#tqh troupe 1: wrap

[thequeendomhq]

"A good story you don't really write, it was always there, you just uncover it."

A summary of short stories and perspectives following the events of the Iskaran refugees traveling from their Kingdom to the Queendom of Lysara.

Alessia Hart - "Untitled"

In which, Alessia is abducted from Nornwatch Keep and transported to a broodmother below Isengrim's Embrace.

Someone screamed in the back of her mind, someone who was running in the woods and magical, someone who bit the ear off a Witcher and defeated any trial Ymir’s Spine threw at her. Every morning when she woke up the familiar scream was more desperate. Still, the witch could barely hear it over the cries of wailing newborn creatures and roaring Mother.

Alder - "The Tale of a Fallen Blade"

In which, Alder becomes attuned to his new sword, and from it forges a new purpose.

The vision ended in a flash as the man took a deep breath and used what was left of his strength to charge forward only to meet the cold touch of her cursed blade, and Alder opened his eyes to the world of present. He could feel the sweat running down his face, the wet feeling of his shirt’s cloth, but more than anything, he could feel the will of his blade, the power which it ensued, and the need for a master to wield it, one that could be no other than him for he’d saved it from the unworthy hands of the Forsaken Legionnaire. Now it was finally his, and so was its wish for revenge - a new purpose.

Alrik Hart - "Alone"

In which, Alrik travels from Nornwatch Keep to Hrimthur's Outpost and is separated from the refugees along the way.

The gentle flames of a soft fire stirred before Alrik’s blurred eyes, the smell of roasted meat came next, and last was the choir of a song he remembered his father singing when he was young. He leaned against something warm and sturdy, smelled worn leather and mead. The All-Father had welcomed him home and in the sweet quiet of mental stillness his father had not died and his sister had not been taken. Memory returned and panic followed, but another’s arms held his beaten body close.

Arros - "Burnt Child"

In which, Arros joins the Legion of the Dead following the events of Isengrim's Embrace.

You drank from the goblet, you heard the screams, the roars, the unnatural and sickening calls from the other side, you were certain you had more poison than blood running through your veins. You hurt. Like someone’s taken sanding paper to your bones, bruises riddling every inch of you that has blood enough to call itself alive, because you damn fucking sure don’t feel like you are.

Aytaç Gökhan - "ᛗᛟᚢᚾᛏᚨᛁᚾ ᚺᛟᛗᛖ"

In which, Aytaç (slays) remembers who she is, a daughter of Manetheren and one of Hrimthur's Heirs.

the questions spiraled within her head, offering no answers to her. each question spurred on another question, which brought forth another, and another, and another. perhaps if she found afshin, ormir, her father — perhaps they would know something that she did not. some clue that would lead her to answers that she seemed so desperate to find for herself now. but what would she tell them? what would she offer them of all that she had learned? would she be forthcoming, or would she be selfish once reunited?

Etienne Ulven - "Frost Pears"

In which, Etienne reflects on the events over the last couple of months while enjoying a prized snack.

Etienne doesn't know if it can just be him again. For when he's alone with himself, he's standing in a room with a stranger. There's this thing under his skin and it is so wild and it is hurt, bleeding from the wound that'd reopened. Grieving his father a second time while cursing that he'd never just told him about all of this, dealing with the frustration he had all of these questions to ask a man who was no longer there, it hurts.

Fharzai - "Long Night"

In which, Fharzai dreamwalks during the events of "The Last Night" and is attacked by Munin.

For the rest of the night he fought for his life, trashing his place in the process. It hurt to be slashed and it hurt to be so violent, but what other choice did he have? By the time morning came, he’d managed to smash the blight’s body with a chair until the wood splintered in his hands. Even when the creature stopped twitching and the pain from wood fragments in his flesh matched the sting of the gashes across his body, Fharzai continued to pound as if the nightmare could walk again at any moment.

Freydis - "I Knew My Heart Would Break"

In which, Freydis is guided through the mist by a cat sith and decides to walk the path of one of the fey-touched.

Tove allowed her head to fall back, the twining antlers that had sprung from her tilting back and tangling with the loose strands of the willows she had planted to replace the cairns of her parents long, long ago mingling amongst their prongs and brushing against the skin of her shoulders and her tearstained cheeks. They reminded her of her mother’s golden hair, the sound of her voice telling her: “You were enough, before and after. By any name. You were always enough.” 

Froy - "Froy's Oath

In which, Froy reflects on the road so far and bids farewell to his nation once and for all.

"My brave boy," she began, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. "In every storm, there's a moment of calm. Find that calm in your heart and let it guide you. Don't let fear anchor you. Sail with the wind, and trust your compass."

Lothar - "ᛏᛁᛗᛖ, ᛞᛖᚢᛟᚢᚱᛖᚱ ᛟᚠ ᚨᛚᛚ ᚦᛁᛜᛊ"

In which, Lothar polishes his ax and wipes at the violence of the past.

The violence of life, how he’d become everything he sought to destroy. What worth was a lucky shot? As never ending as violence was, luck was not in such abundance. Lothar peered down at the runes that were indicative of this - lucky shot - a cruel mockery considering how unlucky his life truly had been. Riddled with scars, perpetuated by loss; the memory of everything he’d once ever cared for had crumbled beneath the Aetherians and his knuckles now turned white as he thought of returning. He’d made a promise, to those captured, and even those lost, that he’d be back to avenge them all.

