#tqh: plot

Eterna, 2989 AC

The sun cast molten gold over the marble spires of Eterna, its brilliance glinting off domes and arches as the city roared with the thunder of wheels on stone. Arethusa leaned forward, her braids whipping in the wind behind her as she sailed through the wind completely uninhibited. The blues of her attire whipped about her as the reins bit into her calloused hands, and the chariot bucked beneath her with every cobblestone it devoured. Her chest burned from the effort, but her smile - wild and unrelenting - never faltered.

Behind her, the cheers of the pedestrians blurred into a single, upset roar. Vendors leaned from stalls, fruit forgotten - children scrambled onto balconies as Princess Arethusa and her three friends raced through the streets of the city - even the Vestals - humourless and distant, seemed to crack a smile at the display. 

Ahead, Elowen was pulling away - again. Her crimson cloak snapped in the wind, and she threw Arethusa a cocky glance over her shoulder before veering hard around the Fountain of Aelia. The spray caught the light, casting halos of mist in his wake.

"Smug bitch!" Arethusa yelled after her, playfully and breathless with laughter. She yanked the reins, muscles screaming, and her chariot drifted dangerously close to a row of market barrels. One toppled in her wake, scattering dates and startled pigeons, but she didn’t look back because she knew who was trying to catch up from behind.

"John!" she called, half-turning. "You still breathing?"

Far behind, John’s chariot wobbled around a bend, his hair a tangled halo of windswept panic. His horses were fast - but his skill was considerably lacking, he didn’t have the speed or the coordination to navigate the streets as Elowen and Arethusa seemed to. So, when they raced, he just sort of meandered behind them - apologizing to those who were put off by the display.

The final stretch opened before her  - the gleaming white street that lined the Harmonium exterior - immaculately kept and lined with marbled statues inlaid with gold. Elowen was there and Arethusa couldn’t help but grit her teeth in response as the wind howled around her and her chariot surged. The princess gained on Elowen: ten yards, seven, five. 

With a final lurch, Elowen’s chariot crossed the painted line first, wheels skimming the marble in a shower of sparks. Arethusa arrived a heartbeat later, her horses slowing only once she stood, triumphant despite her loss, arms spread wide like wings - laughing wildly as the pair embraced.

And then, far behind them, John turned a corner too sharp and crashed spectacularly through a cart of silk. 

Naturally, Arethusa and Elowen burst into laughter before attending to their fallen friend.  

Somewhere in the Gulf of Taravell, Present Day

It began with a rumble from deep within the dreadnought as the ship came to a grinding halt. What followed was the breaking of chains and the subsequent as some of the rahaat broke free of their a’dams and took to liberating those who remained under the thumb of the Kossith. While the dreadnought had a full crew of Kossith, there were far more who’d been imprisoned, far more who took to liberty, and far more to do away with those who held their ground. 

In little under an hour, the dreadnought was brought under the control of the Lysarans - though the ship’s engine suddenly stopped working and, collectively, the group was lost at sea.

Though stranded, many aboard possessed the ability to simply... fly away, or slip into the world of dreams and leave the dreadnought elsewhere. Toward the end of the uprising, the Captain of the dreadnought retreated into his quarters and activated a failsafe. Those who attempted to fly away found that gravity worked against them when they attempted to leave the ship, those who tried to shift into something that could swim encountered the same effect - leaping from the ship only to be shunted back.

For the dreamers, they were bound to the dreams of those upon the dreadnought - incapable of dreaming of anything beyond the interior of the ship.

Worse yet, interrogation of the surviving crew found the dreadnought set to self-destruct - one of the Kossith's safeguards to ensure that both their blackpowder - and their rahaat - were never taken by raiders or outsiders.

In one, faint glimmer of hope, all those who possess a ring of the damned have found they've suddenly gone dormant - as one that was worn has been removed and thrown into the ocean. Narratively, this would have happened during the uprising and would be felt across all the ringbearers by the uprising's conclusion.

The March to Haven, Present Day

Smoke plumed into the sky, thick and unbroken. From the western reaches, the forests burn low and slow - deliberate, not wild or random. Trees fall in uniform rhythm, not to storm or wind, but to axe and fire. The Kossith do not waste and even the forest is conscripted - fuel to feed their weapons of war, leaving nowhere for wolves, witches, or fey to hide in their wake. 

Beneath the smoke the vastness of the Kossathi efforts pressed forward with a palpable pressure that rippled through the air. The ground trembled as the roads, now gouged with deep furrows from wheels larger than any Lysaran cart, shook and groaned with the Kossith’s war machines as they rolled North. Their engines, low and throaty, growled like rows of ancient beasts freshly roused from a long slumber.

From the countryside, villagers fled as Haven’s walls swelled once more. Accustomed to taking in all kinds, the city had stood since the Feronia first formed her pack; tales follow those who make it to safety that those who were not fast enough to outrun the Kossith met the cruel metal ring of the a’dam. The crops that the Kossith came across were taken, wells fortified, and bridges left intact but guarded - they weren’t raiders, but occupiers preparing for their great conquest. 

Atop Haven’s walls, those posted on the watch can see the Kossith approaching along the ridgelines, the silhouettes begin to appear - tall figures, horns catching the early spring sun like the blades of fallen gods. Scouts, watching from a distance, vanish before their reports can be written down and patrols sent to slow the march do not return.

At night, the wolves of Haven can hear the approaching war drums from the tree line - low and thunderous. A letter addressed to Aurea arrives, but soon its contents are widely known. 

To Queen Aurea of Haven, You will surrender the city. Your wolves will be collared if they resist. You have a fortnight until we reach your walls. A fortnight to surrender your city or fall.  Arishok Vassan

OOC info:

Freedom at last! Some of the Kossith have been kept as captives to be interrogated, but for the most part the Kossith have been killed. 

The dreadnought will self-destruct in 1 week.

Your characters are now trapped in the middle of the ocean, but their powers have returned to them. However, they have no way of leaving the ship and no way to 'magically' send any messages to the outside world. Their magical items and weapons were all destroyed.

ALL ringbearers will feel the effects lessen as their rings once again go dormant, but they should understand the severity of removing them now (hopefully).

The fate of Haven will be determined by IC interactions and decisions, whether people choose to help Aurea and the Haven wolves, help them flee, or leave them to their fate is in your hands.

Queen Arethusa will not be sending aid to Haven, as she and the Tower are preoccupied with the darkspawn incursion along the Astorian border.

In Astoria, the Civil War continues following the death of the King.

In Ankhuria, the One God of Maferath has refused to send aid.

In Sinaria, the reclusive Seven remain unbothered by the troubles of the West.

This is the beginning of Troupe 3, attendance for all characters at the Progress Day festival is mandatory.

Progress Day is a 3-day event, beginning on March 21st. You may begin posting immediately for the event’s first two days. 

There will be a plot update on March 21st for day three. 

Alessia Hart - "Untitled"

In which, Alessia is abducted from Nornwatch Keep and transported to a broodmother below Isengrim's Embrace.

Someone screamed in the back of her mind, someone who was running in the woods and magical, someone who bit the ear off a Witcher and defeated any trial Ymir’s Spine threw at her. Every morning when she woke up the familiar scream was more desperate. Still, the witch could barely hear it over the cries of wailing newborn creatures and roaring Mother.

Alder - "The Tale of a Fallen Blade"

In which, Alder becomes attuned to his new sword, and from it forges a new purpose.

The vision ended in a flash as the man took a deep breath and used what was left of his strength to charge forward only to meet the cold touch of her cursed blade, and Alder opened his eyes to the world of present. He could feel the sweat running down his face, the wet feeling of his shirt’s cloth, but more than anything, he could feel the will of his blade, the power which it ensued, and the need for a master to wield it, one that could be no other than him for he’d saved it from the unworthy hands of the Forsaken Legionnaire. Now it was finally his, and so was its wish for revenge - a new purpose.

Alrik Hart - "Alone"

In which, Alrik travels from Nornwatch Keep to Hrimthur's Outpost and is separated from the refugees along the way.

The gentle flames of a soft fire stirred before Alrik’s blurred eyes, the smell of roasted meat came next, and last was the choir of a song he remembered his father singing when he was young. He leaned against something warm and sturdy, smelled worn leather and mead. The All-Father had welcomed him home and in the sweet quiet of mental stillness his father had not died and his sister had not been taken. Memory returned and panic followed, but another’s arms held his beaten body close.

Arros - "Burnt Child"

In which, Arros joins the Legion of the Dead following the events of Isengrim's Embrace.

You drank from the goblet, you heard the screams, the roars, the unnatural and sickening calls from the other side, you were certain you had more poison than blood running through your veins. You hurt. Like someone’s taken sanding paper to your bones, bruises riddling every inch of you that has blood enough to call itself alive, because you damn fucking sure don’t feel like you are.

Aytaç Gökhan - "ᛗᛟᚢᚾᛏᚨᛁᚾ ᚺᛟᛗᛖ"

In which, Aytaç (slays) remembers who she is, a daughter of Manetheren and one of Hrimthur's Heirs.

the questions spiraled within her head, offering no answers to her. each question spurred on another question, which brought forth another, and another, and another. perhaps if she found afshin, ormir, her father — perhaps they would know something that she did not. some clue that would lead her to answers that she seemed so desperate to find for herself now. but what would she tell them? what would she offer them of all that she had learned? would she be forthcoming, or would she be selfish once reunited?

Etienne Ulven - "Frost Pears"

In which, Etienne reflects on the events over the last couple of months while enjoying a prized snack.

Etienne doesn't know if it can just be him again. For when he's alone with himself, he's standing in a room with a stranger. There's this thing under his skin and it is so wild and it is hurt, bleeding from the wound that'd reopened. Grieving his father a second time while cursing that he'd never just told him about all of this, dealing with the frustration he had all of these questions to ask a man who was no longer there, it hurts.

Fharzai - "Long Night"

In which, Fharzai dreamwalks during the events of "The Last Night" and is attacked by Munin.

For the rest of the night he fought for his life, trashing his place in the process. It hurt to be slashed and it hurt to be so violent, but what other choice did he have? By the time morning came, he’d managed to smash the blight’s body with a chair until the wood splintered in his hands. Even when the creature stopped twitching and the pain from wood fragments in his flesh matched the sting of the gashes across his body, Fharzai continued to pound as if the nightmare could walk again at any moment.

Freydis - "I Knew My Heart Would Break"

In which, Freydis is guided through the mist by a cat sith and decides to walk the path of one of the fey-touched.

Tove allowed her head to fall back, the twining antlers that had sprung from her tilting back and tangling with the loose strands of the willows she had planted to replace the cairns of her parents long, long ago mingling amongst their prongs and brushing against the skin of her shoulders and her tearstained cheeks. They reminded her of her mother’s golden hair, the sound of her voice telling her: “You were enough, before and after. By any name. You were always enough.” 

Froy - "Froy's Oath

In which, Froy reflects on the road so far and bids farewell to his nation once and for all.

"My brave boy," she began, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. "In every storm, there's a moment of calm. Find that calm in your heart and let it guide you. Don't let fear anchor you. Sail with the wind, and trust your compass."

Lothar - "ᛏᛁᛗᛖ, ᛞᛖᚢᛟᚢᚱᛖᚱ ᛟᚠ ᚨᛚᛚ ᚦᛁᛜᛊ"

In which, Lothar polishes his ax and wipes at the violence of the past.

