#nornwatch keep.

[afshinxeldar]

closed starter for @freydis-freydat location: nornwatch keep note: "afshin, there are people dying"

Icefang the Undefeated and Unbowed. That was what their people called her, their one female jarl. Afshin knew of anyone and everyone of importance in Iskaldrik, but this one held special interest to him. In a kingdom where women were not to rule, she had proved stronger than the jarl before her. He admired that and he always would. It reminded him of his sister. She was a shieldmaiden that was also the princess. She could have been the heir, but she had been passed over for someone like Afshin that didn't ever care to pick up a sword or fight any of his own battles. There had been several times where the thought passed in his head that it would have been best for him to be sent to the mines, never to return again. What would his father do then? The throne would have to go to his daughter, wouldn't it? Then again, those thoughts would never come to fruition if Aytac had anything to say about it. His dear sister was always looking out for him and he could only hope that these other jarls would respect him. Starting with Freydis.

A sigh left his mouth as he dropped down into the seat next to her. "Freydis. How are you faring?" She was someone of importance therefore she would always have his respect. Enough for him to be civil at least. For now.

[afshinxeldar]

In all honesty, he had known exactly what he would get when it came to Thora. She was always going to tell him exactly what she thought without care for how he was going to feel about it. Eldar never much minded because, well, of course he wouldn't. The changeling didn't mind if she yelled at or tried to kill him at any given moment. A few insults thrown his way was nothing he wasn't used to. This time, it felt a little different though. It felt like he was keeping so much from her because he was. How was he ever supposed to just say what he needed to say? Unfortunately, protecting Afshin was always going to be his priority. Without the prince, he had absolutely nothing. He was just some elvhen with the blight that had been given a second chance.

"I knew you were generous," was all he said in response to her threat of her being the one to take the first strike instead of Kari. He wouldn't have expected any less than that. But then there was her follow up. Clearly, she was annoyed. Why wouldn't she be? All he did was give her a run-around all the time because he couldn't tell her anything. Why would anyone ever trust someone like that? And he couldn't really do anything to fix it given the fact that he would have to disappear yet again. It was exactly what she had mentioned and he was going to have to prove her right every single time no matter how badly he wished to prove her wrong.

A hand ran down his mouth as he stood up and looked down at her. As much as he felt the intensity of her words radiating off of her, it wouldn't have been Eldar if he didn't try and annoy her one more time before he left. So he simply rose a brow and tilted his head. "Spit on my corpse? You promise?" He didn't wait for a response as he finally headed off so that the prince could make his appearances. There were sure to be people looking for him. And not Eldar.

END.

Kari was Thora's second half. They made up for each other's slack and worked as a single unit. It helped to have a massive dire wolf bearing her fangs at time, especially considering Thora's build didn't immediately conjure faith in her abilities as a blademaster. That's what made her companion's bond so strong to the point where they practically shared emotions. If Thora held any genuine feelings of hostility towards Eldar, Kari would be reacting to that now.

Instead, her companion allowed Eldar to pet her to a certain point. She didn't growl or snap at him, but she did let his had remain in her dark fur until she pulled away, uninterested in being considered a pet. Based on how Thora felt about him, Eldar wasn't someone she needed to bite at the very least. Thora, however, understood that sometimes you could tolerate someone and want to stab them at the same time. "That's right. When I want her to, she'll take you down so watch yourself. Though let's be real, when it comes to you I'd rather give the first strike myself, out of respect."

That's right, she had a reputation to maintain. Sure the loss of her home had her shaken and the loss of her parents had her clinging to the familiar, but her tongue spoke no lies. Thora didn't need Eldar even if she wanted him around at the present moment. And she couldn't let him forget that. "You know what? Your whole cryptic thing may have gotten your attention in taverns, but I'm over it. Protect what you want then, at least I did my part and tried to warn you better." This was always something that bothered Thora about Eldar. How could she trust anyone who was so clearly hiding something? His secrets were his business, and Thora had too much dignity to try and chase after some man to uncover his mystery. "Just know that if your stupidity leads to your demise, I won't martyrize you. I'll spit on your corpse as I burn it and move on with my life."

[afshinxeldar]

closed starter for @ormirlocation: nornwatch keep note: troupe 1 shenanigans

A part of Afshin wondered if he should visit his father where he was staying. The other part of him, most importantly Eldar, was telling him otherwise. He had chosen to go with the former option that he felt like he instantly regretted. His father was slowly losing his mind, barely even a man that could rule at this point. It wouldn't last forever though. Eventually, the man would be free from the poison flowing through his veins and would be free to make decisions for the good of Iskaldrik again. Where would that leave Afshin? Where would that leave his sister or the huscarl for conspiring? Would their involvement even matter? They were no supernatural beings. They were human just like what was expected of people with any sort of power in Iskaldrik. Yet the only heir was not. Afshin was on borrowed time when it came to his father. Once, he had feared going to the mines. Now he wasn't sure what would happen if the old man ever found out. Or maybe Afshin would be lucky and take the throne with no hiccups. That seemed like wishful thinking though.

