Private Tales Taming Eretejva

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
The mage wasn't wrong. Sigrith felt unnaturally exhausted but she couldn't say exactly why. Her transformation was often handled with such ease, but now the witch felt as though she'd somehow overextended her form even though she hadn't. Taking her bundle, Sigi held onto it for several moments longer, eyes closed against the weight of weariness until she heard the flare of a flame brought to life.

Sitting there naked on the frozen ground, the cold of the storm seeped into her bones for the first time in a very long time, Sigrith slowly but carefully began to unwrap her affects from the cloak to redress.

"That lake," she finally broke the silence at length, "was not meant to be found by man or mortal. It is ... dangerous."
 
Sparks flicked from the mage's thumbnail to the wick of a tallow candle, struck alight between two shivering fingers. Four syllables said just loud enough for the universe to hear cause the flame to dim, kicking off less light than heat. The inside of their shelter caught the light in angular facets of ice, cast in the sunrise hues of firelight.

Sigrith was given a worried glance in the nascent light, the man's eyebrows knitting with poorly hidden concern. His cloak was removed with haste, folded in half and tossed down beside the witch. Wordlessly, he nods to the offered seat and turns his back, granting her time and privacy to dress.

"If it wasn't meant to be found, the spirits did an awful job of hiding it," Faurosk counters, though his tone is one of troubled agreement. "I haven't felt fury like that since the Red Mists descended. Those... Those bore terrors I haven't seen before or since."

Settling his pack on the floor, Faurosk unspooled his bedroll and cast it off beside him. Nights like this one had left him wishing for a thicker cover to sleep with, but the long days spent marching made him wish he'd packed less. Flexing windswept fingers over the candle's meager flame, he considered that disparity with an ill-tempered grunt.

"Here," he continued quietly, offering the modest candle behind himself. "It's the most I'll trust not to bring the roof down on us... And you need it more than I do."
 
"The spirits have nothing to do with that place," Sigrith responded in kind, her voice hoarse and low. Despite the nature of the spirits of the tundra being quite elusive, she felt nothing of their presence there. Nothing at all ... and that was both curious and alarming indeed. When even the spirits of the land would not dwell there, something was greatly amiss.

Whatever had made that lake did so in great agony and betrayal. There was fury, yes, but so much pain and suffering, too. She felt it in her still, absorbed into her very soul, and it disturbed her at how lost she found herself concerning it. Signe would know what to do ... but didn't the old crones always? Too far away now. Much, much too far away.

Bone and shell and stone clinked and tinked while she redressed. Before long the witch had her wardrobe back in order and was grateful for the foresight of removing them before her swim. Though the stench of the blood still saturated her braided locks, she at least found comfort in the skins of her many journeys and the black pelt cloak's weight settled over her shoulders once again. Her gaze shifted to the candle and she left it there between them while she worked on unwrapping and cutting the supply of dried meat, "You should eat," she said quietly, eyeing the man while she carved away a portion for him, "your magic has drained you, mage."
 
The outlander set himself on his bedroll, legs stretched out before him. With a tired chuckle, he cracks a smile for the first time since the sanguine lake had come into their sight. "What, three tricks in these few hours? I must be losing my touch." Their shelter is given a nod, the offered food taken. "It's much harder with dirt or stone... You do have soil up here, don't you? Dark stuff, dirties cloth..."

Faurosk tore a bite off of the shared jerky and begins to grind it between his molars, squinting to her through the candlelight.

"Did any of those injuries carry through your, ah, transfiguration? I'd hate to pay back my stitches so soon, but I owe you that much."
 
The witch grunted, seemingly missing his attempt at humor, "There is soil ... but not this far north. Up here there is only ice, snow, and stone. Our trees need no soil - they survive on the nourishment of the leylines." And the magics of the fae, but she left that unspoken. The fae of the world were not to be toyed with, but especially not those of the tundra.

As for injuries, Sigrith had to take a mental check of herself. Pain tended to meld with the awareness of cold - which to someone of her blood went largely unnoticed. If she was still in pain, she could not tell, but her mouth did feel a bit ... raw.

"My mouth is ..." she stretched her jaw and winced, "burned, I think. Not from heat but from the rage of that stone egg."
 
