#int.w/magnus.nornwatch

[alrikhart]

@magnusxbastien location: Nornwatch Keep notes: merchant connect starter

Across Iskaldrik Spring had begun to ebb at the winter's frost, but here, north of the Spine, the cold had settled into the bones of this land. Most only had what they'd carried on their backs to keep warm because the Legion of the Dead did not have enough of anything to go around. Their force was meager, small, and pitiful by comparison to the stories that permeated Iskaran youth; here at the edge of the world, misery had found its home.

Alrik had simple ways of keeping himself entertained, he watched, he observed, and he kept notes of the goings on of different factions within the Keep. The Vanguard of Light had found a greater flock in the Iskarans who'd once more been burned by magic, and new disdain towards those who carried it threaded throughout the crowds. Their ire could be heard throughout the halls of the Keep, but for the witch who'd grown up in these lands, it was nothing new.

Balanced on one hand by his palm atop a wooden barrel, Alrik spread out his limbs as the performer made a show of it for the small crowd that had gathered. Among the clapping hands, he noted a signet ring from the Northlands, a guild seal from another, and a heron-marked blade on their escort. Outliers with enthused children applauded and cheered before Alrik lept down with a flourish and took a bow for the dispersing crowd. Some coins that were altogether useless were now tossed at his feet.

Among the crowd, Alrik saw a familiar face from the Lowlands, "Magnús. You survived." More congratulatory than surprised, Alrik tipped his mask up to rest at the top of his head as he looked about the space. "Fun crowd," he remarked candidly, grin well placed but marked by Alrik's own charismatic falsehoods.

[alrikhart]

Gradually the crowd dispersed as some light's sermon drifted from up the crowd, he'd confessed to Alessia that he thought that would someday become a problem. A nation of witch hunters, pushed from their homes by magic, led by a flock that would do far worse than put the criminals in chains. For now, it was a distant problem, but one that Alrik was resolved to keep an eye on as he kept charisma unabashedly painted on his features.

"Coins spend the same no matter why I came across them," Alrik clapped the other affectionately on the shoulder as his grin shifted to accommodate the lift of his brow. "Do you think they're going to spend the same in Lysara?" To friends and acquaintances beyond Alessia, Alrik enthused about the Queendom - painting it as a great step on an otherwise perilous journey. Perhaps he wasn't taking the gravity of their situation seriously enough, but considering what he and Alessia had done to survive, he had little doubt that the two of them would make it out of this alive. He glanced towards one of the showboating warriors in plate, quietly wondering if it was true that they could drown in a puddle of mud. "You must have run a long way to make it here from Bjarnheim, what did you see?"

There had been little to do within the shadows of Nornwatch Keep, many fearful of what would come next; while others seemed to want to prepare themselves for it. Boredom had settled upon the shoulders of the refugees, little to divert their minds from the destruction they had left and the uncertainty that still rested before them. In this boredom, many had resorted to ambling around, finding themselves in places that they shouldn't be. Which created quite the problem for Magnús, who could not slip off to speak to his other half. To scheme and plot towards a face that may serve them well in the future, or in their present predicament.

For now, Magnús remained in control, as Bastien stayed hidden within the shadows of their mind. They could not take the risk, with the royal family in attendance and their very carefully curated Witchers. Each and every one of them would be on high alert, waiting and watching for any sort of blip that magic had slipped past them. The changeling would not give them reason to look their way. Though, if one should, the prospect of a new face settled all around him.

In his quest to blend in amid the other refugees, it seemed that familiarity would still catch up to him, as his name was spoken through the crowd. A darkened gaze cut through the bodies until the masked man came into view, before it was tipped up to reveal a likewise familiar face. "Alrik," came the greeting, dripped in a tone that spoke to no good. His eyes lit up as they searched the crowd around them, eyeing the plausible faces that may just benefit him. "Is it generous or condescending that they dispose of their coins to you?" The question came with a grin, as his gaze shifted back to the other.