The violence of life, how he’d become everything he sought to destroy. What worth was a lucky shot? As never ending as violence was, luck was not in such abundance. Lothar peered down at the runes that were indicative of this - lucky shot - a cruel mockery considering how unlucky his life truly had been. Riddled with scars, perpetuated by loss; the memory of everything he’d once ever cared for had crumbled beneath the Aetherians and his knuckles now turned white as he thought of returning. He’d made a promise, to those captured, and even those lost, that he’d be back to avenge them all.

Luna - "Untitled"

In which, Luna joins the Legion of the Dead.

The werewolf had found where she belonged and she knew she wouldn’t face the darkness alone, not with her trusty stead Steve the forest cat by her side.

Ormir - "Bite the Hand"

In which, Orhan calls on his trusted advisor after sobering from his madness.

A moat of clarity found Ormir then, shivering in the deepest reach of the wastes. Despite Orhan’s better sense, in full knowing the depth of his wounds and the voracity of Ormir’s unending cravings, he’d fed him. Perhaps some part of him had always known that the stray he’d brought in from the frozen wilds would someday draw blood, and kept him close, anyway. For reasons Ormir couldn’t understand, he’d let the rabid beast into the nursery where his children slept, and sat idly as they were reared in its image, sprouting fangs of their own. Perhaps Orhan had understood the torment of all of his family’s transgressions and loved them still. Their prize was admittedly hollow and their peace stolen in his absence.

Riandur - "In war, victory. In peace, vigilance."

In which, Rian reflects on the past and his current station of Field Officer for the Lysaran branch of the Legion of the Dead.

Someone needed to do it, and while Riandur had grown from the young man who had simply enjoyed the feeling of blood on his hands, that did not mean he was kind. The Legion had been his punishment, and within it, he'd found a different kind of family. People that he would die for, or die beside, and the idea that he had found some sort of place within – well, he wasn't going to squander it. Gone was the youthful hope that Rian had carried once, muscles and scars that were simply a story.

Rykard - "Untitled"

In which, Rykard reflects on the past few months and his time travelling the King's Road.

To die with a blade in your hand was considered a great honor in the land of Iskaldrik. They say that when a warrior’s battle in this realm is over, a new one begins elsewhere. Valhalla, they called it. An afterlife filled with feasting, fighting and fucking, what more could a warrior need? As if gorging oneself on violence was not enough for one lifetime. The boundary between bravery and stupidity was nebulous at best and Rykard was never the type to back down from a challenge. So he left at dawn with the King's entourage. 

Shenuvun - "Memories in the Widllands"

In which, Shenevun reflects on the past and returns home at long last.

Shenuvun slips out of the hall where they had all been gathered that morning, and looks back at the masses, taking the view in before turning back towards the door and rushing out into the wilderness. The farther she is from people, the less measured her steps grow, until she is running, barefoot and careless, through the wilds, the Weave urging her forward and forward until it tells her to stoop. 

Prospero - "Untitled"

In which, Prospero comes to during the events of the "The Last Night" at Nornwatch Keep.

Once he opened them again, there had been so much blood. Prospero’s hands had always been covered in blood. Why was it never his own?

Vicoya - "Sacrifice"

In which, Vicoya works herself to the point of exhaustion, coming across a rose and a stranger in the process.

Through blurred vision, she watched as the flower began to stand up straight, and color began to return to its perfectly pink petals. Then she watched a single drop of red fell onto it’s soft surface, before slowly trickling into the center of the rose, weaving through the small gaps between the circling petals as if they were a beautiful maze. Then another drop. It’d come seemingly out of nowhere, until she felt the cold sensation of liquid freezing on her face. A shaking hand reached up to swipe just under her nose, and it came away red.

Troupe 1 Prompts:

Prospero 

You don’t remember how you got there, but one moment you were stumbling back to your chambers after a night of drinking the Legion’s piss-mead, and then in the next you were standing in front of the Keep’s gate. A dead legionnaire was behind you and there was blood on your tunic, was that you? You couldn’t remember. The addle of the drink tilted your mind as the stones and the snow began to turn; you emptied your stomach into the bank and then reached up to steady yourself, unlatching the gate in the process.

There was a moment where you stood there and stared, you should have closed the lock again. The wasteland was a dangerous place, especially after dark, but you only lingered and stared, stepping over the body of a legionnaire before you stumbled back to your chambers and collapsed in the comfort of your bed. 

Fharzai

Each night you wandered among the dreams of the Iskarans; kept from anything south of Ymir’s Spine, you were limited to the refugees of Nornwatch Keep. In their minds you sewed the epithets of the light, warming cold memories and tending to the lush gardens of dreams. Your mistake was thinking you were alone here, in thinking that the will of the dark would not find you. 

You crept into the mind of a legionnaire, Commander Deidameia they called her, and from the moment you landed you knew that you were not alone. Their dream turned into your nightmare as you were a child once more, scraped knees and worn hands knelt before shattered arches - the Keeper slayed and the bodies of countless Dúnedain strewn about. The blight crept in as a figure, shrouded in shadows stood over; their warning clear, do not tread here. The Keeper you’d known rose, lunged, and attacked. They shook you from your dream, and followed you into the waking world: a wright drawn from the dream realm bent on killing you.

Amaia (unfollowed)

Restless night have plagued you for days. Something coming, rising, and brewing. Dreams of the blight follow every legionnaire; it’s their fate to lose themselves to the madness of the calling, and descend into the deep to throw their blade at the hordes of the darkspawn below. Is this what was happening to you now? In the Tower you’re hearing the call of darkspawn, faint, and far away but it’s an echo that you can’t deny. 

In the north, something is rising, darkness is stirring and as you write to Amon Sûl, your letters will go unanswered. Caer Glas Keep has closed its doors, Caledon Moors Citadel is abandoned. That leaves only Nornwatch, the frigid and decrepit bastion of the north. Is this where evil stirs?

Luna

Far above the stone, you can hear Her call, she sounds wrong, somehow. The moon has been your friend since you were just a little girl, but now she’s calling your name like you’re a stranger. It’s quiet at first, but it grows louder; in the beginning, you couldn’t hear it over the sound of your sweet Mother’s melody. It was all for Mother. It was all for the Brood and you were all too happy to bring forth her beautiful sweetlings, to nurse them, dote on them, and snap when your hungry Brothers got too quick. 

But she grew louder. Too loud to be ignored. You knelt before your precious Mother when the moon’s call snapped at your spine. Horror bent you back upon yourself, twisted your shape as you tore at your flesh. Your human skin wasn’t good enough, you wanted a coat, nails would not do you wanted claws - and with a maw of razor-like teeth, you bore into your sweet Mother as her viscera melted across the tarmac of your tongue and her song - a harrowing cry for help, and a shriek of death, reverberated over the stones. 

Aytaç

Mother was beautiful, wasn’t she? 

You forgot your name, your past, and your ambitions for your future. At night you dreamt of the Dark One’s warm embrace, and through his eyes, you saw the face of a man you could no longer recognize. A Mad King, growing stronger, a man you’d spent your life idolizing but couldn’t place. Your Lord had set his dark gaze upon this King and in your waking hours you shook with the hope of being the one to deliver this familiar stranger into the arms of the waiting Abyss. 

Your kin came wailing into this world, delivered from the warmth of Mother’s heart - were you maternal? Would you someday be a Mother to a nation? It was an errant thought, one that lifted the song of the coming dawn from your lips as you remembered a girl who was more weapon than person. With a tongue like a sword, and a mind like a shield. Who was that girl? Where had she gone?  

A wolf’s teeth brought Mother’s screams into the deepest recesses of your mind, her pain was your pain, but then her song was gone. You were Princess Aytaç Gökhan, Iskaran shieldmaiden, and you would not die in this place.

Freydis

What use was a broken shield? 

You’d already answered that question. A broken shield still had splinters but Mother never looked at you like you were ruined. She only saw someone worthy and strong. Where others had fallen to the song, useless ghouls with peeling flesh and a feral mind. You would not be like the gray meat you carved away for Mother’s appetite, the morsels of rot that your teeth dug into to soothe your appetite. Better than the scraps that your brothers fought over, and valuable as the urchins that you brought forth from Mother’s heart.

When she died, you felt all the light leave the world. The cave grew dark, the fires felt cold, and in the heat of it all a werewolf tore through it all. It descended upon you, you knew this one, somehow you knew her - but a splintered piece of wood jammed into its mane was enough to send it reeling away before it could make a meal out of you like it had Mother. Her song was gone now, but her song echoed in your heart; not as anything sweet, but as a brutal reminder of the dignity these beasts had taken from you. A fractured shield in hand, the ax of a felled darkspawn in the other, even if it killed you, you would teach these beasts why your people named you Jarl Icefang.

Alessia

You who were born in the dark and smelted together with battered rocks and unabashed defiance. The light had come in, but the shadows remained if only to provide contrast. You were not the last to fall to Mother’s song, but you held out longer than most. Under the stones of Aetherite, you thought that going through the motions would protect you, but the blight was in the air you breathed, and here the Abyss sighed with open relief. 

It began in your dreams, across the Spine, the Dark One was searching. Hunting. There, hidden somewhere within, was an old adversary. You remembered the steps, the secret paths, and the signs to look for. Even in your dreams, the Old Woman welcomed you like an old friend, but this time when she looked upon you, she frowned. His eye had found her, and when you awoke it was to the scream of Mother’s dying breath - a werewolf ran rampant and wild. It tore through your Mother’s heart and broke you from the song of the brood; the dark descended now, it was now or never. Run. Fight. Alessia Hart, give it everything you have: otherwise, you will die in this place, forgotten and alone. 

Arros

Witcher. Poison beat through your veins like others had blood. The taint took time to grip you: more than anyone else but even you could not resist Mother’s song for long. She worked her way into your heart through your pox-marked skin and for the first time since your Gaze had been broken, you felt the sort of love that you thought was lost to you. Beautiful and sweet, you were happy to serve Mother, and happy to play the part of nurse at her side. Her gaze was beady and dark, but you matched it with unequivocal devotion. 

Neptunalia will begin July 19th and will last IC for 10 days. However, the event itself will not be concluded on the main until August 2nd. Throughout the course of that time, we’ll have little competitions and events on Discord for players to engage in the various functions. They’ll rely on a blend of IC skill and of course, chance.

Muses who create and post an outfit aesthetic for the event will receive 500 gp as a boon from the Crown of Eterna. To quality, they MUST tag the inspo blog. Due date for the outfits is July 18th at 7pm EST.

More details to follow closer to the date - this is just what some people might be buzzing about.

“I envy you.” “You’re welcome to take my place.” “So young. So powerful. Your father raised you well.” “My father wanted a son.” Gunnhild smiled as Astrid finished and stood to run her hand against the smooth, shaved scope at the side of her head.  “Your father wants a great many things.”

“And he usually gets them.” Gunnhild eyed her reflection in the polished steel plastered to the wet brick of the cistern. She saw a girl who’d broken so many bones that they had no choice but to heal twice as strong. A woman who’d been standing a foot above those her own age since she was only ten years old. 

“I’ve never known you to walk away from a fight.” “Who’s walking away?” Gunnhild asked as she caught Astrid's gaze in the reflection of the makeshift mirror. 

“You know what I mean.” “But you know not what you ask.” It was sharp, as was Gunnhild’s nature. A forked tongue that was too crude for flyting, one that only stilled under her father’s harsh gaze. “Winning isn’t everything.”

Astrid was silent because she did not need to speak, Gunnhild could hear her thoughts echoing within her own well enough.

“Feel your braid, Hilda.”

Thrown to the floor of the ring, Gunnhild’s body protested as she tasted iron across the tarmac of her tongue. 

“Kill the bitch!” “Rip her fucking eyes out!”

