Lemons

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

Boi's going alone. The plot is thiccening.

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

Aidann froze for a moment when he saw the corpse, expanding his senses, tensing up, and preparing to toss himself to the side to avoid an attack if necessary. When no attack was forthcoming, he crept forward to examine the corpse, kneeling down and parting its injuries with his fingers to inspect them, paying no mind to the excessive amount of blood there was on his hands now. It wasn't as if getting blood all over him was a new thing, after all, and certainly not here. The whole floor was covered in the stuff. It was splattered on the walls, even. He could hardly make out the masonry through it all. And, on the other side of the corpse, a trail of it--splattered droplets and streaks implying something moving quickly. Grimacing at that--faster-moving monsters were invariably more frustrating to deal with than the slower ones--he returned his attention to the wounds.

"Ragged cuts, not smooth," he murmured. "They mey be sharp, but difn'itely claws instead o' blades. Poor bast'd niver stood a chance." Then, a moment later, he kicked himself for doing something so silly. He'd always had a bit of a habit of talking to himself; being alone for too long did that to a man. But there was a monster kicking about somewhere now. He couldn't afford to be indulging in silly things like habits when they put his life on the line by making more of a racket than he really should. Monsters tended to have good hearing.

Bones broken severely in localized places. This wasn't done by a limb; looks more like a warhammer, almost, but this is definitely a monster attack. And there are puncture wounds--blunt looking ones, more like the skin being torn than being pierced--at the center of the breaks. It looks like a beak got into him. Probably an ornithosaur, or maybe a griffin? No...not a griffin. Too enclosed here, not enough space for it to fly. So that leaves, barring something...different...happening, either a cockatrice or a basilisk as the likely subjects. He hissed quietly, making sure to mind his volume. He was in hostile territory now. And I don't want to fight either of those without preparation. Let's see. I'll need ornithosaur oil for either of them. If I recall correctly, basilisk don't like dancing-star bombs, but cockatrice don't much care about them. I know I'm going to need to make Thunderbolt, Swallow, and White Honey, but if it's a basilisk, I'll need to make Golden Oriole as well...

He frowned. He didn't have as much information as he wanted, if he were to make a report. He could only imagine the look on Balidvar's face when the elderly witcher told him that "it's some kind of ornithosaur, I think, and I might know how to fight it, probably." No, he needed to know beyond a shadow of a doubt what kind of monster was lurking in the shadows of Rakald Keep. No room for error, or more than just he would die on a failed hunt this time around. No fighting it right now, he promised himself as he began to creep deeper and deeper into the keep. Just find something that tells me what it is, and then report back.

Still, no harm in taking precautionary measures: his silver sword whispered into his right hand from his back, and his crossbow, bolt already loaded, went into his left. Taking a slow, quiet breath and bearing stealth in mind, he began to creep after the trail of blood as it led off, ever deeper into the keep. Crumbling stone and rotting wood had turned from scenery into cover very quickly, and now it was getting darker, precious few motes of light illuminating the disused corridors and halls. He fought the urge to use Igni as a light source; if there really was an ornithosaur nearby, he certainly didn't want to alert them, and the blood's contrast with the stone was enough to keep him on the trail. The dead-still air was perfumed with the smell of bile and blood; clearly, that was not the mystery monster's only victim. For a moment, something buzzed in the back of his head; a word, maybe, ill-defined, and he reflexively tensed. But then it was gone, and he was free once more to focus on his task:

Now...where are you?

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

@POOHEAD189

Very well, I shall do so. Post dropping shortly.

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

I've got a post all set, but it makes a touch more sense if I post it after Avery tries to contact Aidann.

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

I'm trying. I'm trying, I swear to god. It's not easy, you ain't kidding.

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

I've got a post prepped for whenever. Was thinking I wouldn't drop it now because I posted very recently and don't want to drown other people out, but just say the word.

Lem's Stash

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The Witcher: Under the Shadow

THE PLOT TWISTENS

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

Etoile

---

Etoile really, really hated being incompetent.

Much of her life had been devoted to being as good as she could be at everything she could get her hands on, the devil take whatever it was. Single combat? She could do that. Squad support functions? Coordinating troop movements? Check. Provisioning and planning? Yep. When she was younger, simply being good at things had been an obsession. And while she'd gotten a bit less intense about it as she aged--only so much time in the day to learn while still fulfilling one's duties, after all--it still frustrated her to be measurably worse at something someone else.

