FARAVALDYR   ❜

       JEST EARNS A CHUCKLE, ^{_{opting not to respond with anything but a shake of the head. He recalls Zoltan's disbelief when he’d mentioned Iorveth had changed – less ready to rip their heads off and more likely to offer a hand, a smile, a joke – and he mentally tallies this moment as a small victory for him; the dwarf may not see it, but that doesn’t make it any less apparent to the Witcher. He outstretches a hand to take offered herbs, a nod his promise to not overuse or waste the precious resources that have likely been long collected by the Scoia'tael that are being so generously offered to a Dh'ione to ease his pain.}}

                           ^{_{He could look for more when he next runs through the forest, if he remembers.}} 

                                                   ^{_{❛ Right; Chastising me for not taking better care of myself
                                                                           just screams ‘uncompassionate’.❜}} 

       ARGUE, HE DARES, WITH ^{_{a single raised brow, fingers popping plant between lips – example number two that foxes do not carry shards of ice within their chests – and he is not fool enough to believe that a bleeding heart lays beneath layers of outer armor, that his hard edges and sharp tongue are just for show, but he is not blind to the kindness that Iorveth is capable of showing either. He’s prepared to debate it, if need be ( though it would be a little odd if he’s honest with himself; an argument of whether or not a man possesses a heart, beating red like everyone else ) though that isn’t the reason he's here. He's here because… Second herb – & only the absolute minimal amount needed – is pressed to wound, body falling back to rest properly against wall with light frown to grace features as free hand extends to take offered needle.}} 

       ❛ OF COURSE NOT; I ^{_{was going to ask you to do it. ❜
                               A jest, though it comes off as a tad distracted.}} 

                    ^{_{❛ I ran into a        handful of your Scoia'tael      by the river this morning who
                    seemed pretty set on having my head.           I didn’t think you were involved,
                    but I thought you might like to know why some of your people are missing. ❜}}

                            ^{_{Self defense; but he’d still understand if Iorveth was unappreciative.}} 

       HE’S QUIET FOR BUT ^{_{a moment, before gaze snaps to nearby supply belt, item capturing attention for brevity ‘fore it’s kicked over to Scoia'tael commander, hands far too occupied at the moment to fish through it himself to hand necessary item over. ❛ I also have something of yours – the blue one, it’s, ❜ he shrugs, head rolling to one side with a sigh, ❛ I needed to find a strong dream to wake up your dragonslayer and stumbled upon one of yours on accident; if it was private, I’m sorry. ❜}}

          The sentiment itself goes untouched, unreproached, unspoken of: he cares little for how the vox populi portray him, and entreats not those who opine and theorize about his so-namèd character. Even if the man doing so is one White Wolf, who had earned both his respect and his credence. Perhaps he should have wrought scarred vellum with a sneer, eschewed such frailty and condemned the colloquy as mere utilitarian categorical; or worse, perhaps there truly was solicitude within him, whether he willed it there or not. Geralt had said it best himself: ’you shouldn’t have trusted a dh'oine’, ( he was absinthal in agreeance; none should DEIGN to trust a HUMAN: for when had so lofty a gesture ever been in their favour? When had HUMANS, in all their grandeur and their sanguine-soaked history, ever honoured their word? O, for when they spake, it was all in hollow symphony ). Yet still the Fox rewarded the Witcher with that very same right               against better judgement, or by some divine stroke, he did not expect to find a knife lodged into his back at any given moment.