Men always craved violence, but women were not so different. Gunnhild the brute had been to most of their doors at some point. Flanked by men twice her age and half her size sent by the girl’s father to collect a debt that was owed. It was a common saying that you could not get blood from a stone, but Gunnhild had a way about her. When the lives of children or spouses were threatened, it was a marvel what they could come up with.

“Get up!” “Gunnhild!” “Gunnhild get up!” “Fight!”

The crowd hated and favoured her, their wages split, but she’d spent a year earning her reputation here. Sigurd bet against her, Gunnhild the dutiful daughter, heir of rats.

When next Gunnhild looked the crack she felt along her jaw reverberated through her frame. She did not see stars, but an explosion of lights and sounds as the full weight of her body twisted upon itself before she once more hit the ground, hard.

A bleary-eyed stare lifted her gaze through the throng of grubby ankles and torn hems. Gunnhild could hear the abuse, the laughter that reverberated from the bellies of bloated, drunk men, and through the shadows she saw a pair of violet eyes watching her. A tail flicked through the shadows, back and forth.

Gunnhild stood and turned. She avoided the next strike with deft ease, instead of flesh the man that was more meat than a person brought his fist through the open air - broken only by the tail of her braid.

He was three decades her senior, harder, stronger, and carved from the same Iskaran stone as her. Gunnhild was faster, sharper, leaner, and far smarter. Before he’d recovered from the recoil of his stumble, she’d struck him four times over his rib cage, and under her knuckles came the deft feeling of cracking and popping. 

The underground fighter turned to swing at her but Gunnhild was light on her feet, incensed by adrenaline and blood like a berserker driven mad, she subverted his swing, and then another before she followed up with one that sent blood spewing from his nostrils. 

His nose flattened clean across his face, painting him like an overgrown elephant. Red-faced and enraged, Gunnhild heard the women within the crowd cheer her name and smirked as she moved in.

Bone cracked under the weight of her fist and the crowd roared around her.

Grown men pulled out their hair, but they didn’t earn her sympathy, those who did not cheer were the ones foolish enough to bet against her.

“Gunnhild!” “Gunnhild!” “Gunnhild!”

They thrust her fist into the air and Gunnhild’s smile was bright and broken. She took in the reverie, but it faltered when she met her father’s eyes. She’d cost him a fortune tonight.

Sigurd had been telling Gunnhild her worth for an age, but she never expected that her value would ever fall to disposable. Not when she’d worked so hard

“Victory again, Hilda.”

Her father’s man was equal part cruel and vicious, his henchmen just as merciless. They left her for dead, a notice to one of the local witchers that they’d found a witch in the cisterns.

Witcher. Kingsguard. First.

“Is this all that you can do?” Gunnhild paced in easy, intentional movements, a great axe hung carelessly at her side - its hilt held just a breath above the stone. “Is this all that you’re capable of?” For all the fear that the witchers imposed, it began with The First; she was not known for her kindness, kindness was easily misconstrued and when it was between witchers and the rest of the Iskarans there could be no room for error. 

She knew better than most how precarious their position was, and how quickly the winds could change. 

Gunnhild looked down at the wiry limbed child, watched as their veins pulsed and throbbed - poison protested its way toward their heart and she steeled herself once more for this moment. 

“Did you really come all this way, just to die?” Her axe lifted the thin-faced progeny and studied the clarity and the vitriol behind their eyes. “You must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.”

She stood and watched as their body stilled, listened as their heart stopped, and then Gunnhild released a breath she did not know she was holding when it started again. 

Forty years a witcher and Gunnhild had outlasted those of her graduating class by a decade now. She could feel the poison ebb at her veins but by now this discomfort was a familiar burn. Some said Gunnhild was too stubborn to die, that her life could not be spent until she’d twisted a cruel finger into every affair across the Kingdom. Her Mad High King had appointed her two decades ago, and for twenty years she’d curated the generations of witchers to come.

From the top of Witcher’s Watch, she saw the mountain descend from the sky, and felt the heat as it scorched the land with arcana that only the oldest of stories whispered about.

Beneath her the watch was evacuating, they’d need time to take their children and their secrets into Valkyrie’s Reat, time that Gunnhild would have to buy for them.

Her braid was woven at the top of her head like a crown, but as she sheathed herself in antimagic it fell to sweep the ground behind her. Gunnhild’s face was lined and scarred; she foresaw her Kingdoms fate, but her duty was to her people - and the Iskarans who spat at her name. Iskaldrik, this broken, beautiful, stubborn land of ego and violence would fall to something far worse. She saw its face as it scorched the earth and left nothing but waste. Ichorous shadows like ink whipped about her, the natural weaves of the world seemed to protest as the air itself bent around her.

She stepped onto these threads and took flight, sustained by means of rejection. Against the shadow, a stark line of Silverlight took shape as a mithril bow formed, arrows of shadow and mithril enveloped its shaft before they pierced the sky. Antimagic erupted against the mountain and an invisible field rippled around it - shielded, she fired again and again.

A handprint burned over her heart, though Gunnhild paid it no mind. 

She envisioned a white flame and passed her fears to it as they floated through her consciousness.

She flew, and she fired. 

From the mountain bastion, a ray of prismatic flames fired toward Gunnhild, engulfing her. The shadow of her ascent was blotted out as the blast struck through and erupted against the ground below, but as quickly as it had blotted out the inky shadow of her antimagic, the ray erupted from its center and split the sky apart in a blinding array of light. Her bow fell toward the ground but a great-axe had landed in her palm instead, with a two-handed swing Gunnhild roared, heaving it at the Aetherian's mountain barrier before she cracked its great mithril blade against a field of seven colours and watched as the barrier shattered.

Its defense brought to ruin, Gunnhild remained smoldering, she prepared to charge, but from thin air itself, three suddenly appeared and descended upon her: a man with hair like the sun, a woman wrapped in gilded armor, and a third with gray hair the colour of churning sea foam.

The grayed Aetherian raised a hand, smiled, and then the sky erupted once more.

I shall not fear.

THE BARRIER

A cold fog swept over the people that morning, most were awake already, charged and ready at the barrier. They knew that once the Olympians began it would only be a matter of time before the Aetherians descended to pick their bones clean. 

At the Olympians’s order, elements bore down upon the barrier to strip it away layer by layer. Frost against fire, fire against frost, air against lightning. The prismatic force was a myriad of complexities, each field of the prism needed to be taken down simultaneously and yet one at a time as well. As quickly as they could tear through, it sealed itself shut again, as they were the Olympians would not manage it on their own. 

The witchers of Iskaldrik stepped forward, and the words of their First echoed in their mind: fear is the mind-killer. 

They sheathed themselves in antimagic, transforming as they rushed the barrier and carved into it with their mithril weapons. Cloaked in ichorous shadows, the force of the barrier closed down upon them. Flames washed over them, cold sunk into their nerves, acid ate away at their skin, and poison twisted away at their insides while lightning coursed through their bodies. Visions of horror flooded their minds in a blinding array as each of them gradually began to turn to stone. 

Their King was gone, their purpose was their nation, united, and with the aid of the Olympians, they cracked open the barrier as it rippled with a flood of arcana that cascaded across the surface in an array. If the Aetherians did not know where they were previously, then they would certainly be upon them shortly. The prismatic barrier sat on the shoulders of the witchers, the force of it tearing through them little by little. 

Iskarans rushed through, and the refugees passed under the mantle of the array while Aetherians poured down from the sky. A rain of prismatic flames washed across the Lostlands and one by one the witchers holding the field either collapsed or were pulled away. The barrier closed bit by bit until the last of it resealed into place and the pursuing Aetherians were trapped within, staring through the prismatic array at the Lysarans and Iskarans standing shoulder to shoulder. 

Despite their condition, none of the witchers died. Their petrification eroded away from the barrier, their sight returned, and with time their wounds were healed.

For the Iskarans, what more could be said?

What could they say after two long months on the road? Sequestered with the blight, starved, and raided by darkspawn. They'd watched their children turn into ghouls and felt the bracing hands of the witchers holding them back as their fiendish offspring were cut down and buried.

They'd been marched through wretched storms and unbearable cold and barely held their grip in the jarring tundra of the Wastelands and the treacherous peaks of Ymir's most Northern Spine. They'd come face to face with Aetherians, and battle dragons, and still trudged through a swampish hell only to face what should have been an insurmountable challenge.

They had lost their homes, their families, and their livelihoods.

For a moment there was nothing but shock and uncertainty, then a choice of glee seemed to erupt. A chorus of an old song passed over stubborn Iskaran songs as the Queen of Haven swept open the doors and bid the nation welcome among her wolves.

A pack that would grow with those who wished to join her, and a border nation that suddenly doubled in size overnight.

Too many Iskarans were taken the night of the Nornwatch attack, but six returned, each carrying scars both seen and unseen. Over the hearts of five, a handprint had appeared. It didn’t take long for word to spread, among the elves one of the elvhen said it first: Hrimthur’s Heart. From there another adage began to follow: The Daughters of Manetheren and The Heroes of the Wastelands. 

Their triumph over the abomination, Munin, spread like wildfire. Munin became the face of the darkspawn, a name that the Iskarans could attribute to all their woes concerning the blight. A skaldic young witch limped about Haven and spread the tale of their valor; inflating some aspects and deflating others. These brave stories spread from the Iskarans, through Haven, and across Lysara like a wildfire.

A Princess missing her eye stood now among the legionnaires, abandoning status in pursuit of a greater good. Aetherians had taken Iskaldrik, but she’d gazed upon Isengrim’s Embrace and knew that if left unchecked, the blight would see to it that there would be no Iskaldrik to return to.

A Steady blade had watched the princess cut off a dragon's head and took a knee. All her life she'd been Iskaran, she'd served a King, but she swore herself to the woman who she hoped would someday return to Iskaldrik as Queen.

A Shield for a Jarl was left touched by magic; the Iskaran woman knew nothing of witchcraft but now an unknown amount of years in wisdom sat idle across her mind. Lifetimes lived through the distorted lens of an altered fate, her task became siphoning the parts of her that were true and what was better left abandoned.

A Stationary woodcutter from the Iskaran Ironwood, signatures draped in a red riding cloak, had been kissed by the moon. An amulet of Aetherite was worth enough to purchase a fleet of ships ten times over, but what it gave her was so much more. Where it had come from and what it meant remained obscured by the fog of the blight, a fog she stepped toward. A wolf among the legionnaires draped in a cloak of red over armor of black.

A Path of shadows draped in raven feathers obscured her identity now. She drifted into the peripherals and faded into the background. Darkness had laid its hand upon her, and while she’d given little and told less, most never so much as learned her name.

A Gaze had turned toward the future and the horrors that she’d been made to endure. Orphaned urchin from the grimy streets, an Iskaran weapon meant to defend her nation. When the Legion of the Dead extended its hand, she stepped toward her Joining and set her eyes upon carving out the rot that settled around her Kingdom.

A Temperance of a sixth did not carry the mark, not a daughter of Manetheren, but a scientist. One who’d fallen through the veil but had turned away from uncovering more and chose safety instead. Wounded and battered, she would piece together the past in the hope of stitching what remained of their future. One who would fail far more than she’d succeed. 

A Sword missing an arm carrying the rank of Kingsguard bore the mark of Hrimthur's Heart, engraved by the storm giant, Orum - though to what end, he could not yet say. He rallied those under his charge in the absence of The First and at the unwavering side of the Iskaran Heir; a sword to lead the witchers to their noble, Iskaran purpose - to someday hunt and kill the magi of Aetheron.

