- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
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⌈𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯⌋ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ sᴘᴀᴄᴇ || ƒᴇʀᴀʟ x ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏsᴏғᴛ
- Thread starter ƒeral
- Start date
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Geralt = [color=#FFE97B]
Yennefer = [color=#7C68C4]
Dandelion = [color=#D8A0FF]
Yennefer = [color=#7C68C4]
Dandelion = [color=#D8A0FF]
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OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
“I love the way you just…sit in the corner and brood.”
The flamboyant bard - capped in a plumed cap of overripe plums - mused, strumming a crisp chord as though to accompany his self-professed zinger. If the lute didn’t give away his calling, then surely, the overabundance of kohl and dramatic lilt would have. Enter Dandelion, poet, minstrel, bard, and close friend of Geralt of Rivia.
A friendship only recently reignited, after the most heartless of betrayals. Woe! For Geralt to disappear for year upon year, times two, without even a letter! Nevermind the head injury the Witcher sustained, or the fact that her memories were still not all quite there. All of those were flimsy excuses that fell short of pardoning such boorish behavior. But, and of course there was a but, all was forgiven for so long as he was allowed - invited, rather - to accompany Geralt’s adventures once more. For glory! For gold! For the immortal word!
In response, his companion just drank deep from her mug, before setting it down with an intimidating clang. “Unless you have something more useful to say…go away.” Ah yes, and there she was. The White Wolf, the legendary witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken and, in Dandelion’s most-assuredly-unshakable opinion, a grump bar none. “Geralt, Geralt, that is no way to speak to your bestest of pals?” A hand slapped over his heart, feigning hurt, but his eyes twinkled with too much amusement. The white-haired Witcher did not look so amused. She crossed her arms, leaned back in her chair, lips a thin line as she waited for Dandelion to get to the point. The look she shot him would have surely sent a lesser man running for the doors.
It was those eyes of hers, golds that seemed to gleam in the dim light, slitted and inhuman. A shade so achingly pure that it rivaled the fresh fallen snow of her hair. While her eyes shone with a weariness that seemed beyond her age, the rest of her could have easily passed for a woman in her prime years. Her skin was fair, especially considering the elements and dangers that she braved on a daily basis, trials and tribulations hinted at by the puce-colored scar crossing the entirety of her left cheek. A much smaller scar decorated her bottom lip, and, beneath the heavy black leather, too many to be counted awaited. Well, maybe. The daunting task has certainly been attempted by a few - okay, maybe more than a few - and at least one amongst whom might even have had a chance of succeeding but for Geralt’s tendency of collecting scars in the same way as hunting trophies.
Speaking of the one though. “Get to the point.” She huffed out, the octave of her voice far lower and raspier than her appearance suggested. Genetics, or yet another witcher mutation? Who could say. Geralt was never one who readily opened up about herself, in the same way she loathed to talk about feelings and emotions. Besides, witchers didn’t have those, right? In response, Dandelion shrugged. “M’fraid that your princess is in another castle.”
Geralt scowled. Another town. Another tavern. Another bust. Yen, where are you.
The flamboyant bard - capped in a plumed cap of overripe plums - mused, strumming a crisp chord as though to accompany his self-professed zinger. If the lute didn’t give away his calling, then surely, the overabundance of kohl and dramatic lilt would have. Enter Dandelion, poet, minstrel, bard, and close friend of Geralt of Rivia.
A friendship only recently reignited, after the most heartless of betrayals. Woe! For Geralt to disappear for year upon year, times two, without even a letter! Nevermind the head injury the Witcher sustained, or the fact that her memories were still not all quite there. All of those were flimsy excuses that fell short of pardoning such boorish behavior. But, and of course there was a but, all was forgiven for so long as he was allowed - invited, rather - to accompany Geralt’s adventures once more. For glory! For gold! For the immortal word!
In response, his companion just drank deep from her mug, before setting it down with an intimidating clang. “Unless you have something more useful to say…go away.” Ah yes, and there she was. The White Wolf, the legendary witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken and, in Dandelion’s most-assuredly-unshakable opinion, a grump bar none. “Geralt, Geralt, that is no way to speak to your bestest of pals?” A hand slapped over his heart, feigning hurt, but his eyes twinkled with too much amusement. The white-haired Witcher did not look so amused. She crossed her arms, leaned back in her chair, lips a thin line as she waited for Dandelion to get to the point. The look she shot him would have surely sent a lesser man running for the doors.
It was those eyes of hers, golds that seemed to gleam in the dim light, slitted and inhuman. A shade so achingly pure that it rivaled the fresh fallen snow of her hair. While her eyes shone with a weariness that seemed beyond her age, the rest of her could have easily passed for a woman in her prime years. Her skin was fair, especially considering the elements and dangers that she braved on a daily basis, trials and tribulations hinted at by the puce-colored scar crossing the entirety of her left cheek. A much smaller scar decorated her bottom lip, and, beneath the heavy black leather, too many to be counted awaited. Well, maybe. The daunting task has certainly been attempted by a few - okay, maybe more than a few - and at least one amongst whom might even have had a chance of succeeding but for Geralt’s tendency of collecting scars in the same way as hunting trophies.
