RP:Witches Bane

Part of the Larketian Fault Lines Arc

Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc

Location: Labor camp in the forest

Synopsis: Valrae, innocently tries to enter the camp and deliver food and causes a scene. Instead she is road blocked by guards and must enter without the food. Eirik is behind her in line, and the two, informally meet. That is until, of course, they formally introduce themselves. Things do not go well. Eirik takes liberties of high stress. Valrae wants to save her friends. A fight breaks out, Valrae flees, and Eirik drags an old crone into a tent for "questioning."

Witches Bane

Valrae is arguing with the guards. The small flow of traffic that leads in and out of the camp has come to a halt. Afternoon has settled in and shadows stretch long over the dusty ground. Some of the laborers have started shuffling to the barracks to churn up cooking fires and settle into the strictly enforced curfew. Most of the people working and living in the camp have a dirty, hungry look about them. Even the children, who shuffle around their mothers skirts or trail tiredly after fathers, work here. They fetch water or tend the laundry instead of finding ways to play or make trouble. Valrae raises her voice, her hands twitching at her sides, as she glares at the scowling guard. She's careful not make any sudden movements with her arms, lest they have any reason to accuse her of any malicious witchcraft. Workers are casting nervous glances her way now, some of those in line crane their neck to get a better look at the scene she's making. The guard crosses his arms. "It's bread you great idiot," She shouts, moving now. The witch snatches a loaf of bread from the basket another guard is holding and she rips it in half. "Where is the harm in bringing in food?" She asks incredulously. "Ma'am," He drawls the word sarcastically, "The crown very generously provides all the food rations the camp needs." He takes the two torn pieces of bread from her hands and places them back in her basket. "It's easier to make sure no one is sneaking in contraband," The guard who had been holding the basket starts to walk away, taking Val's food supplies with him to the tower that still stood. "Hey, that's mi-" The remaining guard clears his throat, holding an arm out to stop her from following. "You're holding the line," Valrae balks at the man. "This is ridiculous, you've let others in with food supplies before!" The guard's eyes narrow. "They weren't witches though, were they?" Yet another guard chimes in, "Aye, we don't accept anything from your kind. You'll be sneakin' herbs and other witch hoopla in if we turn our backs. You lot would just as soon curse us as eat."

Eirik is amidst the crowd who have gathered behind Valrae in line -- waiting impatiently to enter the labor camp. Brynna, the Steel Collectives healer, sits atop a carriage drawn by horses, furiously eyeing the hold up. An un-gloved hand reaches to tap on the seat next to her. "Brynna, give it a rest. The wagon of food and supplies will get in there sooner or later." The guards had already been notified of the Northmans intent to sweeten the deal. To get others to cooperate. In his mind it was a win-win deal. Henry, another member of the collective, who sits next to Brynna twists to face his commander. "Look, I know you've asked me along Eirik, but we need to get this into the camp quickly." The lycan gives a huff of acceptance. Henry is right. Pilar and the entire camp were expecting the extra stipend of food. Admittedly, he didn't want to give it up. You win some, you lose some. Leather boots beat upon the worn down path, carrying the berserker to the commotion Valrae is causing. "Look," he settles his eyes directly on Valrae. "Do you mind moving off to the side to have this argument? Let them search it or taste it themselves if there is such an issue. But I need to get this," A thumb flicks up and points to his horse drawn carriage, "Inside the camp." He was trying to be as forthcoming as possible, though mildly irritated.

Valrae 's attention is pulled away from the handful of guards who have gathered to handle this situation. She turns warily, eyeing him with annoyance. "I'm sorry?" Her hair is pushed away from her face with artfully placed pins, the mass of golden tresses spilling over her shoulder in lengthy waves. Above the arch of her brow is the yellow and blue mark of a healing bruise. Her eyes are wide and lined with kohl, her lashes long and sooty, and her busted lip painted red. She had covered the marks earned from the night on SS Turnt to the best of her ability without adding a glamour spell, even if it would save her vanity. The cloak she'd donned to protect herself from the chill that the fall wind carried was as dark as a midnight sky. The dress she wore underneath simple but stylish, dyed the same dark blue tones and threaded with gold. Tourmaline and opals dripped from long golden chains around her throat, sparkled like tiny sunburst in the slanted sunlight. "I-..." She blinks at him, his face picking at some distant memory that evades her. "Do I know you...?" She asks, food and momentarily forgotten. Her eyes narrow as she searches her memory for a familiar stranger. She's thinking of the night of the Cenril election suddenly, something she has been avoiding, but before she can ask a guard clears his throat. The witch turns back to Eirik to glare at the guards. "Fine! Keep the damned food..." She nods to Eirik before pushing through to the camp, calling over her shoulder, "I poisoned it anyway!" The guard who had been eating her bread chokes.

