gwynbleidd
too many elves
1x1 roleplay based on the witcher series.
characters and biographies to follow.
please don't post unless you're one of us -- but feel free to read along!
@Mordecai
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witcher: return to humanity - Mordecai x gwynbleidd
- Thread starter gwynbleidd
- Start date
1x1 roleplay based on the witcher series.
characters and biographies to follow.
please don't post unless you're one of us -- but feel free to read along!
@Mordecai
gwynbleidd
too many elves
pronounced sade-when // witcher // appearing to be about twenty-nine
seidhewen was born towards the coast of velen, during one of the heavier, whiter winters seen by the continent in recent history. as his traveling parents’ first-born, seidhe was beloved by them from the very beginning. after giving birth, the snowy mountains around their camp were the first thing his mother had seen, so seidhewen was fittingly named “white hills” in the Elder Speech. in the spring, his parents finally decided to settle down for good, into a small village many miles from any city center.
as a child, seidhe was outgoing and friendly, and especially helpful as well as curious about the world around him. he had many friends, and was well-loved by the people of his village. but perhaps his greatest companion was a lovely girl named Iridian, who happened to possess a myriad of magic powers, and the two swore upon a blood oath to always be with or find one another. however, once war broke out between the nations against Nilfgaard, his home was burned to the ground, and he was left alone as an abandoned orphan; the girl had disappeared, and he was left with his life in ruins. not long after learning to live by himself, seidhe met a wandering witcher, and was then taken to the legendary kaer morhen in order to begin his training to become one of the mutant monster hunters himself.
seidhe’s training went more or less routinely; he was accepted into the school of the griffin, and showed an uncommonly strong command of the Signs from the start. he succeeded in the trial of the grasses surprisingly well, albeit more out of intelligence and clever intuition than brute force and swordplay. that said, seidhe is still an exceptional swordsman, and his reflexes are sharp and immediate. rumor has it that witchers are incapable of possessing or understanding emotion as yet another side effect of the mutations; however, seidhe still shows a very strong connection to them as well as his personality. he is occasionally very childlike, and enjoys meeting with strangers and making them friends. he isn’t one to automatically dive into fights, and is cautious and honest with both his words and actions. others would describe the young witcher as devoted, loyal, and, on occasion, vain. seidhe is aware of his beauty, although he wouldn’t think to use it in a manner that wouldn’t befit a gentleman. seidhe is a romantic at heart, and unless he strongly attached, would prefer the hand of a woman over a night in her bed.
seidhewen stands at about six-foot-two, and has a firm, athletic build and broad shoulders. as a result of his witcher mutations, seidhe has white hair falling mostly over the right side of his face, and stark golden eyes. when on the hunt, seidhe pulls his locks backwards into a luscious ponytail; he has also been known to do this when he is comfortable, or drunk. seidhe prefers to keep himself shaved, with his facial hair growing to a few days' worth at the longest. he has a light skin tone, and a variety of smaller scars across his body, but also a large, diagonal scar across the left side of his chest. his nose is also slightly crooked, and a small scar runs horizontally over the beginning of the bridge, apparently as the result of an imperfect healing after a fall during his training as a child.
seidhewen was born towards the coast of velen, during one of the heavier, whiter winters seen by the continent in recent history. as his traveling parents’ first-born, seidhe was beloved by them from the very beginning. after giving birth, the snowy mountains around their camp were the first thing his mother had seen, so seidhewen was fittingly named “white hills” in the Elder Speech. in the spring, his parents finally decided to settle down for good, into a small village many miles from any city center.
as a child, seidhe was outgoing and friendly, and especially helpful as well as curious about the world around him. he had many friends, and was well-loved by the people of his village. but perhaps his greatest companion was a lovely girl named Iridian, who happened to possess a myriad of magic powers, and the two swore upon a blood oath to always be with or find one another. however, once war broke out between the nations against Nilfgaard, his home was burned to the ground, and he was left alone as an abandoned orphan; the girl had disappeared, and he was left with his life in ruins. not long after learning to live by himself, seidhe met a wandering witcher, and was then taken to the legendary kaer morhen in order to begin his training to become one of the mutant monster hunters himself.
seidhe’s training went more or less routinely; he was accepted into the school of the griffin, and showed an uncommonly strong command of the Signs from the start. he succeeded in the trial of the grasses surprisingly well, albeit more out of intelligence and clever intuition than brute force and swordplay. that said, seidhe is still an exceptional swordsman, and his reflexes are sharp and immediate. rumor has it that witchers are incapable of possessing or understanding emotion as yet another side effect of the mutations; however, seidhe still shows a very strong connection to them as well as his personality. he is occasionally very childlike, and enjoys meeting with strangers and making them friends. he isn’t one to automatically dive into fights, and is cautious and honest with both his words and actions. others would describe the young witcher as devoted, loyal, and, on occasion, vain. seidhe is aware of his beauty, although he wouldn’t think to use it in a manner that wouldn’t befit a gentleman. seidhe is a romantic at heart, and unless he strongly attached, would prefer the hand of a woman over a night in her bed.
seidhewen stands at about six-foot-two, and has a firm, athletic build and broad shoulders. as a result of his witcher mutations, seidhe has white hair falling mostly over the right side of his face, and stark golden eyes. when on the hunt, seidhe pulls his locks backwards into a luscious ponytail; he has also been known to do this when he is comfortable, or drunk. seidhe prefers to keep himself shaved, with his facial hair growing to a few days' worth at the longest. he has a light skin tone, and a variety of smaller scars across his body, but also a large, diagonal scar across the left side of his chest. his nose is also slightly crooked, and a small scar runs horizontally over the beginning of the bridge, apparently as the result of an imperfect healing after a fall during his training as a child.
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Mordecai
the traitorous queen
Iridian "Ira" Whitvelt of Dorian // Sorceress // A lady does not give her age
No foreigner to wearing a man’s boots, Ira is a little wisp of a woman, small enough to be taken away by a breeze, but is weighed down by men’s gear tailored to fit her frame. She often puts people in mind of a clockwork mechanism with her knowing expressions and slanted off-blue eyes, the colour of windows overlooking an overcast sky. Her hair is worn in less of a style and more of an aversion to barbers, falling in long, slightly curled slate grey locks around her face and down her back. She absolutely detests pulling it back and often leaves it down. With pale, ashy skin and spidery long joints, she walks with a sort of calm confidence, although if anyone were looking hard, they would be able to tell that it was faked.
Ira is not naïve to the world in which she lives and prefers finding humor in everything that she can. She is incredibly mischievous and tricky with her magic and enjoys playing practical jokes with her magic, especially on people she doesn’t know because they don’t know who did it. She had an undefeated optimism: if there is a problem, she will stop at nothing to try and resolve it. She’s assertive, pioneering, enthusiastic, adventurous, and humourous who enjoys a fast-paced and passionate life. She is head-strong, focused, competitive with an impulsive, bold attitude and rather abrupt, sharp tongue. Strong-willed and always fit for a challenge, Ira had dedicated her life to seeing a better existence for non-humans.
Born in a small village outside of Velen to impoverished parents, Ira was outcast by the frightened townsfolk as a child when she presented unusual symptoms of magic. Still, her parents, as determined as ever, kept her despite the outcry of local villagers and nothing stopped Ira from making friends. She met a young boy, Seidhe, with whom she had growing particularly close but had lost contact with over time, but never for long. Driven by increasing pressures from the villagers, Ira was let loose in a nearby forest in hopes she would be consumed by wolves before her non-human powers began to truly emerge.
A passing Druid, Master Kurveen, stumbled upon the child and took her in as his own, moving her to Dorian to study with the Lodge of Sorceresses, where the renowned sorceress Ida Emean aep Sivney reluctantly agreed to train the child. There was no doubting that Ira’s abilities as a mage, though still immature and inexperience, were renowned. Following Ida’s retreat in to hiding, and subsequently Radovid V’s rise to the throne, bringing down a reign of terror for all magic and non-humans, Ira has resorted to living her life on the run… desperately trying to escape the witch hunters who wish her hung, quartered, and dead.
No foreigner to wearing a man’s boots, Ira is a little wisp of a woman, small enough to be taken away by a breeze, but is weighed down by men’s gear tailored to fit her frame. She often puts people in mind of a clockwork mechanism with her knowing expressions and slanted off-blue eyes, the colour of windows overlooking an overcast sky. Her hair is worn in less of a style and more of an aversion to barbers, falling in long, slightly curled slate grey locks around her face and down her back. She absolutely detests pulling it back and often leaves it down. With pale, ashy skin and spidery long joints, she walks with a sort of calm confidence, although if anyone were looking hard, they would be able to tell that it was faked.
Ira is not naïve to the world in which she lives and prefers finding humor in everything that she can. She is incredibly mischievous and tricky with her magic and enjoys playing practical jokes with her magic, especially on people she doesn’t know because they don’t know who did it. She had an undefeated optimism: if there is a problem, she will stop at nothing to try and resolve it. She’s assertive, pioneering, enthusiastic, adventurous, and humourous who enjoys a fast-paced and passionate life. She is head-strong, focused, competitive with an impulsive, bold attitude and rather abrupt, sharp tongue. Strong-willed and always fit for a challenge, Ira had dedicated her life to seeing a better existence for non-humans.
Born in a small village outside of Velen to impoverished parents, Ira was outcast by the frightened townsfolk as a child when she presented unusual symptoms of magic. Still, her parents, as determined as ever, kept her despite the outcry of local villagers and nothing stopped Ira from making friends. She met a young boy, Seidhe, with whom she had growing particularly close but had lost contact with over time, but never for long. Driven by increasing pressures from the villagers, Ira was let loose in a nearby forest in hopes she would be consumed by wolves before her non-human powers began to truly emerge.
A passing Druid, Master Kurveen, stumbled upon the child and took her in as his own, moving her to Dorian to study with the Lodge of Sorceresses, where the renowned sorceress Ida Emean aep Sivney reluctantly agreed to train the child. There was no doubting that Ira’s abilities as a mage, though still immature and inexperience, were renowned. Following Ida’s retreat in to hiding, and subsequently Radovid V’s rise to the throne, bringing down a reign of terror for all magic and non-humans, Ira has resorted to living her life on the run… desperately trying to escape the witch hunters who wish her hung, quartered, and dead.
gwynbleidd
too many elves
do you know that i could never leave you? and if i -- if i could never find you . . .
-- never mind, i would not forget you. can i stay alive forever?
His favorite thing about taverns was the activity that took place in them—of the good kind, where drunken friends slung their arms over one another and sang shanties of their haggard wives and the sea nymphs they wanted only a night with; where cheating dwarves made their living in bogus games of Gwent; where every man was an ally, and where he could see that old friendships were reunited, and new ones were built over a dripping mug of rubbish ale.
It was the same atmosphere he’d found again and again in countless places in countless cities, named after everything from the dirt under his boots to the heavens no one really knew anything of. Seidhe constantly found himself warmed again and again by the underlying camaraderie he seemed to find in these places of drunken merriment, even in the throes of war where the aftermath of alcohol poisoning was a small price to pay to forget the horrors of diplomacy. Such cordiality made him smile, and this night was no different. His palm pressed against the heavy entrance door of the Cockwich Brew, rumored to be named after the owner’s wife’s favorite insult to her decrepit, useless husband.
Dim light from the opposite side of the large room immediately called for the shrinking of his pupils and invited him to gaze about, taking in the myriad of drinkers the evening had brought here. Harlots, soldiers, guards, and townspeople he recognized from the busy streets earlier in the day had all settled into their corners of the establishment, laughing and chittering about in their mischief. Warmth from the fire in the hearth blazed in front of countless travelers looking for reprieve from the cold night, and he was careful to sidestep out of the way as a pretty waitress zipped past him, a heavy-looking tray filled with leaking mugs of ale carried high on her hand. Seidhewen passed another glance towards the girl, and his smile began to waver. Pretty girls normally meant expensive drinks.
It took him a moment to pinpoint the location of the Brew’s bar, and he was lucky enough to see both it and an open stool at the same time. The witcher lifted his head and made his way through the bustling crowd, slipping and sliding and narrowly avoiding the fists and elbows of increasingly intoxicated patrons as he moved.
This is almost a battle in itself…
he mused, smiling at the quarter-turn he made before finally taking his place at the end of the bar.
“Barkeep,” he said politely, and waited until he had the woman’s attention. Thinking to his finances for a split second, he shrugged, and decided that he could afford to splurge on something especially lovely for all of his recent hard work. “Give me the best you’ve got.”
The woman behind the bar chuckled as she reached for the same glasses and ale already in the hands and stomachs of everyone else in the tavern. “Feeling well, are ye, witcher?”
Seidhe offered a smile in return, and took a sip of his drink once he’d passed his payment to the woman, closing his eyes as he felt the alcohol burn pleasantly in the back of his throat.
-- never mind, i would not forget you. can i stay alive forever?
His favorite thing about taverns was the activity that took place in them—of the good kind, where drunken friends slung their arms over one another and sang shanties of their haggard wives and the sea nymphs they wanted only a night with; where cheating dwarves made their living in bogus games of Gwent; where every man was an ally, and where he could see that old friendships were reunited, and new ones were built over a dripping mug of rubbish ale.
It was the same atmosphere he’d found again and again in countless places in countless cities, named after everything from the dirt under his boots to the heavens no one really knew anything of. Seidhe constantly found himself warmed again and again by the underlying camaraderie he seemed to find in these places of drunken merriment, even in the throes of war where the aftermath of alcohol poisoning was a small price to pay to forget the horrors of diplomacy. Such cordiality made him smile, and this night was no different. His palm pressed against the heavy entrance door of the Cockwich Brew, rumored to be named after the owner’s wife’s favorite insult to her decrepit, useless husband.
Dim light from the opposite side of the large room immediately called for the shrinking of his pupils and invited him to gaze about, taking in the myriad of drinkers the evening had brought here. Harlots, soldiers, guards, and townspeople he recognized from the busy streets earlier in the day had all settled into their corners of the establishment, laughing and chittering about in their mischief. Warmth from the fire in the hearth blazed in front of countless travelers looking for reprieve from the cold night, and he was careful to sidestep out of the way as a pretty waitress zipped past him, a heavy-looking tray filled with leaking mugs of ale carried high on her hand. Seidhewen passed another glance towards the girl, and his smile began to waver. Pretty girls normally meant expensive drinks.
It took him a moment to pinpoint the location of the Brew’s bar, and he was lucky enough to see both it and an open stool at the same time. The witcher lifted his head and made his way through the bustling crowd, slipping and sliding and narrowly avoiding the fists and elbows of increasingly intoxicated patrons as he moved.
This is almost a battle in itself…
he mused, smiling at the quarter-turn he made before finally taking his place at the end of the bar.
“Barkeep,” he said politely, and waited until he had the woman’s attention. Thinking to his finances for a split second, he shrugged, and decided that he could afford to splurge on something especially lovely for all of his recent hard work. “Give me the best you’ve got.”
The woman behind the bar chuckled as she reached for the same glasses and ale already in the hands and stomachs of everyone else in the tavern. “Feeling well, are ye, witcher?”
Seidhe offered a smile in return, and took a sip of his drink once he’d passed his payment to the woman, closing his eyes as he felt the alcohol burn pleasantly in the back of his throat.
