#troupe1.nornwatch

[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?"

[hiddenvaldis]

who? open to non troupe where? mercury's bazaar when? during the troupe 1 plot drop

The thing about rumors is that despite every attempt to stop them, they will only grow and grow and grow. In time, they will change and twist and bend, but the kernel of truth will always remain. Anyone keen enough can dig past the shell to find the pearl within, and Valdís delights of working out the precision necessary to do it. It's a test for a skill she rarely gets to use on the Sea's Peril and one she does not want to lose. Her occasional trips to hostile shores is more than enough to keep her sharp, and as good excuse as any to supervise the crew manning the merchant ship to ensure there isn't any funny business going on.

Mercury's Bazaar is an excellent place to start on her meandering journey through the streets of Eterna — a pulse point of commerce, all merchants flock to it's streets and in between the banter and barter the truth slips from careless lips. Not quite as careless as those found in the bars, but in plan daylight the clientele will probably be worthless to her.

Stopping before a booth full of books, she allows her eyes to move languidly across the covers. She is trying to figure out if there is any worthy addition to her personal library when she feels someone loom over her shoulder, blocking the light.

"You mind?" She snipes, glancing back to send the interloper an accusing look. "You are hogging the light. Move."

[blightedmikhael]

There are a thousand words he could say at a moment such as this, each of them as worthless as the last. Nothing will return what is gone, nor change what she has witnessed. The grief and anger she experiences will not be assuaged by something as simple as words, and frankly, Mikhael does not find it in himself to use those as a paltry commiseration. He has a home to return to, but the likelihood is that the woman before him will never return to hers, for it is gone with those who died. 

“Anger is natural, and very different from resentment,” he comments softly, empathy bleeding through his tone as he sends her a sad smile. “Resentment breeds bitterness, but anger can be an encouragement to survive. As long as you don’t let it consume you, I think you will be fine.”

Luna was never one for faith unless it was in the stars above and the trees that kept the air fresh, she could feel the spirit that existed in the world around her but what she put the weight of her beliefs in were things that were tangible, that she could reach out and touch even if the roots ran deep underground and there was much at work that went unseen.

"I've never like carrying anger with me, it hurts and wounds and yet when I think about the ones who led the attack against Iskaldrik and caused so much grief, I can't help but feel anger light within me and want nothing more than due punishment. I want to see them burn for killing my father and those that made refuges out of us all."

[blightedmikhael]

who? @etienneulven where? Nornwatch Tower when? Troupe 1

Mikhael had found nothing of use on the woods, or at the very least, nothing he could share. Nothing but a solitary rock. Not quite a king's bounty, but lovely to look regardless. Palm sized and rough enough to feel but not to harm, it looked startlingly similar to the rings found on a tree stump once cut but had the hard consistency of rock. Constant touch would likely smooth the rough edges, but on the mean time it would do nicely as a soothing motion, he thinks, he hopes. A worthy offering even if it isn't he thinks, and hopefully enough to bring a smile on the kind looking werewolf he had found sorting through rocks more than once in their journey. No rock had seemed to measure so far, but with so little to amuse oneself with, Mikhael is looking forward to see if his rock will pass muster.

"I found this one in the woods," he comments nonchalantly as he opens his gloved hand to show the slightly taller man, eyes on the other as he is curious how he will react. "It's a different shade than the ones in the tunnel, but I still thought you would appreciate it."

[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]

@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]

“If that is how you see it, who am I to disagree?” An easy shrug follows, setting aside the argument of whether his actions are noble or not. Mikhael does what he does because he believes on the One God’s calling, believes that his actions will be rewarded at the very end, and even if they are not— He would prefer to leave the world a bit kinder than he found it, for nothing else but to make up for the fact that he had been born in the first place. He had been born against all odds, against all sense, and he has to make up for his existence and the suffering it could cause. He is the son of a devil, unknown as his father is, and that means he carries the sins of his father with him, as much as he carries his mother’s strength. 

