these trackless seas

They would know. They would find out, yes. But it would take time. The initial assumption would likely be multiple offenders. The second would likely be a hit by another magister and their magekillers. The latter, once her body was not recovered and no magister had found themselves with a new magister.

   “You are safe.” Magisters trembled at the thought that a magekiller was sent to cull their miserable lives - what did he think that templars would think of having to face one themselves? Dark, blurry eyes fall down to her bloody gloves, starting the process of removing them “For now.”

But she wasn’t. And she needed to disappear. And disappear she would, as soon as this was taken care of.

   “Yes.” she was aware it was a lot to ask. But she had kept his secret, she had kept it. Without breathing a word, hanging it over his head. This little secret that could have ruined his life and uplifted hers in more ways than he would ever be able to understand. This humble abode was more than anyone could dream of, more than he likely dreamed off either. It was a lot to ask, but it was for the only thing that Orla cared for “My mother. She knows nothing and will not know anything. If they go looking for her, because of me, keep her safe. Whatever way you can.”

—well, it's just great isn't it. everyone just keeps going on doing whatever they want in the heat of the moment, and leave him with the consequences. he feels the very strange and familiar taste creeping up behind his throat, the frustrated resignation as he stood looking down at his lump of a father curled up in yet another defeat, another abasement or disappointment from faulty impulse. and he had to be there to pick up the pieces; he had to be the one to look ahead and make plans accordingly.

"you give me a lot of credit for what i'm capable of in this city..." ben grumbles. but he will do it, and he is. diversion and obfuscation are the name of the game. and when those fail, there is always the art of bluffing. it's gotten him this far. "i'm not promising anything—that's the true thief of joy, promises. but i will find her. not like she's gone anywhere. if she had picked up roots and moved to antiva in the last couple of days, though, i wouldn't be held responsible for chasing her down in the merchant district."

❝ Loathe as I am to exert myself doing physical activity… The killing was at least exciting! And I'll never complain if I'm offered a free meal. ❞ Astarion voice carries over the thrum of the camp, light, melodic, before being pulled deep down into his throat. He hums — now he's the one leering, isn't he? Fingers tap against the neck of the wine bottle he pilfered, half empty; it's something to occupy his hands as he comes to sit beside Dradeel. ❝ Is it now? You aren't very subtle in your attempts to get my attention, Dradeel. ❞ Dradeel — each syllable drawn out between pointed teeth as he makes a show of making his name sound exquisite. ❝ Maybe that's the intention, hm? ❞

the dull, radiating hurting from his side overshadows whatever interest he may attempt to feign towards conversation. though pain is an inescapable part of the life of a witcher, irritation and weariness that it is there at all runs deep.

it is only at the looming potential of the possibility of agreeable shelter that lazare stirs from the inattentiveness he has slid headlong into. he scans the near distance, estimating the size and activity of the village below. smoke rises from chimneys while carts and villagers and workers hauling goods bustle through the streets. the village is of middling size but seems active and prosperous from a distance.

his fist tightens on the rein. if lazare wants to focus on settling his stomach before his wounds, they would just have to make sure to get the witcher to an inn as soon as possible. "let's go then. that looks like an inn, no?"

urging his horse forward onto the village road, dradeel pulls up his hood to cover his ears and face. the scarification on his face, drawn by a witch in the forest that many years ago to temper the ferocity of his visions, crawling across his forehead and down his cheeks, is light enough that it is nearly invisible under dim light, but his elven ears are harder to miss. he doesn't anticipate hostility, but neither does he wish to provoke it if anyone happens to hold unfavorable opinion of his kind. traveling with a witcher already comes with its share of difficulty, dradeel learns, and feels an anxiety grow in the pit of his stomach. they can't afford to be refused service now, with lazare's condition.