Luna - "Untitled"

In which, Luna joins the Legion of the Dead.

The werewolf had found where she belonged and she knew she wouldn’t face the darkness alone, not with her trusty stead Steve the forest cat by her side.

Ormir - "Bite the Hand"

In which, Orhan calls on his trusted advisor after sobering from his madness.

A moat of clarity found Ormir then, shivering in the deepest reach of the wastes. Despite Orhan’s better sense, in full knowing the depth of his wounds and the voracity of Ormir’s unending cravings, he’d fed him. Perhaps some part of him had always known that the stray he’d brought in from the frozen wilds would someday draw blood, and kept him close, anyway. For reasons Ormir couldn’t understand, he’d let the rabid beast into the nursery where his children slept, and sat idly as they were reared in its image, sprouting fangs of their own. Perhaps Orhan had understood the torment of all of his family’s transgressions and loved them still. Their prize was admittedly hollow and their peace stolen in his absence.

Riandur - "In war, victory. In peace, vigilance."

In which, Rian reflects on the past and his current station of Field Officer for the Lysaran branch of the Legion of the Dead.

Someone needed to do it, and while Riandur had grown from the young man who had simply enjoyed the feeling of blood on his hands, that did not mean he was kind. The Legion had been his punishment, and within it, he'd found a different kind of family. People that he would die for, or die beside, and the idea that he had found some sort of place within – well, he wasn't going to squander it. Gone was the youthful hope that Rian had carried once, muscles and scars that were simply a story.

Rykard - "Untitled"

In which, Rykard reflects on the past few months and his time travelling the King's Road.

To die with a blade in your hand was considered a great honor in the land of Iskaldrik. They say that when a warrior’s battle in this realm is over, a new one begins elsewhere. Valhalla, they called it. An afterlife filled with feasting, fighting and fucking, what more could a warrior need? As if gorging oneself on violence was not enough for one lifetime. The boundary between bravery and stupidity was nebulous at best and Rykard was never the type to back down from a challenge. So he left at dawn with the King's entourage. 

Shenuvun - "Memories in the Widllands"

In which, Shenevun reflects on the past and returns home at long last.

Shenuvun slips out of the hall where they had all been gathered that morning, and looks back at the masses, taking the view in before turning back towards the door and rushing out into the wilderness. The farther she is from people, the less measured her steps grow, until she is running, barefoot and careless, through the wilds, the Weave urging her forward and forward until it tells her to stoop. 

Prospero - "Untitled"

In which, Prospero comes to during the events of the "The Last Night" at Nornwatch Keep.

Once he opened them again, there had been so much blood. Prospero’s hands had always been covered in blood. Why was it never his own?

Vicoya - "Sacrifice"

In which, Vicoya works herself to the point of exhaustion, coming across a rose and a stranger in the process.

Through blurred vision, she watched as the flower began to stand up straight, and color began to return to its perfectly pink petals. Then she watched a single drop of red fell onto it’s soft surface, before slowly trickling into the center of the rose, weaving through the small gaps between the circling petals as if they were a beautiful maze. Then another drop. It’d come seemingly out of nowhere, until she felt the cold sensation of liquid freezing on her face. A shaking hand reached up to swipe just under her nose, and it came away red.

Troupe 1 Prompts:

Prospero 

You don’t remember how you got there, but one moment you were stumbling back to your chambers after a night of drinking the Legion’s piss-mead, and then in the next you were standing in front of the Keep’s gate. A dead legionnaire was behind you and there was blood on your tunic, was that you? You couldn’t remember. The addle of the drink tilted your mind as the stones and the snow began to turn; you emptied your stomach into the bank and then reached up to steady yourself, unlatching the gate in the process.

There was a moment where you stood there and stared, you should have closed the lock again. The wasteland was a dangerous place, especially after dark, but you only lingered and stared, stepping over the body of a legionnaire before you stumbled back to your chambers and collapsed in the comfort of your bed. 

Fharzai

Each night you wandered among the dreams of the Iskarans; kept from anything south of Ymir’s Spine, you were limited to the refugees of Nornwatch Keep. In their minds you sewed the epithets of the light, warming cold memories and tending to the lush gardens of dreams. Your mistake was thinking you were alone here, in thinking that the will of the dark would not find you. 

You crept into the mind of a legionnaire, Commander Deidameia they called her, and from the moment you landed you knew that you were not alone. Their dream turned into your nightmare as you were a child once more, scraped knees and worn hands knelt before shattered arches - the Keeper slayed and the bodies of countless Dúnedain strewn about. The blight crept in as a figure, shrouded in shadows stood over; their warning clear, do not tread here. The Keeper you’d known rose, lunged, and attacked. They shook you from your dream, and followed you into the waking world: a wright drawn from the dream realm bent on killing you.

Amaia (unfollowed)

Restless night have plagued you for days. Something coming, rising, and brewing. Dreams of the blight follow every legionnaire; it’s their fate to lose themselves to the madness of the calling, and descend into the deep to throw their blade at the hordes of the darkspawn below. Is this what was happening to you now? In the Tower you’re hearing the call of darkspawn, faint, and far away but it’s an echo that you can’t deny. 

In the north, something is rising, darkness is stirring and as you write to Amon Sûl, your letters will go unanswered. Caer Glas Keep has closed its doors, Caledon Moors Citadel is abandoned. That leaves only Nornwatch, the frigid and decrepit bastion of the north. Is this where evil stirs?

Luna

Far above the stone, you can hear Her call, she sounds wrong, somehow. The moon has been your friend since you were just a little girl, but now she’s calling your name like you’re a stranger. It’s quiet at first, but it grows louder; in the beginning, you couldn’t hear it over the sound of your sweet Mother’s melody. It was all for Mother. It was all for the Brood and you were all too happy to bring forth her beautiful sweetlings, to nurse them, dote on them, and snap when your hungry Brothers got too quick. 

But she grew louder. Too loud to be ignored. You knelt before your precious Mother when the moon’s call snapped at your spine. Horror bent you back upon yourself, twisted your shape as you tore at your flesh. Your human skin wasn’t good enough, you wanted a coat, nails would not do you wanted claws - and with a maw of razor-like teeth, you bore into your sweet Mother as her viscera melted across the tarmac of your tongue and her song - a harrowing cry for help, and a shriek of death, reverberated over the stones. 

Aytaç

Mother was beautiful, wasn’t she? 

You forgot your name, your past, and your ambitions for your future. At night you dreamt of the Dark One’s warm embrace, and through his eyes, you saw the face of a man you could no longer recognize. A Mad King, growing stronger, a man you’d spent your life idolizing but couldn’t place. Your Lord had set his dark gaze upon this King and in your waking hours you shook with the hope of being the one to deliver this familiar stranger into the arms of the waiting Abyss. 

Your kin came wailing into this world, delivered from the warmth of Mother’s heart - were you maternal? Would you someday be a Mother to a nation? It was an errant thought, one that lifted the song of the coming dawn from your lips as you remembered a girl who was more weapon than person. With a tongue like a sword, and a mind like a shield. Who was that girl? Where had she gone?  

A wolf’s teeth brought Mother’s screams into the deepest recesses of your mind, her pain was your pain, but then her song was gone. You were Princess Aytaç Gökhan, Iskaran shieldmaiden, and you would not die in this place.

Freydis

What use was a broken shield? 

You’d already answered that question. A broken shield still had splinters but Mother never looked at you like you were ruined. She only saw someone worthy and strong. Where others had fallen to the song, useless ghouls with peeling flesh and a feral mind. You would not be like the gray meat you carved away for Mother’s appetite, the morsels of rot that your teeth dug into to soothe your appetite. Better than the scraps that your brothers fought over, and valuable as the urchins that you brought forth from Mother’s heart.

When she died, you felt all the light leave the world. The cave grew dark, the fires felt cold, and in the heat of it all a werewolf tore through it all. It descended upon you, you knew this one, somehow you knew her - but a splintered piece of wood jammed into its mane was enough to send it reeling away before it could make a meal out of you like it had Mother. Her song was gone now, but her song echoed in your heart; not as anything sweet, but as a brutal reminder of the dignity these beasts had taken from you. A fractured shield in hand, the ax of a felled darkspawn in the other, even if it killed you, you would teach these beasts why your people named you Jarl Icefang.

Alessia

You who were born in the dark and smelted together with battered rocks and unabashed defiance. The light had come in, but the shadows remained if only to provide contrast. You were not the last to fall to Mother’s song, but you held out longer than most. Under the stones of Aetherite, you thought that going through the motions would protect you, but the blight was in the air you breathed, and here the Abyss sighed with open relief. 

It began in your dreams, across the Spine, the Dark One was searching. Hunting. There, hidden somewhere within, was an old adversary. You remembered the steps, the secret paths, and the signs to look for. Even in your dreams, the Old Woman welcomed you like an old friend, but this time when she looked upon you, she frowned. His eye had found her, and when you awoke it was to the scream of Mother’s dying breath - a werewolf ran rampant and wild. It tore through your Mother’s heart and broke you from the song of the brood; the dark descended now, it was now or never. Run. Fight. Alessia Hart, give it everything you have: otherwise, you will die in this place, forgotten and alone. 

Arros

Witcher. Poison beat through your veins like others had blood. The taint took time to grip you: more than anyone else but even you could not resist Mother’s song for long. She worked her way into your heart through your pox-marked skin and for the first time since your Gaze had been broken, you felt the sort of love that you thought was lost to you. Beautiful and sweet, you were happy to serve Mother, and happy to play the part of nurse at her side. Her gaze was beady and dark, but you matched it with unequivocal devotion. 

A werewolf, broken from Mother’s song, tore apart that beautiful bond - and your first response was to shriek as your Mother’s writhing, tentacular frame, fell into a dead heap. You stood at the side of the Princess, for your next reaction was unabashed rage. You could feel it now, dark though it was, magic permeated the lair and flowed through the veins of the volatile, raw Aetherite. Your weapons were gone, so you felled the first beast that attacked and wrenched their twisted blade from their dead limbs to use it as your own. Arros, witcher, set your gaze upon your escape it’s time to leave this place.

[alrikhart]

Alrik watched as Luna wrenched her ax from the warg's dead body, there was a breadth of time between who she'd been when they first met, and the cloaked woman that she was now. The woodcutter was right, Alrik had underestimated her, but as he made a motion to wind the chain around his palm and elbow in even loops, he acknowledged the strength that he'd previously disregarded.

"Good. Sometimes that's all you'll need." Luna would need it in the days to come. Alrik finished winding the heavy chain and set it across his shoulder again as he ducked his head through the loop. "Let's head back before others are incensed by all this..." Alrik turned up his nose at the blackened, putrid-smelling snow. "blood." If it could even be called that.

