“Doomed if I go without you or doomed if I´d take you?” – a joke? From his side… but then a tiny smirk tugging at the unscarred corner of his lips prove exactly this while the elf briefly brushes over the fresh bandage round his thigh - one or two days with light labor, meaning slow hiking, and this should be fine again and he´d be able to move as swift as always.
Her answer regarding the desired herb unfortunately provides no new information – grows somewhere in the distant mountain regions, mostly in caves, hidden away from light… therefore glowing I presume… IF it exists at all. This whole endeavor was literal shot in the dark towards a target he did not even know if it existed… and still. “- ... why the hell would you need one?” Iorweth takes his time to get back to this answer, before setting his attention from getting at least halfway-decently dressed with a shirt once again, back to the young mage. A process involving a lot of gritted teeth and the reluctantly accepted help by once again the young blond female elf due to his arm still mostly out of commission recovering from the poisoned wound in hi shoulder. Once this is done though he choses a stone a little closer to Hawke, his one-eyed gaze mostly hidden behind black strands of long, black thick hair anyway directed towards the ember-sparking fire though, pondering how much he was willing to reveal… - well, at least enough for her to understand, she deserved this much of trust… - his soldiers, those still lingering near the fire resting and able to listen, too at least were considered trustworthy anyway.
“If this herb exists I need it to - help a friend of mine – she is trapped in some kind of predicament… difficult situation… - and well, maybe this herb is able to solve this problem.” – A one sided shrug accompanies the words, making it clear that he himself harbors not much hope.. and yet still enough to not at least give it try. “Maybe it is not the treatment, which is difficult in this case, once you got the herb… - but the obtaining of the herb as such? The journey to get it? Maybe once you have proven yourself worthy by finding it, the rest is easy?”… there it was this little bit of hope that he was not chasing an empty myth …. Every legend had a source, right?
Kruber looks to Hawke and gave something of a wry grin to her statement of practicality. “Well, don't give up so easily,” he stated, getting to his feet. “I just so happen to know a healer, owes me a favour too.” He announced with that grin never leaving his face. “How's that for practical?” He asked. Of course, there was a catch to what he had to offer; “They're in Ferelden,” Not like it was going to be a walk in the breeze to get there, but if she wanted to survive and that arrow-head removed from her leg, she didn't have many options.
“The worlds become such a messed up place,” he looked about the room, trying to find something to make the world a little less messed up. He left Hawke to her thoughts and the offer of travel and aid for her leg. It was hard to trust in these times and after hearing about the Chantry having been destroyed he needed some space of his own. He'd never thought himself a devout, pious man, but the Chantry had offered him comfort in his darkest times; admittedly, not the Kirkwall Chantry. Still, they had been there for him and now. Now the world really was a mess!
When he returned sometime later, he'd doffed his armour and appeared to have been exerting himself. Even his rather dashing hat wasn't being worn! Outside, a fresh grave.
“You're not to blame for someone else's actions,” he attempted to reassure her. “Not everyone will see it that way. But I firmly believe that.” It wasn't much, they'd only recently met – practically strangers – pulled together in the most bizarre of circumstances.
Markus' mouth engaged before his brain did and he offered, “If you need a companion to get you to Ferelden...?” He left the words hanging only realising what he had offered when he'd stopped talking.
Nothing there but nightmares waiting to awaken.
He was a man by his word, but Andrastes arse, that was a stupid thing to have suggested. He could delay things, but what was said and done was exactly that.
“We should lay low for a couple of days until you're feeling up for the journey.” Assuming there was to be a journey and they weren't discovered beforehand.
Iorweth can feel her glance brushing over, lingering on the scars lingering where once the right half of his face used to be… - and for a moment he really has to fight the urge to turn away. Even after all these years, there are things one does not get used to… is it shame, hurt pride? Indeed, they are still a troubling sight even to himself, not out of vanity reasons though, he is way past that…, it is rather for the fact that they are a constant, literally into your face reminder, concerning the biggest failure in his life as a commander. Her inquiry keeps his mind preoccupied and from brooding though, yet before he is able to answer, one of his soldiers, a young, blonde female called Laeanna if he recalls correctly interrupts, directing his attention to his pants leg where the just recently cleaned fabric once again is stained with fresh blood seeping from his thigh wound, where here tore his stitches when jumping up in order to deescalate the situation.