The mage puffed out a laugh that plumed cloud-like through the cold and candlelight. "What a magical place..." The words may have been rooted in genuine awe, but there's a certain wry quality to them that could only be attributed to the day's events. A mountain filled with mysterious, haunting blood- Now there's a magical place. Just not the sort one should return to.

Faurosk paused in his chewing, fixing Sigrith with a concerned glance. Muscles worn to soreness may be one thing, but to have one's body strained by exposure to emotions is something else entirely. The concept struck him as awfully similar to the tenets of Empathy manipulation he'd learned in years past, but the discipline had never struck a chord with his ideals. Nevertheless, the basics seemed keen to aid him once more.

"Here," he said in a hush, offering his gloveless and tattoo-crossed hand toward her. "If you'll let me, I can take some of your pain away." The wounds themself may linger, but that's no reason to live in discomfort.
 
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The witch's gaze cast to his offered hand with a wariness learned through experience. Of all the magics of the realm, those of the summerlands she knew the least. Her truths were steeped in the Exchange. Her past in the act of Payment or Barter. Magic did not exist to be used, but to be balanced.

At least, that was the way of the witch.

"If you mean to take it upon yourself or exact a fee, I have nothing I wish to take in exchange for my pain. It will heal and fade, Mage, sure as the sun will rise."
 
Exacting a cost? The thought brought a smile to the mage's face. She had already been keeping him alive and along, there isn't much more that he could ask for! Save, of course, a fanciful fur cloak to keep the cold at bay. As far as taking her pain upon himself, that draws a laugh from the well-humored man.

"Strike you as the martyring type, do I? No, no, I wouldn't need to hurt myself anymore than you had to cut your cheek to sew up mine." He gesticulates vaguely with his offered hand, rolling it from one side to the other, up to where his face still bears her stitch-work. "Anger is just energy, same as this candle. Left between your gums, it'll simmer, and burn, and generally make a nuisance of itself-- If it keeps that last one up, it'll put me out of a job."

He grimaces at the very notion. If Sigrith could get her annoyance from a lake of blood, what use would she have for him? The offered hand reaches between them, fingers flexing. "I'm not going to force your hand, but you've done so much for me. It'd be awful if I didn't at least offer to ease your burden." Brow furrowed, he rethinks that last choice of word. Then again, easing one's sorrow is more the job of liquors and spirits than it is the craft of mages.
 
The dark of her brow furrowed over her gaze in malcontent, "You Summerlanders have a... broken magic."

Pot calling the kettle black, no doubt. Many had said the same of the tundra witches ... but Sigrith figured that was more having to do with the copious amounts of sexuality, blood, body, sacrifice, bones, dirt, nature, and viscera involved in their more powerful magic. These were the building blocks of the ether, the foundations of arcana.

That the witches had simply learned to harness it at its base elements spoke more about their creed than about their magic.

Sigrith shifted her gaze between the man's face and his hand, frowned, and then eventually relented with a nod.
 
Her answer was awaited in patient silence, true to his word. There would be no pressure on this decision. When Sigrith settles on a nod, the gesture is returned in kind as the mage gently takes her by the chin.

"Magic? Wrong? You're sounding like a Templar I once knew. Bit of a hypocrite, that one." The Summerlander speaks in his usual upbeat tone, pairing well with the gentleness of his touch as both contrast the chill in his fingertips.

Dull brown eyes meet the witch's mismatched pair, and for just a moment, his irises seem flecked with gold. There are countless emotions that guide a mortal's existence, far more than the eight aspects laid out in Empathic esotery. In this moment of sight beyond seeing, Faurosk beholds apprehension, her slowness to trust him. He feels fear, trepidation of the unknown; A feeling they share with regards to the day's discovery, the furious lake.

And there it is amidst it all. That Fury, that burning mote that lingers beyond a dragon's death. The mage feels its edges, pinches one corner with his mind, and withdraws the feeling from its seat in Sigrith's jaw.
He sits back, breathing out a haggard sigh. Even with one source of the witch's pain removed, there's no telling if her lingering soreness will abide.

"Any better, your illustriousness?" Faurosk asks with an easy smile, though something resembling anxiety tugs one corner of his lips higher than the other.
 
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She held still as a frozen mountain for him, watching intently all the while, feeling the flow of the ether around him. Through him. Sigrith could almost see it - if sensing the ebb and tide of the leylines could be considered seeing. Having learned to harness such senses over the last several years, she felt confident in her assessment that he was working magic in ways she'd not seen before.