As he sat outside of his father's quarters, his leg bounced rapidly as he stared at a spot on the floor. His thoughts were moving a mile a minute, so much so that he didn't acknowledge anyone's presence for quite some time. It wasn't until he saw Ormir that he actually lifted his head to speak. "I cannot tell if he will be well soon or not." He looked back down at the familiar spot on the ground, voice lowering. "Perhaps it would be best if it were the former."

[lunadarkwoodx]

Who: Troupe 1, Brood Mother victims only Where: Cavern where the Darkspawn had captured them

A hunger gnawed in her stomach, her heart was in her throat and yet heartbreak and fear were so present that they had stolen her away into the land of waking dreams. Life was too raw that it didn't feel real, a haze of misery and with such horrors abound, consequences didn't feel as if they could touch her until a cold and sharp realization would creep upon her and pierce the armor that she tried to wear around her soul.

The Darkspawn threw food in their direction, grey and looking as if they been made from human flesh. "Don't eat that, it's better to starve then to let the blight in."

[freydis-freydat]

Who: @vicoya Where: Caer Glass When: Miss Sunshine’s Big Ole Birthday Notes: The parade was in the morning. 

It was nothing short of a trek from Haven to where Caer Glas Keep sat watch over the bay between the Silverlands and the Feywilds, but Freydis was happy to make it. She had come to town a few days early, affording herself plenty of time to meet up with the artisan she had written to in order to commission a gift for her Legionnaire friend. The extra time permitted Freydis to be certain the gift was completed with the proper care, quality, and attention to detail. As the once-jarl rode a borrowed horse to a pasture near the keep she couldn’t help but miss her own horse. It had been a gift from another jarl, a foal that came into its own at the same pace Freydis had as a young noble. It was the first horse she had owned and trained for the sake of enjoyment rather than for labor, and she had loved it fiercely until she had parted ways with it during the initial flight toward Nornwatch. She had offered it up to an elderly man struggling to keep up, a quiet pact made between them that the steed would be returned to her once they were in the safety of the watchtower. The fates had divined so many cruel turns of events since then, and it was more than Freydis could manage to think of what fate befell that elderly man or her horse. But it allowed her to understand Vicoya’s widely known love for her own horse, Mabel. 

Freydis was not necessarily expecting a formal party. The other members of the legion she had met didn’t seem the type, especially the dark-haired moody one who seemed to be the catalyst for the event. But she noticed Etienne keeping the broody-looking host company, and suspected if he was someone Etienne approved of then there was more to him than what met the eye. She balanced the box meant for Vicoya in her arms as she looked for the familiar red-headed woman. With her signature, fiery locks–and it being that she was the reason for the festivities in the first place–it did not take long to find her. 

For some time now, every waking minute had felt like a violent tug-of-war between her head and her heart. In the night, her lucid dreaming felt like a nightly snipping of the sutures she spent every morning carefully placing in an attempt to sew back together her bleeding heart. But the last few days had had moments of levity, windows of time where her memories of the arches didn’t eclipse all else. This was one of those moments. Patiently, Freydis waited for Vicoya to have a small gap between chatting with her fellow Legionnaires and greeting the guests who had made the trip to celebrate her. 

“Happy birthday, Vicoya,” Freydis greeted, balancing the gift box on her hip as she used her free arm to loop around Vicoya in a warm, enthusiastic hug. So many of their conversations had been heavy, tear-stained affairs, but they had bonded over stronger matters than misery alone by now. Even so, it was a welcome change of pace to enjoy her company in a circumstance that demanded pure celebration. “I’ve brought you something, but I’m sure you’re busy–you don’t have to open it now. I just want to make sure it doesn’t get displaced.”

[prcspero]

"Well, the trees in Northreach are vast. Several forested creatures." He paused to think back because it had been some time since he had last been there. He wondered if anything had changed since then. Places in Lysara were always changing and evolving. He hoped that Northreach was the same. Maybe one day they wouldn't have the looming threat of those beasts, but that might have been wishful thinking. Anyway, he was supposed to be telling her something good about Lysara. "I think you'd like it there. I spent a lot of time running through the fields when I was growing up. It's the only place that really seems like home these days." And yet he hadn't gone back yet. The memories would have to be good enough.

