#driads

Character design for Zeilea, a priestess whose peace of mind can be achieved in just one way: revenge.

I can't actually say too much to not spoil the episode for everyone, but working on Driads anatomy with these studies surely was lots of fun ;)! Driads (& Entes,their male counterpart) are from my original project Ragstar.

“Braenn stopped suddenly and turned. “Gwynbleidd,” she said, pulling her green scarf down around her neck, “come. I need to cover your eyes. I must.” “I know.” “I will guide you. Give me your hand.” “No,” Ciri protested, “I'll guide him. Okay, Braenn?” “All right, sickly little one.” “Geralt?” “Yes?” “What does that mean, Gwyn... bleidd?” “White Wolf. That's what the dryads call me.” “Careful, a root. Take care not to trip. They call you that because you have white hair?” “Yes... oh! Damn!” “I told you there was a root.” They continued to walk. Slowly. The leaves on the ground were slippery. Geralt was feeling a warmth on his face. The sun's glow filtered through the cloth that covered his eyes. He heard Ciri's voice: “Oh! Geralt. How beautiful it is here... It's a shame you can't see it all. There are so many flowers. And birds. You hear them singing? Oh! There are so many! Such numbers. And then the squirrels... Careful, we're going to cross a stream on a path of stones. Don't fall into the water. What fish! There are so many. They swim in the water, you know! There are so many animals. Nowhere else are there so many...” “Nowhere,” he muttered, “nowhere. We have arrived in Brokilone.” “What?” “Brokilone. The end of our journey.” “I don't understand...” “No-one understands. No-one wants to understand.”

“Geralt...” Eithné slowly turned her head. “Understand me well. I know you and respect you. I know that you have never harmed a dryad, naiad, sylph or nymph, rather the contrary: you often come to their defense, save their lives. But that changes nothing in this matter. Too many things separate us. Our worlds are different. I neither wish to nor am able to make exceptions. For anyone. I am not asking if you understand this, because I know that you do. I ask if you accept it.” “What difference does it make?” “None. But I want to know.” “I accept it,” he confirmed. “What will happen to the girl? She doesn't belong in this world either.” Ciri gave him a fierce look and then glanced up toward the dryad. Eithné smiled. “Not for long,” she replied. “Eithné, please, think again.” “About what?” “Give her to me. Let her leave with me to her own world.” “No, White Wolf.” The dryad once again thrust the comb deep in Ciri's ashen hair. “I will not give her to you. You should understand better than anyone.” “Me?” “Yes, you. Brokilone is not closed to the world's news. Some of it concerns a certain witcher who, in payment for his services, sometimes extorts a very curious oath: 'Give me what your house holds without your knowledge,' 'Give me what you possess without knowing it.' Isn't this familiar to you? In this way, you have tried for some time to change the course of destiny. In search of the young boys that destiny offers you for your succession, you try to avert death and oblivion. You struggle against nothingness. Why then do you greet this consequence with astonishment? I care only about the destiny of dryads. Is that not justice? For each dryad assassinated by the humans, I take a young girl.”

“Your majes... Noble lady,” began Ciri in a broken voice. “Don't force me to stay here. I can't... I want... to go. I want to go with Geralt. I must... with him...” “Why with him?” “Because it is my destiny.” Eithné turned. Her face was extremely pale. “What do you think, Geralt?” The witcher did not answer. Eithné snapped her fingers. Braenn burst into the interior of the oak like a phantom appearing from the night. She held in both her hands a silver chalice. The medallion Geralt wore around his neck began to shake rapidly. “What do you think?” repeated the silver-haired dryad, rising. “She will not stay in Brokilone! She does not want to be a dryad! She will not replace Morenn for me! She wants to go, go, follow her destiny! Is that so, Child of Old Blood? Is that really what you want?” Ciri affirmed this with a nod of her head. Her shoulders shook. The witcher had had enough. “Why do you badger this child, Eithné, since you have already decided to give her the Water of Brokilone? Her will then ceases to have any importance. Why would you behave like this? Why give me this spectacle?” “I want to show you what destiny is. I want to prove that nothing ends. That everything is always just beginning.” “No, Eithné,” he said, rising. “Sorry to spoil this performance, but I have no intention of continuing to be the privileged spectator. You have crossed the line, Sovereign of Brokilone, presenting in this manner the gulf that separates us. You, the elder races, you love to repeat that hatred is a stranger to you, that the sentiment remains a human specialty. That is not true. You also know hate, you know what hatred is. You only dress it up differently: with more wisdom, less violence. And so perhaps with more cruelty. I accept your hatred, Eithné, in the name of all human beings. I deserve it, even though I am sorry for Morenn.”

“Geralt,” murmured Ciri, still standing motionless, her back bent. “Don't leave me alone...” “White Wolf,” said Eithné, taking Ciri's bent back in her arms, “what must she ask of you? Have you decided to abandon her despite this? Are you afraid not to stay with her to the end? Why do you leave her at such a time, leave her alone? Where do you flee, Gwynbleidd? What do you flee?” Ciri bowed her head even more, but did not start to cry. “Until the end,” agreed the witcher. “Well, Ciri. You will not be alone. I will stay with you. Don't be afraid of anything.” Eithne took the chalice from Braenn's trembling hands and lifted it. “Can you decipher the ancient runes, White Wolf?” “Yes.” “Read what is engraved. This is the chalice of Craag An. All the kings now forgotten have wet their lips from it.” “Duettaeán aef cirrán Cáerme Gleddyv. Yn esseth.” “Do you know what that means?” “The sword of destiny has two edges... You are one of them.” “Arise, Child of Old Blood.” The dryad's voice intimated an unconditional order, an implacable will: “Drink. It is the Water of Brokilone.” Geralt bit his lip, searching the silver eyes of Eithné. His gaze avoided Ciri, who placed her mouth at the rim of the chalice. He had seen it already, before, an identical scene: the convulsions, the hiccups, a terrible cry, unheard, which was extinguished at last little by little. Then the void, the torpor and apathy in the eyes that opened slowly. He had seen it all. Ciri drank the liquid. On Braenn's motionless face, a tear formed. “That's enough.” Eithné took the cup from her and placed it on the ground. With both hands, she stroked the ashen hair that fell upon the shoulders of the little girl. “Child of Old Blood,” she continued, “choose. Do you prefer to stay in Brokilone or follow the path of destiny?” The witcher's head turned incredulously. Ciri breathed more rapidly. Her cheeks took on color. But nothing more. Nothing. “I want to follow the path of destiny,” said the little girl, looking the dryad straight in the eye.

“ Sword of Destiny” - Andzrej Sapkowski

Cosplay by Elena Samko