#wanderingwolfwitcher

[fallesto]

Indeed, she was unbothered by the wait; for one who bore the lineage of mighty dragons, time flowed in a unique rhythm. To the humans in the valley, a few hours might mean a missed meal or a delayed engagement, but for her, the sun's leisurely journey across the limestone summits was simply the earth's steady breath. Below, the forest sprawled like a lush carpet of deep emerald and charcoal, concealing the path of the beast that Eskel had been tracking.

"If he’s allowed that creature to outsmart him, I’ll never let him live it down."

She exhaled a huff, releasing a cloud of glimmering, sulfurous smoke from her nostrils. Patience was a lesson instilled in her by her father, yet today, that lesson was fraying. With a graceful, heavy motion, she shifted slightly as the cliffside creaked under the weight of a being that transcended the scale of the terrain. As she elongated her neck, the movement was smooth and serpentine, feeling the tremendous strength coiled within her powerful form. Her scales, a lustrous blend of brownish-gold, captured the dwindling light, glimmering like polished coins against the grey limestone. She adjusted her stance, her large, clawed paws kneading the rock, while her expansive wings unfurled with a sound reminiscent of a ship's sails billowing in a storm.

"I can sense him." She growled, the sound resonating in her chest like a landslide unfolding in slow motion. "And he carries the scent of danger."

As she took to the skies, the air didn’t merely shift; it yielded. With a sudden, forceful snap of her enormous wings, the cliffside erupted backward, unleashing a torrent of shale and ancient dust that cascaded into the void below. Her tail flicked sharply, a whip-like gesture that guided her ascent, before she shot upward with a power that made the very atmosphere howl. The shift from stillness to speed was instantaneous, a blur of brownish-gold scales slicing through the thinning mountain air. For a fleeting moment, she hovered at the peak of her climb, the world beneath her shrinking into a miniature tapestry of greens and greys, before she folded her wings and dove, spotting him battling the beast.

The creature was a Chort, a massive embodiment of muscle and tenacity that had spent the last hour treating Eskel like a mere plaything. It had the witcher pinned against a moss-covered embankment, its oversized claws tearing through leather and mail with rhythmic, wet thuds. Eskel fought back valiantly, his silver blade a blur of precise strikes, but the creature’s hide was as tough as tempered steel, and its momentum was unstoppable. Just as the Chort opened its maw to deliver a crushing blow to the witcher’s shoulder, the sun above them vanished without a trace.

“Eskel.”

There was no forewarning, only a sudden, violent eclipse of the sky. Then came the impact. She didn’t merely land; she descended like a collapsing fortress. The sound was less a crash and more a biological explosion, a wet, visceral thwack that reverberated through the valley. The Chort didn’t even have a moment to react before several tons of golden-brown muscle and ancient scale crashed into its spine, flattening the beast in an instant. The force was so tremendous that the ground beneath them buckled, sending a spray of mud, crushed ferns, and shattered bone flying in all directions. The monster was reduced to a gruesome, two-dimensional smear against the limestone, its internal organs splattering the surrounding flora in a sudden, vivid crimson.

@wanderingwolfwitcher

[fallesto]

She listened intently as Eskel recounted his tales, her head remaining still, yet a subtle, knowing smile played at the edges of her lips. She strolled through the narrow, dirt-packed paths of a hamlet so tiny it barely warranted a spot on most maps, yet her movements exuded a grace that seemed out of place among the mud and thatched roofs. The soft clinking of her plate armor created a rhythmic metallic heartbeat, announcing her presence long before her boots touched the dust. To the villagers, she was simply a high-ranking soldier from Aedirn, a woman of striking beauty and formidable skill. They failed to notice the golden-brown fire simmering beneath her skin or the fleeting moment when her pupils narrowed like a cat's at a sudden noise that startled her.

