witchernjal - Tumblr blog

[witchernjal]

Isaac Cole Powell

[witchernjal]

“Well, why wouldn’t you? I’m a fucking delight.” That was a truth for him, but he was almost positive most people wouldn’t think the same. Njal had never given off that impression that he cared what others thought of him anyway. If people disliked him, he actually preferred it. Made it easier to deal with disappointment that way. Anyway, that was a constant thought he didn’t want to think about. People were always going to be disappointments and he’d rather not give people the opportunity to disappoint him. It was why he had one close friend in Torsten and a secondary friend in Freydis. They would never be as close as he was with the Kingsguard, but he didn’t think she would ever give him a reason to be disappointed in her. Njal was a bit of a pessimist though so he wasn’t going to put it completely out of the question. “And I could kick your ass, too,” he stated with a hint of a smile.

After all of this was over, he had no idea what he’d think of magic. He was hardwired to hate it so that was what he had stuck with for his entire life. If that would change or not was completely up in the air. “I don’t fucking know, Freydis. I’ll figure it out just like everyone else in Iskaldrik.” They would all be thrust into something they were not familiar with. He wasn’t the only person that would have to figure it out as they moved on. “Uh huh, just a handful.” He nodded his head and then backed away a bit. “Alright, I’ll let you have some space now. Let me know if you need anything or whatever.”

[witchernjal]

Just because he thought people should know him didn’t mean that Njal could say he knew others that well. In all honesty, he rarely paid attention to anyone that didn’t immediately benefit him. Unless said person was Torsten. They’d been through their absolute worst together. At this point, they were attached at the hip. Celaya may not have been there with them at the same time, but she did understand everything they had gone through just the same. That was why he could look at her and not feel disdain. That was how he felt towards most people that could complain and complain and not truly understand how fucked up their lives could have been. Then again, it wasn’t like Njal was trying to understand anyone else’s hardships anyway. He had enough of his own. Apparently, so did Celaya. Must have been a witcher thing. Who was he kidding? Of course it was a witcher thing. “I don’t know about that. Assumptions are really fucking wrong about fifty percent of the time, I think. Let’s try another assumption and see if you get that one right.”

"Hm, that is strange, I do recall having a pretty good pattern for my assumptions being correct," a return of snark as she tried to feel any genuine gratefulness to see the other. Memories came back jumbled, or as a vague sequence; faces could spark something she didn't quite understand, or they could send her farther down a path of complete confusion. One thing had been for sure, Araceli's outburst towards finding out Celaya was a witcher hadn't solidified that Celaya would be an obedient guest for the Ladies of Borderreach. She'd been vulnerable to Araceli, spoke of her confusion to a violent past she didn't quite have all the pieces to and Araceli's first notion was to react with a threat.

A cornered dog did not respond well to being further threatened and Celaya hadn't returned to the former comforts of Borderreach since; at least her excuse was the festival which still ensued.

[witchernjal]

It was hard for Njal to not think about the fact that they had such a limited amount of time left in their lives. He had less than Torsten and had also accomplished less. He’d never outwardly say he was jealous, but the writing was very much on the wall. Not that the Kingsguard had ever really gave him a reason to think he was lesser than. Still, there was always the thought lingering in the back of his head. Except for when he’d won that diving course. He had been better than the rest of those people and he’d continue to make sure he made his mark until then. It didn’t matter how long it took so long as it happened before it was his time to go. As Torsten smiled, Njal couldn’t help but laugh at how out of place it looked. “I mean, I’m having fun. I don’t fucking know about you though. You look like you’re going to shit yourself in a few minutes.” He gripped the other’s shoulder and shook him a bit. “When I succeed, just make sure I have the opportunity to fucking piss on my parents’ graves in Iskaldrik.”

