#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.

[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.

[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."

[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.

[alucardrakul]

@etienneulven location: Silverlands notes: i tried really hard to think of one where he'd be shirtless, but I couldn't, so you get plaid in the woods to compensate.

Beneath the Silverlands was an ore considered precious to the elvhen, orichalcum was the make of so many of their weapons and armaments, but more interesting was the impact it had on the natural world. Duly named, the trees of this realm held a distinct, silvery hue- the canopy glistened with the light from the waning sun. It case gold through the leaves that looked as though it had set each blade on fire.

Sinewy bark in deep lines held veins of the same make, though it ran deeper than the outer layer looked almost gray. Nestled within this enchanted forest, Caer Glas Keep had been reopened to the Legion of the Dead as a bastion against the blight. Tales of what had occurred at Nornwatch Tower and Isengrim's Embrace had spread, but to most, they remained the harrowing tale of a far-off problem.

In the evening air Alucard wandered, uncharacteristically on foot, he marched through the tree line and surveyed the land for any signs of corruption. According to reports from the locals, the princes of Avalon and Lysara had sealed the tunnels below Caer Glas Keep when they discovered darkspawn below... But as they'd come to know, tunnels like those were often deep, and expansive.

As he wandered, as did Alucard's mind - this walk less official and more warranted as now and then he felt... Absent. Pulled in a variety of directions; there was still no word from Ankhuria, and now, so close to his father, he could feel Vlad through their connection more prominently than ever.

Stopping at a river, the scent of the water across the rocks, the moisture in the air, the sound of the distant waterfall- Alucard took them in and tried to focus on something other than what he was missing. Through it all he heard something familiar, the scent followed. First the steady but feathery pulse of the boy from the Wastelands, next came the smell of pears.

Alucard didn't look, not at first, he waited a beat as his usual dramatics gave way to the breeze off the river that tussled his hair. He spoke into the ozone as Alucard's red eyes gazed at a reflection of the clothes he wore and nothing more.

"Dhampirs never see their own face," Alucard admitted, "I never knew I had my father's eyes- that I looked so much like him-" except in height, "until he commissioned a portrait of me." When the dhampir turned around, he fixed his red eyes upon Etienne. "What do you see?"

[blightedmikhael]

who? open to the troupe where? Nornwatch Tower when? who knows, they are hangin' at the end of the world

Concerns upon concerns weight on his mind the more time he is left alone to sit upon them. Their time in their tower is indefinite, the seconds pacing slowly as every moment that passes brings him closer to discovery. A month ago— Abyss, two weeks and a day ago, discovery would be his main concern. Yet, despite still ranking relatively high amidst his many— and increasing — concerns, discovery no longer ranks first. The Iskaran Kingdom had fallen on the span of a day, and with it the most pressing threat of discovery. What could the Witchers do now, surrounded by supernaturals as they are? What could the Witchers do now, that the mines were not a convenient tomb for anything deemed not human enough? What could they do, with increasingly limited resources, when faced with the sheer number of supernaturals he had seen through their desperate journey to safety? The true number of supernaturals remained a mystery even to him, but his Infernal Sight did not simply go away in times of great danger and he had caught more than a glimpse of non-humans as they traveled the darkened tunnels.

Discovery remained a concern, always, but there were more pressing matters to attend. Rationing, assuaging fears, inspiring hope, deescalating conflict. As much as Mikhael hated to admit it, the surviving Witchers had been working around the clock to keep the peace, but there were only so many of them and their priorities were clear: the nobility above the commonfolk, the royal above all else. Their hosts had their own concerns as well, so he had taken it upon himself to make his rounds through the less monitored groups of refugees and offer a kind word and a warm smile to try and keep the morale. It is crucial, now more than ever, to keep the will to live going, for without it? Without it the chances of survival dropped drastically, and he is determined to push those chances up with all he has.

He is not made by determination alone, though, and even the most devout must rest. He is resting in one of the many spiraling staircases found across the keep, chin in hand as his gaze is lost in the horizon, when he hears steps approach and he lifts his head, a brow raised in polite inquiry.

"Apologies, am I in your way? Shall I move?"

[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.

[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."

[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]

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."

[alrikhart]

@fharzai location: dreamscape (iskaran mines) notes: all good things start with horrific trauma

Most nights, he was restless because he found himself here again, blurring the line between unconsciousness and the waking world. Sleep was something he wished to avoid but was physically necessary; sleeping draughts helped, lulled his weary mind into the dreamscape, and for a few uninterrupted hours, he'd toss and whisper pleas for help into the dark of the night above him.