                  ❝ Funny, vatt'ghern; I expected as much, ❞ colloquy maintains its curtness, as languid arms cross over armoured breast. The temptation to offer a bleak remark, a gentle reminder that he is hardly adept when it comes to mending skin ( thus a subtle motion towards that infernal maculation ‘pon lip and cheek ) allays within a suspire’s span, and newfound revelation gives way to muted pique. Jaw clenches; nares fume; sundered binary twists. A muttered curse plagues the air before virulent timbre inherits its place, ❝ Tch      I only regret that I couldn’t eviscerate the fools myself. ❞ Preferably before an audience, so to enamour the crowd with a macabre example regarding the consequences of betrayal and imprudence. ❝ They were probably tempted by some rich dh'oine, waving a few orens beneath their noses. ❞ 

Dread is fleeting, though nevertheless still existent for a time. How many were involved in this futile ploy? How many throats would he have to slit before the corrupt were purged? ( But nothing was as TORTUROUS as the prevailing premonition that the Scoia'tael’s loyalty could be bought, as if his elves were petty whores looking for a winsome boon ). The idea itself made his stomach churn.

Heavy heart skips a beat, however, when the Witcher speaks again, and he quells the desire to hastily unveil whatever azure shame is cloistered withal. He crouches aside the belt in unfurling curiosity: it is searched for and grasped thereafter with tender, albeit wavering, grace; and when it was thenceforth beheld by leather-bounded hand, after it had been gazed upon by solitary oculus, all that remained was the inclination to shatter it, crush it below his boot, and void its damning contents thus.

             ( Perchance it had been ardent in form: scent of Virgin’s hair when Midaëte breeze befell them, sound of her voice resonating 'gainst the vales alow; smile on Ciaran’s face when he won at poker, knowing full-well that his commander lost with purpose; Cedric’s gaudy laugh when stupor had not claimed him, before falter and folly cleft them             ) Or had it been a night-terror? Saturated with haemal ichor: knife to the eye, knife to the eye, blinding pain, searing hatred. It hardly mattered which, now.

              ❝ All dreams are, I imagine. ❞ Fixation lingers atop this baleful blue; brows furrowed, lips pressed. ❝ What did you see, Gwynbleidd? Come to gloat, have you? ❞

THEETERNALSUN  ❜

The languages were different, quite different but somehow they managed to understand one another with common words, some words were easy to guess what they might mean due to the context. Only the dreamers knew how to speak it fully, and the priestess had made an effort to learn it by herself not wanting to disturb them with her questions. It was surprising to the general that the talks with the military leaders had gone smoothly. They seemed to be in the same boat as her in terms of effort to make themselves clear. When she left the meeting with their generals, the dreamers were still conveying with their leaders. The small company was to stay in this land for a couple of days, she was responsible for establishing a secure relationship with their military.

---

 She bowed deeply to the generals as they left their meeting place. Only another soldier had accompanied her inside, a general from Dirthamen. A close friend and someone that was the one that spoke their language the best. The general looked around, searching for own soldiers and finding them on what she assumed would a sort of mess hall. She approached the table where they sat seeing some of the soldiers stand and stifling their posture. Her head tilted to the side for a second as her brows furrowed. 

“At ease.” her words came hesitantly as her brown eyes wandered to her brothers and sisters. Their structure was not as rigid as their brethren from this land so speaking those words felt strange. A quick smile was drawn on her lips as the soldiers seemed to relax and the priestess sat next to her sister with silver haired elf. Their uniforms were all the same of gold and black with a head piece with a veil that hid the top half to their face. There was nothing that would say that she was a superior to any of them simply because she wasn’t. She may give the orders but there was no difference between her and them. Their uniforms were only different when compared to the ones of the dreamers that were of gold and white with jewellery glittering in the sun. They were the closest to their God, the ones that bent the fade and built the golden paths for the others. They were different and ultimately they were her charge. 

Her hands moved to the veil that covered her face and black vallaslin pocketing the cloth and looking at the soldier that sat in front of her with a mug. Her eyes moved to the silver haired elf which also had a mug. Her brow raised as she looked around looking for where she would be able to find one. She got up as soon as she saw a few barrels with mugs moving towards it to get it and returning to her seat afterwards.

The silver haired elf was engrossed in a conversation with the elves next to her. It was clear by her expression that it required a lot of her concentration to follow and even more to try to talk, sometimes simply replying in elvhen and hoping for the best. The general’s eyes were now on the soldier sitting on front of her, she had noticed that all of the elves of this land that belonged to the military had tattoos. They were quite different from the vallaslin that spread all over her body and her brother’s and sisters bodies. They were of branches and leaves, drawn with thin lines.

