good hound

waiting for instruction

[swornsteel]

[ gwendoline christie, cis woman, forty four, she/her ] in novigrad, names have a way of reaching the wrong ears, and AVELINE STRAKER is one spoken more often than most. the HUMAN has lingered in the city for SIX MONTHS, working as a BODYGUARD AND SELL-SWORD. depending on who you ask they’re either LOYAL or SUBSERVIENT. the eternal fire has yet to decide which. their presence is steeped in A SWORD KEPT SHARP AS PRAYER, BLOOD DRIED BENEATH THE FINGERNAILS OF A KNEELING KNIGHT, and THE TERRIBLE SILENCE AFTER WAKING FROM A DREAM THAT WANTED YOU DEAD, the kind that draws attention… and not always the right kind. speak carefully. the pyres are always hungry.

suicide tw

More than twenty years ago she arrived in Oxenfurt with ink on her fingers and poetic ambitions. She studied literature, spent late nights buried beneath books and candlelight, and imagined a future built upon a litany of beautiful words. It was there she met some of the people who would become the centre of her world. She learned a lot there, including the youthful notion that one's youth will last forever.

It did not.

During her final years at the academy, a terrible tragedy unfolded within the halls of residence. Students began to withdraw into themselves. Despair spread through the building like a sickness. Three young scholars took their own lives before the truth was uncovered: a malevolent creature had made its lair beneath the academy and was feeding upon those above. By the time a witcher arrived to destroy it, Aveline's life had already been divided into a before and an after. When the dust settled, she left. Book learning had not been enough to save her peers; it had taken a strong arm wielding a sword.

So, Aveline abandoned academia and took to the roads instead. What began as messenger work and caravan guard contracts became a way of life. Always she had been tall, but gawky; this new lifestyle broadened her shoulders and grew her muscles, and now she is as physically intimidating as any Witcher. For more than two decades she wandered the continent, earning a dependable, stubborn reputation. Merchants, pilgrims, refugees, and fools with more coin than sense all found themselves under her protection at one point or another.

Though she has never sought glory, Aveline has spent much of her life trying to make herself useful. She knows too well what it means when nobody arrives in time. Perhaps because some part of her still feels indebted to the years she was given after Oxenfurt. Now, she will always stand between danger and an innocent bystander.

After years spent wandering, the roads have finally led her to Novigrad, where she may confront ghosts she has been running from for most of her life.

[the-heart-eater]

It had taken Damian less than an hour to remember precisely why he despised festivals.

The noise, for one; hundreds of voices blending into a single droning hum that scrapes against his ears far worse than any battlefield ever has. The music, for another; an endless parade of fiddles and drums attempting to manufacture joy through sheer volume. And then there are the people; smiling, laughing, drinking themselves senseless beneath strings of lanterns as if mortality is some grand excuse to celebrate every passing evening.

Perhaps it is.

Damian simply finds it exhausting. Balls and festivals lost their charm after the first century. By the second, every dance blurred together, every toast sounded the same, every noble host insisted their gathering would be remembered for generations.

None ever were.

The gods, unfortunately, had seen fit to grant Damian an endless lifespan but neglected to pair it with endless patience. The only reason he had bothered attending this insufferable festival filled with equally insufferable peasants was professional diligence. Someone had to keep an eye on the thieves, the pickpockets, the swindlers peddling fake jewelry, the robbers, the slippery little vermin who always seemed drawn to crowds. Once he finds the necklace, he will—

“I fear I couldn’t be paid to dance at this point. Far too old for it,” he shrugs and snaps his fingers. A small flame flickers to life at his fingertips, just long enough to light the cigar resting between them. Novigrad is remarkably tolerant of magic. Most onlookers spare the display little more than a glance, likely assuming him some minor fire mage instead of a higher vampire.

Fools. Utter fools.

“Would you like one, dear?” Damian extends the cigar case and, for the first time in several minutes, allows his attention to drift away from the crowd.

What a striking woman! It has been quite some time since he has needed to tilt his head upward to meet someone’s gaze. A shame she isn’t a vampire. Mortals, for all their occasional charms, are never quite perfect.

"I presume you're not particularly fond of parties either, hm?"