"Of course it will." He agreed with Luna on that front. All of this would pass. That was something all of them had to believe in order to make it out of this alive. Prospero had people to look out for now and he wanted to make sure they got to where they were going so that they could indeed taste clean air again. It was awfully stale at Nornwatch. "I'll be sure to be your tour guide as much as you were mine here for that short amount of time."

"Tell me of the nature, do they have tall trees or forested creatures?" As she kept a gaze on the blighted ground that surrounded the Nornwatch tower, she decided she did not care for goodness or happy endings, she only hoped to one day reach a place where people are happy and safe. Darkspawn moved in between trees who have rotted with sickness and where only rot grew, despair pressed at her shoulders and she had a feeling of apprehension that they wouldn't going to make it to their final destination alive.

A laugh hollowed with lack of mirth breezed from her lips and she could feel herself hardening, before now she had not realized how soft and full of comfort her life was, she had always worked hard and grown calluses on her hands from days spent wielding an axe and chopping Ironwood and yet she was completely unprepared for the terrors that lie ahead. "It'll be long before we're able to taste clean air again but it will taste so sweet once we finally do, even if we are in a land sick with blight, I must keep hope that this will pass too."

[etienneulven]

Person: @eivorxelvhen Location: Nornwatch Keep, during thee last night "Thanks." He breathes the word, chest still heaving where he leans against the stone wall of the keep, eyes wide as he looks to the man who'd slayed the darkspawn that'd caught him off guard. There's not many left in comparison to how they'd spilled in earlier and wolf senses of strength be dammed, he's exhausted. The knives on him, the small hand axe, they're all tainted with blood of all of those that had weaseled into the keep. "You alright?" Swallowing, he looks from where Goose is going to town on the slain creature at his feet to look back to assess the man who'd ran a sword through it first.

[alrikhart]

@alessiathepath location: Nornwatch Keep notes: family bonding

There was an adage about surviving the war and living through everything that would come after, but the two had yet to survive this. They would because, of course, they would, but there had been a moment when the mages had descended upon Yggdrasildal, when the fighting had started, and the explosions had gone off that Alrik wondered if this was where their thread ended. He'd never worried that Alessia hadn't made it; if his sister was dead, Alrik would have known.

Stories had power, and Iskarans were fond of their oral traditions; in the years to come, depending on how things unfolded, the Aetherians would be viewed as either bloodthirsty conquerors or liberators who'd broken the chains of countless witches and other supernatural creatures. The truth was that neither of these things felt entirely honest; conquerors may be indiscriminate killers, but for every soul they liberated, there had to be another four that were clapped in irons.

They had survived; they always did; now, here they were at some frost-ridden keep that reeked of death and blight, sitting at the edge of the world, waiting for their liberators to come set what remained of their world on fire. Alrik could focus on the positive; being alive was something to look forward to, but no one told them anything - where they were going, what they would do from here. They'd walked for weeks through the dark just to find a ruin of criminals and legionnaires who thought they would make a difference here.

"What do you think this is anyway?" The legion called it mead, but Alrik wasn't entirely convinced the deadmen hadn't pissed in a barrel and passed it around to the refugees. Alrik looked about the crowded space, women weeping as they held their children, grown men who hadn't seen the sun in weeks staring idly through the broken rafters towards the clouded sky above. Misery and shock.

[haelimthewatcher]

Date: BIRTHDAY SURPRISE PARTY Location: Outside Caer Glas Keep Characters: @vicoya & @haelimthewatcher Notes: thanks for the fireworks alucard

Parties, back in Iskaldrik, were violent or sordid affairs amongst the young Witchers. All of them young and hot-blooded, full of hormones and poison and violent-tendencies. Parties in Nornwatch were small affairs, quiet and intimate and rarely did they have much to celebrate with. But here... perhaps this was Haelim's first look at what a real party should be like. He didn't know enough to help with the organization, but he did help set everything up and gave his expertise on what Vicoya loved. He went on a flight with Daewonsa only a few nights ago to try to figure out how to gift the person who meant most to him something... anything good. He peered into shops, he walked among the merchant's bazaar. Nothing. All their time together, Haelim had only gifted her picked herbs and little trinkets he carved out of wood. He played Iskaran songs on his flute on her special days, songs everyone knew and could enjoy. But, so close to civilization, he had to try to find a better gift. He had some money to spend.

Haelim ended up finding jewelry he would have wanted to buy, if only he'd had enough gold. Instead, he settled on a little vase that he could afford, one with lovely flowers painted on it. A vase Vicoya could put some flowers within, and a decoration for her room to make it feel like home. Little did he know that fragile things like that did not do well on bumpy wyvern flights. It wasn't until he got back to Caer Glas Keep and the day of her party came that he realized her present had, indeed, broke within the box. There was no time to find another now. He wasn't sure he'd ever been so brave at the moment that he stuffed something else into his pockets and wrapped up the box. The party was going wonderfully thus far and he loved to see Vicoya surrounded by the people who loved her most.