Eirik raises a thick brow, stretching the veneer of a scar upon his features in terrible ways - that nasty mark had been the topic of conversation with many people. It's not a flattering mark, crossing from his forehead, over his nose and down his cheek. Eiriks lifeless silver eyes flick up and down Valrae's frame, curious what she carried. What's her deal? Though many might call her a knockout of a looker, even with those bruises, the physical aspect of her character goes unnoticed by the witch killer. Why were the guards so hesitant to let her through? The lycan continues to stand there, dressed up for his games of war; the Northman ever so serious. A simplistic long sword with a short pommel dangles from one hip, via the means of a leather baldric. From his other, an ice enchanted tomahawk. As per usual blacks and silvers drape over his frame, whilst a hodge-podge of armor protects the man. Armored sleeves work their way up both arms, weaving into a red cloak that drapes halfway down his back and ties into a red sash at his waist. Like her, he too carries grim reminders of that fateful battle in Cenril. "I don't think we've had the pleasure," Eirik wanted to say more, but instead twists his attention to the guards and then waves Brynna to drag the cart too; to be honest his reputation around here often preceded him. Hanna's murderer, however, is a little more curious about who this person was. His thought process is interrupted at the sudden announcement of what she had done to the food. Here, we go. "Miss," witch lady. He wanted to scream as Brynna passed. "Things work out better in the end, if you chose to not be so toxic." Eirik had half a mind to pull her into one of his investigations.

Valrae only spares him a dry look tossed over her shoulder. Toxic. Maybe he wouldn't be so quick to say so if it were -his- people being thrown in labor camps! His scarred face seemed to draw little attention from her, her emerald eyes never lingering overly long on any particular feature of the man save his weaponry. But she leaves him and his company to greet the workers in any event. It would be that Valrae's own reputation proceeded her as well as she enters the camp. Most of the witches stop tending their work and afternoon rituals to welcome her. She's a bit of a local leader, especially to the witches who have bedded down and refused to leave for safer lands. Most witches suspect she works closely with the rebellion, that she has connections with The Red Witch and Tychus themselves, and they would whisper her name when the tell romantic versions of protests and other political movements. None have any idea how deep her involvement actually is though. Two of the older ladies, crones, leave the fire they tend to share news with her. Valrae and the women talk in hushed tones, the younger witch casting curious glances toward Eirik and his cart as they begin to unload their supplies. Mab, the silver haired crone with a crooked back and even more twisted walking stick, is telling Val about how the man with the scar graciously offered food when Pilar told him how scarce it was in the camp lately. This prompts her to leave the elders and reintroduce herself. The witch clears her throat. "Hi," She smiles suddenly, tilting her head and offering out her hand. "I'm Valrae," Something about him is still pulling at her memories. Maybe if she could get a name.

Eirik motions for a few of the guards to follow him -- they knew exactly what he was doing; the royals work. Investigating. It is always a surprise to see this man turn grim once those he had been interviewing got the opportunity to see the devil written upon his features. It's no secret that he hated witches - he didn't just dislike them - he preferred the company of filthy sewer rats to witches. This fake etiquette of his is entirely wasted on such lower class, and is only a front to give people the perception of his 'good' intentions. None of which are true. And this stranger, is pushing buttons to say the least. She didn't care about the offered advise, and continued about her task. "Henry," Eirik points to Valrae, and the rogeuish fellow hops down from the cart to tail his commander. They had a few things to discuss, right here in the open, whether she liked it or not. The guards give a nod, who rather liked Eirik, and his exploits of past note. No matter how bleak this might look, he had no intention of arresting her. Unless she presented the opportunity. However, it seems that his target has come back to him, to reintroduce herself. She might offhandedly notice the few larketian officers who strolled behind him as well. "Valrae?" He gives a pause to mull the name over. Had he seen that name on the registry? "What's the rush today?" The northman offers neither his hand or his name in response. This sudden twist of events might give her a pause.

