RP:Recruited by the Berserker

From HollowWiki

Part of the Souls Out of Time Arc



Location: Recaptured Fort


Synopsis: Eirik meanders through Kelay forests and finds Gilwen at the recaptured fort. This time the Berserker asks for her help.


Recruited by the Berserker

The elven enclave that had resettled in Sage in the weeks and months following the war and subsequent retaking of the forest had dwindled by a few families; it was easier to return to Frostmaw and live with kin, than watch your ancestral home wither and die before your very eyes. The trees, which had been lush and green years ago, were now hollowed out with rot, and the normal vegetation and fauna was gone, leaving behind a wasteland. Small cabins flanked the fort the duergars had built, the reclaimed treehouses that once sat in the canopies now sat on the ground, used to house those that remained dedicated to truly concurring the drow and the plague that threatened to take their homes from them once more. Elves milled around the area mundanely, while soldiers patrolled the tiny village the elves had built. Outside of the fort, Gilwen stood beside a cart of goods, ranging from bolts of cloth, to wrapped wheels of cheese and other foodstuff, and flipped through a multi-paged list as if to ensure everything was accounted for. She lacked her usual leather gear, wearing instead a sage green gown of elvish design, and here mass of red hair was braided back into a waist length strand. Amidst the silvery blonde, and occasional black, head of hair, she stuck out like a sore thumb.


Eirik had been wandering for some time - lost in the foliage of Kelay-sage. Bits of dirt cling to his boots and cuffs of his woolen pants attesting to his trials and tribulations. With respect to the woods, he is not the most dexterous of creatures. Spending most of his time smashing through things; though he was trying. A weapon he had not used in some time clings to his frame. A greatsword of sorts, which carries a nasty enchantment; an infectious Life-stealing Greatsword while dressed in an usual mixture of armor. A single chain sleeve weaves up his left arm into a single plate pauldron. A silver stitched, black leather Jerkin adorns his torso and gives way to black woolen pants. There is no mixture of color this time. No blaring of a crimson cape, nor the heavy armor his legs once carried. Though Valrae’s curse had been plaguing his mind, it isn’t like it had been the past few days. Not in the slightest. The Lycan had already succumbed to those feelings and sworn his service to Umeko’s protection. Her and the rest that existed. Without any warning, and much to Eiriks dismay, a booted foot sinks into a filthy pothole of mud and gods-know-what-else. “Damnit,” he half mutters to himself out of frustration. With a sickening ‘thwack’ he twists that boot free from the suction of nature's trap and presses on. Soon, the fort is in view, and Eirik had honestly never seen this part of the forest as it once was. To him, it’s as it had always been. However, eyes finally settle upon Gilwen, standing out among the crowd. The lycan wondered how she fared, and took it upon himself to greet her in this chance meeting. “Gilwen,” he states while approaching. His voice lacking the fire of their last few meetings. Something inside him had changed. As much evident in the posture he takes, which is relaxed instead of tight and overbearing.


Gilwen was used to random interruptions, such was the life she had chosen, so when her name was called, she handed the manifest back to the traveling merchant, and turned to greet, "Eirik." She looked mildly surprised at the presence of the berserker, and her gaze swept over his figure, acknowledging the changes to his attire. A small frown nestled in the corners of her mouth, and her brows furrowed slightly as she inspected the him. "You're alright then?" She eventually inquired, her eyes settling on his face once again. "I guess I hadn't expected you to be up and about after..." After getting blasted by Valrae's spell.


Eirik comes to a full stop near the cart of goods she looked over, lazily gazing upon the items in question. Wondering what it is that she sought from it? Though he wouldn’t be nosey and instead grants an off-handed smile. Good to see that she was still alive despite their last encounter. Perhaps there is more work to be had in the future? Which reminds him of his own tasks, one that she might be able to help him with. But first the formalities. Both brows loft at the topic in question. After Valraes blast. “For the most part.” Honestly he had just bathed, but otherwise he would still have carried the scent of dirt and booze. Spending his free time burying those witches that had been killed. His gaze drifts to some far away place, reminded of the empathy he had be cursed to endure. “Spent the better part of a few days, burying them.” He doesn’t define his description of ‘them’ and leaves it unspoken. “And if it weren’t for Aarika. I’d still be drowning in a bottle.” Lords know he wanted too. “I’m glad to see you made it out of there too.” He had been too caught up in the throngs of that spell to come check up on her. Eirik gives another half frown. “Hopefully you didn’t end up injured.”