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Mordecai
the traitorous queen
Upon the forest floor lied trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons had been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them all the more beautiful. They had the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that reminded the young sorceress of seaside waves; even the colour of moss was kelp-like. They were soft and damp, yet her fingers came away dry. Tilting her head upward, the sorceress, Ira, felt her hair tumble down her back; the pines were several houses tall, reaching towards the moon that had waned to a slim crescent, a sliver of glowing white in an otherwise inky sky that failed to even bring her surroundings into greyscale.
Ducking forward and tugging her cloak farther around herself, she slipped her foot back into the stirrup of her horse's saddle and dragged herself on to its back. It was growing late and she was behind schedule; she should have reached her village of rest several hours back, but unfortunate encounters with hunters had set her back a few hours. Pain throbbed in her gut, deep and warm, but not in a nice way. It felt as though someone had their hand in there, squeezing her organs either gently or as hard as they could. When it waned, she could move, when it returns, she could only hold still in the saddle and breathe, breathe slow and deep until it passed. There was no blood anywhere as Ira had already managed to patch it up, but it was clear in her movements alone that she was injured.
Within the hour, Ira had finally broken from the lines of the forest and through the short stretch of fields separating it from the small village town she had been to once before. In silence, she guided her horse through High Street, passing the greengrocer with his window full of apples and oranges, the butcher with bloody lumps of meat on display and naked chickens strung up by their feet, the small bank, and lastly, the tavern and stablekeep at the edge of the narrow country road. Paying the stablehand to take away her horse for the night, Ira pulled her hood over her head and made her way into the familiar Cockwich Brew. At this point in the night, it was a toss up as to whether they still had rooms available for rent, but even if she couldn't get a room... she could get a pint and that would just have to be good enough.
The tavern was hundreds of conversations told in loud voices, all of them competing with one another and dominating the atmosphere. The smoke twisted in its artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lanterns. Along the wall was every hue of amber liquid in glass bottles; every vice Ira had been ordered to avoid, but with her abdomen pressed against the bartop, only a silver gleam of her eyes emerging from below the hood, she smiled almost pleasantly to the female barkeep. “Mettina Rose, please,” she spoke, sliding the crowns across the bar, “And a room, if you have.”
“Oh ye,” the woman replied, exchanging the coins for a hearty helping of bhurghundy wine and a room key, “Room seven, darling.”
“Thank you,” Ira replied, plucking up both her mug of wine and the key, about to recoil quietly into her room to rest the evening when a delicious shiver ran down her spine, like a bolt of electricity. Her full lips, painted red, curved into her cheeks into neither a smile nor a frown, just pulling tight with hesitation. Someone in that tavern was someone she knew, she didn't know how she knew, but she had an internal sense for such thing. Whether they were an enemy or a friend, she couldn't say, but her spine bristled as from behind the black silkiness of her hood, her eyes darted face to face.
Ducking forward and tugging her cloak farther around herself, she slipped her foot back into the stirrup of her horse's saddle and dragged herself on to its back. It was growing late and she was behind schedule; she should have reached her village of rest several hours back, but unfortunate encounters with hunters had set her back a few hours. Pain throbbed in her gut, deep and warm, but not in a nice way. It felt as though someone had their hand in there, squeezing her organs either gently or as hard as they could. When it waned, she could move, when it returns, she could only hold still in the saddle and breathe, breathe slow and deep until it passed. There was no blood anywhere as Ira had already managed to patch it up, but it was clear in her movements alone that she was injured.
Within the hour, Ira had finally broken from the lines of the forest and through the short stretch of fields separating it from the small village town she had been to once before. In silence, she guided her horse through High Street, passing the greengrocer with his window full of apples and oranges, the butcher with bloody lumps of meat on display and naked chickens strung up by their feet, the small bank, and lastly, the tavern and stablekeep at the edge of the narrow country road. Paying the stablehand to take away her horse for the night, Ira pulled her hood over her head and made her way into the familiar Cockwich Brew. At this point in the night, it was a toss up as to whether they still had rooms available for rent, but even if she couldn't get a room... she could get a pint and that would just have to be good enough.
The tavern was hundreds of conversations told in loud voices, all of them competing with one another and dominating the atmosphere. The smoke twisted in its artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lanterns. Along the wall was every hue of amber liquid in glass bottles; every vice Ira had been ordered to avoid, but with her abdomen pressed against the bartop, only a silver gleam of her eyes emerging from below the hood, she smiled almost pleasantly to the female barkeep. “Mettina Rose, please,” she spoke, sliding the crowns across the bar, “And a room, if you have.”
“Oh ye,” the woman replied, exchanging the coins for a hearty helping of bhurghundy wine and a room key, “Room seven, darling.”
“Thank you,” Ira replied, plucking up both her mug of wine and the key, about to recoil quietly into her room to rest the evening when a delicious shiver ran down her spine, like a bolt of electricity. Her full lips, painted red, curved into her cheeks into neither a smile nor a frown, just pulling tight with hesitation. Someone in that tavern was someone she knew, she didn't know how she knew, but she had an internal sense for such thing. Whether they were an enemy or a friend, she couldn't say, but her spine bristled as from behind the black silkiness of her hood, her eyes darted face to face.
gwynbleidd
too many elves
Seidhe sipped on his drink in silence, melting into the atmosphere around him and hardly noticing anyone new entering the tavern. Voices buzzed back and forth in his ears, and the warming sensation in his fingers and toes was beginning to make him dizzy—there was a lot more alcohol in one mug than he’d expected. He’d just begun contemplating the careful motor skills necessary to pull back his hair when there was a sudden uproar to his left, and a firm hand fell on his shoulder, shaking it roughly. The swords attached to the leather strap across his chest clanged together with the force of the movement, and the sound rang in his ears much louder than he’d been prepared for. Seidhe turned his head and was met with the drunken gaze of a tall, bulky man with a fiery-red beard, and a wide smile that showed nearly every one of his yellowing teeth.
“Aye, witcher! We see you ‘ere, me n’ the boys! Whaddya want, hm? All of our coin? Our women? We know about the way you mutants like to do the nasty! Love ‘em and leave ‘em, right boys?”
Scornful laughter rose again from the group that Redbeard clearly belonged to, and Seidhe could feel their energy becoming increasingly aggressive. Gingerly, the witcher attempted to remove the man’s grasp from his shoulder, but to no avail; it only grew tighter as the man slung his other arm in the air, throwing foam from the top of his mug all over the bartop.
“I’m only here to drink,” Seidhe said carefully, his fingers tensing around the handle of his glass, just in case. “Not to cause any trouble.”
“’Not to cause any trouble’? Boy, you freaks have been causing trouble since the beginning of time! Castin’ spells, killin’ monsters—you know, I met a witcher once who claimed me best man’s daughter was an ol’ wraith, and snatched her right up! Never saw her again! You call that not lookin’ for any trouble? I think you witchers and all yer greedy fingers need to be gone! You come here to simple folk, stealin’ our hard-earned coin and ladies and pretendin’ you’re just the center of it all—”
Redbeard’s tone had gone from drunken blabbering to genuinely threatening, and Seidhe could feel the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up.
"I think your perception of us is slightly flawed, friend. That might not have even been an actual—"
“Come on, Erich, leave ‘em be! Let’s finish this game and get you home, otherwise Darla’ll be waiting with a switch in hand for all of us. We’ve got no time to fuss over a petty
freak.
”
Redbeard seemed satisfied with the suggestion, and was clearly uninterested in the defense Seidhe had been prepared to give. He only gave the witcher a few more seconds of hard staring before turning and taking his seat again. A glance around the bar, as well as towards the booths across the room, and it was clear that the exchange had drawn attention from the tavern’s populace. Seidhe returned his attention to this drink with some effort, and all eyes fell away from him once more. The sounds of the tavern returned to normal, and Seidhe set down his empty mug, wiping the corner of his mouth the back of his hand. He happened to glance towards the other side of the bar, almost sheepishly, and was drawn to a pair of brightly painted lips wrapped around the edge of a wine glass.
Clearly, he stared too long; their eyes met, and his interest in the woman was suddenly incapacitating.
“Aye, witcher! We see you ‘ere, me n’ the boys! Whaddya want, hm? All of our coin? Our women? We know about the way you mutants like to do the nasty! Love ‘em and leave ‘em, right boys?”
Scornful laughter rose again from the group that Redbeard clearly belonged to, and Seidhe could feel their energy becoming increasingly aggressive. Gingerly, the witcher attempted to remove the man’s grasp from his shoulder, but to no avail; it only grew tighter as the man slung his other arm in the air, throwing foam from the top of his mug all over the bartop.
“I’m only here to drink,” Seidhe said carefully, his fingers tensing around the handle of his glass, just in case. “Not to cause any trouble.”
“’Not to cause any trouble’? Boy, you freaks have been causing trouble since the beginning of time! Castin’ spells, killin’ monsters—you know, I met a witcher once who claimed me best man’s daughter was an ol’ wraith, and snatched her right up! Never saw her again! You call that not lookin’ for any trouble? I think you witchers and all yer greedy fingers need to be gone! You come here to simple folk, stealin’ our hard-earned coin and ladies and pretendin’ you’re just the center of it all—”
Redbeard’s tone had gone from drunken blabbering to genuinely threatening, and Seidhe could feel the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up.
"I think your perception of us is slightly flawed, friend. That might not have even been an actual—"
“Come on, Erich, leave ‘em be! Let’s finish this game and get you home, otherwise Darla’ll be waiting with a switch in hand for all of us. We’ve got no time to fuss over a petty
freak.
”
Redbeard seemed satisfied with the suggestion, and was clearly uninterested in the defense Seidhe had been prepared to give. He only gave the witcher a few more seconds of hard staring before turning and taking his seat again. A glance around the bar, as well as towards the booths across the room, and it was clear that the exchange had drawn attention from the tavern’s populace. Seidhe returned his attention to this drink with some effort, and all eyes fell away from him once more. The sounds of the tavern returned to normal, and Seidhe set down his empty mug, wiping the corner of his mouth the back of his hand. He happened to glance towards the other side of the bar, almost sheepishly, and was drawn to a pair of brightly painted lips wrapped around the edge of a wine glass.
Clearly, he stared too long; their eyes met, and his interest in the woman was suddenly incapacitating.
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Mordecai
the traitorous queen
The tavern with its low beams was made all the smaller by the crowded tables and dusty chairs. It was the type of place where the bottom of her wine glass stuck to the bar top. Dusty bottles lined the shelves, their brilliant greens and blues lost below the grey-white layer. The dust was so thick that it built a layer over them that was more like fur, or else fragments of the old cobwebs that hung from the rafters above. She rubbed her hand clean on the leg of her fitted black trousers and pulled her cloak closer over herself as a man at the bar passed her a sideways glance. Immediately, she averted the steely grey of her eyes.
None of the faces looked familiar, none she had noticed anyhow, but she couldn’t shake the electricity in her joints.
She almost looked like she belonged, but not quite. She was dressed in handsome, well-crafted leather and linen, all in black. Occasionally, a streak of that deliciously silver hair would slip out from her hood and she’d quickly tuck it away, hiding it back in the shadows. In full view, humans always knew what she was. When people would catch a full view of her, she could see their insides curdle like milk with lemon in disgust for what they saw. Not because she wasn’t an exemplary beauty, she was, but there was magic twisted through the colour of her hair, through the colour of her eyes. She breathed it, it resided within her: magic. The genocide of witches, sorcerers, and mages had been coming like a slow motion train wreck. For years, the fear and propaganda had been increased, just a little at a time.
And these days, how many friends had she lost? How many sorceresses just like herself had she watched been burned at the stake? Dragged from their homes and safe houses and the streets painted with rivers of their bloods? The better question she had to ask was how long before the witch hunters caught her, too. Thankfully, the man glanced away and thought nothing amiss about her, though her attention was pulled elsewhere, towards the Witcher currently engaged with a few drunken men.
For a moment, she watched, her eyes like smoke, hot and grey, watching carefully. Witchers were dangerous business… they could be foes as quickly as they could be friends, depending on the heft of the purse involved. With mild interest, as if watching in entertainment, she leaned her back to the bar and curled her lips around the wine glass, watching as the Witcher shook of the men with a certain blasé she hadn’t seen in other Witchers she had met in the past. They tended to be callous individuals, and yet when he glanced up, catching and holding her gaze with his cat like eyes, the expression in his face penetrated her skin, chilled her blood, and sunk into the marrow of her bones like wet concrete.
She knew him, intimately, she knew they had met before.
Pushing off the bar, Ira made a path through the crowd towards him, pausing at the edge of the table near the hearth where he sat. “A witcher?” she hummed, studying the planes and curves of his face, smiling with amusement as she could only guess that he had already long known she was a non-human herself. They also did, those Witchers.
“You’re an awful long way from anywhere out in these parts. I passed through Tigg on my way here and there is a posting about an Infrit,” she said, really having no purpose in starting a conversation with the man. She had no need for a Witcher, and certainly no money to pay one even if she did.
None of the faces looked familiar, none she had noticed anyhow, but she couldn’t shake the electricity in her joints.
She almost looked like she belonged, but not quite. She was dressed in handsome, well-crafted leather and linen, all in black. Occasionally, a streak of that deliciously silver hair would slip out from her hood and she’d quickly tuck it away, hiding it back in the shadows. In full view, humans always knew what she was. When people would catch a full view of her, she could see their insides curdle like milk with lemon in disgust for what they saw. Not because she wasn’t an exemplary beauty, she was, but there was magic twisted through the colour of her hair, through the colour of her eyes. She breathed it, it resided within her: magic. The genocide of witches, sorcerers, and mages had been coming like a slow motion train wreck. For years, the fear and propaganda had been increased, just a little at a time.
And these days, how many friends had she lost? How many sorceresses just like herself had she watched been burned at the stake? Dragged from their homes and safe houses and the streets painted with rivers of their bloods? The better question she had to ask was how long before the witch hunters caught her, too. Thankfully, the man glanced away and thought nothing amiss about her, though her attention was pulled elsewhere, towards the Witcher currently engaged with a few drunken men.
For a moment, she watched, her eyes like smoke, hot and grey, watching carefully. Witchers were dangerous business… they could be foes as quickly as they could be friends, depending on the heft of the purse involved. With mild interest, as if watching in entertainment, she leaned her back to the bar and curled her lips around the wine glass, watching as the Witcher shook of the men with a certain blasé she hadn’t seen in other Witchers she had met in the past. They tended to be callous individuals, and yet when he glanced up, catching and holding her gaze with his cat like eyes, the expression in his face penetrated her skin, chilled her blood, and sunk into the marrow of her bones like wet concrete.
She knew him, intimately, she knew they had met before.
Pushing off the bar, Ira made a path through the crowd towards him, pausing at the edge of the table near the hearth where he sat. “A witcher?” she hummed, studying the planes and curves of his face, smiling with amusement as she could only guess that he had already long known she was a non-human herself. They also did, those Witchers.
“You’re an awful long way from anywhere out in these parts. I passed through Tigg on my way here and there is a posting about an Infrit,” she said, really having no purpose in starting a conversation with the man. She had no need for a Witcher, and certainly no money to pay one even if she did.
gwynbleidd
too many elves
She moved with a grace that he was unaccustomed to with regular women, giving him yet another clue that this one was anything but regular. He saw her slip into the crowd like smoke, and he craned his neck searching for her in the thick bustle around the room. His hopes shot, Seidhe assumed she’d slipped out through the front entrance, and resigned himself to considering what little views he’d had of her as he gazed at the bottom of his empty mug.