Valrae has no idea how close to danger she's treading. Her dark eyes flick to the officers behind Eirik and her smile fades. He doesn't take her hand, so she drops it. "Usually," She begins, "When someone introduces themselves, the polite thing to do is return the formality." The witch is getting Authority vibes and while this has effectively put her back up, so to speak, she refuses to be cowed. Her name would be on no registry, but it wouldn't matter. She was a well known witch by guard and queen a like. Her refusal to sign one was more of an insult to the crown than any real attempt at keeping herself hidden. Her eyes narrow again. "There is no rush," She answers anyway, not particularly sure why. "I'm just trying to feed my people." Val crosses her arms. "I'm not really sure what that should be such a problem, so maybe you're asking the wrong people the wrong questions." She pushes her hair back, agitated.

Eirik gives Valrae a nod of understanding. The things she spoke of were true - that is normal procedures. Eirik isn't normal. The guards keep a healthy distance from Valrae, including Henry, but the Lycan has no fear. "Since you are dead-set, on learning my name, I will tell you, who I am." This was it, the moment when she might connect the dots. Eirik locks both hands behind his back and physically walks a slow circle around her, taking note of the things he can visibly see. "I am the last thing this camp wants, or needs." He does not stop his pacing, whether she turns to follow him or not. "No Larketian, though I was once exiled." He is still giving her a speech watching that reaction of hers. "Put on trial, for the killing of Hanna, who in reality, made a very bad choice in front of the king" He gives a long pause "and my name, is Eirik." Words are naught more than a dull whisper, he knew what his name meant, and what trouble it would cause around the camp. "I'm here to search for the root of Larketian witch problems. The people who burned the effigies. Those responsible for the current curse on children. " Eirik would not stop until he found them. "So I mean to tell you Valrae, that now we've met. I will remember you." He is always watching. He idly waves of the guards, and waves for Henry to follow him back to the cart. "I have work to do this night. Please tread softly." She was injured, he was injured, both knew it would not be a good choice to start a fight this night.

Valrae is still. As Eirik circles her, hunter and the hunted, the witch remains as still as death. Her back straight, her shoulders rigid with tension, her fists clenched so tightly at her sides that her nails drew blood. His words cut into her, jarred memories that she'd hidden away from her own heart. Valrae knew, she knew the moment he uttered the word exile who the man that stalked her was. He was the same man that had haunted her dreams, waking and in sleep, alongside the friend he felled for crimes that Valrae herself committed. Rage rolls through her, heady enough to buckle her knees if she let it but she remains standing. She's forgotten to breathe but even now, as her lungs scream, her throat is closing. Her vision tunnels, focuses in on the north man as he walks away from her. Could she take him? He seemed injured enough... But she was still bruised and sore and bone weary from the struggle that had transpired on the ship in Cenril. Calling forth a barrier that covered all of Cenril had left her feeling drained and disconnected with her magic. No, she was helpless now. Even if she managed a blow, the guards were better armed and more numerous than she or any witch in camp. No, Valrae couldn't fight Eirik physically, so she would trade a verbal blow instead. "I'm sure your ridiculous king has had ample time to ask Hanna how guilty she was now," The young, impetuous and wildly reckless witch spits her words like venom at his back. She has unwisely and callously alluded to her knowledge of the king's assassination attempt before turning her own to storm out of the camp.

Eirik turns to face Valrae, the writings of a legitimate smile besmirches his visage. He had gotten a rise. "Oh Valrae," he shakes his head. "Macon is not my King. He is the ruler of this place, whether you like that or not." Eirik had heard the rumors, but gives them no thought. "I seek to put my skills to the test." Larket merely allows it. The Northman does not care who sees this. Those eyes of his reigned cold in his skull. He'd call the very fury of the larketian guard, Henry and Brynna down on this woman. This insolent piece of trash. "But I must admit, for that, your lovely group of friends," he points, "Will be the first I question." He'd take great pleasure in it. Eirik would forgo all the agony of his injuries for another good fight. As barbaric as that might seem, he is a Berserker, and there is nothing that he loves more than a gruesome fight. He had no intention of backing down and his words carried absolute truth. He had warned her to tread softly. Eirik stood, waiting for her to say something else. Truth is, at this very moment, it would be best for her to move along.