Immediately Iroweth turns towards the Hawke, yet not to call her out but to make sure that she stays put. “You - sit still and eat your food – you´ll need the strength – we got this. It´s nothing serious.” However, as unfortunately still hindered by his wounded arm and thus unable to sew himself, the elf allows this fellow warrior to take care to close the wound once again, while getting back to Hawk and her inquiry. “My destination are the Dragon Mountains...- yes I am aware it is a vast region… but I cannot give you a more defined answer right now. – I am looking for certain flower, which, if it exists even should be found there, according to the information a Mage shared. – I am also aware that the journey there is a long one, though war-stricken regions and surely bothersome… - yet, if you still got your stubborn mind set on the idea that without your presence I´d be doomed, be welcome to join me… - maybe a magic-wielder indeed comes in handy here. - … By any chance… you don´t possibly know anything about a plant called Glowing Milfoil, do you, Annaearol?”
He glanced to the broken bottle and was about to jape that those vials were bloody expensive, instead, the man listened. Something that didn't come easily to him – orders were one thing – listening was entirely another. He'd glossed over the insults and jokes towards him and took in the important information. She'd been shot. That put a whole new spin on their conundrum. Arrows were the worst when it came to field medicine, such fiddly, bastard things. His concern for such a grave a thing as this was easiest to note in the sudden silence that descended over him. With care he started to remove both the leather glove he wore, easing his fingers free from them with the aid of his teeth. When his hand was free of the glove he unbuckled the metal gauntlet that encased his other hand.
He lifted the heel of his foot to remove a thin, extremely sharp, blade from the sole of his boot. Still keeping his silence. He took great care in tipping some of the contents of his hip flask over blade and fingers both. He then took another swing for himself and placed the flask next to himself as he moved to the side of her wounded thigh.
He used the blade to slice the material that covered her thigh. After a few moments to take in the information of the wound he finally spoke. “Good news it doesn't stink and it's not bleeding,” but there was nothing to really celebrate. “Bad news, I can't do anything with this that wouldn't make it worse. Pull the arrow out and you bleed out. Push it through, well that never worked out well for anyone.” He stated, leaning back on his haunches, with nothing short of a sigh of relief. Playing the part of emergency butcher had never been his favourite pass-time.
“I can patch you up, but you'll need a healer. A proper one.” He picked up the hip flask again, discarding the knife in exchange for a set of wrappings – lucky for them this guy clearly came equipped!
It was when Hawke started talking about Blood Magic that he told her, “This'll sting, but your healer'll thank me for it later,” and his hands trembled as he held the alcohol over her leg, trying his level best to push the thoughts of her darker arts from his mind. His brow knitted and for a fleeting moment, he was lost – elsewhere; dealing with something internal – then the contents of the flask was poured over the wounded thigh; the brandys warm bite penetrating the laceration, cleaning it.
“What's your usual school?” He asked as he started wrapping her leg in the fresh bandage – anything to move the subject on from Blood Magic. When Kruber was satisfied with the administered aid; such as it was, he slumped down against the wall himself, arms resting on his knees, looking to the playful Mabari. “Can't say I blame you,” he reassured her, his own words confusing him, “Those Templars, they're grim business.” He wasn't fishing for information on exactly why they had been trying to kill her and her hound; just assumed it was 'important Chantry work' in other words, Bullsh*t.
Hello there, thank you for adding or accepting my request and sorry if it’s taken me awhile to send this greeting. I'm the writer behind 𝓡ᴀvᴇɴᴇss and I would love to get a story going between our characters, if not I'm fine with exchanging messages to become friends or even swapping discords if you don't check your account often. If you don't know or write in the witcher verse it's fine, because there are portals. I'm very open to what I write Yennefer under, such as lotr, game of thrones, crime, and almost any modern setting really. There's probably more verses I'd write in so feel free to ask me in messages. Thank you for taking your time in reading this short greeting I hope you burn a village or two down.
