Felix hadn't really stopped since the preparations began. He wasn't really sure what else to make of himself, but if anything he was actually glad that business in the forge was slow enough that he could get out into the community of Novigrad. For once, people were actually a little more focused on working together rather than trying to harm each other. It didn't matter if it was just for the solstice, it meant that it was possible, and that gave Felix more hope than perhaps it should have.
He was in the middle of hoisting a child down off of his shoulders who he had helped put a stone high up on one of the shrines, when he caught sight of Olwen heading towards him. Immediately his stomach lurched, his balance wobbling enough to almost drop the kid, a goofy and apologetic smile spreading across his lips as he handed her back to her mother.
Then he composed himself, or at least attempted to, running his hand through his hair and opening his mouth to say something, but Olwen looked focused. Instead he followed their gaze to the shrine, sensing this was not necessarily the time for pleasantries. "I think it already is." He offered, sounding optimistic. "Whether it's a god or spirit or whatever it is... Everyone is out here helping each other. That's good, right? It helps." A moment passed, and he looked back at them. "Are you okay?"
Glancing in Felix's direction, Olwen couldn't help the small smile that spread across their lips. He seemed perpetually full of optimism and always willing to share it. On almost anyone else it would come across as foolish, but he somehow managed to exude hope with such earnestness that it became contagious. Even Olwen, with all the cynicism that had grown like a poison within them this last year, was not immune to it.
And really, he was right. There was something to be said about the way people were coming together, helping one another, being joyful in the face of so much uncertainty. Still, it felt like a betrayal to join in the revelry and to forget, even for a moment, what they were fighting for. It was hard to square joy in the midst of pain.
"I'm fine," they assured, though admittedly it was not the most convincing statement. "And you're right. Its good to see so many people coming together. It's just... I can't help but feel like we're playing pretend, you know?"
Savya spent her summers among the rest of the year traveling. Novigrad was where her work had taken her to now. There were so many things happening, summer festivals, the like. Luckily, she still had her patience as she walked around the loud streets. There was a bard singing loudly somewhere, children screaming for attention, courtesans making a show. It was familiar, yet it had been some time since she had the chance to visit the city, even with her many travels.
Well, there would be at least one old friend there. She continued to walk through the streets, gaining attention for her attire. People asked questions, ran up to her to make requests. Some ran away. Amongst the crowds, she did spot a familiar face. It was only about a year ago that their paths crossed. She had just happened to be nearby at the call for help. Even though it had been a long while, she still recalled that scene vividly.
"Good evening," Savya spoke with a bow of her head, entering the Passiflora. “It has been some time,” she said to Olwen. The mage had given her shelter when they had met and she had been grateful (and still was) after the group had escaped. She had been implored to visit, and now seemed as good a time as any.
The promise of celebrations to come had already begun to bolster the traffic at Passiflora, and a lively din filled the brothel each night. Honey wine flowed freely and all walks of life sought out their own ideas of pleasure. The solstice seemed to remind people that they were alive, and to be alive meant one ought to do so to the fullest. What was a few gold coins to a night full of hedonism.
Olwen was finding that it also seemed to make loose tongues, and more than one piece of useful information had been tucked away already. But the night's interests were beginning to wane when a familiar face passed through the door. Savya, with all the aura that accompanied a witcher, seemed to take some pull some of the air out of the room. Gazes lingered, and the space closest to the door grew quieter as the patrons watched her enter.
Excusing themselves, Olwen moved to greet the woman, a genuine smile on their face. "Too long" they say, taking her hands, and peering into that beautiful face. "Come. Are you hungry? Or would you like some wine? Anything."
The sun had reached its peak and was now slowly making a descent. Olwen loved this time of year when daylight stretched itself lazily into the evening. It felt full of possibility, and on the surface, the city looked as it always had. But beneath it all the threat of violence still hummed. You can have this celebration, this time of jollity and revelry, but remember we are here, watching and waiting. They tried to ignore it, to settle into the merriment, and whether consciously or otherwise, looking for a sense of peace often brought them to Felix.
Always dedicating his time and energy to others, if there was work to be done by many hands there was a high likelihood Felix would be among the volunteers. The shrines were beginning to take form, the skeletal frames already dazzling in the golden glow of a setting sun. He wasn't hard to spot, tall amongst the others.
Striding across the square, Olwen came up beside him, her eyes on the growing shrine. "Do you believe in all this?" They asked, forgoing a proper greeting. "Do you think it can protect us?"
a closed starter for sahana elverna | @lavendarseagreen
Olwen remembers midsommers of old. The warmth of the new summer sun, drinking mead until their head swam and their feet floated across the ground in cheerful dance. Merriment and hope, feelings nearly lost to them now. The world had been more beautiful then, they had been more beautiful then -- without the bitterness and anger that clawed so readily at their throat now. The pyres, magnificent in memory, only remind them of the horrors taking place throughout the kingdom - are they not the very same that see their kin burned alive?
They had been roped into making wreaths for children at the orphanage. One of the other courtesans had a bleeding heart, and despite themselves, Olwen had always found it difficult to say no to genuine kindness. So there they were weaving together dogwood, yarrow, and lavender, and alone, as it would be, her companion having been called back to work.
A familiar figure caught her attention, and accompanied by her half smile, she waved Sahana over. “You planning to join the festivities?” They asked. And nudging the basket of gathered flowers and twigs, they peered up into the sun at their friend. “I could use some help if you aren’t busy.”