The look on Njal's face when they declared him the winner was one that Torsten had cemented in his mind. Fun wasn't in their vocabulary, but he could tell winning had meant a great deal to his oldest and only friend. For Njal's benefit alone, Torsten let the edge of his lips lift so that his smile would show his teeth. He wished he could say anything that would dispel the truth that loomed over them, the limited time they had left, and the weight that sat between them but slowly Torsten was piecing together a plan.

"There, are we having fun now?"

[witchernjal]

The thought of what Kalamar could possibly want to make for him loomed in the back of his mind. There were many ideas going around in his head, but he was pretty sure he could read the damn devil’s mind by now. It would probably be a fucking tentacle or something and Njal would have to pretend like it was actually good. Well, actually no he wouldn’t have to pretend anything. He’d just tell the devil it was bad if it was bad. It wasn’t like he cared about the other’s feelings anyway. He wasn’t even sure why Kalamar was still here at all. Every time he turned around, there that mass of tentacles was hanging in the shadows waiting to strike. It worked out in his favor most of the time though so he guessed he shouldn’t have been complaining.

“Who said I wasn’t fucking ready to use it?” He put the blade away for now regardless after the devil let his finger drift across the tip. There were no comforts around Kalamar, but the fact that he had even put the knife away at all was a sign that the devil wasn’t going to kill him. For now, at least. It was okay though. Njal was sure to make several attempts on the other’s life until it was well reciprocated. There were only so many compliments he could take about his mortality before he started stabbing the man incessantly. Kalamar would probably enjoy it though so he’d have to come up with different ideas to piss the devil off. “Of course I fucking am. You’ll have to stop acting so fucking surprised every time now. It’ll save you time.”

This foreplay was killing him, insults? Knives? Casual references of cruelty? And these lavish living conditions? Njal was a true romantic and it made it all the more sweet that the two were fated to spend eternity together. That soul would plump and ripen in the Abyss beautifully, and after a couple centuries of torment, he might even be something to look at. As homely as the hideous mortal was, he certainly had potential.

The prospect was enough to get Kalamar on his feet again, besides, if he was going to fix Njal something then he couldn't very well do it from the bed. His mind went to what he could make for him... There was Kalamar... Or there was more Kalamar. "I thought they taught witchers better manners than this: don't point a knife at someone unless you're ready to use it." Kalamar goaded as he stepped in, he ran his finger against the tip and let it glide idly across the blade's edge. "I did enjoy our trip together," the devil admitted, "watching you work, you're much stronger than the other witchers I've encountered."

[witchernjal]

There were several things that Njal had never thought he would even remotely have the opportunity to do in this life. He’d been through quite a lot at Witcher’s Watch and his thought process had always been that he would simply live and die as a witcher. That was how his life had started after all. He’d only ever known those walls and he’d only ever had The First. She had been a mentor, a parent and everything else he could possibly think of. He’d had Torsten there, too, but there was something always missing outside of just those two figures in his life. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it felt like it was beating at the back of his head oh so faintly.

Still, the point here was that he had never known anything else. He’d never thought he would end up anywhere but in Iskaldrik. He had been a warden to the mines and that was it. Maybe, in his past life, he’d been a Kingsguard. In this one though? He was just Njal. The most entertainment he had ever gotten from this one was from when he had stepped foot in that gladiator ring. Torsten had seen it and it was his dearest friend’s look afterwards that had even put the thought in his head in the first place. A gladiator. It didn’t even feel like something he should do, but the thought kept pounding in his head as if it was exactly what he should have been doing.

All of that circled around his head as he zoned out at a party that he wasn’t even sure he should be at. He hated all of these people. He didn’t even know them, but he was sure he would dislike every single one of them. What had broken him out of his somewhat trance was the sound of one gladiator calling attention to everyone. Njal hadn’t realized who it was for until his name was said. Cheers followed and he couldn’t help the way his brows furrowed. This wasn’t where he was supposed to be, but here he was being cheered for. He didn’t know what to think about it, but he reveled in it for the moment regardless. Only until Dior pulled him to the side of course.

