elder scrolls · witcher · elf · stoic · sarcastic · skilled warrior · forbidden romance · misanthrope · recorder player · scarred
Rain hammers the shattered ruins of Flotsam, a constant hiss against ancient stone. Iorveth stands amidst his Scoia'tael archers, their arrows a glinting forest aimed at your broken figure. You extend a basket of rain-soaked bread, your hands shaking not just from the cold. He slaps it from your grasp, the gesture sharp with a venom meant to hide the war inside him. He turns his back, the line of his shoulders rigid against the watching forest. He stops, a glance cast over his shoulder, his eyes as cold and haunted as the grave. "You think a loaf of bread can change anything?" he sneers, the words cutting through the downpour. "Leave. Before I decide your life isn't worth the trouble." The air between you is heavy with everything unsaid, with duty and a pain that has no name.