HE NEVER KNOCKS, NEVER ^{_{announces himself prior to his arrival, his presence only ever signaled in the sound of a door closing behind him, a body where one did not exist moments earlier; Iorveth is not an exception to his typical entrances, quite content to invite himself into ( hovel ) home currently belonging to Aen Seidhe, the faintest of smiles already splayed out over visage – the most genuine one he’s had in days, despite it’s minute size.}} 

       ❛ I’M NOT INTERRUPTING ^{_{anything, am I? ❜}}

       WITCHER ASKS AS STEPS ^{_{are taken forward, hand reaching to curl fingers loosely about partner’s upper arm with a gentle squeeze given. ❛ Or can I steal away some of your time? ❜ An hour, two, three – something to try and make up for the months that have passed without seeing one another. It won’t be enough, could never be enough, but it would be a start.}}

                                         ^{_{He doesn’t wait for an answer before wrapping his arms around him, properly, 
                                                       and leaving it to Iorveth to push him away if he’s being a nuisance.}} 

               He would have brandished a sword, had his hands not been entwined by the presence of antiquated woodwind ( not to be played, of course, no; never in these parts: such fanciful pastimes would have caused a stir ), and mind not been provoked to restless staccato by quietude filling the area.

Bewilderment sweeps first over sallow strokes, even after he has been drawn from prior trapping, and lain flute aside whilst visage deliquesces from fettered callousness; that felicity could find him midst sinful slums and malevolent tide was reason enough to be in disbelief. No forbearing acquiescence nor hesitant tessitura resounds, yet the breviloquent   ❝    Gwynbleidd    ❞  thereafter sown is steeped in wavering laugh, and rendered fleeting by the inklings of tenerity: marred lips pressed to another’s; dactyls sequestered, peirastic as they grace familiar jaw           ephemeral, it is all much too ephemeral.

And ’Interrupting’, he had said, as if the commander harboured no propensity to revoke obligation in favour of tarrying, mayhaps only for a solitary moment; the idea itself was not that outlandish, he presumed.      ❝    A game of cat and mouse, as I understand it, but little else. Though I suppose if you found me, I may have already lost.    ❞    He loathed hiding like some dog on the run           however, forfeiting his life withal…the prospect was folly, without question. Embers of the Eternal Fire burned hot, scorched the streets of Novigrad, and he held no desire to be baptized in flame just then.

❝    There was a rumour that a witcher was in our midst; I should hardly be surprised: you always did manage to land yourself in the most wretched of places, Geralt.    ❞

APOSTATICUS  ❜

     The form with which the elf bends his words is nearly reminiscent of an old companion. Nearly coaxes the side of his mouth into the twitch of a fond smirk. But it wouldn’t do to daydream about Velanna’s harsh tongue and stunning tattoos when staring such hostility in the face (and a very marred face it is, from what he can glimpse).

     Worn fingers tug at the edges of his hood, as though to emphasize the shroud in question. Not that this man seems interested in Chantry ruins and bloody hands.

Anders snorts and tries to keep things light.

     “Good aim. Though–” He straightens up, makes it obvious he has no intentions of reaching for his staff. “It has become a bit of a courtesy. This face could start a riot, you know.” Sounds like joking but the harsh truth is cut jagged under the surface. He swallows it down like broken glass and manages a smile. “They told me there were bandits in the area. You wouldn’t happen to be one, would you?”

             ❝   They warned you of bandits, yet you ventured here regardless?    ❞    A laugh sunders silence, cynical all the same.    ❝    You’re either a madman or more desperate than most.    ❞

As those who beheld this fearsome fade-touched gift often were, now more than ever; the onslaught of war had apparently driven unabashed and unwarranted malice into the hearts of men, sometimes without question. Whether or not his shrouded facade was compelled by the likes of the contention, he knew not, and cared even less: the plight of such conjurers, sorcerers, and apostates ( or whichever appellation had been bequeathed unto them ) was nary an inflated concern; those of their ilk begat his circumspection, and perchance an evanescent deluge of sympathy, if it were possible ( most who had been damned by the gossamer lies of religious beleaguering were permitted some sort of compassion ).

❝    I am no mage-hunter, if that’s what you ask.    ❞      Some might have claimed otherwise, however that addendum is forsaken; he would not deign to endow his army with an epithet so unbecoming. If they were named terrorists, bandits, or freedom fighters, it never mattered; the Scoia'tael always accomplished what they aimed to, nothing less. A shift in posture; eye is narrowed, brow furrowed, lips pressed       searching for something beyond that cloth cloister, ultimately finding nought. He takes him for another of his brethren; a fugitive trying to elude the cusp of persecution.

❝    Our quarrel may be with the Templars, but that fact alone does not make us allies.    ❞

relationship status: i am mean

DAGGERSANDPOISON   ❜

vriehedd  liked this for a witcheress au starter

      She finally came to a stop. Arrows were aimed at her, she could tell, one wrong move and she might end up dead. “Here’s an idea, why don’t we introduce ourselves? You know, like mannered people do in the middle of a forest.”