It wasn’t often that he came across another non-human, and that meant those that walked on two legs and didn’t have fangs or claws, as well. There was a quiet knowingness between Seidhe and these other non-humans; the knowing that they were different, and that especially due to recent years’ increased discrimination, they might never be completely accepted amongst “normal” people. It was a fate that Seidhe wasn’t sure he could come to terms with. He felt safe enough, but there was doubt that those who couldn’t offer the same services he did could be granted that same sense of security. He’d seen a handful of burnings himself, each crueler than the last.
But he heard her footsteps before her voice, and turned halfway on the stool to meet her gaze once again as she spoke. Seidhe offered her the seat beside him, and made room so that she could comfortably slide in. “A witcher indeed. It’s pleasant to meet someone who isn’t averse to speaking with me.” His face softened, almost with relief, and he stopped fiddling with the mug and slid it away from him to focus on his new companion.
“I was in Tigg not long ago myself, actually. I’m surprised we didn’t meet then. Though I have been here for a good number of weeks, so I can’t be too surprised. The people here have been good to me—for the most part. I’ve had at least a stable to sleep in and an ear of corn since I arrived in exchange for my work,” he said, laughing.
From under the hood that shrouded most of her face from view, Seidhe caught glances of features that reminded him of gentler, better days. The bridge of her nose brought to mind images of snow, and happy people sharing their good fortune with others; the thin locks of silver hair called to him the memories of his youth, before Kaer Morhen, when he was small and curious, and the most important thing to him was being able to run and play outside while his parents worked in their shop…
It was her lips that finally did it. The sorceress opened her mouth to answer him, and he failed to hear a single word she said. Their movement, somehow combined with their blood-red color, triggered the recognization in his brain, and Seidhe nearly gasped when he finally knew why.
”…Ira?”
It wasn’t often that he came across another non-human, and that meant those that walked on two legs and didn’t have fangs or claws, as well. There was a quiet knowingness between Seidhe and these other non-humans; the knowing that they were different, and that especially due to recent years’ increased discrimination, they might never be completely accepted amongst “normal” people. It was a fate that Seidhe wasn’t sure he could come to terms with. He felt safe enough, but there was doubt that those who couldn’t offer the same services he did could be granted that same sense of security. He’d seen a handful of burnings himself, each crueler than the last.
But he heard her footsteps before her voice, and turned halfway on the stool to meet her gaze once again as she spoke. Seidhe offered her the seat beside him, and made room so that she could comfortably slide in. “A witcher indeed. It’s pleasant to meet someone who isn’t averse to speaking with me.” His face softened, almost with relief, and he stopped fiddling with the mug and slid it away from him to focus on his new companion.
“I was in Tigg not long ago myself, actually. I’m surprised we didn’t meet then. Though I have been here for a good number of weeks, so I can’t be too surprised. The people here have been good to me—for the most part. I’ve had at least a stable to sleep in and an ear of corn since I arrived in exchange for my work,” he said, laughing.
From under the hood that shrouded most of her face from view, Seidhe caught glances of features that reminded him of gentler, better days. The bridge of her nose brought to mind images of snow, and happy people sharing their good fortune with others; the thin locks of silver hair called to him the memories of his youth, before Kaer Morhen, when he was small and curious, and the most important thing to him was being able to run and play outside while his parents worked in their shop…
It was her lips that finally did it. The sorceress opened her mouth to answer him, and he failed to hear a single word she said. Their movement, somehow combined with their blood-red color, triggered the recognization in his brain, and Seidhe nearly gasped when he finally knew why.
”…Ira?”
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Mordecai
the traitorous queen
“Oh, dear Witcher, I’m adverse to talking to no one. You never know what you can learn from a person,” she laughed with amusement and while he couldn’t see it behind the cloak of her hood, the amusement lit up her eyes. Instead, she busied herself with eyeing up the spot he had just offered her at his table. It was a dangerous thing sitting down in a bar like this, as it put a person in a bad position if something were to happen. A fighter she could be, but she was no Witcher, with predatorial-like reflexes. More importantly, while her senses were convinced she had somehow met the man once upon a time, her brain wasn’t so convinced—or so trusting. Eventually though, she resigned herself and took a seat, settling her glass of wine down between her hands on the table.
“I must admit though, you are one of the most unusual Witchers I have ever met. A Witcher who says the people have been good to him? Hm,” her fingernail rasped against the stem of her glass, making a soft, pleasant clinking noise as she did so. There was no denying there was a predator lurking underneath the man’s skin—a trained warrior with unforeseen powers that could down men, beast, and monster alike, but he was the unusual sort. There was a genuine kindness in him that seemed to innocent and genuine and endless: as big as the sea, and it sent her into a nervous state.
The era in which they lived was not often decorated with friendly faces. Everyone was out for something, everyone wanted more, and cruelty always got the better of the people she had met, so meeting a stranger who seemed so gentle, especially one wielding a dual set of blades, set off alarm bells in her head, though she wasn’t quick to slip away to somewhere safer. There was a magnetism to him that oriented her to him, something she found sincerely difficult and annoying trying to deal with. “I’ve also never met a Witcher taking payment in corn and meade, I fear you’re doing this whole ‘Witching’ business incorrectly, my dear.”
On the verge of introducing herself, it seemed Ira needed not to bother, because before she even had the chance, a bolt ran through her. That single whispering of her name stole the breath and heat from her skin. Suddenly her defenses were paper, paper that was being soaked rapidly with the same brine tears that were nudging at her tearducts. “The rumors were true—I—I never believed them… Seidhe?”
She had kept tabs on him over the years, in a sense. She would ask about him from time to time to someone who might know, but she had never believed anyone when they had told him he had been sent to become a Witcher. Yet there he was—those molten cat eyes, that stark white hair, the scars… how long had it been? Her eyes narrowed as she reached up to pull the hood away from her face, allowing the fall of silvery hair to tumble across her shoulders. “You really are a witcher, then.” Her eyes were narrowed, studying him, trying to believe it was some kind of trick of her mind, some kind of hoax, but the longer she looked, the more she recognized.
The curve of his brow was the same, as was the shape of his jaw. He had matured considerably, but he supposed they both had.
“Seidhe—I can’t—why are you here?”
“I must admit though, you are one of the most unusual Witchers I have ever met. A Witcher who says the people have been good to him? Hm,” her fingernail rasped against the stem of her glass, making a soft, pleasant clinking noise as she did so. There was no denying there was a predator lurking underneath the man’s skin—a trained warrior with unforeseen powers that could down men, beast, and monster alike, but he was the unusual sort. There was a genuine kindness in him that seemed to innocent and genuine and endless: as big as the sea, and it sent her into a nervous state.
The era in which they lived was not often decorated with friendly faces. Everyone was out for something, everyone wanted more, and cruelty always got the better of the people she had met, so meeting a stranger who seemed so gentle, especially one wielding a dual set of blades, set off alarm bells in her head, though she wasn’t quick to slip away to somewhere safer. There was a magnetism to him that oriented her to him, something she found sincerely difficult and annoying trying to deal with. “I’ve also never met a Witcher taking payment in corn and meade, I fear you’re doing this whole ‘Witching’ business incorrectly, my dear.”
On the verge of introducing herself, it seemed Ira needed not to bother, because before she even had the chance, a bolt ran through her. That single whispering of her name stole the breath and heat from her skin. Suddenly her defenses were paper, paper that was being soaked rapidly with the same brine tears that were nudging at her tearducts. “The rumors were true—I—I never believed them… Seidhe?”
She had kept tabs on him over the years, in a sense. She would ask about him from time to time to someone who might know, but she had never believed anyone when they had told him he had been sent to become a Witcher. Yet there he was—those molten cat eyes, that stark white hair, the scars… how long had it been? Her eyes narrowed as she reached up to pull the hood away from her face, allowing the fall of silvery hair to tumble across her shoulders. “You really are a witcher, then.” Her eyes were narrowed, studying him, trying to believe it was some kind of trick of her mind, some kind of hoax, but the longer she looked, the more she recognized.
The curve of his brow was the same, as was the shape of his jaw. He had matured considerably, but he supposed they both had.
“Seidhe—I can’t—why are you here?”
gwynbleidd
too many elves
Hearing his name and seeing the hair fall from underneath her hood was a moment he thought he’d never live to experience. No one called him ‘Seidhe’—it was “witcher”, or “freak”, or, to those who believed he was worthy of something greater, “whoreson with the silver sword.” Ira had made him forget every insult, if only temporarily, and the way she looked at him, tenderly, reminded him of their days as children all over again. He needed a moment to gather his words, suddenly wishing he hadn’t finished his drink so quickly, but once he had them, he couldn’t seem to stop them from leaving his lips.
“I—yes, yes it’s me. I’m a witcher, and—Ira it’s been so long, what—what happened to you?”
He looked around the tavern for a moment, scanning the crowd and trying to gauge the safety of their conversation here. Most seemed too involved with their own mischief, and it looked like many of the patrons were beginning to leave, grabbing their light coats and arms and shuffling outside. Redbeard and his crew were standing from their table, shaking hands and finishing their drinks with obnoxious swigs that left droplets of ale in their furry mustaches. The barkeep was making her rounds in gathering the mugs left behind, clearly straining with the weight of the heavy glasses on only one arm.
All in all, he and Ira were only part of the handful left in the Cockwich Brew as the night was beginning to grow later, and much darker. Seidhewen still didn’t feel entirely comfortable, however—especially since he was sure that whatever might need to be discussed between them was unfit for the ears of common folk. Ira had quieted, apparently waiting for him to continue speaking, but she’d seemed content for the time being with studying his face, and memorizing his matured features. When he returned his attention to her, their eyes met again, and he was frozen, lost in their blue and stumbling over his words all over again.
“Ira—maybe we should go somewhere else to speak. We have so much to say, and, well—here…”
Seidhe made a gesture towards the tavern, and smiled at the nod he received from the sorceress.
xx
The state of the room she’d rented wasn’t surprising; there was a simple bed with a wooden headboard, perhaps big enough for two, a dresser with two drawers, and a single chair in the corner farthest from the entrance to the room. He held the door open for her and followed after, closing it softly and then turning to watch her as she moved about her home for the night. The question now was how to begin answering the myriad of questions he knew she wanted answers to, and vice versa. A silence had settled between them as Ira removed the rest of her hood, and Seidhewen wanted to be the first to break it, with the most pressing concern he had in mind.
“I’ve been back to Velen, since everything happened,” he said, his voice growing soft, “but it wasn’t until many years later, of course. And… I couldn’t help but to think about what had happened to you. I was so worried… where did you go, Ira? I—I missed you.”
“I—yes, yes it’s me. I’m a witcher, and—Ira it’s been so long, what—what happened to you?”
He looked around the tavern for a moment, scanning the crowd and trying to gauge the safety of their conversation here. Most seemed too involved with their own mischief, and it looked like many of the patrons were beginning to leave, grabbing their light coats and arms and shuffling outside. Redbeard and his crew were standing from their table, shaking hands and finishing their drinks with obnoxious swigs that left droplets of ale in their furry mustaches. The barkeep was making her rounds in gathering the mugs left behind, clearly straining with the weight of the heavy glasses on only one arm.
All in all, he and Ira were only part of the handful left in the Cockwich Brew as the night was beginning to grow later, and much darker. Seidhewen still didn’t feel entirely comfortable, however—especially since he was sure that whatever might need to be discussed between them was unfit for the ears of common folk. Ira had quieted, apparently waiting for him to continue speaking, but she’d seemed content for the time being with studying his face, and memorizing his matured features. When he returned his attention to her, their eyes met again, and he was frozen, lost in their blue and stumbling over his words all over again.
“Ira—maybe we should go somewhere else to speak. We have so much to say, and, well—here…”
Seidhe made a gesture towards the tavern, and smiled at the nod he received from the sorceress.
xx
The state of the room she’d rented wasn’t surprising; there was a simple bed with a wooden headboard, perhaps big enough for two, a dresser with two drawers, and a single chair in the corner farthest from the entrance to the room. He held the door open for her and followed after, closing it softly and then turning to watch her as she moved about her home for the night. The question now was how to begin answering the myriad of questions he knew she wanted answers to, and vice versa. A silence had settled between them as Ira removed the rest of her hood, and Seidhewen wanted to be the first to break it, with the most pressing concern he had in mind.
“I’ve been back to Velen, since everything happened,” he said, his voice growing soft, “but it wasn’t until many years later, of course. And… I couldn’t help but to think about what had happened to you. I was so worried… where did you go, Ira? I—I missed you.”
Mordecai
the traitorous queen
He asked the obvious question and her eyes oozed away, unsure of how to answer the question. What had happened to her? Truthfully, she wasn't even sure she understood it, and certainly she didn't understand how she had survived it. When Ida left, life in the Lodge had fallen apart but she had tried to see it through until Dorian had been ripped apart by the witch hunters and she had escaped. Her life after that point had been one tale of escape after another. In her lap, her fingers tightened together, suddenly losing interest in the wine in front of her as her mind worked quickly to rationalize all the emotions collecting in her chest, yet all she could feel was the swelling, like cotton building between her lungs.
A part of her wanted to believe that they had been drawn back together by the strings of fate, but how much of it was magic? They had, after all, shared an oath. The suggestion he made allowed her to realize that she was getting tangled up in her own thoughts again, and her gaze found his once more, answering his suggestion with a small nod. “I think that would be best,” she remarked, rising to stand and collect her hood over her head once more, “I have rented a room. Come, we can talk in private there.” If there was one thing she had learned over the years, it was that no room was ever entirely safe and all walls had ears, but she'd take her gamble with an empty room over a full one every day.
Leading him swiftly up the stairs, her hand passing briefly over the wound on her side and she snorted with annoyance at the stairs, Ira strode up to the door of her room and swung it open.
The room was cool and dark, but a single small window kept the gloominess at bay. Above, she could hear a rat in the thatching and pretended to think it was a nesting bird, as that felt more pleasant. Alas, there was a bed with a wool blanket and a single dresser, so for what more could she ask. Peeling back her cloak and folding it neatly over the back of the desk chair, Ira's hair fell to its full glory. The silverness of it caught the early moon light and shone in a way that rivaled the stars in the heavens.
It took her a moment, glossing her hands down the black sleeves of her tunic, before she managed to look back at Seidhe. It wasn't that she wasn't happy to see him-- she was overjoyed, beyond overjoyed even, but she couldn't wrap her brain around it. How long had they lived in the same world and never crossed paths? What were the chances they would meet in a sleepy village? In a tavern, of all places? But the most worrisome question of all still remained: what did it all mean? She had always believed everything happened for a reason, and she feared that an encounter with her childhood friend, a Witcher of all things, was the harbinger of bad news on the horizon.
“After-- after the town revolted, just before the village was ripped apart by war, my parents sent me away into the forest in hopes that wolves would eat me, or wild dogs. My magic it was--” the villagers had called it evil and her parents couldn't keep protecting her, unless they wished for death themselves. “I was picked up by a Druid, who handed me over to train with the Lodge. I spent many years with Ida, but she went into hiding when Radovid's witch hunters began to pursue us. I-- I don't know what happened to Ida, Triss, Yen... they're gone, and they're after me now,” her shoulders fell slack as she turned to face her childhood friend once more.
For the first time, the exhaustion she felt leeched into her core, she couldn't resist the feeling of tears collecting in her eyes anymore. She had been running, hiding, escaping for so long and she was just-- tired. Frustratedly, she wiped the back of her hand against her eyes; she was not that helpless woman. She was strong, a fighter, so why crying was the only thing she wanted to do, she didn't know.
“I missed you, too.”