Damian tilts his head slightly as he studies her. A witcher, perhaps? He hopes otherwise. There is something about her that reminds him of the ancient murals he’s seen centuries ago—depictions of warrior deities striding across battlefields, clad in starlight and blood. The sort of goddess who looked ready to storm the heavens atop a comet's tail, someone who could split the sky open and climb through the wound she left behind.

“Tell me, is it the people? The music?” A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Or is it the tragedy of finding yourself without a much-needed drink at precisely the wrong moment?”

His gaze flickers toward a nearby table where people hurry back and forth carrying barrels of wine. “Though I suppose that last problem is the easiest to solve.”

For a fleeting moment, Damian wonders if she might be a vampire; however, a disappointing second glance dismisses the possibility. What a shame…

“Then again, perhaps I’ve misjudged you entirely. Perhaps you’re secretly enjoying yourself,” his expression suggests he finds that possibility deeply suspicious. “Though if that’s the case, I would ask you not to admit it. I have spent the entire evening cultivating an air of mutual disdain for this event, and it would be embarrassing to discover I was standing alone in it.”

With a faint smile, Damian dips into a courteous bow, more a respectful inclination of his head and shoulders than a true courtly flourish. “Forgive my lapse in manners,” one would think a few centuries of etiquette lessons would leave a more lasting impression. “Damian,” he introduces himself. “And despite my complaints about this festival, meeting you has undoubtedly been the most pleasant part of the evening.”

[swornsteel]

Aveline stared at the offered cigar. Then at Damian. Then back at the cigar. "No." A beat. It certainly wasn't a match that lit the thing, and the monster hunter in her is on guard. Actually, it might be less the spark of suggested magic, and more the man's easy charm. Aveline has never trusted people so smooth. "I've never understood voluntarily setting something on fire before putting it in your mouth." The observation was delivered with complete sincerity. She folded her arms across her chest instead.

At least he wasn't dancing. That already improved his standing considerably. "The people." The answer came immediately. "The music is innocent." Unlike crowds. Crowds were unpredictable. Loud. Capable of producing trouble seemingly from thin air. Aveline glanced toward the dancers circling the bonfire. "I never know where I'm supposed to stand." The admission escaped before she could stop it, though she regretted speaking immediately. It felt like offering a predator the tender flesh of your throat. That is not to say that Aveline is frightened, of course. Though she is awkward in social situations, there is no fear behind it. If anything, this man simply has her on guard: fingers flexing in readiness to wield a blade.

She does not reciprocate his introduction, evidently lacking the same concern about lapsed manners: "You're watching the crowd." This is an observation rather than a question, and she doesn't particularly try to hide her suspicion. She has seen many a handsome man behave... unchivalrously, at taverns and festivals, as though their enticing appearance and ready charisma make them any less a beast for it. Aveline has never understood it; she has also never been on the receiving end of such attentions. Not that she's noticed, anyway, though she also reads nothing more than mere neutral appraisal in the way he looks her up and down. She does not, for a single moment, believe that meeting her is the most pleasant part of the evening. He says it as a bard, rehearsed, words chosen to charm a thousand before her.

The insincerity is not in doubt, to Aveline's mind. Just his intentions, for now.

[drwndoracles]

Iris nodded her head as a greeting. The well-practiced smile, that did not quite meet the eyes, unwavering as she studied the knight before her. The woman’s armor bore the marks of a journey she believed longer than the road to Novigrad, and there was a weariness in her stance. The bathhouse’s warmth had different affects on different people and it seemed like it clung to the woman before her like an unfamiliar embrace.

Her chuckle was soft, a melody of amusement that carried just the right note of understanding. "It's not often that I meet someone who finds my establishment regrettably nicer than expected." the hostess hummed, "The people of Novigrad tend to be quite the critics. Naturally, I think I offer nothing but the best to our customers, but I suggest you enjoy some time here to come up with your final judgement. - Decide who was right after all" Iris gestured lightly toward the steam-filled halls beyond, where the murmur of voices and the gentle splash of water painted a picture of indulgence.

[swornsteel]

For a moment, Aveline simply looked at her. Then she laughed. A short bark of a thing, rusty from lack of use. "You're very good at this." The admission escaped before she could stop it.

