Private Tales The King's Hunt

[Emeria]

She must have come through here. Emeria leaned against her spear, staring across the waters and wondering where she could have gone to. The world, she knew, was vast, but what was vast in the eyes of someone who had never left Nordengaard? The journey from her home to Withereach had been long enough and she hadn't yet left their kingdom. And further out there, who knew what lay ahead. Would it be ever possible to find a lone woman in an entire world?

Emeria knew she had to start somewhere. She must have come through here and as soon as the woman had left she had left rumours of her presence. It hadn't taken long for this Nordenfiir to hear what people had to say, but most preferred to direct her to other people than share their own knowledge.

Several had been pointing towards a certain Nord, a witch whose secretive nature seemed promising. The retinue of Kingsguard she had arrived with had scattered across Withereach, in search of the woman, but Emeria herself had learnt, not minutes ago, from a pretty looking boy that Sigrith would be passing through here shortly. It hadn't left her any time to find the Guard, but enough to send out messengers for them to reconvene where she stood, hopefully while she was still with the woman.

She glanced across street, growing impatient. Waiting helped with nothing. During this time there were other people to be asking, other people that might know something. If Sigrith didn't appear, if she didn't know anything, if she didn't want to share, it would be wasted time. And Emeria knew that with every second, the granddaughter of the old king slipped further out of her grasp.

"Finally," she muttered under her breath as she spotted a figure that could match her description appear in the distance. She smelt vaguely Nord, was small for a Nordenfiir, and her hair was dark to white. She pulled away from her spear, which she shifted into her other hand to extend her dominant one in greeting. "Ahoy there. Do you have a moment? I have some questions to ask you, on behalf of the King."

 

[Sigrith]

Not an easy woman to mistaken, that Witch named Sigrith. Weren't many to come upon that looked quite like her.

She walked with a slow and easy gate along the muddied paths of Withereach. Word had gotten round that a contingent of Borvenir's forces had shown up - and with impeccable time for Vand's recent departure. Sigrith wasn't the one in charge, not by a long shot and not by command but for some reason her connection to the new Jorn had given her some conjured form of authority over the place. The Witch sniffed at the notion, and in finding no one else willing to take the lead she made her way to the town square, a tawny wolf bearing ritual hunt symbols in oxblood across its pelt following silently at her heels.

"Do not speak," she told the wolf, unknown to the town as the elf Sannoru, "Borvenir's men have no love for outsiders and non-Nordens."

Sigrith was not expecting a warm welcome from them - not just a Nord, but a Witch at that. The former had been openly welcomed within the Kingdom under Iordahn's rule, now only thinly tolerated by the new King. The latter? Well, even Iordahn had the foresight to outlaw them from Nordengaard's holdings. The fact that they were in Withereach at all spoke volumes to the corruption and the distance from the crown's reach. Vand had seen to eliminating his perceived idea of the corruption, but there was no fixing the distance.

At the beckon of an unfamiliar woman, Sigrith tipped her chin in an upwards nod, "Aye," dual-hued eyes calmly glanced the retinue of stocky, armored Kingsguard at her flanks, "you've come a long way from the capital. What can I help you with, Kingslady."

 

[Emeria]

As the two approached one another, the witch's appearance became more clear. Her face was blackened and sickly, although the lack of health could have also come for her shorter and not as impressive stature too. Behind her walked a wolf, an odd sight, whose coat was covered in oxblood in strange symbols. She wondered where the wolf had come from and what part it played in Sigrith's rituals, but she made sure not to look at it any more than just a customary warning glance. If she looked at it any more, she'd seem curious, and curious made her seem ignorant.

She didn't want to seem ignorant in this occasion.

Despite the reasons that lay between them of hostility, Sigrith spoke to her politely enough and Emeria promised herself that she would return the mood, so long as the other woman did. Her Kingsguard were reforming and it left her in a position of power. And it was best not to abuse her power - not so long as she didn't need to.

"It was long, but Withereach is a sight that is almost worth it. I've been well received here so far." It was lined with a little warning - please keep it up. "You should be proud of your home."