Perhaps his actions are noble, but he sees them less as that and more as a desperate attempt to gain forgiveness for being born into a world that sees him as nothing else but a herald of evil. His very existence means that the Dark One is alive and well, and if can do something, anything, to change the tides in favor of the One God he must do it, to repay the Great Baal and his followers for all that they have done for him. 

Grasping the horn with a nod, he gives the Iskaran a fleeting smile and takes a gulp, willing to meet the other in the middle on that odd drinking game of theirs. The liquor burns its way down his throat and settles warmly on his stomach, leaving him warm in a way he had not felt since he began his journey North. That alone makes the conversation worth it, but any sort of wisdom to be found at this point in time will be more than welcomed. Mikhael listens intently to the others wisdom, wincing and glancing down at his armor as the Iskaran details exactly why he is wearing the wrong sort of armor for the situation at hand. There is not much he can do about it now, but Mikhael makes a note to find extra layers of cloth once they reach the Nornwatch tower. Hopefully there will be enough available to prevent an accident like the one the other is describing. 

A bark of laughter does escape him at the others last comment, and he nods in agreement, bringing the drinking horn to his lips and taking a long gulp. 

“Message received, I will try to be less brave at this point to save myself the tears,” he quips nearly playfully before humming in thought and glancing up at the stars above them. “My turn, then. Have you been told of how one travels through the Ankhurian desert? The easiest way it’s to follow the stars, but learning how to do it is quite the ordeal.”

END

‘Lies spread by blind idiots are spread nonetheless.’ Ormir hummed in appreciation of another shared sentiment. A fire started by the most negligent spark could level cities, and was just as hard to smother once it found oxygen and room to grow. He knew from years of experience weeding the High King’s gardens that it was infinitely harder to pave a plain truth over a gripping lie, no matter how material the evidence. The damage Astoria had brought to the reputation of followers of The One God was done many times over, there was little distinction for those who fell under their persecution.

Ormir felt the air warming between them, but wouldn’t celebrate having cracked the Ankhurian’s shell just yet. Bile started a slow creep up his throat as the acolyte harped on, brimming with passion and self-righteousness. Quite self-congratulatory, this one. The truth he bit down on was that none were impervious to the cruel whims of fellow men, no matter how much blood they spewed in service of their god. Charity was merely medication for the soul. “Very noble of you.” Ormir clipped, turning to obscure the jaded turn of his smile. He shook the last dregs from his drinking horn into the fire. It swelled hungrily, fanning heat against them as the Iskaran .

Two horns sloshed in his hands when he returned. He offered one to the Ankhurian before making himself comfortable on the log fireside. “I’ll start, so the drink has a chance to thaw your tongue,” The older man cleared his throat. His eyes skirted the shadows moving beyond the fire, failing to distinguish the shape of them. Most of the crowd had thinned as the night grew harsher. A few tents still glowed from a flicker of lamplight within. “Have you noticed – in your limited time among us – that Iskarans tend to favor leatherwear over any iron or steel?” Ormir asked, rhetorically, chinning to the sharp glisten of metal peeking from beneath the stranger’s cloak. “It’s not for a lack of quality armor smiths in the North, I assure you, though I can’t confidently defend our sense of fashion.” The joke tasted awkward and unpolished as he made it. Charm was heavy work.

“Leather, worn properly, holds heat better than any steelsuit padding. You’ll be warmer still with a few wool tunics beneath to pull sweat from freezing close to the body. Anything heavier, you’ll be turning to ice the moment you start sweating in it.” The drink was more diluted now than the first he’d had. Either that, or he was already beginning to feel it.

“And,” Ormir interjected, just remembering the second point he’d intended to make. “I’d wager you know what happens when you stick your tongue to frozen steel in the winter. We're not so fearless as to make the same gamble with our nethers.”

[hiddenvaldis]

There is an ever present edge of danger to their interactions, a subtle dance of pull and push that imitates that of the waves currently lapping pleasantly at the hull of Elokian's ship. Seemingly calm but ever dangerous, ever deathly. Most fellows would hold themselves back, keep a respectful deference to one of the most feared raiders of the Veiled Sea.

She is not most fellows.

Valdís made sure of that.