There could be no doubt that the Warg was dead, it wasn't a gamble that either of the refugees were willing to take and so they delivered it to the gates of hell with a bloody strike after another, the land sick with blight was stained with a dark ichor that smelt of sulfur and resembled the thickness of blood.

The Warg howled in anguish as it bled from its open wounds and stumbled about, dizzy and sick with pain that it wanted its pound of flesh. The spikes embedded in the skull of the beast and it came to a finish with a sickening wet sound of breaking bones, the spiked weapon caught the light of the fading sun from an burst eye socket and for a moment cast a refracted light prism of red and gold.

She reached for her axe, the first blow upon the beast and it's gained another notch, another scratch for a beast defeated and had to be cleansed with fire and water. "Never underestimated someone who grew up in the woods, I fight like someone who wants to live. Blind a beast of its senses and you've dug the creature a grave." She does not ask where he learned to fight, her head is spinning with the gore they had caused and she couldn't bare to learn anything new.

[princemordecai]

With respect, Leander clasped Akanis on the shoulder as the weave he'd meticulously crafted dissipated into the air. "Magic's a fickle bitch, isn't it?" He was a man who could conjure a thousand ways to end a life, but when it came to preserving one, his expertise was sorely lacking. His advice on the matter was as straightforward as it was limited - consult the elvhen. The intricacies of weaves flowed differently through elvhen veins, and while Leander could learn through keen observation, Akanis would need to navigate his abilities through a different path. "Bring your gold," Leander smirked, his voice laced with a rough edge. "The drow don't train anyone for free."

For a brief moment, Leander's typically prickly demeanor softened as he cast a glance back toward the smoldering city of Aventia. The siege was unyielding, a relentless force that seemed to know no end. For now, there was a lull in the chaos, a fleeting opportunity to catch their breath before the next wave of violence crashed upon them tonight. "Back inside!" Leander commanded the troops, his voice carrying the weight of his authority and the promise of respite. "We've earned a break before the next wave of cock-sucking bastards shows up."

Years of practice? He spent years of enduring his flame and it hadn’t gotten him any closer. But he had never sought an understanding of his power never learnt to accept but fear it with the respect it deserved. His face sunk as he watched Leander manipulate the weave. While it was far beyond his comprehension it was beautiful. He appreciated the display but there was no way he would be able to accomplish such a feat Leander was far more proficient with the weave than Akanis ever will be.

“Yes, it does.” It was a rhetorical question but he wanted to answer anyway even if it was blatantly obvious after that fight. “I may give the drow you mentioned a try.” Yes they were more brutal then the Elvhen but at least with the drow he hadn’t been thrown out of their society at birth. Akanis has and always feel awkward around Elvhen even if they are sliver. He was deprived of knowing that part of him, he actually never meet his parents doesn’t even know their names.

[xnikandrosx]

Selfishness was the road to perdition but in the question between the light and the dark, it did not take much effort to see where the witcher would fall. Violent, unruly, and selfish - two months ago he might have been afforded a death that meant something to the Iskarans. Instead, he'd be in the grave long before his kind ever returned home - perhaps they'd vanish entirely. Unfortunate, but not unexpected; where the witchers failed the Vanguard would continue. "And yet, both are invested in you." Nikandros stated simply before he put his back to the witcher. "Light keep you, witcher."

The Keep. It was true that it shouldn't have been taken from them. He certainly didn't need a Vanguard of the Light telling him that information. Njal didn't like where they were now, but he also knew that there was no turning back. The best way forward was indeed forward. Focusing on the past didn't do anything but piss him off and remind him that mistakes had been made. He never took kindly to his own mistakes, let alone the ones of others. Nevertheless, he focused on what the Vanguard was saying, a brow raising once the other was done talking. Ah, he did have him for a bit there. Alleviating him of the pledge he had made sounded good in theory, but then what would he have? He'd still have the same amount of time left in his life, wouldn't he? He didn't even know why he gave it a second thought in the first place. "I've never much cared for the Light or the Dark. I just care about me."

[alrikhart]

It had been years since they'd been reforged into the vengeful tools they were now. Battered under the barren sun of the Spine, subjected to the elements, to the cruelty of goblins, and the harsh training of the Old Woman. Fharzai had spoken about walking in the light as if it was possible for peace to persist without people willing to do whatever was necessary to ensure it lasted. When one man died then those who loved him would rise up and seek revenge, their pain would inflict more pain and the wheel would continue to turn in ardent hatred. That truth lingered in every corner of the world, Iskaran or Lysaran, the nation did not matter as long as there was steel waiting to cut into someone's heart.

Alrik and his sister knew the best course was to cut away at the pattern before it could knot or tear. A thread sliced was easier to stitch than one that had been torn. Working in the dark to serve the light did not bode well for their future; perhaps a day would come when their coins would land in the lap of the next generation. Until then let the Gods be entertained, there was nothing so foreign to them as pain, and so nothing they craved more to see. Violent suffering caught their eye so it had to be that their gaze had long settled on the exploits of the Harts.

When it was their time there would be no expensive burials for people like them, no marble markers to remember their names, no wreaths of myrtle and rose. They were shadows upon the wall, there in one moment, then gone by morning light. He couldn't expect anyone other than Alessia to understand, she was right, in the end they only had each other. Alrik agreed with Alessia, and he repeated, "The Norns have already decided how we will die, it's for us to choose how we live. No mourners, no funerals."

