#troupe1

[hiddenvaldis]

who? @agrcn where? Caribellan streets when? during the road so far drop

“You don’t look like the usual sort,” Valdís muses as she falls into step next to the armored man. The armor is a good make, solid craftsmanship. Worth a pretty penny in the market, but easily recognizable too. Probably a heirloom or important enough that jumping the stranger for it would be too much of a hassle in the long term. That, and it’s really not worth getting into trouble in Caribella. The man is clearly not a pirate, the armor is too heavy and fancy for most raiders to take out in open sea and risk rusting, and he is altogether too clean for someone who calls the port home. “Lookin’ for a bounty or for passage? Or somethin’ more interesting?”

[ormir]

@blightedmikhael location: on the road to Nornwatch, some weeks ago

Emerging from the birthing canals of the mountains was hardly the deliverance Iskaldrik’s people had hoped for. The light they’d yearned for was blinding and flesh-scalding as it reflected off the hardened snow. The air here formed in heavy, violent bursts that split lips and knuckles. The land stretched on into an unending wasteland rarely punctuated by trees or the odd jut of volcanic rock. The caravans shambled through the Stygian badlands, feet falling heavier and stomachs growing louder with every wagon wheel’s rotation.

The night was lethally cold, so camp was made early before the sun could slip the leash on them. A cluster of camp fires spit high in the air, their smoke channels buffered by the shiplike crag the Witchers had found refuge in. The interim king squirmed in its shadow. At least on the plains we’d be able to see danger coming. Worries soon to be surrendered to exhaustion. Ormir attempted to warm himself by a fire, fighting to undo the cold, even as it gorged on the remaining sensation in his extremities. The mead, what little they had left of it, was a necessary balm for the pain. He drank deep, and lowered his cup to find that a flickering figure had manifested on the other side of the flames. Beneath its layers, light struck upon armor of a make Ormir did not recognize.

Alarms immediately bellowed between his ears. An assassin? After a hair of thought, he shrugged the foolish notion off. Every second before the badlands would have provided an easier mark. He searched for the Guild’s heron brand on the stranger’s blade, but stopped short as he didn’t find a weapon to search on. An odd, conspicuous kind of mercenary?

The Raven-feeder closed the distance to investigate further. His fingers brushed the reassurance of his hatchets nestled at either hip. “You’re a long way from home, are you not?” Ormir started, congenially. Just another lost soul sharing purgatory. “You must have earned the wrath of a wicked god to have been sucked into all this.”

[blightedmikhael]

who? open to the troupe where? Nornwatch Tower when? who knows, they are hangin' at the end of the world

Concerns upon concerns weight on his mind the more time he is left alone to sit upon them. Their time in their tower is indefinite, the seconds pacing slowly as every moment that passes brings him closer to discovery. A month ago— Abyss, two weeks and a day ago, discovery would be his main concern. Yet, despite still ranking relatively high amidst his many— and increasing — concerns, discovery no longer ranks first. The Iskaran Kingdom had fallen on the span of a day, and with it the most pressing threat of discovery. What could the Witchers do now, surrounded by supernaturals as they are? What could the Witchers do now, that the mines were not a convenient tomb for anything deemed not human enough? What could they do, with increasingly limited resources, when faced with the sheer number of supernaturals he had seen through their desperate journey to safety? The true number of supernaturals remained a mystery even to him, but his Infernal Sight did not simply go away in times of great danger and he had caught more than a glimpse of non-humans as they traveled the darkened tunnels.

Discovery remained a concern, always, but there were more pressing matters to attend. Rationing, assuaging fears, inspiring hope, deescalating conflict. As much as Mikhael hated to admit it, the surviving Witchers had been working around the clock to keep the peace, but there were only so many of them and their priorities were clear: the nobility above the commonfolk, the royal above all else. Their hosts had their own concerns as well, so he had taken it upon himself to make his rounds through the less monitored groups of refugees and offer a kind word and a warm smile to try and keep the morale. It is crucial, now more than ever, to keep the will to live going, for without it? Without it the chances of survival dropped drastically, and he is determined to push those chances up with all he has.

