#hrimthurs

[monstersoffilgaia]

[prcspero]

closed starter for @vuldak-juneau location: hrimthur's outpost note: dawuh numba 2

Alessia was still gone, nowhere to be found. Alrik was struggling with that loss as much as Prospero had expected the witch would. Then again, he didn't want to consider it a loss. It wasn't one and it wouldn't be. Hrimthur's Outpost was safe for now, but they had to go save the ones that had been taken. As much as he didn't really care if the others made it back, he still wanted to help. Alessia was important to him now and he had made a promise. They would all make it to Lysara. All three of them. So they would have to get her back. In preparation for the fight ahead though, Prospero did what he did best. He had a drink. This was only drink one though and it was the only one he would allow himself because he certainly was no master of drunken fist fighting. Turning his head, he looked at his company. "Do you plan on joining our gang to go save our fellow refugees from darkspawn?" He took another sip of his drink as soon as the question left his mouth and then continued. "It'll be a grand time, don't you think?" It wouldn't be.

[alrikhart]

NAME: Alrik Hart                                             TAGGING: Alessia Hart & Prospero LOCATION: Hrimthur’s Wasteland, Ymir’s Northern Spine      TIMEFRAME: Morning of “The Last Night” through “Hrimthur’s Wastelands.” NOTES: In which Alrik goes it alone for a while before rallying with the rest of the troupe.     CONTENT WARNING: Depression, Psychosis, Violence, & Blood. 

think of a flame;

[witchernjal]

closed starter for @witchertorsten location: hrimthur's outpost note: yo fellas is it gay to work out with your boys?

Maybe when he was younger, Njal would have felt a different way about the difficulties they seemed to be facing at every turn. Back then, he would have been concerned about the loss of so many Iskarans. He would have been jumping at any chance to fight even more darkspawn. Actually, he didn't need a reason to want to do that. Nowadays at least. Now Njal couldn't care less than he did about the casualties or the people that had been taken. Well, maybe he did. The princess was down there along with a witcher like himself and the jarl. Did he want to save any of them out of the goodness of his heart? No, absolutely not. It would make him look good though. And then there would be the jarl living to fight another Holmgang one day. It would be good if they lived for those reasons alone though.

Anyway, if they needed bodies to go out into certain danger, Njal would be the first one volunteering. Oh, that sounded better than even that last night at Nornwatch Keep. The thought left his head as he moved his own sword to block Torsten's swing. "Do I really have to use the sword?" The corners of his mouth lifted up into a smile. "Your sword's pretty big, Torsten. You overcompensating?" He used that small moment as he spoke to push his sword so that he could put distance between them.

[ormir]

Location: Hrimthir’s Outpost, after The Lost Ones were zapped back

With: @etienneulven (& Goose)

It was the first time in weeks that there was no crush of refugees grouped around their cookfire, no stampede of children running through the stables. Walking the dark, gusty corridors of the outpost felt like shrinking within the great halls of some haunted castle. The four men were locked in the haze for the night, one of them freshly branded, days off course with only pebbles to show for it. The splinter’s setback meant they were stretching the watch’s remaining rations.

Like most other functions, Ormir’s appetite was ruined by nerves, but he forced the measly bit of food down. He sat close enough to the fire that every breath filtered the dry smoke, but the thaw barely seemed to touch him. The King occupied his thoughts. A whine pierced the air, and Ormir’s head turned sharply to the source. The wolf, ‘Goose’, stared from beyond the edge of the fire’s light. Dried blood from the frostbiters and giants had gelled the fur beneath his jaw into spikes. A clear strand of drool dripped from the ripping ivory spears in his mouth. Fear lurched, but Ormir willfully grappled the feeling from the deciding fore of his mind. He ripped an oily tear of meat from his portion of salted mackerel. Cautious, stern eyes followed every tick in the wolf’s movements. Saliva filled his mouth around the mush of food as he hesitated. Once sense was regained, The Hand tossed the morsel into the snow in Goose’s direction. He swallowed and wiped the grease onto his robes. His hands shook.

“Good dog.” Ormir muttered.

[alucardrakul]

@vicoya location: Hrimthur's Outpost notes: emo boy and sunshine girl

Misery permeated the paths that the legionnaires had spent their time carving out through Ymir's Northern Spine. The Wastes were treacherous and the Iskarans had lost more over the cliffs than Alucard cared to consider, but they'd made it to the broken village of stone, and for the first time in over a month, the spirits of these refugees had lifted. The Legion of the Dead were without their field commander, Deidameia. Iskrates, their archivist, had also perished in the battle and what few secrets had survived Nornwatch Keep were carried on the backs of the Legion.

Admittedly, Alucard knew little of druids and their secrets. The elvhen did not smile kindly either on their vampiric cousins - but here in the midst of this broken ruin that was once a bustling metropolis was a waygate etched in runes far too intricate for even his eyes to digest. In the distance he heard the songs that rose from the refugees, Alucard could feel the warmth from their fires, and the light that filtered laughter that felt premature.

Iskarans were known for their mistreatment of witches and the supernatural as a whole. Alucard had suffered the withering glances of these refugees that had been pushed from their homes; they didn't trust a creature of the night, they didn't trust anything that lived a life that they deemed unnatural.

Alucard had no mind to join them, nor did he really know how. When they arrived in Lysara, word would need to be sent to Commander Silas Dagon at Amon Sûl, the darkspawn were more organized than even they had predicted.

"It's hard to believe that long ago this used to be-" whatever this was. "someplace important, it's easy to forget how fragile things are." How easy it was to forget a thing once it had been broken and thrown away. "You should join the party." Alucard commented over his shoulder, he recognized the sound of Vicoya's boots in the snow, her steps, like Riandur's were a pair that the dhampir knew well by now.

[vicoya]

Location: Hrimthur's Outpost With: @prcspero Notes: nvm me post starter today bc I'm feeling inspired hehe

After spending the day healing and nearly exhausting her magic, Vicoya wasn't sure why she felt like tiring herself out more. Perhaps, deep down, she knew it would be easier to fall asleep later if she was on the verge of collapse. Not a healthy sleeping habit in the slightest, but sleep aids were needed with the anxious thoughts and nightmares fighting to keep her awake.

Plus, today, she was angry. She'd healed elderly, children. Refugees who didn't deserve any of this, she thought, even if she didn't know them personally. Even if they gave her odd stares and shifted uncomfortably at the sight of her magic. No one deserved to have their home destroyed. She would know.

Now, she was taking out her emotions on a make-shift training dummy that had been cobbled together with loose hay, sticks, and cushions. She wasn't the strongest, physically by any means, but she could almost convince herself otherwise as she drove the silver, bladed end of her stave into the dummy over and over. Her stave was an unwieldy thing at times, nearly as tall as her and thus requiring two hands if she wanted to slash and stab with the sharper end. The top end was an orb made of onyx, with cloudy shadows churning about inside - a helpful focus for her magic. Regardless of which end part of the staff she used, you didn't want to be on the other end.

She made one last stab at the dummy before she paused her assault, needed to gasp for air before continuing. Coya dug her staff upright into the snow, making it sturdy so she could prop herself up with it. Now that she had a moment of rest, she took in her surroundings, and realized someone had been watching her. Prospero. A familiar face from the battlefield she'd met just a few days prior. Friendly, she assumed, but she didn't know him well enough yet to say for sure. She invited him closer, so she could find out.

"I hope you haven't been there long! I'm afraid this isn't much of a show." A breathless chuckle as she gestured to her tired body, leaning heavily against her staff as she tried not to face plant into the snow.

[lotharx]

starter for @vuldak-juneau.

where: hrimthur’s wastelands.

when: current plot drop timeline

note: feral vuldak and (another?) ornery old man

Lothar liked to believe that navigating the ravenous twists of serpentine mountain tops only made him more proficient within the Wastelands, but it seemed to be more prompted by luck. Many teetered along with injuries sustained from the darkspawn's raiding and it seemed there was still no sign of those who had been abducted to the cavernous depths. His chest rose and fell with the winds which whittled away at even the most seasoned warriors, Lothar included, and he looked near envious, but thoroughly pissed, at those who seemed unaffected by the tumultuous reign of frost and wind.

Hunting proved to be utter shit half of the time; if it wasn't for the elusive creatures they attempted to capture for sustenance, it was often the biting cold that allowed them to profit little to nothing for their efforts. His ax was flung outward towards a figure on the horizon, perimeters had been drawn so as not to overstep on others and squander hunts for nourishment. It spliced into the tree, evident from the sharp crack that resounded through the air; if it'd collided with the soft pelt of an animal, or the plush flesh of another it'd have been a different story. When the figure seemed to stand and proved to be more human than creature, a hand was held out as though in apology, but Lothar was certainly peeved to have been interrupted. "Lucky your heads still on your shoulders," gruffed out, he understood many weren't keen to wander far for any loss of direction from the main group would lead to certain death.

[thequeendomhq]

"Then, the One God said: To you, My second-born, I grant this gift: In your heart shall burn An unquenchable flame All-consuming, and never satisfied.”

Our Road Ahead

Into Hrimthur’s Wastelands the refugees went. For a month they would travel the mountain passes made of ancient stone and twisted like serpents while ice froze the world around them. Mist hung in the frigid air as they traveled up the treacherous cliffsides; the injured carried as they collectively traveled through the snow together. Peaks towered around them from all sides, fjords carved by the Gods themselves sliced the landscape as the traveler navigated narrow passages at the edge of the mountainsides. 

Overhead pregnant dark clouds kept them in perpetual shadows, promising more snow would come. The reprieve of the sun’s light was distant even as they ascended through the banks higher and higher. Thin, rasping air kept them weary and their depleted rations kept them focused on putting one foot in front of the other. The Blight was beneath them now, in the valleys beyond the mountains and those with the taint had not lived long after the Nornwatch Pyre. 

Like glittering stars dotting the landscape, the witchers in their mithril armor scouted to secure the road ahead. Others lingered at the rear and secured those that began to fall behind were hoisted to their feet before they were set forward again. To lag was to risk almost certain death in the coldest, most unforgiving, region of Taravell. 

Into the distance, the peaks soared into the raw sky above, blotted by darkness, their summits were lost in a veil of frosted, swirling mist. In this dark, desolate landscape, there was a raw beauty that spoke of ages past, of battles fought and won, and ofsecrets buried beneath the ice. Stones that glimmered within shone at night, cascading the air with an azure hue that illuminated the snow in places. At night, Hrimthur’s mountains seemed to come alive. Breathing their sigh of auroran air into the sky once the sun set below the horizon; ribbons of these frozen lights shifted and turned about themselves. So close that they writhed atop the Iskarans’s makeshift tents, a companion in the night, but gone by morning’s faded light. 

Every step forward was a struggle against the biting cold, the crunch of snow beneath their boots echoing through the silent valleys. Yet, with each passing mile, the troupe drew closer to their destination, driven by a sense of heroic purpose, or stark defiance against the shadow of death. Iskaldrik was lost behind them, Nornwatch Keep burned in the past, but the promise of Lysara hung like the north star ahead. 

Nornwatch Keep was behind them now. The refugees freeing Iskaldrik were fewer, but still many. Knowledgeable of the terrain and the region, the Legion of the Dead took point. Field Commander Deidameia had died in the assault, without clear leadership the living legionnaires counciled alongside the Iskarans. Witchers, jarls, advisers, and the legionnaires had been plotting their course for weeks, all that remained was to survive. 