Speaking of the one though. “Get to the point.” She huffed out, the octave of her voice far lower and raspier than her appearance suggested. Genetics, or yet another witcher mutation? Who could say. Geralt was never one who readily opened up about herself, in the same way she loathed to talk about feelings and emotions. Besides, witchers didn’t have those, right? In response, Dandelion shrugged. “M’fraid that your princess is in another castle.”
Geralt scowled. Another town. Another tavern. Another bust. Yen, where are you.
- Joined
- Mar 7, 2022
Winterhold College - nestled in the frosted mountainside, beyond the white caps eternally frozen by unforgiving gusts and razor-sharp snowflakes that served to make a frigid journey perilous. A miniscule population of dunmer and nords with bloodlines and bloodties to the once bustling city of Winterhold settled around the college; maintaining any integrity left over from the great collapse. The ruins of its lost beauty lie buried beneath the tundra and a modest settlement, no more than a hamlet for the outliers with skin thick enough to withstand the blustery and bone-chilling temperatures. The college, often sought by meaning to do well types and curious, apprentice mages wishing for a place to practice magic safely fared well in the seclusion of the mountainside. So, one might wonder how the fashionably late and ambitious to the point of pushy and manipulative - Yennefer of Vengerberg, came to be a civilian in the foreign land of Skyrim. That tale begins and ends with a naive college mage too big for their bloomers, but there was no use in dwelling on that particular story. Time moved in the same direction as it did back at home, but laws of nature and physics worked in mysterious ways in Skyrim. In this wonderful world, anything could be restored or brought back to its former glory with magic…and a droplet of dragon blood, perhaps. Or, as the natives refer to them, dovah.
Dragon, wyvern, or dovah -Yennefer would not stop after one drop. The thought alone seemed offensive, after all if she were to take down a dragon it would be a solo adventure, because the men were cowards and she had no intention of sharing it with the likes of them. Any and everything necessary for the conquest was right at her fingertips, being that her sorceries continued to work, albeit unpredictably at times. She underplayed her capabilities, being much older than the average student and professor, but her half-century age showed no wear or tear on her youthful, and impossibly clear complexion. It appeared here that the people used magic for more practical means, which would explain why Winterhold was hideous, and if not for the overlay of snow covering everything she would tolerate it a lot less. They called her here, and though Yennefer had yet to experience much of what Skyrim had to offer, she preferred somewhere cozy in the Northern Realms and a warm body by her side. Any[warm body would do, and she hadn’t pictured anyone in particular in some time. There were no foul feelings, no residual anger over any of her previous subjects. Not even that one could get a rise out of her, but it had been close to four years now. More importantly, there were no shortage of admirers for Yennefer to choose from, being that when she appeared center stage in that relic of a chamber: darkness enfolding her and only the flicker of candles on the opposite end of a tunnel warned that there was a destination in all of this. Twelve mages encircled her, each one responsible in part for bringing her existence to this plane.
“I imagine if I had to live in a place built over a magical reservoir, I would be wise to harness it at the first chance.” Yennefer’s sing-song voice was pillow-talk sweet, her gooseberries and lilac fragrance hypnotizing the woman. She wanted a powerful ally on her side when she overthrew the college, and the master wizard and sorceress found common ground quickly in their dislike for authority. “Isn’t it a pain? Receiving orders from that imbecile?” That imbecile being the Archmage of Winterhold College, Savos Aren. Yennefer seemed an immovable force in comparison to the other patrons in the tavern; her piercing irises and refusal to smile, made others fearful of what words might leave her subtly crooked lips next.
Dragon, wyvern, or dovah -Yennefer would not stop after one drop. The thought alone seemed offensive, after all if she were to take down a dragon it would be a solo adventure, because the men were cowards and she had no intention of sharing it with the likes of them. Any and everything necessary for the conquest was right at her fingertips, being that her sorceries continued to work, albeit unpredictably at times. She underplayed her capabilities, being much older than the average student and professor, but her half-century age showed no wear or tear on her youthful, and impossibly clear complexion. It appeared here that the people used magic for more practical means, which would explain why Winterhold was hideous, and if not for the overlay of snow covering everything she would tolerate it a lot less. They called her here, and though Yennefer had yet to experience much of what Skyrim had to offer, she preferred somewhere cozy in the Northern Realms and a warm body by her side. Any[warm body would do, and she hadn’t pictured anyone in particular in some time. There were no foul feelings, no residual anger over any of her previous subjects. Not even that one could get a rise out of her, but it had been close to four years now. More importantly, there were no shortage of admirers for Yennefer to choose from, being that when she appeared center stage in that relic of a chamber: darkness enfolding her and only the flicker of candles on the opposite end of a tunnel warned that there was a destination in all of this. Twelve mages encircled her, each one responsible in part for bringing her existence to this plane.