A part of her wanted to believe that they had been drawn back together by the strings of fate, but how much of it was magic? They had, after all, shared an oath. The suggestion he made allowed her to realize that she was getting tangled up in her own thoughts again, and her gaze found his once more, answering his suggestion with a small nod. “I think that would be best,” she remarked, rising to stand and collect her hood over her head once more, “I have rented a room. Come, we can talk in private there.” If there was one thing she had learned over the years, it was that no room was ever entirely safe and all walls had ears, but she'd take her gamble with an empty room over a full one every day.
Leading him swiftly up the stairs, her hand passing briefly over the wound on her side and she snorted with annoyance at the stairs, Ira strode up to the door of her room and swung it open.
The room was cool and dark, but a single small window kept the gloominess at bay. Above, she could hear a rat in the thatching and pretended to think it was a nesting bird, as that felt more pleasant. Alas, there was a bed with a wool blanket and a single dresser, so for what more could she ask. Peeling back her cloak and folding it neatly over the back of the desk chair, Ira's hair fell to its full glory. The silverness of it caught the early moon light and shone in a way that rivaled the stars in the heavens.
It took her a moment, glossing her hands down the black sleeves of her tunic, before she managed to look back at Seidhe. It wasn't that she wasn't happy to see him-- she was overjoyed, beyond overjoyed even, but she couldn't wrap her brain around it. How long had they lived in the same world and never crossed paths? What were the chances they would meet in a sleepy village? In a tavern, of all places? But the most worrisome question of all still remained: what did it all mean? She had always believed everything happened for a reason, and she feared that an encounter with her childhood friend, a Witcher of all things, was the harbinger of bad news on the horizon.
“After-- after the town revolted, just before the village was ripped apart by war, my parents sent me away into the forest in hopes that wolves would eat me, or wild dogs. My magic it was--” the villagers had called it evil and her parents couldn't keep protecting her, unless they wished for death themselves. “I was picked up by a Druid, who handed me over to train with the Lodge. I spent many years with Ida, but she went into hiding when Radovid's witch hunters began to pursue us. I-- I don't know what happened to Ida, Triss, Yen... they're gone, and they're after me now,” her shoulders fell slack as she turned to face her childhood friend once more.
For the first time, the exhaustion she felt leeched into her core, she couldn't resist the feeling of tears collecting in her eyes anymore. She had been running, hiding, escaping for so long and she was just-- tired. Frustratedly, she wiped the back of her hand against her eyes; she was not that helpless woman. She was strong, a fighter, so why crying was the only thing she wanted to do, she didn't know.
“I missed you, too.”
gwynbleidd
too many elves
His seat on the frail bed seemed to grow colder as he listened to her speak, hands folded and dangling from his lap while he stared at the floor. There was an incredible amount of pain in her voice, even though Seidhe could tell she was doing her best to hide it, perhaps after years of practice in doing so. Ira’s face grew damp and he watched her wipe away her tears, prompting him to stand and make his way towards her. One step, then two, and he was looking down to her, golden eyes glazed with concern for the silver-haired sorceress.
“Ira… I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t find you. If I’d known they tried to get rid of you, then I—I would’ve tried to stop them. I would’ve…”
The witcher shook his head, chewing on his lower lip and wondering why his hands were still at his sides. Surely after so long, he would have immediately wrapped them around her, in attempt to comfort her from whatever ailed her mind? But he knew to play this safe; making himself too comfortable before she was ready could lead to disaster. Clearly Ira was a being of immense magical power, and a part of him feared what she might be capable of if he made a move too soon.
Instead, Seidhe lifted one of his hands, shaking with the underlying excitement of having seen her again, and tucked a lock of silver hair behind her ear, noting its softness even though his skin was wrapped beneath his fabric glove. “I’ll be here now, though,” he murmured, “I won’t let them hurt you.”
What am I saying? He was a Witcher, a hunter-for-hire; he had absolutely no business wrapping himself up in the politics of witch hunting, and defending one of them from the king’s special forces. Seidhe knew he was no ordinary fighter, of course—but there was a certain pressure to the idea of having countless assassins on your tail that made him think twice about promising Ira any sort of protection.
But perhaps that’s what made sense. She had done it by herself for so long, and he could very nearly see the exhaustion that was wreaking havoc on her small body. His catlike pupils scanned across her person, brow arching with secondhand pain for everything that he now knew she had gone through—and then he noticed the slight limp on one side of her body, the unusual tenseness and swelling around her midsection, and he cursed himself for not having noticed it sooner.
“Ira, you’re hurt, why didn’t you—sit down, we need to take care of you. Now.”
“Ira… I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t find you. If I’d known they tried to get rid of you, then I—I would’ve tried to stop them. I would’ve…”
The witcher shook his head, chewing on his lower lip and wondering why his hands were still at his sides. Surely after so long, he would have immediately wrapped them around her, in attempt to comfort her from whatever ailed her mind? But he knew to play this safe; making himself too comfortable before she was ready could lead to disaster. Clearly Ira was a being of immense magical power, and a part of him feared what she might be capable of if he made a move too soon.
Instead, Seidhe lifted one of his hands, shaking with the underlying excitement of having seen her again, and tucked a lock of silver hair behind her ear, noting its softness even though his skin was wrapped beneath his fabric glove. “I’ll be here now, though,” he murmured, “I won’t let them hurt you.”
What am I saying? He was a Witcher, a hunter-for-hire; he had absolutely no business wrapping himself up in the politics of witch hunting, and defending one of them from the king’s special forces. Seidhe knew he was no ordinary fighter, of course—but there was a certain pressure to the idea of having countless assassins on your tail that made him think twice about promising Ira any sort of protection.
But perhaps that’s what made sense. She had done it by herself for so long, and he could very nearly see the exhaustion that was wreaking havoc on her small body. His catlike pupils scanned across her person, brow arching with secondhand pain for everything that he now knew she had gone through—and then he noticed the slight limp on one side of her body, the unusual tenseness and swelling around her midsection, and he cursed himself for not having noticed it sooner.
“Ira, you’re hurt, why didn’t you—sit down, we need to take care of you. Now.”
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Mordecai
the traitorous queen
Ira shook her head at him, “You don't need to be sorry, it wasn't your fault,” she shrugged lamely. Even if he had found her, how old were they? They were but children-untrained, uneducated. They never would have survived and even if her parents had protected her for longer, without the proper instruction, the magic in her would have destroyed her, turning her nothing into a drooling, babbling impotent. Things happened the way they had happened because Ira needed to study with the Lodge, and she didn't expect for a moment for Seidhe to take the blame for something that was not at all his fault.
It was only when he moved to tuck the hair behind her ear did she pause, the business in her mind seeming to slow as she let out a long, deep sigh, letting the air decompress her lungs as her head fell to the side, brushing her cheek against his hand, which felt startlingly warm. How different he was now, all the softness of a child replaced by sharp edges and chiseled lines, oh, but the tenderness did remain. It appeared the Trial of the Grasses did not go nearly as hard on the personality she remembered as she thought it would. They were said to be shells of their former selves, Witchers that was. They possessed memories from their past lives, but felt no emotion tied to them.
In fact, some said Witchers felt no emotions at all except for anger, though Ira was not inclined to believe the tongues of rabble.
“That is very sweet of you to say,” she remarked, lifting her head from his hand, “But Witchers are the only non-humans currently not being actively hunted by witch hunters. I wouldn't suggest so enthusiastically getting involved, seeing as you still have safe passage, more or less. I can't even walk through a town and show my face these days.” There were rewards for her head, of course. A pretty copper or two for the first hunter who could effectively hunt her down; she could only hope the other Sorceresses of the Lodge were fairing better than she.
Those dangerous red lips curved into a smile though just a beat later when he noted her injury with such ease. “It's nothing,” she assured him, waving her hand dismissively, “Just a bad nick really. A hunter nearly got me with a bolt… nearly,” she reminded him pointedly, “I think you're just looking for an excuse to get me to undress a bit, is that it?” her tone was light, changing briskly from the solemn voice she was speaking with earlier.
“Tsk, Seidhe, and here I thought you matured just a little bit, seems you're just trying to get into all the girls' knickers, is that so?” a laugh rippled through her, piercing through the dullness of the room like a flute through a rumbling of drums. To displace the conversation from the wound on her side, she looked to him, “And what about you then? What are you doing so far out in the middle of nowhere? I can't imagine there is many jobs out this way for you, and if there are, they clearly aren't paying well… a stable and an ear of corn? Is that what Witchers' pay is being reduced to?”
The further she stayed out of the main cities, the better, which explained her reasoning for venturing out so far into such small villages, but it was a bit of a mystery to her why he was out so far.
It was only when he moved to tuck the hair behind her ear did she pause, the business in her mind seeming to slow as she let out a long, deep sigh, letting the air decompress her lungs as her head fell to the side, brushing her cheek against his hand, which felt startlingly warm. How different he was now, all the softness of a child replaced by sharp edges and chiseled lines, oh, but the tenderness did remain. It appeared the Trial of the Grasses did not go nearly as hard on the personality she remembered as she thought it would. They were said to be shells of their former selves, Witchers that was. They possessed memories from their past lives, but felt no emotion tied to them.
In fact, some said Witchers felt no emotions at all except for anger, though Ira was not inclined to believe the tongues of rabble.
“That is very sweet of you to say,” she remarked, lifting her head from his hand, “But Witchers are the only non-humans currently not being actively hunted by witch hunters. I wouldn't suggest so enthusiastically getting involved, seeing as you still have safe passage, more or less. I can't even walk through a town and show my face these days.” There were rewards for her head, of course. A pretty copper or two for the first hunter who could effectively hunt her down; she could only hope the other Sorceresses of the Lodge were fairing better than she.
Those dangerous red lips curved into a smile though just a beat later when he noted her injury with such ease. “It's nothing,” she assured him, waving her hand dismissively, “Just a bad nick really. A hunter nearly got me with a bolt… nearly,” she reminded him pointedly, “I think you're just looking for an excuse to get me to undress a bit, is that it?” her tone was light, changing briskly from the solemn voice she was speaking with earlier.
“Tsk, Seidhe, and here I thought you matured just a little bit, seems you're just trying to get into all the girls' knickers, is that so?” a laugh rippled through her, piercing through the dullness of the room like a flute through a rumbling of drums. To displace the conversation from the wound on her side, she looked to him, “And what about you then? What are you doing so far out in the middle of nowhere? I can't imagine there is many jobs out this way for you, and if there are, they clearly aren't paying well… a stable and an ear of corn? Is that what Witchers' pay is being reduced to?”
The further she stayed out of the main cities, the better, which explained her reasoning for venturing out so far into such small villages, but it was a bit of a mystery to her why he was out so far.
gwynbleidd
too many elves
His face flushed with embarrassment, and he pulled his hand from her cheek to rest it at his side. “I was hoping you hadn’t actually heard that bit about protecting you,” he muttered, knowing that he’d gotten ahead of himself again. Wanting to do too much good for everyone, especially an old friend, was perhaps the witcher’s greatest flaw. Kaer Morhen and all of its trials had tried to teach him solitude, to be the lone hunter only concerned with making a living, and making more room for humans to thrive, but there were parts of his personality that clearly were incapable of being hindered by years of scrupulous training.
Maybe she’d been right downstairs at the bar; maybe he really was doing this witching thing entirely wrong.
The smirk across her face made him scoff, and even more so with the words that followed it. “I’ve matured just enough, actually. Enough to have resisted seducing you in the first place. Not that you would have allowed it to go anywhere, I’m sure. You always were a bit of a prude,” he teased, golden eyes sparkling with mischief. It was similar to the shine that would light his face when the two of them had made trouble as children, calling out the local farmer’s chickens and chasing birds into the trees.
Seidhe rubbed the back of his neck and turned to look around the room again, noting the closed window and the shadows formed by the only light in the room, a small candle burning on the top of the dresser. The walls seemed to begin to collapse around them the longer he looked, and it made him think of how it might feel to be a rabbit, constantly in hiding from its natural predator. Fear must be a constant for an animal like that, he thought. He dilated his pupils to accommodate for the low light level, and turned back to Ira, admiring the swirl of silver falling over her delicate shoulders.
“…It really isn’t my fight, I suppose,” he said after a moment, returning to the subject about the sorceress’s hunters. Blue eyes rose and met gold, the gaze holding still as he spoke. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t at least keep an eye out for you. Eventually, Ira, they’ll start searching these small villages too. And next time, they might not just nearly get you.”
Seidhe stepped away from her and eyed the wound at her side suspiciously, silently, and then ran a hand through his snowy hair. “I’m here looking for business, not that I’ve found much in the time I’ve been here. I was only partially joking about the corn and the stable—it’s odd how people in the bigger cities don’t seem to want to throw much money around to solve their legitimate problems. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ridden through a city and seen signs of drowners, or wraiths—but they sure as hell want someone to get rid of an unfaithful husband, or a visiting baron who doesn’t favor lowering the local taxing rates. ‘No one cares for witchers anyway, so why should it hurt if we ask them to kill people?’” The witcher shook his head, his eyes falling to the creaky floor under their feet.
Maybe she’d been right downstairs at the bar; maybe he really was doing this witching thing entirely wrong.
The smirk across her face made him scoff, and even more so with the words that followed it. “I’ve matured just enough, actually. Enough to have resisted seducing you in the first place. Not that you would have allowed it to go anywhere, I’m sure. You always were a bit of a prude,” he teased, golden eyes sparkling with mischief. It was similar to the shine that would light his face when the two of them had made trouble as children, calling out the local farmer’s chickens and chasing birds into the trees.
Seidhe rubbed the back of his neck and turned to look around the room again, noting the closed window and the shadows formed by the only light in the room, a small candle burning on the top of the dresser. The walls seemed to begin to collapse around them the longer he looked, and it made him think of how it might feel to be a rabbit, constantly in hiding from its natural predator. Fear must be a constant for an animal like that, he thought. He dilated his pupils to accommodate for the low light level, and turned back to Ira, admiring the swirl of silver falling over her delicate shoulders.
“…It really isn’t my fight, I suppose,” he said after a moment, returning to the subject about the sorceress’s hunters. Blue eyes rose and met gold, the gaze holding still as he spoke. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t at least keep an eye out for you. Eventually, Ira, they’ll start searching these small villages too. And next time, they might not just nearly get you.”
Seidhe stepped away from her and eyed the wound at her side suspiciously, silently, and then ran a hand through his snowy hair. “I’m here looking for business, not that I’ve found much in the time I’ve been here. I was only partially joking about the corn and the stable—it’s odd how people in the bigger cities don’t seem to want to throw much money around to solve their legitimate problems. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ridden through a city and seen signs of drowners, or wraiths—but they sure as hell want someone to get rid of an unfaithful husband, or a visiting baron who doesn’t favor lowering the local taxing rates. ‘No one cares for witchers anyway, so why should it hurt if we ask them to kill people?’” The witcher shook his head, his eyes falling to the creaky floor under their feet.
Mordecai
the traitorous queen
“Ah, well, at least I’m an attractive prude,” she chuckled softly, moving to sit down on the edge of the bed with a tired sigh. Her legs stretched out before her, her body clearly showing signs of aching. Unlike her dear childhood friend, she was not as immune to exhaustion and cold. The trip was tiring and the fact that she always had to be on the lookout made it so she could never truly rest. She slept, but only in brief, restless interludes… her nervous brain fluttering awake periodically in distress that the hunters had found her. Powerful or not, any sorceress could be snuffed out with enough time and energy.