“Do they mean anything?” her brown eyes moved from the tattoos to his eyes lifting the mug to her lips and taking a small sip. Her voice was soft but her way of speech was clearly not nearly as fluent as the dreamers “The tattoos, I mean. Your brothers and sisters seem to have them as well.”

;; vriehedd

The dh'oine were resolute in both their beliefs and in their battles, from what he could tell, though he had yet to endure a close encounter with one. There were stories, however: tales of exceptionally ruthless soldiers, pillaging and conquering land which the Aen Seidhe had proclaimed before them; knights and kings who would rather erect effigies of themselves, of their culture, of their sovereignty, in lieu of negotiating a proper peace treaty between one race and the next. A myriad had already grown weary of the fight        for why should they quarrel over something which could not truly be owned? The Vrans had traipsed over this same land before, and the gnomes before them; his people imbibed on what others had already ventured through, and remnants of vanquished ens seemed to echo through great halls, even still. The concept of this ‘rightful owner’, some such chosen people, whose very birthright was this continent, seemed as though it was nought but folly. None could inherit the earth, he surmised, only rent it for a time.

Isengrim ( or the Iron Wolf, as many had taken to calling him ) was fearsome in his statecraft; from what it appeared, he enjoyed the fight, as did a number of the soldiers working below him: they did not maintain the hope that there would soon be peace brokered betwixt the humans and their kind, and if they ever had, that expectancy had been extinguished. And whether or not he personally disagreed seemed exceptionally unimportant: he was not the one in charge; he was but a vessel, a warrior who could be pointed in a direction and thereinafter fulfil his goal. Thinking too extensively about anything more only caused unnecessary pain. Perhaps that made him a mere fence-sitter.

The visitation, if one could name it that, had been suspicious at first; elves who were not of their kith or kin, appearing from a land of which they knew a haunting paucity of, could not be outright trusted. And yet they had made their presence a welcome one, as far as he could tell: paladins from either realm merged together in the dining quarters; even the language barrier had begun to wane, as best it could. Of this, none were displeased; their army against the might of mankind would stand no chance, and it left them starved for steadfast allies. He was still left with the lingering question as to why they appeared as they did, ( why now, why here? ) but it went without utterance, and fell upon deaf ears withal. It was possible they were harbingers, of a sort; perchance they were merely a godsend. Either way, it would be unwise to rescind the help.

His interlocutor would be met with a duality of incredulous eyes settling upon her; her livery, her tattoos ( or was that warpaint? ) inspired interest, as did her manner of speech, but it was not impossible to heed what she had inquired of him. A gloved hand intuitively brushed against the markings emblazoned atop his neck; something of a brand, they marked the soldiers apart from others of their brethren.  

                  ❝ All warriors get them, sooner or later; there is no inherent meaning ascribed to them, though I suspect that they stand for something important to all who bear them. Perhaps it is a symbol of unity, in one respect; we all fight for the same cause, under the same rule; and to another, it may be a reminder of what we are trying to achieve. ❞ Moreover, it could have entailed something almost sinister, in the eyes of humanity: mayhaps they looked on the oaken branches and saw a forest within the army, mayhaps it even tainted them with fear. A symbol was a symbol, after all: it could mean whatever one willed it to. ❝ What of yours? Those you arrived with were decorated in a similar fashion, I noticed. ❞

wishroom:

serviadeath:

be honest, he is a bandit and murderer by ~MVzor

Aaaaa

- D

As far as I’m concerned, there isn’t. 

Apparently, if you take Roche’s path, sometime during Chapter II they talk about Iorveth taking a spear to the face, or something; he allegedly keeps the hilt on his person as a very strange memento, and they say he’d be dead if it weren’t for Saskia? I don’t remember the conversation entirely, but it’s along those lines. 