She turned to the Kingsguard, gesturing for them to keep back a little, before extending her arm to Sigrith to walk beside her. "I don't want to keep you from wherever you are going. We can walk and talk. Now, help me. I've heard that the girl who calls herself heir, Gemaudelene, has passed through Withereach in the past few months. It is the kingdom's priority that we find her again. You didn't happen to see her? Speak to her? Learn of where she is headed?"

Emeria tapped her belt, letting something jingle in a pouch behind some fur. If Sigrith spoke, she'd be rewarded with more than just her well-being. And Emeria didn't want to threaten her well-being, not if she could help it.

 

[Sigrith]

The witch hadn't much mind for her outward appearance. Witches didn't often make the effort to impress lest it be for ulterior motives. If mud and charcoal remnants on her face from a hunt this morning made her look sickly, so much the better. Nordenfiir were healthy people, didn't get sick often, but Witches were rumored to be carriers of grave diseases or worse yet ... curses. The Nordens typically chose to keep their distance.

Sigrith gave the woman's invitation to walk a cursory glance before falling in step beside her, the wolf at her far side.

"Aye, it's a nice place," she agreed with a nod and a look around at the people they passed by, "but it's not my home. I am but a traveler, as are most Witches. Our home is the wilderness." The jingle of coin did little to draw the interest of the Witch. Witches had no use for coin.

One of Emeria's Kingsguard reached to grab her shoulder for a pausing comment in her ear. He recognized
Sigrith as a daughter of Jorn Thurna of Hjerim - a sister of whom Emeria knew to be another within Borvenir's harem.

"Lots of Nordens come through Withereach, m'lady," Sigrith raised a brow at the short exchange but paid it little mind, "some for trade, some for travel. 'fraid I can't say I'm familiar with the one you seek. Maybe if you described her to me..."

 

[Emeria]

The coin barely seemed to grab her attention and Emeria noted not to try that again. If she wasn't interested the first time, she doubted that she'd have much luck continuing with the same approach - that money was better spent elsewhere. Emeria flickered through her other methods of coaxing information out, unsure how to treat this one. This was a Witch, and you didn't get many of them in the Nordenfiir country. Those that did dare to live near them she avoided, the disease and curse carriers. Who knew what Witches wanted.

Human sacrifices, probably.

"The people here have still taken to you well," Emeria extended, wondering whether her misuse of the word home was something the Witch cared about. She was tripping over every hurdle here and she was desperate for a break.

One of the Kingsguard, thank goodness, was here to help. Before the women could walk far, he gave her a quick comment, something she could use. So Emeria was close in proximity to Sigrith's sister. Of course, sibling relationships were tricky to navigate too - they could just as easily hate each other as would die for each other, and she wouldn't surprise if it were both.

"The one I'm looking for is a red-headed woman, with a Svalen with a coat just as red. A few years older than me and you. Perhaps she was careful with who saw her, to stay out the way of Borvenir's followers. But that is only a guess, you may prove me wrong." At this, Emeria gave Sigrith a smile, hoping to warm out some information. "Perhaps you don't know of her, but you know someone who might?"

They walked a little further so that Sigrith had a chance to reply, before Emeria continued. "I believe I know one of your sisters? Daughter of the Jorn of Hjerim? It is a small world - I assume you are aware that she and her are now sisters too? She's a fine woman, as I must assume the others of Thurna's stock are. You must be so proud, to have one of your own in Borvenir's harem?"

 

[Sigrith]

Sigrith's gaze panned across the buildings of the town as they walked, noting ashen-coated faces of the mine workers peering through the windows. No one was certain what to make of Borvenir's men in Withereach, and with Vand away they were even less sure of what, exactly, they should do.

The Witch's calm and collected presence seemed to be a source of comfort to them. She kept the Jorn's counsel, surely she must know what she's doing.