Alessia wanted to say the same. But where she spoke negative and neutral truths without any hesitation, optimism and positivity was harder for her to come by. She'd wrenched it out some unknown abyss in her heart within the mines, if only to keep her brother going. He repaid her tenfold now with always being the one to voice the sort of things that Aless did not. She was thankful Prospero saved them, she did trust the druid. But it was uncharacteristic and worrisome. Thus, the witch didn't see herself ready to say either of those things. She spoke in action and inaction, and it was the inaction of not disagreeing with Alrik that already spoke volumes to someone who knew her well.

"Great," she muttered, though there was no distaste in her tone. "Allies will be useful right about now, and it'll be nearly impossible to figure out who else worth it in this pile of shit..." Desperation and fear made monsters of the best of people. "So we'll keep him close." Alessia grimaced, it was almost a smile. "But it's us before anything or anyone else." They had always known it since their father was killed - there would be no one else in the world to look out for them or to mourn them when they were both gone. It had been them against the world for years now, taking no orders but from Fate itself. It was far too dreamy to think that would ever change or that they'd truly belong anywhere else, and dreamy optimism was for children. "There's no mourners, no funerals."

[witchertorsten]

If there was a difference between a good king, and a bad king, Torsten didn't draw a distinction. He was a loyal soldier, diligent, stalwart, and faithful to the bitter end. Once, long ago, he'd dreamt of being the sort of warrior that had stood at his mother's side. The huscarl and blademaster who'd held him tight under his wing as Torsten's father pulled at the strings of court. Politics never mattered to him, but they'd brought him closer then to the prince that knelt before Torsten now. Their eyes set together as if to apologize for a slight that was not Afshin's to carry. It wasn't the prince that had scalded him, Torsten had been burning for so long that he could no longer tell when he was standing amid a blaze.

It was only a moment, but for that moment Torsten considered that had his life gone differently, had he not been born with magic... Then he would still have knelt in this position. His eyes still trained on the man who called him an equal; it did not matter what tangle had pulled at the pattern of their past, the wheel weaved as the wheel willed and his sword was always for the prince. Kingsguard or soldier, he would be what the other needed invariably to the bitter end.

Afshin's grip tightened, the other's forehead bent towards his and Torsten sighed - forgetting for a moment that the two of them were not alone. There was no room in his life for love, but a witcher was carved into the shape of perfect devotion. That would have to do. Afshin stood, and Torsten followed. Without a word, Torsten decided then that he would follow whatever path Afshin walked. Oathbound or not, his sword would fix itself to the prince's side. Afshin had requested Torsten's finest, but in act of calculated defiance, he grabbed his favourite instead, offering it to Afshin as he procured another. "Then we have nothing but today to begin, my prince."

Torsten remembered the words of The First as they'd bid the young warrior to rise despite the weight of his battered bones. The quite groan of his complaining body, bruised and bloodied. I must not fear. Came the harrowed whimper. Fear is the mind-killer. Small hands gripped the short blade even as his arms quivered. Fear is the little death that brings obliteration. He'd watched initiates butchered when they'd turned to flee, others beaten into unconsciousness when they couldn't stand any longer. I will face my fear and I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn my inner eye towards its path. Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

Torsten turned his sword over in his hand, "Just as still waters turn foul, stagnation leads to decay. A warrior who carries that blade must remain ever-drifting." He took a stance, a smile graced his features for the first time since their exchange had began. Short, light, not enough to show his teeth but enough to halt the groan of Torsten's stalwart brow. "Come at me with everything you have, my prince. It will take that, and more, to land your blow."

What was that feeling that he felt right now? Afshin was sure that he had never felt it before, but he felt it when he looked at Torsten. The witcher was not allowed to have a life outside of the one that had been made for him. The changeling didn't feel sorry for him. Pity was a horrible thing to have for someone so he would never say that. Perhaps it was the fact that they had once been friends a very long time ago that had Afshin feeling some sort of remorse for the life that the other now had to live. Torsten had been conditioned to believe that he was supposed to have no family, no friends, no love. All the other had was what he gave as a Kingsguard, as a witcher. They had poisoned the witcher's mind just as much as they had his body. He wanted to take it away. He didn't much care about how it had affected these other witchers, but he did care how it affected Torsten.

A moment passed as he looked down again at the man that had placed himself on his knee to prove a point. Their lives would never be equal, that much was true. Yet Afshin had offered the other a seat at his metaphorical table. When he would become King, either sooner or later, he would hope that Torsten was there at his side. He would hope that the witcher made it that long. As he gazed down at the man, he wondered how much longer of a life the other had. How much time did either of them have? Torsten had poison running through his veins that had shaved off several years of his life. Then there was Afshin who had an entire side of him that he had to be careful of lest several years of his life be shaved off as well. If his father was to recover from his ailment, that was. The two could not be compared. If he could have picked one of them to live, he would have hoped it would be Torsten. That was something they didn't have to worry about for now. If the other's words rang true though, the witcher would be taking a fall for the changeling. For a much different reason than he could ever expect.

Without letting go of Torsten's hand, Afshin got down to his own knee. He had been wrong to doubt the other and he knew that so this was his one apology. Now that they were at the same level, he let their eyes meet. "I do not regret words that I speak." He paused and gripped the man's hand tighter. "I do not lie either so know that what I say next is the truth: I have never, and will never, think of you as beneath me." Afshin pressed his forehead to Torsten's own. "I may not be as strong as my father, but I will be a better King." He pulled his head away to let their eyes meet again. "You will stand with me now. I have entrusted you to make sure that I am better. Iskaldrik may have fallen, but I will not." From his knee, he finally stood back up. "Now, stand."