By the time night fell completely and Alucard announced fireworks, he sat at her side, in complete awe of the lights as they lit up the sky. It was the first time the Witcher had seen them, and his eyes were glued up until the very end. But Haelim happened to glance to see Vicoya's reaction as the fireworks started to stop, and the smile on her face made his all the more wide. He couldn't look away from her after that. "Happy birthday," Haelim said again, though he'd already wished her the same at breakfast. It was her first one, in many years, back home in Lysara. She seemed happy and it kept the smile on his face. "How are you feeling? It hasn't been too much, I hope."

[prcspero]

Prospero merely stared at the man as he mentioned his One God. The druid was not one to yuck someone's yum, but he damn well almost did after that one. However, his mother had always told him if he didn't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. Did he listen to that all the time? Absolutely not. As a matter of fact, Prospero spoke far too much most of the time and he was pretty sure people got annoyed every single time regardless of their reactions that may have stated otherwise. "Sure. Keep the hope alive," he stated with a thumbs up. After, he moved to place his hat atop his head. He'd be devastated if that went missing. "You're alright. No overstepping." There was a beat before he stood up and tilted his hat towards the other. "I best be on my way though. I'll see you around?"

“And you are entitled to believe as you would like, but I believe the One God would not have put me in this path if there was no possibility of survival,” Mikhael confesses softly, voice firm and determined. His faith guides him even now, on the coldest of nights. And it will remain guiding him forever more, until his body is cold and his spirit gone. He will bask before his god then, and know that his faith had not wavered even once, despite the constant fear that has guided him through his entire life. “I am more than willing to share my hope, or to keep it going if you feel like you cannot do it yourself at this point.”

There is a sincerity in his voice that it’s almost awkward to express, but does not undermine the realness of it all. If others are too hopeless, he is more than willing to keep the burden of hope and hold it steady until they are ready to hope again. It doesn’t make it any less awkward to explain, though, and he feels his cheeks heat as he looks away. 

“Pardon me, I feel like I might have overstepped there.”

[thequeendomhq]

"A good story you don't really write, it was always there, you just uncover it."

A summary of short stories and perspectives following the events of the Iskaran refugees traveling from their Kingdom to the Queendom of Lysara.

Alessia Hart - "Untitled"

In which, Alessia is abducted from Nornwatch Keep and transported to a broodmother below Isengrim's Embrace.

Someone screamed in the back of her mind, someone who was running in the woods and magical, someone who bit the ear off a Witcher and defeated any trial Ymir’s Spine threw at her. Every morning when she woke up the familiar scream was more desperate. Still, the witch could barely hear it over the cries of wailing newborn creatures and roaring Mother.

Alder - "The Tale of a Fallen Blade"

In which, Alder becomes attuned to his new sword, and from it forges a new purpose.

The vision ended in a flash as the man took a deep breath and used what was left of his strength to charge forward only to meet the cold touch of her cursed blade, and Alder opened his eyes to the world of present. He could feel the sweat running down his face, the wet feeling of his shirt’s cloth, but more than anything, he could feel the will of his blade, the power which it ensued, and the need for a master to wield it, one that could be no other than him for he’d saved it from the unworthy hands of the Forsaken Legionnaire. Now it was finally his, and so was its wish for revenge - a new purpose.

Alrik Hart - "Alone"

In which, Alrik travels from Nornwatch Keep to Hrimthur's Outpost and is separated from the refugees along the way.

The gentle flames of a soft fire stirred before Alrik’s blurred eyes, the smell of roasted meat came next, and last was the choir of a song he remembered his father singing when he was young. He leaned against something warm and sturdy, smelled worn leather and mead. The All-Father had welcomed him home and in the sweet quiet of mental stillness his father had not died and his sister had not been taken. Memory returned and panic followed, but another’s arms held his beaten body close.

Arros - "Burnt Child"

In which, Arros joins the Legion of the Dead following the events of Isengrim's Embrace.

You drank from the goblet, you heard the screams, the roars, the unnatural and sickening calls from the other side, you were certain you had more poison than blood running through your veins. You hurt. Like someone’s taken sanding paper to your bones, bruises riddling every inch of you that has blood enough to call itself alive, because you damn fucking sure don’t feel like you are.

Aytaç Gökhan - "ᛗᛟᚢᚾᛏᚨᛁᚾ ᚺᛟᛗᛖ"

In which, Aytaç (slays) remembers who she is, a daughter of Manetheren and one of Hrimthur's Heirs.

the questions spiraled within her head, offering no answers to her. each question spurred on another question, which brought forth another, and another, and another. perhaps if she found afshin, ormir, her father — perhaps they would know something that she did not. some clue that would lead her to answers that she seemed so desperate to find for herself now. but what would she tell them? what would she offer them of all that she had learned? would she be forthcoming, or would she be selfish once reunited?