It was easy to mistake her calmness for readiness to take on more, to deal with more and perhaps it once was, but not anymore. It was only exhaustion then, quiet and subdued, always hoping for a respite from the storms. Her face fell into her hands, wiping her fingers against the pale skin for a moment as if she could peel away the tiredness before returning her gaze back up to him, meeting that golden gaze of his, reflecting the same warmth of the sun, yet there was a glitter of amused mischief possessed in them, causing her to snort with amusement.
“You’re right, it’s not,” she remarked in response to his statement. She hadn’t asked for any of this—she hadn’t asked to be born with magic and she certainly didn’t understand like mages alike were being hunted down like sheep to a pack of wolves. “They already have started searching small villages, and someday they will catch me. I’m just buying time, truthfully.” If she was captured, she’d likely be taken to Novigrad and burned at the stake for her crimes against nature and unlawful possession of magic.
The conversation turned on and Ira watched him shift, as if he was uncomfortable to speak about himself and his circumstances. It was when he glanced to his feet that she was most off-put by his gestures, her eyebrows raising in surprise as she rose back to her feet with a soft snort of pain. “Uh-huh,” she answered, dusting off the front of her tunic, wrangling her words in her head, “And that bothers you, does it? I can’t tell what part bothers you though—that people won’t pay to exterminate their legitimate problems or that people don’t care for witchers?”
There had been a time when Ira knew him better than anyone else, when she could have explained exactly what he was feeling just by his gestures and the expressions on his face, as if she could very well read his mind. Those days were a very long time ago though, and there was a beat of space wedged between them. It was not a matter of just picking up where they left off, pretending as if nothing was different about them, like nothing had changed. Maybe that was so, but Ira couldn’t resist the twist of emotion she felt knotting her organs every time she looked to him. He was not the same boy he was then—his hair now a snowy white and his eyes a dangerous gold, so gold that she feared if he ever encountered a dragon, it may try and pluck his eyes out for its own, but it wasn’t about his appearance.
“So, where is it your heading next then? Do I get the pleasure of asking?”
Outside the window, though the blinds had been drawn close, there was a murmur of noise rippling through the town and Ira’s eyes quickly flickered towards the window, though she couldn’t divine sight through the heavy fabric. “Did you hear that?”
It was easy to mistake her calmness for readiness to take on more, to deal with more and perhaps it once was, but not anymore. It was only exhaustion then, quiet and subdued, always hoping for a respite from the storms. Her face fell into her hands, wiping her fingers against the pale skin for a moment as if she could peel away the tiredness before returning her gaze back up to him, meeting that golden gaze of his, reflecting the same warmth of the sun, yet there was a glitter of amused mischief possessed in them, causing her to snort with amusement.
“You’re right, it’s not,” she remarked in response to his statement. She hadn’t asked for any of this—she hadn’t asked to be born with magic and she certainly didn’t understand like mages alike were being hunted down like sheep to a pack of wolves. “They already have started searching small villages, and someday they will catch me. I’m just buying time, truthfully.” If she was captured, she’d likely be taken to Novigrad and burned at the stake for her crimes against nature and unlawful possession of magic.
The conversation turned on and Ira watched him shift, as if he was uncomfortable to speak about himself and his circumstances. It was when he glanced to his feet that she was most off-put by his gestures, her eyebrows raising in surprise as she rose back to her feet with a soft snort of pain. “Uh-huh,” she answered, dusting off the front of her tunic, wrangling her words in her head, “And that bothers you, does it? I can’t tell what part bothers you though—that people won’t pay to exterminate their legitimate problems or that people don’t care for witchers?”
There had been a time when Ira knew him better than anyone else, when she could have explained exactly what he was feeling just by his gestures and the expressions on his face, as if she could very well read his mind. Those days were a very long time ago though, and there was a beat of space wedged between them. It was not a matter of just picking up where they left off, pretending as if nothing was different about them, like nothing had changed. Maybe that was so, but Ira couldn’t resist the twist of emotion she felt knotting her organs every time she looked to him. He was not the same boy he was then—his hair now a snowy white and his eyes a dangerous gold, so gold that she feared if he ever encountered a dragon, it may try and pluck his eyes out for its own, but it wasn’t about his appearance.
“So, where is it your heading next then? Do I get the pleasure of asking?”
Outside the window, though the blinds had been drawn close, there was a murmur of noise rippling through the town and Ira’s eyes quickly flickered towards the window, though she couldn’t divine sight through the heavy fabric. “Did you hear that?”
gwynbleidd
too many elves
He wasn’t exactly sure how to answer that question. The idea of hoarding your currency in favor of frivolous things rather than the overall safety of your community was one thing. Nowadays, with war ravaging most of the continent, most people had so very little that Seidhe found it almost surprising that most were so unwilling to share. That interaction had been so integral to his home village as a child; everyone had shared, and it was why everyone was happy. Perhaps growing up poor had instilled in him certain lessons that hadn’t been introduced to newer generations.
Or perhaps he was alone in finding it absurd that the wealthy were more concerned with infidelity than bloodshed. Monsters didn’t care about whose wife was shagging who, or where the family’s fortune would go to after the eldest finally kicked the bucket.
Seidhe also disliked being treated as a mutant, of course; it was difficult for him to find a place to stay most of the time, unless he made friends in certain cities during the short periods of time he was there working contracts, for the same people who regarded him as less than worthy of even a hello. He heard their whispers behind his back as he passed them in the street, purchasing his meager meals and making sure to be on his best behavior. Seidhe wanted to be a shining star in the eyes of the common folk; he wanted to prove to them that witchers needn’t be regarded the same way that monsters were.
Unfortunately, the prejudice against his kind was heavily set in hundreds of years of hate, and humans were fickle in the way that they accepted changes to their traditional ways of thinking. For years he’d pondered over this, and the mere reality of his existence. He was something that everyone hated, doing something he didn’t necessarily love, and following a path that he hadn’t exactly chosen. Well, that wasn’t exactly true—in his early years the Trials had been incredibly fun for the young Seidhewen. He’d been adept at all of them and even enjoyed them, to an extent, as far as the physical ones were concerned. To this day he couldn’t erase the image of the large wooden table, and the vials and smells of the mutations room from his mind. The thought alone made him shiver and grow uneasy.
His thoughts in a sudden tangle, Seidhe was preparing to scrounge some bullshit answer together when she asked another question, and ironically saved him from having to do so. A hint of relief fell across his features, and his eyes rose from the floor and finally met her beautiful blue again.
“I was considering heading north, actually. Maybe I can pick up another few commissions on one of the merchant paths leading to the outskirts of Novigrad. From there, well—I haven’t really thought that far ahead. I’m really just sort of wandering, at present. It’s hard to be motivated to follow something when everything is so out of reach—I don’t have any hobbies,” he joked, pulling his lips back into a smile.
Ira seemed as though she were going to answer when her attention was torn by noise outside in the street. Seidhe leaped from his seat and allowed his pupils to dilate, as he flung a hand in the direction of the candle and signed a quick Igni, sending the room into darkness as he took a step back, his fingertips nearly brushing against Ira’s chest.
“I did, yes,” he said quietly, lowering his voice into a whisper. “What do you think it is? Certainly it couldn’t be—?”
His golden eyes were somehow illuminated despite the darkness, as he threw their gaze over his shoulder and towards her face.
Or perhaps he was alone in finding it absurd that the wealthy were more concerned with infidelity than bloodshed. Monsters didn’t care about whose wife was shagging who, or where the family’s fortune would go to after the eldest finally kicked the bucket.
Seidhe also disliked being treated as a mutant, of course; it was difficult for him to find a place to stay most of the time, unless he made friends in certain cities during the short periods of time he was there working contracts, for the same people who regarded him as less than worthy of even a hello. He heard their whispers behind his back as he passed them in the street, purchasing his meager meals and making sure to be on his best behavior. Seidhe wanted to be a shining star in the eyes of the common folk; he wanted to prove to them that witchers needn’t be regarded the same way that monsters were.
Unfortunately, the prejudice against his kind was heavily set in hundreds of years of hate, and humans were fickle in the way that they accepted changes to their traditional ways of thinking. For years he’d pondered over this, and the mere reality of his existence. He was something that everyone hated, doing something he didn’t necessarily love, and following a path that he hadn’t exactly chosen. Well, that wasn’t exactly true—in his early years the Trials had been incredibly fun for the young Seidhewen. He’d been adept at all of them and even enjoyed them, to an extent, as far as the physical ones were concerned. To this day he couldn’t erase the image of the large wooden table, and the vials and smells of the mutations room from his mind. The thought alone made him shiver and grow uneasy.
His thoughts in a sudden tangle, Seidhe was preparing to scrounge some bullshit answer together when she asked another question, and ironically saved him from having to do so. A hint of relief fell across his features, and his eyes rose from the floor and finally met her beautiful blue again.
“I was considering heading north, actually. Maybe I can pick up another few commissions on one of the merchant paths leading to the outskirts of Novigrad. From there, well—I haven’t really thought that far ahead. I’m really just sort of wandering, at present. It’s hard to be motivated to follow something when everything is so out of reach—I don’t have any hobbies,” he joked, pulling his lips back into a smile.
Ira seemed as though she were going to answer when her attention was torn by noise outside in the street. Seidhe leaped from his seat and allowed his pupils to dilate, as he flung a hand in the direction of the candle and signed a quick Igni, sending the room into darkness as he took a step back, his fingertips nearly brushing against Ira’s chest.
“I did, yes,” he said quietly, lowering his voice into a whisper. “What do you think it is? Certainly it couldn’t be—?”
His golden eyes were somehow illuminated despite the darkness, as he threw their gaze over his shoulder and towards her face.
Mordecai
the traitorous queen
Just prior to hearing the noise that gave her a start, a smile ticked the corner of Ira’s lips. Pleasantness curled through her entirely, listening intently as he began to speak. “North?” she hummed, thinking aloud to herself. She hadn’t gotten far North in a long time and she wasn’t really considering the possibility now. Any relationship her and Seidhe had once had was different now than it was before. They were different people now, on different paths in their lives… both running from things, though she was inclined to believe Seidhe was running more from himself than any particular entity. Still, not one to quickly pass judgement on something she knew only a little about, she just offered a pleasant smile and a lame shrug in response.
“I’m sure you could,” she answered, “Find jobs, I mean. As for the being lost bit, I really wish I could be afforded the luxury of just meandering aimlessly, alas…” Ira snorted, turning away and folding her arms across her chest, though not in a standoffish way so much as a contemplative stance. She wondered if there would be a time when she could ever just relax and enjoy the world around her, or pick a path to where she wanted to go based solely on her desires, and not the need to escape. Every move she made was based on survival, and she never got to go anywhere she wanted to… she went where ever was safest, but if anyone understood how she was feeling, it was Seidhe. Witchers might not have been being burned at the stake like witches were, but they faced prejudice and hate all the same. They were “freaks” and “abnormals.”
For a while, she had believed it would get better for them after Radovid’s fall from the crown, but that was not the case. Prejudice was stuck in these people and was stuck in a rut that was generations deep; it would take more than a mere exchange of a King to change anything. Witches were still being burned, witches were still being hated, and monsters were still being feared… the same thing over and over again. Blinking, and folding her arms tighter against her chest, she was just about to comment on his lack of hobbies when the sound of rumbling through the town dissected their conversation. Immediately her eyes focused, spinning frustrated on a heel. “Shit!” she barked, “I don’t know who or what it is, but when there is noise in town, it is never a good thing for me—“ she breathed out, her lips curled back and pressing against that perfect line of straight white teeth.
Immediately, Ira’s frazzled nerves jumped all together and all in different directions. She tried to tell herself everything would turn out alright, but still the nagging voice in the back of her mind spoke of nothing but doom ahead. Had someone in the bar seen her? Recognized her? Were the hunters in the village now? Could she escape? A million different questions begged to be answered all at once and like a tiger in a cage, Ira was swirling about the room, gathering her belongings.
“Seidhe, you should run,” she hissed, her eyes darting up to him, “If it is the hunters and they find you with me, they will think nothing of trying to kill you, too. Ultimately,” she chuckled, though it was a tense noise, “Ultimately I’m sure you’d win, but me? I’m not so confident.” With all of her belongings hastily tossed into her leather shoulder bag, Ira slipped it across her tiny form and moved to pull on her cloak. Another village, another day on the run… nothing would ever change. “You can stay in this room, if you like. I have paid for it through the end of the week, if you plan on staying. I can’t stay any longer—I can’t risk… I just can’t risk being caught. I really am not keen on dying, but—“ she paused, and for the first time, she seemed to genuinely stop and just look at him, “I missed you, Seidhe.”
“I’m sure you could,” she answered, “Find jobs, I mean. As for the being lost bit, I really wish I could be afforded the luxury of just meandering aimlessly, alas…” Ira snorted, turning away and folding her arms across her chest, though not in a standoffish way so much as a contemplative stance. She wondered if there would be a time when she could ever just relax and enjoy the world around her, or pick a path to where she wanted to go based solely on her desires, and not the need to escape. Every move she made was based on survival, and she never got to go anywhere she wanted to… she went where ever was safest, but if anyone understood how she was feeling, it was Seidhe. Witchers might not have been being burned at the stake like witches were, but they faced prejudice and hate all the same. They were “freaks” and “abnormals.”
For a while, she had believed it would get better for them after Radovid’s fall from the crown, but that was not the case. Prejudice was stuck in these people and was stuck in a rut that was generations deep; it would take more than a mere exchange of a King to change anything. Witches were still being burned, witches were still being hated, and monsters were still being feared… the same thing over and over again. Blinking, and folding her arms tighter against her chest, she was just about to comment on his lack of hobbies when the sound of rumbling through the town dissected their conversation. Immediately her eyes focused, spinning frustrated on a heel. “Shit!” she barked, “I don’t know who or what it is, but when there is noise in town, it is never a good thing for me—“ she breathed out, her lips curled back and pressing against that perfect line of straight white teeth.
Immediately, Ira’s frazzled nerves jumped all together and all in different directions. She tried to tell herself everything would turn out alright, but still the nagging voice in the back of her mind spoke of nothing but doom ahead. Had someone in the bar seen her? Recognized her? Were the hunters in the village now? Could she escape? A million different questions begged to be answered all at once and like a tiger in a cage, Ira was swirling about the room, gathering her belongings.