When they were finally in private, he tilted his drink towards the gladiator. “It felt like a fucking arena.” He didn’t bother to take a sip of his drink because he wasn’t about to be caught off guard in a room full of people he didn’t know. “Is that what you pulled me over here for? To ask me that obvious fucking question?”

who: @witchernjal

where: dior's mansion, timber bay

notes: NJAL YOU CAN'T JOIN SOLIS INVICTI'S LUDI, IT'LL BE SOCIAL SUICIDE

The celebration at Dior's estate was in full swing, a raucous affair that mirrored the energy of the day's battles. Dior moved effortlessly through the crowd, a natural host, engaging with guests but always keeping an eye on certain people, especially those who had impressed him during the festival.

One of them stood out above the rest—Njal, the Iskaran witcher who had recently become the sensation of the Neptunalia games. His effortless skill, sharp tongue, and disdain for the pageantry of Lysaran life had captivated the crowds. The guy was exactly what he needed—the perfect counterbalance to the rest of his gladiators. The thought that Solis Invicti might try to steal him away? That wasn’t happening. Not on Dior’s watch.

With a goblet of fine wine in hand, Dior wove his way through the crowd toward where Njal stood, looking as indifferent to the festivities as ever. A grin spread across his face as he approached, tapping his glass with a knife to draw attention. “Everyone, raise your glasses!” he called out, his voice cutting through the noise. "A toast! To the fiercest competitor of Neptunalia’s games, the man who showed the entire world just what a witcher from Iskaldrik can do—Njal!"

The crowd erupted into cheers, some more earnest than others, but Dior kept his eyes on Njal, raising his goblet high before taking a long drink. When the noise settled, he moved closer, gesturing for the witcher to follow him toward a quieter corner of the estate.

As they stepped away from the main party, Dior turned to Njal, his expression shifting from playful host to something relaxed. "So, how’d it feel in the arena today?"

[witchernjal]

“Well, why wouldn’t you? I’m a fucking delight.” That was a truth for him, but he was almost positive most people wouldn’t think the same. Njal had never given off that impression that he cared what others thought of him anyway. If people disliked him, he actually preferred it. Made it easier to deal with disappointment that way. Anyway, that was a constant thought he didn’t want to think about. People were always going to be disappointments and he’d rather not give people the opportunity to disappoint him. It was why he had one close friend in Torsten and a secondary friend in Freydis. They would never be as close as he was with the Kingsguard, but he didn’t think she would ever give him a reason to be disappointed in her. Njal was a bit of a pessimist though so he wasn’t going to put it completely out of the question. “And I could kick your ass, too,” he stated with a hint of a smile.

After all of this was over, he had no idea what he’d think of magic. He was hardwired to hate it so that was what he had stuck with for his entire life. If that would change or not was completely up in the air. “I don’t fucking know, Freydis. I’ll figure it out just like everyone else in Iskaldrik.” They would all be thrust into something they were not familiar with. He wasn’t the only person that would have to figure it out as they moved on. “Uh huh, just a handful.” He nodded his head and then backed away a bit. “Alright, I’ll let you have some space now. Let me know if you need anything or whatever.”

“I like you,” Freydis responded, allowing him the opportunity to read between the lines. She doubted it was much of a secret that she was one of the jarls who’s parcel of land had the fewest dispatches of witchers and fewer wards yet sent to the mines. This was not because the midlands were inexplicably free of those possessing magic, but because Freydis had never had much of a stomach to actively enforce such martial law. But she was equally passive when one of her fold had been found and sentenced as well. “I could kick your ass.” 

“Right now, yes, but what about after this conflict is resolved?” There was no guarantee either of them would live to see the end of it, but she didn’t think that needed to be said. Freydis set the shield aside on her bunk before turning back to him. “Fewer reasons than you might think,” she responded, thinking of her loneliness on the battleground and how few back at the camp had sought her ought. “Just a handful of very important ones.” She pushed at his shoulder, her own way of trying to acknowledge the value she placed on their friendship while diffusing the weight of the conversation all at once.