Violet and blue the color of the sea gave Emeria a curious glance. Knew her sister did she? Sisters now, even. Sigrith wondered just which sister of hers it was that bedded the new King. Did the harem women fight for his attention? Had her sister managed a good backhand of this Kingslady? Whatever sister it was, surely she was bigger than Emeria. All of Jorn Thurna's daughters were the pride of Hjerim - all except the one.

A dark brow lofted at the warm smile on the stranger's face, one that did not elicit any warmth in return.

"Do you know what I am, Kingslady?"

She waited a beat before answering for her, "I'm a Nord, and a Witch at that. I may be the last daughter of Jorn Thurna, but I no sooner know the dealings of the royal court than you do of the Witches Coven. Left my home come my day to Take the Path and I never returned because I know my place isn't there," a glance was given to the Kingsguard standing back several paces, "and you know it just as well."

A sniff was given. A Nord she might be but her nose was as strong as their own.

"You must be hungry after your long journey. Adda at the Tavern's the best cook in town, let me treat you to a meal. Jorn Vand wouldn't want you going hungry. Just this way, Kingslady, and I'll think on the faces I seen while you eat."

 

[Emeria]

Emeria's attempt at connecting to Sigrith through her sister didn't work. It didn't work, and it didn't work and she was beginning to wonder what would work. The Nord, the Witch, the woman who claimed that she had nothing to do with the royal court or Withereach or any of this, was being difficult. And the worst thing was, Emeria could tell why: did she have something to hide? did she simply just enjoy being difficult? was this just the way she was?

The woman didn't respond, letting the Nord continue to talk, now about food and meals. And Jorn Vand.

"Food would be wonderful. Thank you."

Jorn Vand. Something wasn't adding up here and perhaps she just didn't know the going ons in Withereach enough. But maybe it was something to do with Maude and she couldn't help but wanting to find out.

"You mentioned Jorn Vand. I believe I missed him? I know the two of you are connected in some way, but forgive me for not knowing the details. Perhaps you happen to know where he has disappeared to? It just seems incredibly bad timing, for him to leave just before I arrive. I heard he was a great man - it would have been nice to meet him."

Emeria sniffed herself, not for anything specific, but only to check what the Nord was making noises for. There wasn't anything to smell - other than the standard scents of the Norden around them, but that wasn't anything to be noted. Not in her mind, at least.

Who knew how the Witch's mind worked.

 

[Sigrith]

The winds whispered comings and goings to the Witch in a language only she and her sisters knew.

She lead the way to the tavern, a route familiar and well-worn into the muddy walks of Withereach. Boots squelching through the muck, Sigrith pressed a gloved hand against the door and leaned into it, gesturing for Emeria to go first. The Witch held the door in silence as two of the Kingsguard followed Emeria in, the other two remaining to station themselves outside like the good watchdogs they were. Her eyes passed down, last, to the tawny and blood-marked wolf, a faint loft of a brow being the only indication of apology she had for making San trudge through the mess.

Sigi knew how the elf disliked being dirty. Sadly the dirt came with the territory - Withereach was not a clean place by any means.

The gentle, incessant coughing of the town's citizens met the group as they stepped in, a sullen slap of the door as the Witch abandoned it to follow the King's investigator who now spoke of the Jorn.

"Adda," said the Witch to the woman behind the bar, "a serving for the Kingslady of your delicious food. And ale," she retrieved from the myriad pouches and bags hung beneath her cloak a small leather satchel from which she produced a smaller bundled cloth and passed it across the counter.

Adda glanced at Emeria warily and nodded, taking the bundle and disappearing into the kitchen.

Sigrith took up a chair at an empty table and indicated for Emeria to join her. The wolf moved to lay at Sigrith's right and the Witch's hand lowered to itch at its neck.

"Jorn Vand," both of her brows raised in a moment of levity at hearing him described as a great man. He would grin to hear it as well, or perhaps spit and swear - depended on his mood and current poison of choice. She did not grin, however, because maybe a part of her agreed. Her hand left the wolf's neck to root out a smoking pipe from her figure and begin the slow process of filling it with fresh smoking herbs.

"He left this morning on a hunt," Sigrith gently worked the dried roots and leaves into the pipe bowl, "he may return yet before you leave. In fact I suspect he will."

