Deamonbane Member
STATUS: When you see a sock on the doorknob, the only civilized way to react is to kick the door down, declaring loudly that," Player Three has entered the game!" 9 yrs ago
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When you see a sock on the doorknob, the only civilized way to react is to kick the door down, declaring loudly that," Player Three has entered the game!"
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Sup Kate?
The daylight was softly seeping through the trees, gently touching the ground, here and there. When a breeze moved through them, the daylight danced across the ground, moving with soft steps to the left, to the right, mimicking the movements of the leaves above it, catching dust and leaves picked up by the wind and making them glow softly in the comparative darkness. Elves were usually drawn to this sort of natural beauty, sometimes humans too, blinding their eyes to the dangers of the darkness around them with the beauty of what they could see. The elf that was there was not so moved, but his eyes were on light. Well, he was hidden under the treeline, but his eyes were beyond where the trees ended, looking over the landscape that met his eyes. The land, of course, interested him not, though, but the men that were quickly camping over it were. His keen eye, untouched by the lack of it's fellow, saw just about everything that there was to see of the Nilfgaardian army.
Their numbers were well into fifty thousand and rising, more crossing the Yaruga every moment, Iorveth could see that, with the recent turmoils in the north, this would not be a force to sneeze at, especially if they did not unite and fight as one army. If they decided to fight this host individually, he might as well start learning Nilfgaardian now.
Saskia was not going to like this news.
He stood up, picking up his bow and moving silently through the forest for a couple miles. They were sure to have scout patrolling the area, and he wasn't going to get caught. Not alive, leastways. After a long while, the elf stepped out of his cover and began walking along a path that the Scoia'tael had cut through the foliage. It was difficult for elves to follow, and near impossible for humans. Odd how that worked. Humans were great, blundering idiots, and the only reason that they were in the superior race on the Continent was sheer numbers. If they had been equally matched, Humans would be the ones living in the Ghettos and forests.
He stopped suddenly in midstep, turning around to peer into the green behind him," You move quietly for such a big man," He growled, drawing an arrow and tucking the nock against his bowstring," But not quietly enough, I am afraid."
The bushes rustled and an immense man stepped out, a battleaxe in his hands, helmet on his head, but no armor. He did have something of a sword of his back, however.This man, while shorter than Iorveth was himself, was stout as a dwarf and tall as a man, looking like a mountain, old and unsurmountable.
"Aye," The man said, his deep voice rumbling through the forest," My wife used to complain about it. Said it would spook the wee ones."
Iorveth lowered his bow and smiled," You have no wife, and no children, either, unless some magic that I know not of allowed witcher to procreate."
"You have keen eyes, master elf," Dros said with a chuckle," Or should I say eye. I know your face, or know of it, anyways. One cannot be confronted by a one-eyed elf in the wild without the name of Iorveth coming to mind."
"You find me at a disadvantage, Dhoine," Iorveth growled," You know of me, and I know nothing of you. Mend this, or find yourself covered in arrows, from my men hidden in the shadows."
"You have a keep eye, Elf," Dros countered," But I have keen ears, and unless the years have dulled my hearing, I hear none of your men, nor the nocking of arrows or the pulling of bowstrings. You are alone out here, Iorveth, but there is no need to fear me. I fought for the Nilfgaardians when I was a lad, but have long left their service, taking on a occupation more suitable for a witcher. I was just in these parts to see the army gathering, maybe find a few old friends, share some stories and drinks."
"You will find that age is far fairer to you than it was to them, witcher," Iorveth said, nodding," Although you are welcome to try."
Dros shook his head, a grim smile on his face," Nah. I lost me nerve. Don't want to walk amongst all the lads and have them talking about me behind my back. Besides, they might want me to join the war effort. I've had enough of war in my lifetime, and while retiring is out of the question, I'll try and relax as my last days come upon me."
iorveth chuckled," You are a witcher and a philosopher. A rare match, I must say."
"Don't you know, laddie? Old men are always philosophers. Anyways, I am parched, in need of some Vodka. Do you know of anywhere in these parts that sells it?"
"Aye, Dhoine, and I will take you there. But call me laddie again, and you won't be able to wield that useless stick of yours anymore. I know of you as well, although my memory was faded. You are Dros Delnoch. I was in the Scoia'tael unit that you led some 20 years ago, in the first battle of the second war. I am older than you, and I am no philosopher."
