ringing in your ears. spitting blood into the dirt. a loud bang from somewhere in the distance. testing the cut on your lip with your tongue. fighting dirty. digging your claws in. exit wounds. flying off the handle. absolute carnage. relentless pursuit. a wildfire that consumes all in its path. a sharp-toothed grin. the trail of destruction left in your wake.
statistics.
full name: yair
nickname(s): yair nine-lives (or simply nine-lives)
name meaning: one who brings light
age: one-hundred-and-ninety-two (looks fifty-eight)
date of birth: 16th april
place of birth: niscemi, vicovaro he doesn't remember
current location: novigrad, redania
gender: cis-man
pronouns: he/him
sexual orientation: bisexual
occupation: witcher (school of the cat)
family: none he could name
education: knows his letters well enough to recognise a contract when he sees one, but not much more than that
living arrangements: lives a nomadic lifestyle due to his work
biography. (violence tw)
What little Yair remembers of his life before the School of the Cat is barely worth mentioning. It comes to him in snatches, sometimes: a half-drawn sketch of an alley in a city he can’t name, a faceless boy twice his size, a splash of scarlet painting the cobblestones, and through it all the dull ebb of hunger that would be his constant companion through the years.
His first real memory is of the Trial of Grasses. He can recall the process with startling clarity, each excruciating moment seared indelibly into his mind and written in the very marrow of his bones. Yair knows what it is to be unmade, and then brutally reforged into the shape he was always meant to be. He remembers the spent bodies of the four other would-be Witchers as they were loaded unceremoniously onto a handcart, knowing himself to be the only survivor - the only victor.
They say the Cats were made wrong. Where the mutations taken on during the Trial would usually dull the emotions of other Witchers in order to make them more effective as monster-slayers, those of Feline Witchers were only intensified. As a young man, Yair was already governed by his anger and led around by its short leash, but the other Cats taught him how to use it in his favour - not to control it, but to honour it, to live by it, to accept it as part of himself. It became passion, limitless and unbridled.
It wasn't long before he ventured out into the world alone. The Path was his to travel, and he did so gladly, taking pleasure in the hunt and all its spoils. He slew monsters and humans in equal measure, would do anything for the sake of a thrill, his endless quest to appease the hungry void in his belly driving him ever-onward. After the first decade, he stopped returning to his fellow Cats when winter came.
Somewhere in the lifelong haze of blood and adrenaline, Yair met a witch. His witch. They were the subject of some nobleman's contract and, having no qualms about hunting a person, he pursued them relentlessly across the Kingdom of Cintra. When he finally caught up with them, the pair fought viciously, but the witch vanished before either one could finish the other off. It sparked something in him, meeting the only person who has truly managed to get the better of him - the only contract that remains incomplete in his ledger. It's been eighty years, and the nobleman that wanted their head has long-since met his demise, but Yair's interest in the errant witch has not diminished in the slightest. He's never been very good at letting things go.
In the time since their first encounter, witch and Witcher have crossed paths on a number of occasions, these instances usually ending in violence, for which they both have an appetite. Increasingly, though, they have come to know and respect each other - bound together, every reunion an inevitability. Yair keenly anticipates each one, waiting as only a hunter in pursuit can wait. It's intoxicating, their game of Cat and mouse.
Now Yair finds himself back in Novigrad for the first time in twelve years, brought to the city by the rumour of a katakan skulking in its dark underbelly, and kept there by the crusade of the Eternal Fire. He would not see them deprive him of what he considers his: the witch's life, whatever that means.
other things.
Nine-Lives is not a particularly creative nickname for a Feline witcher, but in Yair’s case it’s particularly apt. People suppose he must be preternaturally lucky to have survived for as long as he has, but he would sooner put it down to his own sheer obstinance - he simply refuses to die.
Yair is heavily tattooed, his body a patchwork of designs that document his travels across the continent. Special mentions go to his left forearm, which bears the likeness of the Lioness of Cintra, and his right ribs, which are covered with the image of a three-headed chimera.
Only the faintest trace of Vicovaro remains in Yair’s accent. He sounds more like an Ebbinger, thanks to the influence of the handful of Cats he grew up around.
If you had the inclination to do so (without offering to fuck or fight him), the most effective way to ingratiate yourself with Yair would be to ask after the tales of his exploits. He’s a surprisingly natural orator, and might’ve made a half-decent bard, in another life.