Etienne Ulven - "Frost Pears"

In which, Etienne reflects on the events over the last couple of months while enjoying a prized snack.

Etienne doesn't know if it can just be him again. For when he's alone with himself, he's standing in a room with a stranger. There's this thing under his skin and it is so wild and it is hurt, bleeding from the wound that'd reopened. Grieving his father a second time while cursing that he'd never just told him about all of this, dealing with the frustration he had all of these questions to ask a man who was no longer there, it hurts.

Fharzai - "Long Night"

In which, Fharzai dreamwalks during the events of "The Last Night" and is attacked by Munin.

For the rest of the night he fought for his life, trashing his place in the process. It hurt to be slashed and it hurt to be so violent, but what other choice did he have? By the time morning came, he’d managed to smash the blight’s body with a chair until the wood splintered in his hands. Even when the creature stopped twitching and the pain from wood fragments in his flesh matched the sting of the gashes across his body, Fharzai continued to pound as if the nightmare could walk again at any moment.

Freydis - "I Knew My Heart Would Break"

In which, Freydis is guided through the mist by a cat sith and decides to walk the path of one of the fey-touched.

Tove allowed her head to fall back, the twining antlers that had sprung from her tilting back and tangling with the loose strands of the willows she had planted to replace the cairns of her parents long, long ago mingling amongst their prongs and brushing against the skin of her shoulders and her tearstained cheeks. They reminded her of her mother’s golden hair, the sound of her voice telling her: “You were enough, before and after. By any name. You were always enough.” 

Froy - "Froy's Oath

In which, Froy reflects on the road so far and bids farewell to his nation once and for all.

"My brave boy," she began, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. "In every storm, there's a moment of calm. Find that calm in your heart and let it guide you. Don't let fear anchor you. Sail with the wind, and trust your compass."

Lothar - "ᛏᛁᛗᛖ, ᛞᛖᚢᛟᚢᚱᛖᚱ ᛟᚠ ᚨᛚᛚ ᚦᛁᛜᛊ"

In which, Lothar polishes his ax and wipes at the violence of the past.

The violence of life, how he’d become everything he sought to destroy. What worth was a lucky shot? As never ending as violence was, luck was not in such abundance. Lothar peered down at the runes that were indicative of this - lucky shot - a cruel mockery considering how unlucky his life truly had been. Riddled with scars, perpetuated by loss; the memory of everything he’d once ever cared for had crumbled beneath the Aetherians and his knuckles now turned white as he thought of returning. He’d made a promise, to those captured, and even those lost, that he’d be back to avenge them all.

Luna - "Untitled"

In which, Luna joins the Legion of the Dead.

The werewolf had found where she belonged and she knew she wouldn’t face the darkness alone, not with her trusty stead Steve the forest cat by her side.

Ormir - "Bite the Hand"

In which, Orhan calls on his trusted advisor after sobering from his madness.

A moat of clarity found Ormir then, shivering in the deepest reach of the wastes. Despite Orhan’s better sense, in full knowing the depth of his wounds and the voracity of Ormir’s unending cravings, he’d fed him. Perhaps some part of him had always known that the stray he’d brought in from the frozen wilds would someday draw blood, and kept him close, anyway. For reasons Ormir couldn’t understand, he’d let the rabid beast into the nursery where his children slept, and sat idly as they were reared in its image, sprouting fangs of their own. Perhaps Orhan had understood the torment of all of his family’s transgressions and loved them still. Their prize was admittedly hollow and their peace stolen in his absence.

Riandur - "In war, victory. In peace, vigilance."

In which, Rian reflects on the past and his current station of Field Officer for the Lysaran branch of the Legion of the Dead.

Someone needed to do it, and while Riandur had grown from the young man who had simply enjoyed the feeling of blood on his hands, that did not mean he was kind. The Legion had been his punishment, and within it, he'd found a different kind of family. People that he would die for, or die beside, and the idea that he had found some sort of place within – well, he wasn't going to squander it. Gone was the youthful hope that Rian had carried once, muscles and scars that were simply a story.

Rykard - "Untitled"

In which, Rykard reflects on the past few months and his time travelling the King's Road.

To die with a blade in your hand was considered a great honor in the land of Iskaldrik. They say that when a warrior’s battle in this realm is over, a new one begins elsewhere. Valhalla, they called it. An afterlife filled with feasting, fighting and fucking, what more could a warrior need? As if gorging oneself on violence was not enough for one lifetime. The boundary between bravery and stupidity was nebulous at best and Rykard was never the type to back down from a challenge. So he left at dawn with the King's entourage. 