[alrikhart]

There was a time when Alrik might have thought that Tek's words were inspired, that an idea where the world was so open to him could feel true. Alrik's truth was that it didn't matter how he made a living or what he did to pass the time, iron coins would follow him, as would the duty associated. He'd garnered too much spite to stand idle pounding an anvil or to waste his time stringing a lute or playing this Game that the Lysarans were fond of. "I appreciate your words." There was a solemn grace to his tone, the playful mask of joviality dissolved that, despite his words, tasted cold. "Thank you, Tek. For everything." That was all Alrik offered in place of any real affirmation, he extended his hand toward the hero who wanted no renown for himself. In truth, once they were on the other side of this the witch didn't expect that their paths would ever cross again.

"Seeing no one is better than seeing someone sometimes..." And this was one of those times, after all, they were at war - or at least on the run. As the other spoke of helping old men along their path, Alder's eyebrow raised slightly as a smile appeared, playful. "Hopefully not to the afterlife." He joked, chuckling shortly at his own words before shaking his head. "You are still young, smart and strong... Certainly not without options, Alrik..." He pointed out. Many jobs would willingly accept him as part of their workforce, be it construction workers, researchers or the like. "Why not follow through with blacksmithing? There's always need for those... Or maybe learn how to play an instrument and become a bard, tell your stories through music...?" Those were a few options he could think of, but that would fit him, at least from what he could perceive. "The point is... You'll find yourself in something, I'm sure..."

[witchertorsten]

Memories of that night would be etched into Torsten's memory for the rest of his days. That Aetherian swordswoman; he'd expected the magi to be powerful from the stories, but of those that the Kingsguard had felled while leaving Yggdrasildal, none compared to her. Njal offered his advice, and only because he loved taunting the other almost as much as he loved to fight, he made an idle remark. "Train the other it is." Torsten looked off in the distance, a smile cracking at the corner of his lips, he nudged his only oldest friend and then stood. "Come on, let's get back to it."

Prosthetic arm and leg. Yeah, he didn’t want to think about how they had lost that fight. It had been more of a problem for Torsten than anyone else though. Now the Kingsguard had to figure out a way to be better. If that was even possible considering his dear friend was pretty damn capable still. He wasn’t going to say it out loud again though. The last thing he needed was to give the other an ego. Njal had enough of that for the both of them usually. As much as he thought he was second best, he was still second best. That was better than being nothing like most of these pathetic people around. “You’re better off replacing it. Show that fucker you’re better than them next time.”

[alucardrakul]

The Legion of the Dead had seemed fantastical when he'd first joined. When he had undergone his Joining and sworn his vows. There'd been a man that he loved, and then he'd stood by as flames crept across his dead, blighted skin. Until there was nothing left but the ashen remains of what a person used to be. Alucard had thought that maybe he would feel closer to him if he joined... He thought that he might be able to prove himself as more than the acolyte of the Church of Night. More than the dark son indebted to the gilded dragon, more than just another recklessly dismissed prodigy that used to carry the mantle of Drakul.

Now, Alucard looked around the frigid, dilapidated outpost at the end of the world and knew a different truth: Alucard had been sent to this barren wasteland to die, he stood guard here for a decade with less than ten others. The Keep had fallen, and countless were dead. 'Well' wasn't how Alucard would describe it.

"I'm adaptable." That was the best he could manage for his chattier counterpart. He went to continue with his work before he paused and looked back at Jamie. "I'm glad you survived."

And that is....That's that and it's out in the open and it doesn't feel like it's gone on deaf ears. Alucard gets it, there's this weird sort of understanding between them despite the fact that....Well it's not like Jamie had been a step parent by any means. And even if he had become one, what was another step parent? Vlad had numerous wives and only one had actually given birth to the dhampir. The best he could hope for was that Alucard was indifferent to the lot of them, it was probably a good thing he wasn't talking. Granted, Jamie is jealous, even those married to Vlad that he'd liked, eventually he'd started to detest them. He wondered if that'd been the case once for the son, if he'd had someone who'd stepped in as a matriarch only for him to grow to resent her alongside his father. He couldn't blame him for that either. "Ye seem tae have gotten on quite well here." Looking from the body he's hauling under the armpits, he looks over at Alucard and it's not like he's grown up. Not really, he pretty much looks the same as the last time he'd seen him.

[alrikhart]

'Because he might be the only thing that kept me from losing my mind.' It didn't pass his tongue, 'Because he's not a stranger,' also didn't follow. Alrik's nightmares weren't new information, the two carried a great deal from their past and the older of the two was perhaps more susceptible to breaking. "I trust him." Alrik said instead, "At least as much as I trust Prospero." Both druids had saved the witch in different ways, and Fharzai wasn't a stranger - they'd seen each other almost every night for the last two months. He remembered his own weariness though, how he'd called the dreamwalker a demon and accused him of trying to forfeit the witch's soul. Back then Alrik had claimed he wasn't for sale, but had a demon crossed his path even a week ago he'd have gladly given everything to bring Alessia back.

In retrospect, she wasn't the only one who'd changed.

Alrik turned the ring his father had given him years ago around his finger, thinking for a moment as he looked through the fog at the wall of the rainbow and prismatic light. "Wash. Sleep. You need both, stinky sister." In the meantime Alrik would try to pull something together that was passable for grub, rations hadn't been a thing since Nornwatch.