Hospitality. Reassurance. Making people feel welcome. Whatever gift it was, Iris wielded it as naturally as a knight wielded a sword. Aveline shifted her weight.. The armour is warm enough outside; in the steam of the bathhouse the weight of it seems almost unbearable. "Very well." A reluctant nod. "I'll reserve judgement until after the bath. If I emerge transformed, I'll concede defeat." It is an almost alien thing, this kindness, and it makes Aveline acutely aware of how out of practice she is at receiving service. This sort of service, that is, the kind that isn't a tankard of ale slammed in front of you with a grunt.

Unbidden, it makes her think of her student days. Scrounging together enough coin for a trip to the bathhouse, revelling in the luxury of it; the steam soothing muscles aching from too many hours hunched over scrolls. It feels almost wrong, as though Iris is speaking to a version of Aveline that no longer exists. There is a sudden fear, as though this woman might identify Aveline as a fraud, an interloper in this place.

[forgctmenct]

Some people did not know how to keep quiet. Corrand was one of those people. They had a vest on, not hiding much of their body, with a colorful pair of trousers and heeled boots. It was dramatic and showy—exactly what was to be expected of the bard.

Twirling on the cobblestone streets, lute in their hands, Corrand sang loudly, paying no mind to the passersby around them. Even if it meant stepping on a few toes or knocking over a few plants or whatever those vendors were selling these days. They didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the audience. The calling.

They spun around on their left heel and hopped a few steps ahead, nearly sending them right into someone. As if on cue, their feet landed perfectly trained, together in a poised stance. Looking up, they gasp as if insulted. “And what would you expect me to do?” they waved their hand dramatically.

[swornsteel]

Aveline stared at him. For a moment. And another. Several long moments pass The stack of timber shifted slightly in her arms. "Walk?"

The answer emerged with complete sincerity. As though she could not fathom why this was even a question. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You were perilously close to becoming part of the decorations." Then, despite herself: "I have travelled from Skellige to Redania and somehow never once found cause to pirouette into traffic." It is rare for her to be entirely befuddled by a person, but this bard has managed it.

[swornsteel]

Aveline has always struggled with festivals. She simply isn't a revelrous person, and it shows pretty clearly in the stiff and awkward posture she inadvertetly takes on. In battle, she has the grace of a lioness; but here, in a town, surrounded by laughter and joy, she becomes acutely aware of her uncommon height and her breadth and each step feels ungainly. She had thought it would be a good time to find work in Novigrad, but she hadn't really reckoned on dealing with all the fun.

The festival proper has not even begun, as she understands it. Yet night has fallen and a bonfire has been lit, and many are dancing around it. Aveline has to make her way through the crowd carefully; though fortunately nobody attempts to accost her for a dance. On the other side of the crowd, she sees another figure not dancing.

"I was beginning to think I was the only one avoiding the dancing." she grunts. Then again, he looks like he might just be waiting for an opening. This one looks too pretty to be useful, she thinks rather uncharitably - the crowds have left her in a fretful, anxious mood that often manifests in such thoughts. @the-heart-eater

[swornsteel]

Alright-- - Aveline might not be overly enthused by the festivities, but the children are rather sweet. A group of them are having an archery competition with practice bows and blunted arrows. They are not enough to do any damage. Aveline would know, having taken one of these arrows to the thigh earlier. It bounced off about as annoyingly as a pebble.

The expression on her face maybe borders on fond as she watches them. She has even offered the odd word of encouragement. One shot goes particularly wide, missing the target by several feet. "I've seen grown men do worse. At least this one has the excuse of being eight." she murmurs to a man nearby. A Witcher. He does not look particularly good humoured; that is somehow often the sort of person Aveline finds it easiest to speak to. She doesn't necessarily like to be alone; but she likes when her companions keep their distance. @specteruaio (for theon)

[swornsteel]

Aveline has never been a vain woman, nor has she cared about creature comforts in a long time. But when in a town, she does enjoy the chance to soak in the warm, clean steam of a bathhouse. It is simply better than scrubbing off the dirt in a cold river. The Serpentine Bathhouse is, regrettably, rather nicer than she'd been led to believe by the traveller in the tavern who directed her to it. Immediately upon entering, she feels like a fish out of water, with her grubby armour, with weeks of sweat and dirt in her hair, with soil and blood beneath her nails.