He is not made by determination alone, though, and even the most devout must rest. He is resting in one of the many spiraling staircases found across the keep, chin in hand as his gaze is lost in the horizon, when he hears steps approach and he lifts his head, a brow raised in polite inquiry.

"Apologies, am I in your way? Shall I move?"

[engineerzuleima]

who? open where? haven's wall when? the road so far plot drop

Haven’s Wall stands tall at the strigoi’s back as she eyes the distant shimmering dome with narrowed eyes. Anyone passing by will have noticed the thin layer of snow sitting at her shoulders, demonstrating that she has been standing in the same spot for hours at a time without moving and they would wonder why. The truth is simple: she had sent some of her conjurations to trail the borders of the magic dome to try and understand its circumference. Word had already spread about how the magic covered the entirety of Iskaldrik, and the more word spread, the more curious she became. Iskaldrik is in no way round, and yet the dome always seemed to be just that: a dome. The curiosity needed to be satisfied, and if she finds anything of help, the better. 

And so, she waits for the shadowy grims to return from their scouting, considering the magic before her thoughtfully. Zuleima has never come across anything like it on her long life, and part of her wants to know the mechanics and whether it can be replicated to protect Lysara. A bigger part of her, though, worries about the implications of unknown magic in the hands of the Aethereon empire. 

“You know I can hear you when you move, right?” She asks the watcher. “Don’t you have better things to do than to creep on a random strigoi?”

[temperednuvi]

who? @freydis-freydat where? in the wastelandddd, babyyy when? on their journey to the king

"Do you have a minute?" She finds herself at Freydis' side at some point in their journey, and her words as they left the cave keep repeating over and over in her head. Nuvi does not want to think the worst out of them, but she is far too oversensitive not to worry. Too much of her fate remains uncertain, in a way that is weightier than the uncertainty the humans feel. By virtue of being herself, she remains in danger amidst Iskaldrik nobility, and she needs to know if the Jarl's previous offer of friendship was true or if it had been born from a moment of desperation and despair.

[theportaraceli]

who? @incubusnero where? Knight's Nectar when? during the queen mother king timeline

"Nero, dearest," Araceli croons as she enters the shop, a hand raised to rest to her breast as she sighs in mock delight. Narrowed eyes flicker through the room, sharp gaze taken the bottles lines up and, as always, pretending to find the wares wanting. All in all, Knight's Nectar's selection is fairly pleasing, but she has long found her signature scent, as required of her status, so she has the freedom to pester the annoying casanova that had gotten in her way without worrying she will not be able to get one of his scents.

"It's been far too long, hasn't it? And you haven't aged a day," she comments cheerfully as she wades through the shop, until she reaches the counter and slams her hands on it, leaning closer to the owner and giving him a smile that is all teeth. "Still coveting what belongs to others, dearest?"

[hiddenvaldis]

who? @shewolfaurea where? Hole in the Wall, Feronia when? During the road so far drop

Rarely does Valdís venture as far inland as Feronia, the region too far from the ocean she is familiar with to be comfortable. There is no denying the temptation to explore the Northern coast of the Wildlands, but her fleet has yet to reach that far. It’s a rarity for Valdís to take a Standing Stone deeper into Lysara, but she can’t help the curiosity. She knows the refugees and their welcoming party gather at the edges of the odd magical bubble, and she wants to know more. Not enough to venture too close to the barrier, though, not when she is sure there are plenty of eyes on them. Instead, she finds herself in Feronia’s pub, sitting at the corner of the bar as her eyes lazily flicker through the crowds, trying to gather anything of note. Deep in her musings as she is, she doesn’t react much when a pretty stranger sits next to her, only raising a brow in amusement at the entrance. 

“Let me guess, you saw me across the room and liked my vibes?” She asks, an amused smirk on her lips as she raises her ale to her lips. “Or did I fail a vibecheck, and now we are honor bound to duke it out?

[ormir]

@freydis-freydat location: nornwatch stables

The livery reeked with horse manure and mold. Everything steamed in the pre-dawn chill; the wet hay, the wafts of breath, even the hackles of the lanky, 17-hand workhorse that quivered at the mere suggestion of a saddle. Clearly, these horses didn’t see outside of the stables much. But Ormir was itching for a change of scenery, if only a brief one. Just to find some perspective among the thinning trees. No one knew. He just had to be efficient, had to make it back before anyone asked after him.