“I imagine if I had to live in a place built over a magical reservoir, I would be wise to harness it at the first chance.” Yennefer’s sing-song voice was pillow-talk sweet, her gooseberries and lilac fragrance hypnotizing the woman. She wanted a powerful ally on her side when she overthrew the college, and the master wizard and sorceress found common ground quickly in their dislike for authority. “Isn’t it a pain? Receiving orders from that imbecile?” That imbecile being the Archmage of Winterhold College, Savos Aren. Yennefer seemed an immovable force in comparison to the other patrons in the tavern; her piercing irises and refusal to smile, made others fearful of what words might leave her subtly crooked lips next.
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Much is written on the topic of dragons. On their nigh impenetrable scales, wickedly curved talons, and sky-blocking wingspans. On their keen intellects twisted by ferocity, cunning, and cruelty. On their variedness. There were the coppery reds who razed ancient groves to the ground with dragon fyre. The whites and grays who petrified men with frost and hail. The blood dragons, rarely seen, capable of the duality of ice and flame. And more variety than that still. And yet, despite enough tomes written on the subject to fill multiple shelves in the library of Winterhold College, the existing scholarship is sorely lacking on one front - specifically, how to slay such a beast.
Brew potions that grant resistances to fire and ice. Pack extra healing elixirs. And above all else, be prepared to run! Useless advice, though perhaps not incorrect. At least when applied to the individual mages. However, cities were another matter entirely. Lacking in legs, the remnants of the once great Winterhold stood silent and deathly still save for the hushed murmurs of its inhabitants. Babes cried at the distant and unmistakable roar. A blur here. A smudge there. Whispers of dragon sightings terrified the heart and soul of the humble settlement. After all, who did not know of the harrowing dragon attack upon Whiterun but months prior. The cruel beast had sailed through a hailstorm of arrows, partially eradicated a guard tower, and took the lives of a whole battalion of soldiers before flying off. And that was Whiterun! Winterhold, lacking in ammunition and manpower both, quivered before the dreaded assault. But, in the darkest of nights, mankind never failed to look beseechingly towards the flickering light. Or in this case, towards the College.
And that, perhaps, was the root cause of the summoning circle.
The tumultuous suspense would be severed by pandemonium. The dragon, having mapped out the hold with its aerial advantage, struck before the crack of dawn upon the new moon. The city was swallowed in commotion. The sparse guard corp could not quite chase away the night with torchlight, but darned if they did not try. Soldiers shouted, arrows twang’ed, and parents soothed their bawling tots. And the mages? Well, most of the mages turned towards their great leader, their Archmage, Savos Aren, for answers. And he was about as useful as those books on dragons. Which was to say, just barely shy of complete worthlessness.
However, a handful of mages were more…enterprising. And their leader was far more arrogant - and more attractive - than Savos Aren. Blood would be spilt on this night. Whose remained to be seen.
Overhead, the dragon circled, circled and roared. A sound that cracked like thunder and struck all those in presence with instinctual fear. What was a barely visible dot of white swooped down with alarming alacrity, and executed a sharp turn to avoid the salvos of arrows mustered by the town guards. Despite its mammoth build, the dragon was deceptively fast, zigzagging through the air with deadly grace before unleashing a beam of concentrated frost upon the few unfortunate guards who did not duck for cover in time. Even these hardy northerners, who had braved many frigid winters, stood no chance beneath a dragon’s frost breath. And, almost as if anticipating reprisal, it was soaring through the sky again, utilizing its airborne superiority to its full advantage.
And, just as hearts began to grow as cold as the bodies, there was light.
It was the dead of night, and yet, the sky bloomed with the eye-aching colors of arcane. For just a second, so fast that it could have been an illusion but for the eye strain afterwards. For a similar second, it was like nothing had changed, until an absolutely enraged bellow rang out and the dragon corkscrewed midair. Why? At this distance, it was impossible to tell.
For some reasons though, the ferocious beast was suddenly losing interest in its assault. Gaining altitude rapidly, it took off towards the frosted mountainside.
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- Joined
- Mar 7, 2022
Mirabelle nodded attentively and sympathized with Yennefer’s criticisms of Savos. When she name-called him, albeit childishly - a peep of a nervous chuckle left her throat. In that regard, Mirabelle was much like Yennefer’s oldest best friend, Triss - a woman that Yennefer shared a rich, painful history with. The two sorceresses would meet after dusk, and vent, or laugh together, just like this; even if Yennefer’s goals were too selfish to support, Triss listened. And though Yennefer never considered her chatty, she did enough of the talking for the both of them to add a little drama to the night. Though it wasn’t quite the same, Yennefer lived in this world for so long that she saw parallels in the foliage, the people, and places. Her best friend, a woman who felt as close to her as a blood sister, ended everything with a haunting betrayal. She left irreparable wounds on Yennefer, and their friendship. It was in those meditative, ruminative moments that Yennefer’s mistrust of sorceresses began. The stoic and observant, the wall-flowers that Yennefer often attracted; men and women of few words, she grew wary of, referring to them as silent and merciless.