Any sign of deference or of fear would be a sign of weakness, and one that she is more than sure Elokian would take full advantage of without any hesitation. She wouldn't expect him to act any other way, not when they do not belong on the same crew and strength is power in their world. Anything less than full confidence in their respective skills and the vultures would start circling, just as she had done.

"Aren't we all some sorts of beast? The sea monsters hiddin' beneath the waves, waitin' to strike and devour and consume our prey?" It's more of a rhetorical question than one she speaks an answer to, certain as she is of the truth. They all might wear different masks, different pelts, but as the selkies of myth, those masks and pelts do nothing to change their very nature. Bloodthirsty and distinctively predatory, they enjoy the thrill of the chase and the sweet taste of violence and victory that come hand in hand.

"No traitors anymore," Valdís reminds with a smile that is more predatory than friendly, even as she gives him a slow clap at his show of skill. She is not one deny the truth when it stands before her, and Elokian's mastery of his body is a thing of beauty. Once upon a time, it had inspired her own, even if their fighting styles differ because of their body shapes and their own personal approaches to violence.

"Your crew's loyalty is admirable, though," she allows, an offering of peace as they skirt the dangerous topic of her mutiny and the shadow of the long dead traitor that looms over his head. Theirs is a hungry world, and the sea gods demand to be fed by their worshipers in more way than one. "Takes a steady hand to build strong foundations."

It certainly had been a while, but not even time could erase the joy Elokian derived from his exchanges with younger Raiders. Helping them to stay on their toes even in Caribella was his way of giving back to the culture. "You must think the captain some kind of beast. The deck is no place for a simple shag no matter how special an occasion." Elokian did hold the greatest claim to Raider King in the current era after all. Neptune's favor wasn't wasted on the crew he'd assembled, so he took it upon himself to always ensure tales told about him had a bit of gravitas behind them, especially in recent years. "He only fucks the most delectable bodies where the sea mist can touch. Not everyone in the crew gets to spectate either. Besides..."

As the tempo of his strumming picks up, Elokian rocks some more in his hammock before spinning out of it completely. However, when he hits the dock he does so in a solid stance. The heavy drop reverberates off the wood, and as he lifts his head to show off his grin beneath the rim of his hat, it's clear he's completely unfazed. That lute song of his wasn't interrupted in the slightest.

Slow steps in time with his playing, he rhythmically closes the remaining distance between them. "I have no traitors on my crew so no blood on my ship. That's a decoration for my lessers," Elokian concludes with a slight edge to his tone once he stops right in from of Valdís. "Strong and loyal, those are the kinds I sail with. I've no stomach for young upstarts who'd try to stick a dagger in my back Captain."

[blightedmikhael]

In all frankness, Mikhael had thought he was alone. The voice breaking through the silence distracted from his thoughtful examination and proved otherwise. Luckily for his fledgling pride, he didn’t quite jump in surprise at the sound, but it was close. Jerking his hand away from where he was poking a piece of blighted meat with a stick, his head snapped up and it fell with the most peculiar sight. 

A dhampir. 

Surprising by all accounts, considering the number of witchers around them. Then again, a quick look down gave him a glimpse of the Legion’s armor, and that was enough for some sense of understanding to dawn. 

Clearing his throat in embarrassment, he nodded. 

“I was considering it,” he admits, a tad slowly, wondering if asking the question that had been weighing on him would at worst expose his identity to a stranger. Cambion’s weren’t generally very welcomed by most. “I was just a tad curious.”

@blightedmikhael location: Nornwatch Keep notes: troupe 1: Nornwatch Keep

The blighted lands were riddled with the bodies of young men who looked to prove their mettle against a fable: they always came up wanting. Ego would get a man killed as effectively as a blade, and the arrogance that permeated these refugees held some of the blame for the rampant plague that was running through the rank and fold.

Archivist Iskrates was working on a way to reverse the taint, or so he'd claimed. Alucard's father was apparently capable of doing this, but the dhampir had never seen it first hand. Like so many things, it was one of the secrets that the vampires hoarded among themselves, and Alucard was a product of this promise.