Only, he hadn’t dressed his own horse in nearly two decades, not since his steed trampled gore into Astorian soil. Most of the process came back as long-drilled muscle memory, at least until the second-guessing began to snowball over his judgment. He fumbled over his gloves by candlelight, and strained his eyes against the dark until his brow ached from held tension. Even the horse grew impatient, tossing its mane and scraping leaden hooves into the dirt. Ormir murmured softly to the beast, stroking his great neck to quiet him. 

He’d just about set things right, to his best approximation, when he heard the soft crush of dirt underfoot. Shit. He turned, bracing for questioning. A familiar figure cut through the dark, and the dread faded to relief and awe. “My Jarl,” Pleasant surprise read in his voice. He knew Freydis well enough to trust she wouldn’t spill, at least he was almost certain… Reaching discreetly behind his back, Ormir tugged a tie loose from the undercarriage. A small thing, hardly notable to the untrained eye, but he trusted that she would find it. A smile lifted his features. “By the gods, I’m glad to see you’ve made it.” 

“Be my second pair of eyes, would you?” Ormir huffed, stepping aside to allow space for her astride the hulking animal. He massaged some feeling back into his cold-numbed fingers through the gloves. “It would be some irony to have gone this far just to die by forgetting how to tie a saddle properly.” The king-killer, breaking his own neck taking a tumble from his own high horse. No doubt, the gods would lick the plate.

[ormir]

Ormir pushed outside and bit down hard against his chattering teeth. The wind swelled up to greet him in a skeletal embrace, caressing its ivory lances through his hair. He shivered, recalling the words of his mother: The only thing growing in abundance North of the ironwoods is death. Since Iskaldik’s survivors had been birthed through the mountain pass, each frigid step weighed heavier. Their torches burned dimmer. The night gained faster. Even within the raised walls of Iskaldrik’s northmost tower, death reigned completely. 

Ormir felt the ghost of his father bleeding from the black walls of Nornwatch and squirmed under its oppression. The man was likely years rotted, committed by age or illness or blighted fiend under this post, but that didn’t stop his vengeful watchfulness from sporing like mold over the refuge. In dreams, Ormir saw the sharp lines of his father’s face, cracking and contorting in hateful agony until the features gelled into the King’s, vacant and fear-stricken. When he’d shock awake in the night, gasping in the sweat he’d pooled in, Ormir could sense the weight occupying the deepest corners of the room. It had been weeks since peaceful sleep had found him. But he was far from alone in that regard.

A shrill bird mocked his plight, his exhaustion, from the wall’s edge. Half-aware, he made to pass another shrouded figure stationed at the wall. The stranger’s head turned, and by trick of the light, was made into a face Ormir knew better than his own.

The Skjaldling froze as his heart dropped from suspension. What was this specter? Another ghost divined from his past out of the stone to torment him? No, he’d been ravaged by this failure far worse than the others. This love had once been the pillar upon which every branch of his future grew. Ormir pinched his eyes to loosen the image, but Arkyn's sihoette held substance. It spoke some concerns toward him, but the mind fought to process it through the shock. The ground was leagues beneath him. “I don’t feel it.” Ormir insisted, even as his body protested. “Why are you here?”

@ormir LOCATION: Nornwatch tower (troupe)