[witchernjal]

[witchernjal]

Honestly, it had been quite some time since Njal had been in the real world. If this could even be classified as that. He'd been stuck in Witcher's Watch for so long that he'd lost track of what anything outside of it felt like. He'd gotten his revenge, but now what? Well, he'd simply be the warden of the mines and then figure it out from there. Not that it was ever easy to do such a thing. Figuring yourself out after your life had been taken away from you? Well, he was sure that Freydis could understand such a thing. She was the jarl though. It felt like she had no point to prove and yet every point to prove at the same time. He'd be cheering regardless. Njal never liked to pick favorites, but the jarl was definitely one of his favorites. Maybe it was because she wasn't old and decrepit like all of the other ones. There was more to relate to. Sort of.

"Are you sure about that?" His brow rose at the question asked towards her. An arm slung across the back of his seat as he looked around the place. What was he even really supposed to do here? Eh, he'd figure it out. "I'm pretty sure they would say you're fearless." His shoulder lifted in a shrug. "Well, I'd say that at least."

Freydis look a seat across from him at a table toward the back wall of the establishment. It was better, she thought, to sit further from the door–it helped to ensure less people noticed her if they weren’t walking past her. Peace and quiet was a difficult thing to come by, and she wouldn’t have much of the latter with Njal pontificating on how she ought to approach her challengers, but peace? Sitting on the fringes of a darkened room with a witcher? His presence might afford her some peace from those who did notice, witchers not necessarily being seen as approachable by the locals. 

“I feel like the opportunity to make an impression has long since passed,” she pointed out, although she was wholly convinced this would not satisfy Njal. She tilted her aching head to the side slightly as he spoke again. It wasn’t often that she was frightened of those who stepped up to challenge her, though she had a healthy doubt of anxiety when an equal match presented itself. It wasn't so much that she was afraid of the circumstances, she was just sick of them. “Is that what they say about me? That I’m fearful?” 

[witchernjal]

The child that Njal had once been before had been full of life and excited about anything and everything. Becoming a witcher had stripped him of that, but he'd never really gave that much of a second thought. Why would he? He had handled the problem and he would continue to handle the problem until he had none left. Or until Iskaldrik had none left. Witchers, as he was reminded of constantly, could not have lands or titles. They were simply witchers. He guessed this was the first time he had actually forgotten about duty in place of having a little piece of that person he once was back. He couldn't be that person anymore though. He couldn't allow himself to be because that would only set him up for failure. It was better to live in the now than some version of the past that had been taken from him.

"I don't know about fun, but I'll rake in a fuck ton of gold. I'll make sure to buy you something nice." What was even classified as nice? Some furs? Torsten had some decent ones already. Maybe Njal would get himself a few, too. That seemed kind of heavy to wear though when someone needed to fight. And who ever knew when a fight was lurking around the corner? He really had to think about what he would do with all of this money. Eventually. It wasn't like he needed to spend it right now. "I have about ten years left, Torsten. Let me have this for a few minutes before you remind me about the fucking shitstorm we're in." He patted the other's face. "Come on, give me a smile. Teeth, too." He put one on his own face, uncharacteristic of him in front of anyone but Torsten.

Whatever spectacle Njal might create, they had a duty that came to their nation first- Torsten could see how easy it was to become distracted because he was not immune to the prospect of what might be. They were witchers though, inevitably they were not permitted lands or titles and these laws were ingrained within their Kingdom for a reason. Everything else was a distraction, but where anyone else might have been cut to pieces, Njal was the singular exception to this creed.

"Have your fun and rake in your gold," Torsten chose not to press the subject of the devil, Njal was sharper than most, and twice as cruel - he'd make a fair contest for any demon's spirit. "We won't remain here forever." A reminder that there were no stadiums in Iskaldrik, but Njal could do what he wished to earn his reputation and secure his legacy while he was here.

