not be noticed, the good part of him spoke louder, he couldn't let someone leave with so little protection and resources, it would be their end. "-I suppose you think you have a plan... Don't. At least form a bigger party than one..."

[temperednuvi]

“Hopefully they will learn to prioritize,” Nuvi says dryly, her tone showing how much she believed they would do as much. It’s a faint hope, and one that will likely not be fulfilled, but that doesn’t mean she can’t hope. Every second that they go unencumbered, they grow closer to Lysara, closer to her home. She misses Avalon dearly, and she can’t wait until she baths underneath Laurelin's light once more. 

Glancing away from the woman, Nuvi goes to see how far they are from the others, and blinks in surprise when she sees the pinprick of light in the distance. Hope burst like an open wound on her chest, and she smiles widely. It’s not the first time she has seen daylight since she escaped the mines, but it almost feels that way, the joy singing in her chest at the realization they will leave the caverns soon. Hopefully for a last time.  “Oh, we are almost out.”

Juneau didn’t have any words of encouragement to offer the woman regarding feeling anything beyond fear. Wherever this strange, slower woman had come from may have been terrible and brutal, but the future wasn’t looking bright either. She kept her mouth shut about that, too, though. 

Not particularly eager to gain the attention of others, Juneau’s harsh eyes settled on the woman’s face when she laughed. She began to walk again, hastily, before she remembered that the somewhat slowed pace had been intentional. She crossed her arms, now keeping more to herself than she had been before. “Yeah, it’s their priorities that are the real problem in all of this,” she mumbled sarcastically. Not too far beyond the crowd of people before them, a slow-growing glow made itself apparent–brighter and more yellow than the enchantments that had led the way through the mines; daylight.

[thequeendomhq]

THE TORN ~

NAME. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. UTP SPECIES. Dhampir FACTION. Legion of the Dead OCCUPATION. Legionnaire

Vlad and his many wives. The Drakul was once a warlord, a creature from the Age of Enlightenment who’s undeath persisted into the modern age. You, child of one of his human brides, were another in a litany of spawn that were kept for the privilege of propping up a man whose ambition began and ended with only himself. There was a chance that the love he’d felt for her was genuine and that some shadow of what he’d felt for her was cast in your direction, but you could never be sure. Beneath the sheer veneer of debauchery was a blood-addled but brilliant mind, but again, you’d never know, because as the world broke and put itself back together, Vlad lavished in his own power and horded all that he’d gathered from the ages before. You were called to more. The Deadlands did nothing for you but feed an innate desire to be more than what this world was carving you out to be, the Blight thrived in Veilcrest, it fed the people and it fed the growing armies of Queen Lavinia Noctis. A power in her own right, the dark would swell, and it would come, but centuries ago your mother raised you on the romanticized stories of the Legion of the Dead. Your father wanted you to be a soldier, a warrior, and someday a general. You trained to fight and you pledged yourself to your blade, but you’d never be what he wanted you to be. A monster flowed through your veins but you spat at the inheritance left at your feet and walked the path of the Joining instead. You pictured grandeur and griffons, instead you landed at Nornwatch Tower, a frozen bastion against the Blight, where you stood as a sentinel before Iskaldrik came to it for refuge. 

CONNECTS

THE OATHSWORN: Fellow Legionnaire

NOTES

TQH: Troupe 1 - Refugee

this skeleton is currently taken

[heroic-ignus]

Location: Nornwatch Tower.

Time: Night.

Situation: Troupe 1 - Refugees.

Closed: @ormir.

How long had Alder been staring at that same empty space at that point? Voices quietly whispering evil to his mind, trying ever so desperately to find a crack in the wall he'd built carefully around his mind to keep them away, lurking around in the shadows waiting for a moment of weakness to prey upon. Fact was he wouldn't have come to his senses any time soon if not for the young boy's hand to his, his gaze swiftly shifting towards the origin of the warmth, one of the refugees whose family he'd helped reach the larger group during the conflict. The face once clouded with unhealthy thoughts now cleared into a smile as he went down to his knee, offering the boy a pat to the head and a playful push, watching the child, no more than eight years old, leaving in a happy jog towards his family.

It was only when he got up again that he felt the gaze of another upon him, his own quickly meeting the unsuspecting eyes, familiar and soon recognized, even though the years had not been kind to the old partner. "If it isn't The Raven-feeder himself? Didn't expect to see you here..." But it couldn't be any other way, after all, war came with a price, one that wasn't always easy to pay. As Alder got close enough, he stopped on his tracks, looking at his friend with a slight smile on the corner of his mouth. "You look awful... But at least grey suits you well." He gestured briefly at the other's hair as if his situation wasn't the same, although he hadn't really aged from the last time they met. As an older man from the start of his new long-lived life it was easier to hide the fact that he did not age from others, but soon enough it would be harder and harder to explain. A hand was finally offered for a proper greeting. "Good to see you well."

[blightedmikhael]

“If that is how you see it, who am I to disagree?” An easy shrug follows, setting aside the argument of whether his actions are noble or not. Mikhael does what he does because he believes on the One God’s calling, believes that his actions will be rewarded at the very end, and even if they are not— He would prefer to leave the world a bit kinder than he found it, for nothing else but to make up for the fact that he had been born in the first place. He had been born against all odds, against all sense, and he has to make up for his existence and the suffering it could cause. He is the son of a devil, unknown as his father is, and that means he carries the sins of his father with him, as much as he carries his mother’s strength. 

Perhaps his actions are noble, but he sees them less as that and more as a desperate attempt to gain forgiveness for being born into a world that sees him as nothing else but a herald of evil. His very existence means that the Dark One is alive and well, and if can do something, anything, to change the tides in favor of the One God he must do it, to repay the Great Baal and his followers for all that they have done for him. 