“I don’t intend to lambaste you, but how are you so sure of this? Not even Savos has acknowledged these findings of yours...” Mirabelle squinted her gaze at Yennefer, being that this wasn’t the first time Yennefer hatched a plan to overthrow the winterhold college, but the first time she appeared positive that a halt would not come to her plans. Her intentions were cause for concern, and Savos explicitly stated not to trust her, calling her a demoness. He feared for his well being when he suggested locking the foreign sorceress away, and he had, until she began to visit in his dreams - conjuring his worst fears. Yennefer wanted to explore, and like a chameleon; blended in with the mages guild - even assisted with enchantments and alchemical transmutations. She was a favorite among pupils, with a secret, loyal following of mages that wanted to see Winterhold prosper again. That same demoness educated Mirabelle on the legends and the history buried in the long forgotten tomes and local folklore about Winterhold. Legend spoke of a well, or leyline of arcane energy beneath the frozen foundation of Winterhold, in the heart of the village. There was enough power there to harness to rebuild the settlement into a land worthy of respect and fear, with Yennefer at the apex of the council of mages and preferably no one at her left or right. Mirabelle pushed her lips to the side, reconsidering the statement before downing a swig of mead.“I do not believe you would be here in this world if you didn’t bring anything of value.”
“I am the value, and you…You will have wished that you listened to me.” Yennefer's brand of saccharine and salty left Mirabelle blanched. An instant tug at Mirabelle’s lips, as she downed the last of her drink and dusted her palms off on her smock. Mirabelle collected her cloak and shrugged it over her shoulders, tying it at the front when the roof and walls quaked, and the earth beneath her toes stirred with the inimitable roar of a pissed dragon.
“D-dragon…” The hushed whisper of Mirabelle and a handful of acolyte mages associated with the college ducked their heads; specks of dust coating their crowns as the building withstood the snowthunder that accompanied the dovah through its assault. As if compelled by a divine calling, Yennefer urgently rose from her seat; her irises alight as she stepped into the bite of the eternal winter. It brought with it a commotion - the clang of arrows rebounding off its impenetrable scales and a brightening, blinding flash of white light that lit up the night with the peal of thunder.
"Dovah!"
“Move aside!” Or follow along, if you must. Yennefer glared at Mirabelle, disgusted by her complacency. “You may sit and idle, play with your thumbs, but I’ve a dragon to hunt.” She straightened her back to erect, her bust rising with a confident, calming inhale. The guards’ guttural, war cries from outside the tavern sounded like they were adjacent to the building. Yennefer shifted her weight from one foot to the other, half-way to the door when a guard crashed through the wall and choked on her last breath in a heap of rubble.
Yennefer exited out the newly created entrance, the mages following close behind her and enveloping their bodies in frost shields. Lightning like that, a storm conjured by arcane magic and a murderous dragon - what in the world was happening here? Hunting dragons was a self-indulgent mission, and she didn’t plan on splitting the kill with these fools. She was engrossed in the sky spectacle, a show that enlivened the night. Snowthunder and arcane lightning, the flapping of wings capable of tearing through the winterhold college and the terror of innocents. With the thrill of battle on the horizon, Yennefer’s strappy leather boots sloshed through knee deep snow, and Yennefer threw both arms up toward the heaven; magic bolts shooting towards the cosmos and narrowly skimming the dragon as it corkscrewed up, up and away. As it created more distance between them, Yennefer picked her feet up and panted heavily; working against the icy terrain to keep up pace.
Not so fast.
The wind and snow battered her back, disturbing her train of thought and pulling her limbs this way and that. Her fingertips emitted an arcane white, the beams reaching for the dragon in the sky and piercing it long ways from its tail through its shoulder. Entranced by the sight of the dragon swirling its descent to earth, Yennefer clumsily stepped back and fell onto her backside. She was exceptionally proud of herself, though her vision blurred as she clawed her way back to her feet, and scraped someone’s paws off her as they attempted to help her up. She didn’t need anyone’s help, never wanted it.
Yennefer’s raven locks flapped about her face; frozen tendrils slapping her before she raised her arm and shielded her visage from the assault. The trek to the dragon was a full expedition, Yennefer guessing where the corpse of the dragon would land, after all, she struck it from so far away and it fell for a long time. To keep warm, Yennefer pleated her arms and tucked her billowing, ruffled sleeves around her palms. She looked up, feeling all too small in the presence of the dragon.