A Hero known as The Errant Knight began to spread like wildfire. From the bowels of a plagued, abandoned outpost, a slayer of blademasters and defectors from the Legion of the Dead had been cut down. He carried one of her swords, one a heron-marked blade wielded by a Crusader of the Light, his story would spread and in so would inspire others to walk the warrior’s path - not knowing the dark secret he harbored. 

A Devout legionnaire wielding the weight of the bloodied arts of an Olympian or Ceres pulled countless from the brink of death. For months she’d worked to the bone, setting limbs and minds alike. Toiling day and night among Iskarans who’d have sooner spat at a witch than accepted her aid. What she knew better than most was what she’d known from her formative years: there was only one battle that mattered, the battle between good and evil. Life and death.

An Heir who now carried the ring of his father, wielding with it a power that as of yet ran unchecked. A prince who would someday be King, a man who carried a dark secret and an even darker burden - because now his people were looking toward him for hope. He was the face that they would pin their desire to return to the nation that was taken from them, and it would be his name they would remember should he fail. 

An Oathsworn man who’d never thought to hold the mantle of leadership, but with every legionnaire above him cut down, there were few other choices. Should they make it through the barrier, then he’d stand as the Lysaran Field Officer, and march the new burgeoning Legionnaires to reclaim and rebuild Caer Glas Keep of the Silverlands. 

A Runner had finally reached his destination, a woodcutter from the Iskaran South, a boy and his dog who'd lost everything along the way to find the family he'd known but never met. A home within a home, a life within a life, his purpose still yet undefined but one who'd carved out runes and seen a Storm Giant with his own eyes, living to tell the tale.

A Hand that was the voice of The High King watched as the man he’d sworn himself to, the man he’d betrayed, and the man he’d watched return from the brink of death, slip away. A maddening uncertainty addled the warrior famed as the Raven Feeder, once Orhan’s voice when he stood in the hall of Arethusa Mordecai, it was he who spoke on behalf of the Iskaran people. 

One by one the people of Iskaldrik were vetted, the crimes in their nation were of no consequence to the Lysarans, and the supernaturals hidden among them were thoroughly searched for any connection to Aetheron, or the Blight. Within Haven, Queen Aurea gave the Iskarans everything they needed: food, lodging, and healing when necessary with the understanding that they remained by her good graces and they could continue to do so so long as her law was respected.

Overall, those who were not native to Lysara were sequestered within the lupine city for a month's time. One by one the Agents combed through every detail and made note of anyone of interest: changelings, vuldaks, cambions, devils, thieves, potential darkfriends and so much more. As was their nature, they revealed this only to their Sitters, and to those who were deemed necessary.

The prismatic field remained, no one could enter or exit, but it remained abundantly clear that

ooc info:

This concludes Troupe 1: Journey to our Queendom. Thank you all so much for coming along on this, it has meant the world to me.

The Iskarans are in Haven, in the game it'll be about a month, but IC you're welcome to have them interacting and playing outside of the city.

The Agents of Minerva uncovered the secrets of most of the Iskaran refugees, they know their history - bloody and all. These aren't witches you can easily hide things from.

EVERYONE receives DM Inspiration on their next quest for either surviving and thriving in all the horror I put them through, their campaign actions, or their in-character actions. Additionally, each of these characters in the troupe is awarded 2,000 gp to spend on whatever they wish ( Call it a gift from a charitable wing of the Vanguard of the Light ).

A reminder that the wrap-up posts are due next Friday!

Our Trials We’ll Face

Those who could hunt were sent out to do so. These hunters coordinated with the witchers, legion, jarls, and advisors of the crown to mark the maps of the region with potential hunting grounds. Regions with dense forest coverage, and access to fresh water and other resources would be ideal for small and large prey. Rally points were stapled along the way so the hunters could find the troupe when they were successful, checkpoints marked along their paths through the mountains. 

Alone or in small groups, hunters could travel more freely without the cumbersome nature of those who couldn’t navigate the terrain. The horses, the oxen, and the weight of the tents and other necessities for encampment. Among the hunters were legionnaires, witchers, shieldmaidens, jarls, and any able-bodied volunteer willing to risk the dangers of the mountain for assurance that the troupe would survive the travel ahead. Famine and starvation would kill them as surely as the Blight had tried. 

Small, nimble predators like arctic foxes dotted the landscape - watching from a distance with useful, thick fur coats. Hares were a staple of the region, in burrows and more susceptible to snares than arrows. Both blended easily into the landscape, white like the snow and quicker than most of the creatures in the troupe, they’d be spied on in one instance, and then gone in the next. Silent hunters of the night, snow owls patrolled the skies, preying on small rodents and other birds. Moving in herds and seeking patches of vegetation beneath the snow, reindeer roam the valleys and can be tracked more easily than any other. Followed and hunted by other predators, the troupe are not the only hunters after the reindeer, but dire wolves as well. Far larger than their cousins, if those navigating the wilderness aren’t careful, they’ll become the hunted. 

At night, the clouds rumbled in the distance over the greatest peaks in the valley. Groaning in anguish as dramatic clashes of rock and ice shook loose shafts of snow and ice from the sheer faces about them. Witchers spoke of Hrimthursa, towering behemoths of living mountains, battling for dominion over ancient territory. Obscured by swirling blizzards and frozen mists, the closer the troupe would come the more dangerous their journey would be. The ground trampled beneath them, and those who watched the immutable darkness of the valleys below would see the shapes of these ancient behemoths wandering through the valleys below. Felled and fallen from the summit, their footsteps echoed like thunder from the ground below. 

These mountains of Ymir’s most northern Spine are home to other things beyond giants and wolves. Frost Trolls dwell in the deep, labyrinthine caverns that honeycomb through the mountains and the fields below. Cropping up through the ancient mines of an age long forgotten to the annals of time; protected from the glaring light of the sun by the thick clouds of mist, they roam in solitude or small groups hunting and gathering. Their weapons are primitive, their skin hard as stone, and their teeth are hard like daggers do not discriminate between man and beast. 

Beneath the ice are the petrified children of the dark, the draugr. Wights of harrowed flesh and withered bones; soldiers from wars that predate this age of man, they are the undead minions of Lusacan’s prodigies. The draugr are vampiric in nature, however, it’s not blood they crave, but to spread their blight to those they can sink their teeth into. Like ghosts with a physical body, only powerful magic can exorcise them for good, or its antithesis can purge their forms of entropic possession. For those with the ability to do neither, beheading them and torching their bodies is an acceptable alternative. Anyone bitten by these monsters is fated to join the legions of draugr trapped within the ice. 

In the distance there is a roar from a creature that will chill the bone of even the most hardened warrior. Drakes and wyverns are not foreign to the troupe, the Iskarans know these beasts from the mountains that surround their home. They are the lesser children of a greater beast though, one that has awakened after centuries of slumber, growling from the fjords around them, and threatening what little hope remains. 

Our One Hope

Hrimthur’s Outpost. It wasn’t named in any text, or written down on any map, but the name was assigned by the legion rangers who traveled this region before. Shattered, stone homes that are half buried beneath snow and ice with a broken tower at its center. This evidence is all that remains of a proud city that existed in a time that the people have forgotten. 

Runes dot these stones, druidic in origin but to the Iskarans they’d readily claim them as their own. A waygate once existed here but like so many other things it was broken by what they would call a cataclysm. These cold, frozen walls are the only reprieve that the refugees would find after weeks of traveling through the expanse of the wastelands. The Northern Spine of Iskaldrik that saw them trudge endlessly through snow and over ice, their rations gone, and their hope along with it. 

Fires dot the battered homes and line the walls of the tower. The cold wood gathered from old pines does not burn easily, but those familiar with ironwood are well-versed in casting almost anything ablaze. Miserable nights are made more tolerable as the hunters rally at this juncture, holes cut into ice fields yield fish, and reindeer roasts over open flames with the sweet berries plucked from the cold bushes snaking out from cliffs. 

It lacks the mead of a proper feast, but it’s the first good, warm meal that they’ve had in what feels like a lifetime. As the fire dims and thoughts turn towards those that were taken, the looming dangers that lurk in the dark around them are nothing when compared to what lays ahead. These Spines are too cold for the blight to survive, but Isengrim’s Embrace and the Lostlands following will yield horrors unlike any the Iskarans had yet to see. The Legion says this not to quell the flames of the lifting spirits, but to remind them of the vigilance that peace demands. 

What follows is a voice, one that starts small, but is quickly joined by the crowd of refugees. 

“Shadows fall. And hope has fled. Steel your heart. The dawn will come.”

“The night is long. And the path is dark. Look to the sky. For one day soon. The dawn will come.”

The One’s Taken

( tw: childbirth )

All for Mother. 

It became hard to tell if you were waking or dreaming, the song guided your hands and work. This one was weak so you cleaved them in two, pulled back their skin, and cut free their entrails. Scraps for the wargs to fight over, flabby meat to fatten your pack. Sister they called you with blackened gums and pointed teeth, snapping for more as they hungered for the sweet. Brother you remarked as you beat them down, swine should learn where swine should sleep. The best of the best was for Her, the Mother of the brood for only Mother could birth the horde. 

Your hands slipped between the folds as another came screeching into the world. Hideous and beautiful and yours to rear. Snapping at your ankles as you carved off scraps, the sweet, beautiful heart for Mother, but the bones left for them to suckle. Something to gnaw and carve, sharpen their teeth, and help them grow. You used to be…. You can no longer recall, but you see the fields of fire for what they are, a garden and a home so hot it might just be cold. 

More. Mother screams. She needs more. You do not defy but your body moves of its own accord, enthralled and drawn about as your broken boots drag against wailing stones. In the dark, you hear a whisper, a song that reminds you of the girl who ran carefree through the woods. The one who split logs, who lifted a splintered shield, and who did not survive all this time to die nameless in a cave. Your lips part as you join her in song: 

“The Shepard's lost. And his home is far. Keep to the stars. The dawn will come.”

“The night is long. And the path is dark. Look to the sky. For one day soon. The dawn will come.”

The night takes you, tomorrow you begin again. 

OOC info: 

The next troupe update will be on Friday, May 24th.

The Ones Taken are still captive (big sad I know), they're midwives now. Who knows, maybe someday they'll have a brood of their own <3.

After a long hike through the mountains, the troupe reached what used to be a village. RIP.

The full moon will take place after the happy song, and characters affected by the full moon will be made to shift. Fair warning, if they kill anyone in the village they'll be put down :(

Most of Taravell will now have heard about what happened to Iskaldrik, refugees are washing up on the shores of Caribella and Borderreach.

In a Lysaran staple on the outskirts of Eterna, a warm fire crackled from the heart of the Stumble Inn. Last call round the fire and there were only a few wayward standards left but the dedicated barflies that would be peeled off the tavern floor come dawn. It was they, and those just packing up their kits to see themselves home, enjoying the bard’s final song as Alessandra Fraioli played her gilded lute.

She, too, was a staple of Eterna. An artisan of the Great Game, her status in The Harmonium is unknown to all, elusive, secretive, and sought after from Caribella to Sinaria. Now and again Alessandra stopped along the road without notice, bringing with her a small crowd as she played her lute into the small hours of the night.

For now, she set the lute aside as her violet eyes appraised the crowd, soaking in their applause as another drink landed in front of her. Alessandra didn’t need their coin, as far as the world knew her debts were paid - considering her rates, they had to be. As the crowd died the ambiguous elvhen creature smiled, some called her a faiman, others claimed her from a distant line, but like so much of the bard’s life, her nature was shrouded in mystery.

