“ Well stick antlers on my skull and call me a leshen. I heard talk of the INFAMOUS Iorveth gracing us with his presence, but it was hard to believe until I saw you with my own eyes. “
The witcher would gladly continue, adding jokes about how in a castle the elf is out of his element instead of prancing around in the forest, not to mention the fact that he has come here to kill others of his kind. But for once Lambert held these words back, as the time and place was not right. They were all here for CIRI, precious few, and Lambert knew better not to chase away valuable allies.
“ Also heard you and Zoltan are acquainted. I am a l m o s t surprised. “
❝ Zoltan happens to be the very reason that Geralt and I were formally introduced; he once had ties to the Scoia'tael, though I’m certain he’d try to cover his tracks, if questioned. ❞
Even now, collusion with the so-called heretical elves was enough to earn a noose around the neck ( and as he recalls, the dwarf was nearly hanged for a verisimilar impetus ); and yet most monarchs were willing to send them to the slaughter when Nilfgaardian forces stormed the streets. It was insurmountably preferable to do battle for a comrade than an empire of which he had no binds, even if attempting such entailed taking up arms against ones who claimed kinship. ( But these elf-blooded folk seemed more alike the prejudiced dh'oine of this world, than those of his race; thus there was no inner turmoil, no conflict of interest to speak of when the offer to help in quelling their kind had been propositioned ).
❝ And unless I’m mistaken, you must be Lambert; your reputation seems to have preceded you, if only in part. ❞
What started out as a playfulrace with Kanen’tó:kon through the trees made a swift transformation to[suspense.]He prided himself in being one of the tribe’s best hunters, but what he was TRYING to hunt turned out to be n o t an animal at all. Youthful features contorted in displeasure &mild annoyance, all he could do is balance himself high on a tree branch, lips parted &letting out a quiet ‘oh‘ on purpose. He did not need to D I E today, but the stranger’s clothing was… p e c u l i a r.
He beheld no claim to the forest nor its grandeur therein, and yet all who knew this loam knew it as the Scoia'tael’s; land which the blood of humans and the blood of elves imbrued, and land which they had inherited thus. Flotsam was a mire; a kingdom dipped in nought but debauchery and prejudice. There was little room in his heart for sympathy and remorse; no thin-lipped lamentation would mar the wind, only the twisting of harsh, battle-born vellum, and the brandishing of a sword marked in sanguine.
❝ You’ve quite some nerve coming here, dh'oine. It’s either that, or stupidity. ❞
❛❛Ribcage was never synonymous for birdcage. I’m not supposed to have these crows in my chest eating the dead butterflies that arose from my stomach; whose carcasses reek of another time, another place, another person.
He’s going to build a graveyard inside of you & you are going to let him.
ii.
He is a pyre, burning away what once was & creating what should have been. He tells you he was born for war & destruction; you believe him, you already know.
( Destroy me ) you think; you have never been afraid of storms.
iii.
He smells of blood & ash; you burn when he kisses you, taste swallowed battle cries upon his tongue. There is nothing soft about him, jagged edges and sharp corners ripping you open little by little he’s going to tear away what once was,
and make room for something better.
iv.
There’s no more neutrality left within you, he has torn it out, thrown it away.
You are not a soldier, you do not like the front lines or the scent of copper in the air, but he looks at you, a battlefield reflected on his face and hope lingering in the depths of his irises and you pick up your swords.
v.
He’s going to build a utopia inside of you & you are going to let him.
tbf bec there’s a lot 2 be said and it’s all gotta get cleared up, even tho a ) no one knows the story and the specifics and b ) no one probably ever will?? it’s important. 2,,, me…..
Perhaps shewas akin to Aelirenn herself, whether those who whispered the semblance willed it in condemnation or exaltation. ( Yet she had succeeded, where the White Rose of Shaerrawedd had not; and if to harbour such a thought was blasphemous, renounce him as a heretic therein ). He would be content to die with her name on his lips, spitting the epithet into the face of Death itself, or to sire it in the midst of battle, letting it ring as some such battle cry amongst the bloodshed; though for now, a simple murmur would have to suffice.