Valrae halts, turning to face Eirik once more. "If he's no king to you, why do you follow him?" The anger is still there, a burning fist clenched around her heart that fills her chest with bitter black smoke, but her face is drained of it. She looks small and human now, her eyes wide and genuine and almost pleading. "Why do you cling to the curtails or do the dirty work of tyrant if his word holds no power over you?" She lifts her hands, the movement innocent enough but something that still has other guards reaching for weapons. "Unless you honestly believe being a witch is a crime worthy of all this punishment?" Her voice has risen, loud enough that the other guards can hear it though her dark eyes never move away from Eirik. "No one of us have any choice in the way we are born. It's our actions that define us, not a religion or a class or something that simply was from birth. Tell me who is truly dangerous here, who has more power and the opportunity to abuse it?" She gestures to Eirik and the guard. "Ask yourself who the real monsters are." Her eyes turn to the group of witches Eirik has pointed out. Her heart breaks at the terrified looks cast on their dirty and tired faces. She moves again, placing her body between them, and lifts her chin. "If you want to hurt them, you'll first go through me."

Eirik flat out laughs at Valrae's response. It's not a small chuckle, but a boisterous, full bellied, disrespectful action. "I have no opinion on whether Macon is a Tyrant or not. I only know he is the king of Larket. It is treason to abandon. I do not cling to him. Dear, I kill witches wherever I go." Venturil, Kelay, Larket. Doesn't matter. Each one of them filthy and he harbored these opinions long before larket even thought to fart out such concepts. He wouldn't give her a choice. Valrae had never thought why, these people were half starved? Food is a powerful motivator, but they also lacked the strength to truly fight back. It would be Valrae versus the guards. "With pleasure, Valrae." The Berserker draws both weapons, which clank against each-other to usher in the assault that would come to her. "Let's see if you really have the courage to face a monster." Oh yes, that is what she faced now. "Guards, kill her, and seize her friends!" Its the only thing Eirik screams before watching the alarms sound. Brynna shakes her head, knowing exactly what Eirik is doing, grabbing her spear and shield from the cart. Henry, like Brynna drops from the cart as well. Arrows, light up the sky in response, aimed for Valrae, and company. Guards march towards this woman, all their weapons flying from their sheathes. She had best run or be overwhelmed by numbers. Her words would be in vain this night. The Lycan himself, however, begins the charge towards this witch. He would be upon her soon enough.

The color drained from Valrae's face. She scarcely had time to shout at the others behind her before arrows were flying her way. On instinct, her arm flies above her head and a spell is pushed from her lips. The arrows bounce around her harmlessly, striking a barrier that gleams with each blow just before they could reach her. As much as she wanted to protect the people here, Valrae didn't have the strength to fight this fight alone. She's moved, cloak and skirts flying in her wake, running from the Northman's path and toward the exit. She shouts another spell and a wall of cerulean fire erupts behind her. The old crone Val had been talking to, Mab, was using her old cane to smack at a hesitant guard. She cursed wickedly at him as he struggled to grip the old woman without hurting her. An older, more cruel guard wastes little time worrying about harming her and uses the pommel of his sword against the crown of her head. Screams echoed around the camp as workers fled or fought for the small group the guards were trying to apprehend. Valrae calls the name of her hell-stallion and the great beast springs from the shadows. With practiced grace, the Valrae flings her body onto her mount. Her golden hair flies behind her with the fire of Fury's escape, his hooves leaving Us of flame burning in his wake. She braves a glance over her shoulder as the gates fly past and screams echo in her heart.

In an instant, Valrae had summoned power to protect the group, and successfully, sending that volley of arrows to the ground around. Beyond the spell she had cast, a fight interrupts among the people. Guards begin quelling the few who would stand up to their advances. This does not take long. Eirik gives a heave of exasperated breath while their witch makes her escape, filling his stinging lungs with oxygen. Truly who knows how far he would have made it this night? Eventually, the Lycan sheathes both weapons. Brynna, Henry and a few others work to put the fires out. Valrae had no idea of the monster she was leaving her people too. He had obviously taken liberties with the guards, baiting them into attack by screaming about in the witches camp. Thats the way he liked it, filled with high tension. People often forgot their duty in its wake. Soon, the small riot that started is quelled. The old crone is snatched up by Eirik and dragged off to receive a formal variant of torture. Sooner or later, they would all break. This would be the first of -many-. It's only now that Eirik notices he had passed over a clue that Valrae had offhandedly given him. Macons death.