The hysteria of Nornwatch had not ended with the executed traitors. The darkspawn’s attack was a nightmare that plagued the minds of everyone, among the troupe some hadn’t spoken since. Children wandered without parents - mothers and fathers ripped underground as the assault made orphans, and widows, out of proudly stubborn Iskarans. They had been caught completely unaware, legionnaires killed from within, and the gate left unlocked. 

Our Trials We’ll Face

Those who could hunt were sent out to do so. These hunters coordinated with the witchers, legion, jarls, and advisors of the crown to mark the maps of the region with potential hunting grounds. Regions with dense forest coverage, and access to fresh water and other resources would be ideal for small and large prey. Rally points were stapled along the way so the hunters could find the troupe when they were successful, checkpoints marked along their paths through the mountains. 

Alone or in small groups, hunters could travel more freely without the cumbersome nature of those who couldn’t navigate the terrain. The horses, the oxen, and the weight of the tents and other necessities for encampment. Among the hunters were legionnaires, witchers, shieldmaidens, jarls, and any able-bodied volunteer willing to risk the dangers of the mountain for assurance that the troupe would survive the travel ahead. Famine and starvation would kill them as surely as the Blight had tried. 

Small, nimble predators like arctic foxes dotted the landscape - watching from a distance with useful, thick fur coats. Hares were a staple of the region, in burrows and more susceptible to snares than arrows. Both blended easily into the landscape, white like the snow and quicker than most of the creatures in the troupe, they’d be spied on in one instance, and then gone in the next. Silent hunters of the night, snow owls patrolled the skies, preying on small rodents and other birds. Moving in herds and seeking patches of vegetation beneath the snow, reindeer roam the valleys and can be tracked more easily than any other. Followed and hunted by other predators, the troupe are not the only hunters after the reindeer, but dire wolves as well. Far larger than their cousins, if those navigating the wilderness aren’t careful, they’ll become the hunted. 

At night, the clouds rumbled in the distance over the greatest peaks in the valley. Groaning in anguish as dramatic clashes of rock and ice shook loose shafts of snow and ice from the sheer faces about them. Witchers spoke of Hrimthursa, towering behemoths of living mountains, battling for dominion over ancient territory. Obscured by swirling blizzards and frozen mists, the closer the troupe would come the more dangerous their journey would be. The ground trampled beneath them, and those who watched the immutable darkness of the valleys below would see the shapes of these ancient behemoths wandering through the valleys below. Felled and fallen from the summit, their footsteps echoed like thunder from the ground below. 

These mountains of Ymir’s most northern Spine are home to other things beyond giants and wolves. Frost Trolls dwell in the deep, labyrinthine caverns that honeycomb through the mountains and the fields below. Cropping up through the ancient mines of an age long forgotten to the annals of time; protected from the glaring light of the sun by the thick clouds of mist, they roam in solitude or small groups hunting and gathering. Their weapons are primitive, their skin hard as stone, and their teeth are hard like daggers do not discriminate between man and beast. 

Beneath the ice are the petrified children of the dark, the draugr. Wights of harrowed flesh and withered bones; soldiers from wars that predate this age of man, they are the undead minions of Lusacan’s prodigies. The draugr are vampiric in nature, however, it’s not blood they crave, but to spread their blight to those they can sink their teeth into. Like ghosts with a physical body, only powerful magic can exorcise them for good, or its antithesis can purge their forms of entropic possession. For those with the ability to do neither, beheading them and torching their bodies is an acceptable alternative. Anyone bitten by these monsters is fated to join the legions of draugr trapped within the ice. 

In the distance there is a roar from a creature that will chill the bone of even the most hardened warrior. Drakes and wyverns are not foreign to the troupe, the Iskarans know these beasts from the mountains that surround their home. They are the lesser children of a greater beast though, one that has awakened after centuries of slumber, growling from the fjords around them, and threatening what little hope remains. 