As she continued to follow him, she paused at a communal well, where the air was thick with the scent of drying hay and laundry soap. A group of women halted their scrubbing, their gazes drifting from her dark blonde hair to the red and white headband that secured it. There was a warmth in their eyes, a genuine curiosity. Saskia felt an instinctive urge to protect these delicate, ephemeral beings who resided in homes made of sticks and clay. Her father had taught her that humanity was chaotic, yet he had also shown her that their capacity for kindness was as boundless as the skies she had once soared through.

"It seems this place is indeed in a dire state. I have isolated myself for far too long, striving to cultivate a land of diverse races and peoples that all other kingdoms despised and scorned, and I never truly looked beyond to see how much suffering exists among the people of further lands."

As she approached the notice board to check the contracts, the weathered wood resembled a rotting fence post more than a place for civic announcements. The parchment attached to it danced in a sudden gust, slapping against the timber like a fish gasping for air. Most of the notices were rather ordinary, missing chickens, a plea for a reliable roof-thatcher, a caution about a fox in the orchards. Yet, hidden beneath a layer of dirt was a scrap of vellum that drew her attention, penned in a shaky hand that dripped with frantic, ink-stained urgency. It warned of something lurking in the eastern forest, a creature that snatched livestock not through hunting, but by seizing them mid-stride from the meadows. As she continued reading, she discovered that people had also vanished, indicating that whatever was stalking had a taste for all kinds of flesh, as she would remove it and present it to him.

"What do you think of this one, Eskel? I haven't hunted in quite a while, but I'm eager to dive back in. The luxurious and comfortable life of a noble seems to have led me astray, making me a bit too human in some ways. However, I'm ready to lend a hand and support you in your endeavors. If you're willing, we can tackle this together and assist these people!"

@wanderingwolfwitcher

[swordluck]

⚘ @wanderingwolfwitcher // cont.

Anri had not looked at him for some time, though her face was turned slightly in his direction.  The firelight did peculiar things to Eskel’s face – softened it, perhaps, wrapping the deep scarring in a veil of gold.  His words stirred a tremor in her chest, a little flutter that she smothered with a practiced grace, the same way one smothers a smoking ember with a bootheel.

Her lips curled, faint and pleased. 

“The Astora Special,” she repeated, voice light, distant, as if tasting the name like a sugared plum.  “No, nothing so grand.  More like ‘kitchen scraps with dignity’.”

She shifted, drawing her knees beneath her.  The wind picked up slightly, combing through her hair with spectral fingers.  Something in her seemed to exhale – not her body, but her spirit, stretched thin after the day’s horrors.  The beast they had slain had not screamed like a beast.  It had howled like a mother denied her child.  She still heard it in her bones, vibrating faintly, like the last toll of a bell in the dark.

“I did not always wear armour, you know,” she said, quietly.  “There was a time when I wore albs and aprons, and trimmed candlewicks and cut vegetables instead of sinew.”

Her eyes met his then, finally – pale, watercoloured things that seemed at once tender and terribly tired.  Her gaze slid from his face to his hands.  Witcher’s hands.  Not monstrous, no.  Simply pragmatic.  With the look of something made to endure rather than embrace.  Her own were not so dissimilar now, she supposed.

“I like the idea of trading, of sharing,” she added, more softly.  “Not just cooking, mind you.  Roles, duties, burdens…”

There was a hunger in her voice then, but not for food.  It was subtler, stranger, shaded in melancholy.  She did not lean toward him, but the weight of her presence seemed to pull in that direction. 

“You would look handsome in an apron,” she teased, a flicker of mirth breaking the solemn spell.  “Though I suspect you’d insist on something black.  Leather, perhaps.  With many unnecessary straps.”

Anri chuckled, her mouth pulled into a rare smile.  Then: 

“Thank you, Eskel.  For your kindness.  For eating this meal like it matters.”

[swordluck]

 "  𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇   𝐎𝐑   𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒  “

She hesitates, drawing in a breath and resting her hands in her lap, delicate fingers curling inwards. Her gaze lifts to an imagined point, distant and steady.