Alessia had always held some curiousity for meeting others of their order - though it had never been high on her list. She considered her brother's words, imagining being able to bond with someone other than Alrik about this purpose that they carried in secret - something that felt more like a burden now than it ever had before the Mist. She nodded, liking the idea more. Then her brother spoke of a name she'd never heard before and it piqued both her interest and concern. "Excuse me, Farts-what?" Her eyes narrowed. "What does a druid of dreams do? Get inside your head at night?" Her head tilted slightly as looked at Alrik in disapproval. "How would you know you can trust a complete stranger like that? Yeah, no, I don't like it."

She let out a huff of air through her nose. There was no way in Hel she was letting her brother fall significantly behind her, not when the two trusted each other most in this world. Perhaps weaving magic had never been Alrik's top interest, but she would make sure her brother learned what she did so they remained as much in sync as they could. "Things... I learned some things. As long as we're stuck around here, I'll show you a new thing every day." She sighed. "... At least after I eat real food, sleep and get used to the fact that this is all real." She looked Alrik over, then back at the fog where she heard the voices of so many people. She and the other women had really made it.

[alrikhart]

"There's a dozen things a person could do with a witch, especially one that's already been written off." Their nation didn't care what happened to them, their value was only extended so far as to what they'd been born with. Alrik's hands were worn from the forge, the mines, and the mountains. The blood didn't end at his wrists. He stood now and grabbed the spade and set about his task again - trivial as Juneau might have thought it to be. "Doesn't matter now anyway." Maybe those people Juneau had smuggled were safe now, maybe they were dead. Either way, none of their lives would ever be the same again.

“No, I ate them all,” she whispered darkly, before cracking a crooked smile. “Yes–a smuggler. What else would I do with all those people?” Perhaps now, with the forceful, pernicious voice that lurked toward the back of her mind, she seemed like the sort of person who might find some nefarious purpose for others. But that wasn’t who she was then. It was only weeks ago, but it felt like lifetimes, and she still could parse the grief from the rage from the sadness or further yet from whether or not her actual nature had been changed. It didn’t occur to her that perhaps release from the fear of the person she had walked her former path with may have been a factor.

[witchertorsten]

Fate had taken a wide step off the path that Torsten might have divined for them previously. Witches had revealed themselves along the road but the law had become decidedly less clear the further they were from the cradle within the mountains. Torsten didn't feel distorted from his purpose, rather in his mind he'd established a hierarchy of the conflicts that were or were not worth his time. If the witcher felt lost, it was because, for the first time in a decade, he did not have the answers he was so accustomed to. His world had turned over on its head, now all that remained was to press forward.

Torsten let the silence of their shared understanding permeate the space between them as he briefly considered what had been and what might yet still come to pass. He'd heard a great deal of the softness of Lysarans, but now they walked into their den in search of refuge. He put these thoughts behind him and focused instead on the task in front of him, worry would not propel him to the level he needed to be.

"I heard the great Jarl Freydis picked up a new shield in her escape." Torsten taunted idly using her title once more as he stood and grabbed one of the mithril blades that he'd set aside. "If you wish to spar, I would see it firsthand."

A half-smile was offered at the tone he spoke to her with, but she still found herself questioning whatever greater being had seen her face amongst all others and deemed her worthy. She had made many mistakes in the past span of days, and that knowledge didn’t leave her feeling brave or honorable. It just made her feel foolish. “Other than the blight?” she questioned, raising a brow. “I certainly hope not.” She knew that was not what Torsten meant, but the deflection felt like safety at the present moment… and cowardly. Proof positive of her suspicion she was less than worthy.

Freydis listened to him silently, and in the silence after he finished reporting what he had experienced she probed at Tove’s memories she now carried within her. For a moment, she knew all, saw exactly what he spoke of in painstaking context and detail, but in the time it took for her to open her mouth and speak on it, the knowledge vaporized within her like a sudden mist and retreated beyond her reach. She had nothing to offer. 

“In that we are equals,” Freydis agreed quietly, but a stunned silence seemed to follow that as he mentioned the veil. She could not intuit whether or not he spoke of Tove, or the vision of the mothers she had mentioned before informed his comment. Regardless, she wasn’t ready to speak of the other life–not just yet. 

After an extended pause and despite the sudden exhaustion that had permeated deep into her bones after telling him as much as she had about the journey between the broodmother’s lair and the encampment she turned to look at him again. “So… It seems there is much for you to relearn and adapt to. Could you use a sparing partner?”

[alrikhart]

Prospero's candor mirrored his own, his faith in him was refreshing, but Alrik's range of knowledge was minimal. Amid the throng was a bonefied Iskaran smith, Alrik's experience with the black produced meager and far more brittle metals, but for the druid, he could try. His elbow nudged the other lightly, affirmation with the rounded curve of a smile that lifted slightly pink cheeks but didn't quite meet his eyes. "Could be: skeevy witches will do just about anything to get ahead." The smile in Alrik's voice came with its own implication, "I should turn in, sleep is hard enough to get without wandering around half the night. Goodnight, Prospero." He moved to walk away before he stopped, "That's a really nice hat, looks good on you." Alrik left the druid

"Well, I doubt it'll come back in worse condition than I gave it to you in. And if you end up liking it, you can keep it. Just, you know, make me another one." But then he would want to request that that one be better, too. One could only improve with their craft, not get worse. That was how it was with magic and other abilities. Prospero had certainly gotten better with his own abilities. The same would go for Alrik. "I've been told that. I'm much more of a 'on a whim' kind of guy. I can spin a story like the best of them." He paused. "Does that make me sound like a liar? That wasn't what I mean, I swear." But that was exactly the kind of thing a liar would say. He could also put his foot in his mouth sometimes, too. That was something he needed to work on. Whatever, he'd work on that later. "I've never met the Queen myself, but I do believe the power, youth and longevity thing. Do you really think it's from making deals with a devil though? Perhaps she drinks the blood of virgins to keep her skin looking as smooth as it does."