A lot of fans cite this as how it happened, but tbf I’m going 2 disagree. In my personal opinion, unless I’m forgetting a piece of the conversation, that doesn’t entail that he lost his eye there; in fact,,,,, it seem s  r e all y unlikely to me. A spear, or anything thrown, wouldn’t….do that to a person’s face. ( imo it’s just some grandiose story that got passed around; another tale abt this vengeful ghost leading the Scoia’tael, whose face apparently shattered a spear. HONESTLY it’s probably how his teeth got all broken on that side of his face haha ). 

But also, the devs were scrambling lmao and thus we got Iorveth’s weird and inexplicable gambling addiction and a story about him taking a spear to the goddamn face.

Keep reading

obligatory ‘filthy dh’oine’ comment.

i. You fight because it is the most intimate act you can think of, the way blood flows from one body and spills onto the other, the way your bones collapse on impact, a meteorite fist landing in your concave crater cheek.

ii. There are no skeletons in your closet–they’re stuffed into the confession booth beside the altar to which you have chained yourself, and they rattle and they shake like a warning when you feel yourself drifting too far. (You are unsure whether this is because you are pious or because god is something you can see without a working pair of eyes.)

iii.  Your memories are flame-licked and stained with blood, you’ve learned to read the wind and it whispers secrets into your ears. You know there is a pair of lips waiting to swallow you whole, heart and all; the shifts in the air tell you that you are gravitating in the wrong direction.

iv. There is a compass tattooed to your insides and still you are hopelessly lost. Heaven and Hell are warring inside you, always brutal, always merciless. If you fall, does it mean that you, too, were once an angel?

VEILBORN   ❜

       ❝ this castle was once that of a noble in  the
       age of elvhenan.    the humans couldn’t fully
       destroy it;   they left a viable foundation and
       most of the magical structures.     i rebuilt it;
       now i live here and shemlen are barred from
       entrance.       but you have a way about you
       that suggests something  far  different  from
       them, and from the silly dalish. ❞

a slow, catlike blink,  and she leans her arms up-
on the banister to wait for a response.    the lady 
of lightning is proud  of  what  she  has  accomp-
lished;  proud of taking down the “brave” human
knights who believe killing her will  land  them  a
great boon.

❝ I am no shemlen, if that's what
    you ask; nor do I belong to any clan. ❞ 

                  The Scoia'tael resented the term, rescinded it withal; warriors, most had claimed, should not deign to such a like. ( And yet there was no preference upon his tongue, no ebb or flow in that which was opined unto them; there need not be such a schism betwixt the factions of elves, he thought, but that did not concern him wholly ).

She shall be met with prudent scrutiny whilst silence runs its course: the narrowing of eyne marred by man, parting of a harsh binary scarred by a shem’s sword, careful recollection and descrying of both present and past running together, intertwining and amalgamating as though time meant nought.

                  ❝ You speak as though the Dalish have wronged you, ❞ but it isn’t said with copious surprise; nothing is infallible, and some whisper that their precautions compel them to force unwanted mages from the ties that bind. ( Perhaps she was one of those extras; or perhaps her kin had been such, once upon a time ). ❝              And how was it you came by this ruin? I doubt it was a simple heirloom. ❞

FARAVALDYR   ❜

                                                                 ❛ Are you offering, or telling me to go find some? ❜

       BREATH IS SUCKED IN ^{_{through nose, hard exhale through parted lips and he is forced to release the wound held so tightly in favor of removing weaponry and leather sling carrying supplies; he’s going to have a new scar from the feel of it ( that’s what he gets for taking on Harpies 10 to 1, he supposes – still the victor, however, thus the probability of him doing this again should the chance arise is high ), something jagged and long and he cannot find it in himself to care beyond the thought that his body has come to serve as a tally board for all the monsters he’s fought – as good a way to count as any.}} 