Shenuvun - "Memories in the Widllands"

In which, Shenevun reflects on the past and returns home at long last.

Shenuvun slips out of the hall where they had all been gathered that morning, and looks back at the masses, taking the view in before turning back towards the door and rushing out into the wilderness. The farther she is from people, the less measured her steps grow, until she is running, barefoot and careless, through the wilds, the Weave urging her forward and forward until it tells her to stoop. 

Prospero - "Untitled"

In which, Prospero comes to during the events of the "The Last Night" at Nornwatch Keep.

Once he opened them again, there had been so much blood. Prospero’s hands had always been covered in blood. Why was it never his own?

Vicoya - "Sacrifice"

In which, Vicoya works herself to the point of exhaustion, coming across a rose and a stranger in the process.

Through blurred vision, she watched as the flower began to stand up straight, and color began to return to its perfectly pink petals. Then she watched a single drop of red fell onto it’s soft surface, before slowly trickling into the center of the rose, weaving through the small gaps between the circling petals as if they were a beautiful maze. Then another drop. It’d come seemingly out of nowhere, until she felt the cold sensation of liquid freezing on her face. A shaking hand reached up to swipe just under her nose, and it came away red.

Troupe 1 Prompts:

Prospero 

You don’t remember how you got there, but one moment you were stumbling back to your chambers after a night of drinking the Legion’s piss-mead, and then in the next you were standing in front of the Keep’s gate. A dead legionnaire was behind you and there was blood on your tunic, was that you? You couldn’t remember. The addle of the drink tilted your mind as the stones and the snow began to turn; you emptied your stomach into the bank and then reached up to steady yourself, unlatching the gate in the process.

There was a moment where you stood there and stared, you should have closed the lock again. The wasteland was a dangerous place, especially after dark, but you only lingered and stared, stepping over the body of a legionnaire before you stumbled back to your chambers and collapsed in the comfort of your bed. 

Fharzai

Each night you wandered among the dreams of the Iskarans; kept from anything south of Ymir’s Spine, you were limited to the refugees of Nornwatch Keep. In their minds you sewed the epithets of the light, warming cold memories and tending to the lush gardens of dreams. Your mistake was thinking you were alone here, in thinking that the will of the dark would not find you. 

You crept into the mind of a legionnaire, Commander Deidameia they called her, and from the moment you landed you knew that you were not alone. Their dream turned into your nightmare as you were a child once more, scraped knees and worn hands knelt before shattered arches - the Keeper slayed and the bodies of countless Dúnedain strewn about. The blight crept in as a figure, shrouded in shadows stood over; their warning clear, do not tread here. The Keeper you’d known rose, lunged, and attacked. They shook you from your dream, and followed you into the waking world: a wright drawn from the dream realm bent on killing you.

Amaia (unfollowed)

Restless night have plagued you for days. Something coming, rising, and brewing. Dreams of the blight follow every legionnaire; it’s their fate to lose themselves to the madness of the calling, and descend into the deep to throw their blade at the hordes of the darkspawn below. Is this what was happening to you now? In the Tower you’re hearing the call of darkspawn, faint, and far away but it’s an echo that you can’t deny. 

In the north, something is rising, darkness is stirring and as you write to Amon Sûl, your letters will go unanswered. Caer Glas Keep has closed its doors, Caledon Moors Citadel is abandoned. That leaves only Nornwatch, the frigid and decrepit bastion of the north. Is this where evil stirs?

Luna

Far above the stone, you can hear Her call, she sounds wrong, somehow. The moon has been your friend since you were just a little girl, but now she’s calling your name like you’re a stranger. It’s quiet at first, but it grows louder; in the beginning, you couldn’t hear it over the sound of your sweet Mother’s melody. It was all for Mother. It was all for the Brood and you were all too happy to bring forth her beautiful sweetlings, to nurse them, dote on them, and snap when your hungry Brothers got too quick. 

But she grew louder. Too loud to be ignored. You knelt before your precious Mother when the moon’s call snapped at your spine. Horror bent you back upon yourself, twisted your shape as you tore at your flesh. Your human skin wasn’t good enough, you wanted a coat, nails would not do you wanted claws - and with a maw of razor-like teeth, you bore into your sweet Mother as her viscera melted across the tarmac of your tongue and her song - a harrowing cry for help, and a shriek of death, reverberated over the stones. 

Aytaç

Mother was beautiful, wasn’t she? 

You forgot your name, your past, and your ambitions for your future. At night you dreamt of the Dark One’s warm embrace, and through his eyes, you saw the face of a man you could no longer recognize. A Mad King, growing stronger, a man you’d spent your life idolizing but couldn’t place. Your Lord had set his dark gaze upon this King and in your waking hours you shook with the hope of being the one to deliver this familiar stranger into the arms of the waiting Abyss. 