Yair is a wanted man in the Duchy of Toussaint, and may not return there on pain of death. He knows what he did.
ink-stained fingertips. illuminated manuscripts. a collar buttoned up to the throat. quoting from memory. furrowing your brow. the quiet scratch of quill on parchment. dog-eared pages. thoughtful annotations. a pensive expression. choosing your words with care. a crimson love-bite. the exchange of letters. the silent passage of a tear down your cheek.
statistics.
full name: aled aep gruffydd
nickname(s): none
name meaning: child
age: forty-three
date of birth: 25th october
place of birth: winneburg city, winneburg
current location: novigrad, redania
gender: cis-man
pronouns: he/him
sexual orientation: gay
occupation: bookkeeper at books and scrolls
family: gruffydd aep emrys (father, deceased), johanna var thyssen (mother)
education: attended oxenfurt academy in his youth, studying poetry and literature did not graduate
living arrangements: lives in the attic apartment above books and scrolls
biography. (suicide tw, depression tw)
Aled aep Gruffydd is the only son of two merchants from Winneburg City, a comfortably middle-class family who never aspired to be anything more than that. His parents were loving and supportive, and were only too happy to contribute to Aled's education, encouraging him to pursue his academic interests without placing the burden of their expectations on his shoulders.
At the age of eighteen, Aled made the journey to Redania, having been accepted to study literature under the finest professors in the world at the famous Oxenfurt Academy. For the first two years, it was everything he thought it would be - he attended lectures on a broad spectrum of subjects, debated the subtext of famous novels, and made a group of like-minded friends who inspired each other's passions and traded books like gwent cards.
In his third and final year, everything went wrong. The graduating class of the literature department was moved into different halls of residence, a space usually allotted to senior students while they worked on their dissertations. Aled and his classmates settled into their new lodgings without thought, oblivious to the fate that would ultimately befall them.
The change wasn't obvious, at first. As the weeks wore on, the students steadily grew more pensive and morose, but it did not disturb anyone overmuch - it was to be expected, with the stress of their impending graduation, and, if anything, the shift in mood appealed to their creative spirits. The original works they wrote were deeper and more profound than before, and shared readily between themselves - a breakthrough from which they all seemed to benefit. They talked about their dreams, beautiful and sad, and thought themselves visionaries.
And then people started to isolate themselves. Bedroom doors closed, salons and lectures went unattended and food was left uneaten. Still the dreams came, increasingly intense and graphic, but nobody came together to discuss them anymore. They lost sight of each other, and were each convinced they were alone.
When Beren Hwit's body was discovered hanging by the neck from his bedroom ceiling, the Academy rushed to denounce his passing as a terrible and unheard of tragedy. Classes continued after a few days, and no mention was made of the strange journals found crammed beneath his mattress, his beautiful prose deteriorating into the manic scrawl of a madman.
A month later, Aoibheann var Ailill was found cold in her bathtub. Two weeks after that, Vera Pembroke jumped from the Academy's roof. The rash of suicides that tore through the literature department could no longer be ignored, and finally a contract was issued for a Witcher. Meanwhile, Aled felt his own mind turn to darker things, his own writings becoming ravings, and his nightmares now stalked by a huge, black dog.
It is lucky the Witcher arrived when they did. They determined the cause of the students' misfortunes as a shuck: a demonic entity that had recently made its lair in the tunnels below the building they had moved into at the start of the year, and manipulated dreams in order to inspire the very despair on which it fed. The beast was felled before it could claim his life, but Aled had already been marked by its influence. He was not who he had once been.
He fled the Academy, withdrawing from his former friends and returning to the shelter of his parents' home in Winneburg. He could not express to them the whole truth of what happened, could not explain the black cloud that continued to hang over him long after the dust had settled, and what's more, he didn't want to explain. He wanted to forget the whole thing, push it out of his mind for good. It was the only way to keep himself from drowning.
In the two decades since, he has made something like a life for himself, trying not to dwell overmuch on the things he has lost. He moved to Novigrad six years ago, following the death of his father, taking over Books and Scrolls from the previous owner and letting it serve as his new sanctuary - or his fortress. He had hoped that his place on the busy Hierarch Square would help him feel more connected to the world around him, but in truth, he's never felt lonelier.
other things.
While he keeps no pets himself, Aled has developed a sincere affection for the numerous stray cats that roam the streets of Novigrad, an assortment of which can usually be found waiting (im)patiently outside his door of an evening, hoping to be fed.
Aled is long-sighted, and requires a pair of eyeglasses for reading.
The enduring presence of the Temple Guard posted outside his shop makes Aled uneasy. They profess to be there for his own safety, following an act of vandalism that saw the front of Books and Scrolls defaced with red paint a month previous, but he has privately begun to suspect that their true motives lie elsewhere.
He hasn't had many opportunities to play in recent years, but Aled is an avid gwent fan, and favours the Nilfgaardian deck.
Aled has been keeping a journal since he was first old enough to hold a quill. He fancied himself a poet, once upon a time, but he keeps his creative musings to himself now, the odd line interspersed throughout the chronicle of his day-to-day existence.
stormborns
janainaart
yousharknotpass
germansingergirl
pixelskylines
