#gormless.

The witchfinder stares down at the macabre pyre made of the charging creature, then over at the otherwise waifish thing from which the flames emerged.

Classic witchery: she appeared for all the world to be harmless and quickly proved to be the most dangerous thing between the three of them - the lunging, wolf-like thing that came after them and the barrel-chested, broad-built bastard that attempted to intervene.

Still: the look on her face is one of mild pain and fright, as though the spell harmed her to cast it, and she had done so in their defense in the first place.

a roleplay blog for Gorm the Witchfinder, a repentant former witch hunter and ongoing grump prayed for by Chez (37, he/him.) an exploration in being faithful without being harmful, and in saving people, not souls. banner by @henosiis using art from trench crusade by mike franchina.

biography here.

follows back from @through-fire-and-flame. rules listed in that pinned post apply fully here as well.

this blog's primary verse is marked with the #gormless. tag, which ecompasses stories either taking place in Gorm's home setting, or when Gorm steps into fantasy verses with other characters. other tags will be added to this pinned post as they are decided upon.

A life of hauling around a greatsword has left Gorm with little of the dexterity needed to properly aim a bow. This doesn't seem to have dissuaded the younger Faramir from trying to teach him, which has left the former party thoroughly embarrassed by the array of misfired arrows sprouting from the ground around the target.

"There is a reason my tutors shoved a greatsword in my hands," Gorm mutters, his hands trembling with the effort of keeping another arrow steady as he takes aim. At least he doesn't have to worry about closing one eye.

Gorm looks lost in temporary thought. To be totally fair to the old man, he looks lost most of the time, but there's now a slightly pensive turn of his mouth that indicates he is, in fact, lost in thought.

After a full ten seconds, he scratches irritably at his beard.

"Yer curious," he says. "Mind you, it's caused you and me nothin' but trouble, but you approach everythin' with this kind of...wonder in you that - erm. Hm. It's sort of...hard not to get caught up in it, sometimes."

Only last week he'd accompanied her on a trip into some ruins along the Jagged Crown mountain range, which was lousy with wild thaumaturgy, and their subsequent encounter with pockets of strange and wondrous unreality would have unnerved him had Heysel not been nearby to express that unending wonder about it.

It takes the terror right out of it, seeing someone else excited about a discovery. He used to be curious, once. Now most of the time the old man is just nervous.

"Ohhh, you don't want me to sing, mate - couldn't carry a tune in a bucket," Gorm chuckles.

It's early evening yet; the sky's only just begun to blush proper, those first traces of reddened gold still slowly conquering the blue. The air's getting colder, and it's been a long trip already, so for Soot's constitution, the man has been permitted to sit on the back on the cart. Gorm walks behind, taking up the vanguard position.

"As fer praise, aye, well - yer a good shot, fer sure," he says. "More than that, anyone could see you don't let anything go without leavin' claw marks in it, so to speak, and you've clearly seen yer share of trouble. You know what you get, when you mix stubbornness and trouble?"

Gorm lets the question hang a moment, then: