#tqh troupe 1: nornwatch

[alucardrakul]

Why was this man just staring at him? Had he heard his name before? Did he know about the crimes the Drakul had committed against the people of Lysara? It was not enough to count the lives he'd taken but by the rivers of blood that the dhampir had once waded through on his trial to take the head of Queen Damodred. Alucard was also staring but he didn't find that piece of information to be entirely relevant when Etienna was so obviously staring at him.

The stranger presumed too much, Fangs almost felt derogative, as if the Drakul could be reduced to the set of teeth within his mouth. His mother had chosen his name, if he were to go by anything then he would continue to go by that - especially where someone he'd only just met was concerned. "I prefer Alucard." As if to make a point, Alucard cleared his throat and let his eyes drift closed as he turned away from the other. "Now, if you'll excuse me. You were intruding, and without an invitation, this area is off limits.."

Etienne gives a slight nod of his head as he chews on the thought that it's indeed a 'vampire' name. Fancy, important even somehow, it matches the armor. It matched the stare that the dhampir was presently giving him, his brows furrowed slightly, the plains of his face looking rather serious. He wonders if it's something that's been purposefully tailored over the years to hide an otherwise boyish face. "I take it no one has ever given you a nickname either then?" He asks after a moment of them just....Staring at each other across the room. As a child, he'd been so shy he'd often kept his head down at his feet and his mother had scolded him for it. It'd made for an adult that made probably far too much eye contact but in his defense, Alucard had started it. 'Lu' maybe, said by someone with affection. The dhampir certainly wasn't an 'Al'. No, the more he rolled the name over and over again in his head, he couldn't think of any moniker better than the one he'd already said. Much like his own name, there doesn't seem to be a way to shorten it in a way that fits the man before him. "Fangs it is, I guess."

[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.

[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.

[thequeendomhq]

Journey To The Queendom

Helskorn Bastion, watcher of the Veiled Sea and gateway to Iskaldrik, has kept a vigil over the churning tides of the unchartered waters for over a thousand years. Built at the height of the First Age, the braziers atop the Iskaran watchtowers, once lit, could be seen by the next watchtower in the distance. This way, it’d take only a few short hours for the High King to know when invaders descended upon their shores. The Iskarans were once raiders, warriors that earned their salt by traveling on longboats to the fertile lands of the South, returning to the cold dominion of their Kingdom with the fruits of their labors. In time, Iskaldrik found the worth of their mines and left behind their raiding system for one meant to cultivate relationships with other nations: trade of their precious stones, metals, and coveted ironwood. Iskaran metals are highly valued, but their practices are not. Since the Dark Age, any magic has been outlawed in Iskaldrik, and those who work the mines are those who have been caught performing it. Helskorn Bastion, watcher of the Veiled Sea and gateway to Iskaldrik, has kept a vigil over the churning tides of the unchartered waters for over a thousand years. Since the First Age, it stood as the guardian of the Iskaran Southlands. From the nearby settlement of Hrafntun, their tower vigil saw a flicker from the distant coast followed by nothing. A trick of the light? Anyone could taste the acrid presence of magic; it permeated the air. Still, even for a witcher who happened to be passing through, it was stronger than anything they’d ever encountered before. Within the hour, Hrafntun had fallen, but not before their watchtower went up. Soon, all of the Southlands knew that Iskaldrik was under attack. Then, the Coast was alight with vigilant flames as the warriors of Runestone Keep charged to meet the invaders in the fields below and prepared to fight in martial combat against whatever swords, spears, arrows, or mana were thrown their way. Witchers at the head, ready for the charge, were met with something else entirely. More fearsome than the Blighted tales of old and far more daunting than any darkspawn, orc, witch, or wolf. Could mountains fly? The people would ask that as the fog parted and razor-sharp peaks blotted out the moon and the stars themselves. Raiders of the sky on crystalline vessels buzzed through the air; magic and weapons of mana rained down upon the people below. Hrafntun was gone, and Runestone Keep followed as ethereal flames so bright that those who stared at them for too long went blind fell upon the coast. The fire of Heimdall’s Watchtower changed color before the invaders destroyed it entirely, signaling one thing to the people of Iskaldrik; run. Across the countryside, homes were met with a mythical blaze, powers so potent that while the witchers could match it, they were still vastly outnumbered and overwhelmed. Their duty was to their King, so at the signal, those stationed across the Kingdom retreated to the safety of Yggdrasildal’s walls alongside the people of Iskaldrik, who were now forced to flee their homes. Yggdrasildal, a sanctuary of the strongest stone, a relic, and a castle from the Age of Enlightenment, it had resisted the flames of an Old God in the Dark Age; now it stood against the might of a lost empire of magi, Aetheron. Through hidden channels, the witchers led the refugees towards hidden catacombs beneath the city, channels that wound through the deepest depths of the mountains. For a fortnight, they traveled without the light of the sun, with nothing but the ethereal glow of the stones to guide their way until, at last, they emerged on the Northern side of Ymir’s Spine, in Hrimthur’s Wastelands and Nornwatch Tower, the last bastion of Iskaldrik’s Legion of the Dead.