Dros chuckled," Aye, and your loss it is too."
Their numbers were well into fifty thousand and rising, more crossing the Yaruga every moment, Iorveth could see that, with the recent turmoils in the north, this would not be a force to sneeze at, especially if they did not unite and fight as one army. If they decided to fight this host individually, he might as well start learning Nilfgaardian now.
Saskia was not going to like this news.
He stood up, picking up his bow and moving silently through the forest for a couple miles. They were sure to have scout patrolling the area, and he wasn't going to get caught. Not alive, leastways. After a long while, the elf stepped out of his cover and began walking along a path that the Scoia'tael had cut through the foliage. It was difficult for elves to follow, and near impossible for humans. Odd how that worked. Humans were great, blundering idiots, and the only reason that they were in the superior race on the Continent was sheer numbers. If they had been equally matched, Humans would be the ones living in the Ghettos and forests.
He stopped suddenly in midstep, turning around to peer into the green behind him," You move quietly for such a big man," He growled, drawing an arrow and tucking the nock against his bowstring," But not quietly enough, I am afraid."
The bushes rustled and an immense man stepped out, a battleaxe in his hands, helmet on his head, but no armor. He did have something of a sword of his back, however.This man, while shorter than Iorveth was himself, was stout as a dwarf and tall as a man, looking like a mountain, old and unsurmountable.
"Aye," The man said, his deep voice rumbling through the forest," My wife used to complain about it. Said it would spook the wee ones."
Iorveth lowered his bow and smiled," You have no wife, and no children, either, unless some magic that I know not of allowed witcher to procreate."
"You have keen eyes, master elf," Dros said with a chuckle," Or should I say eye. I know your face, or know of it, anyways. One cannot be confronted by a one-eyed elf in the wild without the name of Iorveth coming to mind."
"You find me at a disadvantage, Dhoine," Iorveth growled," You know of me, and I know nothing of you. Mend this, or find yourself covered in arrows, from my men hidden in the shadows."
"You have a keep eye, Elf," Dros countered," But I have keen ears, and unless the years have dulled my hearing, I hear none of your men, nor the nocking of arrows or the pulling of bowstrings. You are alone out here, Iorveth, but there is no need to fear me. I fought for the Nilfgaardians when I was a lad, but have long left their service, taking on a occupation more suitable for a witcher. I was just in these parts to see the army gathering, maybe find a few old friends, share some stories and drinks."
"You will find that age is far fairer to you than it was to them, witcher," Iorveth said, nodding," Although you are welcome to try."
Dros shook his head, a grim smile on his face," Nah. I lost me nerve. Don't want to walk amongst all the lads and have them talking about me behind my back. Besides, they might want me to join the war effort. I've had enough of war in my lifetime, and while retiring is out of the question, I'll try and relax as my last days come upon me."
iorveth chuckled," You are a witcher and a philosopher. A rare match, I must say."
"Don't you know, laddie? Old men are always philosophers. Anyways, I am parched, in need of some Vodka. Do you know of anywhere in these parts that sells it?"
"Aye, Dhoine, and I will take you there. But call me laddie again, and you won't be able to wield that useless stick of yours anymore. I know of you as well, although my memory was faded. You are Dros Delnoch. I was in the Scoia'tael unit that you led some 20 years ago, in the first battle of the second war. I am older than you, and I am no philosopher."
Dros chuckled," Aye, and your loss it is too."
Jonathan - Hunter... ish
Things were different around here, see?
He could blink, cover his face with a mask, and he was the most terrifying creature that had ever walked the lands, the terror of terrors, the thing that things that went bump in the night feared, and told stories about. The Deathwalker. They had given him that name out of spite, telling him that he should be dead, and was one of the walking dead, saved by the Church. He didn't agree, but they had saved his life, so had he simply nodded and agreed. It wasn't like he had any power to do anything else. And when he was out on the open, with his mask up and his face exposed, he had little power. But once he was allowed to attack, like letting an attack dog off of his leash, things got interesting, see?
Darkness had a way of drawing that person out in him. He couldn't be around people at night, see? He didn't like the night lights, and he needed to stay away. Creatures of the darkness did not love him, but they treated him with more respect than the church dogs. He danced lightly over the dark places. He didn't need to cover his face there, see? Darkness was it's own mask. It was where he was at the tippy-top of his game, with everybody wanting to play.