[witchernjal]

Sorry. As if that would fix anything. It wasn't going to fix what happened to him and it wasn't going to fix what had happened to her either. Neither of them had any control over that so there was really no point in them thinking any further into it. What was Freydis supposed to do anyway? Pull him out of Witcher's Watch when she was just a child herself? There was no blame to put on anyone but the people that had put them where they had been. Njal had made some sort of peace with his lot in life though. He hoped the same could be said for the jarl in front of him sooner rather than later, too. He'd had more time to cope though. She'd just gotten out of her situation. Whatever. He shrugged his shoulders and looked away from her for a moment. "Are you saying you don't like what I am? I'm pretty okay with it. Nobody can fuck with me now." At her question though, he was reminded of his parents. They were the reason he'd become what he was anyway. They were dead now, but their memory still lay at the forefront of his mind. "Magic is magic. Right now, I have no fucking choice but to accept it." He was wired to treat it as a problem though. Maybe that would change eventually, but it hadn't been long enough for him to even think about such a thing. "Yeah, I'm sure you had plenty reason to get back here. Good thing you had people waiting for you or whatever." He tried to play it off nonchalantly, but it was a good thing that she was back.

Freydis met his eye, knowing the question was rhetorical. She also knew Njal wasn’t so sensitive that he might have suggested that her forgetfulness of the nature of witchers and what their becoming did to them would cause lasting damage to their relationship. Even so, she couldn’t help but feel she had disappointed or failed Njal in some way, though she struggled to determine if it was her forgetful insensitivity to what it was to be a witcher or if it was because of the secret she kept from him of how she had invited that same magic they had choked out of him into herself. She was quiet for a few moments, but she made no secret of the way she studied his face. “I’m sorry, Njal… about the things that happened to you to make you what you are,” she said softly in a tone that rarely found its way into their conversations. She ventured to ask a question on a topic that even more rarely shared space with the pair of unlikely friends. “After all that has happened, what do you think of magic now?” She wondered if he would answer at all and if he did if he would be truthful. “No, probably not,” she admitted as she lifted a hand to place it on her shoulder, “but we wouldn’t have without a compelling reason to want to live through all of that–without something to get back to to make it worth it.” 

[witchernjal]

Living around all of these werewolves certainly wasn't Njal's idea of home, but he couldn't really be picky right now. Iskaldrik had fallen and that meant that he had to deal with what he was given. Which he was doing wonderfully, he thought. He'd made an impression here in Lysara already though so he had assumed that he would get some better living accommodations. Not surprising that they'd still let the Iskaran sit in squalor. As if he was used to anything else anyway. Njal's home back in Iskaldrik hadn't been anything special either. It was just a home that he went back to when he needed to rest his head. In all honesty, this shack kind of reminded him of it. What did he need to find anything better for?

"Of course you fucking do," he stated with a shake of his head. It seemed that, no matter what he said, Kalamar was interested in it. Maybe he needed to start being nice so that the demon would leave him alone. Or maybe there was a part of him that wanted to keep the guy around just so he could see what made Kalamar tick. That would only help him when it came time to actually kill the demon. Plus, nice was absolutely not in the cards for Njal. He wasn't even sure he was capable of that. Not that he'd ever tried. A blade flipped between his fingers as he looked towards Kalamar again. Then he pointed it towards the other, smile on his face. "Are you going to cut your own fucking head off?" A brow rose. "That almost feels disrespectful."

Gratitude forgotten, Njal didn't have many years to waste but Kalamar had nothing but time. Time to plunder away at the other's nerves while quietly pining for the severe, sensitive creature in front of him. All that ego to cover up how small and insignificant he felt, Kalamar had seen enough of it when Njal had fought him. One-sided as it was, the attempt had been cute. Few cheers, couple of coins, and all of a sudden Njal was about ready to call himself a gladiator.

"I await the day, flirt." Njal was such an apt wordsmith, this witcher thing wasn't working out so if he flopped as a gladiator then he could always try being a bard. Regardless, Kalamar would be there every step of the way, slowly polluting the world around Njal. The people he met, the places he lived, everywhere the devil went disease and misfortune would follow. So everywhere Njal went the same could be said. The trade-off would be guaranteed success, Njal would not fail with the devil at his side, and if he was overcome then - well - all he had to do was say I Wish and their business would be concluded. "Such an appetite, you must be starving."

[witchernjal]

[witchernjal]

Isaac Cole Powell via TikTok

[witchernjal]

Fucking hell, this guy just kept going and going and going. When would it end? Clearly, this captain wasn't the type to take no for an answer even if it was very much clear that someone was not interested in conversation with him. Maybe Njal hadn't been direct enough. No, that wasn't true. He was always direct with what he had to say. It wasn't like he could tell a lie anyway. Still, he could've walked away a very long time ago, but he had stayed this long so it was really his own fault that he was in this predicament now. Hence why he tried to nip it in the bud right now. Maybe he would've been better off just fucking the guy and that would get the other out of his hair. Too late for that though. Well, right now at least.

"I have something called self-control, you fucking idiot. Clearly something you know nothing about." He'd been a warden. He had to have some sort of self-control if he didn't want to kill every single person that had tried to escape the mines. Well, he did want to kill them, but he wasn't really supposed to. He guessed he had come up with reasons before though if he just so happened to do so. Nobody was ever the wiser and it was easy for him to just skate around that truth if he was asked a question. Nobody ever doubted a witcher's words when they were always meant to be true. "You won't have anything of mine. Like fucking ever." He tapped the other's temple a few times. "Use your fucking brain and get over the fact that someone doesn't want to just give you what you want. Maybe you'll fucking feel better." He paused. "And stop using innuendos. If you wanted to fuck, you should've just said that. Thank you though. For this very enlightening conversation. I truly hope to never fucking see you again. I might try to fucking kill you next time."

It was true Elokian rarely charted courses for the cold waters of Iskaldrik, but he had sailed them before. Those few times he docked in the terribly drab land he encountered many stiff, tight asses like this one. They tasted sweet, even as they spat their baseless poison. Unfortunately, it seemed the witcher would have to learn the hard way what Elokian had forced the kings and jarls he committed crimes against learned through his many years of being a pirate. Elokian always got his way.

"Truth is absolute, sweet cheeks. If your desire for solitude was really most important, you would've drawn your weapon by now. Your actions betray you, but that's alright," he says, leaning cavalierly against the bar and letting the other come to him. He even pursed his lips to make kissy faces, proving there was nothing in the witcher's words Elokian took seriously. How could he when the twink was too closed up to bear his truth? "You don't listen well, maybe it's the liquor. All you do is prattle on about your wants, which I have no interest in. I told you, desire runs deeper than that. And I'll have yours. Watch me." Elokian wasn't above a challenge. For all the cold wafting of the other, Elokian was pure heat. His desire was out in the open, so why did the Iskaran struggle so much? He'd find Caribella much more unforgiving if he couldn't embrace the desires he clung to so tightly. "I'm guessing they didn't do a lot of flirting back in that cold hunk of rock you fled from. I already told you I'd cover your tab but we're far from even. I'll feel shortchanged until I get what I'm after, and it's never wise to fail to settle up with a raider." Elokian laughs again as he tips his hat to the other. "Getting what I'm owed from deep inside you will be the greatest treasure hunt of this age. You'll be seeing me again, I'm sure."

[witchernjal]

Why Kalamar was still here, he would never truly understand. However, the devil had made it his mission to attach himself to Njal so he couldn't really do anything but accept it. Plus, contrary to what he thought, it seemed like said devil didn't mind helping him. He wasn't particularly a fan of that though given the fact that those damn things only ever wanted one thing. The witcher wasn't about to just start trusting him and none of this changed the fact that, at the end of the day, the devil was going to die by his hand. No matter how long it took. Njal could be on his death bed and he'd still try and slice the man's throat open. It was really just a matter of it sticking. He'd have to do more research on that though. Whenever the damn devil left him the fuck alone, that was.