[alrikhart]

Alrik laughed, "Flatterer. I guess I could do worse than raking in the praise of an adoring crowd," conceding easily enough, her vitriol familiar, though the witch wouldn't feed into it any further. Alrik considered the wall with some finality, the air between them was born of circumstantial fate that would draw to some conclusion eventually. He was resolved to live, whatever that looked like, his nature allowed him to wade through the circumstances placed in front of him. A nation at war, or a pit of vipers. "Suppose we'll never know."

With a small measure of effort, Alrik managed to stand, he winced only a little - the pain hollow, familiar, but easing with each day. He braced himself with the makeshift crutch to see himself off. "Here I was thinking we were just chucking rocks together." From where they'd been sitting in front of the wall, it wasn't as if there was much else to do in the ways of entertainment. "I will see you back at camp," he tilted his head toward their makeshift prison - the field of arcana that had incinerated every rock that Alrik had thrown at it. "enjoy the view, friend."

“What’s the problem, then? It sounds like a perfect gig for you to have your own income once we get there. Especially give that bum leg of yours,” she continued to press for her own entertainment. “I’m sure you could come with a very compelling character background as well if the entire ordeal really is a charade.” Her eyes flashed a little, something resentful behind them all of a sudden, but it wasn’t lasting. “Putting their bodies on the line? Really? They should like a bunch of fucking losers. I doubt they’d survive a day of what we’ve been through getting to this stupid thing.” She had to remind herself not to kick the glowing perimeter around them lest she lose a foot to it. 

He wouldn’t tell her, and she should have expected as much. Most people in the group of refugees tended to their secrets as if they were their pets–she certainly felt protective over her own. “Wow. Tease,” she deadpanned back to him with a slight lilt of disappointment. Rather than answering him directly, she simply tilted her head slightly to implore him to speak on.

Juneau simply shrugged her shoulders in response, too busy trying to determine what Alrik might have ultimately wanted out of the interaction to think of some sharp remark to volley back to him again. “So what did you actually want?” He must have approached her with some sort of transaction at front of mind–she knew she’d be one of her own last choices for a conversation partner if she were in anyone else’s shoes. 

[alucardrakul]

Alucard could understand the other's curiosity, but the Legion kept its secrets for a reason. The question hung in suspense as Alucard recounted the process of The Joining instead. "The Joining is not for the weak." It was, inevitably, a death sentence. "Those who survive the transformation are few, and even when they do, they're tainted. The Calling comes louder and louder each year, in our dreams, in the waking day, inevitably we're all drawn to the lairs of darkspawn to kill as many as we can before they take us, or the Calling does." In the distance, Alucard could hear Iskrates's approach, the demented old fart screaming unyielding belligerence was unwanted but useful. "His work might save us; Aetherians... Astorians.... Iskarans... Lysarans... There is only one battle that matters, the one between life and death."

There had been no doubt of such a thing, for how many of her people held secrets so close to their chests. Witches, werewolves, vampires; she had known each of the species slinked through the streets of Iskaldrik unaware. Yet, how many had her father sentenced to the mines? Were any of them a part of the Legion? Authority could be a blurred line, but power had always been something her father had flaunted most. It would be a question she did not wish to venture forth with. Especially not when such intrigue had been presented to her. His father had cured his uncle? Brows lifted slowly, an almost shocked look etched into her features before her mask was placed once more. "Cured him to what he was? Or cured him in the ways of the Legion?" She had heard tales, spun stories of the Legion of the Dead and their foundations. But how much had ever been true? How much did storytellers love to twist and turn? "Are you hoping to recruit then? The refugees, or of those we may meet within Lysara?" More stories, more tales of the dying organization. For how many had been lost amid the years, and how many had been lost when Iskaldrik was attacked.

[alrikhart]

"Who's joking. Trees have been eating people for thousands of years." Now that was a joke, or was it? There were enough stories about sentient trees suddenly springing to life that Alrik could only assume there was some truth to them. "Nothing too flashy," the rock collector was prone to picking up stones of all shapes and sizes, but Alrik had seen enough of what glittered beneath the surface for this decade already.

"Don't joke about that." Etienne looks to Alrik with eyes just widened a bit because the last thing he needed was to be looking for even more things in the woods. "There was a tale I heard once about trees being the one to eat people. I didn't sleep for weeks." He's very serious as he tells the witch this and for a second, he's just a kid staring up at his ceiling and worrying his father is going to get eaten by a tree. Goose offers a yawn, head still resting on Alrik's thigh. "We'll find you something cooler the next time we go out into the woods, promise." The poor guy was no doubt going a bit stir crazy hanging around camp and Etienne couldn't say he didn't miss his company. Even if Alucard accompanied them, his companion still seemed a bit iffy on the dhampir.