SILVER FOR MONSTERS, STEEL for humans; both swords carry their own separate blood lust and lay within sheaths bearing crimson trophies ‘pon their blades – the blood of harpies, the blood of elves, and while conscious fails to take a blow from the turn of events he cannot help but wonder if someone else’s does. It takes little effort at all to see the roots that Iorveth has planted in his unit, in this dream of equality —– a roof over his head, food that does not need to be scavenged; he’s seen it, he knows —– and even less to understand how it must hurt to watch those that you have entrusted visions of the future to proceed to rip them apart at the first promise of fortune or fame; how could one whose very being is built of unparalleled selflessnessbegin to understand selfishness when it has infected that which he considers to be as much himself as his flesh, hair, or heart would be?
( & how deep does the poison go? )
HE COULD HAVE SPREAD THE news out, he considers in hindsight, watching one emotion after the next rush over friendAen Seidhe’s face though even had thought occurred earlier he’s not entirely sure he would’ve done it that way, regardless; he is candid with the Scoia'tael leader, tells him what he needs to know when he needs to know it and perhaps Iorveth prefers it this way – a solid wave of bad news rather than quick jabs over a series of days. Too late now, either way, and he bites back a sigh as gaze falls momentarily to wound, a light furrowing of brows to follow others questioning; gloat. He can see how he would seem the type – & in certain instances he is – and thus cannot fault the elf for his assumption, for jumping to a negative scenario ‘fore a positive one but it does not change that it wasn’t his intention; the apology should have clarified that much, he thinks.
❛ FOOD AND A LIT PIPE don’t really earn me bragging rights. ❜
( What were you scared he’d see? )
Leaves are removed from flesh, head shaking to remove locks of alabaster from visage and he straightens up to gain better access to side as Witcher begins his sutures.
❛ You were smoking; had your own house, own food. Couldn’t understand a damn word you said, even if I’d been trying to. That’s all I saw. ❜
HE’S HALF TEMPTED TO ASK about it, as though Iorveth would be willing to share; he was shaken enough from the idea that Geralt had been in his head, the likelihood that he will now wish to elaborate is quite low. Not to mention he more or less understood the gist; he wonders if Iorveth knows he shan’t ever dream it again – he wonders if he’d want to, wonders if it would really matter.
Witcher pulls a thread through bloodied flesh in familiar stitch; he’ll need nine, he’s done one, & puts off voicing his intentions to stay here for the night ‘til the task at hand is complete.
❛ I figured you should know; gloating wasn’t the intention. ❜
He had been unmade, as it were, by mere chance; that some feral gluttons would imbibe on one of his reveries had hardly been a planned eventuation at the hands of the Witcher, and yet he still felt inklings of scornas though he had been betrayed or cheated, somehow. That he could fight so hard to cloister this eldritch facet, though have it be presented on a platter to someone as novel to him as the White Wolf; it almost impelled a bout of dolour. Even his best and most noble soldier had not been privy to all that there was alow that cadaverous flesh; he was espied as little more than a machine of war, a thing of blood and contention, whose every motion was prelude to cacophonies of destruction and crescendos of quietus: there was no room for mercy or for peace, no place for gentle hymns and tender fantastication. Terror was his sport, and the unsung oppressed necessitated a leader, not a poetic fool who dreamt of rest.
( And damn the mere fact that he could seldom recollect the image that had been construed; thoughts struggle to conjure that which lay in his very palm, entombed in crystal and thereinafter rendered inutile. All that had been spake heretofore sung of familiarity, though a vexing paucity came unto this mind’s eye; STOLEN, forsooth, it had been ).
A distant, ❝ You’d be surprised, ❞ slips from parted binary; there is relief painted o'er the words, vacant as they seem. He might have known that he had no malicious intent; that the likelihood for gasconade or grandstanding was preposterously low, but was it not expected of his species to percolate such charmingly asperous badinage? ( The antipathy seems to fall short of Gwynbleidd, nevertheless; he is different, breaks a mould previously forged by scabrous testament to the malice of mankind. It does not befit him, even when forced ).
The frown that traverses is but a penumbra; a fleeting phantasm of the scowls which routinely permeated blemished skin thus. Before him was a human ( for he was a human, in spite of all the lethiferous slander beleaguering his character now and again ), enduring a deluge of his own blood due to a cause that was not wholly his. Gaze which lingers is questioning, skeptical; he had no incentive to believe him surreptitious, and yet his kind gave him every right. He could have detested him for such consternation bestowed. Nevertheless, offered is but desultory defeat, and whether or not it would come back to haunt him was to be seen,
❝ I misjudged you, Geralt. ❞ Stated as a fact, rather than with the whimsicalities of supposition or assumption therein. ❝ You’re unlike most other dh'oine, at least in this regard: the honesty is…appreciated. Thankyou, ❞ a tentative nod towards pellucid gemstone sits in tandem with the colloquy, and perhaps the traces of a smile therewith. Tongue has trouble shaping the sonance; it hangs as an anomaly, sutured but not proper, a proclamation but not certain of itself. Perchance no similar sentiment hath ever graced his lip, or perchance it is too erstwhile to beg familiarity.
He exudes only a brevity afore sternness reasserts itself, however, as austere celadon ensconces the gestures relayed erelong. ❝ You’ll want to apply more pressure than that; otherwise, you may end up with an uneven scar, or worse, extrusion. ❞
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.