An ode to the Legion of the Dead: "To the wisest I sang. To the wing'd cup-bearers of the tall sky-vaulting..."

ooc info

The Kingdom of Iskaldrik was attacked by the Lost Empire of Aetheron, a magocratic society that disappeared over three thousand years ago.

Over the last two weeks, refugees have begun to pile into Nornwatch Tower along the northern edge of Iskaldrik.

Nornwatch Tower is the last bastion for the Legion of the Dead, an assembly of soldiers from across Taravell who are sworn to protect the realm against The Blight.

At present, there is a ceasefire at Ardentgate between Lysara and Astoria.

Our journey will begin with the refugees heading on the next leg of the trek towards the neighboring Queendom of Lysara, where they hope to find sanctuary and asylum.

[alrikhart]

Alrik watched as Luna wrenched her ax from the warg's dead body, there was a breadth of time between who she'd been when they first met, and the cloaked woman that she was now. The woodcutter was right, Alrik had underestimated her, but as he made a motion to wind the chain around his palm and elbow in even loops, he acknowledged the strength that he'd previously disregarded.

"Good. Sometimes that's all you'll need." Luna would need it in the days to come. Alrik finished winding the heavy chain and set it across his shoulder again as he ducked his head through the loop. "Let's head back before others are incensed by all this..." Alrik turned up his nose at the blackened, putrid-smelling snow. "blood." If it could even be called that.

There could be no doubt that the Warg was dead, it wasn't a gamble that either of the refugees were willing to take and so they delivered it to the gates of hell with a bloody strike after another, the land sick with blight was stained with a dark ichor that smelt of sulfur and resembled the thickness of blood.

The Warg howled in anguish as it bled from its open wounds and stumbled about, dizzy and sick with pain that it wanted its pound of flesh. The spikes embedded in the skull of the beast and it came to a finish with a sickening wet sound of breaking bones, the spiked weapon caught the light of the fading sun from an burst eye socket and for a moment cast a refracted light prism of red and gold.

She reached for her axe, the first blow upon the beast and it's gained another notch, another scratch for a beast defeated and had to be cleansed with fire and water. "Never underestimated someone who grew up in the woods, I fight like someone who wants to live. Blind a beast of its senses and you've dug the creature a grave." She does not ask where he learned to fight, her head is spinning with the gore they had caused and she couldn't bare to learn anything new.

[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.

[alucardrakul]

@blightedmikhael location: Nornwatch Keep notes: troupe 1: Nornwatch Keep

The blighted lands were riddled with the bodies of young men who looked to prove their mettle against a fable: they always came up wanting. Ego would get a man killed as effectively as a blade, and the arrogance that permeated these refugees held some of the blame for the rampant plague that was running through the rank and fold.

Archivist Iskrates was working on a way to reverse the taint, or so he'd claimed. Alucard's father was apparently capable of doing this, but the dhampir had never seen it first hand. Like so many things, it was one of the secrets that the vampires hoarded among themselves, and Alucard was a product of this promise.

Red eyes fixated on the warrior who appeared to be poking at a piece of blighted meat, as if he were considering what to make of it. "You should throw that away." Alucard's voice ran along the old stones of the Keep as he tried to make out any signs of taint present on the other. "Or better yet, burn it."

[alrikhart]

@lotharx location: Nornwatch Keep notes: the beginning of those first two weeks at the keep

Snow fell over the opening of the cave mouth as the witchers moved the last of the barricades that concealed the hidden route through the mountains. Light from the dark clouds above filtered through and Alrik stepped into the clean air of the open cold and took a breath. He’d said once that nothing could make him go back to an Iskaran mine, but that vow had shifted through the battered wind of change that fell upon Alrik and Alessia. They had called the mountain salvation and in the quiet dark, he’d considered the madness he’d felt when he’d been pushed underground. Back then the witch had traveled into the deep in chains, this time Alrik had gone willingly - that was the difference he carved away.