“I don’t intend to lambaste you, but how are you so sure of this? Not even Savos has acknowledged these findings of yours...” Mirabelle squinted her gaze at Yennefer, being that this wasn’t the first time Yennefer hatched a plan to overthrow the winterhold college, but the first time she appeared positive that a halt would not come to her plans. Her intentions were cause for concern, and Savos explicitly stated not to trust her, calling her a demoness. He feared for his well being when he suggested locking the foreign sorceress away, and he had, until she began to visit in his dreams - conjuring his worst fears. Yennefer wanted to explore, and like a chameleon; blended in with the mages guild - even assisted with enchantments and alchemical transmutations. She was a favorite among pupils, with a secret, loyal following of mages that wanted to see Winterhold prosper again. That same demoness educated Mirabelle on the legends and the history buried in the long forgotten tomes and local folklore about Winterhold. Legend spoke of a well, or leyline of arcane energy beneath the frozen foundation of Winterhold, in the heart of the village. There was enough power there to harness to rebuild the settlement into a land worthy of respect and fear, with Yennefer at the apex of the council of mages and preferably no one at her left or right. Mirabelle pushed her lips to the side, reconsidering the statement before downing a swig of mead.“I do not believe you would be here in this world if you didn’t bring anything of value.”
“I am the value, and you…You will have wished that you listened to me.” Yennefer's brand of saccharine and salty left Mirabelle blanched. An instant tug at Mirabelle’s lips, as she downed the last of her drink and dusted her palms off on her smock. Mirabelle collected her cloak and shrugged it over her shoulders, tying it at the front when the roof and walls quaked, and the earth beneath her toes stirred with the inimitable roar of a pissed dragon.
“D-dragon…” The hushed whisper of Mirabelle and a handful of acolyte mages associated with the college ducked their heads; specks of dust coating their crowns as the building withstood the snowthunder that accompanied the dovah through its assault. As if compelled by a divine calling, Yennefer urgently rose from her seat; her irises alight as she stepped into the bite of the eternal winter. It brought with it a commotion - the clang of arrows rebounding off its impenetrable scales and a brightening, blinding flash of white light that lit up the night with the peal of thunder.
"Dovah!"
“Move aside!” Or follow along, if you must. Yennefer glared at Mirabelle, disgusted by her complacency. “You may sit and idle, play with your thumbs, but I’ve a dragon to hunt.” She straightened her back to erect, her bust rising with a confident, calming inhale. The guards’ guttural, war cries from outside the tavern sounded like they were adjacent to the building. Yennefer shifted her weight from one foot to the other, half-way to the door when a guard crashed through the wall and choked on her last breath in a heap of rubble.
Yennefer exited out the newly created entrance, the mages following close behind her and enveloping their bodies in frost shields. Lightning like that, a storm conjured by arcane magic and a murderous dragon - what in the world was happening here? Hunting dragons was a self-indulgent mission, and she didn’t plan on splitting the kill with these fools. She was engrossed in the sky spectacle, a show that enlivened the night. Snowthunder and arcane lightning, the flapping of wings capable of tearing through the winterhold college and the terror of innocents. With the thrill of battle on the horizon, Yennefer’s strappy leather boots sloshed through knee deep snow, and Yennefer threw both arms up toward the heaven; magic bolts shooting towards the cosmos and narrowly skimming the dragon as it corkscrewed up, up and away. As it created more distance between them, Yennefer picked her feet up and panted heavily; working against the icy terrain to keep up pace.
Not so fast.
The wind and snow battered her back, disturbing her train of thought and pulling her limbs this way and that. Her fingertips emitted an arcane white, the beams reaching for the dragon in the sky and piercing it long ways from its tail through its shoulder. Entranced by the sight of the dragon swirling its descent to earth, Yennefer clumsily stepped back and fell onto her backside. She was exceptionally proud of herself, though her vision blurred as she clawed her way back to her feet, and scraped someone’s paws off her as they attempted to help her up. She didn’t need anyone’s help, never wanted it.
Yennefer’s raven locks flapped about her face; frozen tendrils slapping her before she raised her arm and shielded her visage from the assault. The trek to the dragon was a full expedition, Yennefer guessing where the corpse of the dragon would land, after all, she struck it from so far away and it fell for a long time. To keep warm, Yennefer pleated her arms and tucked her billowing, ruffled sleeves around her palms. She looked up, feeling all too small in the presence of the dragon.
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
“Ahh-eiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, I’m too beautiful to diiiiiiiiiiie---”
The unfortunate cacophony of one terrified Dandelion harmonized with the howl of piercing wind. Whatever bardic songs he might have sung about man and nature coexisting in peace certainly didn’t contemplate such proximity. His cravat bellowed in the wind, whipping back into his goatee. Luckily for him, whether or not the wide-eyed terror he demonstrated contradicted his claims of beauty or not, there was only an audience of one available to witness it. One very unamused audience member, that is.
“Don’t make me regret fixing your vocal cords after that genie incident.” Despite that signature scowl furrowing her brows, Geralt maintained a steadying grip on the far-too-embroidered fabric of Dandelion’s overcoat, scrabbling for a similarly strong handhold amidst the coarse scales. One moment, she had been in the bowels of the earth, investigating an ancient shrine that supposedly held the answers to her quest, and the next, here. Only, where the fuck was here?
It was, for starters, abysmally dark, but although she did not have perfect darkvision, her eyesight was far better than a regular human’s in the dark. The moon was a sliver at best, and the stars hid their gaze, but even in this relative absence of light, she could witness Dandelion’s terror. And, more importantly, scrutinize the cause thereof. Well, actually, no scrutiny needed. It was clear as day that she was straddling a fucking dragon when the thing let loose a blood-curdling howl, cutting through Dandelion’s babbles and the endless shrieks of wind.