“Seidhe, you should run,” she hissed, her eyes darting up to him, “If it is the hunters and they find you with me, they will think nothing of trying to kill you, too. Ultimately,” she chuckled, though it was a tense noise, “Ultimately I’m sure you’d win, but me? I’m not so confident.” With all of her belongings hastily tossed into her leather shoulder bag, Ira slipped it across her tiny form and moved to pull on her cloak. Another village, another day on the run… nothing would ever change. “You can stay in this room, if you like. I have paid for it through the end of the week, if you plan on staying. I can’t stay any longer—I can’t risk… I just can’t risk being caught. I really am not keen on dying, but—“ she paused, and for the first time, she seemed to genuinely stop and just look at him, “I missed you, Seidhe.”
gwynbleidd
too many elves
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">Ira’s scrambling to gather her things made him both furious and saddened all at once. Furious because she was being hunted only because she was different... and saddened because he knew that Iridian could never truly feel at home anywhere on this continent. She would always be running, always trying to stay further and further away from her captors. Eventually, he knew, they might be literally breathing down her neck, blowing those silver curls with the soft winds of bloodlust, with the sounds of the screams of her sisters just behind them and chilling her from the inside out. Seidhe wished he could help her more, wished he could flash his silver blade and end the pursuit of his childhood friend—but he was only a witcher, a helpless freak, and anything he might have been able to do was immediately crushed by that very unfortunate reality. Ira was right; they’d just as easily go after him, as well.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
He appreciated the comment about being able to defeat her hunters, and it was a thought that passed through his mind, however fleetingly; but in the process of fighting for her, there was no doubt in his mind that that could end up hurting her. Seidhe took a deep breath and shook himself, catching Ira’s pretty blue gaze as she lifted it. Though he’d snuffed out the light from the candle, from between the curtains at the window was enough space to allow chunks of moonlight to slither about the walls of the room, and they glimmered in the ocean that swarmed his field of vision. Ira paused in her frantic gathering, and he caught the break in her voice as she spoke to him. Those words were so gentle, so fragile, that he wanted to wrap them in his palms and carry them beside his medallion forever.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
“I’ll stay here, then,” he said, moving to pick up a small, intricately carved comb she had absentmindedly placed on top of the dresser and forgotten to stow away in her hurry. “I could use a nice place to sleep… But first, I’m going to help you escape. There’s a cluster of boards in the wall at the end of this hallway that lead to a staircase. We can figure it out from there. I know this village a little bit, hopefully enough to get through it in the dark. I’m pretty sure you can leave in the opposite direction they’re coming from, but if they run into us—“ </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
</span><span style="font-size:12px;"><em>Witch! There’s a witch here! Don’t hide it from us, we’ve orders from the King himself! The witch is to die!</em></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
Seidhe’s brow furrowed and he scowled, looking between the window and the door and assuming that the hunters were already bombarding the lower floor of the tavern. “They won’t run into us,” he muttered, feeling his fingers itch instinctively for the hilt of his sword. He nodded towards Ira and opened the door to the room, pressing himself against the frame as he peered around the corner, waiting until it was clear of noise—but almost immediately, the sound of boots and metal started clanging up the staircase, and the witcher decided that now was as good a time as ever. Gripping Ira’s hand, he spun them both out into the hallway and to the left, dragging her behind him and feeling his heart pound in his chest as they grew both closer and further away from the wall where he could clearly see the outline of the secret door.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
Behind them, footsteps were growing heavier and multiplying, and Seidhewen turned his head just as his opposite hand reached the wall and he began shoving it open to allow the sorceress to pass through. Golden eyes met the face of one of the hunters, a bald man wearing a thick black cloak, who called out to them and brandished a very heavy and masterfully crafted axe. Despite the distance, Seidhe was almost certain that he could see the reflection of his features in the polished metal of the curved blade. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
“Aye! A witcher! They’s a witcher helping the wench! Boys!”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
Seidhe snarled and stood his ground, feeling his medallion rumble around his throat as he thrust an arm upwards and formed the Sign of Axii, immediately noting the change in the hunter’s face as the magic took over him. The potency of Signs by those of the Griffin School were renowned, and Seidhe was reminded of this yet again as he watched the hunter stop and grip at his temple, groggy and stupefied as to where he was and what he was doing. The witcher turned back to Ira, nudging her through the last bits of space before the door turned into a tall staircase, and pulled the boards back shut using a rope that had been attached to the other side of the door many decades ago.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
“I’ve seen criminals escape through this many times,” he explained, after the loud thud of the closing door, “we’ll be fine.” He tried to catch her gaze in the darkness, but whether it was buried under her hood or simply closed from fear, he couldn’t tell, and still couldn’t as he flicked his fingers, using a small flash of Igni to at least show them the way down before the magic faded out, and they were left in pitch black once more. Carefully, but quickly, Seidhe began to descend the steps one by one, holding on to some of the fabric of Ira’s cloak to be sure they were still together.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more warning, I just—I just couldn’t let you try that by yourself. I’m sorry. I missed you too, Ira—I couldn’t let you escape alone."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
He appreciated the comment about being able to defeat her hunters, and it was a thought that passed through his mind, however fleetingly; but in the process of fighting for her, there was no doubt in his mind that that could end up hurting her. Seidhe took a deep breath and shook himself, catching Ira’s pretty blue gaze as she lifted it. Though he’d snuffed out the light from the candle, from between the curtains at the window was enough space to allow chunks of moonlight to slither about the walls of the room, and they glimmered in the ocean that swarmed his field of vision. Ira paused in her frantic gathering, and he caught the break in her voice as she spoke to him. Those words were so gentle, so fragile, that he wanted to wrap them in his palms and carry them beside his medallion forever.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
“I’ll stay here, then,” he said, moving to pick up a small, intricately carved comb she had absentmindedly placed on top of the dresser and forgotten to stow away in her hurry. “I could use a nice place to sleep… But first, I’m going to help you escape. There’s a cluster of boards in the wall at the end of this hallway that lead to a staircase. We can figure it out from there. I know this village a little bit, hopefully enough to get through it in the dark. I’m pretty sure you can leave in the opposite direction they’re coming from, but if they run into us—“ </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
</span><span style="font-size:12px;"><em>Witch! There’s a witch here! Don’t hide it from us, we’ve orders from the King himself! The witch is to die!</em></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
Seidhe’s brow furrowed and he scowled, looking between the window and the door and assuming that the hunters were already bombarding the lower floor of the tavern. “They won’t run into us,” he muttered, feeling his fingers itch instinctively for the hilt of his sword. He nodded towards Ira and opened the door to the room, pressing himself against the frame as he peered around the corner, waiting until it was clear of noise—but almost immediately, the sound of boots and metal started clanging up the staircase, and the witcher decided that now was as good a time as ever. Gripping Ira’s hand, he spun them both out into the hallway and to the left, dragging her behind him and feeling his heart pound in his chest as they grew both closer and further away from the wall where he could clearly see the outline of the secret door.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
Behind them, footsteps were growing heavier and multiplying, and Seidhewen turned his head just as his opposite hand reached the wall and he began shoving it open to allow the sorceress to pass through. Golden eyes met the face of one of the hunters, a bald man wearing a thick black cloak, who called out to them and brandished a very heavy and masterfully crafted axe. Despite the distance, Seidhe was almost certain that he could see the reflection of his features in the polished metal of the curved blade. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
“Aye! A witcher! They’s a witcher helping the wench! Boys!”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
Seidhe snarled and stood his ground, feeling his medallion rumble around his throat as he thrust an arm upwards and formed the Sign of Axii, immediately noting the change in the hunter’s face as the magic took over him. The potency of Signs by those of the Griffin School were renowned, and Seidhe was reminded of this yet again as he watched the hunter stop and grip at his temple, groggy and stupefied as to where he was and what he was doing. The witcher turned back to Ira, nudging her through the last bits of space before the door turned into a tall staircase, and pulled the boards back shut using a rope that had been attached to the other side of the door many decades ago.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
“I’ve seen criminals escape through this many times,” he explained, after the loud thud of the closing door, “we’ll be fine.” He tried to catch her gaze in the darkness, but whether it was buried under her hood or simply closed from fear, he couldn’t tell, and still couldn’t as he flicked his fingers, using a small flash of Igni to at least show them the way down before the magic faded out, and they were left in pitch black once more. Carefully, but quickly, Seidhe began to descend the steps one by one, holding on to some of the fabric of Ira’s cloak to be sure they were still together.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:12px;">
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more warning, I just—I just couldn’t let you try that by yourself. I’m sorry. I missed you too, Ira—I couldn’t let you escape alone."</span></p>
Last edited by a moderator:
Mordecai
the traitorous queen
Her breath came in small spurts, hot and nervous. At her side, her pale fingers curled into fists around her meager belongings, swinging them across her shoulders. It felt like the walls were closing in as she heard the word ‘witch’ called through the village. Please Gods, let me live se thought to herself, panic trembling her exhausted limbs. There was hardly time to say goodbye at all and when she moved to pull away, she didn’t expect much of a response from him. Not because she believed he didn’t truly care for her, but what was there for him to say? For him to do? Unless he wanted to be tossed into the wrong side of the chase, it was best for him to just remain quiet and stay put. No part of her wanted him to get sucked in to this, not when there was nothing between them except fragmented memories and shattered childhood feelings.
She took her comb from his hand, snatching up in haste never once stopping her busy movement as she peered back to the room, glancing once to ensure she had gotten everything. It was only his offer that caused her pause. “What? No, you shouldn’t…. really,” but there wasn’t time nor latitude to argue with him. She was just going to have to trust his instincts and, god, she did. Slipping out of the room in his pursuit, she flattered her small frame into the murky shadows of the hallway, moving stealthily and silently in his wake. It was then that the heavy steps of hunters slammed against the stairs and down the hall. Heart pounding, her panicked breath was like thunder in her ears. Adrenaline was almost bursting through her skin, eyes wide, screams locked in her throat.
They had never gotten so close before and now they were only steps away, hidden behind a corner they’d be swinging around any moment. A squeak escaped her as Seidhe snapped up her hand and she was helpless to do anything but follow. It felt like an intervention to watch him crack open the hidden door, until they nearly slammed into a hunter. Ira was convinced her heart had stopped. Her gingers curled tighter around Sidhe’s, but only for a second before she released it entirely and balled up her hands into fists, flames licking up her arms. Never once did she have to use her magic though—not with Seidhe jumping on to the situation like a rabid dog.
Quickly, they were back on track. “Okay,” she breathed out, “I trust you.” And she did.
The magic faded from her hands—going from an intense flame to a blue sparkle before finally extinguishing entirely and going dark. They tumbled down the stairs in darkness, Ira guided by the hand in her cloak alone, but when they reached the last stair, she didn’t hesitate to stumble against his chest. Her arms curled around his neck. The tears pounded at her ducts, begging to be let out because she couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared enough to even say a single word to her, let alone try and help her… he had risked so much by doing so and the gesture had truly just overwhelmed her entirely.
“I’m going to a village called Cidaris next. It’s maybe twenty miles from here—you should be meet me there… if you want and have no where better to go.”
She took her comb from his hand, snatching up in haste never once stopping her busy movement as she peered back to the room, glancing once to ensure she had gotten everything. It was only his offer that caused her pause. “What? No, you shouldn’t…. really,” but there wasn’t time nor latitude to argue with him. She was just going to have to trust his instincts and, god, she did. Slipping out of the room in his pursuit, she flattered her small frame into the murky shadows of the hallway, moving stealthily and silently in his wake. It was then that the heavy steps of hunters slammed against the stairs and down the hall. Heart pounding, her panicked breath was like thunder in her ears. Adrenaline was almost bursting through her skin, eyes wide, screams locked in her throat.
They had never gotten so close before and now they were only steps away, hidden behind a corner they’d be swinging around any moment. A squeak escaped her as Seidhe snapped up her hand and she was helpless to do anything but follow. It felt like an intervention to watch him crack open the hidden door, until they nearly slammed into a hunter. Ira was convinced her heart had stopped. Her gingers curled tighter around Sidhe’s, but only for a second before she released it entirely and balled up her hands into fists, flames licking up her arms. Never once did she have to use her magic though—not with Seidhe jumping on to the situation like a rabid dog.
Quickly, they were back on track. “Okay,” she breathed out, “I trust you.” And she did.
The magic faded from her hands—going from an intense flame to a blue sparkle before finally extinguishing entirely and going dark. They tumbled down the stairs in darkness, Ira guided by the hand in her cloak alone, but when they reached the last stair, she didn’t hesitate to stumble against his chest. Her arms curled around his neck. The tears pounded at her ducts, begging to be let out because she couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared enough to even say a single word to her, let alone try and help her… he had risked so much by doing so and the gesture had truly just overwhelmed her entirely.
“I’m going to a village called Cidaris next. It’s maybe twenty miles from here—you should be meet me there… if you want and have no where better to go.”
gwynbleidd
too many elves
The witcher made it down the long staircase with ease, his feet nimble across the cold stone that lined the floor at the very bottom. Glancing back towards Ira, he was able to catch her outline for another brief second—just as she slammed into him and he felt the warmth of her arms around his shoulders, clutching them tightly with gratitude. Seidhe froze for a moment, startled, and then wrapped his grasp around her as well, burying his nose into her shoulder and realizing how sweetly she smelled, like honey and the center of roses. He let her go after a while, resting his hands on her shoulders and nodding slowly, unsure as to whether she could see him in the thick darkness.
“I will find you,” he said, somehow more than certain that the words betrayed some kind of deeper meaning. “I’ve found you this time, and I will find you again. And if it’s in Cidaris... then so be it.”
He was interrupted in speaking further by the sound of the heavy footsteps still upstairs in the tavern, and turned his focus to thinking quickly on how to get Ira out of the rest of the town. They were lucky it was small, maybe a few miles at the most, so there wasn’t much to go until he could release her on the main road, hopefully in the direction she needed to go—but what if the main road wasn’t safe? He’d have to think of another way. Where had the merchants said there was another path out of the city? They used it to avoid customs when they could, if only he could remember…
Aye, it’s a slight left to the main road, and you ‘ave to be careful in lookin’ for it, because—
Redbeard had proven to be more useful than obnoxious, it seemed. Seidhe realized he’d caught the detail in the midst of the loud noise the man and his crew had made in the moments before their approach.
“I know where to go from here, Ira. You just have to keep trusting me.”
Seidhe glanced towards the ceiling again, hearing voices and picking up on more confused and angry tones than certain ones. The witcher narrowed his eyes and wrapped his fingers around the iron circle that made up the handle of this door, and enlisted the help of the sorceress to wedge it open. Peering out of the small crack between the door and the stone of the building, Seidhe could see no immediate threat to their break across the town. He grasped for Ira’s hand again and led her—much more slowly this time—around the corner, closing the heavy door behind them once they were into the narrow street behind the tavern.
“This place is built in a circle,” Seidhe said, lowering his voice, “there are smaller streets behind every large one, separated from each other by the town’s buildings. If we continue on this street, it’ll lead to a break in the buildings that makes a straight path onto the main road. As long as they stay in one place we can make it to the stables and get you out of here.”
The path was more or less a straight shot. The two carried on for several minutes, the soles of their shoes splashing into small puddles in the cobblestone that remained from the most recent rains. The witcher suddenly stopped, however, his body stiffening as though he’d been gripped by sudden rigamortis. Golden eyes turned to slits and he finished his footstep, slowly raising his arm towards the hilt of one of his swords.
A knife tore through the air at the same instant Seidhe drew his weapon, metal clashing against metal as he blocked the attack and spun away from Ira, shaking strands of loose white hair from his face.
“We don’t like meddlers, witcher. And you’re the worst we’ve come across.”
“I will find you,” he said, somehow more than certain that the words betrayed some kind of deeper meaning. “I’ve found you this time, and I will find you again. And if it’s in Cidaris... then so be it.”
He was interrupted in speaking further by the sound of the heavy footsteps still upstairs in the tavern, and turned his focus to thinking quickly on how to get Ira out of the rest of the town. They were lucky it was small, maybe a few miles at the most, so there wasn’t much to go until he could release her on the main road, hopefully in the direction she needed to go—but what if the main road wasn’t safe? He’d have to think of another way. Where had the merchants said there was another path out of the city? They used it to avoid customs when they could, if only he could remember…
Aye, it’s a slight left to the main road, and you ‘ave to be careful in lookin’ for it, because—
Redbeard had proven to be more useful than obnoxious, it seemed. Seidhe realized he’d caught the detail in the midst of the loud noise the man and his crew had made in the moments before their approach.