Red eyes fixated on the warrior who appeared to be poking at a piece of blighted meat, as if he were considering what to make of it. "You should throw that away." Alucard's voice ran along the old stones of the Keep as he tried to make out any signs of taint present on the other. "Or better yet, burn it."

[hiddenvaldis]

Her trip to the bazaar had proved to be more eventful than Valdís had expected, but all together less informational. Rather than spending the rest of her stay on Eterna wandering the streets aimlessly, she had chosen to make her way to one of the many pubs hidden amidst the streets of the sprawling city. Her guns were carefully hidden beneath her attire, but she had left her swords back at the ship in order to remain beneath notice. She felt naked without them, but she could defend herself perfectly well even without their sharp edge.

By the end of the night, she had settled into one of the corners of the room, a mug of the house's brew at hand as she let her eyes wander across the crowd, trying to find anything interesting to fixate into.

By the time the chaos began, Valdís had begun to consider going home, only for her plans to be sidetracked.

She saw the fist coming a moment before it made contact, not giving her enough time to fully avoid the blow but just enough to avoid a black eye. The pain was sharp and keen, and she knew instantly that she would be sporting an ugly bruise on her cheek for at least a week.

Fuckers.

Glove metaphorically thrown, it would have been rude for her not to join the brawl, and she couldn't allow that, could she?

Hand coming up to brush against the bruise, she kept her eyes on the fool that had hit her and then had decided she wasn't enough of a threat to bother with and turned back to his initial opponent. Valdís grinned nastily at the view and prepared to finish the fight with promptness. Still, she stopped for just long enough to distractedly call out at the goody-two-shoes that had been stupid enough to intervene.

"Just fine," she crooned, voice dangerously low as she stood up, her hand still on her mug as she stalked closer, grin widening as she went unnoticed by the full and then— Brought the beer mug down hard enough for it to shatter on his skull. "Fuckin' fine."

who: @hiddenvaldis where: pub- late night

The pub was bustling with patrons despite the late hour, with the band playing extra loudly to be heard over the raucous cheering of a nearby card game that was gaining a small crowd. Tucked away at a table in the back corner sat Amaia, nursing an ale and drinking in the vibrancy of the room.

Her foot tapping along to the music, she didn't try to hide a small smile as she watched a younger man try to drain three pints of beer while his friends cheered him on. It had been so long since she'd been surrounded by people who weren't afflicted by illness or madness, that she'd almost forgotten how contagious joy could be.

Draining the dregs of her ale, Amaia stood, planning on heading home for the night - maybe she'd take the long way home and take in the starry skies - when the sudden scraping of chairs caught her attention. Apparently the most recent card game hadn't ended well and she could feel the tension filtering through the air.

She should have left, let the two men work out their tensions but instead, Amaia moved through the growing crowd, her hands raised as she slid between them. "Hey now - why don't you both take it outside and cool off? There's no need to start anything in here."

The larger of the men clearly didn't agree, if the heavy fist swinging her way was any indication. Amaia dodged neatly to the side, her eyes remaining on the bigger threat even as she heard his fist make contact with someone else. "You alright?" she called to the person behind her.

[temperednuvi]

“Hopefully they will learn to prioritize,” Nuvi says dryly, her tone showing how much she believed they would do as much. It’s a faint hope, and one that will likely not be fulfilled, but that doesn’t mean she can’t hope. Every second that they go unencumbered, they grow closer to Lysara, closer to her home. She misses Avalon dearly, and she can’t wait until she baths underneath Laurelin's light once more. 

Glancing away from the woman, Nuvi goes to see how far they are from the others, and blinks in surprise when she sees the pinprick of light in the distance. Hope burst like an open wound on her chest, and she smiles widely. It’s not the first time she has seen daylight since she escaped the mines, but it almost feels that way, the joy singing in her chest at the realization they will leave the caverns soon. Hopefully for a last time.  “Oh, we are almost out.”

Juneau didn’t have any words of encouragement to offer the woman regarding feeling anything beyond fear. Wherever this strange, slower woman had come from may have been terrible and brutal, but the future wasn’t looking bright either. She kept her mouth shut about that, too, though. 