It rankled her like nothing else that she'd needed to rely on aides and assistants to track magic for her. She didn't know what was wrong with her, really; it wasn't genetic, clearly, as anyone capable of magic in her family had been able to feel aether in the air quite easily and intuitively. She'd spent months of time devoted solely to researching this...defect of hers in an effort to overcome it and--yes, be more competent. Or, barring that, at least know what was wrong with her. But she'd found nothing. And then her research had been interrupted by her digging into the Nsiferum dynasty, and her subsequent arrest and escape. And, well, she hadn't exactly had a lot of time or resources to do detailed magical research since then. Being on the run tended to complicate such prospects. She'd philosophically accepted by now that she'd never be able to track magic without some kind of magitek compass to help her, but accepting it certainly didn't mean she had to like it.

And so, her mood plummeted as Pythia began to do what she'd never been able to. And then, horror of horrors, asked the rest to do the same. Yeah, Etoile, her inner critic mocked at Pythia's remark, get your bearings. You don't want to be a burden, do you? Her teeth ground together, and she leaned backwards against a tree, clenching her artificial fist behind her back to the point of hearing a creaking sound. Her neutral--if somewhat irritated, almost congenitally so--expression turned into a sullen frown, and she spoke quietly:

"I'll just follow you and watch our backs then, Sparky."

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

Rakald reminded Aidann a bit of Haern Cadwch, in a strange way, though the construction was totally different. So was the destruction, actually; where the Bear school's old keep had been abandoned and destroyed by riots before being left to the elements, Rakald Keep was a case study in long decay. The outer walls were somehow still intact, but the door had long been smashed out of its frame. Aidann tutted a bit at the disrepair. That door...the fact that it wasn't too rotted out but was smashed was a touch concerning. It was going to be a nightmare to control the place, make sure it wasn't a hotbed of monsters. Who knows how many nekkers had burrowed through the walls in that place? And it certainly didn't help that the group was loud. Very, very loud. At this rate, any monsters dwelling in the castle would know not only that they were coming, but how many were coming, and where they were going to stay. The perfect storm for the entire vanguard to be eaten.

For the barest sliver of a moment, Aidann regretted taking this contract. Yes, it paid well, and yes, there was another witcher to work with, something that he'd rarely had the dubious pleasure of. There was even a sorceress, just in case everything was well and truly going to the dogs. As contracts went, it was nearly perfect. But that nagging voice in the back of his mind kept bugging him: there are so many normal people here that won't ken what to do if and when a monster dive a' em. How're you going to keep 'em safe, Aidann? How many can you save from a divin' forktail, or a vengeful nightwraith bound to this forsaken place? Do you really think you can kill it before it takes at least a few live? Idiot. He shook it off as best he could, furious at his momentary doubt. With a sorceress and two witchers, the loss of life would be minimal in the event of a monster attack, at least compared to what it would be with only the Temerian vanguard. Still; he hoped that they wouldn't be this loud the whole time. If they were, then life would be much harder than it really needed to be.

At Balidvar's order--redundant as it was--he gave a brief "aye," and then met Morgan's eyes and nodded. Hopping off of Steam, he drew the great silver blade from his back, just to be safe. Giving it a single twirl to loosen up his wrist and and heaving a tight breath, he quietly slid through the rotting doorframe and into the vestibule.

Quiet as the grave, and dark as one too. The only light was from the overcast sun outside as it glowed sullenly through the gap where a door would ordinarily be. He'd seen no windows from outside, only scattered arrow slits, so it was likely to be just as dark in there. Grimacing, he padded silently forward, through the cracked, nigh-crumbling archway before him and into the first great hall of the keep.

If the outside was in disarray, then the inside was even more so. Great wooden tables lay smashed and rotted on the ground, perfuming the area with the stink of decay. The great central fireplace had fallen apart under its own weight and the weight of the soggy years, filled up with chunks of crumbling chimney. In the faint light that seeped through the arrow slits, he could barely see the tapestries festooning the walls, elaborate patterns crumbling into a mess of textile mush below. Stalking through the hall, he pivoted slowly on his heel as he went, absorbing everything around him. He'd forgotten to look behind him far too many times in his long life, and he had the scars to prove it. By the time he reached the ruined fireplace, he was holding his breath, eyes wide and catlike, soaking up his surroundings like a sponge, ears straining for any sound, any at all, that might betray a monster attack.

Nothing.

The floor was level and intact. The rafters holding the ceiling up were quite well-preserved. Barring a few places here and there, the walls were solid and the stone refused to crumble. All things considered? Far better than he thought it would be. With a controlled relief, he slowly let the breath out. Nothing dangerous here but mangled old trappings of opulence. Taking one last look around, he relaxed slightly, debating whether or not to return to Balidvar and let him know that the first hall was safe. Best not, he decided. There were more halls than this one in the keep. Who knew what could be lurking in them? He would search thoroughly. He didn't make a living through cutting corners.

Dispelling the relaxation, he strode to the darker door on the other end of the room, and plunged further into the depths of the keep.