“To end the evening, I offer a tale: be weary gentle listeners, lest it send you to your dreams with a scare.”

“Our story begins with the Mad King: Orhan Gökhan and the Iskaran curse. The Hand who traded his soul for status, the Princess who consorted with the blight, and the Heir who runs from every battle.”

“This is not the romantic tales constructed by my dear friend Sappho, nor the idioms by the mythologist Homeo. We venture into a realm of cruelty and savagery because our neighbours have never known any other way.”

“It’s a common tale, and a sad one really. Cruelty begets cruelty and violence begets violence. Brave, stubborn Iskarans running with their tails between their legs. Fleeing like dogs from a storm stoked by the flames they long ignored. Aetheron has returned, those with a bastion in the sky: they who broke the world returned to mend it, to right the wrongs of the past as liberators and saviors.~”

“~Magic did not break the world. The Dark One did. Witches did not cause the Blight. The Dark One did. Can anyone tell me who is more friendly with the dark, those who’d sentence good people to a life of hard labor and imprisonment - or those who would break their chains.” Alessandra laughed, “~I know what I would choose. I would not choose to damn someone by virtue of their birth, but I might send them to the Tower: I might introduce them to the Laurelin. I might take their hand and help them along their path. Any Lysaran worth their salt knows the adage of the Legionnaires: there is only one battle that matters, the battle between the light and the dark.”

Alessandra seemed to settle into the tale, she’d stood in the halls of Yggdrasildal under a glamor of disguise, had played the harp for Arethusa and held tea with the Divine. Rumors one and all, she played the Game she’d been born for. “It was quiet in the Southlands, save for the distant toil of pickaxes against silver, the fog stretched silence over the land with fingers akin to the ore that the Iskarans forced their own people to mine.”

“When suddenly! Fire bannered across the sky, it drenched their shores, washed like the tide, and BROKE against the land. Liberation at last! Came the cry of our kind, for the first time in an age Iskarans ran while the miners chased after them, brandishing the weapons of their indentured servitude, screaming ‘WE WILL NEVER BE TAKEN AGAIN!”

“Orhan Gökhan.Mad King Orhan Gökhan.” She whispered so the crowd would be forced to hear. “The Mad High King Orhan Gökhan, when he was just a boy his father called him soft, delicate, because he preferred to torture his people rather than see him restrained. His father needed an heir though, a boy you see because as we all know, in Iskaldrik, women aren’t fit to rule.”

“The Mad High King who killed his only friend: poor Cnut was a noble son, as good as they can be as far as Iskarans are concerned. Orhan had him restrained and poured hot oil over him just to set him on fire, and watch the boy burn. He’d never seen it up close, and he liked it.”

“Then came the Raven Feeder, the dark sword of the Astorian battlefield. One look at the Mad King’s tactics and he saw his opportunity, finding a crossroads and selling his soul: yes, a Darkfriend of all things. That is what his people say. One that has had the Mad King’s ear for years. In the shadows he whispers the will of the Dark One, bringing forth entertainment for the Mad King’s sick delight. To his credit he has no penchant for cruelty, his constitution so weak that he shrinks at even the sight of a dog. But even cowards can have ambition.”

“Ambition to…. Do whatever they must to get their way. To placate Madness with a madness of their own, this is why they say The Hand speaks for the Mad King, but he speaks also for the Dark One. Sitting idle while magic stays in chains and witchers assault the Iskaran people.”

“They say that the Princess inherited her father’s madness. One look at her and you can see it written all over her face. They say that as the people of Iskaldrik fled screaming, she delighted in their terror, and at Nornwatch Keep they whispered of her butchery. Carving away at blighted flesh, eating it raw like some ghoul skittering about the dark.” A man in the corner lost his supper as Alessandra spoke, “She, perhaps, is most dangerous of all, because unlike her father she’s a pitiable creature: a woman born of Iskaldrik, someone who can hold nothing in her hands but an ax she wields like a monster. Cannibal and fiend, the Princess did not need to sell her soul to become a darkfriend, she was the Dark One’s by choice.”

“Last is the great coward, the sniveling son that looks nothing like his father.” Alessandra smiled as she said this, “An heir that can’t hold the crown, who can’t even hold a sword, and was sired from the seed of a servant. Why else would his mother have run if not to flee from the Mad King’s ire? It was the road or certain death, torture, or perhaps worse.” The distasteful look on Alessandra’s face was mirrored by the people. “Worst of all is that he knows, he knows he’s unworthy, he knows the Hand serves the dark, he knows his half-sister is a beast, and he knows that the man who is not his father is mad. What’s worse, I ask you? To be born a mad beast, or to simply allow its cruelty?” Alessandra shook her head, “At Nornwatch the Heir was not seen, not a trace of his steps, save perhaps for when the fighting was done - hiding behind the shelter of the Mad King’s name.”

“Where are they now…?”

“Why, in the Lostlands. Knocking at our borders, and crawling from the dark. Iskaran dogs, draped in hunger, blight, and sickness. This is the Dark One’s missive: to see his curse spread across our Queendom, and perhaps he’ll succeed.”

“Who’s to say?”

“Who will be the hero of this age?”

“Who will stop the Dark One before it’s too late.”

“Yes, that’s right: this story is unfinished.”

Alessandra landed on the floor from the table and scooped the hat up off the edge from where she’d placed it down, she walked toward the door and held it aloft before hesitating.

“~ and don’t forget to tip your barmaids,” she tossed a wink toward the owner and disappeared into the night.

Lost in the Lostlands

Vast and expansive, the Lostlands are a treacherous swampland, uninhabited by humans and known for being a region of great mystery and danger. Technically a region of Iskaldrik, the remote area is difficult to traverse and protected by mountains on almost all sides. It was once said that it was here where the Isseya discovered the secret of the blight, and here where the Old Gods first traveled as they took to laying waste to the continent.

Despite its northern region, the air is thick with humidity, and sulfur pits churn beneath the murky bogs, releasing toxic gasses and mingling with the perpetual fog that lines the stagnant waters. Visibility here is obscured as a result and the veil is remarkably thing - making it easy for creatures like spirits, devils, and demons to press against it.

From the loose sediments beneath the muck, twisted, gnarled trees with protruding roots like skeletal fingers ride from the murky waters. Their branches covered in a dense canopy of moss and vines block out much of the sparse sunlight from above. These trees tower above, spiraling and twisting upon one another, casting the bogs of the Lostlands in shadow and perpetual twilight.

What ground that the troupe finds is a deceptive mix of soft, sucking mud and shallow pools of stagnant water. Poisonous insects dwell within, taking advantage of the still waters as necrotizing illnesses linger across mosses and fungi alike - which says nothing of the peril surrounding even the amphibians. Beneath the surface are treacherous sinkholes and quicksand pits, one wrong step can lead to disaster - or the loss of a limb in a hasty escape.

Dangerous creatures teem in the waters: venomous snakes move silently through the reeds, and predatory alligators lurk just below the surface, their eyes barely visible above the waterline. Occasionally, the guttural croaks of unseen frogs and the haunting calls of night birds break the oppressive silence, watching the troupe as they make their way through the dark fog.

Elven ruins predating the broken veil poke out of the water’s surface, some buried, completely as the bones of this old world. If the stones ever knew what they were, they’ve long forgotten now. Sporadically littered across the Lostlands, the air around them holds a sweetness, but is overpowered by the scent of decay and still waters.

Now and then wisps of light blink over the horizon, visible even through the fog. The witches spared this advice to those who traversed this region: do not stray from the path, and do not follow the lights: If you are approached by a stranger, do not give them your name, do not accept their help, and do not offer to help them.

In the Lostlands compasses spin wildly, the only true sense of direction can come from following a predetermined path.

Those who wander may be lost forever.

At one such ruinous bastion, the camp has settled amid the fog as they await the distant rise of lanterns and revelry. The King would rendezvous here, the legionnaires claimed as much, as had the witchers who knew this terrain well. It was here that prismatic light began to filter from the sky above, it fell like a dome over the fog and landed in the distance, a beacon at the border of the ruined village.

Magic, clearly, but what kind? One soul was foolish enough to try and was reduced to ash.

The Iskarans were trapped within their own borders.

The Quest

As the women of The Ones Taken by the darkspawn battled their way from the catacombs below the wastelands, traversing the frigid tundra and contesting a region with a sundered veil: they might have died several times, but the five Daughters of Manetheren awakened something within themselves: Hrimthur’s Heart. The scouts for The King’s Road made their way through the mountains. An avalanche had already divided his forces, some were cut off from the King’s Army, while another was sent into an underground system of caves, these were The Ones Lost. 

Together at the mouth of Ymir’s Northern Spine, at the foot of Isengrim’s Embrace, The Ones Taken and The King’s Road were reunited but were halted by Magister Anthin and her siblings, along with her daughter - the five-headed dragon Tiamat. Their Archon told them to conquer Iskaldrik and to find out everything they could about the Blight, a task that soon became personal as Anthin’s brother was revealed to have contracted the taint. 

No blood was spilled between them, but the interaction was cut short when darkspawn attacked the party. The magisters vanished as Tiamat took off over the mountains, in clear search of High King Orhan: their plan for him was clear, he’d be brought back to Yggdrasildal, but kept under their control. 

The Ones Lost made their way through the caves, battling frostbiters and giants before their leader stood in their path. A blademaster and spellsword, the storm giant was once a trusted ally and friend of King Hrimthur, resolved to smite them where they stood, the group managed to escape through an eluvian. The Sword stood in the giant’s way, securing the others escape, and awakening something within: Hrimthur’s Heart.

With a blighted dragon slain, The Princess proved herself every bit her father’s daughter before a member of the party opened a door for them to escape - transporting the troupe to the Lostlands, rejoining those who traveled away from the High King. They now camp within an ancient ruin at the edge of the Lostlands, their way blocked by a prismatic field that is far thicker than the one they encountered previously. 

The Ones Lost moved as a smaller force, more capable of navigating the mountains, to reunite with the High King, but what they came upon was ruin and disaster instead. The army that Orhan had gathered was decimated with few survivors, as Tiamat ascended they pursued, but were halted by Magister Aelthryth: she declared herself The Blade of the Golden House of Minrathous, and in ten-thousand years she’d never known defeat. Bested and left for dead, The Sword lost his arm in the altercation before The Ones Lost were recovered by the divided forces and transported in critical condition to The Lostlands.

The High King has been taken by Aetheron, and the entirety of the Iskaran refugees have now gathered in The Lostlands, but they’re trapped within. 

The Legion of the Dead had dwindled over the years, and one of The Ones Lost remained sick with the blight: The Gaze. Secrets of The Joining were tightly guarded, but The Oathsworn and The Devout gathered what they needed from the blighted dragon before departing for The Lostlands. The Gaze underwent The Joining, as a witcher she was sworn to defend Iskaldrik, and as a member of the Legion of the Dead she was now sworn to spend the rest of her life battling the blight. 

The Princess stepped forward afterwards, willingly joining The Legion of the Dead after all that she had endured: it was said that the Legion could not rule, that they didn’t carry titles, perhaps she would be the first. 

The door is open for any other members of The Ones Taken to join The Legion of the Dead. 

Munin activated a phylactery ring and took over the body of a nearby darkspawn, he still lives, but will take time to recover his strength. 

Lilith used her blood manipulation to reconsitute her body elsewhere, she lives, and now holds a vendetta after one of her swords was taken from her: she still has six more.

ooc info:

The dramatic conclusion of TQH Troupe 1: Road to Our Queendom will be posted on Friday, June 21st at 8pm EST.