He didn’t know how or why it had happened, exactly. One moment he and Crowley were up in the stars, taking an unexpected — er, well, vacation wasn’t exactly the right word for it — and the next, he was sprawled out on the dirt after what felt very well like having fallen through the universe.
Aziraphale supposed it had been a bit foolhardy, having entertained the idea of going off to Alpha Centuri for centuries, but never really taking into consideration the process...or the risks that came with it. Truth be told, he didn’t so much mind being lost — but he was also quite alone.
The absence of the familiar demonic presence made him feel as if he’d been stripped to his core, open and raw. Stripped of familiarity, of comfort, of connections, of...home. The weight of Crowley’s absence felt heavier than any burden Aziraphale had so foolishly claimed had been caused by his presence.
It occurred to him that maybe, one day, he might even tell the demon that.
He had allowed himself a few moments of denial, and who could blame him, really? “Crowley,” he’d begun slowly in a voice that very much betrayed the fear that something had gone Terribly Wrong, “...are you alright?” The lack of an answer had caused him to, reluctantly, pull himself up from his mess of tangled limbs on the ground. He’d stood slowly, retracting his wings, fingers curling into fists at his side. As slowly as humanly — well, angelically, one supposes — possible, each second passing without answer making the fear of what he would see, or who he wouldn’t see, grow deeper in the pit of his stomach, he had turned around. And the world he had known was shattered.
But that had been hours ago. He’d been walking for the last two of them, after what felt like much longer of trying and, more importantly, failing, to duplicate the random disaster that felt fit to dislocate him here.
So, Aziraphale was stuck. Stuck and lost and alone and having a very, very bad day that was following a very, very bad week. Walking in the heat, in what appeared to be a desert, in a full suit and a bow tie that suddenly felt quite tight.
Was it any wonder that, when he finally came upon a cave, his first thought was Finally! Someshade! And not Hmmm, bettercheckthiscaveforunholyscaledinhabitants? (He had yet to discover his mistake. In fact, he’d just had the thought that, perhaps, his day was getting slightly better. It wasn’t.)
Aziraphale sighed in relief as he crossed the threshold of the cave, the air feeling noticeably less hot — though not enough to consider it cool all the same. Perhaps now would be an excellent time to seek out some water. Though he considered himself to be rather dignified — current appearance really not highlighting that fact — he was considering throwing caution to the wind and dunking himself headfirst into the first water source he found.
It certainly couldn’t make things any worse. He doubted anything could.
Ohdear, Aziraphale mused to himself, because there wasn’t anyone else to talk to, anyway. Ido hope I don’t come to regret that thought.
It was, of course, mere moments later that he stumbled onto something hard and smooth, a glassy ridged texture that most certainly did not feel like a rock. No, it felt like snake scales, except not quite, there was something hard about it. Like armor.
Aziraphale took a step back and realized, to his horror, that the mass was moving, rhythmic, steady — breathing. And because he had not hit his limit for reckless endangerment for the day, if such a limit existed at all, Aziraphale did the only thing he could think of to investigate the mass.
He snapped his fingers, intending to produce a small, unobtrusive light to properly see what he was looking at.
What actually happened, however, was closer to that of a miniature sun of exploding light completely filling the cave.
A large, yellow eye did not so much crack open as fly, and though the light had done no damage to the cave or its inhabitants, it might have been the miracle that would cause his death. Something was awake, and something was not happy.
“Oh. Oh dear. Terribly sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” What else could be done in this situation, really? No sense in trying to get the hell out of there while it may be disoriented and confused and give him a decent chance at escape — no, no. Better to talk to the creature.
But then the creature unfolded itself, tired but angry and protective and this was her cave, how was she supposed to react when food just graciously walks in and offers itself up like breakfast in bed? Aziraphale’s mouth dropped in horror.
Whatever this creature was, the Almighty had certainly not created it, and all thoughts of reasoning with it must have been swallowed by it when the thing opened its mouth to reveal many razor sharp teeth.