That had not made it any easier, reduced to muttering to himself under his breath in private conversation as he mulled over the possible motivations of the conquerors who’d taken everything from them over the course of a single fortnight. But the sky was liberating, not just for him, but for Valr.

Alrik removed the bird’s hood and lifted his arm, watching with some liberty as the falcon flew with unabashed liberation for the first time in a fortnight.

“If only it were so easy for the rest of us.” Alrik said to the nearest person: from the mouth of the cave the refugees were making the short pilgrimage from the mountain to the Keep only a short distance away. It was imposing, but nothing like what Alrik had imagined. Stained walls that looked broken or breaking in places, and only one or two figures on the walls. Not much of a guard.

[alrikhart]

"You're humble," Alrik pointed out, that or the other didn't wish to take on any students, either way, Alrik wouldn't press it any further. "should the time come, you can expect me behind you-" he smiled, "cowering, of course, not fighting. Please protect me o'humble blademaster." Mirth light and his humor clear, the blacksmith's son didn't claim to be anything more than someone who'd traveled about the kingdom, picking up a few sagas retold from the deeds of others as he did.

Alrik scratched his chin as he thought of the story and played it across his mind's eye in ritualistic order. The attack, the fire, the loss, the mines, and the Spine. It was an orderly tale, but not one that the Hidden One would ever concede to tell. "Our father died when we were younger for aiding witches fleeing from the silver mines of the Southlands, his forge went up with it: we were old enough to take care of ourselves by then, but staying behind in a region that hated him for what he did wasn't an option. So we left." Bits of lies woven into the truth made for a far more believable story.

"You're more optimistic than I." Alrik's humor was generally macabre, but he did not shy away from a jest, even at the risk of creating conflict. If a witcher wished to cut out his tongue then he'd invite them to try, he'd lived in the shadows for a long time in Iskaldrik, here, north of the Spine, their desperation was demonstrated by the heads mounted on pikes. They feared their loss of control and the days to come just as keenly as everyone else. "Maybe the Lysarans have mines of their own, the Norns love their jokes."

Alder laughed genuinely as he heard the other's words, not because of him, but because of the thought of someone wanting to learn anything form an old geezer such as himself. "You give too much value to a lesson from an old man. I wonder what I could teach you that you haven't thought of yourself..." He spoke, but his eyes were now on his build and weapon, sharp in their gaze. "Well, I've dealt with it for long enough already, I think I'll manage." A smile established itself on the corners of his lips. He wasn't worried, it was natural, people rarely knew their own limits and would not notice their own flaws unless they were shown them through force sometimes.

The older man nodded as the younger spoke of his acquired wisdom. It was good to see that the newer generations still listened and that some had much more wisdom at a young age than most of the elders walking around those lands with their chin up high. "Well, you keep learning and perhaps one day you'll get to it." He replied just as playful as the other, although he knew it certainly would not be that easy to learn most things just from paying attention to strangers. "What led you to such a journey?" He questioned lightly, not really imposing the inquiry, curious because most people tended to stay in their hometown, specially those who had a name to keep such as a blacksmith's children.

There were three types of people when regarding the issue of Witchers, in his point of view, those who liked them for bringing the flawed justice of their laws forth against the supernatural, those who respected them but did not agree with their ways or the law itself and those who feared them - be it for rumors they'd heard, for the threat to their own life as something non-human or for the power they carried of judgement and execution. Still, even though it would be wisest for Alder to be afraid or cautious, he couldn't see them as more than someone else doing what they were taught to do, just like him, the baker down the street or a merchant traveling around the plains.

A sigh left his mouth shortly. "I hope there really is mercy awaiting o-their arrival..." Alder almost turned the conversation pessimistic by using 'our' instead of 'their' in that phrase, but he managed to change it quickly enough. It was a flaw of him that his mind would turn to a darker future instead of cling on to the brighter one, and that was something he'd been trying to work on for a while now, doing his best to find the silverlining, even when there wasn't one or when it was too hard to see it.

[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?"