In the dark, it was hard to discern what was him and what was the cold echo of cavernous walls. Hot. Cold. The Iskarans had dug into the mountains, deeper than anyone should have gone, instead knocking at the halls of the damned. Murder, arduous labor, a sunless life, and hunger were enough to drive anyone towards desperation. In the dreamful hours, Alrik forgot what was and what wasn't; the escape he'd imagined and played over a hundred times in his head had to be a fantasy. Nobody got out, at least not alive; this place made monsters of anyone, he'd felt in the gray matter that squeezed between his fingers. In the shards of a broken skull that was splattered across the cavernous floor.

Where was Alessia? She was here - she must have been here? Had that been her? He should know if his sister was dead. He would have known if he had killed her, but then where had she gone -? It was dark and cold. So dark. The air lingered on his skin like damp, clammy fingers stretched greedily across his flesh. A breath fell from his lips as the haunting whisper of cruelty rattled like a hiss at the back of his synapses, it told him what was to come, and what was inevitable: the Norns had tied his thread long ago, and it was here in the depths of Helheim that he'd wander eternally. Cold and lost, nameless and forgotten.

Overhead, the infernal pitch of the cavern cracked open, and light poured down from above. Bit by bit it broke apart as the warmth of the sun washed over the miner's frame, bringing with it a chorus that rose from something Alrik couldn't place. For so long, hope was an enemy because it brought with it nothing but despair; there was a peace that came to Sisyphus's acceptance of his fate; the last hope of treachery against the Gods was to consign oneself to the trials ahead. But there it was, the sun, the sky, and when the ceiling of the mineshaft broke away, he found himself on his feet. Washed in the warmth of the day he stood before a man with gray eyes, a stranger.

"Who are you?" Asking how hadn't crossed his mind. He had no awareness that this was a dream, no control over what was happening around him, and no ability to truly question the changes. Instead, his fanatical mind went to what he knew, to the Gods he'd learned so much about growing up. If this was Sol, Mani had to be nearby, driving their chariots across the sky. There were stories about falling into pacts with deities, but Alrik did not think of himself first, instead another's name fell from his lips. "Where's my sister? Where's Alessia?" At his side Alrik's hands had balled into fists, mediocre magic met the arms of a blacksmith's son, but God or no he would not be parted from her.

[lunadarkwoodx]

Where: Nornwatch Tower, Troupe 1

A fortnight was nothing in the chasm of time, a frenzy revibrated through her bones and yet she tried to keep the monstrous creature that carried grief in its maw from turning into beast and losing control. Luna had never seen anything but the Ironwood trees, had kept mostly the company of her father and now both were out of reach. Decay is what Luna tastes in her mouth and she knows its from the land, the Earth has always been alive and speaks to those who listen.

Dead trees consume the land and a lump is present in Luna's throat, it wasn't that long ago that she was in her protected and sheltered cabin in the grove of wild and full trees. A Darkspawn lets out a howl and it's not the same as the Wolves that visit her dreams. "What was that?"

[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]

open starter location: Aventia, Borderreach notes: let's go! preference to those wishing to join the Legion in our time of need. Unlimited for those wishing to join, for those who won't I'm capping at three.

In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice.

Riandur had entrusted this task to him and Alucard would not disappoint his commanding officer - his friend.

It had been almost a century since Alucard had taken to Valerius's conscription and marched against the Queendom. As far as Eterna the son of Vlad had bloodied the earth, earning the monicker that his father once carried when he fought against the elvhen during the Dark Age - 'The Drakul.'

To this day Alucard still wore the cloak emblazoned with the silver embroidery of the Old God Lusacan, the Dragon of Night. Not for pride, but as a reminder of his past, and to let his enemies know that it was never too late to make the right choice. No matter the difficulty.

Charging ahead and immersing himself in the heat of battle would be the easier tasks for him because, for any vampiric-blooded creature, killing came as second nature. Alucard had been born into the blight and the Joining had seen him immune to its corruption.

While the memories of his last night at Nornwatch Keep still resounded at the back of his mind, Alucard pushed them away, drifting slightly overhead. There was an idle thought that brought back the memory of Serral; the legionnaire who'd saved him in every way a person could be saved. Alucard wished he was here now. He wished he'd lived, but there was no changing the past, there was only today. The blight was here - they'd run out of time.

"An Age ago they called me The Drakul, just as my father before me - I was a thrall to my own darkness. But to be clear, the Dark One does not care not for our pasts, or for our allegiances. He sends his army only to destroy, to corrupt, and to consume all that stands in His path. Iskaldrik remembers what He can take, I remember what He can take. I refuse to let that happen to Aventia."

"When the darkspawn sink their teeth into you they'll corrupt you just the same.. For those with the steel to join me: I offer the Joining."

"We are Legion of the Dead. We are the ones who stand when all else fails, the ones who fight when hope fades. You may see me as a relic of a war you wished to forget, but today, I am your shield, your blade, and your brother."