“I know where to go from here, Ira. You just have to keep trusting me.”
Seidhe glanced towards the ceiling again, hearing voices and picking up on more confused and angry tones than certain ones. The witcher narrowed his eyes and wrapped his fingers around the iron circle that made up the handle of this door, and enlisted the help of the sorceress to wedge it open. Peering out of the small crack between the door and the stone of the building, Seidhe could see no immediate threat to their break across the town. He grasped for Ira’s hand again and led her—much more slowly this time—around the corner, closing the heavy door behind them once they were into the narrow street behind the tavern.
“This place is built in a circle,” Seidhe said, lowering his voice, “there are smaller streets behind every large one, separated from each other by the town’s buildings. If we continue on this street, it’ll lead to a break in the buildings that makes a straight path onto the main road. As long as they stay in one place we can make it to the stables and get you out of here.”
The path was more or less a straight shot. The two carried on for several minutes, the soles of their shoes splashing into small puddles in the cobblestone that remained from the most recent rains. The witcher suddenly stopped, however, his body stiffening as though he’d been gripped by sudden rigamortis. Golden eyes turned to slits and he finished his footstep, slowly raising his arm towards the hilt of one of his swords.
A knife tore through the air at the same instant Seidhe drew his weapon, metal clashing against metal as he blocked the attack and spun away from Ira, shaking strands of loose white hair from his face.
“We don’t like meddlers, witcher. And you’re the worst we’ve come across.”
Mordecai
the traitorous queen
The hug could never have been long enough for Ira. In his arms, she was safe and her worries disappeared like rain on summer earth. In that embrace, she was cocooned better than any butterfly-to-be, hidden away from the hunters and the village’s citizens. His touch made the space warmer somehow, her future in the world seeming a little less bleak for those few moments. “I’ll wait for you in Cidaris,” she answered, sucking in a deep breath and relaxing with a smile, “But you better not blow me off, mister,” she warned, reaching up and flicking his nose before moving to step around him and flee into the night so he could recoil back into safety.
Her movement faltered at the sound of heavy footsteps slamming up the stairs behind them. Her eyes blazed and glanced back, coiling her lip with annoyance against her teeth. “Right,” she glanced ahead again, “You know I trust you, what kind of comment is that. Now, go!” It wasn’t a firm order, but her eyes shone with ferocity, knowing very well that Seidhe was tangled up in this mess because of her and like hell was she going to let him catch a whiff of trouble for trying to help her out. Unfortunately, they seemed to be keenly pursued and every turn they made was met with the noise of more pursuers. With the door wedged open and slammed shut behind them, they stepped out on to the narrow alley. “How do you know all this?” she snorted as he spouted information.
One foot in front of the other, as quickly, but unsuspicious as possible. That was the name of the game. Ira was swift even being as short as she was, and she had no trouble matching Seidhe’s much longer strides with her own. The cobblestone fit together like an over-sized jigsaw puzzle, cold and smooth underneath her boots. Water from the light drizzle ran inbetween the cracks and crevices, forming tiny rushing rivers that splashed at her footfalls, staining the bottom of her breaches with water. It was only when Seidhe stopped at her side did Ira do the same, the hair along the back of her neck bristling as the sound of metal screeching against metal turned her attention back to the hunters that had closed off their paths. They were dangerously armed with leather bands stretching across their nose and cheeks to signify their status.
Not a single one of them looked all that kind, their faces were twisted with scars from the combat they had seen and their eyes were hungry. Immediately, Ira began to feel trapped.
“I’m getting really tired of you boys,” Ira breathed out, opening her posture so she was fully facing the hunters, “And today, you just happened to catch me in a real bad mood.”
Smouldering, fire licked the bottom of her fingertips like a hungry kitten with a saucer of milk, crackling, playful, gentle at first, but grew with intensity and anger as the flames wound themselves up her arm. In a moment, her hands were incased in the flames but they caused her no harm. The glowing embers leaped and twirled in a fiery dance, twinkling like stars in the hot swirling air before cascading to the ground like gleeful fiends; Ira lifted her hands when one of the hunters lifted his bow.
Magic was more costly than people often believed, which is why she didn’t like to use it. It was taxing and draining physically, to say the least, but they were pinned in a corner and Ira was not about to stand idle as Seidhe risked life and limb for her, when he certainly never had do. With a casual flick of her hands, a shower of fire split open the skies and rained down like bombs onto the hunters, exploding into bursts of flames and smoke.
“We should… go..”
Her movement faltered at the sound of heavy footsteps slamming up the stairs behind them. Her eyes blazed and glanced back, coiling her lip with annoyance against her teeth. “Right,” she glanced ahead again, “You know I trust you, what kind of comment is that. Now, go!” It wasn’t a firm order, but her eyes shone with ferocity, knowing very well that Seidhe was tangled up in this mess because of her and like hell was she going to let him catch a whiff of trouble for trying to help her out. Unfortunately, they seemed to be keenly pursued and every turn they made was met with the noise of more pursuers. With the door wedged open and slammed shut behind them, they stepped out on to the narrow alley. “How do you know all this?” she snorted as he spouted information.
One foot in front of the other, as quickly, but unsuspicious as possible. That was the name of the game. Ira was swift even being as short as she was, and she had no trouble matching Seidhe’s much longer strides with her own. The cobblestone fit together like an over-sized jigsaw puzzle, cold and smooth underneath her boots. Water from the light drizzle ran inbetween the cracks and crevices, forming tiny rushing rivers that splashed at her footfalls, staining the bottom of her breaches with water. It was only when Seidhe stopped at her side did Ira do the same, the hair along the back of her neck bristling as the sound of metal screeching against metal turned her attention back to the hunters that had closed off their paths. They were dangerously armed with leather bands stretching across their nose and cheeks to signify their status.
Not a single one of them looked all that kind, their faces were twisted with scars from the combat they had seen and their eyes were hungry. Immediately, Ira began to feel trapped.
“I’m getting really tired of you boys,” Ira breathed out, opening her posture so she was fully facing the hunters, “And today, you just happened to catch me in a real bad mood.”
Smouldering, fire licked the bottom of her fingertips like a hungry kitten with a saucer of milk, crackling, playful, gentle at first, but grew with intensity and anger as the flames wound themselves up her arm. In a moment, her hands were incased in the flames but they caused her no harm. The glowing embers leaped and twirled in a fiery dance, twinkling like stars in the hot swirling air before cascading to the ground like gleeful fiends; Ira lifted her hands when one of the hunters lifted his bow.
Magic was more costly than people often believed, which is why she didn’t like to use it. It was taxing and draining physically, to say the least, but they were pinned in a corner and Ira was not about to stand idle as Seidhe risked life and limb for her, when he certainly never had do. With a casual flick of her hands, a shower of fire split open the skies and rained down like bombs onto the hunters, exploding into bursts of flames and smoke.
“We should… go..”
gwynbleidd
too many elves
Ira had stood up surprisingly well against her hunters, verbally anyway, at first. Seidhe turned his head to glance at her, worried that her speech was more for show rather than a clue as to how she actually felt in that particular moment. His golden eyes flicked between the tiny sorceress and the men standing above and around them, shrouded in darkness and with only slivers of their pale skin visible through the slits in their uniforms. The witcher found himself unsettled by their presence, as though he were a target as well, and braced himself to attack, with both hands wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword.
He didn’t end up needing it, however. Ira spoke again and he loosened his grip, stepping away from her, confused. Seidhe watched her fingers begin to brighten, like slow coals growing much hotter in a single instant, before brilliant flames devoured her limbs and he was forced to step away, momentarily blinded by the flash of light that erupted from her. The time between the appearance of the flames and their sudden spread across the village was very brief, and the witcher could only look in Ira’s direction and slowly slide his blade back into its sheath, as he nodded at her suggestion.
They’d be traveling to Cidaris together, it seemed.
Seidhewen gestured towards the path they’d been heading for, ignoring the screams and howls of the witch hunters as most of them were horribly burned or cremated alive, falling from rooftops or into the cobblestone and desperately trying to rid themselves of the sudden heat that claimed them. He had to pause and consider where the stables were located in relation to where they now stood, but the sorceress seemed to remember more clearly, and so this time led the way through the town and very near the tavern where they’d reunited only hours ago. His heart raced as they tore through the city together, the soles of their shoes splattering the tiny puddles forming between the stones of the street underneath the drizzle that was quickly turning to downpour, each of them a tiny reflection of the flames that were in the midst of conquering small bits of the village. Droplets of water clung to the witcher’s eyelashes as they ran, his white hair turning gray with the weight of the water from overhead, and several times his vision blurred until he wiped them away with haste, keeping a close eye on Iridian as she led the way ahead of him.
They soon reached the stables and scrambled to find their companions. Ira found hers first, pulling it out of the stall by the bridle and quickly throwing her things over the saddle, and for a moment Seidhe felt sorry for her all over again, at the minimal amount of possessions the woman was allowed to own. He couldn’t bask in sorrow for long, however, and instead returned his attention to the search for his dapple-grey mare, who bleated quietly to him from the other end of the stable. An adjustment to his vision assisted the witcher in finding her, although he would have liked to have been prepared with a dose of Cat long before any of this ordeal had taken place. It was too late for that, however; the witcher and the sorceress were currently in a race against time.
Seidhe retrieved his horse and led her out of the stable, stopping briefly alongside the sorceress and noticing that she seemed to be struggling with stepping into her saddle. Seidhe’s brow fell and he wrapped the reins around his wrist, lifting his arms to offer help. Someone had told him long ago that magic was a curse, a burden, that it drained the very life and breath out of the user the instant it was summoned—and this tidbit gave no ease to his worry as he eyed Ira carefully.
“Are you all right?” he asked, at the same time she finally landed both feet into the stirrups and nodded in affirmation. He didn’t believe her. There was no way to be sure whether the tired look on the sorceress’ face was due to her magic, or simply an instantaneous mimicry of the woman she was beyond the cloak—beaten and afraid, and weary of her place in this wretched, awful world. Seidhe had no time to call her out on the lie, however, as the sounds of crackling wood and collapsing buildings was beginning to roar behind them. He was straddling his own saddle within seconds, gripping the reins and pulling at them to spring his horse into motion. The mare whinnied and reared, and in response the witcher cursed and spun her away from the stables and after Ira’s horse, letting her guide them both in the direction of Cidaris. He wasn’t sure if she knew of the secret exit from the village, but it didn’t matter now. None of the hunters had followed them yet, so perhaps taking the main road was a risk they were going to have to take.
The rain stung against his cheeks as they soared past the village and through its center, with only the occasional flashes of lightning to show them their way.
He didn’t end up needing it, however. Ira spoke again and he loosened his grip, stepping away from her, confused. Seidhe watched her fingers begin to brighten, like slow coals growing much hotter in a single instant, before brilliant flames devoured her limbs and he was forced to step away, momentarily blinded by the flash of light that erupted from her. The time between the appearance of the flames and their sudden spread across the village was very brief, and the witcher could only look in Ira’s direction and slowly slide his blade back into its sheath, as he nodded at her suggestion.
They’d be traveling to Cidaris together, it seemed.
Seidhewen gestured towards the path they’d been heading for, ignoring the screams and howls of the witch hunters as most of them were horribly burned or cremated alive, falling from rooftops or into the cobblestone and desperately trying to rid themselves of the sudden heat that claimed them. He had to pause and consider where the stables were located in relation to where they now stood, but the sorceress seemed to remember more clearly, and so this time led the way through the town and very near the tavern where they’d reunited only hours ago. His heart raced as they tore through the city together, the soles of their shoes splattering the tiny puddles forming between the stones of the street underneath the drizzle that was quickly turning to downpour, each of them a tiny reflection of the flames that were in the midst of conquering small bits of the village. Droplets of water clung to the witcher’s eyelashes as they ran, his white hair turning gray with the weight of the water from overhead, and several times his vision blurred until he wiped them away with haste, keeping a close eye on Iridian as she led the way ahead of him.
They soon reached the stables and scrambled to find their companions. Ira found hers first, pulling it out of the stall by the bridle and quickly throwing her things over the saddle, and for a moment Seidhe felt sorry for her all over again, at the minimal amount of possessions the woman was allowed to own. He couldn’t bask in sorrow for long, however, and instead returned his attention to the search for his dapple-grey mare, who bleated quietly to him from the other end of the stable. An adjustment to his vision assisted the witcher in finding her, although he would have liked to have been prepared with a dose of Cat long before any of this ordeal had taken place. It was too late for that, however; the witcher and the sorceress were currently in a race against time.
Seidhe retrieved his horse and led her out of the stable, stopping briefly alongside the sorceress and noticing that she seemed to be struggling with stepping into her saddle. Seidhe’s brow fell and he wrapped the reins around his wrist, lifting his arms to offer help. Someone had told him long ago that magic was a curse, a burden, that it drained the very life and breath out of the user the instant it was summoned—and this tidbit gave no ease to his worry as he eyed Ira carefully.
“Are you all right?” he asked, at the same time she finally landed both feet into the stirrups and nodded in affirmation. He didn’t believe her. There was no way to be sure whether the tired look on the sorceress’ face was due to her magic, or simply an instantaneous mimicry of the woman she was beyond the cloak—beaten and afraid, and weary of her place in this wretched, awful world. Seidhe had no time to call her out on the lie, however, as the sounds of crackling wood and collapsing buildings was beginning to roar behind them. He was straddling his own saddle within seconds, gripping the reins and pulling at them to spring his horse into motion. The mare whinnied and reared, and in response the witcher cursed and spun her away from the stables and after Ira’s horse, letting her guide them both in the direction of Cidaris. He wasn’t sure if she knew of the secret exit from the village, but it didn’t matter now. None of the hunters had followed them yet, so perhaps taking the main road was a risk they were going to have to take.
The rain stung against his cheeks as they soared past the village and through its center, with only the occasional flashes of lightning to show them their way.
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Mordecai
the traitorous queen
From inside their homes, civilians watched and witnessed flames licking the brickwork as the street was engulfed by a deadly fire. There was an obvious power rejoicing in Ira, her head tilted back and her eyes burning in their own right as the catastrophic blue hue reflected the sea of red, yellow, and orange. A gust of wine blew through her hair, tendrils of smoke brushing across her face, as if trying to desperately escape the blazing inferno. At her sides, her fingers were clenched into fists as the heat died down, the flames reducing to a small flicker, then to nothing until she returned to normal. The flame had no culture, no pity, no mind, and it consumed whatever Ira pleased; its only criteria being if it was ordered to take it, it would reduce it to ash or something molten and foul.
The witch hunters burned like witches at a stake, fading from men, to silhouettes, to ash.
That kind of power took energy, and it was clear that Ira was suffering from exhaustion the minute they turned away. At Seidhe’s heels, the pair jogged through the city at a brisk pace as the icy grey sky restlessly grumbled. The thick, blackened clouds were dragged down by heavy rain, struggling to withstand the burden of the weight of the rain it held. Soon, the clouds gave in and rain poured down over the city with a roar. The cold rain pierced her pale and wet skin better than a sword would have in that moment, but she didn’t stop running across the slippery path, though her posture had become weakened by the weight of her soaked clothes.
It wasn’t just rain, it was a downpour as heavy as Ira had ever seen; walking through a waterfall couldn’t get any wetter, and she was desperately shaking droplets loose from her eyelashes. They scrambled into the stables, Ira quickly pulling tight her dun mount’s girth and sliding the bridle over his head. On any other given day, she would have had no troubles leaping up into the saddle, but she was tired, raw, frustrated, and on the verge of tears. Weeks of pent up frustration was bubbling in her chest and threatening to boil over. Already, she could feel the painful sting of tears banging at her tear ducts, but she did what she could to hold herself together. She had taken care of the Witch Hunters for now, but there would be more… there was always more.