             ❝   You might have thought of that sooner; perhaps before you set foot into a city on the brink of war, vatt'ghern.     ❞       A single gesture and all weaponry is sheathed, though hand remains upon anointed bow, even as distance atwixt interlocutors is cleft in twain. Aporetic is the gaze that she is met with, unfaltering though it hails from but a solitary oculus. ❝    I don’t care for pleasantries; what brought you to the coast of Aedirn is more important than your name. Explain yourself; but keep in mind that if I find you to be lying, you shall pay for it with your life.    ❞

lysaddams:

Saskia and Iorveth are my dream couple, bye~

idk wghat is happening but remember tom hardy’s myspace and also take some puppies ( x x ) i hope htis helps calm some ppl down a lil 

FARAVALDYR   ❜

       SILVER FOR MONSTERS, STEEL ^{_{for humans; both swords carry their own separate blood lust and lay within sheaths bearing crimson trophies ‘pon their blades – the blood of harpies, the blood of elves, and while conscious fails to take a blow from the turn of events he cannot help but wonder if someone else’s does. It takes little effort at all to see the roots that Iorveth has planted in his unit, in this dream of equality —– a roof over his head, food that does not need to be scavenged; he’s seen it, he knows —– and even less to understand how it must hurt to watch those that you have entrusted visions of the future to proceed to rip them apart at the first promise of fortune or fame; how could one whose very being is built of unparalleled selflessness begin to understand selfishness when it has infected that which he considers to be as much himself as his flesh, hair, or heart would be?}}

                                                            ^{_{( & how deep does the poison go? )}}

       HE COULD HAVE SPREAD THE ^{_{news out, he considers in hindsight, watching one emotion after the next rush over friend Aen Seidhe’s face though even had thought occurred earlier he’s not entirely sure he would’ve done it that way, regardless; he is candid with the Scoia'tael leader, tells him what he needs to know when he needs to know it and perhaps Iorveth prefers it this way – a solid wave of bad news rather than quick jabs over a series of days. Too late now, either way, and he bites back a sigh as gaze falls momentarily to wound, a light furrowing of brows to follow others questioning; gloat. He can see how he would seem the type – & in certain instances he is – and thus cannot fault the elf for his assumption, for jumping to a negative scenario ‘fore a positive one but it does not change that it wasn’t his intention; the apology should have clarified that much, he thinks.}} 

       ❛ FOOD AND A LIT PIPE <sup><sub>don’t really earn me bragging rights. ❜

                                       ( What were you scared he’d see? ) 

         Leaves are removed from flesh,     head shaking to remove     locks of alabaster 
         from visage     and he straightens up to gain better access     to side as Witcher 
         begins his sutures.</sub></sup> 

                                          ^{_{❛ You were smoking; had your own house, own food. Couldn’t understand
                                          a damn word you said, even if I’d been trying to. That’s all I saw. ❜}} 

       HE’S HALF TEMPTED TO ASK ^{_{about it, as though Iorveth would be willing to share; he was shaken enough from the idea that Geralt had been in his head, the likelihood that he will now wish to elaborate is quite low. Not to mention he more or less understood the gist; he wonders if Iorveth knows he shan’t ever dream it again – he wonders if he’d want to, wonders if it would really matter.}}

                                            ^{_{Witcher pulls a thread through bloodied flesh in familiar stitch;
     he’ll need nine, he’s done one, & puts off voicing his intentions to stay here for the night ‘til the task at hand is complete.}} 

                                                              ^{_{❛ I figured you should know; gloating wasn’t the intention. ❜}}

He had been unmade, as it were, by mere chance; that some feral gluttons would imbibe on one of his reveries had hardly been a planned eventuation at the hands of the Witcher, and yet he still felt inklings of scorn         as though he had been betrayed or cheated, somehow. That he could fight so hard to cloister this eldritch facet, though have it be presented on a platter to someone as novel to him as the White Wolf; it almost impelled a bout of dolour. Even his best and most noble soldier had not been privy to all that there was alow that cadaverous flesh; he was espied as little more than a machine of war, a thing of blood and contention, whose every motion was prelude to cacophonies of destruction and crescendos of quietus: there was no room for mercy or for peace, no place for gentle hymns and tender fantastication. Terror was his sport, and the unsung oppressed necessitated a leader, not a poetic fool who dreamt of rest.

         ( And damn the mere fact that he could seldom recollect the image that had been construed; thoughts struggle to conjure that which lay in his very palm, entombed in crystal and thereinafter rendered inutile. All that had been spake heretofore sung of familiarity, though a vexing paucity came unto this mind’s eye; STOLEN, forsooth, it had been ).

A distant, ❝ You’d be surprised, ❞ slips from parted binary; there is relief painted o'er the words, vacant as they seem. He might have known that he had no malicious intent; that the likelihood for gasconade or grandstanding was preposterously low, but was it not expected of his species to percolate such charmingly asperous badinage? ( The antipathy seems to fall short of Gwynbleidd, nevertheless; he is different, breaks a mould previously forged by scabrous testament to the malice of mankind. It does not befit him, even when forced ).

The frown that traverses is but a penumbra; a fleeting phantasm of the scowls which routinely permeated blemished skin thus. Before him was a human ( for he was a human, in spite of all the lethiferous slander beleaguering his character now and again ), enduring a deluge of his own blood due to a cause that was not wholly his. Gaze which lingers is questioning, skeptical; he had no incentive to believe him surreptitious, and yet his kind gave him every right. He could have detested him for such consternation bestowed. Nevertheless, offered is but desultory defeat, and whether or not it would come back to haunt him was to be seen,

           ❝ I misjudged you, Geralt. ❞ Stated as a fact, rather than with the whimsicalities of supposition or assumption therein. ❝ You’re unlike most other dh'oine, at least in this regard: the honesty is…appreciated. Thankyou, ❞ a tentative nod towards pellucid gemstone sits in tandem with the colloquy, and perhaps the traces of a smile therewith. Tongue has trouble shaping the sonance; it hangs as an anomaly, sutured but not proper, a proclamation but not certain of itself. Perchance no similar sentiment hath ever graced his lip, or perchance it is too erstwhile to beg familiarity. 

He exudes only a brevity afore sternness reasserts itself, however, as austere celadon ensconces the gestures relayed erelong. ❝ You’ll want to apply more pressure than that; otherwise, you may end up with an uneven scar, or worse, extrusion. ❞