❝ Humour me for a moment, if you would, Inquisitor.❞
Although the Commander of the Scoia'tael was hardly an epithet synonymous with ‘farcical’ ( or anything of the sort, really ), the loquence hails as one percolating with intermittent delicacy, as opposed to the thunderous orders and behests which he was wont to endow; this was a supplication, by all means.
❝ What do the Dalish say of the Exalted Marches? Or the Canticle of Shartan?❞ A distant past for him, yet something more kindred to myth or fantastication to those of her ilk, perhaps; but that was a rather clandestine truth, shrouded several times over. He permits the façade of ignorant outsider to endure, for as long as it must. ❝ They must have some opinion regarding either matter. ❞
I.
WRATH, they call me. More white flame than red rage. More slow fire burn than volcano eruption.
II.
Sometimes, I think I’ve faded. I am not a feeling. I am to be harnessed, reigned in and bottled up. I am a thousand stallions charging over the sea - wait, I stand corrected. I was.
III.
People clench their fists now and call the surge in them by my name. I laugh at them. I spit in their faces. I am not a passing moment. I am not a fist fight in an alley and a beer the next day. I am not people punching walls.
IV.
What’s to become of me? I think I’m starting to forget myself.
THE FEELING OF CRUMPLED paper held tight in hands spattered with ink and bruises, familiar face etched countless times ‘pon the backs of old notes or faded wanted posters —– it pales in comparison to the holding the real thing within his arms, hearing his name fall from lips that he has been unable to taste for far too long. There’s an amused chuckle to fall from betwixt brims as head dips down to press foreheads together, tired in sound but hardly lacking in jocularity; he’s missed him, and there is no amount of weight placed precariously upon shoulders that could prevent the serene elation that hums through the marrows of his bones, the veins ‘neath his skin —– hand lifts to caress scarred cheek with a gentleness few would believe a Witcher capable of ( steel claws & bloodied teeth; monster masquerading as a human ) and bites back the urge to sigh in relief when he does not slip through his fingertips as so many dreams have promised.
( – ‘ arrows sticking out of him like a porcupine ’ )
Free palm presses flat against elf’s back and he holds him a little closer.
❛ IS IT STILL A LOSS IF I cheated? ❜ Inquiry posed with smile widening into more of a grin, ❛ Heard a rumor or two, but nothing enough to give away your location. Wound up asking Triss if she’d seen you, thought I’d stop by. ❜ He could have attempted to track him down himself but this was far easier and time isn’t a friend these days – besides, he doubts Iorveth will mind particularly as to how he ventured upon him, so long as it does not endanger him or whatever he’s gotten himself into.
❛ SURPRISED OUR 'KING OF beggars’ didn’t tell you I was here. Or that you hadn’t heard it from one of Menge’s men; unsurprisingly, Witchers count as as potential threats too he had his eye on me all week, and I assume you haven’t just been sitting here idly.❜
❝ I take it you met her here, in this rancid slum? Or did she decide to brave the streets after all? ❞ Neither were completely safe any longer, a fact of which ( he was intransigently certain ) his partner already knew; it did not take an astute mind to descry the conniption of this FREE realm, nor its baleful prejudices. ❝ I would have offered to try and keep her safe, though I doubt she’d have wanted the help. ❞ He almost doubted she needed it in the first place. But Witch Hunters prowled the alleyways like the animals they were, and he clung to the growing suspicion that this monarch of mediocrity, that self-proclaimed KING of ens and nought, would soon eschew their rat-plagued refuge in favour of a few more coins in his corpulent pockets. For that was always their way, was it not? The lowly are smote by the sacrosanct; sultans soil all below them without remorse, unless kingslayers endeavour to end their reigns with sanguine precision, yet that time had long since passed.
❝ Why would he? I don’t work for him, Gwynbleidd, but he has proven useful. As for Menge, ❞ It tastes like poison, acerbity biting at his very throat. Thus a scoff endures, falling short of the adamantine wrath he might have been accustomed to in months prior; there is a note of supine sorrow, perhaps a dirge for those wrongly felled, midst the growing revulsion which wrought a hardened heart. He dragoons the embrace to its end, whilst sheathed hand still rests atop witcher’s shoulder, familiar there, if only in a diffident transience afore it falls. ❝ Circumstances have become far worse for every nonhuman, sorceress, and magical being in the area because of bloede tirthe like himanyone who isn't a quintessentialdh'oine is hounded by that infernal church, and if not by them, their own peers. Most days the scent of burnt flesh lingers in the air: a sick reminder of this city’s politics, I think. ❞
Once he may have done the same; myriad homes he had held torches to, copious cries he had hearkened. ( And was that any different? What made that suffering any more just? Twitch of sundered binary: remorse, what is remorse? ) Now, where he should feel anger, there is harrowing abyss: how many gales can a roaring inferno withstand until it is blown out; how many lashings can a stone take until it is weathered hence? 'Twas an erstwhile ambition, a pale fire now extinguished, that the encroaching war would have brought humans and the elder races together in a rally to gainstrive Nilfgaard’s efforts. Instead, they had turned against one another; men killed men, and blood imbrued steel and stone all the sameit didn’t matter.