“He has those scars, but don’t find them frightening.” She smiles softly. “They are testimony to what he has survived, how fiercely he protects others.” Her voice takes on a warmer timbre. “There is something quietly noble about him. And his voice… oh, but his voice could melt winter iron.”

Anri presses her knuckles gently against her lips, trying not to giggle at herself.

“I think… yes. Smash. Absolutely smash.”

[duelblades]

grymforge has certainly been living up to the first part of it's name ---- not that she had any real expectations for a crumbling ancient city that was completely underground. the fact the majority of it was still standing should have been enough of a marvel for her to overlook the rest of it.

but she isn't exactly here to sightsee ------ between the pressing matters of trying to find a drow ( and separating him from his head ) and navigating a particularly volatile group of duergar ( as if there really were any other kind ), admiring the architecture is tucked a long ways back in the rearmost part of her mind somewhere behind the parasite.

deep gnomes and the duergar are expected, of course ------ but a taller figure easily manages to stick out from the rest without much effort. ( he seems out of place here, but then again, so does she and the rest of her group --- which of course means her curiosity takes over in wanting to know the who's and why's of it all. )

"a witcher," it not her best, but it'll have to serve as a greeting when she gets close enough ---- one with a good pinch of awe woven into her tone. he may as well have been one of the other mythical creatures she'd been warned about while wandering this part of the underdark ----- the kind she's heard about in stories and song, but never seen for herself. until now, of course. the list of things she never thought she'd be seeing grows a little shorter every day.

"how did the duergar manage to recruit themselves a witcher all the way down here? i don't think i've ever seen them all that eager to give away coin to outsiders."

a starter for @wanderingwolfwitcher!

[realmsdelite]

@wanderingwolfwitcher liked for a thing ( eskel )

the heavy woolen cloak pulled securely atop the princess' head was a deep scarlet, casted a slightly darker shade of red as she passed in the space between burning torchlit sconces and interspersed at even distances along the cobblestoned street of steel; the fabric intended to shield any bits of silver hair from catching in the dim light all too noticeably, and casting valyrian features into shadow ( a sufficient disguise, should anyone not stand too close, and as long as she kept moving, she did not believe they would get the chance ) a dagger lay strapped beneath the long silk of her right gown sleeve, hidden beneath the fold of material, and yet easily accessible if it need be. some of the smiths had long since closed for the eve, and some, rhaenyra knew, spent the later hours working in their forges preparing their product for the next morning. there were a few that stayed open far later, she could see, the further she went up the hill. and there were men pushing wagons of mail for sale, sturdy helms and other bits of scrap iron that would be useful for construction. she would need commission a smaller dagger, she knew. one that her son would be able to grip far more easier then one she had wielded at four and ten. one that would fit the hand of a boy of two. a sharp inhalation of breath is taken through her nose, and she looses it by force. after, should one remain open, after they had spoken. after she had learnt what she needed to know.

a little pouch is bound to the princess' waist, that clacks and clangs lightly as she moves. a pouch full of golden dragons, for the gift of absolute truth. though the things she had heard were more then discomfiting. tales of monsters, and claws that reached through the cold dark, reaching for whatever it might sink them into. no wolf or bear, not anything that could be explained by any natural explanation. the smallfolk had spoken of monsters, and had repeated the word when she had started, claiming it could be no other. and that it was not the sort of thing that one stared at for long, and that it was a thing that one ran from, if one had any sense. and yet, there had been someone, too, chasing it. with strange steel upon his back. and another had spoken, and had claimed that he had known where he had frequented, in the city. and that the forge near to the top of the hill had been it. she stops before it, and takes another breath, lifting her chin, as her spine stiffens, and her shoulders flatten. he was a tall man, with a head of short, straight, dark brown hair. she could see the hilt of a sword peaking over one shoulder, " is the smith within, ser ? i have a few questions for him, that i would hope that he might have an answer to. for i do not know, exactly, how to measure the necessary size of a hilt to fit properly within a hand at a glance. i need measure, and i am not quite sure how that might be done. "

[swordluck]

❝ I know you’re close. Just let it go now. Give in to it. ❞

The moon hung swollen above the ruined keep. A heart left too long in salt, pale and puckered with forgotten grief, it cast its bleached glow through the broken panes of the high chamber. In that haunted light, Anri knelt before the pitiful hearth-bound fire, her hands clasped tight as if in prayer.

