#troupe1.nornwatchtower

[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.

[temperednuvi]

"Enough to plant a new growth forest, and use the wood to make enough pages to make a series, yes," Nuvi says, admittedly growing more amused by the stranger's rough manner by the second. It's not charming, not really. She has met plenty of people on her travels for her to know that, but there is still something at the blonde's core that made her seem warm despite the coldness and roughness of her actions. Well-intentions, she thinks, hidden beneath rough survival mechanisms, and that is the sort of thing she has grown to understand during her time in the mines. She isn't able to grow as many callous, she doesn't think, but part of her finds herself wishing to become more like the other. Perhaps there will be less fear haunting her steps if she did. "I am both, I think. Sad, because I know things, and sad because this is the first time I have been able to feel anything outside of fear for years."

Nuvi didn't expect the other to stop, but her actions are enough to startle a laugh out of her lips.

"I do agree," she laughs with a quick nod, sly eyes looking around to ensure they are alone. With the mines looming larger than life and only darkness ahead, there is little kindness in her heart for the witchers that had worked so hard to destroy her. Still, deep within, behind the fear and hatred, there is a sense of pity for those condemned to the training that had created the monsters that haunt so many nightmares. Few had any choice at all, taken as children as they were, but that did not give them to hurt others as they themselves had been hurt. "Their own drive to fulfill their oath will doom us all if they don't learn to better prioritize."

No one was about to accuse Juneau of eloquent speech, but the phrasing of others always interested her immensely. She clung to the words this woman spoke–how interesting they were, the specific ones she had chosen. “I bet you come with stories and old chestnuts,” Juneau thought aloud as she reminded herself to keep an appropriate pace with the woman. “That’s why your face looks like that–so sad,” Juneau mused, though after a moment she realized how rude of a statement it was. “Not sad because you are sad. Sad because you know things.” The same way she, herself, was angry. 

When she was asked about witchers, Juneau stopped dead in her tracks entirely and spit. Perhaps that alone would be a fine enough indicator of her thoughts on the matter, but Juneau surely didn’t think it summed up her thoughts. “Dirty rotten traitors against the rest of us,” she mumbled beneath her breath, a fury seething beneath her every word. “Hunting their own kind because they’ve been indoctrinated into being the poison they think they’re protecting everyone else from. For the best most don’t survive the training–too many do if you ask me. And they won’t be able to fix this issue, which they caused… Relying on them to defend anyone through this when we’d be better equipped if they’d been long dead.” She was ranting, speaking in fractured sentences and half-ideas. But she had the sense to say all of this quietly–at least too quietly for human ears.

[temperednuvi]

Darkness prevails on Shenuvun's world, born a generation ago as the Witchers' of Iskaldrik took what would become the protagonist of her nightmares and forged her into the weapon that would spell her doom. It's a long legacy of violence, extending back to when the world broke upon the weight of unspeakable magic. A legacy that they world had chosen to ignore, the blood of supernaturals spanning generations weighting down on their shoulders. Complicity is not the same as action, but the world had known what was happening in the mines and had chosen to look away.

How can she not despair in a world that has always chosen to look away? How can she see the light in the darkness, the hope that she had wanted to create?

More easily than she had thought, it seems. Lips press together to avoid smiling as the seeds of hope are planted in the unlikeliest of places by the strangest of individuals. Here she is, a stranger, rough in demeanor, changing her rhythm to accommodate her limp, complaining all the while, but helping nonetheless.

Maybe the dark is not all-encompassing, after all.

"Trust me, I am far better than many in my shoes," she says, a sardonic tint to her voice before sighing. Nuvi doesn't want to hide anymore, but she would rather not have to face the witchers. Not when she is among them. Instead, she changes the topic to one many would think completely unrelated, but it isn't. "What is your opinion on witchers?"

The woman opposite her began to protest that she could fend for herself, but Juneau looked doubtful. Perhaps, if she could see past her own ego and unearned self-confidence she might come to the more realistic conclusion that she herself was less equipped to defend herself–in a fight at least. However, between the two Juneau clearly had the more impressive bark, the woman’s soft-spoken nature and broken tone convincing Juneau of her own biased opinion. 

Juneau noticed the slightly stilted, uneven gait of her new walking partner and glanced at her. Something was the matter with one of her legs, and the blonde immediately adjusted her pace. She hated dawdling and loathed moving slowly, but above all else she detested avoidable injuries. Arriving at their destination several minutes earlier wasn’t worth blowing out a muscle or limb.

“So how did you end up here in such a sorry state?” Juneau interrogated. The question and her tone came out all wrong. To be mean and crude wasn’t her intention, but it seemed to be all she was capable of. Occasionally, when she let the silence lapse too long between what could most likely be described as haranguing or goading others she started to wonder how long she had been like this, if this failing in her personality was what led Ivar to send her off on the death trap of a path he set her on.