Not particularly eager to gain the attention of others, Juneau’s harsh eyes settled on the woman’s face when she laughed. She began to walk again, hastily, before she remembered that the somewhat slowed pace had been intentional. She crossed her arms, now keeping more to herself than she had been before. “Yeah, it’s their priorities that are the real problem in all of this,” she mumbled sarcastically. Not too far beyond the crowd of people before them, a slow-growing glow made itself apparent–brighter and more yellow than the enchantments that had led the way through the mines; daylight.

[temperednuvi]

"I have always found it interesting," she murmurs quietly, the silence of the blighted night covering them as they stand apart from the rest and she watches the stars. It's a sight she drinks with fervor, a reminder that she has survived hell and continued on. She might have diminished on her time away from the stars, from the world, but she is not gone yet. Nuvi has to remind herself this, over and over. She is not gone, she has not died. There is still hope, as flickering as it might be, there is still the Weave ahead, pulling at them and urging them forward towards a future they have yet to reach. "Same stars, but different names across countless cultures. We take comfort on them, and we let them guide us, because through the ages, they remain. Even when we do not. They watch over us, even when everyone else chooses to look away."

"Vegvísir, the north star," Lothar nods to her, looks can be deceiving, but he finds a stroke of humor as she nonchalantly lays her head back to peer up at the stars. Everyone had to find their niche, their safety net, and he couldn't hold it against this woman for finding a vestige of light in the bleakness that swarmed them still. Many warriors and witchers littered the strange motley, but there were dozens of lesser folk, common people who could not hold a flame nor the hilt of a blade when it came to their oppressors. It was those who now fought in the balance of life and death, a quietus that loomed in the palpable miasma of sickness that blanketed the halls of the Keep. "Many try to say he was a compass or a stave, but I think they were simply ignoring what was right before them," his eyes pulled from her to gaze upward at the brightest star in the sky, the wayfinder, the North Star. "It will protect us," an affirmation to her words.

[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."

[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.

[blightedmikhael]

"What use do I have for resentment? My life would not be better if I let myself delve on all I could be resentful about, and I find that there are more productive things to do with it." Being a cambion alone would give him a lifetime of resentment, if he allowed it to take root. It's his mom's love that had kept him from that path, and he loves her far too much from stray from the road he had taken to make her proud. His origins might not be the most pleasant, but that doesn't mean he is not proud of them in his own way.

"That is what I hope yes," he admits quietly, even as a sardonic smile twists his lips. "Though I have to admit I would very much prefer for the Astorian Vanguard of the Light to stop sharing their brand of hope. We might believe in the same One God, but I find their brand of worshiping distasteful."

It isn't the first time that she hears mention of the light, it's spoken of around pints of piss-poor ale and around flickering fires that are built to keep the refuges warm but as the wood sick with blight burns and soot reaches skywards, she fears for the air that they breath and tries to not think of anything that is taking root within them for being in a land so sick with blight.

"It is good to hear perspective from someone who doesn't speak from a point of resentment." She nods and begins to understand that the troupe is made of all different kinds and she is grateful for the ones among them who come from the wilds with wolves souls. "Having hope for the light in the darkest of hours could only bring good tides."

[hiddenvaldis]

“Fascinating.” There is true interest in her tone, now that she knows more of the author and the content of the books. The description definitively catches her attention, and she wonders if perhaps she will get two things out of the book. If the books include a collection of stories from the ports the author stopped at, there might be anecdotes of protective measures she didn’t know already. That alone would make the trip worth it, but if he is as good a author as the stranger is implying, buying all that is available will definitively worth her time. “I think I will have to buy them all, then.”

"Two volumes and a collection of stories from sea and stopping at ports. Seems there was quite a bit of motion in the ocean at the time." He'd never thought he'd really consider doing much of anything on a ship but he also thought travel by water was too slow and so he avoided it when he could. "I think that's meant to be read between the two volumes, but it's not required." It's a good mix of romance and little tips here and there, things picked up about culture, how different societies viewed sex, what acts were more popular and the like. It was more than a little interesting, they were books that he went back to, took notes on even.