Then again, she was still quite young as a witch. Signe would have chuckled at her. Called her a chylde.

When it was all over, the witch sat back and lifted a hand to touch at her jaw. The heated sting of pain was gone, leaving behind the dull, aching remnants.

"Yes," she said after a few moments, "thank you."

And then a short beat later, "What is a Templar?"
 
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With his budding anxiety snipped before it could bloom, that uneven smile resolved into a proper, satisfied smirk. So his skills weren't without their uses; In time, this would be another piece of evidence to that fact. A moment later, thoughtfully, his expression settled from one of self-satisfaction to that of recollection. How long had it been since his arrival in that ruined village? The Templars had been trying their damnedest to avenge what had been worked against the people there, but there's no making right an undead force's butchery.

Then another legion had arrived. Marching boots, a horrifying charge, their faces drawn back over ferocious snarls.

They had tried to kill Faurosk, and he sent fire to greet them. The memory almost turned his stomach as he sat in their meager shelter. Suddenly, it felt as though all the good his magic might work could never balance the weight of lives taken that day.

"A Templar's a sort of warrior that dwells in my home lands," he explained quietly, tongue feeling suddenly parched. "They were esteemed, once. Time was unkind, and now many of the shattered chapters that remain are misguided. Even so-... Most are decent people, fighting against that which they believe is a threat to their own, to Arethil."

Despite those words that he wanted to believe, the mage's nose wrinkled. His brow furrowed. Unthinkingly, he reached toward the pack he'd only recently shrugged free of, gracelessly pawing it open in pursuit of a gift he'd been given some handful of months prior.

"I crossed paths with a few some years ago, they were of a group known as the Broken Sword. Their 'Order' is unkind to mages, but... I saved them from a bloody conflict, and they let me walk away. Without stringing my neck from a tree."

His hand withdrew from the pack, clutching a sheathed and peace-tied dagger. Its scabbard was worked from a dark wood, and every inch of it bore a protective rune. The hilt glimmered faintly in the candlelight.

The artifact was offered towards Sigrith, should she choose to hold it. "A friend gave me this, an old Templar dagger. She said it might keep me safe in her stead. I miss her, sometimes, and think of her often. She's... Very dear to me." But that was a story best left untold, one that might do his heart more harm than good.
 
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Taking the offered dagger, Sigrith inspected it carefully, turning it over and over in world-worn hands. Hands that knew the feel of weapons well. Has used them for defense, offense, hunting and sustenance, threats and protection and all things in between. She did not pull it from its sheath, recognizing the peace-tie for what it was. The symbolism was more powerful than anything the blade's edge could do.

"This token carries great weight," she noted aloud, making no remark to the origins of the gift giver or the context for which it had been given, "that of deep emotion. Do not use it except in dire circumstances. Once you break that knot, the power will fade."
 
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A heavy hand reached out to reclaim the dagger, and the mage's lips drew back into a tired smile. He was glad to hear his faith in the artifact was not misplaced, though he had no plans to break that tie. Even if their meager dome came crashing down, if the world rushed at these wayward travelers, breaking that tie would take a force of will Faurosk may not be able to muster.

"Right you are... I used to carry a sword that complimented it. You know, for actually cutting things instead of abstaining." His lips drew back into a grimace, unfond memories rising to mind before being swiftly discarded. "It wasn't quite so fierce as the weapon you carry, but I found myself far too liable to use the damned thing."

With a sigh that deflated the bravery from his shoulders, he slumped slightly under the weight of the day. "At any pace, we're not doing ourselves any good staying out of our bedrolls. Is there anything else I could do that might make you more comfortable?" There it was again, that earnest concern. It rose to his eyes and was not so hastily banished as it had been before.
 
That the man had given up his sword struck her as strange, considering how closely linked she was to her own. The weapon she wielded was not commonly found among witches, but Sigrith was a warrior long before she was ever a witch. A lifestyle, mantra, and culture not so easily sloughed like a wolf pelt cloak from her shoulders. The witches might ridicule her for carrying it, but they had their own weapons and crutches she'd come to learn.

"Swords rarely save lives," she spoke words recalled from her childhood memories of her mother, days spent learning how to carry, use, and kill with many things, including the sharpest and most powerful weapon of all - the witch lifted a hand and tapped at her temple, "the mind is much greater...but not the most powerful."