[temperednuvi]

Nuvi expects for the conversation to end as soon as the mortal admits that she is bothering her, but rather than doing so, things turn weird. There is a brief moment of silence where she expects the shorter woman to stalk forward and leave her behind, as she should do in order to survive. Instead, the other woman shifts into an unimpressive stance and proceeds to— To— Berate her? All while she remains at her side. It’s amusing in a way she hasn’t felt in years, and it almost feels as if she were being yapped at by a very insistent stray that demanded attention but did not want her to approach. The mental image is strong enough so that she has to bite down on her lips to stop a snort from escaping her. 

It’s enough to distract her from her own spiraling thoughts, and she is now aware enough to pay attention to what the other is telling her. 

“I know how to defend myself,” she says softly, aiming for a dry tone but coming out more broken than she has wanted. It’s been far too long since she has had a normal conversation, and well— She supposes that escaping the mines does not mean all her social graces return to her. A shame, really, she used to be so good at making friends, and now she can’t even begin to imagine how to do so. “But I must thank you for—”

She means to finish her sentence, but suddenly there is a hand on her wrist and she is being dragged along with the other’s step. Steps that she struggles to match as she limps on the leg that the witcher had wounded and that had not managed to heal right after years in the mines. 

“Wha—,” the offer takes her by surprise, but it does nothing to dissuade her from the mental image of the yapping dog, and this time, she can’t help the way her lips twitch up in amusement as she struggles to keep up. “I suppose you are right,” she finally admits, realizing that they are covering ground faster than she would have done by herself. “Distractions do seem to be pretty helpful.”

Well, that was certainly quite the reaction. If Juneau had to label it in a single word, she wasn’t sure she would be capable. Callous and uncouth as Juneau was, she could be fairly observant in the right circumstances. To select a single word to define the reaction was beyond the young vuldak, but a memory? Perhaps not. The layers of fear and intensity reflected in the meek woman before she called Juneau back to her first interaction with Ivar, the way he had taken her in when she knew little more than the deer paths in the woods and that home wasn’t an option anymore. Those things she had known, and the taste of fear like copper permanent in the back of her throat. 

“Yes,” Juneau answered simply because the woman was in her way. Pity wasn’t much of a driver for the young blonde to coddle someone, but perhaps she didn’t have to be as actively hostile.  She would attempt to dial it back, but she struggled to be anything short of coarse and wintery. The entirety of her body language altered and communicated clearly that she was unimpressed with the woman’s plan on the whole. “You may not get lost, but if anything is behind us, you may get dead,” Juneau responded. “Far be it from me to make assumptions, but you don’t look like the type to be especially great at defending yourself. No one is in the mood to turn back and attempt a rescue.” 

Without thinking about what a rotten plan it was, Juneau reached out to grab the woman. Whether she took hold of her wrist or forearm or upper arm didn’t matter to her, as long as she had some sort of hold on her to keep her moving. Despite her rough exterior and nature, her grip was loose with a practiced gentleness and comfort. “What if you just stick with me instead?” Juneau suggested though she didn’t plan on leaving room for the woman to reject the offer. “It used to bother me, too,” she mumbled, “going through passages and subterranes like this. I doubt for the same reasons that have you coming apart right now, everyone gets precious about it for different reasons, but I do know that distractions help. It also helps to just keep moving.”  Juneau would drag her across the murky, wet, uneven floor by the ankles if she had to.

[temperednuvi]

"Not for as long as we can see the stars," Nuvi offers the stranger as she settles against the tower's wall and rests her head on the stone, eyes looking upward and a soft smile on her lips. The land they had escaped to is as desolated as the caverns that had had her trapped for so long, but the stars shine above them. It's breathtaking, and it reminds her of all that she had thought lost over the last few years. It makes her wonder if things are not nearly as hopeless as she had believed, the Juneau's kindness still resonating within her chest as she considers the nightsky. She hadn't had time to lay back and look at the stars when she had first escaped, not with the threat of the magi pressing down on her, and when they had gone back into the darkness— Well, she hadn't thought she would be strong enough to survive the journey, yet here she was. "At least they remain constant through the ages."

starter for @temperednuvi.

where: nornwatch tower

when: two weeks in

note: as promised

The last vestiges of hope were but a whisper as a rampant infection swarmed those desperate enough to nibble on vermin for sustenance, to drink from the blighted rivers as though it was worth the inevitable ailments. Aching limbs and visible poxes were the least of their worries as a certain twinge of madness followed suit and the only kindness was to allow them a swifter quietus. Hospital beds soon divided the survivors into the sick and the able bodied, and though starvation left a residual and insistent pang in his own gut, Lothar welcomed the chill of the outdoors as it separated him from the taint. A necessary wall between him and the sick, something that flushed out the groans of pain and illness; he'd heard the crunch of footsteps in the icy snow behind him, turning on his feet to see another who was luckier than most. "Well, we're not dead yet." He hadn't had much hope, but he had duty; a promise to the Guild that this was more of a contract than a means of survival. If he started to look upon this troupe of refuge akin to the matter sentiment, he'd start to falter too.