The hopes that Arkyn would find some sense of familiarity among the faces of those no longer pristine had lingered the longer they'd walked the caves. Their desperation etched into the grime that settled into the crevice of features young and old did nothing to differentiate one from the next. In time, he wondered who would brave the new world, at the edge of Iskaldrik and with what kind of fervor their intentions swelled. The depths of the caves had not clawed their way into his psyche like so many others, the cries of children and elderly alike, turned around by the endless darkness, trudging through silt and rock, twisting thoughts and ankles all the same. Where some reached for the light as it broke the abyss, Arkyn sought out only the sound of a bird. The chill in the air and the light of the sun offered no warmth at all, and yet still, the jagged-toothed tower offered something more than the demons that followed, still lingering in the pit of the caves. The wind whistled, and somewhere along the gust that picked up the harrowing scent of the blight, he heard the lively twitter that would surpass the attention of very few. The tiny wren hopped from one shark tooth rock to the next, and though the nightingale's attention lay upon the desolate edge that dropped off to darkness beyond, fingertips moved with greater intention. Calloused, cracked digits orchestrated a song that could only be heard by those fluent in silence - a suffix that he soon choked on as that familiarity he might have momentarily sought out appeared before him The dim light of the nearby scones offered little more than the dance of harrowing shadows painting features with the same hollow disbelief that he felt in the pit of his stomach. Ormir. He'd been certain he'd never see the man again; perhaps it might have been best. "You're alive."

The obvious statement feels like a slumber of almost two years of desolate heartache climbing back up in his throat, using each and every rib as a step stool on its way. His once lover - no, it was so much more than that - his hearts fire had always maintained an existence far too close to the fallen King, and as such - Arkyn was sure he'd have fallen along with the kingdom itself. Thoughts that he'd later outwardly claim to have never traipsed over. He clears his throat, "You should head inside, the chill out here is as bitter as any old woman."

[blightedmikhael]

who? @vuldak-juneau where? just outside the nornwatch tower when? post troupe 1: the last night

The bodies need to be piled up, not a single one forgotten, and the least Mikhael can do after failing so many is dedicate himself to the grim cause. The battle is long over, but the tension still weighs upon them, the feeling of loss keen for all that had lost people to sickness or the darkspawn. It’s been a tough week for all, but they had no time for grief or daddling around, not when there is work to do, not when they still are not out of the woods. 

He is returning to the tower from setting yet another corpse in the growing when he sees a thin slip of a woman slipping around in an increasingly suspicious manner. Being a vuldak does not help her in this manner, either. Carefully, he steps closer and places a hand on her shoulder.

“It would be best of you to remain inside,” he tells her quietly, eyes flickering around as he looks for witchers. “If you haven’t caused trouble yet, it’s best to remain out of the witcher’s sight.”

[engineerzuleima]

who? @sakkarathekeeper where? trivia’s cove when? during the  road so far

Zuleima touches down on Trivia’s Cove on Cloudy’s back, humming distractingly as she pats the wyvern’s snout affectionately before dismounting. Working through the different flaps on Cloudy’s mouth, she frees the bag she had secured back in Eterna and nods a goodbye to the wyvern before turning and heading deeper into the woods, her humming turning progressively louder as she approaches Sakkara’s above. Sneaking on the Dúnedain is amusing enough, but she has learned to only do so at odd intervals, or the famous Sakkara of the Serpents would begin to expect the attempts. 

That would be far too boring.

So humming to make herself known when she didn’t feel like sneaking on the other it was. 

Making it to the Keeper’s humble abode, Zuleima rattled her knuckles against the frame just hard enough to be heard but hard enough to bring the structure down. Though, with the rackety feel of the entire abode sometimes she wondered how long it would last. 

“Do we need to do the dance of you pretending not to be home, scales?” She muses out loud, head tilted as she listens for the Dúnedain’s heartbeat. “I can hear you.”

[temperednuvi]

who? @alessiathepath where? the caverns, the iron cells when? a week after the last night

There is a constant movement, that of the cart pulling them forward and towards their grim fates. If any hope had remained in Nuvi after her escape from the mines, if it had been strengthened through their journey through the mines, it did not matter. That hope is done, replaced only by overwhelming fear and grim realization. There are echoes of something dark on the Weave, and the more she understands the darkspawn, the less she believes they will make it out of this ordeal. Not without a sacrifice many of them will fear to make. Perhaps a quick death would be quicker, trying to fight likely useless, but— 

A quick glance around makes her wince once more. The mortals are so young. Many of them barely look more than a decade beyond maturity, and even if she doesn’t quite believe there is a way out, she doesn’t want to doom them. Nuvi has long made peace with death, her own misadventures a balancing act that one day could push her towards the edge, but she is older than all around her and there is a tragedy in that. A tragedy she wants to stop, even if she doesn’t quite know how. Even if she were at her strongest, she would not be enough to allow for an escape, and she is far from her strongest now. Broken and shattered, eight years removed from her blessings, she doesn’t know if she will be able to call the earth or the plants with the deft hand needed for any sort of plan to take route.

