SEMIAQUN    ❜

      “ There’s nothin’ to excuse with it. You don’t trust
          me and that’s fine. I don’t trust you either but that’s
          not gonna keep me from workin’ with you. ” Then
          again, he didn’t trust anyone. Yet he was still the
          head of this henhouse, a position he found difficult
          to acclimate to.

        “ Everyone has some ulterior motive to do what they
           do You say the Inquisition may prove useful and I
           hope you don’t mind me askin’ what, exactly, you
           mean by that? Not judgin’ or interrogatin’. Just simple
           curiosity. ”

❝ Most are not as reasonable 
     as yourself. ❞ 

            Or, perchance, as foolish. To work alongside someone, anyone, necessitated either complete faith or none whatsoever: the elves had met with their share of rats; those who would rather betray them than aid their cause             and he suspected this Inquisition would endure such a fate one way or another; mayhaps a less macabre one than his people saw, if this so-called Herald knew to watch his back. The periphrasis almost sparks a grin, though it does not come to fruition, nor does his tongue eschew its sharpness. ❝ I’d take no offense, even if you were: you wish to know your allies, and I wish to know mine. ❞

             ❝ The Scoia'tael do not aim to forestall your goals, Inquisitor: it would be unwise to do so. The rift which threatens Thedas should be everyone’s priority, if it isn’t already. Beyond that, however, our concerns lie with the elvhen. ❞

FARAVALDYR   ❜

       IT’S LATE, THE MOON A ^{_{warning that perhaps he should reconsider current path, grit his teeth and attempt to maneuver his body – bloody & bruised, in the process of removing toxins and bacteria from Harpy inflicted wounds – through oddly constructed city ‘til Witcher fell ‘pon own bed, bled ‘pon own sheets; he ignores it, willing to take whatever harshness elf may greet him with over the task of weaving through stone and dwarf while blood seeps through fingertips. He’s had worse, far worse in fact, and he is vastly aware that he is in no danger of death simply because the queen of those winged bitches found a weak spot in his armor – yet still does he avoid throwing additional problems into the mix, more content to kick open a friend’s door and invite himself ( wanted or not ) into his abode for a chance to rest.}}

                                                   ^{_{Which is exactly what he does, in fact; a boot to Iorveth’s door,
                                                                            rotted wood swinging open with an unhappy creak.}} 

       ❛ WEREN’T SLEEPING ^{_{were you? ❜
         It’s early, but not enough to strip the snark from his tongue.}}

       HE MAKES NO ATTEMPT ^{_{at stealth or silence – there’s little point; even if he did succeed in the act, he imagines Iorveth would not appreciate waking to a body that had not been there when elf had fallen into slumber – merely dropping his body onto the floor near mat 'pon which Aen Seidhe lays his head, fingers already fishing through pockets for bandages, one hand still clasped firmly over side; it’s warm, he thinks, and wonders when it became such a familiar feeling.}}

❝ Aespar cyntaf, cwestiwn aefder? 
    I doubt it matters now. ❞

            A sentiment bereft of whatever hostilities his cadence had become accustomed to exudes, though not without being prefaced by something of a modest glimpse towards those deemed ’company’, if one could call it such: juxtaposed aside a bastille of capricious mist during day, warring with the eldritch entities that sprung forth from its volatile formation              he might have upheld an assortment of qualms had the Witcher stirred one of them from their slumber, but there is no point in amassing ire over the broken sleep of one who does not moil as they do.

Solitary oculus settles atop sanguine ichor, searching for whatever gash Geralt had attempted to shroud: he knows a wounded dh'oine when he sees one, and he knows how to stitch sundered flesh back together again, if need be; he has had his own fair share of erstwhile lacerations, and it was never a rarity to be forced into tending to a juvenile Scoia'tael’s maculated leg, or arm. For very few human nurses were willing to sew elven vellum shut ( and who could blame them? He’d probably murdered their brothers, their husbands, their sons ).

It is with a vestige of a grimace whereby he addresses this sometime-sojourner, however:  ❝ Conynhaela will stop the bleeding, or so I’ve heard, and mandrake may help numb whatever pain you feel. ❞ Sain with the semblance of conviction, though his hands have never treated the hide of a vatt'ghern before.

            ❝ Cecil mentioned that you’d asked to enter the harpy’s lair; he said you were mad for braving it alone, as well. ❞ The general aloofness ensconcing the timbre thereinafter fades, nevertheless; stained lip twists into pallid sneer, not yet born of vexation but of consternation. ❝ Myn Aelirenna bloed, Gwynbleidd        are you so opposed to assistance…? Perhaps you should consider keeping a partner; you’ll tempt death less frequently, that way. ❞ 

sansaslays:

I’m trying to stop being a hater but it’s just so hard……..when there are so many things………….that need my hate

VEILBORN   ❜

aenseide.

       ❝ you… you’re different.            i like you. ❞

she leans  upon  the  banister  of  the  stairway, 
eyes shadowed by her long lashes and face as
icy as ever.         he isn’t dalish; he has another 
course  of  blood  running  through   his   veins. 
what exactly it is,     she doesn’t know, but she 
likes it. 

       ❝ what brings you here?    the whispers? i
       don’t eat humans, if you were wondering. ❞

❝ A pity; they need something
    to be afraid of. ❞

            Bemusement stifled the attempt at droll colloquy as it fell from questioning tongue; viridian gaze settled upon ens and naught, memory fumbling, mind faltering. For a suspire he is left breathless; this was an era he had seen cascade, torn asunder by humans and their squalid kith ( in transience he can almost smell the carnage, taste the blood staining his lip; not all reveries are sweet ). And yet, something from a dream stood afore one seeing eye. 

❝ Ahnsul ma esayem min? How? ❞

CZAROWNIICA  ❜

& aenseide​ liked for a witcheress!yen starter !

     ‘ me modron ess en inh'eid.

neén en d’hoine. sidh ichaer… ess en geas, en peast aep me modron, vort essea ceann beanna vatt'ghern… yn que. ‘

❝ Then you know the plight of  
     the Aen Seidhe; or have you 
     elected to conceal that part
     of yourself, save for when it
     proves convenient? ❞

           ❝ Though I suppose it doesn’t matter now; esseath vatt'ghern        you’ve seen how jaded the dh'oine can be. ❞

I think there r two very different answers at hand here, tbh because I feel like he has an idea of children in the abstract, but actually being around children is really different.

What I mean is, he canonically thinks that children are of the utmost importance; this is seen when he talks to Geralt about Dol Blathanna, and how only a few kids have been born over the course of its history ( bc its a “valley of fertile elders”, or smthing, since elves become sterile after a while. ) Like…elven children aren’t being born, for the most part; they’re a dying breed, and that scares him. His people are being destroyed in every possible way, and this only adds to it; tbh he probably hasn’t even seen an elven baby in so damn long, either. So, in the abstract, the idea of kids is a really great one, to him. Though I don’t think he’s ever personally thought about having them; I’m not sure if he’d want a kid? It’s not his place, for the most part, to think about such a thing. Or at least, that’s maybe how he would see it.

But if he had to be around one? uhhh,,,,, he’d be so confused. He’s probably? never had to handle a child before in his entire life, so I’m guessing he wouldn’t know where to even begin. LIKE HONESTLY IF IT STARTED 2 CRY HED PROBABLY HAND IT 2 TRISS AND GET THE HELL OUT OF DODGE TBH ALL “WTF DID I DO WRONG I ONLY ASKED IT WHAT IT THOUGHT ABT NONHUMAN RIGHTS”. 

BYTHESTONE   ❜

aenseide

Travel has made Ruiha weary, days on foot and she has barely made any significant progress to her next destination (another potential lead for the cure, another possible dead end, but it is simply one she cannot ignore). Travelling (relatively) alone, it’s easy to get lost in the sound of birds and the rustling of insects, that it requires her intentional focus to hear the sounds of battle some distance away. The hound at her feet whines, head cocked to listen, clearly ready to follow the vicious clangs, and it takes her all but one quick glance at her intended path to decide to head in its direction.

It’s hard enough discerning who the combatants are, but upon noticing the elves (civilians, given how they rushed from the scene, some with children in tow) and asking hurried questions with equally hurried answers, she learns soon enough who to lend her aid to – requested or not. Keeping an ear to the battle (Mamu is quickly commanded to assist those nearly felled), before she provides a distraction, allowing those noncombatants in need, a chance to run.

    “Y’know, most folks like havin’ a nice lunch at this hour,” she shouts, staring down a ratherlarge and rather miffed human that soon began to run toward her, warhammer held at the ready, “’Less ya’ll are lookin’ to work up an appetite, in which case, I’ve been told I’m damn good at helpin’ out with that.”

It’s with a certain deftness that he grasps either hilt; cavalier grandiose permits itself to even the most lurid of gaits: perhaps it is simply that, a danse macabre that he has been indentured to endure for all of his known life. Skin cleft in twain, sundered skulls, shattered ribs: it all signifies something greater than meagre violence in the streets, and there is satisfaction in seeing such adversaries fall.

            That someone should lend their hand, however, is the surprise.

Even nonhumans tended to keep to themselves when the Scoia'tael encroached, no matter the direness of their situation: and could he blame them? They were afraid of the very pseudo-civilization that the humans had built, forced to succumb to it without being allowed to question the morality of segregation. 

              ❝ Bora! ❞ An order to those shrouded by the trees. The next comes as something less ferocious, almost low-spoken in its wake, ❝ Tel'dira durgen'lan            e dhar. ❞ ( Though the addendum seems redundant; his archers have never needed anything more than a mere signal to do their job with an almost meticulous precision: perchance it is more for her than it is them. )

With unmistakable precaution ( and woe upon having only one eye to see with ), fixation settles atop their quizzical ally for a moment; he frowns, of course, but scarlet cloth mars the gesture almost in totality: there is little reason to doubt the candor of her concord just yet. ❝ Watch for the mage; he’ll not hesitate to attack, even if you can’t see him. ❞

carolinejohnsonart:

“I’m beginning to suspect that this J R dh'oine has never even met one of the Aen Seide…”

Replaying Witcher 2 (and finally reading the books too).  I feel for Iorveth and no one ever getting his LOTR references.