Your kin came wailing into this world, delivered from the warmth of Mother’s heart - were you maternal? Would you someday be a Mother to a nation? It was an errant thought, one that lifted the song of the coming dawn from your lips as you remembered a girl who was more weapon than person. With a tongue like a sword, and a mind like a shield. Who was that girl? Where had she gone?  

A wolf’s teeth brought Mother’s screams into the deepest recesses of your mind, her pain was your pain, but then her song was gone. You were Princess Aytaç Gökhan, Iskaran shieldmaiden, and you would not die in this place.

Freydis

What use was a broken shield? 

You’d already answered that question. A broken shield still had splinters but Mother never looked at you like you were ruined. She only saw someone worthy and strong. Where others had fallen to the song, useless ghouls with peeling flesh and a feral mind. You would not be like the gray meat you carved away for Mother’s appetite, the morsels of rot that your teeth dug into to soothe your appetite. Better than the scraps that your brothers fought over, and valuable as the urchins that you brought forth from Mother’s heart.

When she died, you felt all the light leave the world. The cave grew dark, the fires felt cold, and in the heat of it all a werewolf tore through it all. It descended upon you, you knew this one, somehow you knew her - but a splintered piece of wood jammed into its mane was enough to send it reeling away before it could make a meal out of you like it had Mother. Her song was gone now, but her song echoed in your heart; not as anything sweet, but as a brutal reminder of the dignity these beasts had taken from you. A fractured shield in hand, the ax of a felled darkspawn in the other, even if it killed you, you would teach these beasts why your people named you Jarl Icefang.

Alessia

You who were born in the dark and smelted together with battered rocks and unabashed defiance. The light had come in, but the shadows remained if only to provide contrast. You were not the last to fall to Mother’s song, but you held out longer than most. Under the stones of Aetherite, you thought that going through the motions would protect you, but the blight was in the air you breathed, and here the Abyss sighed with open relief. 

It began in your dreams, across the Spine, the Dark One was searching. Hunting. There, hidden somewhere within, was an old adversary. You remembered the steps, the secret paths, and the signs to look for. Even in your dreams, the Old Woman welcomed you like an old friend, but this time when she looked upon you, she frowned. His eye had found her, and when you awoke it was to the scream of Mother’s dying breath - a werewolf ran rampant and wild. It tore through your Mother’s heart and broke you from the song of the brood; the dark descended now, it was now or never. Run. Fight. Alessia Hart, give it everything you have: otherwise, you will die in this place, forgotten and alone. 

Arros

Witcher. Poison beat through your veins like others had blood. The taint took time to grip you: more than anyone else but even you could not resist Mother’s song for long. She worked her way into your heart through your pox-marked skin and for the first time since your Gaze had been broken, you felt the sort of love that you thought was lost to you. Beautiful and sweet, you were happy to serve Mother, and happy to play the part of nurse at her side. Her gaze was beady and dark, but you matched it with unequivocal devotion. 

A werewolf, broken from Mother’s song, tore apart that beautiful bond - and your first response was to shriek as your Mother’s writhing, tentacular frame, fell into a dead heap. You stood at the side of the Princess, for your next reaction was unabashed rage. You could feel it now, dark though it was, magic permeated the lair and flowed through the veins of the volatile, raw Aetherite. Your weapons were gone, so you felled the first beast that attacked and wrenched their twisted blade from their dead limbs to use it as your own. Arros, witcher, set your gaze upon your escape it’s time to leave this place.

[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.

[vuldak-juneau]

@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.

[afshinxeldar]

What was that feeling that he felt right now? Afshin was sure that he had never felt it before, but he felt it when he looked at Torsten. The witcher was not allowed to have a life outside of the one that had been made for him. The changeling didn't feel sorry for him. Pity was a horrible thing to have for someone so he would never say that. Perhaps it was the fact that they had once been friends a very long time ago that had Afshin feeling some sort of remorse for the life that the other now had to live. Torsten had been conditioned to believe that he was supposed to have no family, no friends, no love. All the other had was what he gave as a Kingsguard, as a witcher. They had poisoned the witcher's mind just as much as they had his body. He wanted to take it away. He didn't much care about how it had affected these other witchers, but he did care how it affected Torsten.