[witchertorsten]

@afshinxeldar location: Nornwatch Keep notes: there's not much reason for me to use this gif, but here we are

Training was the simplest way for Torsten to keep his head clear. It was a lesson that had been ingrained in him long ago when he was in the Watch. It was difficult to question or overcomplicate a subject when the body was too weary to worry itself over it. The most pressing matters were the road ahead; old records spoke of a path that could be taken through the wastes, one that would see the troupe through the Lostlands and into Lysara. The blight, however, would be underfoot every step of the journey.

Last night, the High King had looked towards one of his guards, and he'd spoken his name clearly and audibly. The implication that this madness that had gripped him was quietly subsiding was little more than a baseless rumor. Still, when fear and hysteria had gripped even the most resolved of warriors - the return of a previously Mad King, in the Iskaran's greatest time of need, was a story that possessed a fervor that could quickly take hold. For now, Orhan's condition was a kept secret within the inner circle, but for the last three years, little birds had sung, and whispers made their way from the royal court, across Yggdrasildal, and perhaps even beyond.

"My prince," Torsten greeted as he set his training sword aside, letting it rest as he took notice of Afshin's lingering presence. Iskaldrik had fallen, their home was in flames behind them, and the future was wrapped in uncertainty. Torsten could guess what thoughts might be running through Afshin's head at present, but he would not.

[alrikhart]

@prcspero location: Nornwatch Keep notes: ya know

Iskarans were used to the cold; they grew up and farmed the frigid earth that had borne them. North of the Spine, the chill that washed over the Wastes was unlike anything Alrik had felt before. A tangible acrid taste clung to the tarmac of his tongue, the bitterness of the rotted corpses buried beneath the ice and snow far below the walls of Nornwatch Keep. A bastion and a relic, old walls that were so ancient the names of the people who'd built them were forgotten now.

Everyone knew the stories of the Legion of the Dead, romantic heroes that stood before the face of true evil and didn't waiver. Alrik had bought into it once, but he no longer did if he ever believed that all the world's problems could be boiled down to some primordial evil. People were the ones who wanted; people were malicious, cruel, and unforgiving.

On the parapets, Alrik looked across the massive peaks they'd passed through just a few days prior. Weeks of traipsing through a hidden, cavernous path had led them here: supposed sanctuary. If the Aetherians were thorough, which given the swiftness of their attack, Alrik would assume they were, then it was only a matter of time before the magi came for the High King and those who'd fled alongside him.

"I never thanked you." Alrik said, it was strange that he already knew the sound of Prospero's boots approaching. But after he said it he looked towards the man now. "For what you did, for saving me and Alessia. I owe you more than I can ever hope to repay." Alrik owed the druid something much more precious to him, his sister's life.

[alrikhart]

@rykardthebarbarian location: Nornwatch Keep notes: fixing things connect

Alrik's father had been a berserker and a blacksmith, he could recognize the former easily enough and had been expected to follow the forge before his life had been interrupted. While the witch had been formally out of the trade for a few years, there were parts of it that he found he missed. The simple life of a shop and the salt air - that was still appealing to him, but the reality was that creatures like him more often came upon violent ends. This wasn't a time for nostalgia, it was a time for people to use what skills they had available to them to help with whatever greater good could be distilled from this situation.

"What- did- you- do- to- her." Alrik held up the main's blade, chipped and battered before he brought it up to the light and remarked at the way the steel had bent. Apparently, things happened when you went berserk, his father had put that life behind him when Alrik was born but it took a lot of strength to do this kind of damage.

[alucardrakul]

@riandur location: Nornwatch Keep notes: (he lives for the drama)

A flash of a wailing horde, laughter like a chorus of cicadas rattled the peripheries of his mind's eye. Wherever Alucard looked, there was more to see and yet his mind could take in none of it. An acrid taste coated the tarmac of his mind as a hollow cry echoed against the abused barren of his unconscious synapses. Heat seared at the expanse of Alucard's spine alongside a hunger, unlike anything he'd ever felt before. It burned through his core as the lurking presence of a gaze that Alucard could not place remained upon him. Thousands of lies, a city in flames, and at the core he saw the face of High King Orhan.

A rap at his chamber door brought Alucard's red eyes open into the dark, cracked velvet interior of his casket. Soon the tell-tale sound of said doors being flung open told Alucard all he needed to know about the person that entered. The triggered mechanism turned gears installed under the stones of the Keep's floor, painstakingly placed in the years that Alucard had spent as a legionnaire at the end of this barren world.