A barrier has been erected over the entirety of Iskaldrik, it is inaccessible by land, sea, and even underground. Imagine a very large, prismatic dome has covered the entire of the Kingdom. Anything that tries to pass through it is immediately incinerated.

Individuals making their way TOWARD the Iskaran refugees will be stopped by the barrier.

Refugees making their way FROM Iskaldrik will be stopped by the barrier.

They can communicate verbally across the barrier, but any spells will be refracted off of it. Painfully.

The story told by the bard has spread quickly across Taravell, public opinion is that The Heir may not be Orhan's son, High King Orhan has lost his mind, The Hand is a darkfriend, and The Princess is as unhinged as her father (missing eye binch).

The refugees are not yet aware of the bard's tale, but the rest of Iskaldrik will have heard it by now.

All the Iskaran refugees are now in The Lostlands together.

Each step she took was a testament to her resolve, her vow to defy the hands of fate and stand firm. Stubbornness flowed through her, they had told Ellisande as a little girl that she was as willful as the mountains that she was so fond of, and for the last six-thousand years she’d spent every day proving them right. 

At Ellisande’s waist she’d tied her belt, a bolt of cloth fashioned from the stars themselves to hold the heron-marked scabbard of her sword, the former had been a gift from her mother on her wedding day. 

“You would leave me behind?” Ellisande’s voice was indignant as she strode toward the husband whose stature was less than her own. She looked down at the King at the front of his army. The Band of the Red Hand was the most formidable military company across the continent, spellswords, and spellbreakers armed to the teeth with either adamantine or mithril. Behind the King their formations lined in an array of armor that was either dark and spotted like a starry night sky, or bright like the sun reflecting off the snow amid a summer’s day. 

“I would leave you for assurance,” Hrimthur urged as he pushed some of her braids past her ears, revealing the sharpness of the elvhen’s heritage. Hrimthur was a human man, so courageous and just that among her people and his, the highest praise a warrior could be given was to be told they had Hrimthur’s heart. That was the heart Ellisande fell in love with, it was that heart that had led her from Avalon to these mountain-dwellers. To stand in the heart of their great, capital city of Manetheren, and rule as Queen. 

Ellisande’s hand moved to cover the King’s, her eyes closed for a moment as the roar of a distant mountain plumed a greater tower of smoke and ash into the sky. 

“They will come,” she promised. “They answered, they will come.” Reinforcements to fight against the Dark One: Toth, Dumat, and Andoral had broken out of their prisons within the Abyss and with them came their armies of monstrosities. Disease had begun to take root in the land where their warriors stepped, a plague that the commoners had taken to calling The Blight. 

Manetheren guarded the realms of the North, the city was a great capital of innovators and scientists, and already the people of this Kingdom worked to repair the Veil that was continuously tearing. Ellisande could see the Laurelin disappearing slowly across the veil, its branches once shone brilliantly across the sky before her eyes, but now they faded like distant clouds - obscured by rising plumes of ash. 

Hrimthur’s hand shifted to the back of her neck and craned her head toward his own to press their foreheads together. Three days. They had been told that they only needed to hold for three days. Her husband could survive for three days, he had to. 

“Ayend'an Atha'an'shari'a marath allende'nesodhin an'ara'rhiod e'fel loviyagae zavilat'a'veren ba'asa.”

The waygate had been sabotaged in the dead of night, a sickness had sunk into it, corrupting it, and burning away at the veil. Queen Ellisande gave her people the option to leave, she encouraged them to flee, but those who were too weak to fight at the front lines remained within the city instead. They created fortifications while their engineers worked through day and night.

Ellisande’s features were once radiant with the light of the moon itself, now they were shadowed by the weight of the future. Lines of worry where none previously existed had etched upon her brow like ancient runes. King Hrimthur marched, and Ellisande stood, suspended as he and his forces departed.

The great weight of three dragons and their armies fell upon King Hrimthur and the Red Hand, and they held, for a day and then through the night.

A second day passed, followed by another night.

A third, and then at dawn of the fourth day, they waited. Reinforcements were promised, but they did not come. So they held longer.,

A fifth day, and then a sixth.

A seventh. An eighth. A ninth. A tenth.

Not a single inch of ground was given until it was soaked in blood. 

At the dawn of the eleventh day, King Hrimthur and the Red Hand were no more and the Old Gods, seemingly unkillable, fell upon the Kingdom of Manetheren. 

Ellisande stood alone atop the tallest tower, her city in ruinous devastation. The blight sought to ravage them, but on the the night of the tenth day, she sent them into the mountains.

No reinforcements had come.

Her grief carved into her like a knife, hollowed her to her core until there was nothing but sorrow and rage. The elves had called this place Silath’Aira, Mountain Home, and she would not lose it to her people's butchers. So long as she drew breath, Manetheren would never fall.

Ellisande repeated her husband’s final words to her, the words he whispered before he went to a battle he knew that he would lose.

 It was not a spell, but a promise.

“We shall go into the land so our children can always hold us and will never be alone.”

Queen Ellisande, stormborn child of Avalon; wrath, fury, and nature incarnate. Ellisande clutched an angreal of processed aetherium and called upon her birthright, and with the One Power, she flung its full force onto the sky, the mountains, and the land itself. 

Unfathomable cold washed over Manetheren and the mountains that surrounded it. A storm that cracked her city apart fell upon the armies of the three dragons. Ice encased the breadth of this Abyssal army and the Dark One's generals were forced to retreat: Ellisande cursed the very land itself to be too cold for the Blight to take root. A storm beat down upon the mountains, snow filled the fjords, and legions of darkspawn were frozen in place. Mines of mithril and adamant collapsed, and everything that Manetheren was became buried beneath rock and snow and ice.

Where Ellisande had stood was the charred remains of an elvhen, burnt through her core.

Ellisande had seized more of the Power than anyone could ever hope to wield and died in the process, smoke blanketed the sky above, the sun faded, and the light of the Laurelin disappeared across the continent. 

The Age of Darkness had begun. 

Iskaldrik

A blunted ax swung at a wooden shield, it bounced off with meager force as the poor grip and trajectory sent a wave of recoil from the boy’s wrist, all the way up his shoulder. 

Orhan's friend, Cnut, grinned. 

“Your arm is much too soft for fighting. Maybe you should take up weaving.”

“Forgive me: it aches from a long night of lifting your mother’s fat arse.” 

Cnut laughed as he swung out but was met this time by Orhan’s shield, his boyish grin wide even as he winced under the weight of his friend’s ax. Cnut had the stronger back and spent more time training, in the square, the two of them along with twelve other boys about the same age ran drills under the aching light of an Iskaran summer. 

The air was thin here, others who came up the many tiers of Yggdrasildal complained of being winded but Orhan was raised here and never noticed. He was used to it. 

“Shield wall!”

Master Björn’s voice cracked like thunder over an open plain and formation fell as the raven-haired prince lifted his shield and moved into step with the others. He and Cnut whispered within and conspired in the way young boys often did; they did not watch through the narrow gaps between their shields as they were meant to. 

Orhan’s shield was wrenched away and he was dragged out of the formation by his hair before Björn tossed him casually to the ground. An ax struck into the dirt only inches from Orhan’s hand and the prince’s throat went suddenly dry as he tried to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed. 

“He who makes a habit out of not sharpening his knife, makes a habit out of not sharpening his knife. Pick it up, my prince.” 

The ax had an edge to it, a real one, but Björn carried a simple, wooden sword. A tool that would be more than enough, Orhan had only known nine summers, Björn was his father’s huscarl. A crude viking known for few words and brutality. An old, trusted friend of High King Altan - if Orhan had the mind to run and tell his father how he’d been handled and embarrassed then it would only blow back on him. 

It was said that by the time Altan was nine, he could best a man twice his age with a sword. Orhan couldn’t make this claim, he couldn’t beat anyone he stood shoulder to shoulder with today. He wasn’t as gifted as Cnut, in truth, Orhan didn’t even work as hard as Cnut. Lazy was the word that followed Orhan’s name. 

The huscarl did not wait another moment, he struck fast and hard. Orhan raised his shield against the blade but it was turned and came hard across his face before Björn’s fist struck hard at his gut. Orhan tasted metal, then crumpled. 

“Behold your future King, will you kneel to him?” Björn chided, “Soft and fat. Better to wait until they place a crown on his round head, then challenge him to a holmgang.” 

A boot pressed to Orhan’s shoulder to turn the groaning boy onto his back. Björn looked down on the prince in every way, now he stood with the sun behind his head and embarrassed Orhan further. “Will you be the King who loses the Gökhan crown? Odin help you outlive me, because you could not kill me if you tried for a thousand years. Now get up. Again.” 

Orhan stood once more, only to be put down again, and even as Björn insisted, Orhan did not stand again. 

The others laughed, Cnut among them, but Orhan did not get up. 

A swollen eye and split lip sat across King Altan in their dining hall. Orhan gorged himself on roasted boar, drowning it with mead before continuing to stuff his face, hardly saving room to breathe between mouthfuls. 

“Master Björn tells me you’re lagging. Undisciplined.” Altan’s voice was cut and dry, he’d lost his wife in the labor that brought Orhan into this world and it seemed as though every day since the High King had been waiting for his son to live up to that sacrifice. He had her eyes, her hair, and her graces. That was what they said, though none of these were meant as compliments. The final word was the most unforgiving of all. “Lazy.”

“Master Björn is cruel.”

“Because you give him the room to be cruel. Because you lay in the dirt and let him belittle you.” 

“He’s-”

There was a slam as Altan’s fist struck the table suddenly, a gasp from one of the servants mimicked the flicker of the candle wick. 

“There’s only one rule for being a man: whatever comes, you face it on your feet.” 

Orhan was silent again, his appetite gone, the mead had helped numb the sting in his swollen eye but it did nothing for his shame. A great sigh fell from Altan’s lips, exasperated in the way that he often was; be it troubles in the South, skirmishes about the border, dissatisfied and spoiled nobles, or a disappointment for a son. Altan had no reprieve from the throne’s endless trials. 

“It is not the heaviest sword that cuts; it is the most precise one.” Altan was always spouted these phrases, he seemed to hope one of them would stick and take root, but Orhan had long thought himself too unskilled with the blade to someday be King. Björn was right: Orhan was weak. Lazy. If he closed his eyes, most things passed. “There’s trouble in the Southlands, The First has asked me to attend to it personally. You will join me. Wash for the road tonight, I expect you in the saddle by dawn.” 

At first light, the Prince rode a few mares paces behind High King Altan and his Kingsguard. Their glittering mithril plate contrasted and complimented the adamantine plate that adorned his father: full regalia was uncommon, only donned by the King when he rode to send a message.That armor he wore was a relic from the Age of Enlightenment, adamantine, the lost art that Iskarans had been trying to replicate for thousands of years. There had been no success, but even after all this time even mithril could not hold a candle to the adamant and mithril composite. 

“The fat prince found a horse to carry him.” Cnut rode up beside him and Orhan rolled his eyes, though the sting of his altercation with Björn and the laughter he’d heard from his friend had subsided with a good meal and a night’s rest. 

“Did you get off your mother’s tit long enough to saddle your own horse, or did she do that for you?” Cnut laughed though Orhan was still cross, the boy ignored the jab in favor of trotting along in step with the prince. 

“My father insisted, you know how he wants us to be close.” Someday Orhan would be King, and Cnut had been placed beside the prince for most of their lives. There were times when the prince questioned if they were truly friends, if they would still be had Orhan been born some common noble’s son. 

Most days Orhan was just grateful for the company. 