Our One Hope

Hrimthur’s Outpost. It wasn’t named in any text, or written down on any map, but the name was assigned by the legion rangers who traveled this region before. Shattered, stone homes that are half buried beneath snow and ice with a broken tower at its center. This evidence is all that remains of a proud city that existed in a time that the people have forgotten. 

Runes dot these stones, druidic in origin but to the Iskarans they’d readily claim them as their own. A waygate once existed here but like so many other things it was broken by what they would call a cataclysm. These cold, frozen walls are the only reprieve that the refugees would find after weeks of traveling through the expanse of the wastelands. The Northern Spine of Iskaldrik that saw them trudge endlessly through snow and over ice, their rations gone, and their hope along with it. 

Fires dot the battered homes and line the walls of the tower. The cold wood gathered from old pines does not burn easily, but those familiar with ironwood are well-versed in casting almost anything ablaze. Miserable nights are made more tolerable as the hunters rally at this juncture, holes cut into ice fields yield fish, and reindeer roasts over open flames with the sweet berries plucked from the cold bushes snaking out from cliffs. 

It lacks the mead of a proper feast, but it’s the first good, warm meal that they’ve had in what feels like a lifetime. As the fire dims and thoughts turn towards those that were taken, the looming dangers that lurk in the dark around them are nothing when compared to what lays ahead. These Spines are too cold for the blight to survive, but Isengrim’s Embrace and the Lostlands following will yield horrors unlike any the Iskarans had yet to see. The Legion says this not to quell the flames of the lifting spirits, but to remind them of the vigilance that peace demands. 

What follows is a voice, one that starts small, but is quickly joined by the crowd of refugees. 

“Shadows fall. And hope has fled. Steel your heart. The dawn will come.”

“The night is long. And the path is dark. Look to the sky. For one day soon. The dawn will come.”

The One’s Taken

( tw: childbirth )

All for Mother. 

It became hard to tell if you were waking or dreaming, the song guided your hands and work. This one was weak so you cleaved them in two, pulled back their skin, and cut free their entrails. Scraps for the wargs to fight over, flabby meat to fatten your pack. Sister they called you with blackened gums and pointed teeth, snapping for more as they hungered for the sweet. Brother you remarked as you beat them down, swine should learn where swine should sleep. The best of the best was for Her, the Mother of the brood for only Mother could birth the horde. 

Your hands slipped between the folds as another came screeching into the world. Hideous and beautiful and yours to rear. Snapping at your ankles as you carved off scraps, the sweet, beautiful heart for Mother, but the bones left for them to suckle. Something to gnaw and carve, sharpen their teeth, and help them grow. You used to be…. You can no longer recall, but you see the fields of fire for what they are, a garden and a home so hot it might just be cold. 

More. Mother screams. She needs more. You do not defy but your body moves of its own accord, enthralled and drawn about as your broken boots drag against wailing stones. In the dark, you hear a whisper, a song that reminds you of the girl who ran carefree through the woods. The one who split logs, who lifted a splintered shield, and who did not survive all this time to die nameless in a cave. Your lips part as you join her in song: 

“The Shepard's lost. And his home is far. Keep to the stars. The dawn will come.”

“The night is long. And the path is dark. Look to the sky. For one day soon. The dawn will come.”

The night takes you, tomorrow you begin again. 

OOC info: 

The next troupe update will be on Friday, May 24th.

The Ones Taken are still captive (big sad I know), they're midwives now. Who knows, maybe someday they'll have a brood of their own <3.

After a long hike through the mountains, the troupe reached what used to be a village. RIP.

The full moon will take place after the happy song, and characters affected by the full moon will be made to shift. Fair warning, if they kill anyone in the village they'll be put down :(

Most of Taravell will now have heard about what happened to Iskaldrik, refugees are washing up on the shores of Caribella and Borderreach.