❝ Saskia, ❞ that he still maintained the capability to endow fragments of softness almost came as a surprise, even to the orator himself; but pleasantry soon abates, and a note of sombreness traverses once more. ❝ Nilfgaardian soldiers have been spotted on the Yaruga; though it will take them weeks to reach Vergenassuming they make it this farwe should prepare. The Scoia'tael will march at your command, if that’s what you wish. ❞
Arm wraps lazily about elf's waist, head to dip down to press kiss against other's ear with a pleased sort of chuckle falling from betwixt lips 'fore he's moving away again, content to leave other to his own devices after giving a small /reminder/ of his affections.
❝ Geralt❞
Said as though it had intended to be ferocious castigation, yet befell as something milder: not yet a susurrus but something near it, stripped of its might and its ire therewith. Exactly why the Witcher took pleasure in watching vermilion alight over the contours and reliefs of cicatrix-wrought visage he could claim no bailiwick whatsoever; perhaps it was to hearken to the tentative laughter amongst the soldiers, or to exalt himself o'er the fact that he had inspired within the carapace-cold Commander something as loathsomelyfeeble as this.
But the furrowed brow and cutaneous crease around pallid nose remained stalwart, even after transient affection had receded from the vicine. A mumbled ❝Bloede pavienn❞ is breathed, despite having no valid, nor even onerous cavils upon his ( otherwise sharp ) tongue.
IT IS WRITTEN IN HIS SEMBLANCE, in staccato suspires and rigid bones: arms bar plated breast but also wintry soul; even ‘neath the crepuscular shroud of twilight he cannot afford to shed his warring disposition. ( what is it like to sleep, bereft of turmoil and the fear that you would wake with sullied skin, dagger through that mire you clep’st a heart? what is it like to exist in one stalwart domicile, without the need to flee? ) taut jaw sits idle; teeth gnaw on nought but their own words, yet even still it is clear he lingers in disquietude. he is a tempest made flesh, even with the guise of slumber, such is said in sooth. ( is it truly sleeping together if there is no together about it? )
ii.
HE HAS BUILT A CITY OF GRAVESTONES, a thousand waterfalls of blood and carnage, and yet you bear him at thy side as though the stains upon his hands had been undone, unmade, some how, by neptune’s ebbing tide. that man is iconoclast, and none can deny it: the penal fire he sent unto a hundred men signify his very guilt, but whilst the moon and stars illuminate a pallid face, he does not seem so vicious. ( was the fearsome woodland fox caught snoring, just then? )
iii.
YOU FIND HEAVEN IN THE SILENCE, in the gentle rise and fall of cloth-claimed skin, in the brevity of respite, rescinding the enmity which runs through his veins and through his lungs. TERRORIST, WHORESON, BANDIT, MURDERER all sobriquets and damnations fade away when gnashing bones meet not the steel of swords, when tousled hair is splayed across alabaster sheets, and armour hath kissed the ground with reluctant thud. ( when is a monster not a monster? )
iv.
IT IS A HUMBLE OFFERING, AT FIRST ( though humility had never been a strong suit ); the ghost of a kiss rests on your lip and yet familiarity still dances with the wind. he claims that his bones have been worn brittle from the weight of war, that all the marrow, all the kindness all the good, has been burned in a pyre of hatred, and that what rests within him now is but an ashen wisp. but you have felt his temperate touch, beheld fumbling fingers beneath cloistering blanket, and been graced by somnolent breath ‘gainst the nape of thy neck. there might have been a tenderness still, vestigial and sublime.
No Masters or KingsPrimary Verse, set during the midst of Chapter 2, or the beginning of Chapter 3. World state: Vergen lingers on the brink of war, and the commander spends his days readying his forces or fretting about Saskia.