Now, a logically man might ask how the fuck did she go from investigating a shrine to straddling a dragon, but deductive reasoning required bandwidth and all of hers was currently devoted to not falling off of the great beast. A task easier said than done, with the way the dragon zipped and zagged, dipping and rising entirely unnecessarily. Every flap of those immense wings threatened to unseat the both of them, and, without Geralt’s white-knuckled grip on his person, the self-proclaimed master poet would have surely met a not-so-poetic end this night.
Before she could make heads or tails of her current plight, there was light. The flash of crackling white was oddly nostalgic, a nostalgia short lived as arcane sliced through the flesh of the beast, causing it to wail with pain and rage. And then it was plummeting - “Hang on!” She shouted, urging Dandelion to grab onto her belt and whatever he could reach even as she flattened herself against the dragon’s neck, holding on for dear life in as close to a bear hug as she could muster.
The dragon was falling. Falling. Not quite free fall as it was corkscrewing down towards the mountainside. The fall felt impossibly long and the landing was as rough as expected. She grunted from the dull impact, legs practically jelly even with a dragon to partially break her fall. There was no time for that though. Already she was rolling off and springing to action, her well-honed instincts urging her forward as she pulled Dandelion to the ground with her. The man was out cold. She spared a second to assess his pulse - it was weak, but present. Good enough. It would have to do because one enormous saucer like eye was opening, slitted and glowing in a way that was as beautiful as it was terrifying.
“Easy there…” She held out a hand, projecting her voice steady and calm. Dragons were intelligent creatures. More intelligent than mankind, even. And this one, with its shimmering frosted scales, was a true dragon. It was not a monster to be slain, and so, she sought to parley.
“Tsk,” a huff now as she leapt back several feet, gashing claw marks decorating the earth where she once stood. The silver of her blade gleamed beneath the moon, the clouds clearing as if unveiling the curtain to the long awaited show. The dragon rose, far swifter than its size would have suggested, seemingly having shaken off whatever spell afflicted it. “Look, I know you are hurt, but I am not the one who wounded you--” Even as she attempted to reason, she rocketed over a series of rocks, keeping the dragon’s attention solidly upon herself and not upon her snoozing friend. The dragon reared back, standing on its hindlegs now, neck bulging and sucking in air.
Without missing a beat, Geralt ducked behind the largest boulder she could find, cursing under her breath as the beast unleashed its icestorm-like breath in a cone. Was it anger or something else? Dragons were intelligent creatures, and yet this one acted as though it had nothing but murder on its mind. “I’m warning you, we don’t have to do this!” She shouted over the wind, even whilst uncorking a potion and unceremoniously chugging its contents.
In response, the dragon roared.
Alright. Fine. The time for talk was over as crimson veins erupted over the surface of her pale skin. Her pupils dilated until they swallowed the pristine gold entirely, as though the black abyss devoured the sun. With a battle roar of her own, she launched from the now frozen solid rock towards the insane dragon, sword at the ready.
- Joined
- Mar 7, 2022
In the presence of magnificent power, Yennefer could have wept tears of pure joy, but the arctic temperatures froze them in her tear ducts like little diamonds as she marveled at the enormous silhouette of the slumbering dragon. Perhaps it was not asleep, but the serenity in the arena was like a calm before a storm. A hasty glance over her shoulder told her that a few trusty mages trailed not far from her tail - close enough to assist her in a worst case scenario. Should the need arise for her to rely on them for anything, then she may as well consider herself deceased. The wyvern’s spiked tail was vaguely visible over the sheet of sleet and wind; its terrifying form and eye opening menacingly beneath the frosted eyelid. Its neck elongated from a tucked position, arching up and allowing a glimpse of its true stature. Yennefer clenched her teeth, erecting a force field around her form when a haunting voice unleashed deeply repressed memories. As it interrupted her train of thought, a curse was muttered from her rosy-hued lips. She quickly came to her senses, and peered up at the bladed and white-scaled muzzle. She matched the dangerous beauty with her own cocky, and somewhat slanted smirk. Only then could she see Geralt on the left side of the dragon, obscured by a boulder and then charging into battle. The latter was categorically worse than any dragon, and she would rather deal with one, not both at the same time. Yennefer’s cold and unbroken heart felt as if a needle or two used it like a pincushion. This rendezvous with Geralt was yet another chronicle in their story, and so Yennefer projected a helical band of lightning at the creature. A signage hovered over the dragon’s diaphragm and lightning buzzed and zapped the wintry hide of the snow and sky dwelling serpent. A blinding white light erupted as Geralt’s sword connected with, and severed scales and flesh, but Yennefer’s lightning reacted poorly with the alloy from Geralt’s sword and sparks sent the witcher careening into the snow.
