#int. w/thora.the last night

[witchertorsten]

As the ashes fell from the sky, it felt like burning rain. Deceitful white snow that brushed black across the skin; his armor remained undaunted. Mithril make that shone through the events of the night. Orhan was alive. Afshin was alive. The princess- Torsten felt his hands ball into fists at his side, she had not been his priority, but neither had he ever thought that the darkspawn would be taking prisoners. The shieldmaidens did not die easily, Arros, Freydis, and Aytaç were all taken along with some others. Torsten didn't know all their names, not yet, anyways, but the witcher would commit each to memory. Each was a failure that the Kingsguard would not soon release. Iskaldrik was the realm he'd sworn to defend, the royal line, and the people within - meant to protect them, even if that meant protecting them from themselves.

The flames of the pyres had dulled to embers, the dawn had settled over the horizon, and every moment they spent in this blighted Keep was a moment of daylight that the refugees were taking for granted. "They gather the last of their supplies now," rolling tents, bundling rations, blanketing oxen and tightening the stirrups over horses. Ill preparation would kill them just as quickly, this was a balance. Harold, recently washed clean of the blighted blood, wandered towards him as Torsten lifted his hand so that the drake could press its forehead into his calloused palm. "I'm told you saved a great many of our people, blademaster." She was already owed his respect, but now she had something else as well. "You have my gratitude."

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."

[witchertorsten]

Iskaldrik had been caught unaware and suffered for it, the breadth of their enemies' power was as of yet unknown, but Torsten could only assume that for all they'd seen, there had to be more. "The stories spoke of the Empire being skyborn isles, that there were many, only one swept over us-" Torsten couldn't say if that spoke to the inflation of the tales or the minuscule force that it had taken to conquer his Kingdom... But it was a point to linger upon.

The last of the enemies smoldered as the flames from the charred bodies blazed and dimmed. Torsten saddled Harold with the last of what he needed, appraising the blademaster a final time, she would be a worthy opponent - someone who could offer insight into the path that Torsten was long denied the opportunity to walk. He gathered himself atop the drake, settling with the dragon between his thighs, "When we reach the Outpost, should the blademaster desire, I'd relish the chance to cross our swords." Torsten nodded toward her and tugged Harold's reins before the toned beast shifted its weight to stand and make for the broken foregate.

Even Thora had to admit that what she witnessed in the attack terrified her. She had never seen such a display of magic, making the sight of her world falling apart something akin to the very stories the other alluded to. "That's the part that really worries me. Something so close to the stories could only be described as a cataclysm. But was what we endured the extent or merely the beginning?" Thora worked so hard to build up the dam of her composure. One errant feeling of grief and now everything was beginning to spill over. It was no matter, she'd get her chance to work through every single emotion soon. "In the end it doesn't matter. Our kingdom restored, that's all I want. And should the High King make a call to arms, I'll be there to answer."

If they were to make it to Lysara then there would certainly be shambles to piece back together. Just another labor she'd have to dedicate herself to, because as it stood the ways of the kingdom they lost lived on in the memories of his people. "And it keeps on turning," she responded, acknowledging that there really was only forward at this point, no matter how many losses they incurred. "Thora, member of the Guild since I was but a girl. Who are you, Witcher?"

[witchertorsten]

Torsten's first duty was to the High King, he would commit his sword to wherever that would lead. Honor would not permit Orhan to see his nation wrested from his hands, nor would it allow for the King and blademaster to go down in history as the warrior who stood idle after his Kingdom had fallen. "This enemy-" his mind's eye recounted the attack with absolute clarity, "they resonate with the stories of the magi who once broke this world. The epitome of those I've been charged to hunt. No oath would ever require my blade to see them felled," their ancestors had not pieced this world together only to see it broken again. They had not lived long enough to see their labor ear fruit, Torsten's lifespan was already shorter than an average human's. If he did not live to see this task of honor and vengeance accomplished, the least Torsten could do was die in the effort for the generations to follow.

