@shatteredxndbroken liked for a starter from Sephiroth //accepting!
"I heard that there's need of a witcher's services in this town." Sephiroth asked the bartender when he stepped up to the counter
"We did but he already took care of the beast." The bartender says and points over at Vesemir. "Don't you witcher's communicate?"
Sephiroth looked over to the table that was pointed to and he laid eyes on the other witcher. A muscular brute looking man, undoubtedly attractive. His gaze lingered a moment before glancing back to the bartender. "I think that is needed, thank you." He says to the bartender and makes his way over to the other witcher.
This witcher was tall and had a more lean figure, his features elegant and flawless. His eyes vibrant teal with slitted pupils like a reptile and long silver hair down to almost his knees. Wearing all black and leather and on his hip wielding two katana style blades, one of steel and one of silver. Around his neck over exposed skin was his witcher pendent. Where Vesemir's was a wolf, Sephiroth's was a serpent.
He came to Vesemir's table and sat down at the empty chair. "Its been awhile since I've found a witcher. I'm Sephiroth, the last surviving witcher of the school of the Viper."
Lia was not someone that would help people especially not Aen Elle that wanted nothing to do with her. And yes his apprentice had let her inside, since he obviously didn’t want his mentor to lie half dead on the bed. She looked at him and sighed before, she slapped the cold wet piece of cloth on his forehead.
“I am here because someone asked me, I could care less about you being sick. It was only a courtesy on my part.” She sat down on a chair next to the bed and started pulling out parchment from her satchel she was carrying around.
[ VENTURING ] for receiver to start teasing sender by brushing their hand between their thighs or across their chest to see how they react.
“Eskel.”
There is a warning in the word, but Beleg didn’t mean it, not if the look in his eyes was an indication. He was more than curious to see where Eskel decided to put his hands next.
“I am trying to go and take a bath.” He smiled. This was far more interesting. “Do you mind?”
Kly watched as Eskel slept. The poisons he and his brethren called “concoctions” were finally leaving his system. After what that jackass of a braggart Lambert called a “a little slip and tumble down a mountain,” Eskel had been dragged into the main hall bleeding all over everything from a gash in his head. He was covered in scrapes and bruises that foretold of broken bones and was unconscious, being dragged inside by his “brother” to be dropped on the kitchen table. Like it was some sort of gurney. Kly, who had been trying to reorganize the mountains of junk the witchers hoarded while Vesemir “supervised”, had heard the commotion and appeared just in time to see both Lambert and Vesemir forcing bottles of foul potion down Eskel’s throat. Time seemed to come to a standstill as she flung both of the witchers back with magic before running to Eskel’s side, forming a barrier between she and Eskel and the two now very angry and very armed witchers.
After assessing the damage done to him by both his injuries and the poison they forced down his throat and a very heated yelling match between herself and Eskel’s “family”, Vesemir’s demeanor changed. She hadn’t been listening, too busy checking Eskel over, but she heard “protecting”, “cares” and “like a bear” followed by Lambert’s stupid, snide voice. They came to a terse agreement that she would be taking care of Eskel in their room but she would allow the others to check on him. Occasionally. At her discretion. And no more poisons.
Now she was pacing, watching the black tainting of his veins slowly start to fade back to normal and his face beginning to regain its coloring. Her magic had been almost completely drained earlier. Vesemir saw her abilities and put her to work, mending breaks in the wall by holding large chunks of broken-off wall up with magic while Eskel and Lambert used something to adhere it in place. She was unable to heal him fully without harming herself. His injuries were basically healed now save for the more severe bruises, but the old one, Vesemir, said he’d be good as new within just a day’s time. She was doubtful of his assessment, recalling the awful condition his body had been in when she first checked him over. It was a miracle he wasn’t dead.
She was keeping him asleep for now with what little magic reserves she had, unwilling to let him wake either miserable or in pain. But she could sense him fighting it. He was used to her magic. Able to detect it, and she wasn’t willing to use a great deal of influence on his mind. She knew how he felt about her using her magic on him like that. Even during her first meeting, he’d been staunchly against it. So, she withdrew what little magic she was using to try and make him comfortable. Instead, she moved to sit on their bed beside him, brushing her fingers over his scars on his face gently as he stirred.
mystique is not her real name, but she has lived so long that she can’t actually remember her real name. this also has a big effect on her memories and personality.
she can gain some of the ability / skillset of those she mimics
she is so powerful that most magical items can not detect her. also, she is one of the first dopplers, but some say she is a myth because usually dopplers don’t live as long as she has.
and she is so powerful ( and since she’s older than she looks ) she can detect when someone is a doppler , or using magic to disguise their appearance.
she can speak a multitude of languages
poisons don’t kill her , but the stronger ones just make her ill , similar to food poison
while I use multiple fc’s in this verse, my set FC will be Mel.isandre from G.oT.
His village was dying. His father has not returned for months from his latest trade quest. His mother on her deathbed. A boy of ten, filled with wonder and curiosity yet put into place by the hardships of life too early.
A fortnight into the plague, a man with bright golden eyes visited their village.
Witcher, they called him. He went by the name of Angeal of Banora. A man with great build and greater resolve. Stoic. Hard. Unwavering. Zack was dumbstruck. He followed the man around town the entirety of his visit. Asking what the two swords on the man’s back were for. How many monsters he’d killed. How much coin he’d made. Begged for tutelage as the man, while won over by the child’s honest ambition and enthusiastic disposition, refused time and again.
“If only I had someone to save me as I am saving you, boy” he said “this is not the life I would have chosen for myself.”
One day, a Basilisk decided to visit the village. While the Witcher was there, he was commissioned to help the town with slaying the beast. That very morning, Zack’s mother breathed her last and asked him in her final words to live. To make something of himself in this world.
Overcome with emotion and grief while screams of terrorized villagers filled the empty silence of his mother’s death, Zack grabs his father’s old rusty sword and runs outside. Rage and tears in his eyes, uncaring of the size of the monster or even the fact that he stood no chance-- he was greeted with the sight of Angeal midfight with the Basilisk.
Angeal was losing. The Basilisk had him under a claw when in the nick of time, Zack, with a thundering scream, charged the beast. He slashed at the claw, attempting to free the Witcher. While the blade was dull, he managed to startle the monster enough for it to let go of Angeal. Angeal, of course, yelled for the boy to get back. Zack was not fast enough and Angeal had to tackle him out of the way-- a mighty claw snagged him on the left cheek, leaving its mark embedded there permanently.
The distraction, however, was necessary for Angeal to turn around and slice the beast’s head off.
With blood dripping down his rusted old sword, Zack stood, shaking in fear and shock as he stared at the fell monster. It was dead. So was his mother. It didn’t matter anymore.
“Boy--”
A vague echo but he interrupted the Witcher.
“Nothing! I have nothing. Please. Just go.” he snarled.
Angeal paused. Considered. And, for once in his life, he did the selfish thing. He stood up and approached Zack. Took the sword out of his hand and eyed it.
“Has lots of heart, this one. Potential, I suppose.”
Zack was quiet, expecting the upcoming rejection.
“Makes for a terrible Witcher, this heart.” he added. Zack remained quiet.
“You may yet surprise me, child.” he returned the sword to Zack and stood up, began to walk away.
Alone. Nothing. Zack had nothin--
“Are you coming?” Angeal called back, snapping Zack out of his spiral.
Angeal smiled.
“We have coin to collect, boy. First lesson: Witchers don’t work for free.”