“W-well, I’ll just...be off then,” he said through a nervous, plastered on smile that was quite impressive given the circumstances, taking several steps backwards with his hands held out in front of him as if that would do anything even remotely useful against armored scales and sharp teeth and leathery wings and — he noticed as the creature lunged forward, letting out a yelp as he finally turned and broke out into a run — talons. He ran towards the light, pushing himself forward with what little hope he managed to scrape together.
Usually, when he was in over his head like this, Crowley would show up to his rescue — last minute, perhaps, but always there — but now, he realized sadly, he had to be the one to save himself. And he had to, had to survive, had to get back to Crowley, had to tell this story over several bottles of wine and had to tell how he’d managed to outwit the Beast, how he’d always known he was going to survive it, that they’d find each other again. They always did. And so he ran, ran and tried to manifest his wings so he could fly away but nothing was happening, and he prayed, prayed to whatever deity in this universe responsible for creating that to provide him some sort of out, anyone, anything.
Aziraphale was having a very, very bad day, but he was determined to survive it at any cost all the same.
Indignant tone or not, she needed his help if they were to flee quickly enough without getting caught in another trap. He had no desire to feel the rope around his neck quite yet. His grumbling didn't fall on deaf ears and he smiled. “Finally, you're warming up to me,” he grinned, more than used to japes in his direction about his age, attire and whatever-else people decided was a good idea.
When given a direction for them to hobble in, he dutifully obeyed; he didn't know the area well and anything that would give them reprieve would be a welcome sight to his aged eyes. Maybe, except for the scene that they walked in on. His hand went instinctively to the hilt of the large weapon he carried; in case there was a need for swift action.
As it was, the owner of the building was gored on the floor, still, he knelt down to her and checked for vitals. He shook his head as if it wasn't obvious she was already dead. “I'm sorry,” he muttered mostly to himself so it was unclear if he was talking to the dead woman or his new companion.
The sell-sword followed Hawke into the back room where they would be out of sight.
“What happened to your leg? And don't bullsh*t me,” he ordered, crisp tone of the former sergeant coming to the fore. He hunkered down next to her, reaching into one of the small satchels. He pulled out a small vial of vile looking green liquid. He pulled the cork off with his teeth and spat it onto the floor. “Here,” he handed the concoction to her. “It tastes like ass, but it's not poison.” He promised it'd make her feel a bit better, numb the pain of her leg almost enough for him to tend to whatever it was that ailed her legs. Should she take the brew or not he took out his own variation of the potion, a hip flask, and put it to his lips taking in the strong-tasting brandy.
“I'm no medic, but I've patched up enough wounded to see them through the night,” he tried to assure her through a brandy-hoarse throat. “Get them trousers down, no arguments!” He expected back-talk.
Then, he heard her laughter and was somewhat taken aback by it after her words of keeping schtum. “Been f***ed over harder than this, 'fore.” He said with a wry grin of his own. “This,” He gestured to their situation before taking another shot of the brandy, offering the half-empty hip flask to her; figuring she might need it more than him, “walk in the park!”
He didn't believe her words for a second, but if she didn't want him prying and poking her about so be it. Trust was certainly a two-way street. “No arguments there,” he assured her about the haste they needed to leave in.
He felt the edge of her words for the earned titled he had bestowed upon her and stowed away the information for future use. He gave her a firm nod of the head when she asked him to use her name. Clearly, not everyone liked what they were given when it came to heraldry. “Kruber,” he returned the very brief introduction, offering military surname as the only given moniker. The name didn't really match up to the very Orlesian fashion he wore; asymmetrical armour, gaudy patterns, but that didn't marry up to the impressive facial hair either; cultural appropriation at it's finest!
He flinched when she touched his shoulder and before he could stop himself pulled him away from her fingers. Her words got through to him and he heaved a small sigh. Could she not see he was wearing armour? Not trussed up so tightly as the Templars they fought, granted, but he couldn't run a marathon in his current attire.
He nodded to her once more and took the lead of their flight. As he passed by the devastating handgun he had previously discarded he plucked the prized item from the floor.