As much as he had made an offer, it was really just in the heat of the moment. The excitement had gotten the better of him and he wasn't about to actually follow through on that. It was a good thing it wasn't brought up again. Or the fact that Njal had even bothered calling the other his friend in the slightest. That was Kalamar's job to be completely delusional. "I can afford a lot of new shit." He hadn't been paying attention to the devil until the other started jumping on the bed. To which he simply stood up to put space between them. "I'm still going to fucking kill you. Don't let it go to your head. I know that's really fucking hard for you though." His brow rose at the other's question. "I'll have your head on a silver fucking platter."

@witchernjal location: where does Njal live notes: what can I say except you're welcome

Njal the champion, Kalamar liked the sound of that. The other had been rude and he'd pushed his luck to the point where it had bordered on being offensive, but Njal had come through in the end. The roar of the crowd, the praise of his peers, and the favor he'd earned did wonders for the witcher's ego. Kalamar was perceptive enough to see it, while Njal had made an offer, the devil had yet to take him up on it. He was a demon, and sex was so- uninspired. At least try to kill him first, was courtship really dead?

With all the grace of an eldritch terror, Kalamar slipped from the chair where he'd been lounging, to the bed that Njal inhabited. "You can afford a better one now," Kalamar commented as he gave it a few tests, bumping up and down while his tentacles receded back into his frame. "you're a winner, baby." He praised, "We really do make an excellent team." Kalamar inspected his nails at the comment, still playing over the image of Njal and Elokian battling it out for supremacy, all that was missing was full penetration. "What do you want for dinner?"

[witchernjal]

"Yeah, I guess so." The thought had crossed his mind when he had been stood there in front of that crowd. The other thought was that he didn't want to be some Iskaran that these Lysarans found entertaining because he played their game. Njal was not going to let himself be under the thumb of anyone else again. He'd been thrown into Witcher's Watch because his parents would have rather save themselves than their own child. He hated it and he hated them. The thought of fighting in front of this crowd again though? It might have interested him a bit. They were interested in seeing him again. But he would be lying if he didn't say the prize didn't call to him, too. "It will and I'll be collecting it." Naturally.

He could see the way the wheels were turning in Torsten's head though. Njal had never lied to his closest friend, but this was one thing he wasn't going to mention. He'd earned this, hadn't he? If he hadn't asked, Kalamar wouldn't have helped. Would he have won if he hadn't had help? Maybe not. Or maybe he would have. Njal was of the belief that he would have so really the devil's help was of no concern to him. And the last thing he needed was for Torsten to know that he owed a devil a debt. "I'm always careful. Don't worry about me." Easier said than done, he was sure. "Oh, you'll have to pry this money out of my fucking hands." It would probably sit somewhere until he was dead and gone. "Maybe I'll give it all to you. You know, since you'll be dying second and all," he joked.

"Well, you have to compete again after that showing." The city would be talking about the Iskaran witcher, to much fanfare, for weeks to come, though the invitation to the Primus would only hold for that match. These Lysarans hired gladiators through Ludi, Njal wouldn't be able to compete forever unless he worked within at least one. "The Primus will probably have an even higher prize."

It wasn't for Torsten to pry, the hellfire had been a dead giveaway, while the Lysarans were ignorant of what a witcher might have up their sleeve - the Kingsguard was not. He trusted Njal implicitly, but he cared about him too much not to at least utter a few words of warning. A mithril hand moved to cup the other's features as he did his best to cradle it firmly, but affectionately. "Just be careful," he grinned, releasing him, "and try not to spend your earnings all at once." Neither of them were used to having much in their pockets.