[temperednuvi]

Darkness surrounds her once more, the vain hope of the light extinguished in a mere instant. For one brief, glorious, second, she had believed herself free from the mines; then? Then it dawned, the truth of what she was witnessing. It was not her salvation, but the end of the world as she knew it, the beginning of something beyond anything she had ever been able to expect. It’s beyond her wildest expectations, beyond her wildest nightmares. 

The darkness of the mines would haunt her ever more, but even beyond that, she would always remember what happened after. 

Aetheron had been nothing more than a long forgotten nightmare for most civilizations, and now they were confronted with those who had broken the world. Would they do it again? Would they take whatever comforts they had snatched from the darkness and destroy them once more? 

There is a growing darkness in the world, a growing rot, and she is afraid that she will see it take the world she had been so desperately trying to save. Beyond that, she is terrified of what will become of her once the darkness takes her once more.

At least here, in the caverns, she can focus on the steps of others, on the quiet breaths and the realization that she is not alone. Not alone in an entirely different way from the mines, not alone and unchained. It’s not quite enough to keep the terrifying fear at bay, not enough to keep it from choking her self-assurances as they surge from her throat, as she hugs herself with all the goal of keeping herself together. It’s not quite working as well as she hopes, but it’s all she can afford to do as she shuffles forward, one painful step after the other. 

She needs to focus, keep her attentions focused on the slow movement, as to not lose herself. Needs to feel the ground beneath her feet as she travels, to avoid thinking on anything else but what lies ahead.

Nuvi is distracted, and the stranger’s voice takes her by surprise.

She doesn’t jump, not quite, but her shoulders do lift and her head snaps up like a scared rabbit, only to relax a bit when she doesn’t find a Witcher on the other side of the voice. No gleaming armor, at least, and for now that seems like enough. 

“Sorry, was I in your way?” She asks softly, shuffling to the side and making herself smaller as if to let the other pass. “Please go ahead. I can hear well enough that being a bit behind won’t get me too lost. Not with the way the cavern echoes.”

The number of people threading the same path also means they are rather easy to track, but she doesn’t quite feel like admitting that as well.

@temperednuvi Location: Catacombs/caves traveling to Nornwatch Tower Time: Initial flee to Nornwatch/prior to the Blight outbreak & Last Night 

The slow, single-file shuffle through the narrow channels under the mountain felt agonizing to Juneau. Almost every head hung low in defeat between sagging shoulders and it made Juneau question whether or not everyone felt they’d as much as admitted defeat. Regardless, she thought they looked like a herd of cattle being led to the slaughter, though at this point their fate was still uncertain. Uncertainty wasn’t something Juneau particularly appreciated, and she was sorely wishing she would have cut and run for Lysara instead of joining the masses of sojourn refugees. 

No matter what happened, she was determined that she would make it to the neighboring kingdom where she had delivered so many before. She cursed herself for ever having an altruistic bone in her body–though since being reborn as a voldak she had shed much of her goodwill along with her former self. No one looked out for her, so why should she act out of self-sacrifice for anyone else? Least of all a human. She doubted most of the humans around her would withstand the sheer demand of the journey or any challenges that arose, and that suited her perfectly fine. 

And if only they’d just move faster… Her temper flared as the already glacial pace of the small group in front of her slowed even further. It seemed that something was distracting them. Once they finally managed to move it along, following the lacking glow of the witcher’s lights that led the way, Juneau discovered the source of everyone’s pace-slowing interest. 

As Juneau observed the fellow traveler, she wondered if she had looked so pathetic herself after the night she was killed, but not burned, and awoke somehow new with nothing to do but collect herself and figure out what it meant to move on. It was curious how someone could make themselves so small, fold in within themselves, and shrink in increments. Sure, no one seemed particularly comfortable in those shadowy channels of the caves, but it almost looked like the woman expected she would break into a million pieces if she didn’t wrap herself so tightly in her own arms, or she half expected to vaporize if so much as a pore of her skin touched the cavern walls. 

“If you keep moving this slow, you’re going to get left behind,” Juneau commented from just behind her. Nothing in her voice suggested she was not particularly concerned about the woman’s wellbeing. It wasn’t a warning, though it wasn’t necessarily meant to be as antagonistic as it likely could have been perceived as. Her bedside manner with refugees and travel companions had suffered greatly in the past few weeks.