“I almost preferred the mines,” she mutters to herself, not bothering to lower her tone even if there is a stranger sitting close enough to her. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she sighs and closes her eyes. “At least the monsters guarding us there wore a human guise.”

[ormir]

The chill at Nornwatch penetrated every pore, sinking right down to the marrow. The sharp, whipping breeze buffeted The Raven-feeder’s raw skin, reddening the flesh not clothed or warmed by his white-trimmed beard. His jaw was locked taut as he watched the spectacle made by treason, cracked lips held in a line. The witcher boomed in disparagement of the accused man’s life, forfeit to any trial or servitude, and Ormir’s stomach churned as the blade was cleft through the air to meet unworthy flesh. Whack. The air drummed with the wings and croaks of ravens. A stifled breath of relief from Ormir after the deed was done. A nuisance was pruned, one more parasite plucked off their back and squashed between their keen fingers. Fat beads of blood burned like embers into the snow, and Ormir tasted the release of hot copper thawing the air as strongly as though it was his own, coated on his tongue. Ormir swallowed the pulse creeping up through his throat and tightened up.

Once the crowd had thinned to his liking, the Hand cut through the clearing to the silver-haired man. “A good show. All very evocative.“ Ormir smiled faintly, walking at arm’s length from the crimson spray on the ground. The corpse knelt at Torsten’s feet had stopped gushing, and the birds were beginning to clamor for their meal. Ormir extended a hand towards the barracks in a clear gesture: Walk with me. 

“This man you butchered was a no-one, and he won’t be the last no-one to break.” He spoke low and even once they were alone, masking his sternness with congeniality for any piqued ears to disregard. The next words that he spoke revealed claws beneath their finery. “I require delicacy from you in this, Witcher. We’ve enough problems clawing at our throats. My people are scared, they’re starving, they’re doubtful. There’s no need to court a rebellion by gifting any martyrs to them. When the next crop comes, I expect you to dispatch them quietly.” Ormir whispered. Even in the depths of his madness, Orhan’s vestigial power elevated him as a symbol - a flame of hope trembling against the dark. But any rival gust would easily overtake him, and leave them vulnerable and quaking in the night. Orhan’s stare bore, black and dissecting, into the minute tugs and tells of Torsten’s face, seeking truth. “Can I trust you?”

@ormir location: Nornwatch Keep notes: jesties, because this thread is so lighthearted.

Demons, traitors, and worse had followed them through the mountains. When they'd arrived in Nornwatch, a raven had been shot down flying from the Keep, bound for Yggdrasildal. It contained their location, numbers, and more. Torsten had found the man responsible, whatever his reasons; even under great duress, the traitor had bitten off his tongue before spilling anything. Death was the only other recourse, a message for others foolish enough to join him.

"Let this man serve as a reminder for all those who hinge their final glory at the end of the High King's justice;" dark eyes shifted to the man's neck laid across the ancient block - stained with the blighted blood of the legionnaires of old who'd been foolish enough to break their oaths. Cowards who'd run from the blight, or turned their back on the call to serve the dark instead. A pitiful end for the Norns to see their lives ended here. "May his soul find no place in lives to come, but instead land upon the shores of Nástrǫnd, eternally devoured alongside his kin: murderers and oathbreakers." A fell swoop brought the head to the awaiting basket before one squire fetched it to see it mounted upon the wall.

The blade was wiped clean, even spackled with blood. The witcher's armor refracted the dull light that filtered through the clouds above. The indomitable cold polluted this realm north of the Spine, and the acrid stench of blight stained the lands they stood in. While their High King remained under guard, Torsten would continue in this and the trials ahead. "My Lord," Torsten acknowledged as he slid his blade back into place in the same manner he'd done hundreds of times before. Behind him, the crowd had taken to dispersing. Their jeers at the man who'd have seen them all flayed by the invading magi had died off as their appetite for violence seemed temporarily satiated. Both a message and a distraction, it did the people good to have a face to momentarily assign to the enemy; now they had a mounted head to spit at as they passed.