“I’m—“ god, she hated that question. Are you all right? No, no she was not all right and she seriously wanted to inform him of that, but she knew now was neither the time nor the place. “I’m fine. Let’s just go,” she barked over the wind and the rain. She managed to haul herself into the saddle, though her muscles cried out in pain and tenderness from over-exertion. What she needed was a hot bath, a bed, and several hours to recoup. Instead, she nudged her horse into a brisk canter and the pair darted down the road, long since muddied by the rain.
The wall of water still fell from the sky. The trees of the path they were following offered no shelter and droplets the size of almonds smashed their way through the foliage above. There wasn’t an inch on her that wasn’t soaked through and trembling from the cold. It had seemed mild at first, the temperature, but it had begun to numb her face and extremities. What residual heat she had absorbed before the rain started was gone and with every breath, more heat rose in puffs of white vapor.
The village disappeared behind them, but Ira pressed her horse on at a quick pace for several grueling miles, until it became painfully evident that there was no one in their immediate pursuit. Instead, there was just miles of forest all around them and she ended up pulling her horse to a walk. “I wish this damn rain would stop,” she muttered, glancing up at the skies, through they were long-since pitched into darkness. “But at least the rain and the mud will keep our tracks covered for the most part. Can’t follow tracks in dirt if the dirt is all washed out.” She dragged her sleeve below her nose and sniffled, feeling the cold begin to settle deep within her lungs.
Cold stalked her through the mountain passes like a specter death, the bitter wind laughing as it tore right to her heart and turned her blood to what felt like an icy sludge. Her muscles continued to ache and grind like the cogs in an old machine. “No one is following us, I don’t think. You don’t have to come to Cidaris, you know. If you don’t want, I mean. I feel like I threw a wrench in your plan, but if you go now, no one would know. You’d be safe.”
The witch hunters burned like witches at a stake, fading from men, to silhouettes, to ash.
That kind of power took energy, and it was clear that Ira was suffering from exhaustion the minute they turned away. At Seidhe’s heels, the pair jogged through the city at a brisk pace as the icy grey sky restlessly grumbled. The thick, blackened clouds were dragged down by heavy rain, struggling to withstand the burden of the weight of the rain it held. Soon, the clouds gave in and rain poured down over the city with a roar. The cold rain pierced her pale and wet skin better than a sword would have in that moment, but she didn’t stop running across the slippery path, though her posture had become weakened by the weight of her soaked clothes.
It wasn’t just rain, it was a downpour as heavy as Ira had ever seen; walking through a waterfall couldn’t get any wetter, and she was desperately shaking droplets loose from her eyelashes. They scrambled into the stables, Ira quickly pulling tight her dun mount’s girth and sliding the bridle over his head. On any other given day, she would have had no troubles leaping up into the saddle, but she was tired, raw, frustrated, and on the verge of tears. Weeks of pent up frustration was bubbling in her chest and threatening to boil over. Already, she could feel the painful sting of tears banging at her tear ducts, but she did what she could to hold herself together. She had taken care of the Witch Hunters for now, but there would be more… there was always more.
“I’m—“ god, she hated that question. Are you all right? No, no she was not all right and she seriously wanted to inform him of that, but she knew now was neither the time nor the place. “I’m fine. Let’s just go,” she barked over the wind and the rain. She managed to haul herself into the saddle, though her muscles cried out in pain and tenderness from over-exertion. What she needed was a hot bath, a bed, and several hours to recoup. Instead, she nudged her horse into a brisk canter and the pair darted down the road, long since muddied by the rain.
The wall of water still fell from the sky. The trees of the path they were following offered no shelter and droplets the size of almonds smashed their way through the foliage above. There wasn’t an inch on her that wasn’t soaked through and trembling from the cold. It had seemed mild at first, the temperature, but it had begun to numb her face and extremities. What residual heat she had absorbed before the rain started was gone and with every breath, more heat rose in puffs of white vapor.
The village disappeared behind them, but Ira pressed her horse on at a quick pace for several grueling miles, until it became painfully evident that there was no one in their immediate pursuit. Instead, there was just miles of forest all around them and she ended up pulling her horse to a walk. “I wish this damn rain would stop,” she muttered, glancing up at the skies, through they were long-since pitched into darkness. “But at least the rain and the mud will keep our tracks covered for the most part. Can’t follow tracks in dirt if the dirt is all washed out.” She dragged her sleeve below her nose and sniffled, feeling the cold begin to settle deep within her lungs.
Cold stalked her through the mountain passes like a specter death, the bitter wind laughing as it tore right to her heart and turned her blood to what felt like an icy sludge. Her muscles continued to ache and grind like the cogs in an old machine. “No one is following us, I don’t think. You don’t have to come to Cidaris, you know. If you don’t want, I mean. I feel like I threw a wrench in your plan, but if you go now, no one would know. You’d be safe.”
gwynbleidd
too many elves
Ira continued to lead the way out of the city, seeming to carry on for ages as she ran from her pursuers; the witcher had known that no one was following them for quite a while before the sorceress stopped her mount and finally spoke. He could only nod in agreement as she scowled towards the sky, and raised a hand to wipe rain away from his eyes yet again. His mare whinnied as he tugged on the reins to pull her in line with Ira’s horse, with both animals’ hot breath collecting into clouds of vapor around their noses. Seidhe passed his gaze over the small woman yet another time, noticing her trembling shoulders and the way she carried her jaw now, weaker and far less proudly than when they’d been speaking in the room she’d rented. He thought about that space briefly, how warm it likely was and how comfortable, however meager, its arrangements would have been for them…
But it was pointless now. There was no way they could return to that city, not now or likely ever. The witcher suppressed a sigh and adjusted the leather belt across his chest, feeling the weight of his swords ease up on his right shoulder. The path ahead of them was completely dark, with hardly a sliver of moonlight to guide them. For several moments the only sounds between the two of them were the lazy clops of hooves on trodden dirt and the jingling of Seidhe’s armor as he bounced in the saddle. The back of his mare’s neck had become an incredibly interesting subject as he considered the events of the evening, and wished that he had another hearty mug of alcohol to soothe the whirlwind of confusion whistling through his mind.
You don’t have to come to Cidaris, you know, she said, returning him to reality. Immediately the witcher shook his head and turned it to face her, seeing the material of her cloak cling to the sides of her face and forehead. Ira’s lips had remained the color of roses even throughout their ordeal, and he briefly wondered if their staying power was a spell that the woman had cast on herself at some point. Every sorceress he’d met had been vain, though not excessively, so perhaps it was a trait that extended even to his dear friend.
“I have no problem travelling there with you,” he said, through the sounds of the downpour which was slowly beginning to ease, as if the skies had heard Ira’s wishes. “I didn’t have any pending contracts back there; I’m sure no one will miss me. We’re alike in that respect—no one wants us until they desperately need us.” He hoped that the bitter reality of his humor hadn’t struck too sharply into the sorceress, but he watched her carefully from the corner of his eye just to be sure.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, just in case, returning his vision to the dark road ahead, “something tells me that I shouldn’t leave you quite yet, and the least I can do is assure that you make it to Cidaris in one piece, however creaky and tired that one piece is. Witchers aren’t normally in the business of escort, but this is worth an exception. If my safety truly concerns you, then if I come into danger like that again, I’ll leave once I know you’re far enough away. We’ll find each other again, Ira.”
“We always have, somehow,” he added quietly.
Golden irises scoured the path idly once more, as the witcher listened to the somber march of their horses, side by side. He figured they must have traveled at least a quarter of the way to Cidaris, and wondered how much longer they could stand to be out here until they could stop and warm themselves. Ira in particular needed to rest, he knew; Seidhe was sure that if he tried, he’d be able to hear the fatigue seeping from every inch of the sorceress’ tiny form. Ideally, there would be a small town between here and their destination where they could huddle into an abandoned shack or stable until dawn, but in long stretches of forest like this one, there was no way to be certain. He would have to wait and see.
But it was pointless now. There was no way they could return to that city, not now or likely ever. The witcher suppressed a sigh and adjusted the leather belt across his chest, feeling the weight of his swords ease up on his right shoulder. The path ahead of them was completely dark, with hardly a sliver of moonlight to guide them. For several moments the only sounds between the two of them were the lazy clops of hooves on trodden dirt and the jingling of Seidhe’s armor as he bounced in the saddle. The back of his mare’s neck had become an incredibly interesting subject as he considered the events of the evening, and wished that he had another hearty mug of alcohol to soothe the whirlwind of confusion whistling through his mind.
You don’t have to come to Cidaris, you know, she said, returning him to reality. Immediately the witcher shook his head and turned it to face her, seeing the material of her cloak cling to the sides of her face and forehead. Ira’s lips had remained the color of roses even throughout their ordeal, and he briefly wondered if their staying power was a spell that the woman had cast on herself at some point. Every sorceress he’d met had been vain, though not excessively, so perhaps it was a trait that extended even to his dear friend.
“I have no problem travelling there with you,” he said, through the sounds of the downpour which was slowly beginning to ease, as if the skies had heard Ira’s wishes. “I didn’t have any pending contracts back there; I’m sure no one will miss me. We’re alike in that respect—no one wants us until they desperately need us.” He hoped that the bitter reality of his humor hadn’t struck too sharply into the sorceress, but he watched her carefully from the corner of his eye just to be sure.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, just in case, returning his vision to the dark road ahead, “something tells me that I shouldn’t leave you quite yet, and the least I can do is assure that you make it to Cidaris in one piece, however creaky and tired that one piece is. Witchers aren’t normally in the business of escort, but this is worth an exception. If my safety truly concerns you, then if I come into danger like that again, I’ll leave once I know you’re far enough away. We’ll find each other again, Ira.”
“We always have, somehow,” he added quietly.
Golden irises scoured the path idly once more, as the witcher listened to the somber march of their horses, side by side. He figured they must have traveled at least a quarter of the way to Cidaris, and wondered how much longer they could stand to be out here until they could stop and warm themselves. Ira in particular needed to rest, he knew; Seidhe was sure that if he tried, he’d be able to hear the fatigue seeping from every inch of the sorceress’ tiny form. Ideally, there would be a small town between here and their destination where they could huddle into an abandoned shack or stable until dawn, but in long stretches of forest like this one, there was no way to be certain. He would have to wait and see.
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Mordecai
the traitorous queen
The rain slowed until it was a nigh haze, nothing more than an annoyance misting across her face and collecting in her eyelashes, causing her to vehemently try and blink the moisture away. “Quite,” she admitted, closing her eyes, “Witches and Wizards used to be treated like royalty, often working in the cabinets of kings. How far we have all fallen,” her hand slipped down to her horse's neck, giving the tan, damp fur a small pat as she processed her thoughts. “Yet when they need us most, kings still come to the witches and wizards to fill the ranks of their armies. Disgusting, isn't it? Hm, but who am I to talk? As a Witcher, I'm sure you understand how that feels-hated until a monster is around stealing women and children from a village.”
Given the chance, Ira would have abandoned it all. Magic made her life easier, certainly, but to what end? She would have ripped the magic straight from the marrow of her bones had she been able, but alas, magic was integrated into her down to her core-as much a part of her as her beating heart. “Very well,” she glanced to him, a fierceness in her expression and not an ounce of smile to be found. There was no denying that a predator lurked beneath her skin, because there had to be, else she wouldn't survive. Perhaps she was no soldier not like Seidhe anyways, but she was scrappy and fierce in her own right… if not exhausted. It was only a matter of time until she couldn't run any more, or she made a mistake and was captured, but today did not happen to be that day.
“I don't have much money to pay you with, but I have some. Not as much as you're used to, I'm sure, but perhaps you'll give me an 'old friend' discount, hm?” there was that smile again. It was mischievous and tired, a mere hint at the corner of her features, but she reached over and gave him a nudge in the shoulder with her fingertips in the most playful of manners as they walked on. Mud caked every inch of her horse's legs and chest, and a few splatters had even stained her coat. The thick brown paste was not cold enough to freeze, yet clung to her horse's feet and making it more difficult for the animal to maneuver. Occasionally, her mount would stumble, only to quickly regain her balance a stride later, but it was dangerous all the same as they traversed the uneven, rocky ground.
“Yes, it seems we always have, haven't we?” she remarked on his comment of how they always seemed to find each other. She couldn't help but wonder if any sort of friendship and affectionate she felt towards him was genuine, or as a result of the blood oath, but she decided now was not the time to dwell on such trivial matters.
Like him, her eyes were set dead ahead, though not nearly as keen in the darkness as his were. He made it seem so easy, yet she had to squint and stare really hard to see anything more than the silhouettes of giant trees. The branches spiked into the sky - no sign of life to be found anywhere. It was so dark she could barely see where it was her horse was going and there were only the small sounds of rustling bushes and the howl of the wind. She didn't know what laid in the dark forest, all she knew was that it wasn't likely to be a peaceful journey.
“Up there, can you see? Does that look like an abandoned cabin to you?” She squinted really hard, thinking she saw the faint outline of a man-made structure, but she couldn't quite be sure if it was the truth of her eyes just playful a trick on her.
Given the chance, Ira would have abandoned it all. Magic made her life easier, certainly, but to what end? She would have ripped the magic straight from the marrow of her bones had she been able, but alas, magic was integrated into her down to her core-as much a part of her as her beating heart. “Very well,” she glanced to him, a fierceness in her expression and not an ounce of smile to be found. There was no denying that a predator lurked beneath her skin, because there had to be, else she wouldn't survive. Perhaps she was no soldier not like Seidhe anyways, but she was scrappy and fierce in her own right… if not exhausted. It was only a matter of time until she couldn't run any more, or she made a mistake and was captured, but today did not happen to be that day.
“I don't have much money to pay you with, but I have some. Not as much as you're used to, I'm sure, but perhaps you'll give me an 'old friend' discount, hm?” there was that smile again. It was mischievous and tired, a mere hint at the corner of her features, but she reached over and gave him a nudge in the shoulder with her fingertips in the most playful of manners as they walked on. Mud caked every inch of her horse's legs and chest, and a few splatters had even stained her coat. The thick brown paste was not cold enough to freeze, yet clung to her horse's feet and making it more difficult for the animal to maneuver. Occasionally, her mount would stumble, only to quickly regain her balance a stride later, but it was dangerous all the same as they traversed the uneven, rocky ground.
“Yes, it seems we always have, haven't we?” she remarked on his comment of how they always seemed to find each other. She couldn't help but wonder if any sort of friendship and affectionate she felt towards him was genuine, or as a result of the blood oath, but she decided now was not the time to dwell on such trivial matters.
Like him, her eyes were set dead ahead, though not nearly as keen in the darkness as his were. He made it seem so easy, yet she had to squint and stare really hard to see anything more than the silhouettes of giant trees. The branches spiked into the sky - no sign of life to be found anywhere. It was so dark she could barely see where it was her horse was going and there were only the small sounds of rustling bushes and the howl of the wind. She didn't know what laid in the dark forest, all she knew was that it wasn't likely to be a peaceful journey.
“Up there, can you see? Does that look like an abandoned cabin to you?” She squinted really hard, thinking she saw the faint outline of a man-made structure, but she couldn't quite be sure if it was the truth of her eyes just playful a trick on her.
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