The frosted wyvern converted its ice breath into lightning and stood on its scimitar-like claws, rivaling a surgeon’s scalpel with the precision of its razor sharpness. The dragon roared once more, this time relaying a message and its name Alizul, the end of your greed and lust for what can never be yours. The dragon's voice telepathically rang out, for all within a close radius to receive loud and clear. But, the dragon’s gaze sent a rush through Yennefer's blood, and she stood in front of Alizul, appearing no bigger than a snowflake in front of the ancient being. Lightning arced from her figure like a fountain and Alizul curved her hand and smashed her claws into the earth; charging the foundation that they stood on with lightning. It streamed and crackled, sizzling and buzzing as latitudinal rows of electricity thrummed beneath their feet. Yennefer hurled a more powerful sorcery at Alizul, but succumbed to a swipe to her chest. Blood dripped down her corset, her ruffled shirt of no consequence, but significant portions of her attire went missing in the scuffle. Alizul released a deafening roar, and Yennefer crumbled to her knees, constructing a flimsy forcefield to eat the icy shards.
“I will decimate the world you walk on and your tiny lives.” Alizul pumped her neck back and forth, and her chest swelled up with a blend of ice and electricity; her body built for the correct balance for both elements to be present at once. She targeted Geralt and expelled the build up of snow and lightning at the witcher, its wintry effects enhanced by the ear piercing screech emitted in waves.
The frosted wyvern converted its ice breath into lightning and stood on its scimitar-like claws, rivaling a surgeon’s scalpel with the precision of its razor sharpness. The dragon roared once more, this time relaying a message and its name Alizul, the end of your greed and lust for what can never be yours. The dragon's voice telepathically rang out, for all within a close radius to receive loud and clear. But, the dragon’s gaze sent a rush through Yennefer's blood, and she stood in front of Alizul, appearing no bigger than a snowflake in front of the ancient being. Lightning arced from her figure like a fountain and Alizul curved her hand and smashed her claws into the earth; charging the foundation that they stood on with lightning. It streamed and crackled, sizzling and buzzing as latitudinal rows of electricity thrummed beneath their feet. Yennefer hurled a more powerful sorcery at Alizul, but succumbed to a swipe to her chest. Blood dripped down her corset, her ruffled shirt of no consequence, but significant portions of her attire went missing in the scuffle. Alizul released a deafening roar, and Yennefer crumbled to her knees, constructing a flimsy forcefield to eat the icy shards.
“I will decimate the world you walk on and your tiny lives.” Alizul pumped her neck back and forth, and her chest swelled up with a blend of ice and electricity; her body built for the correct balance for both elements to be present at once. She targeted Geralt and expelled the build up of snow and lightning at the witcher, its wintry effects enhanced by the ear piercing screech emitted in waves.
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OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Parried! And again. The silver of her sword clanged against knifelike claws (knives wielded by giants, maybe, with the way each were nearly a cutlass in length). But none of this surprised; Geralt all far too well the physical prowess of a dragon, and so, she stayed light on her feet, probing for opportunities rather than attempting to match brawn for brawn. That being said, the force behind each swing of that hefty blade was nothing to sneeze at, more like enough to lob the head off of a wyvern in one fell swoop. But alas, dragons were so, so much more than their smaller kins.
Despite her intense focus upon her foe, Geralt did not fail to spot the helical band of lighting launching towards the overgrown lizard. There was something unmistakably familiar about that vibrant hue of violet, like something out of a half-forgotten dream… But she was not Dandelion and had no time to wax eloquent about a fetching shade of purple. No, the dragon staggered - half a step at most - and that was all Geralt needed to lunge and drive her sword deep into its belly. The impact was loud, louder than it ought to be, with an unpleasant screech not unlike metal grating against metal. Sparks flew and something potent and arcane exploded against her sword, hurling the unlucky witcher straight into the snow banks.
She rolled with the force of it, redirecting the impact thereof, but before she could collect herself, the dragon loosened another ear splitting roar. Now, and this was most peculiar, the syllables scraping directly against her mind were not any she recognized outright. And yet she knew of the meaning instinctively, in the same way a newborn hatchling recognized the scent of its clutchmates. If that weren’t enough to send her mind reeling, she chanced a glimpse at the source of the helical lighting whilst leaping to her feet, and even the stoic witcher could not conceal her utter surprise. There, buffeted by storm and winter chill, stood the source of her dreams and pining made manifest. It mattered not that she could not get a good look at the woman’s face through the biting wind and snow crystals; Yennefer of Vengerberg was, in a word, unequivocal. The sorceress bristled with ambition and crackled with power, and somehow managed to look utterly refined while doing so.
Unfortunately, the world did not pause as plays did for the heroes to deliver their lovesick soliloquy. The dragon was very much still irate and, with another enraged howl, brandished its might in the form of electrified ground. “Yen!” She had sense enough to shout a warning, before leaping backwards to avoid an arc of electricity lapping at where her soles were a split second ago. But before she could react further, the lumbering monstrosity surged forward with atrocious speed, quaking the earth and, more horrifyingly, bleeding the target of her countless consternations with the tip of its claws.
