#gormlessthing

[saltuary]

⪼ @gormlessthing // cont.

Shaped by sorrow and silence, Faramir listened to the warrior’s words with the attentiveness one gives an old book – tattered, well-kept, and all the more valuable for the scuffs along its spine. Gorm, as he gave his name, wiped his blade in a kind of brutal liturgy. It was no noble heirloom, that weapon, only service made steel. Like the man, it had likely never been retired, never been honoured.

Faramir found himself smiling, faintly, when Gorm called him a poet. His gaze strayed to the darkening treetops, as if searching for a suitable place to tuck away the compliment.

“A poet,” he echoed softly, the word leaving his lips in surprise and rare pleasure. His eyes – deep and grey as storm-fed rivers – met Gorm’s single, steady one. There was no shyness in his manner, only solemn gratitude.

“Faramir,” he offered, and took the outstretched hand. “Son of Denethor. Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien.”

Their clasp was brief, but firm. Faramir felt the tremor there – the faint, lingering echo of spent fury. It reminded him of the warhorses after battle, froth-flanked, steaming and shaking, eyes wide and rolling with the knowledge of what they had survived. He did not judge it. The best men always trembled afterwards.

“And you do yourself no disservice, Gorm of the iron cloth. Witchfinder, sword-priest, keeper of whatever brittle peace remains to men like us.”

His hand fell back to his side and he turned toward the remnants of the orc patrol. Corpses lay strewn and still, their black blood already clotting in the leaf litter, but he was not looking at them. He was seeing beyond them, into the uncertain dusk and the shape of things yet to come.

“I remain upright and breathing thanks to your impeccable timing,” he murmured, his tone lightened though still burdened with thought. “You are welcome among us, if your road winds that way. My men will not mind the steel, nor the silence. They are made of the same.”

[fishermcn]

"Long as ya keep that good eye o'yours on point, reckon there won't be no issue. Not so bad in a fight at least, old man."

"...odd crew, this latest. But I imagine we'll do alright." @sunmad @hawksblooded @fishermcn

[hawksblooded]

⤖ indie & selective ALIZEBETH KENWAY,  a fandomless original character from own lore.

⤖   generic fantasy & fandom verses available. strictly 21+ .  ⤖ sideblog to @henosiis. written by KAT! ⤖ affiliated with @fishermcn, @swordluck, @gormlessthing

Exploring grief, duty, acceptance, friendship, misfortune, necessity, justice ⤖ DOSSIER

[through-fire-and-flame]

[ launched a blog for my OC Gorm the Witchfinder at @gormlessthing. going to continue working on spinning up writing again through the week as i can. ]

[hawksblooded]

CLINK GOES THE COIN pouch. Alizebeth doesn’t pocket it, not yet. Doesn’t know enough. But she mirrors the old man’s lean. Images of a dozen winged beasts flip through her thoughts as though they were a grimoire, some bloodstained bestiary. A harpy? Plausible. Rare to find them alone, though. Still, in her line of work, one must expect the unexpected. To be surprised is to die. If she’s a lycanthrope… that’s another issue. She’ll need silver bolts for that - her employer’s got that more than covered, though. 

Where does a man even find that much gold? He doesn’t look the noble part, certainly doesn’t speak like one. Down to earth, he seems. A good enough mercenary could get pretty loaded, but he doesn’t seem the type. Too independent, she wagers. Not a man who follows orders blindly. And he’s no Hawksblood, that much she knows. She can’t see their brass pendant at his neck or on his belt, and besides, she would have heard of him. The mystery gnaws at her, distracts her from his talk on demons.

 Her dark brow furrows when he gestures toward his sword, if one could call it that. Impressive, if he can swing it with any sort of accuracy. Somehow, she doesn’t doubt that he can. He seems to think Svetlana equally impressive, too. Without a doubt, her bolts can down any manner of flying monster… if the hunter lands the shot. Swift and agile things, harpies are, not half-flighted like the vulture gnolls or giant bats. A winged lycanthrope can be even more so. But if he can keep it busy, give her time to line up… 

All right. The old boy knows how to haggle, she has to give him that. The hunter gets up, extends a gauntleted hand.

“Alizebeth Kenway. Order of the Hawksbloods.”

Gorm grins. Good lass - knows some good money when she sees it. He slides the coinage promised across the table and leans in conspiratorially, as though he's about to share some lurid local gossip instead of detailing a frightful monster. (There were, in fact, some frightful local monsters, but they all wore fancy clothes and had the sort of militia that would make dislodging them extremely difficult - and then all you'd get is another frightful monster in fancy clothes within a year.