The campaign settled at the Foregate and gathered information before setting down the King’s Road, they travelled for a month before they reached the Southlands. Along the road High King Altan was joined by The First - if Orhan had ever looked cruelty in the face, then he’d found it in the man who was more scar than man. 

At last, they reached the deepest point of Iskaldrik, the most western west of Taravell. Helskorn Bastion. They stopped at every major city along the way, every village as well, they made a show of spending a few nights there. Their presence known as Orhan and Cnut passed the days by sparring with swords under Altan’s eye or passing jokes under the cover of darkness.

Orhan learned that the nature of the crimes in the Southlands were, as always, tethered to magic. A sympathetic witcher had smuggled witches and other supernatural creatures from the mines, they broke the law, and aided in their asylum across the sea. Pirates that had been paid off were captured, along with the treasonists and those who had conspired with them. For the month while Altan and his campaign made their way across the nation, the treasonists were held prisoner within Helskorn Bastion, made to wither in their piss and shit before Altan arrived to march the prisoners toward their execution at Hrafntun. For a night, the campaign made camp in the hills before Helskorn.  

That night Orhan slept, unencumbered by the world around him, alarms roused him from the dead of his dreams. A fire had been set, and warriors from the hills descended upon them. 

Orhan stumbled from his bedroll and grappled for his sword, he unsheathed it as a horse stormed by and knocked him clear off his feet. Only a moment later and Orhan felt a hand at his back before he was hoisted to his feet. 

“Whatever happens, you face it on your feet.” It was Master Björn who stood beside him now; there was a scream, and when Orhan turned he saw Cnut ablaze, wrapped in threads of fire as the skin was melted off his face. The hands of the witch who’d set the noble, Iskaran son ablaze sailed through the air, next came the witch’s head. 

High King Altan stepped forward with a blade, black as the night, the adamantine sword rippled with a silver light as if it had been struck by thunder. The hilt was woven gold and upon the blade as well as the handle was the emblazoned mark of the heron. It was not like the swords carried by mercenaries or officials, it was not inlaid with gold or jewels, and by all accounts, it appeared almost plain. Delicate. Slightly curved and sharp on only one side. 

Orhan’s father moved in swift strides, his blade turned and Orhan’s eyes could barely keep up with it. A single step was enough to put Master Björn to shame. Where every other warrior on the field slashed and parried, moved with brute force and bloodied fury, there was a stillness to Altan that was undeniable. His eyes were still and ever-shifting all at once, every form executed perfectly, swift like the wind, liquid as the seas, he struck like he could split the sky open and Orhan could only wonder what it had taken to achieve this. 

By dawn the quiet rebellion was put down, the losses to the King’s forces, however outnumbered, were scarce, but Cnut did not survive. 

Orhan was quiet as he watched the King’s Justice fall on those left standing. Some were trialed by Combat, others Ordeal, some were brave and attempted Purification. Altan made a great spectacle of it, much to the delight of Hrafntun. None survived.

Thirteen summers and Orhan stood above his fellows now. Taller and leaner; his body had begun to harden from the hours of dedication he’d placed into his craft. His humor bit, his sharp tongue coiled with wit and learning. 

One after another Orhan’s peers came at him, he could surmise the moves they would make, craft a defence against them, and execute it before their feet lifted from where they stood. The sweep of his sword at their knees threw them onto their backs, the tilt of his shield stopped their blow while the heel of his boot sent them soaring. 

Björn fell on him next, Huscarl and master of arms, Orhan’s weaker arms struggled beneath his shield, barely able to repel his tutor before he turned amid the dirt and lobbed a handful of the earth into the man’s eyes. Orhan’s pommel struck Björn the wide bridge between the warrior’s gaze, disarmed him, and sent him falling back to the ground.

Björn squinted at the sun that glared behind Orhan’s back, and the prince extended his hand to help the warrior to his feet.

V'elddrinnsshar

“Ow.” 

“If you’d stop fidgeting then I wouldn’t have to tug so hard.” Caoimhe chided as she wove her daughter’s hair into a tight braid that began at the crown of her head and landed just below her shoulder blades. Aoife’s mood was sour this morning ever since her father caught her and the MacVeigh boy at Aemon’s Quarry; the mines had been abandoned for years, and for good reason too. The Keeper had warned of foul omens circling the place and anyone with intuition could feel it, those old honeycombs were the only place in the Highlands where the animals were silent. Birds held their breath, even the mice knew to keep a wide birth. Aoife remained silent as her hair was braided, but Caoimhe couldn’t help but encourage her wild daughter’s mischief. “What sort of trouble do you and the MacVeigh boy have planned today, hm?”

“Daegal won’t see the sun again until the harvest.” An over-exaggeration no doubt, but where Caoimhe had a lenient heart, the MacVeighs were not so soft on their only son. 

“Fidana has always had a sweet tooth,” Fidana MacVeigh was the matriarch of that family, a woman who was as wide as she was tall without an ounce of fat on her. She was the loudest member of the Circle, only silent when she was stuffing her mouth with one of Caoimhe’s honeycakes. “Take a basket with you to their farm, she might be more lenient if all of Daegal’s chores get done and her stomach is full.” 

“Really?!” Aoife turned suddenly and the slip of her braid was tugged from Caoimhe’s hands, her husband had made it very clear that Aoife wasn’t to leave their steading for a fortnight, but Caoimhe had a mind of her own and their daughter had learned her lesson. Before long the summer would be gone, the harvest would settle in, and there’d be enough winter months spent inside for all of them. Women only stayed girls for so long, and already Aoife was complaining of visions in dreams she could not possibly have seen. The Arches were calling her, something Caoimhe’s husband would never understand. 

“Yes, really.” Caoimhe mocked as she made a pointed tug of the girl’s hair to still her once more, “If you’d ever let me finish.” Aoife always returned from the forests and fields with brambles and twigs in her hair, a girl that was more beast than daughter. “But you keep to the main road and it’s to their farmhouse and no further.” 

“Green Bridge?” Aoife’s voice was suddenly small and hopeful, she made it easy to forget that she was not the child she’d been. Youth hung on her cheeks still, but her back had lengthened and Caoimhe had patterned three dresses for Aoife in the last year. 

“If you come back traipsing mud through this house I’ll make Fidana seem kind.” Jumping off the Green Bridge was the latest in several hijinks that her daughter had gotten into, she’d watched an older member of the Circle do it and had been coming back sopping wet a few times a week ever since. 

Aoife was silent, but Caoimhe knew that on the other side of her daughter’s head was a smile that looked like a younger version of her own. 

At last, Caoimhe finished, only afforded a moment to admire the intricate work she’d managed despite her unruly daughter’s fussing. Aoife was already up and preparing her farewells when Caoimhe was on her feet and standing in front of her.

She’d been an awkward-looking child, but her narrow face had grown into a swanlike grace, the boys from the village had stopped poking fun at her features and were quieter now. Aoife didn’t understand, but she was fond of Daegal, fond enough to follow him into a mine expressly forbidden. That was the story, anyway, Caoimhe had suspected Aoife had pressed the boy’s ego to take the fall for them both. What else was he supposed to say? That he’d gone to the mines because a girl had said so? Caoimhe couldn’t help her smile when the two children had first stood before them, shifting uncomfortably from side to side. 

“Listen to me now, look me in the eyes so I know you hear it too.” Caoimhe’s tone shifted, the light had lifted from her voice and Aoife swallowed - familiar with these instances when her mother stopped holding room for argument. “The Legion passed through Snøfjell only a few days ago, you keep away from the mines, and if anything happens-” 

“Make for the skjaldwood. The stones will protect me, yes yes I know.” 

“Feel your braid, daughter,” Caoimhe said in a common parting she kept reserved for her daughter before she let Aoife be off, the roll of the girl’s eyes had felt unnecessary but she said nothing as Aoife fetched the basket and hurried off to the road. Beyond it loomed the dark, ironwood forest, and past even that, the sheered cliffs of Snøfjell loomed overhead.

Without assistance this afternoon she’d have to work harder, but Caoimhe was fortunate that she always had aid when needed. The donkey pulled at the fields without complaint while the chickens gathered their eggs for Caoimhe; in exchange for the seed that Caoimhe scattered every morning the birds of the forest helped lift the clothes that Caoimhe scrubbed to hang across the line. Now and again a stubborn bear would wander toward her homestead, she’d made the mistake of feeding it once and now it always returned in search of a meal. A strong back was a strong back, so as long as it fetched enough water for baths then she’d set out a portion of what the bees gifted her from the apiary. 

“I am a stag of seven tines, I am a wide flood on a plain,”

Caoimhe sang lightly as she worked about the kitchen to begin replacing the treats that Aoife had run off with; that Aoife was gone would be evidence of Caoimhe’s defiance against her husband’s wishes, but Fidana MacVeigh was not the only one that could be bribed. 

“I am a wind on the deep waters, I am a shining tear of the sun, I am a hawk on a cliff, I am fair among the flowers,”

She reminisced for a time on the fears she’d faced twenty years back, the Keeper then had told her that she’d only been gone from the final arch for a few hours but the life she’d lived within- Caoimhe came out with centuries on her back. Countless years spent watching the ones she loved grow old and fade around her, even now she saw the years spent across her husband’s cheeks, where Caoimhe had none. 

“I am a god who sets the head afire with smoke, I am a battle-waging spear, I am a salmon in the pool, I am a hill of poetry, I am a ruthless board,”

Caoimhe rolled the dough with pressed dollops of honey at its core, kneading it and turning it as a nightingale stayed perched on her windowsill, chattering in its sing-song voice. 

“I am a threatening noise of the sea, I am a wave of the sea, Who but I knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen? I am a stag of seven-” 

Another nightingale stopped on the sill, their tone urgent and sharp.

Caoimhe took off in a run. Braided hair the color of fire streamed in a line behind her, she lept and changed her shape to bound with expedience as a brown hare tinged red. Her feet pounded against the earth as the birds of the forest flew to her aid. Wolves ran to keep up, that great, lumbering bear was far off but she beseeched it at once. The bees of her apiary, the sparrows, the starlings, the dogs, the cats, and the reindeer in the hills far off. 

Her nightingale had been the first to hear, but as Caoimhe’s tiny heart beat fervently in her breast she heard the word spread across the forest. She was not the only one thrown into a frenzy, others called to the beasts that were well known in this region, some called to the lightning as well, or to the very trees themselves as some suddenly uprooted to take up arms. 

Caoimhe’s mind was on one place though, she lept from the bush and transformed into a great bear. She landed upon the Green Bridge as the wooden slats groaned beneath her. Caoimhe bore her teeth into the shoulder of a putrid creature that tasted of rot, she lobbed him over the edge and the heft of a clawed paw shredded one of the others. A spear breached her hide and Caoimhe roared as she ripped through another, then another after that. Another. Another. 

Caoimhe stood as a woman again as she set eyes upon her daughter and the dead body of Daegal between them. Without a word, she embraced Aoife, she held her against her chest as she took in the breath and smelled the sweet green of her daughter’s wheat-coloured hair. Only then did Caoimhe realize that she’d held her breath from the moment the nightingale had sung:

Darkspawn on the Green Bridge.

“Are you hurt? Did they cut you? Did any of their blood get on you?” Caoimhe asked all at once as she held her daughter’s face and surveyed her for wounds, the Dark Age had ended two centuries ago, but darkspawn persisted in smaller force across the Kingdom. 

Aoife shook her head and opened her mouth to speak but the words didn’t come. Rosy, tear-stained cheeks could confess nothing at the moment and Caoimhe looked again at the blood on her daughter’s clothes. The blood on her hands. It was Daegal’s, Aoife had watched her friend get cut down as that brave, foolish boy stood between her and the darkspawn.