Any vessels or attempts to enter Iskaldrik have disappeared without a trace.

[feathered-serpents]

I think the funniest part of Ragnarok is the way the devs managed to tell a pretty accurate version of how Asgard’s Wall (Hrimthur’s Wall) was built while very pointedly avoiding any implication that Atreus fucks a horse. I know that last sentence just right hooked some of you but you need to understand Loki fucking the horse is a VERY important part of the original Asgard’s Wall myth. It’s like the SOLUTION to the problem in the myth. Because Loki is INSANE

It is hysterical to me to imagine a writer’s room where the question “How do we get this wall built without Atreus fucking a horse?” Was absolutely asked. I would pay ANYTHING to get to be in that room when that question was asked

[suyinskiss]

location: Hrimthur's Outpost with: @strigoisudhir notes: Suyin's looking for her lost puppy

Where was he? Suyin would have checked her time piece if she owned one. After being alive for centuries, she hardly bothered to keep track of time at this point. It was even more pointless to do so in the freezing hell hole she was currently stuck in. An oxymoron, she noted to herself with a bitter smile. The days all seemed to blur together. Everyone was too crowded together and paranoid for her to sneak about and feed properly. She only managed to pick off one refugee thus far, claiming they must have gone missing with the others. Their family had died in the recent attacks, so it's not like anyone would miss them or, more importantly, bother looking for them.

Her proper place was by a warm fireplace in a cushiony chair, her feet propped up while she awaited Sudhir to bring her a more filling dinner. Yet, there wasn't a soft pillow nor loyaly progeny in sight, as far as she could tell. The two of them had been separated after the Darkspawn attacked Nornwatch. He'd obediently told her to run while he held off a group of blighted nasties, and while she could certainly defend herself, she wouldn't risk her own life if she didn't absolutely have to. Perhaps her lovely Sudhir was dead, considering he hadn't clawed his way back to her by now.

Suyin let out an annoyed sigh at the thought. How inconvenient. Loyalty as deep as Sudhir's was hard to come by, even amongst the other progenies she'd sired. Further, she was already plotting the next shiny gem desired for her collection, but it would be hard to acquire it without his expertise in thievery. The only thing about King Orhan's return that had drawn her focus was the glimmering jewel resting upon his pale, decidedly unmoisturized finger, inlaid in gold. Gold had always looked good on her, and she'd never owned a crown jewel before.

Alas, she looked off into the snow drifting before her, mind wandering and spiraling as she tried not to die of boredom. She sat upon a small ledge jutting out of the cliffside of Ymir's Spine, her legs dangling over as she took in the landscape. Not that there was much of note amongst all the white. Her eyes narrowed as a dark shape appeared to inch past - humanoid-shaped, if she wasn't mistaken. Perhaps another straggler for her to pick off before she returned to camp?

[alrikhart]

@froyofthe-ironwood location: Hrimthur's Outpost notes: short and sweet, eventual jestie connect

It was so fucking cold here. Alrik sat, wrapped in furs with his bum leg uselessly propped up. He was meant to be grateful but gratitude wasn't something that came washing off of the witch as of late: some people were saying that there was no chance Alessia was still alive. He'd know if she were dead but from here, in the condition he was in, Alrik couldn't help her. He wasn't sure if anyone could, it'd fall on his sister's shoulders to save herself. He could care less about the others.

This uselessness addled his mind worse than the fall, all he could do was try and keep his mind busy. To pass the time some makeshift boards were made to play stones, Alrik didn't have much of a mind for these types of things, but it was better than nothing. "It's noble," Alrik remarked, "coming back here." If Froy wasn't a druid, he might even be jarl, but Iskaran law would have to change before that ever came to pass - assuming there would ever be such a thing as Iskaran law again. "Your move."