Notably, Gorm does not think of himself as cynical.)

"Folks are calling it a fury - what I think is that it's a large harpy or some unfortunately sized lycanthrope," Gorm says. "There's been talk of a woman out there with giant bird talons and wings, and last I checked, furies don't show up unannounced and menace random travelers. They're intentional. That's the whole point."

He gestures over his shoulder at the greatsword leaned against his chair. It isn't the slender blade of a zweihander, but a slab of metal that must take immense strength to leverage with any alacrity in one direction.

"Now, see, my aim is terrible, and she's like as not to harry me from above while I fling a spell or two and get slashed for my troubles," Gorm says. "What I need you to do is get her grounded, and I'll handle the scrapping after the fact. Just a shot in a wing. Two hours of work - enough gold for a month.

We have a deal?"

[saltuary]

Faramir regarded him quietly, pale eyes thoughtful beneath the sweep of his creased brow. The wind, which had toyed all morning with the high grasses of the riverbank, had softened, as if the world itself waited to hear the sound of the bowstring. Gorm stood hulking and uncertain, the arrow wavering at full draw – an iron shard poised between mockery and grace.

“You must think me silly for asking you to bend a bow,” Faramir said, his voice gentled. “But there is a kind of truth one finds only in failing, my friend.”

In the light of the afternoon sun, half-swallowed by grey cloud, Faramir looked almost spectral as he reached to adjust Gorm’s thick fingers. The years of Gondor sat upon him not like armour but like mourning garb, elegant and grave.

The arrow sprang, clattered against the far tree, and fell with no ceremony to the underbrush below. Faramir did not laugh, nor did his eyes so much as narrow. He watched its path as though it were a star struck from the dome of heaven and now lost in the muck.

“I do not teach you to strike the mark,” he said at last. “Only to know the bow by weight, by shape, by the way it resists and yields.”

He turned then, walking slowly back towards where their cloaks lay, swept together in a careless heap. Golden reeds parted for him like curtains, his boots stirring little sound.

“The sword teaches one to speak through force. The bow, through silence. And I – ” He paused, a ghost against the light. “I have been made of too much silence, and so I envy your clarity. Try again, Gorm. For my sake, if not for yours.

A breath, a flicker of wryness tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And if that does not tempt you,” he added, softer now, almost playful. “Know this – I shall make a noble fool of myself by attempting to wield your almighty sword. If nothing else, the sight of it swinging me may reward you with laughter.”

[ short starter for @saltuary ]

A life of hauling around a greatsword has left Gorm with little of the dexterity needed to properly aim a bow. This doesn't seem to have dissuaded the younger Faramir from trying to teach him, which has left the former party thoroughly embarrassed by the array of misfired arrows sprouting from the ground around the target.

"There is a reason my tutors shoved a greatsword in my hands," Gorm mutters, his hands trembling with the effort of keeping another arrow steady as he takes aim. At least he doesn't have to worry about closing one eye.

"This feels right silly, poet, I have to say."

[gormlessthing]

The older man gave the younger a considered stare through that bright blue eye.

It is a complex question: certainly witchfinding of any description has never been the sort of occupation that invites or inspires camaraderie, nor is Gorm overly fond of others' company these darkened days. But truth be told, there were orcs in the forest. Truth be told, he was an old man. Truth be told, had the two not found one another, they might both have been dead in the ambush.

Truth be told, it was never just one ambush.

A lot of truth amid a lot of telling, then - and very little argument left in his mind. Traveling together would be safer than traveling alone. Besides, Gorm, muttered his conscience, you could stand to talk to someone other than yourself for a while, aye? For a given value of "talk," anyway - this fellow seems entirely content to do so at length, at least. Eloquence must come with nobility, Gorm assumed, or perhaps captaincy. He'd never had much of either, himself.

It's not quite a smile that curled at the edges of Gorm's bearded jaw, if only because the muscles required for the task seem to have been long disused, but it was something approaching an amicable expression, and that would have to do. Perhaps the accompanying nod - a short, sharp motion typical of a military grunt of some description - would serve to paper over perceived social ineptitude.

"It is a pleasure and honor to meet you, captain," he ventures. "If you and your men will have my company, I will gladly share yours - I do not like my chances if I am attacked on my own, and besides, I could stand to travel with others for a while. I pray you will excuse my manners - it has been some time since I have had to call upon them, and I fear they may have rusted a little."

⪼ @gormlessthing // cont.

Shaped by sorrow and silence, Faramir listened to the warrior’s words with the attentiveness one gives an old book – tattered, well-kept, and all the more valuable for the scuffs along its spine. Gorm, as he gave his name, wiped his blade in a kind of brutal liturgy. It was no noble heirloom, that weapon, only service made steel. Like the man, it had likely never been retired, never been honoured.

Faramir found himself smiling, faintly, when Gorm called him a poet. His gaze strayed to the darkening treetops, as if searching for a suitable place to tuck away the compliment.

“A poet,” he echoed softly, the word leaving his lips in surprise and rare pleasure. His eyes – deep and grey as storm-fed rivers – met Gorm’s single, steady one. There was no shyness in his manner, only solemn gratitude.

“Faramir,” he offered, and took the outstretched hand. “Son of Denethor. Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien.”

Their clasp was brief, but firm. Faramir felt the tremor there – the faint, lingering echo of spent fury. It reminded him of the warhorses after battle, froth-flanked, steaming and shaking, eyes wide and rolling with the knowledge of what they had survived. He did not judge it. The best men always trembled afterwards.

“And you do yourself no disservice, Gorm of the iron cloth. Witchfinder, sword-priest, keeper of whatever brittle peace remains to men like us.”

His hand fell back to his side and he turned toward the remnants of the orc patrol. Corpses lay strewn and still, their black blood already clotting in the leaf litter, but he was not looking at them. He was seeing beyond them, into the uncertain dusk and the shape of things yet to come.

“I remain upright and breathing thanks to your impeccable timing,” he murmured, his tone lightened though still burdened with thought. “You are welcome among us, if your road winds that way. My men will not mind the steel, nor the silence. They are made of the same.”

[hawksblooded]

TWO HOURS OF WORK? The old boy might be insanely confident, reckless, or stupid. Maybe all of the above. They’re not talking mere goblinoids, wargs or even werewolves. A demon is another story entirely, a bloody and vicious one, and one she has too often decided not to concern herself with. Still… something at the back of her neck bristles at his words. They say overconfidence is an insidious killer. She’s found it to be rather swift at exacting its due.

She eyes him up and down, not as one looks at a man, but as one looks at a weapon, one blade recognizing another. His scars tell stories of foolhardiness, but his age speaks of skill. In their line of work - and she assumes they have similar lines of work, from his garb and the greatsword securely sheathed to his back - gray hairs are earned, worn with pride and honor like medals. Often, they were the only medals one could hope to earn. Most hunters die before their first wrinkle. They leave bright-eyed and impatient, with dreams of gold-lined pockets and fame. They come back in multiple bags, when they’re found at all. But she has to admit there’s something to him, to his stubborn insistence, that tells her he must know what he’s doing. It’s quite simple, in the end: he’s too old to be stupid.

Alizebeth sighs. She’s never liked working with other hunters, but if all he wants is back-up… And he’s willing to pay. Good pay, at that. He seems to think it'll be an easy job. She looks at him again, at the creases under his eyes, one hidden beneath a patch. Fine enough. He was right to single her out, to avoid the militia. No amount of training against human opponents prepares a man for facing a monster - much less a demon. Even the Hawksbloods rarely take contracts on them. Too dangerous. Too unpredictable. She’ll do it, though. Hunting monsters is what she does.

“ Tell me about your demon. ”

[ from x with @hawksblooded ]

"See, you say that," the old man says. "But you've got the crossbow and everythin' - as far as I can see, there's no better candidate for the kind of work I'm offering."

He meets her glare with his one good eye and a grin, somewhere between the thick gray of his beard. The expression deepens the valleys of his craggy features, half carved by time and the other half by fights he shouldn't have walked - well, limped, really, most of the time - away from. Perhaps his apparent, insistent bravery in the face of her obvious irritation might explain at least some of his injuries, but he continues on, unabated.

"I realize demons aren't your standard game, or bounty, or any of that, and I know nobody's posted up a proper job yet, but that's because anyone wot gets out there long enough to find her doesn't come back to tell us about it," he continues. "But I'm willing to pay for the assistance in bringing her in. All I need you to do is take that siege weapon you're lugging around and, well, siege her. I'll do the hard part."

He shouldn't have used the word "demon" when he first brought the gig up, he realized, but Gorm was never one to bring someone on a job without making damn sure they were aware of what was going on. A surprised witchf--hunter is a dead hunter, usually.

"You're the only one with that kind of firepower in this town, one, and if I ask the milita to join me they're going to cause a panic, and that's just going to make it all very complex, very fast, d'you understand?" he says. "Fifty gold, right now, 'cross the table, and another hundred when you come back. It's enough to keep you going for a bloody month for two hours of work."