#int.w/aytac

[witchertorsten]

@princessxaytac location: Nornwatch Keep notes: boss lady doing the damn thing

From serfs to nobles, the Legion's armory had been picked clean and everyone that could stand to hold a sword, would. Aytaç had seen to it that anyone who could defend what remained of their lives, should the need arise, would. What remained of them was not much, children strong enough to do so were holding shields from chin to knee, and women who'd only ever been wives were reforging themselves as shieldmaidens. Iskarans had a culture of fighting and battle, but many of the refugees were servants, merchants, traders, and farmers. For every warrior that had made it through the pass, there was a half dozen who had only ever used an ax to chop wood, or a hammer to break down metals.

Aytaç's command had been easy to follow, and the witchers followed suit as they led drills alongside the princess. It was what her father would have done, rather than sitting idle and waiting for misfortune to fall, he'd have given them a sword and told them to get ready. Idle hands fed the flames of disquiet, but make the people work - hunt, skin, tan, train, and repeat over again - and they'd be too preoccupied to fear what might come or what the road ahead could cold.

"Princess." Torsten's fist closed over his chest in a short bow denoting intended respect as they stood over a group of youths sharpening sticks into stakes to nail behind the walls if someone tried to jump over them. Ramparts and reinforcements - it was the least any of them could do. "A word?"

[alucardrakul]

@princessxaytac location: Nornwatch Keep notes: prior to the Last Night, sometime during the second week when people were getting real sick and shit.

Red eyes peered down the scope at the small science of the tissue he'd collected from the recently slain ghoul. Dead cells holding the blight were still alive in their own way; this wasn't new information, not for the legionnaire. Iskrates was grotesque in his way but the product of his research couldn't be denied; that was the purpose of this order, unbeholden to the laws of a nation, the legion would do that which was necessary to combat the true enemy. The dark did not care for morality.

"This wing is off limits." Alucard remarked as he heard the door creak open, his gaze shifted from the scope to the intruder as he took in the princess that stood in the doorway. He'd been raised under a Queen of night and terror, beauty was always deceiving. "Even to royalty." He added, that though he made no motion to bid her to leave, the dhampir could indulge some curiosity as long as it didn't dampen what they were working towards. "Fortunately the old man isn't here to complain your ear off." Loose skin that hung to the floor with a look of death about him, Iskrates's face alone was enough to make people avoid this place.

[witchertorsten]

The weariness that plagued the people's eyes when they made it through the pass had been traded with something else. Determination. Rage. Good, Torsten was glad; those two traits alone might just be enough for half of them to make it to the Queendom; that alone felt ambitious though. Vigor that was found with a weapon in their hand, and a purpose - be it rebuilding ramparts and digging trenches, or training for the inevitable conflicts that would roll over them.

"There was a break-in in the storeroom last night, we tracked the thief within the Keep, but the man responsible ate at least a week's rations." Food was short as it was, the game was most often corrupted, and the taint would kill a person just as quickly as the Aetherians that had chased them from Iskaldrik. Here, at the edge of the world, they were frozen in place while the dark descended upon them with ruthless ambition. "It's possible he did not act alone; I wanted to know how you would have us proceed." Ormir had his opinions on the rule, Afshin had an opinion on everything, but he was curious about what the princess would say. Torsten already knew what High King Orhan would have decreed, the witchers had done it countless times before. Torture and forced labor.

High King Orhan Gökhan had been a force to be reckoned with. He’d had no patience for those unwilling to fight, for those who’d show their belly instead of drawing their sword. He had been a warrior, a leader, the strongest man that Aytaç had seen in her life; even amid the kingsguard and witchers who laid down their lives for the Gökhan family. And in turn for the lessons her father had bestowed within her, Aytaç had turned him into a mad man, muttering from within the shadows as if sanity had never once been denoted to him.

It may have been one of the many reasons she’d gathered those who could fight, from the children to the women. She had offered them all that she could, from words of hope to what food she could spare, and now they would repay her for these kindnesses. Especially the women, who had stood for too long behind their husbands, sons; behind the men that had told them they were not made for this life. The kingdom had fallen, many of the men had been lost, and it was finally the time for the women to show they were every bit as capable as their counterparts.

A gloved hand rested upon the hilt of her sword, elegant dress traded in for clothes that she could fight in, that gave her every bit of an appearance to the shieldmaiden that she had become. Her gaze had been upon a few, before the sound of a familiar voice drew it away. Torsten, a friend from her past, a witcher amid the kingsguard. And the proof of what happened to some proven to have magic under her father's rule. "Of course," she mused, before she turned to another of the witchers, offering something akin to an order. "Is something amiss?"