Comings and goings. Arrivals and departures. The land's erratic heartbeat to the Jorn's erratic path. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. She felt it in her bones. The wolf pinned its ears and issued a low murmuring noise. Sigrith paused in her pipe ritual to reach a hand to its ears, stroking to put it at ease.

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. Like a distant drum. Adda brought over two full ale horns and set them down. The Witch's sickly gaze hovered over the horns at Emeria, charcoal rimmed caught in the flash of a flame of her palm as she lit her pipe and puffed until the smoke took hold. Her pupils flickered strangely.

"I'm afraid Withereach's ale isn't as good as what's served at the capital, though the last I tasted it in Nordengaard was quite some time ago. Difficult to get what you need all the way down here to make what you want. Always a price for those things most of them can't afford."

 

[Emeria]

The Witch gestured her to enter a tavern and she did so willingly, stamping her boots at the threshold before she trekked mud into the place. Not that it made much of a difference - although the dirt from Withereach was more than what was found in here, it was clear she was one of the few who had tried to keep it clean. Two Kingsguard followed her in and two stayed outside, but she had hoped they all would.

The woman lingered in the middle of the empty space, aware of the attention that had come to her. Unsure where to take a seat, she remained standing, watching as the transaction was made between Nord and bartender. When finally a seat was offered for her, she took it graciously, hanging some furs across the back to breath a little more in this tavern. She stretched her legs a little and glanced down at how the Witch was stroking the wolf. She still wanted to ask about that, and still felt embarrassed to.

"Well, if he left on a hunt, I hope he returns bountiful, as I am sure he is able to," she added politely, almost surprised at the simple excuse. It could have easily been a hunt and nothing to do with their arrival. After all, the world didn't revolve around her and she needed to make sure she remembered that. "Perhaps I may have to stay a little longer than planned, if you think he may arrive soon. I would love the honour to meet him."

Emeria thanked the bartender and reached into her pocket, pushing some more coins towards her. "Thank you, very much," she said politely, hoping she would take the tip. Without insisting any further, she took one of the horns, trying to focus on that rather than the Witch. With the strange smell of the smoke almost overtaking Emeria too, she couldn't quite focus, and it made the Witch look worse than before, her pupils flickering. Unable to take her gaze, she pretended to be interested in taking in the tavern, glancing around the room instead. A few less subtle eyes were still on her.

Well, let them watch. Emeria tried the ale.

"Nonsense! The ale here is just as good as up there. At the very least in this fine establishment. Now, back to business. You've had a chance to think about it? Do you know who I can talk to about the people who have left Withereach within the past few months?"

 

[Vand]

The door flung open with the protest whine of the full extension of its hinges, crashing against the wall with a thunderclap. Fanfare. The genre was both Western and Horror.

Pity be to any Kingsguard which stood in the way.

Beyond the doorframe was the thin silhouette to a massive figure, his features obscured in the early dark. Still, silent, his countenance was that of a psycho-killer, unkillable, defatigable – with a little luck, if one played their cards right, they could only escape; never triumph. With a grunt, he hoisted something only slightly less massive onto a shoulder, ducking and maneuvering it under the archway, and draping it into the room while his free arm hung swaying at his side, twinkling with the slaver’s chain he often had wrapped around it.

On his back was the corpse of something monstrous.

A bear, a wildebeest, a giant goddamn hamster – all fair guesses. It hung awkwardly from the Tusk, its thick pelt of musty fur, caked in its own blood, piled high on what appeared to be a hunchback. To the most discerning eye, it appeared as though its ribs were smashed-in on one side. What made this creature most bizarre, however, was its limbs; its legs, bent naturally, but still resembling a person in a crouch. Its arms, much the same, its bare bicep in a flex from rigor-mortis, belonging to some gorilla, ogre, or oversized man – they draped down Doggrave’s back, reaching for the floor as if yearning for the Devil, or a drink. It looked like it needed one, but God Knows how it would consume it. Its head was gone, blood spilling down the mammoth’s matted pelt like someone left the hose on, leaving a dense trail of gore along the hardwood floor like some cartoonish fuse to a crate pyramid of dynamite.