Grasping the horn with a nod, he gives the Iskaran a fleeting smile and takes a gulp, willing to meet the other in the middle on that odd drinking game of theirs. The liquor burns its way down his throat and settles warmly on his stomach, leaving him warm in a way he had not felt since he began his journey North. That alone makes the conversation worth it, but any sort of wisdom to be found at this point in time will be more than welcomed. Mikhael listens intently to the others wisdom, wincing and glancing down at his armor as the Iskaran details exactly why he is wearing the wrong sort of armor for the situation at hand. There is not much he can do about it now, but Mikhael makes a note to find extra layers of cloth once they reach the Nornwatch tower. Hopefully there will be enough available to prevent an accident like the one the other is describing. 

A bark of laughter does escape him at the others last comment, and he nods in agreement, bringing the drinking horn to his lips and taking a long gulp. 

“Message received, I will try to be less brave at this point to save myself the tears,” he quips nearly playfully before humming in thought and glancing up at the stars above them. “My turn, then. Have you been told of how one travels through the Ankhurian desert? The easiest way it’s to follow the stars, but learning how to do it is quite the ordeal.”

END

‘Lies spread by blind idiots are spread nonetheless.’ Ormir hummed in appreciation of another shared sentiment. A fire started by the most negligent spark could level cities, and was just as hard to smother once it found oxygen and room to grow. He knew from years of experience weeding the High King’s gardens that it was infinitely harder to pave a plain truth over a gripping lie, no matter how material the evidence. The damage Astoria had brought to the reputation of followers of The One God was done many times over, there was little distinction for those who fell under their persecution.

Ormir felt the air warming between them, but wouldn’t celebrate having cracked the Ankhurian’s shell just yet. Bile started a slow creep up his throat as the acolyte harped on, brimming with passion and self-righteousness. Quite self-congratulatory, this one. The truth he bit down on was that none were impervious to the cruel whims of fellow men, no matter how much blood they spewed in service of their god. Charity was merely medication for the soul. “Very noble of you.” Ormir clipped, turning to obscure the jaded turn of his smile. He shook the last dregs from his drinking horn into the fire. It swelled hungrily, fanning heat against them as the Iskaran .

Two horns sloshed in his hands when he returned. He offered one to the Ankhurian before making himself comfortable on the log fireside. “I’ll start, so the drink has a chance to thaw your tongue,” The older man cleared his throat. His eyes skirted the shadows moving beyond the fire, failing to distinguish the shape of them. Most of the crowd had thinned as the night grew harsher. A few tents still glowed from a flicker of lamplight within. “Have you noticed – in your limited time among us – that Iskarans tend to favor leatherwear over any iron or steel?” Ormir asked, rhetorically, chinning to the sharp glisten of metal peeking from beneath the stranger’s cloak. “It’s not for a lack of quality armor smiths in the North, I assure you, though I can’t confidently defend our sense of fashion.” The joke tasted awkward and unpolished as he made it. Charm was heavy work.

“Leather, worn properly, holds heat better than any steelsuit padding. You’ll be warmer still with a few wool tunics beneath to pull sweat from freezing close to the body. Anything heavier, you’ll be turning to ice the moment you start sweating in it.” The drink was more diluted now than the first he’d had. Either that, or he was already beginning to feel it.

“And,” Ormir interjected, just remembering the second point he’d intended to make. “I’d wager you know what happens when you stick your tongue to frozen steel in the winter. We're not so fearless as to make the same gamble with our nethers.”

[blightedmikhael]

who? @vuldak-juneau where? just outside the nornwatch tower when? post troupe 1: the last night

The bodies need to be piled up, not a single one forgotten, and the least Mikhael can do after failing so many is dedicate himself to the grim cause. The battle is long over, but the tension still weighs upon them, the feeling of loss keen for all that had lost people to sickness or the darkspawn. It’s been a tough week for all, but they had no time for grief or daddling around, not when there is work to do, not when they still are not out of the woods. 

He is returning to the tower from setting yet another corpse in the growing when he sees a thin slip of a woman slipping around in an increasingly suspicious manner. Being a vuldak does not help her in this manner, either. Carefully, he steps closer and places a hand on her shoulder.

“It would be best of you to remain inside,” he tells her quietly, eyes flickering around as he looks for witchers. “If you haven’t caused trouble yet, it’s best to remain out of the witcher’s sight.”

[blightedmikhael]

who? @heroic-ignus where? the nornwatch tower when? post troupe 1: the last night

Mikhael had meant to check earlier, but he had ended up getting distracted with a thousand and one different self-assigned responsibilities. Or so he keeps telling himself, despite the grim reality of the truth that he keeps to himself. Deep inside, he is still the same wide-eyed child looking towards Maferath's branch of the Warrior Guild and dreaming of becoming a blademaster. It’s all he wanted then, and one of the goals he hopes to accomplish now. The respect he feels for the Blademasters is overwhelming and all-encompassing, and to know one of them is a Vuldak? 

It’s a startling realization.

Initially, Alder’s demeanor had almost convinced him not to worry, but the more time passed, the odder his behavior became, and— He is worried that staying in his hand and not revealing the former werewolf’s true nature will come back to bite him in the ass later, he truly is. But it is too late to say anything without revealing himself as well, so all he can do is watch him carefully and hope for the best, while preparing for the worst. 

“Quite a night,” he muses as he comes to stand next to the Blademaster, eyes falling on the Vuldak and taking a moment to examine him. “Were you wounded? I might not be a healer, but I know the basics so I might be of help if you were.”