[ormir]

@princessxaytac location: nornwatch tower

The Taravallan maps he’d studied burned behind his eyes when he closed them, down to the numbered peaks of the Highlands and the small inconsistencies in the maker’s fontwork. They would need to move the pieces soon, before someone else decided to jostle the board. Iskalrdik’s prideful were corralled here like animals, bleating and fighting to be fed through the slaughter-doors. They were butting up against the edge of the world, and would soon find it if they didn't change course.

Their meal tonight was a ‘stew’ that consisted mainly of white sinew and tubers bobbing in a pale, watery broth. It had been ladled out sloppily by a Nornwatch man equally as stringy, pale and mirthless. Clearly, the imposition of refugees had worn their few resources ragged. When dropped from a spoon, the brine was translucent and nearly odorless. Just like ma used to make, Ormir half-joked bitterly to himself. The Huscarl had grown accustomed to the droning of his own stomach, and his appetite did not move him as it should’ve. Starving wouldn’t do them any favors, he was well aware, but insisting something through the tangled knots stress had made of his stomach would only heighten the discomfort. He craved a glimpse of home. A palliative. Without lifting a bite, he rose from his seat and went to go find it.

Just to see her breathed some small lightness back into him. Ormir greeted the princess with a curt bend. A faint malaise followed the gesture, the same that touched each reliquary habit born in Yggrasdildal’s High Hall with an aftertaste of grief.

“Have you eaten?” Ormir asked, though he’d already set the bowl before her and was moving to take up a seat opposite. A single shoulder shrugged. “It’s mostly gristle, but it’s warming.” No use in sugar-coating the waxy film that already stained their teeth. “Well- cooling quickly.”

[blightedmikhael]

who? @heroic-ignus where? the nornwatch tower when? post troupe 1: the last night

Mikhael had meant to check earlier, but he had ended up getting distracted with a thousand and one different self-assigned responsibilities. Or so he keeps telling himself, despite the grim reality of the truth that he keeps to himself. Deep inside, he is still the same wide-eyed child looking towards Maferath's branch of the Warrior Guild and dreaming of becoming a blademaster. It’s all he wanted then, and one of the goals he hopes to accomplish now. The respect he feels for the Blademasters is overwhelming and all-encompassing, and to know one of them is a Vuldak? 

It’s a startling realization.

Initially, Alder’s demeanor had almost convinced him not to worry, but the more time passed, the odder his behavior became, and— He is worried that staying in his hand and not revealing the former werewolf’s true nature will come back to bite him in the ass later, he truly is. But it is too late to say anything without revealing himself as well, so all he can do is watch him carefully and hope for the best, while preparing for the worst. 

“Quite a night,” he muses as he comes to stand next to the Blademaster, eyes falling on the Vuldak and taking a moment to examine him. “Were you wounded? I might not be a healer, but I know the basics so I might be of help if you were.”

[engineerzuleima]

who? @morijah-the-right where? Eterna’s Standing Stone when? After the barrier fell, before Neptunalia began

Another yawn escapes her as she sits a few feet away from the Standing Stone, and Zuleima doesn’t bother covering the yawn. It’s born out of boredom, rather than the need for sleep, and she takes a moment to check the sky to make sure she got the time correctly. In the distance, she can see the sun beginning to dawn, just enough rays coming through to both weaken her and let her know that she is indeed early to the meeting. It had been a deliberate choice, not wanting to waste time with the Right’s complaints if she didn’t make it on time, and giving some respect to the human's limited time. Zuleima might have all the time in the world, but the same cannot be said for the Master at Arms. 

Bored, she taps against the side of her parasol and debates on sending one of her conjurations to fetch Morijah to rouse her from sleep, in case she had indeed forgotten their meeting. In the end, she doesn’t need to do anything, the sound of steps finally reaching her ears. Standing up in a spring, Zuleima stretches her spine until it cracks and twirls the parasol in greeting to the mortal. 

“Finally, do hurry up, we have a lot of ground to cover today.”