#int.w/freydis.nornwatch

[witchertorsten]

@freydis-freydat location: Hrimthur's Wastes, West of Nornwatch notes: search & rescue starter

Tracking runaways, strays, and prisoners was among the witcher's skills, it was ingrained in their training to be able to navigate harsh terrain while picking up on the subtle clues that a person, or monster, might leave behind. The headiness of the air was something that Torsten had become accustomed to, the frigid acclimation to his crystalline breaths left an acrid, blighted taste on the tarmac of his tongue that he'd connected to the presence of darkspawn. Children had wandered far from the walls and had yet to return, the worst could be assumed but neither Torsten nor the Jarl seemed satisfied until they saw it with their own eyes.

Stone crunched beneath his boots as they marched side by side through the sparse, dead winter trees that seemed as old as the rock below the ice beneath them. Rot had lived in the Wastes for thousands of years, coiled itself into the flora, and ingratiated itself into the fauna as rodents the size of his forearm scurried about in the dead of night.

"Children of the midlands are resourceful and strong." Resolve etched the stoic's tongue in typical candor as he spoke in stark, blunted truths. It would never be his intention to coddle anyone, least of all a jarl or shieldmaiden, but instead, some reassurance her people would not go quietly - and this too was something that they would all survive.

[witchertorsten]

Torsten's role was an unpopular one, but it came with the territory. Feared and hated, they were an echo of what witches could be and what could happen to them. The commonality of disdain for magic ran rampant on both sides, some quietly resented the Iskaran treatment of witchers. Others resented that they were beholden to the very creatures that were sent to the mines. Appearing less-than-human was the ideal, despite their authority witchers could create nothing, own no lands, and carry no titles. Bound through the one power to obey the command of the High King and The First. When Torsten died there'd be no songs painting him as they did the heroine Frostfang. He'd just be another dead witcher; a fate that Torsten was not just at peace with, but respectful towards.

"Then we'll have to hurry." Torsten considered Freydis's question, his own experience brought him to the possibility of a green-blooded creature descending from the mountains. According to the Legion, however, despite the ideal conditions, trolls were less common north of the Spine unless they were under the influence of more malevolent forces. "Wolves most likely. Our fires, the commotion, and the cooking would've caught their attention." When prey was scarce, packs of common wolves could patrol over a thousand square miles, which said nothing of their more potent predecessors, the dire wolves. Their dens would've been in the footholds of the mountains though, given the time of year they'd have young to feed within. If ample prey was caught, that's where they would head, and the Spine was in the opposite direction. "They may have burrows deeper into the ice." Torsten added, dispelling his own intrusive thought as rocky craigs rose in the distance.

Realistically, few people would prove a better partner searching for a lost child in the unforgiving terrain surrounding Nornwatch than Torsten would. Even so, Freydis’ stomach coiled upon itself into tight, uneasy knots and the myriad of unpleasant fates that may have befell one of her flock–or still could before they found the child. Those who had never met Freydis but had rather heard the lionized version of her rise to power might consider her as much a ruler as a wolf, Icefang. The pageantry of it all had always disinterested her. Leadership wasn’t forged from the finery worn around necks of sickeningly rich foods served on gleaming, jewel-encrusted plates amongst the company of those who would just as soon use their dinner knife to stab their conversation partner in the back. It was made up of moments like this. At least if you asked Freydis.

What if this was a punishment? What if this was something Freydis and Torsten deserved to endure? A greeting shifting of the world, a tilting of the axis to right the wrongs of those like the present company? How many faces had Torsten expelled to the mines, and was the loss of a midland child Freydis’ penance by extension for standing idly by when the witcher had entered her territory and she had chosen not to intervene? Or was this agony over nothing more than the simple fact that children wandered, that straying from the pack was simply what curious minds did? 

Freydis’ exhausted brown eyes shifted toward Torsten’s face. Perhaps if she was more familiar with his character she might know whether this was meant to comfort her or convince himself. Or, perhaps he simply aimed to name the experience of coming of age in the Iskarin midlands for what it was. 

“Nothing is made to thrive out here for long,” she responded as she lowered her head and squinted her eyes against a gusty headwind that whipped between the surrounding peaks. Freydis didn’t say it to ground them, it wasn’t necessary. They would both know it as a truth. The towering pines around them shook violently in the wind, two dead firs to each one still clinging on to survival below the treeline. “What’s the most likely predator to worry about in this circumstance?” She was asking for an unedited truth, though she would expect no less from her counterpart in this rescue.