“Dammit,” she cursed beneath her breath, abyssal eyes gleaming with murderous ire and crimson veins looking as though on the verge of bursting. “How dare you hurt her you limp-winged worm,” Hopping several feet at a time, she zipped and zagged upon the terrain, narrowly avoiding the most vicious sparks. To her relief, Alizul turned and fixed those beady (if beads were the size of saucers) eyes upon herself and away from Yennefer. “Ugly motherfucker, dropped in the egg huh?” The dragon reared back with offense, neck bulging in that telltale sort of way, but Geralt was already prepared. With her free hand, she signed Quen to defend against the onslaught of ice and lightning, pressing forward and gaining upon her foe. Arrogance was always the foremost sin of dragons, and this one proved no exception as Alizul attempted to overwhelm Geralt’s defenses with its duochromatic breath. But the witcher’s shield preserved through it all and, as the breath attack waned, Geralt emerged from the golden shield with a forceful forward leap. The dragon, having dug its claws against the ground during its breath attack, tried to swing them back. Too slow! Geralt drove her sword into the gush she previously created with an upward thrust. Having already sundered the scale, she easily cleaved through soft tissues and sinews, piercing the great beast right through its foul-beating heart.
Alizul rose, howling, sending the ground shaking and pebbles flying. Despite the fact that her boots no longer touched the ground, Geralt clung onto her sword and twisted it as far as it would turn, accelerating the dragon’s demise. And finally, with a morbid thud, the dragon collapsed back against the earth, bloodied and broken. Before anyone even had a chance to fear for the witcher trapped beneath the belly of the beast, the dragon…simply caught on fire. But this wasn’t the warm cinder of a fireplace nor the roaring inferno of alchemy fyre, this was something entirely unlike the primordial element. Which, however voracious it might be, had no chance of utterly consuming a corpse in a matter of seconds. Fire gave way to light, pale and golden and sublime, and in a mere few blinks of the eye, the dragon corpse was reduced entirely to the white of bones - uncharred, confusingly enough - with Geralt hunched beneath its ribcage. The mages that dared to linger closely enough murmured in disbelief amongst themselves as the light faded, or, more accurately, converged and disappeared into one equally stunned witcher.
And it was then that one particularly brave mage pointed and stuttered, “I-I can’t believe it, the Dragonborn is real!”
- Joined
- Mar 7, 2022
The
Rising to her soles, Yennefer pleated her arms over her bosom and imbued her fury into every step of the way over to Geralt. The whisper of ‘dragonborn’ became a clearer conversation, and the closer she was to standing face to face with Geralt the more she wanted to slap her for several reasons. Not that she ever purposely hurt the witcher, but historically speaking, Yennefer’s temper was famous on both the Continent and in Skyrim. Through the convergence of smoke, Yennefer materialized like a cheap magician’s trick, and her fists were bunched up. Before she could even possibly imagine throwing a punch, Dandelion tactfully placed himself between the raging sorceress and Geralt.
“Yennefer!” The bard interjected, effectively startling her enough to potentially reconsider her next moves. He watched her anger trade for confusion, and used the opportunity to toss a little soil on the flame. “We searched through forest and mountaintops; volcanos and haunted manor to locate you!” The mages huddled around Geralt, strengthening the barrier between Yennefer and Geralt while
Dandelion stalled, or cooled the ill-tempered woman.“You’re a hard lady to track. I’d almost say you were hiding.” Dandelion wore a charming smile that may have beguiled someone else, but not Yennefer of Vengerburg.
The dragon born.
The legend is true, the dragon born is real!
The Dovahkin! She is here!
All of these phrases about the dragonborn floated in the air and around her head, in addition to the nonsense Dandelion spewed at her that she desired to ignore. “As you wish. I’ll ask you instead: Where is my dragon?!” Never mind the dragonborn, which Yennefer doubted was Geraltina of Rivia. Well, it very well could be, but she had been in Winterhold all of ten minutes, so how? Her questions were only increasing, and the want for knowledge was expanding. Yennefer was criminally curious, and planted her hand on Dandelion’s shoulder before telekinetically shoving him to the side. She repeated the same movement, sans the hand on the shoulder, and an invisible force split the mages into two columns; enough space for the sorceress to walk without rubbing shoulders with any of the squibs and oafs.
“Geralt. How could you?" Yennefer's sharp gaze locked onto Geralt, criticizing her without a word; giving her a once over as if viewing a handmade gown with missing beads and loose seams. "You've squandered my greatest hopes and dreams... by killing that dragon, you've taken the one thing away from me that I have sought for what seems an eternity.” It hadn't been an eternity, in fact, this was all recent development within the past year. It was a solution, though, and the heat of anger warmed her irises. How long had it been since she last set eyes on Geralt? As if a queen displeased with her subject, Yennefer lifted her chin in disdain for Geralt. "Somehow you've convinced my...colleagues that your presence is necessary. I demand you tell them you are not the dragon born, and leave at once. You and your story teller."