But it wasn't night now, and it was dark neither. He had to understand how people thought he should act like, how people thought and felt, trying to understand them. It was tiring, but necessary. People hated what they couldn't understand, and while he could live with their hate, as he would have enjoyed seeing how their hatred would have played out in his darkness, the church decided that they couldn't have people hating their emissary. They told him to cover his face until it was disrespectful to do so, and then cover it with his hood. He was fine with that. If people didn't fear him, they thought that they could tell him what to do, how to do it, and what was reasonable, see? And that wasn't acceptable.
See?
Horses didn't like him. But one did. It was an old warhorse, used to the darkness that was humankind, and liked his talking to himself, thinking that him talking and mumbling to himself was talking to the horse, and his ears would twist back to hear what he was saying, as if he understood the mutterings of the mind of the lad. He was an acquired taste, but Jonathan liked him nonetheless. The horse expected nothing of him except for a carrot or apple every so often, and that was delightfully simple compared to humans. He was a human. How odd that he got along better with four legs than two.
Riding into town was a satisfying occasion. People looked upon the mask that covered his face, looking like a silver skull underneath his long cloak, moving underneath the sun without being touched by it, watching as people moved out of his way, looking at him with that healthy look of fear that kept them from trying to engage him in conversation, see? His horse trotted over to the center of the town, where there was a citadel. He could see it now, but there were guards in front of him. He dismounted, tugging at the reins and pulling him to the gate, where the guards barred his entrance. They too had a look of fear, gazing at his mask, confused. He lifted it up, showing his pale features and attempting a smile, like Father Grimbold at taught him. From the faces of the guards, it was still pleasantly gruesome.
He reached into his pocket, watching the guards stiffen and reach for weapons and magical wards. He let them continue with this before pulling out a long slim silver chain in his gloved hand, a gold and silver cross raising it before their terrified eyes.
"I am here to hunt Darkness, like others that have come, I hear. Step aside, and find a stable for Maximus that has much hay and apples, lest I hunt you instead."
Fear. They reeked of it. He was tempted to hunt them down, but he couldn't let Father Grimbold down, see? Like a father to him, the old friar was.
Things were different around here, see?
He could blink, cover his face with a mask, and he was the most terrifying creature that had ever walked the lands, the terror of terrors, the thing that things that went bump in the night feared, and told stories about. The Deathwalker. They had given him that name out of spite, telling him that he should be dead, and was one of the walking dead, saved by the Church. He didn't agree, but they had saved his life, so had he simply nodded and agreed. It wasn't like he had any power to do anything else. And when he was out on the open, with his mask up and his face exposed, he had little power. But once he was allowed to attack, like letting an attack dog off of his leash, things got interesting, see?
Darkness had a way of drawing that person out in him. He couldn't be around people at night, see? He didn't like the night lights, and he needed to stay away. Creatures of the darkness did not love him, but they treated him with more respect than the church dogs. He danced lightly over the dark places. He didn't need to cover his face there, see? Darkness was it's own mask. It was where he was at the tippy-top of his game, with everybody wanting to play.
But it wasn't night now, and it was dark neither. He had to understand how people thought he should act like, how people thought and felt, trying to understand them. It was tiring, but necessary. People hated what they couldn't understand, and while he could live with their hate, as he would have enjoyed seeing how their hatred would have played out in his darkness, the church decided that they couldn't have people hating their emissary. They told him to cover his face until it was disrespectful to do so, and then cover it with his hood. He was fine with that. If people didn't fear him, they thought that they could tell him what to do, how to do it, and what was reasonable, see? And that wasn't acceptable.
See?
Horses didn't like him. But one did. It was an old warhorse, used to the darkness that was humankind, and liked his talking to himself, thinking that him talking and mumbling to himself was talking to the horse, and his ears would twist back to hear what he was saying, as if he understood the mutterings of the mind of the lad. He was an acquired taste, but Jonathan liked him nonetheless. The horse expected nothing of him except for a carrot or apple every so often, and that was delightfully simple compared to humans. He was a human. How odd that he got along better with four legs than two.