Gas lanterns cracked to life as the chamber was cast in the warm glow of their Stone panels lifted as they ground against one another in protest, groaning as the mechanical arms exhaled steam, turning the lift that raised Alucard's coffin from the hidden chamber below. From the long shadows the lanterns cast, howling echoed off the Keep's walls as the feral barking of wolves punctuated the cold air about the drakul, rousing their master from his slumber.

Metal ground against metal as the coffin was tilted upright, raised by propulsion, and the mechanical arm at its back. A hiss resounded as steam was pushed from either side of the limbs and the sleek, black coffin ceased its ascent. Its cover slid away to reveal the stoic features of the dhampir within, hard as the cold, dead earth beneath their feet. Telekinesis lifted him from his deathbed as the dhampir drifted from his coffin the simple, black clothes shifted about his frame as if they were moved by a gentle breeze, a brush that fluttered the curls atop his head.

Alucard's armor came to him in pieces, his plate, weaponry, and the signature cloak emblazoned in gold with the symbol of the Old God Lusacan under a bed of stars. An echo of his heritage in Veilcrest's Church of Night; Alucard drifted through the air as his plate fastened itself to his frame by will of the dhampir's telekinesis, finery concealed until the cloak was latched and draped across his back. The proud symbol of the griffon writ across his chest plate as he floated still, a foot off the ground, as he looked down at arguably his only friend in this Keep: Riandur.

"I was napping."

[witchertorsten]

@arr0s location: Nornwatch Keep notes: starter for the witcher witchers

( tw: butchery )

Hide parted from flesh and musculature, the sinew severed, Torsten's knife remained fixed into the surface of the table as his gloved fingers wrenched at the thick layer of fascia and fur. The felled boar had taken most of the morning to hunt, this barren wasteland held little in the ways of game, and with every passing day the refugees grew hungrier. In a fortnight the Legion's grainstores would deplete completely, and there's be no provisions left for the people sheltering at the edge of this battered world. Blight had sunk into the earth beneath their feet, and as Torsten wrenched back the hide of the seemingly healthy beast, the deep, purple marks of the taint were glaringly obvious. Foul, poisonous meat.

"Fuck!" Torsten cursed as the hefty beast was hauled from the table, "Half a day wasted hunting for another morsel of this blight." His lip curled before he managed to take a steadying sigh, wrenching his knife from the table before running the length of it with a rag to sheath a clean blade. The First had not made it out of Iskaldrik, the High King was still ill and wreathed in madness - the witchers had no direction but what they could decide among their own, and the direction that Ormir had given them. No oaths of fealty bound them to obey anyone, but in this time of doubt, Torsten resigned himself to his belief in their path and the promise to protect the best interests of Iskaldrik and the royal family. However that personal vow may appear.

Torsten didn't need to explain the direness of the situation to Arros, the temptation of putrid, foul meat and stores would soon become more promising than once more sleeping on an empty stomach. Children. Infants. Sick and more. "I'm going to look for any signs of anything else we can hunt, will you join me?"

[alrikhart]

@magnusxbastien location: Nornwatch Keep notes: merchant connect starter

Across Iskaldrik Spring had begun to ebb at the winter's frost, but here, north of the Spine, the cold had settled into the bones of this land. Most only had what they'd carried on their backs to keep warm because the Legion of the Dead did not have enough of anything to go around. Their force was meager, small, and pitiful by comparison to the stories that permeated Iskaran youth; here at the edge of the world, misery had found its home.

Alrik had simple ways of keeping himself entertained, he watched, he observed, and he kept notes of the goings on of different factions within the Keep. The Vanguard of Light had found a greater flock in the Iskarans who'd once more been burned by magic, and new disdain towards those who carried it threaded throughout the crowds. Their ire could be heard throughout the halls of the Keep, but for the witch who'd grown up in these lands, it was nothing new.

Balanced on one hand by his palm atop a wooden barrel, Alrik spread out his limbs as the performer made a show of it for the small crowd that had gathered. Among the clapping hands, he noted a signet ring from the Northlands, a guild seal from another, and a heron-marked blade on their escort. Outliers with enthused children applauded and cheered before Alrik lept down with a flourish and took a bow for the dispersing crowd. Some coins that were altogether useless were now tossed at his feet.

Among the crowd, Alrik saw a familiar face from the Lowlands, "Magnús. You survived." More congratulatory than surprised, Alrik tipped his mask up to rest at the top of his head as he looked about the space. "Fun crowd," he remarked candidly, grin well placed but marked by Alrik's own charismatic falsehoods.