Draughts moved through the room with the low moan of something mourning. Shadows stirred, darkening the stone around her – but Eskel was with her. Where he lingered, so too did the fever beneath her ribs, the throb of blood ready to betray her.

He approached without sound, a wolf given form by scar and solemnity. Pale firelight made a tapestry of his scars, burnished gold over old ruin. There was no vow exchanged, no lover’s promise or marital oath. Only the way he looked at her, as though she were the last dream left to him, and his scent – earth and iron.

She rose as though summoned, already knowing the shape of what would follow. Not the choreography of passion alone, but the ritual of giving herself over. A hunger that lived not in the belly but in the marrow.

He touched her, skinning her of her layers, filling her where she was wet and soft. No thoughts then – only a thin thread of resistance, forged from sermons on shame and sin. Eskel’s hand found her throat, forming a tender necklace there, his lips drawn to the hollow behind her ear. Anri trembled not in fear, but in recognition of the cusp she hovered on so delectably. Her body, loyal and traitorous both, softened against him like wax to flame.

“I know you’re close. Just let it go now. Give in to it.”

The words brushed her skin like a moth’s wing. Something within her collapsed.

Anri did not cry out. Instead, she exhaled with a shudder and the world fell away like velvet curtains, heavy and perfumed with dust. Her hands, once clenched in almost-prayer, now clung to him – her anchor, tormentor and salvation.

Invariably, she thought of the cathedral, of the red-robed bishops and their damp rot, of the chalices brimming thick with blood and black-eyed insects. What passed between her and Eskel now was purer than any liturgy. It was both honest and holy and when her release came, it did not come gently. It shattered through her like midnight’s tolling. She arched beneath him, a flower blooming in winter frost, and in the ruin of her restraint, she saw stars behind her closed eyes.

Silence returned then, gossamer and golden, as she lay against him with her cheek to his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. It beat like war drums, or the hooves of a pale horse. No cathedral would hold her now.

Only this. Only him.

[liinthar]

@wanderingwolfwitcher liked this for a starter

To be lost in the Underdark was to court death.

She had gone too far, in her anger. Travelled farther than she meant to. Tatithra had only wanted to clear her head, to give her and her companions some space. Despite living her entire life in the Underdark, however, she didn't know much beyond Menzoberranzan. Even when she and her brother travelled through the Underdark years ago, she hadn't paid much attention.

Some things she knew, others were lost to her. The most of what she knew was that she was stupid to have wandered away. She had warned her companions to never go anywhere alone here and yet she had done just that.

Tatithra bit back a scream as she kicked a rock - it fell into a craven and despite waiting for it, she never heard it hit anything.

It only angered her more as she marched to where she thought she had come from. He fingers twitched, the need to slay something, anything, coming to her. Her blood song answered her anger with a desire for making someone bleed-

A man stood before her. With rounded ears, she knew he was no elf and his skin marked him as a surface creature.

His eyes locked on hers and she cursed silently.

During her time on the surace, she had relied on her brother and then her friends when dealing with people. Her brother, as a male drow, was used to acting in a certain way to seem harmless. With the fear most held of drow, it was easier to let a male drow, surface elf or human do the talking. She was used when they needed intimidation or a distraction.

Tatithra had gotten used to her companions, her friends. She was unsure how to go about it so she did what she always did when unsure - fall back into arrogant female drow.

She spoke low but her voice travelled in the space between them.

"You are either very brave or very stupid to be in the Underdark alone."