The blademaster made a fair point. Nation and destination aside, the journey would force a shift that none in this company could deny. Already the people were haunted, sick, injured, and worried about the arduous road ahead. Hrimthur's Wastelands were perilous, and beyond it lay the Lostlands before the troupe would reach Lysara. Even though their destination was shrouded in mystery, the Kingdom and Queendom held no love for one another, and their reception was shrouded in mystery. "The wheel weaves," Torsten said simply put, it didn't care if the refugees were afraid or prepared, it was forward or it was death. "Your name, blademaster?"

Thora's heart wrenched as she easily related to the Witcher's sentiment. She found the strength to carry on in the words of the vow she made to herself as she watched her country burn. "I told myself that I'd see the home I lost restored, and that all those who brought about this harm would meet their ends at the edge of my blade," she confesses, both to relate and to see if the weight felt suffocating. Fortunately, her resolve remained as strong as ever. "These oaths we make won't permit us rest any time soon. But like you, I do not tire easily."

But she was no fool. Two fighters duty-bound to keep moving forward wouldn't be enough in the next leg of their journey. The end of all they knew still loomed over the survivors like a dark cloud. Sure they were alive, but could any one of them truly be considered fortunate? "He's well enough, considering. Upset and angry that I haven't shed a tear, but I'll take that over having two parents given to a pyre," she says with a frankness that in no way captured the depth of her grief. Thora would require another battle to truly express her feelings. "Even if everyone with us makes it to the other side of the Wastelands, I can't help but think that no survivor will be well again. I'll hate myself for dragging him through that, but what option do we have?"

[witchertorsten]

Resolve carved the Kingsguard, once he could assure that the High King was in safe hands, he would stop at nothing to retrieve those who'd been taken - even at the cost of his own life. Among the Legion there was a witcher, their order would call it a death wish but Torsten's vow was already breaking. Iskaldrik had fallen and its people were dying. The witcher could not permit their princess or the others to be taken by the dark. It was a haunting thought, but the shame that would permeate him to stand in a foreign court of witches - a King's madness and a dead nation his legacy - Torsten was dauntless, but what went unsaid was the shame that rippled under his mithril.

Witchers could hold no land or titles. Their names were forgotten to the annals of time, and the thing that united them was the uniformity behind the terror that permeated their reputation. Friends were luxuries Torsten was not afforded, comraderie was hardly visible beneath the shine of their undaunted metals. "My word is all I have, oath or no, I am bound to see it through." Lest he find himself in an afterlife befitting murderers and oathbreakers. Torsten considered how he had lost Afshin in the night, how the princess had been taken along with a jarl, a fellow witcher, and others. "Then I'll count your father as fortunate." There was a beat before Torsten added a fair question, "Is he well?"

Thora had nothing to offer except her life and her blade. Besides her father and her memories, that's all she had left anyway. Their lives were quickly turning into a disaster, and as the number of Iskaran's continued to decrease she couldn't help but wonder how many more would perish before they reached someplace safe. "Good then. It'll be hard, but so long as we can keep moving we should," Thora responds, feeling a twinge of pain in her chest as she speaks. In truth, she simply found there was little to distract her from her grief. The fight helped, and her anger-fueled ferociousness led to many felled darkspawn, but she couldn't imagine feeling anything real until her revenge was realized.

"Gratitude? No, I'm unworthy. In the end I should've killed more. Maybe if I had there wouldn't be lost ones." In a way, she thought of those who'd been taken as the least fortunate of them all. At least the dead could be accounted for. They still had no idea what became of the captives, or if they could be rescued. "If anyone is deserving of gratitude, it's you," she says, with moderate difficulty too. Witchers were something akin to the boogeyman for her, the ones who'd take her away in the night for the magic in her blood. Thora unconsciously checks that her hair is over her ears, but regardless she speaks with sincerity. "You could've abandoned your oath and you haven't. The High King and the prince are still with us even though–" Thora lets the thought die on her tongue. She thought better than speaking ill thoughts on the princess's status. "I'm only here because I have to see my father through. That's all."