Idealism sits in PrisonSecondary Verse, post-game or during the events of The Witcher 3. World state: Aedirn and the Pontar Valley lay in ruin due to the siege led by Nilfgaard. The Scoia'tael of the east are dwindling in number, slaughtered in the war; Iorveth has left Saskia and the better half of his army to gather recruits in the city of Novigrad, relinquishing the title of commander to his best scout, Ele'yas. In Novigrad, Iorveth lays low, and lingers in the Putrid Grove with the King of Beggars ( though he would be loath to admit that he works with him ); he spends his nights aiding the nonhumans of the city, who are being crushed by Radovid's corrupt knights, either smuggling them out of the area or recruiting them into the Scoia'tael to fight alongside the Dragonslayer's forcesor both.
Felled in the NightDragon Age verse. World state: Information here.
❝ They say all elves are beautiful, that they are born thus. In Iorveth’s case someone set out to change this [...] He was a living legend, the elusive leader of a Scoia’tael unit whose members gave no thought to laying down their arms and continued their war against humans. Stories of his deeds, of his deep hatred of dh’oine, painted him as more akin to a vengeful ghost than to an individual made of blood, bone and flesh...❞
Julian Alfred Pankratz viscount de Lettenhove, "Dandelion".
Most humans might contend that the Scoia’tael are little more than ferocious heathens, who will not stop their tyranny until every last dh’oine has been cleft in twain—they may even be right in assuming such a thing. Iorveth, famous for his resourcefulness and tactical genius ( as well as his viscousness ), means to unite the scattered forces, somewhat certain that they will answer his call when the time comes.
He has only ever existed in a time when blood imbrued the waters, knowing little of a time of peace, for his people or for his foes. He knows betrayal better than he knows friendship; he trusts few, and has faith in even fewer. Once, he would have named himself the Commander of a ruthless brigade during the Nilfgaardian war, ally to those of the Vrihedd.
His comrades were executed before his very eyes; there was no honour amidst the battle, no justice, nor any such romantic deluges within the hollow carnage of war. The Vrihedd was exterminated, sold and branded as cannon fodder by their own allies; the remaining Scoia’tael were marked as beasts, relinquished unto the slaughter, hunted and hounded for the remainder of their existence.
Iorveth evaded the clutches of death, but not without paying a lofty price: half of his face was destroyed, cut open while the other dh’oine colonels looked on, delighting in the torture. His eye is sacrificed, and yet that was not what sundered his TRUST in the humans.
Thus he endows himself with the responsibility of commanding the remnants, whatever vestiges of the Scoia’tael he can muster. Though not all fall beneath his jurisdiction, he aims to fight for their unbridled freedom, and a land in which the nonhumans may roam free, unafraid and unfettered; a land where humans can enter forests without fear, where they may shed their petty prejudices and mayhaps learn to live alongside one another.
Relentless in battle and strategy, the general is named an astute strategist. He makes for a cunning and powerful adversary, but may well be blind in his acrimony and mistrust towards humans. In short, he expects the worst of them almost perpetually. This is not, however, any sort of secret; he is terribly blunt in all that he does, whether this be a virtue or a vice. Yet above all things, Iorveth is a man of his word. His men are loyal to him, and in return, he is loyal to those who issue him this allegiance.
If u dont kno jak shit abt the Witcher or Iorveth, pls consult this page.