Shifting then, Sigi leaned to lay back upon the frozen ground, insulated by her wolf pelt cloak and the hardiness bred into her by her people, "No, this is how I live Braun. This is comfort. Sleep beside me, you will stay warmer."
 
Concern gives way to incredulity, breaking in an instant. He blinked twice in the dimness, the conjured some excuse. "Sigrith... You went bathing in blood only a couple hours ago, and now you want me to curl up at your side?" He shook his head, but rose regardless, crouching in the squat dome and shuffling his way over to her. "Live however you like. But if you're going to use me for warmth, the least you could do is call me by my name."

The flame of the candle still pinched between his fingers flickered, then burned brighter. The spell he'd used to dim its light had clearly worn out its welcome, with the spellcaster's concentration broken by more pressing thoughts. With a sigh, Faurosk looked to the wick and pinched it out between his fingers, smothering the flame and saving much of its fuel for other, colder nights.

"It's Faurosk," that faint silhouette reminded in the dark. Then, warmly, it laid down at her side.
 
Sigrith wasn't without a sense of humor, but her's was a stoic one indeed. This was the first time the wizard had managed it - but he'd gotten a rueful chuckle out of the witch for his words.

"I have bathed in far worse," she remarked, making herself as comfortable as she could where she lay. As he made his way over, speaking elected truths about who would be keeping who warm here, she did raise her brows at the offer of his name and gave the man a half-hearted smirk he might not be able to see.

"Unwise of you to give your true name to a witch," Sigrith replied as he took up the spot beside her, "take care not to give it to any others."
 
"Yes, yes... You're a witch, I'm a wizard," he mused aloud as he carefully drew in toward her side. Blinking did little to aid his eyes in adjusting to the dark, but the man tried anyhow. "Yet by some miracle, we've kept from turning each other into a newt, or rat, or worse. I'm almost tempted to call that friendship."

A pair of surprisingly thick arms wound their way about the witch with unsurprising caution and care, as though toeing their way past a glyph that might explode at the slightest provocation. The mage laughed quietly to himself, though at this proximity, it was more of a rumble to Sigrith than anything audible. "It's a wonder, what could be worse for bathing than blood... But I'll count my ignorance as a blessing."

For the night, at least. Come morning, there would be questions.
Charming, insufferable questions.
 
She wasn't entirely sure why he thought she would turn him into a newt or a rat. Neither of which were of any use up here in the tundra, both would die rather instantly. A poor use of a wizard, indeed. Sigrith shifted only slightly as his arms snaked their way around her, easing into the embrace as she might another pelt. He would find her quite warm beneath her far fewer layers despite having bathed in a lake of blood only an hour or so ago. The smell of blood still clung to her and likely would for some time to come, but there were undertones of spice, fire, charcoal, incense, and earth.

Content to let the droning of the wind beyond their icy bed lull her mind to sleep as a familiar song of her home, she drifted off with nary a trouble.

Dead silence beyond the sound of the man's breathing greeted her senses come the dawning hours. The storm had passed and their hovel was quite warm. Sigrith extracted herself from where she lay, "Come, we must move on while the lands still sleep."
 
The wizard's arm put up a token, unconscious resistance as Sigrith went to pull away. This piteous display came to an abrupt end when, his warmth removed, Faurosk awoke with a snort. He blearily rose, the rigor mortis of dreamless sleep causing him to straighten up as though he'd just been pried from his tomb.

Her words registered a few moments later, after he'd blinked himself awake. "Yes...? Yes, I suppose that would be your idea of fun," the summerlander groused. There was always a point behind her choices, at least from what he'd seen; It wouldn't be so terrible to lean on the wisdom of someone versed in those strange, arctic lands. Even if that meant rising before the sun, damn it all.

With so few possessions between them, it was a relatively simple endeavor to pack for the day ahead. With supplies sensibly stowed, Faurosk sat awhile over his pack as he peered down into its mouth. The past days had made the next decision for him. He retrieved a number of ingredients and components from deep within his pack, storing them in the more easily accessible pouches he wore strung about his waist.

At his guide's word, it would be another simple endeavor to crack their shelter open and embark into the snow.
Simple enough for a skilled transmuter, at least. Sigrith was fortunate enough to have one handy.
 
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