❝ Sometimes I wonder if this world is even worth fighting for, Geralt. ❞
He suspected. The choice of words was interesting if the translation had been correct but the priestess had her doubts. It was hard judging the words and understanding what lie underneath them if the meanings were not fully understood. Still the priestess wondered why they would be uncertain about their meaning, and why their meaning wasn’t made clear to them as soon as they took the mantle of soldiers. Their vallaslin was their identity, without it they were nothing. It was what bound them to their master, what differentiated them from the rest. It was the mark of those who were enlighten by His grace.
It was something worthy of rituals and feasts, specially after the first time. The pain of the ritual only increased with each step as their bodies were forever changed. The pain was welcome and kept as a memento. They all wore the markings as trophies over their skin. The general’s vallaslin had long since been cut in many places with old and new scars, it was something that was clear in her hands which were now the only part that showed skin except for her face. Her fingers were deeply scarred but the cuts were clearer in the back of her hands where only small black lines and dots now remained in between scars.
“They mean similar things to yours.” or so she suspected from what he had told her. Her elbow no rested on the wooden table grabbing the mug as she analysed the liquid, she hadn’t had anything similar to it but it was not bad. It was not as sweet as the elf would have liked, but it was still nice that they had offered it to their hosts. The general’s brown eyes remained staring at the man in front of her. It was strange to see an elf with his face bare. Strange probably wouldn’t even start to cover it if she really thought about it “It represents our dedication to Falon’din and His ways. All of us have it, soldier or no.” the elf lowered the mug after taking a sip leaving it on top of the table. All elves were part of the same settlement in this land, so it would make sense that they wouldn’t need to brand their non-combatant. Someday her own land would know of something similar when they achieved Falon’din’s objective.
Her People would all be under Falon’din’s protection, they would all be one.
“The length depends on rank. Non-combatants and low ranks get vallaslin only on their face, but, for example, high priests have them all over their body.” her voice was lowered as a loud laughter drowned her words. This was not a common situation, but not entirely unwelcome. A small smile was drawn on her lips as she looked over her shoulder to the group of soldiers. Some of them Falon’din’s priests that laughed along with the elves from this land.
Their markings were not as much something of vanity or of rank, since it was not something that would be clear to anyone that looked upon them. It was only about self-worth.
“I will be honest, I was not expecting your people to be so lively.” a small chuckle escaped her lips, her left hand moved to the mug twirling the drink in it “Is it always so?”
Falon'dinwhile he knew not the name, nor did he recognize its significance, it ostensibly beheld a large amount of prowess, and he considered it imprudent, if not rude, to question who, or what, it was. Perchance this ‘Falon'din’ bore a semblance to their White Rose, Aelirenn, who had so gallantly shepherded a brigade of their youth into the cadaverous clutches of death; some whispered that she would be invoked as a martyr, that her epithet alone would serve as an effigy of apotheosis, and thereinafter grant catalyst-like strength to those who still lived, still breathed, still felt the lofty toll of blood-soaked oppression and eradication from the humans.
His markings were not as salient as hers, that much was clear, but they were nevertheless a vigil as any other; it had been an honour to be branded, as warriors before him, to continue on a tradition of their people and their army. For such liberties, he would continue to fight; for freedom to live without fear of being crushed by rapacious kings or beggars alike, simply for living as they are. Thus that is what those inklings manifested as unto him: a symbol of a past now ashen and quondam, rotten and rotting, but not yet gone; until his dying suspire he would combat everything in order to preserve their culture, their right.
❝ And which 'ways’ are those?❞
Those of his ilk were unlikely to divulge anything paramount regarding their beliefs, for so often the Aen Seidhe thought most others unable to comprehend the nuances of what they held dear; from what he could tell, humans destroyed that which was different, simply because it was differentthere was no saying if they would treat the elven divinity with the same respects. Nathless, she was no dh'oine; technically speaking, she was an ally. For a brevity he pondered whether he would or would not be reprimanded for speaking at lengths with an “outsider” about such a cloistered thing as religion. A tentativatiy ascribed itself to the gaze which ensconced her, studied her; perhaps they were not as different as the schism atwixt language made it seem.
❝ Mine only go as far as my shoulder; I’ve not known anyone to have any- thing more. Your people sound truly devoted; was it very painful?❞
The soldier seldom drank, no matter the occasion; whether it be celebratory imbibing, or an attempt to quell jittering nerves and an onslaught of anxiety before battle, it mattered not. He had espied the shortcomings, the fallacious faltering, and all that heralded cacologies therewith, in Cedric many times before: the aberration itself almost frightened him; yet the woman afore him had not fallen into a stupor, as most of his kind were wont to do. Something short of a chuckle is emitted as he heeds the blithe ( almost festive ) atmosphere which had inherited the vicinity; so long as none of the attendees broke into song and dance ( and as long as he was not involved in either levity ), no protestation nor remonstrance would be endowed.
❝ This is an anomaly; I didn’t think that the Field Marshall knew how to sheathe his sword, until now. Although it is nice to hear something other than ’spar'le’ or ’aespar’ yelled across the hall. Is this normal for you?❞
At the very least, it was a reminder that there could still be peace, even amidst the turmoil; the melodious din was hopeful, even welcoming, mayhaps.
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
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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.