She becomes really quite alarmed when Iris approaches her. This woman is perfectly manicured. The air is fragrant. The echo of each sound on the tiles echoes dizzyingly.

"Either your establishment is far better than advertised, or I'm far more tired than I thought." Aveline says gruffly. Gruffness is her response to discomfort, and she really does feel uncomfortable right now. Beautiful women tend to have this effect on her, only compounding how awkward and out of place she feels. @caedmilfolie

[swornsteel]

She heard the name, the same alert thrill up her spine as when a stranger speaks your own name. It is not a name she has heard in a long time. Twenty years, it has been. But she hears it now, mentioned in passing. So casual, as if Aled's bookshop was some mundane thing, a fleeting thought, somewhere to go at some point. In spite of the summer sun, Aveline is chilled.

Following, as a bloodhound on the scent, the general direction those passersby had gestured to, it does not take her long to find it. Books and Scrolls. Aveline looks. Her shadow grows a little longer. She cannot go in. She cannot. It has been too long, the wound is still rotten, and she is not sure she dare poke at it. But, she realises, it is too late for that. The ghost is irrepressibly awake, and should she walk away now, it will follow her, clanking its chains, wailing, forever. It will not sleep again.

So Aveline pushes the door open. Surrounded by shelves stacked high with books, she understands immediately. She has spent the last two decades running from Oxenfurt; Aled has spent two decades rebuilding it. And he calls out, from behind a shelf somewhere, some mundane shopkeeper greeting, as if the very cadence of his voice does not make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

The last time she saw him, he had been young. Barely a man, heavy with grief and potential. The figure that rounds the corner now is middle aged, a furrow carved deep between his brows where he never stopped worrying.

"I was looking for someone." Aveline breathes. Her voice hushed, as if in church. She feels unbearably bullish, here, out of place among the delicately inked letters, by Aled's lean frame. He looks as though he never left the scrolls, formed by parchment and knowledge. A creature of the library through and through, she thinks. Just as she left him. The sword at her side feels suddenly unbearably heavy, the callouses on her hands far too rough for the delicacy of their surroundings. She doesn't belong here. "I think I found him." Aveline takes a step back, her armour giving a soft creak of protest, and her shaking hand fumbles behind her for the door handle. She is more afraid now, met with Aled's eyes and all the memories contained within them, than she ever has been of any foe or monster upon the road. @insaticte (for Aled)

[swornsteel]

The world seems a very big place, until you begin to traverse it. There are many who have become passingly familiar; like Axsel. He isn't a friend, as such; Aveline doesn't have friends. But she has enjoyed the occasional evening of amicable silence with him. The nice thing about people who live a similar life to her -- a life on the road, a life of violence -- - is that they understand an aversion to sharing too much. Aveline never likes to share her own tales, though she'll sit through other's road tales.

They both have been called upon to help haul some timber around for the bonfire, and have just now paused for breath, leaning against a wall and drinking from waterskins. Pushing her cropped hair back out of her face, Aveline looks down at herself, then to Axsel. "You look about as comfortable as a wolf in a flower crown." A rare moment of humour from her. She is aware that she looks equally at odds in this festive atmosphere. @st0rmeye (for axsel)

[swornsteel]

Acquiescent by nature, Aveline has agreed to help with some heavy lifting. Such is life when you're six foot four and broad with it. She is between clients right now, hence her arriving in the big city -- there are several taverns where, she has heard, it is easy to find work. But in the meantime, she is happy to help.

Or, she would be, were it not for this infernal bard. With the manic energy of an imp, he darts to and fro, and she catches snatches of song and poetry. Aveline tries to be a patient person, particularly when it comes to innocent bystanders. And this one does seem to be innocent. Just, incredibly tiresome. "Would you please stop... gambolling?"

They had almost caused her to trip and drop the stack of wood she was carrying, and that was the final straw that caused her to snap. She knows it is not really because of the gambolling. She is weary from the road, and poetry and song tend to stir uneasy ghosts in her heart that she would prefer not to wake. @forgctmenct (for corrand)