He glanced over his shoulder to ensure that she was following, his mental trials for her craft being outweighed for his compassion to humanity. He caught sight of her limp once again and turned back to her. “Thought you said you were fine, girl!” he chastised her in the heat of their flight he slipped his unarmoured arm beneath hers and half supported, half dragged her away from the scene. If they could just get somewhere safe he could patch her up with a field dressing, shove a concoction down her throat, anything. Here and now? All he could do was get them away as best he could.
That word. That shouted word. It cut through him like those intended arrows. A momentary pause in his actions would have been enough to have him slain; tiny pin-pricks of suppressed trauma coming to the fore. The tang of the arrows hitting the barrier brought him back to the present with a grim growl, attention back on the stuck blade.
He took an involuntary step away from the mage when she approached, still keeping a hand on the hilt of his blade. His other held out to her as though trying to fend her off. “No, no, I've got it.” He stated quickly pulling on the weapon. He tore his eyes off the woman to look at the offending corpse. “Taals breath,” he cursed the stubborn weapon again, putting a boot to the corpse, “Cheap piece of pig-sh*t metal,” He breathed finally getting the weapon free.
At least the war hound had done its job and chased off the rest of the Templar gathering.
He hefted the weapon back over his shoulder and gestured to the corpse. “That. Never normally happens,” He stated, making an excuse for the blunder.
Military mind kicked in, beyond his fear for her nature. “Did they hurt you?” He asked, concerned for her health. Already thinking they'd have to flee the scene, but that limp wasn't going to do them any favours in the speedy get-away scenario.
What are you doing, helping a Maleficar? He screamed to himself – there was only one direction this was going and it wasn't anywhere good. As he approached her, his heart was pounding beyond his control; sense and rationality told him that she wasn't going to turn his skin to ash and raise him from the grave. Yet. Here he was, sweating underneath his very finely feathered hat.
When he turned his eyes to her again his thick brows knitted, he hadn't been in Kirkwall long enough to make the city home, but there was certainly something about her that looked familiar. “Sh*t,” he cursed, adding another profanity to the rapidly growing list. “Champion of Kirkwall,” he uttered. He'd paid a visit, and been thrown out of, the Hanged Man only once while he'd been in the city and he was near certain he'd seen her in there. He was sure that this was her now and that made matters so much more complicated.
It was a strange sound. A series of click, click, clicks. Like that of a whirling child's toy, but this was nothing quite so innocent. Following the rapidly increasing clicks came eight resounding BOOMS. The custom-built weapon was devastating in its effectiveness and almost as eccentric as it's owner. The black powder propelled shots tore through the Templar would-be executioner with wanton abandon, leaving an armoured corpse slumping to the floor and the rest of the gathered Chantry Knights surprised.
As soon as the shots were fired the over-sized handgun was thrown onto the floor, ammunition spent, the sound of metal being drawn from scabbard followed by the arrival of the Mercenary; with a hoarse shout that hinted towards months of alcohol abuse he heralded his arrival on the strange scene. “Think ya can stop me? You're welcome to bloody try!”
The mercenary fighting-style was furious, frantic, and spoke of years spent in a military lifestyle; rather than the well practised manoeuvres that the Templars tended to flaunt. The recklessness and the element of surprise afforded to him by the repeating handgun was all the advantage that the Sell-sword had, but it was enough.
Why the blighters were out here trying to hack the head of a Mabari Hound, he couldn't fathom, but it didn't sit right with the Sell-sword – it wasn't the strangest thing he had come to witness in recent weeks and it wasn't until he was amongst the gathering that he noticed they held some else captive. He cursed under his breath the clues of the scene slowly falling into place; he'd stumbled upon some dire Chantry business that he had no desire to play a part in, but to little too late.
His Greatsword swung and bounced off the shield of one of the Templars he'd engaged with but with a deft turn of the blade he thrust the sharp blade down through the throat of his foe and with a pained gurgle they died; blood splattering his face. He struggled to try to free the long blade from the confines of its new home, while he had blades aplenty, he'd rather not face off against just heavily armoured foes with only a dagger in hand.
“Got any neat tricks, nows the time,” He called to the Mage as he continued to struggle to free his weapon. Hoping that his intervention had brought her some breathing space from her captors – or if nothing else that her war hound had wriggled away and bitten someone's ankles.