      CRIMSON LEAKS FREELY ^{_{from gash now exposed, nothing to keep it contained as blood slicked palms busy themselves with the task of removing upper armor, ignoring every prick of pain that flares up with the act of moving about. It’s deep, enough so that stitches are likely required but death is on a far horizon yet and he manages with ease to work up a half-smile, a friendly sort of smirk at other’s visible concern. To think, not long ago Iorveth would’ve been happy to see him dead —- now he’s worried for his well being.}} 

       ❛ WORRIED I WON'T ^{_{come back? ❜ There’s a pause, amusement in his words when he speaks again     ( & some pain, but that’s his own damn fault for bending too far when searching through his pouch for a potion ). ❛ I thought the only ‘good’ Dh'ione was a dead one. I’m honored you've found me the exception. ❜ Even if he is technically not a human – he’s a mutant of the original species; it’s close enough for some, and too far for others.}} 

       HAND IS PLACED BACK ^{_{upon side in attempt to cut off blood flow once more as teeth pull at cork lodged in glass bottle, aforementioned object spit onto the ground ‘fore potion is knocked back – it won’t take away the pain nor will it stop the bleeding, it’s not a medicinal herb nor sinew through flesh, but it will accelerate the process of his cells mending him from the inside out; better than nothing, by far, and he does his best to hide the hiss of pain that accompanies the activation of healing liquid. It hurts worse than the Harpies did – not exactly a fair trade off.}}

                ^{_{❛ You wouldn’t happen to have a needle and thread on hand, would you? ❜}}

          The gesture hails as a taciturn one: he strips himself from squalid mat, bestrides sullied stone with a gait as cautionary as the commander can muster; the greenery, as fortune would have it, was not of his own collection, but a communal one, gathered and demarcated by a crate that ventured where they did. Even when their camps were pillaged and plundered by sentient pustules such as the ( ironically lauded ) Blue Stripes, the wealth of plantlife had not been claimed. Leather-cladded hands retrieve what they came for, and it is amid that lasting quietude wherein he relinquishes a duality of ribbon-bounded satchels unto this pseudo-patient. 

           ❝ It’s impressive that you’ve managed to live this long, if you’ve had to survive off of the generosity of others the entire time. ❞ More in jest than authentic incredulity, if some droll measure and fluctuation in banaustic intonation can be made to joke. Yet even tenuous witticisms are fleeting; timbre returns to its quotidian stagnancy, ❝ You’ll want to ingest some of the mandrake root, but the conynhaela should go against the wound itself. And only take as much as you need             none can say if we’ll require it again, once this is over. ❞ Perhaps it was irresponsible to squander any medicinal supplies with the likes of war encroaching, yet Vergen ( Saskia had assured him ) could compensate all wounded nonhumans when the time came; he, however, still clung to stalwart doubt. 

❛ Worried ❜, the very term seemed weighted, and it almost warrants a scoff.  ❝ Of all the things I’ve been called, Geralt, compassionate has never been one of them. Danamebi forbid that a moment of weakness has altered your opinion of me. ❞ Ruthless, bloodthirsty, terrorist, whoreson; no, never anything of the sort. At best he was pragmatic and cold; the Woodland Fox didn’t even blink when his elves were slaughtered in battle, or so the story goes. He wasn’t supposed to.

           ❝ You want to sew yourself back together…here? Bloede dh'oine        ❞ 

Gritted teeth and low growl do little to forestall gloved digits fumbling through the cloister of a pocket ( one of many on that blighted sash around his waist ), nonetheless; the query exhumed nearly compels a much more cavalier retort, that of course he carries a needle upon his hip, that ever since last time he had learned his lesson well. ( Several hours of stumbling about, frantically trying to elude those who had brutalized the rest of the Vrihedd, all while bleeding profusely from the face, is wont to do that to a person ).

The item upheld is unremarkable: a curved stroke of silver wrapped many times over in heavy thread, shrouded in cloth thereafter, but it has served him as well as it could. Ebon brow is raised in scrutiny, a quirk essentially unrecognizable if not for the gentle crease of carmine fabric. ❝ I hope that there’s a reason you decided not to seek out a proper medic. A good one. ❞