Doggrave was quite evidently seething with rage. Perhaps it wasn’t immediately recognizable to Norden eyes when plastered across his elephant features, but Sigrith would see it. Feel it. He did not greet her, or even look at the other two, his emotional contagion poisoning everything like some toxic cloud, as he simply walked the other side of the room and flopped the corpse of that…that thing onto the table. Had the furniture had been fashioned by the foppish carpentry of weaker, Elbion men, it would have certainly collapsed under the heft.

“Yeah, this’im…!” could be heard from outside, the voice clearly drawing closer, still just out of reach. “Second one this season….I know.” He finally stepped through the door frame – the figure, painted from head to toe, shining-slick in a greened-red shade of gore, dragging something by what was probably an antler – a Christmas decoration, not yet torn down. “Strange -fucking- days, alright.” He coughed, loud and hard and disgusting – that famous Withereach bark. Our aforementioned powder keg, exploding.

The other antler would catch on the doorframe, yanking the bloody mess backwards. He muttered what was likely a curse and attempted again. He failed. “Because these cunts HAVE to see a damn trophy,” he murmured, growing increasingly frustrated as he went back, trying to manipulate the creature’s head through the door. The creature’s massive antlers were quite the contender to begin with, but the mining pick lodged in the center of its head is what made it into the square peg against this round hole. Vand overcompensated with might, pulling with one hard tug.

Failure. He rebounded back again.

The commotion caused the door to swing close, stopping halfway as it was impeded by the head in the doorway. “I’m fucking done,” he said flatly, throwing the antler down.

Taking inventory of the room, “Ah,” he voiced his sudden awareness, his eyes meeting Sigrith’s, a wealth of subconscious information exchanged at a glance. His gaze shifted to Emeria’s. “So you must be why our town’s ugly with Kingsguard,” he said, removing the skull-mask from his face, revealing the sole patch of his being that might be considered clean.

“Jorn” Vand, ladies and gentlemen.

“You’re looking for me.”

It wasn’t a question. Blood dripped from his chin, his fingertips, everywhere, keeping time in the patter of drops upon the floor.

 

[Sigrith]

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

Sigrith puffed on her pipe, a lucid sort of purpleish smoke unfurling from her nostrils and billowing about her figure. The woman had her doubts that Emeria truly thought well of the ale - it was a common complaint from those that traveled from other Norden settlements. The ale was weak. Truth be told, Withereach didn't have much in the way of means to make it, most of the ale was imported, some of which from local Nord settlements to the west. Some, even, from the Summerlands. Either way, she supposed a drink after a long journey south was likely welcome no matter the taste.

"Venison for you, Miss," Adda returned and set a plate of venison, various stewed roots, herbs, and vegetables. A well-rounded meal, with a delicious scent.

Thrum. THRUM. THRUM. SMACK.

The witch's turn to respond was fully overcome by the arrival of one ghoulish-looking Tusk by the name of Doggrave and the equally monstrous-looking body he carried over his blood-soaked self. Sigrith remained utterly silent as she watched him drop the carcass across the table, splattering blood and bodymatter all over the floor. She could see the fury waft off him like invisible flames - a great, burning heathen of malcontent.

Then there was Vand, introducing himself to the knowledge of the Kingslady in the only way he knew how: his way. Sigrith's brows visibly raised, the first reaction she'd had of any physical nature to something since Emeria began speaking to her. It was as if watching a great landslide overcome an entire town - something Sigrith had bore witness to once prior in her life and knew the impression of hopeless abandon when she saw it. The Jorn, for better or worse, had her undivided attention for reasons.

She landed him with a pointed look as he finally turned from his trophy to gaze upon their guest, all manner of grotesque and chaotic glory abundantly clear.

"Aye," she gave a nodding gesture from Emeria to Vand, to indicate who she might speak with, "the cost will be one of your braids, Kingslady."