[ emma d’arcy, non-binary, thirty one/seventy three, they/she ] in novigrad, names have a way of reaching the wrong ears, and olwen rosevear is one spoken more often than most. the mage has lingered in the city for two months, working as a member of the lodge of sorceresses and a flower at passiflora. depending on who you ask they’re either disciplined or obsessive. the eternal fire has yet to decide which. their presence is steeped in whispers, silver, and wine stained lips, the kind that draws attention… and not always the right kind. speak carefully. the pyres are always hungry.
occupation: member of the lodge of sorceresses, flower at passiflora
song: madness by ruelle
pinterest: x
biography
Olwen does not dwell in the past, especially that which occurred decades ago, in what they can almost convince themselves was another life. Adopted as the only child into a wealthy port-owning family in Cidaris, Olwen’s youth was soaked in salt-water and sunshine. Her parents, unable to produce a biological child, adopted her from a young, unwed mother whose family wished to keep the pregnancy a secret. As such, Olwen had always been acutely aware of their acquired fortune in life. If not for their adoption they might have ended up like the waifs their mother pulled them away from— begging for bread near the docks, desperate for someone to care for them. It felt precarious, their life, and in an attempt to feel secure the child was the very definition of obedient and well-behaved. She spoke when spoken to, completed her lessons with an intense focus and dedication to excellence, and kept her emotions deep beneath the surface. And her parents, pleased with their intelligent and cooperative child, made sure Olwen wanted for not.
They were seven years old the first time their magic expressed itself. Walking near the coast line, the water seeming to reach towards her unnaturally. And then again, with the hearth in their room, the flames matching the rhythm of their breath. Olwen hid it, noticed that the connection seemed to grow when she felt her emotions swell. Once, when the silverware began to rattle against the oak of their dining room table, Olwen bit down so hard on her tongue that her mouth filled with blood. Swallow it down. Repress, repress. But their secret chaos could only be tempered for so long. Eventually, at the age of eleven, it burst forth. It was something so insignificant— a game of gwent with her father. A storm raged against their keep, and Olwen, having always nurtured a competitive streak, lost the game after an hours long campaign. A surge of disappointment and anger boiled up inside them and in response the storm outside grew tenfold. Rain and wind blew through the windows, the fire by which they played grew beyond the mantle, licking at the family portrait above. For all the years that have since come and gone since that fateful night, Olwen has never forgotten the look on their father’s face — the confusion, the fear, the dawning recognition of who and what his child was.
And their life would never be the same. There were already pockets among the population who found magic too chaotic, too powerful, and thus unwanted. Though the Rosevears were not outspoken against sorcery, they had no intention of harboring it in their home. The once tractable and undemanding child was now unpredictable and burdensome. For all the years of their carefully constructed character, Olwen had seen it undone in a single moment. Pledging to cover the cost of Olwen’s education at Aretuza, and a sizable trust when completed, her parents bid the child farewell and good luck.
Aretuza, the magic it harnessed, and the sorceresses it housed, were perfectly positioned to fill the void left by their family, and soon became Olwen’s lifeblood. As always, they threw themself wholeheartedly into their studies. Late nights were spent pouring over forgotten tomes by candlelight, and hours bled away practicing, perfecting technique and incantations. She had an insatiable hunger for knowledge, for mastery over the very thing that stole her family, her life. If this is who they were meant to be, they would embody it completely.
By the time they completed their studies, Olwen was at the top of their class, and known to help those who were struggling. They had a natural affinity for instruction, and knew then that they would not join in the political circus, advising kings and influencing the kingdoms. They embarked on a decades long tour across the continent, further honing their skills, learning what could not be taught within the academy walls, and discovering the complexities of the world. Twenty years ago they returned to Redania to become a rector at Aretuza. Known as a patient yet exacting teacher, Olwen poured all of herself into her students. Lessons were made to challenge and excite them, and though they might not describe the mage as warm, their dedication and deep care for their sisters and pupils was evident.
When the rumblings of witch hunters and the Church of the Eternal Fire began to grow louder, discussions among the rectors of Aretuza became strained. Some wanted to continue on, others wanted to get the children to safety. Though it was decided that the academy would not close, Olwen, and a handful of others, decided they would dissent and smuggle some of the girls to Novigrad and beyond. Thinking it best to run small groups, Olwen set off with five of their students in tow. But halfway through their journey, a group of witch hunters caught their trail. In an ambush, one of their charges was captured and another slain, and though they managed to escape with three, the two lost souls have never left her, haunting her dreams and waking hours alike. After that Olwen hired a Witcher to accompany the group to Novigrad, and after they completed the mission, the mage returned to Oxenfurt to work within the Lodge of Sorceresses, smuggling her kinfolk to safety. But the person who joined this fight was not the same as they once were. Empathy has been eclipsed by rage. The patience that once guided their hand, now fights the need for revenge. And a ruthlessness, a hunger to inflict the pain they have felt, to do whatever it takes to protect the family that have found amongst their sisters, the magic that brought them home — it rules whatever temperance they had once known.
A mission in Oxenfurt gone wrong has led Olwen to Novigrad. And having positioned themselves as a flower in Passiflora, a place of whispers, of vulnerable minds weakened by heedless desire, they are watching, listening, planning, influencing. Whatever it takes, whatever it takes.