A moment passed as he looked down again at the man that had placed himself on his knee to prove a point. Their lives would never be equal, that much was true. Yet Afshin had offered the other a seat at his metaphorical table. When he would become King, either sooner or later, he would hope that Torsten was there at his side. He would hope that the witcher made it that long. As he gazed down at the man, he wondered how much longer of a life the other had. How much time did either of them have? Torsten had poison running through his veins that had shaved off several years of his life. Then there was Afshin who had an entire side of him that he had to be careful of lest several years of his life be shaved off as well. If his father was to recover from his ailment, that was. The two could not be compared. If he could have picked one of them to live, he would have hoped it would be Torsten. That was something they didn't have to worry about for now. If the other's words rang true though, the witcher would be taking a fall for the changeling. For a much different reason than he could ever expect.

Without letting go of Torsten's hand, Afshin got down to his own knee. He had been wrong to doubt the other and he knew that so this was his one apology. Now that they were at the same level, he let their eyes meet. "I do not regret words that I speak." He paused and gripped the man's hand tighter. "I do not lie either so know that what I say next is the truth: I have never, and will never, think of you as beneath me." Afshin pressed his forehead to Torsten's own. "I may not be as strong as my father, but I will be a better King." He pulled his head away to let their eyes meet again. "You will stand with me now. I have entrusted you to make sure that I am better. Iskaldrik may have fallen, but I will not." From his knee, he finally stood back up. "Now, stand."

It would take steel to survive the days ahead, steel that Afshin lacked. He was not a creature of resolve, but one of circumstance and whatever he did not possess, Torsten would make up for. If dissent was whispered among the people, then the witcher was resolved to see the treasonist's tongue cut from their mouths. The sword was pointed in doing precisely what his job entailed, no more, and no less; yet here he sat on his knee in front of an impudent prince that Torsten owed nothing but his protection. Kissing the ring of the man's ego to balm the other's imagined offense.

"My eyes are too low to look down on you; I am oathbound to your father, body, and soul, but a witcher cannot lie so know that what I say next is the truth: I will die an honorable death if my end is met to protect you because my life will never be equal to yours." For a prince without a crown, pushed from his home, he was right to believe that there were serpents ready to coil around his throat at any given moment. Correct in thinking that even before Iskaldrik fell, there would have been many ambitious Jarls waiting to challenge the limp-wristed prince to a Holmgang. The powerful only respected the powerful, and Afshin was not his father.

Dark eyes fixated upon his palm as Torsten considered every callous and scar. Every beating that had broken a boy to create the impressionable man who saw himself as deserving of the prince's mistreatment. He'd spoken out of turn and where Orhan had once welcomed his council, it was clear that would not be the case with the heir. The blades he'd spent his life earning, the status he'd fought tooth and nail meant nothing to the man above him who'd gladly take them away if he could. These things were all Torsten had in the world, no family, no friends, just this. "I will see it done."

[legionariejon]

Who: @steadythora

Where: Caer Glas

After Nornwatch, the legion that had called it home were relocated not by their own choice of course to Caer Glas. Finding his place in Nornwatch was hard enough, for all the criminals they received amongst their ranks blademasters were a rare occurrence. When he heard that one has survived the joining Jon needed to speak to them it was non optional. As he was serving everyone in the keep dinner he made sure to serve her last so he would have the opportunity to speak to her,he was hoping she wouldn’t take it as an affront that she was served last. Stew pot and ladle in hand he gently poured the soup he had scratched together into her bowl. But as he was doing so the thought of rejection passed over his mind, she was from Iskaldrik just like him, he was a monster by their standards would she think him such? Almost bottling his whole plan to talk to her he started to walk away with his pot, but his second step idled long enough that the words spilled from his mouth “I heard you’re a baldemaster, they are pretty rare here so don’t let the others push you around.” he had been tested when he first arrived, a title like baldemaster seemed very decorative in the legion.

[witchertorsten]

@freydis-freydat location: Hrimthur's Wastes, West of Nornwatch notes: search & rescue starter

Tracking runaways, strays, and prisoners was among the witcher's skills, it was ingrained in their training to be able to navigate harsh terrain while picking up on the subtle clues that a person, or monster, might leave behind. The headiness of the air was something that Torsten had become accustomed to, the frigid acclimation to his crystalline breaths left an acrid, blighted taste on the tarmac of his tongue that he'd connected to the presence of darkspawn. Children had wandered far from the walls and had yet to return, the worst could be assumed but neither Torsten nor the Jarl seemed satisfied until they saw it with their own eyes.

Stone crunched beneath his boots as they marched side by side through the sparse, dead winter trees that seemed as old as the rock below the ice beneath them. Rot had lived in the Wastes for thousands of years, coiled itself into the flora, and ingratiated itself into the fauna as rodents the size of his forearm scurried about in the dead of night.

"Children of the midlands are resourceful and strong." Resolve etched the stoic's tongue in typical candor as he spoke in stark, blunted truths. It would never be his intention to coddle anyone, least of all a jarl or shieldmaiden, but instead, some reassurance her people would not go quietly - and this too was something that they would all survive.