In truth, Ruiha didn’t particularly care about who was involved, most of the time. A fight was a fight, but a fight where there were innocents nearby, that she couldn’t ignore. And so there she stood, as solid as the Stone she’d come from, as the man thundered forth, swinging, and missing, the surprisingly spry dwarf.
Bora, she mouths as she swings and slices down to the bone, taking note of the foreign feel of the word even as she stumbles beneath a heavy handed weight against her shoulder (he didn’t have the room to swing his weapon around, she was too close and too short to make it worth it). Though pain radiates from the blow, she doesn’t let up, allowing both rage and blood fury spur her on. It would be overkill to some, she learned long ago there was no such thing in battle.
“Durgen’lan, a-ha! I know that one.” her words are breathless as she moves and attracts and destroys, she was a beserker to her very core, that woman. “Yer talkin’ ‘bout me, aint’cha?” She snorts, grin picking at the corner of her lips as she attempts to seek out the source of the words – battle was a noisy thing, had she known him, it would be less difficult to find him, however, a stranger’s words heard over the sounds of carnage might as well be the needle in the proverbial haystack, near impossible to find.
“Always mages, ‘course he won’t hesitate t’attack outta sight, the coward.” She hated the sensation of magic against her skin, absolutely loathed the hexes and curses when used on her person (and what a surprise it was, to her companions when she could hardly stand the sensation of healing magic as well), yet there she was, goading him into attacking her if only to find him. “Jus’ point yer soddin’ stick my way ‘n shoot from the safety,” she grunts against another attack, using all the strength she could muster into turning the person over on their head, dagger held to the throat for the necessary time it took to take yet another life “a’ yer tree or some shit, I betcha.”
More of a commander than a soldier therein: even the Woodland Fox was not one to tempt death if it could be avoided; a knife to the throat, sword through the gut his ways were callous and rank with mordacity, but never careless. Whilst depth perception was no longer one of his strengths, bellowing behests and savage orders had never strayed from his grasp; street rats were rarely much to consider, yet indeed, one composed of nought save incorporeal vengeance found himself dissuaded by lacerations ‘pon gaunt cheek ( to which the elf would only reply in part: grin sick with a twisted sadism as steel penetrated flesh; oh, how he loved to play executioner ). The blood only served to fuel that infamous malice, nevertheless, for he was still a vessel; an empty signifier and symbol for that mighty cause hence. And forsooth, those who severed but a tendon, ruptured but a lowly organ, deserved their fate thereafter.
( Justice would ring true for all who sought its harsh absolution ).
Of course the dwarf would recognise such a term; he should have assumed so beforehand. Reciprocity is not exhumed until wayward glance takes place; something of a sigh ( though not in vexatious din, but of a nobler sort ) escapes him therewith, and as rare as the occurrence was, there may have been the inkling of a smile present atop sundered binary. She had remarkable talent, and for that he was grateful; some lumbering fool with a weapon would have been worse than another adversary. And thus a soft, ❝ Good ear, arani, ❞ breaches the melodious cacophony of contention permeating the vicinal, a hymn of which he had grown much too fond.
Sorcerers would always instil distrust, even if their malevolence had not unfurled itself afore him, even if it never did. Gritted teeth act as precursor for the singularity of watchful eye; movement is but a beacon for attention, and solitary oculus is hereinafter drawn to it. Flames lick the air, and in that opulence the castor marks their position openly.
❝ To the right, ❞ an incurious timbre ensnares the oration, loud enough to carry over the babeldom, and with any hope, reticent enough so to remain unheeded by any and all oppugners. ❝ I suppose he thinks himself inconspicuous, though mages seldom are. ❞ Bow is drawn swiftly once hands move to sheathe bloodied blade; sidelong glimpse prefaces action, however, in spite of the inability to catch the attention of the warrior herself ( as she was rather easy to miss whilst strife plagued the street ). ❝ Do you wish to quash him, or shall I? ❞
No Masters or Kings Primary 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 Prison Secondary 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 forces or both.
Felled in the Night Dragon 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.