[ormir]

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

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

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

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

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

[alucardrakul]

@etienneulven location: Hrimthur's Wastelands notes: congratulations you've reached the 'attempts small talk' stage

The cold blew down from the mountains and battered the ridges of the mountains; through one of the valleys, the woodsmen had set snares and traps in the hopes of bringing something worth eating back to the troupe. The pair were set to rally with the others come nightfall and since there was no danger of the blight here, Alucard had joined the huntsmen in an attempt to make himself useful while safeguarding the man as well.

That was the justification that Alucard had unnecessarily explained to those who hadn't asked, and to the huntsmen when they'd met up together. Etienne didn't look like he could survive in the wilderness, he looked like a strong wind would blow him away, or if he stood up too quickly he'd get dizzy and fall over. Here he was though, surviving.

"So." Alucard had prepared some tactful questions to broach Etienne with, in his mind they were thoughtful and well articulated, but when he spoke it was with the same blunt directness that followed his candor. "Do you have parents?"

[steadythora]

Lothar was a simple, straightforward kind of man which made his words hold that much more weight to them. He wasn't one to speak with some kind of flourish or agenda. He simply said what he needed to say. There was nothing particularly comforting about him or his words, but she found comfort in them anyway. He helped to remind her that they were fighting for something and all they had to endure wasn't a waste at all. Nothing could be gained by staring at the ashes of the fallen. She had to move forward, so with his invitation she took that next step, following him away. They were Warriors, which meant guild or not they had obligations to those around them. They'd grieve when everyone was safe.

END

A solemn nod of his head was offered as Thora encroached on something Lothar constantly thought of; Death, to be the wretched witness of it. Many within the Warriors Guild would come to meet their maker, a promise under the guild, but Lothar and Thora still stood, durable beneath each battle, their time not yet called upon. It was hardly as sustainable as one believed. Within the guild, there was no hardline of goodness and evil, all were welcomed, and it only allowed a significant spiral when faced with the morality and mortality of it all. Plenty would condemn Thora as though her confession was an act of weakness, but her saying it aloud propelled her farther than any other before her; Lothar was weak because he couldn't say it aloud.

"A dozen more shall die before we reach the border," not a promise but an expectation, each day the weakest of the group was culled it seemed, "But there will be hundreds more who owe their life to you yet." Lothar had never been elegant and poised with his words, but it certainly struck a chord within him to see Thora so enraptured with loss. Grief personified different for everyone, but Lothar took it upon himself now not to let Thora be completely eclipsed with it.

"We fight another day, Blademaster," Lothar motioned for her to follow; there was little to be done in the now when it came to those lost and those captured, but he and Thora could try to create their own tactic, together; there was much for him to learn from a woman of her stature.

[vicoya]

location: Hrimthur's Outpost with: @jamieprice notes: just horsin' around (dis is Mabel)

In the year's since she'd left Ankhuria, Vicoya's horse had been one of her few, constant companions. There had been many nights spent camped out, alone in the wilderness, with only a fire and Mabel for company. Coya spent much of her free time brushing and caring for her animal friend, as it was a nice and productive distraction from her anxious thoughts. Further, Mabel had carried her weight for years now, and Coya tried to repay her anyway she could.

Now, however, her trembling fingers smoothed down Mabel's light, chestnut coat, as she tried desperately to keep them both warm. Mabel's reigns were tied to an old, stone pillar, and a small fire had been light nearby to dethaw the pair. They'd just spent days hiking through the frigid cold - weather Mabel wasn't fully prepared to withstand. Vicoya felt horrible, putting her dear friend through such a trek, but she hadn't anticipated such a journey. No one had, obviously, which made it all the harder.

Vicoya shrugged off the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and placed it on top of Mabel's back. It barely covered her, but it at least warmed Vicoya's heart to know she was doing everything she could. That's all she ever tried to do. Coya rested her forehead on Mabel's side as they stood together, and with her eyes closed, she didn't notice the stranger that had crept ever closer.