“My daughter-” Caoimhe pressed her hand to her cheek, accompanied by the animals of the forest that had come to her aid, she furthered. “Let's get you home.” A warning cry from above chilled Caoimhe to her marrow as she heard the blow of a distant horn only a moment later. When she turned, she saw a weight of darkspawn forces tenfold the size of what had been on the bridge moments before. “Quickly.” Caoimhe tugged Aoife’s hand as they moved to go the way they’d come, the way home, but a force just as large emerged from the bush there too. 

“Mom-” Aoife shook and Caoimhe looked over her shoulder at the frightened girl, she was older now, much older. It was impossible to look at Aoife as a child when she stood there covered in blood, thin as a rail, shaking like a leaf. 

“Listen to me.” It was that tone again, but now she cradled Aoife’s face as her wild eyes were so blue they had gone almost white from her tears. She rambled and spoke quickly and senselessly but Caoimhe would be heard. “Listen to me!” 

A quiver echoed over Caoimhe’s features, it shook within her veins but she swallowed it down and faced her fears. The wheel did not care if Aoife was young or afraid, it called her to this, whether she could bear it or not. 

“To be a woman is to be always alone and never alone,” “Mom what- what are you saying- Daegal-” “Feel your braid and know that we all stood before you,” “They’re coming, they’re-” “We all stand with you.” 

There were moments that the pattern designed for its dúnedain, its children of the west. Some went their whole lives without ever knowing what they’d done that might have been significant. Caoimhe had questioned it herself, she had finished her Arches then departed to return home, she fell in love, she started a family. They’d had Aoife but no children after that. Caoimhe understood why now; the pattern only needed the one. 

Caoimhe pushed Aoife over the edge of the bridge and watched her daughter’s pale face fall into the water below, Aoife reemerged and shouted, spitting out the river as she did:

“Mom!  Mom! Jump Mom!  Please!”

Aoife’s voice was carried off with the current, her pale face, sheathed in soaked wheat was smaller now, but strong enough for Caoimhe to turn her back on.

Daegal had carried a sword, that was good. Caoimhe picked it up and held it in a tight grip, it was crude and unsharpened, this region had known peace for too long. But so long as the darkspawn had a meal in front of them, they wouldn’t worry about the scrap of a girl who’d fallen below, at least not until the river had carried Aoife safely away. 

There were echoes of the old Keeper’s training that Caoimhe remembered now, she pictured a candle, its flame was white and hot. Thoughts passed and she fed them to its wick: what her daughter would someday be, who she would grow into - Caoimhe saw a Keeper, strong and proud. After all that she’d lost, she swore her life as a guardian of nature. 

Or perhaps not, perhaps Aoife found love instead. She had a family, and Aoife defied the Dark One in a different way. A warrior of another make, one who walked in the light despite the darkness of her past. Yes, Caoimhe liked that best for her daughter. 

Live. 

Live a life so full of love it spites the shadow of it all. Caoimhe fed the flame the pain from the spear that had torn open her side until there was nothing left in her mind but an empty void. She made room for the One Power, for the pattern, and she embraced it.

Caoimhe’s skin became as thick and strong as a bear’s, her legs made her swift as a hare, her eyes sharp as a falcon, and she used all three in tandem as the darkspawn crashed upon her. 

“First day they come and catch everyone.  Second day they beat us and eat some for meat. Third day the men are all gnawed on again. Fourth day we wait and fear for our fate. Fifth day they return and it’s another girl’s turn.  Sixth day her screams we hear in our dreams. Seventh day she grew and in her mouth they spew. Eighth day she grins and devours her kin. Now she does feast as she’s become the beast.”

Towering spires of honeycombed onyx and bedrock pierced the cavern’s aetherite ceiling like jagged teeth, hazed in a red hue, V'elddrinnsshar was lit by volcanic shafts of geothermal innovation. From her brood, Caoimhe called to her children she’d dispatched to retrieve more midwives to nurse her darklings. They brought her the meat of animals and people alike and with a gnarled, meaty hand, she pulled at the flesh of each, devouring it so her body could continue to transmute more of her beautiful spawn. 

The Dark One sang to her mind and, in turn, she sang to those she bred from her loins, enthralled under the weight of her magic. Many of her daughters had grown within her brood, becoming mothers themselves but she held dominion over this corner of V'elddrinnsshar - feared and respected, even by the Forsaken. 

“Mother.” Caoimhe smiled a grin of twisted teeth, gapped and broken in places, she leered down at her adopted son and tilted his chin up to face him with a writhing tentacle that slipped from one of the folds at her side.  “Speak, my sweet.”  “Iskarans. Nornwatch Keep. Fell- mountains in the sky. Fire. Fire. Fire. Much dead. Much alive. Close- so close. The King.” Broken speech from oozing lips and sharp teeth, fearful - and rightfully so, for in an instant her writhing limb had coiled around the creature’s throat and held him tight enough not to kill, but to impose. Caoimhe lifted him from the ground to bring him closer as he scrambled to stand, his feet slipped against the heft of her frame but couldn’t find purchase there.  “How many, my sweet?” “Many. Many.” The Legion of the Dead were troublesome, they would see what they planned, but Mother was old- older than most of her competitors in V'elddrinnsshar, the other broods were pale compared to her horde. That would not stop them from being foolish and reckless to try and get ahead. Caoimhe smiled something grotesque, she would bring them here, bring him here. King’s blood was more precious than any other. He had a daughter too, Caoimhe saw her in the Dark One’s dreams.  “Brother will cover their dreams for you, my sweet. He is a good boy too, just like you, my sweet. As they sleep, dig them out and bring down their walls.”  “Many?”  “No- no- only few, only some. Leave with a few of our spares, and return with some of theirs. Bring their home down and leave them to the Wastelands. They will come. They must come if they are on their run.”

Victory. Beauty, too. 

Caoimhe’s daughters were more than she believed possible. Each more beautiful than the last; normally only one might live, but seven fruitlings had landed and already they worked. Already they gave her darklings, they sang in her dreams, and someday they would be mothers too. The more flesh they ate, the more they were changed, the more the dark would become them. 

A wolf among the sheep. 

A werewolf amid her daughters.

Pain howled from Caoimhe’s loins as the full moon barked in the caverns, thousands of years, thousands of darklings that grew into her spawn. 

Pain. 

Pain. 

Blood. 

There was so much blood. 

Caoimhe saw a girl with golden hair grow as it streamed behind her. She fussed with it as her nimble fingers twisted it and tugged it back into a braid. 

What had Aoife become? 

What was this on her face? Was it blood? It had to be blood. Caoimhe touched her cheek and brought a hand she did not recognize before her eyes. 

Water, it was water. 

Tears, she was weeping. Death had come. Sweet release. Beautiful demise. 

V'elddrinnsshar roared. Chaos erupted as Caoimhe’s horde was released from her compulsion. Her rivals would have a feast consuming all that Caoimhe brought forth. 

Time, that would buy her daught-

No. It would buy these women time. For the first time in Ages, Caoimhe prayed to the light. 

She prayed the light would protect them. 

She prayed it would be enough. 

Hrimthur’s Outpost

Thousands of years of ice had hardened the depths of the Outpost, the village of peculiar stone permeated by a cold that kept the refugees, save for the witchers, chilled to the bone. While some could be chipped away, the troupe was only able to scratch the surface, they’d dig into caverns out of curiosity and then every scratch made against the ice would seal and close over. Those who worked in tandem with the witchers eroded whatever ancient magic kept the cold in these places, though it did not last, as soon as they stepped away the caverns and holdings would freeze over once more. 

Mystery surrounded the origins of this curse, but for as widespread as it was, it would take too long to unravel. Time that was better spent plotting their next course, and how best to proceed through the snow. 

In the Meeting Halls, leadership was divided; Jarls or their heirs, Iskaran royalty, witchers, legionnaires, vanguard, and anyone else inserting themselves into the narrative all bickered back and forth on the best approach. Some were not content to leave the ones taken captive, others did not see the point in venturing into an area so dangerous when there were still so many left they needed to protect. The legionnaires assured the company that the ones taken were either dead by now, or had been turned into darkspawn. The men would have been chopped up and devoured, the women would be made into ghoulish midwives for the brood, and someday would be broodmothers themselves. 

Those present who had not lost the contents of their stomachs remained, those who had were escorted elsewhere. 

Back and forth they went, but in the end, the troupe was without clear leadership. Divided between priorities, among the Iskarans they almost unanimously agreed that leaving behind the ones taken - the Princess and Jarl Icefang most of all - was unforgivable. There was a witcher among them and individually they gave enough reason that perhaps together they’d have found a means to escape. 

That they were still out there, somewhere, alive. 

Others would not risk their necks to save foreigners when there was a nation riding on their backs already. 

An intrusion cut through the clamour of the crowded room and in an instant silence fell over those who’d argued back and forth. Gasps turned to whispers as a heavy fall of a pair of boots resounded through the chamber. 

“High King-”

The witchers fell first, gainful submission, those who held council took a knee as High King Orhan Gökhan strode with a restrained gait. A gray hue had overtaken his gaze, the King’s madness had been resolved, but he’d been left blind. His hair was still long but now it was neatly tied into a woven braid atop his head, beard trimmed and combed - manicured and clean as any Iskaran worth their salt ought to be. 

Symmetrical, gold embroidery adorned a pleated crimson tunic. Upon his neck Orhan wore the petrified eye of the Old God Toth, a symbol of the High King, the talisman was a deep amber fixed in an ever-shifting pool of black. It was easy to get lost in because it was only after the council stared at the talisman that they saw the pupil amid the dark, seemingly, the talisman stared back. Melkier, the elves had named it, but among the Iskarans they only called it, “The King’s Jewel.” Said to incinerate any supernatural creature who laid hands on it. 

Upon Orhan’s sword hand was a ring of gold woven into a braid, inlaid with a jewel so brilliant that it was unmistakable to any other. Aetherium, processed and cut - the crown jewel of the Kingdom of Iskaldrik. Called Vilya by the elves, the Ring of Air was said to increase the power of those who wore it tenfold. With it, those Orhan addressed were forced to speak the truth, truths that would be cemented on the foundations of their soul in unbreakable oaths. It was while a High King wore this ring that all witchers swore their vows.

A thick belt slanted from Orhan’s waist, a silver heron emblazoned on the black scabbard, with another on the sword’s hilt. The King’s blade had a number of names over the years, Witch’s Bane among them, but it was a relic from the Age of Enlightenment - one that Orhan had inherited from his father after earning the title of blademaster. Those who had seen it drawn in the past would notice that it was not adorned with any gold or gems. Nothing about the blade itself seemed grand. It was slightly curved and sharp on only one edge, the blade bore another heron. Braided metalwork flanked the hilt, but the sword itself appeared almost fragile when drawn. 

Adamantine made the blade unique in that it appeared black with veins of silver-like starlight running through it, as if it was a night sky suddenly struck by a Thor’s hammer. 

High King Orhan Gökhan declared that he would ride to Isengrim’s Embrace and take the bulk of the witchers with him, leaving enough behind to see the troupe safely to Lysara. Anyone who volunteered to meet the darkspawn on their terms, be they witch, elvhen, man, wolf, or more, was invited to join him.

They departed at dawn. One company would spend a week keeping to the shadows of what remained of Ymir’s Spine to reach the Lostlands.

The other company would ride for three days to dig into the Lostlands, where they’d fight to liberate those taken by the darkspawn.

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