The languages were different, quite different but somehow they managed to understand one another with common words, some words were easy to guess what they might mean due to the context. Only the dreamers knew how to speak it fully, and the priestess had made an effort to learn it by herself not wanting to disturb them with her questions. It was surprising to the general that the talks with the military leaders had gone smoothly. They seemed to be in the same boat as her in terms of effort to make themselves clear. When she left the meeting with their generals, the dreamers were still conveying with their leaders. The small company was to stay in this land for a couple of days, she was responsible for establishing a secure relationship with their military.
She bowed deeply to the generals as they left their meeting place. Only another soldier had accompanied her inside, a general from Dirthamen. A close friend and someone that was the one that spoke their language the best. The general looked around, searching for own soldiers and finding them on what she assumed would a sort of mess hall. She approached the table where they sat seeing some of the soldiers stand and stifling their posture. Her head tilted to the side for a second as her brows furrowed.
“At ease.” her words came hesitantly as her brown eyes wandered to her brothers and sisters. Their structure was not as rigid as their brethren from this land so speaking those words felt strange. A quick smile was drawn on her lips as the soldiers seemed to relax and the priestess sat next to her sister with silver haired elf. Their uniforms were all the same of gold and black with a head piece with a veil that hid the top half to their face. There was nothing that would say that she was a superior to any of them simply because she wasn’t. She may give the orders but there was no difference between her and them. Their uniforms were only different when compared to the ones of the dreamers that were of gold and white with jewellery glittering in the sun. They were the closest to their God, the ones that bent the fade and built the golden paths for the others. They were different and ultimately they were her charge.
Her hands moved to the veil that covered her face and black vallaslin pocketing the cloth and looking at the soldier that sat in front of her with a mug. Her eyes moved to the silver haired elf which also had a mug. Her brow raised as she looked around looking for where she would be able to find one. She got up as soon as she saw a few barrels with mugs moving towards it to get it and returning to her seat afterwards.
The silver haired elf was engrossed in a conversation with the elves next to her. It was clear by her expression that it required a lot of her concentration to follow and even more to try to talk, sometimes simply replying in elvhen and hoping for the best. The general’s eyes were now on the soldier sitting on front of her, she had noticed that all of the elves of this land that belonged to the military had tattoos. They were quite different from the vallaslin that spread all over her body and her brother’s and sisters bodies. They were of branches and leaves, drawn with thin lines.
“Do they mean anything?” her brown eyes moved from the tattoos to his eyes lifting the mug to her lips and taking a small sip. Her voice was soft but her way of speech was clearly not nearly as fluent as the dreamers “The tattoos, I mean. Your brothers and sisters seem to have them as well.”
;; vriehedd
The dh'oine were resolute in both their beliefs and in their battles, from what he could tell, though he had yet to endure a close encounter with one. There were stories, however: tales of exceptionally ruthless soldiers, pillaging and conquering land which the Aen Seidhe had proclaimed before them; knights and kings who would rather erect effigies of themselves, of their culture, of their sovereignty, in lieu of negotiating a proper peace treaty between one race and the next. A myriad had already grown weary of the fight for why should they quarrel over something which could not truly be owned? The Vrans had traipsed over this same land before, and the gnomes before them; his people imbibed on what others had already ventured through, and remnants of vanquished ens seemed to echo through great halls, even still. The concept of this ‘rightful owner’, some such chosen people, whose very birthright was this continent, seemed as though it was nought but folly. None could inherit the earth, he surmised, only rent it for a time.
Isengrim ( or the Iron Wolf, as many had taken to calling him ) was fearsome in his statecraft; from what it appeared, he enjoyed the fight, as did a number of the soldiers working below him: they did not maintain the hope that there would soon be peace brokered betwixt the humans and their kind, and if they ever had, that expectancy had been extinguished. And whether or not he personally disagreed seemed exceptionally unimportant: he was not the one in charge; he was but a vessel, a warrior who could be pointed in a direction and thereinafter fulfil his goal. Thinking too extensively about anything more only caused unnecessary pain. Perhaps that made him a mere fence-sitter.
The visitation, if one could name it that, had been suspicious at first; elves who were not of their kith or kin, appearing from a land of which they knew a haunting paucity of, could not be outright trusted. And yet they had made their presence a welcome one, as far as he could tell: paladins from either realm merged together in the dining quarters; even the language barrier had begun to wane, as best it could. Of this, none were displeased; their army against the might of mankind would stand no chance, and it left them starved for steadfast allies. He was still left with the lingering question as to why they appeared as they did, ( why now, why here? ) but it went without utterance, and fell upon deaf ears withal. It was possible they were harbingers, of a sort; perchance they were merely a godsend. Either way, it would be unwise to rescind the help.
His interlocutor would be met with a duality of incredulous eyes settling upon her; her livery, her tattoos ( or was that warpaint? ) inspired interest, as did her manner of speech, but it was not impossible to heed what she had inquired of him. A gloved hand intuitively brushed against the markings emblazoned atop his neck; something of a brand, they marked the soldiers apart from others of their brethren.
❝ All warriors get them, sooner or later; there is no inherent meaning ascribed to them, though I suspect that they stand for something important to all who bear them. Perhaps it is a symbol of unity, in one respect; we all fight for the same cause, under the same rule; and to another, it may be a reminder of what we are trying to achieve. ❞ Moreover, it could have entailed something almost sinister, in the eyes of humanity: mayhaps they looked on the oaken branches and saw a forest within the army, mayhaps it even tainted them with fear. A symbol was a symbol, after all: it could mean whatever one willed it to. ❝ What of yours? Those you arrived with were decorated in a similar fashion, I noticed. ❞
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.