Riding into town was a satisfying occasion. People looked upon the mask that covered his face, looking like a silver skull underneath his long cloak, moving underneath the sun without being touched by it, watching as people moved out of his way, looking at him with that healthy look of fear that kept them from trying to engage him in conversation, see? His horse trotted over to the center of the town, where there was a citadel. He could see it now, but there were guards in front of him. He dismounted, tugging at the reins and pulling him to the gate, where the guards barred his entrance. They too had a look of fear, gazing at his mask, confused. He lifted it up, showing his pale features and attempting a smile, like Father Grimbold at taught him. From the faces of the guards, it was still pleasantly gruesome.
He reached into his pocket, watching the guards stiffen and reach for weapons and magical wards. He let them continue with this before pulling out a long slim silver chain in his gloved hand, a gold and silver cross raising it before their terrified eyes.
"I am here to hunt Darkness, like others that have come, I hear. Step aside, and find a stable for Maximus that has much hay and apples, lest I hunt you instead."
Fear. They reeked of it. He was tempted to hunt them down, but he couldn't let Father Grimbold down, see? Like a father to him, the old friar was.
With a special taste for dwarves *nudge nudge, wink wink* Will have a post up momentarily, guys...
Assume creative license, sweetie... have fun, it's a game, and it's a story, and of course it isn't going to be all perfect according to the books.
Already up!
Time for reminiscing had passed a long time ago. Men's hatred for those different than them was nothing new, but the newfound resistance of those that sought to end it was. People were beginning to realize that their neighbors of different races were not something to be feared, but to be seen as friends and brothers. That was a time to look forward to. But change was slow and reluctant, with people stuck in their superstitious ways of hatred and disgust.
Emhyr was a pioneer to this new world. Time was passing everyone by, and, in his eyes, those that sought to spend their time squabbling over hostile lands with those that knew how to help them were a waste of time: Fools of the worst sort. Fools that had no place in his empire. He would do well to take the North, and make such fools disappear.
He was human, of course, and by that manner, he did have a fear of the unknown. He knew that elves and dwarves were different, and confusingly so. But to fear them because of that was laughable. They had their uses, and their skills. All did in the paradise that he envisioned his empire to be. Of course, it would not happen in a day. It probably wouldn't even happen in a hundred years. But it would happen. He promised to the skies that it would.
He stepped out of his war tent, looking every bit the Emperor that he was. His guard fell immediately into position around him, and the various counselors and aides that he had selected to join him, waiting nearby, were immediately at attention. Each one of these hated his guts. Each one loved him dearly. He he wasn't sure anymore. He pretended that the latter was true, while believing and acting upon the former. It was how he had remained alive for so long in such an elevated position.
Beware of a king's love, and bask in his hatred, they had said.
They were fools too, he thought with a small growl. Looking over his immense army as they crossed the Yaruga indicated this. In this world, might was right. As he had the most might, he was obviously right. The time for peace with the north was over. They were in turmoil over what his agents had been doing, and they, too blinded with their own greed, had refused to see the truth that was staring in their faces. They were all fools, and he had no time for fools. A new age was coming, and it would not wait for such backsliders as Foltest and the like to catch up. They would change and bend the knee, or they would fall in battle.
Emhyr had little taste for battle however. The logistics were tiring, the tactics were boring, and the fighting too gruesome for his delicate tastes, but he did see that it was quite useful, and allowed his commanders to engage in all of this, reaping the rewards himself. It was an efficient way of making a living.
"How long will it take, General?" He asked in a low voice, so that only the general could hear him. He was referring to, of course, his army's crossing of the Yaruga. It was a comparatively shallow and slow moving beast, but one that was difficult to cross over with more than 50,000 men, food and supplies for them, and etc.
"The end of the day should see us ready to move forward, my lord," The General said confidently. It was good time, Emhyr thought, but he couldn't let them think that.
"We don't have a day. Riders already left to warn the kings of our impending attack. We don't have a day. I want us ready to march by midday, general," He wagged his finger in the face of the large bearded man," Midday."
The way that I could tell it, human magic centered more around spells and elements, while the power of elves laid more in the earth, water and growing living things. The living force, if you are a Star Wars fan...
Yeah, I guess she kinda does... I forget if this happens in the books, but in the first game, Geralt is really... really popular with the ladies...
Hmmm Last I counted there were three witchers, including my own, but should a worthy contender arise, I will exclude mine from the cap. Until such a time, no more witchers without consulting me first, please.
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