Gilwen had noticed his attention to the goods in the cart before the merchant moved on to deliver the ordered items. His talk of burying the dead, and Aarika, earned a small nod, and a slight grimace; the treatment of the witches had been disturbing and left her with a sour taste in her mouth. One witch had made it as far as Sage to seek asylum in her dedication to not only flee the camp, but to escape Larket as well; she now rested in the Fort, recuperating from not only the journey, but the traumatic treatment she had been subjected to. Gilwen wasn't going to divulge that information to Eirik however. "A few scrapes and bruises," she offered in answer to her own injuries, which had been more grievous than that, but the recovery time was minimal at best. She waved off the concern with her left hand, which prominently displayed the black, molted discoloration of her flesh that encompassed her entire hand, and was beginning to creep up her forearm; every day she woke with a new inch gained, and went to bed with another inch. The gash across her palm, made while in the Underdark, remained as well, unhealed, and gaping. "We have a merchant bring in supplies and materials. Food, tools, weapons and such. The forest doesn't provide anymore," she offered in recognition to his previous curiosity.


That far away look denotes that inner turmoil - fireworks exploding in his mind again. Eyes half close while Gilwen continues on. He nearly shakes his head to pull himself free from it. The place inside his mind where he stumbles for mere moments at a time; skipping over the actions of past deeds. Luckily for Eirik, he does not skip a beat in the conversation, but something about his demeanor eludes to the torrent swirling within his mind; Eirik had shifted stances. The Northman didn’t need Gilwen to recite the traumatic experience, he had already felt it. Through the daily lives of twenty six different witches. Through every ounce of their pain and suffering. At their love and loss. At the agony of the torture he had provided. Attention flicks back to Gilwen, edging out Valrae and the curse. Even though he didn’t personally know this elf, he had fought and bled with her, making Gilwen a sister of battle. She had a certain level of respect that others lacked in his mind. The forest doesn’t provide anymore? A finger points to the wound she still carried on the palm of her hand. “That normal?” To carry a wound like that around, still gaping? Beyond just her wound he did have a purpose to his discussion. “It doesn’t look well,” he states, amused that she would just brush off such things. “I’m actually glad I ran into you.” His mind drifts to Venturil. “How would you feel about helping my clan take out a coven of witches, who have actually been torturing children?” The way he says it implies that these were actually bad people. “These ones aren’t like the ones in Larket.” His gaze shifts to the floor.


Gilwen had noticed the subtle shift in Eirik's gaze, in the hooded set of his eyes, and knew he battled against something privately; being a leader to hundreds, as well as a healer, had gifted her with a six sense to know when someone wasn't quite alright. She didn't pry, however. The question regarding the normality of her hand was answered with a quick shake of her head, and she lifted it, to gaze at her palm as if inspecting it for the first time. "Aetherial and I both think that it's connected with the plague on the forest. It began after we recovered the diadem." And the diadem had been tainted with the same dark magic that Tiphareth had cursed Sage with. When he spoke again of hunting witches, she fixed him with a narrowed stare, her hand lowering to her side once more. "Not innocent then?" She asked pointedly, watching him for a moment longer before sighing, acquiescing. "Venturil then? When would you be looking to move out?"


Eirik had spent so much time dwelling on the emotions of others the last three days that he’d happily go the rest of his life without. To his eternal dismay, that will never happen. And the Berserker will never be the same again. His inner hatred had been curbed. Where he could once pick up that rage and use it as fuel to fight, he could no longer do. A berserker no more. Eyes move to look around the fort, grasping at an anchor to keep his mind in this conversation, and not on those witches. To answer her further, he attempts at direct eye contact. “These ones have been enslaving children and marking them with dark magic. Raphaline and I found them hiding out in the Venturil plains, and only by random chance.” He remembered the carcass littered scene they stumbled upon. The thought still makes him sick. “We found a few bodies on display, and the signs of struggle.” He points to his nose, “Followed their trail and that’s how we found them.” He fails to mention that he had saved a child named Rachel. Which his efforts were basically wasted. She too had died. “I’m planning on leaving next week with a few others. We’ve been preparing for months.” Months being the indication he gave for how difficult of a task this would be. Beyond this, there is no indication of a lie within his posture or tone of voice.


Gilwen listened to his words, and nodded periodically throughout in simple acknowledgement. With the time table provided, a few mental calculations were made before a final nod was given. "Next week then. Hopefully that'll give me enough time to get my hand in order. Hopefully." Her ties with nature had been severed since the curse had taken root; in addition to not being able to heal others, or control nature, she could also no longer control any movement of her fingers, and the ability to move her wrist was slowing fading as well. Her hand was essentially dead. "Send me the location and time for the rendezvous, and I'll be there."


Eirik gives a firm nod to Gilwen, “We are meeting at my clan Barracks in Xalious. As for the exact time, I can send you a letter with further details, when the last bit of its logistics are put into place.” It’s always trouble trying to organize a warband. Getting people to arrive on time is always such a hassle. As for her hand his visage goes stern, “I hope so.” She would most definitely need that hand against these witches. Who weren’t just witches. “Thanks again Gilwen.” He doesn’t really have anything further to add other than, “If you need any more help, I can be found at that barracks as well. I live out there.” He is being totally serious. With one final look Eirik turns to head away from the fortress, “Ancestors guide you,” his form of a farewell.