Basics: name: Iorveth height: ~1.80m or 5'11" race: Elf appearance: Go here for more information on the scar. Svelte yet athletic in build; covers one half of his face with a red headscarf, which conceals his missing eye ( which very few people ever actually see ); a scar runs from his upper lip to said eyesocket; his clothing is an amalgamation of armour he has stolen from those he has slain, as he is far too poor to buy anything of the sort; a tattoo of an oak tree branch runs down the side of his neck, presumably past the collarbone; his vest is littered with sigils from the commanders he has killed; he has v silly socks. talents: A century of fighting with humans has made him a skilled tactician, and one might even go as far to call him a genuis. He has a resolute network, one which can gather information on almost anyone he wishes; coupled with that, the Scoia'tael are some of the best archers in the known world. In spite of his missing eye and damaged depth percetion, Iorveth wields two swords or a bow with deadly ease. etc: it’s important 2 note that Iorveth isn’t the commander of all the Scoia’tael; he has his own faction of about thirty elves, but there are others who he has no control over. It’s true that he wants to unite the elves, but the distance between them and the different ideals make this a difficult task. In other words, not all of the Scoia’tael will have the same goals or tactics as his own brigade, though they may all be similar at the root.
general.
This is a private blog: I will only interact with those of whom I follow blah bla hblahlablhl. Iorv's a pretty "niche" character, so I might be a little bit selective with following back, but I usually reciprocate tbh, as long as u don't seem like a meanie haha.
&&.
Furthermore, as far as like, sending in memes goes?? I do not give a Carp about mutual memeing??? Dude if u want to reblog the meme from me but don't send one in, go right ahead?? I will not take offense in any way lmao idk if this needs to be said but just a friendly reminder for u ok?
triggers.
I read all of my followers rules ( including nonmutuals ), and try to take into account everyone's triggers. If I ever miss something, please tell me and I will not hesitate to tag it for you. I ask that you tag animal abuse, domestic abuse, and nsfw pictures for me. In terms of this blog, however, the subject matter will inevitably be very, very triggering to some; I cannot change that if I am to stay true to this muse, but I will tag whatever is asked of me, and the usual things ( nsfw; gore; eye horror; etc. ).
portrayal.
I've read the books, and I have played the games, though I have not yet finished Witcher 3. I hope this doesn't prove to be a problem ;___; If I make a mistake pls just kik my ass tbh. PLS consult this page if u don't know much about the Witcher/Iorveth himself; its just a list of his important features/facts, tbh.
replies.
I'm busy, so pls don't expect me to reply to anything very quickly. If u cant respect that, idk what 2 tell u other than u are going to be a very unhappy person, probably. P^/
romance & etc.
As far as shipping goes, the only one on this blog will be with Stevie's Geralt bec my son is a fucking GAY BABY. In other words, I'm single ship, and pls stop asking 2 hop on my son's dick thanks.
Furthermore, smut is never going to happen! I portray Iorveth as a sex-repulsed asexual, and I, for one, am also a sex-repulsed asexual. I ask that you respect this. pls. pls dont submit me pictures of ur dick. yes this has happened before and i will be a VERY UNHAPPY TEACUP IF U DO THIS!!!!!!!!! ITS GROSS!!!
exclusivity.
I do not care if you interact with a hundred thousand "doubles" or what not, and if you want me to be exclusive to you, then inform me and it shall be done. I have here an exclusive list. ( * Granted, this...sort of has to be reasonable; if u see me interacting with many of hte same muse, I'm probably...not going 2 agree to being exclusive to u. jsyk ?? It's a courtesy thing, tbh )
mod.
If you don't know me ( which is good for u u should get out while u can tbh,,, ) my name's Cressida! Most people call me Cress or some variant of the name. I am a smol British teacup living in Canada at the moment, and I study Shakespearean and Medieval literature for leisure and scholarly interest. You can find my personal blog here, but it's not that active. My Skype is available to mutuals upon request. hhhhh theres not much else to say other than ??? I love tea and dogs and people I guess. have fun xoxo
Just follow these rules and you’ll stay gold, ponyboy.
exclusives here
Coded by:MASAMUNESBLOG (also known as 'Cath'.)
I ask that you not steal this code, take this code, or otherwise alter this code, and I request that no one ask me to code them a theme for themselves. She coded this herself, for her own personal use, and only for those to whom she granted permission. I ask that you respect that.
