inquisitormaiwe

         ❝  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.

FARAVALDYR   ❜

       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 him      anyone who isn't a quintessential dh'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 same       it didn’t matter.

❝  Sometimes I wonder if this world is even worth fighting for, Geralt.  ❞

THEETERNALSUN   ❜

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'din             while 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 different         there 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. 

       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.    ❞

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~