Devil of the Valley: StitchesDyaebl sat in the river water, trying to scrub off the blood without interacting with stiches Iorveth just gave him. A very poor meeting, with a very nasty sorceress. And then a very lucky fainting at the feet of the commander.
Much like planned, he followed Philippa’s lover to Oxenfurt, rummaged through any physical papers young woman had, and was about to approach her with questions, when he felt the nasty tingling behind his fake eye. That was a simple charm worked.
He backtracked, walked in circles, stood in spots, but managed to pinpoint the spot. A door that wasn’t there. Dyaebl looked up the wall, in search of windows, or anything he could get through really, and spotted her. Philippa herself. She was looking right at him too.
She cast a spell, he jumped out of the way, she screamed at the three patrolling Order of Flaming Rose members, yelling something incoherent, and as Dyaebl turned to new threat – goddamn spear landed in a slash on him. Who slashes with sp
Devil of the Valley: StalkersDyaebl watched Toruviel move through the forest like a startled shadow. If you didn’t keep your eyes right on her, the next moment you lost her. A doe flickers there, a rabbit hops here, but no elven woman in sight. It was a talent he lacked, but then, if one hid from humans, it wasn’t all that hard.
Toruviel hid from something else, and he wanted to know what it was before approaching her. So he did his best to keep up, make no noise, and consider her angles, in case they could help him predict the stalker path.
Elf stopped by a tall tree, one in hundreds out here, really. The only difference between here, and over there was hidden up high, in the branches. Dyaebl watched her climb, memorizing the steps, yet hoping he won’t have to follow up. Tree shelters gave him the wrong kind of peace of mind. And right now he couldn’t trust himself to start moving again, if he stopped. He was tired, and this whole war nonsense was driving him insane. Too many died. Too man
Dyaebl: Iorveth, The FollowingDyaebl followed Iorveth with only his hair to cover his damned eye a bit. Elves didn’t much care for who he was, as long as they could tell he’s an elf too. So he couldn't pull up his hood. Some stared anyway. Maybe because this crazy elf couldn’t help humming some stupid tune under his nose. Maybe because he was carrying a giant dead deer over his shoulders.
Iorveth was leading his men to… well, wherever the hell he was leading them. There were some women who weren’t soldiers here too, so he picked up strays. Possibly a safe, or safer place then.
“How much further, dammit, my feet are killing me.” – one elf complained.
“Be glad your neck isn’t killing you instead, in some nice tight noose.” – The other responded.
He passed a woman with possibly her daughter, a small waif, messy face from all the berries she managed to scavenge. She looked up at him, eyes wide, green, but not worried. She wrinkled her nose looking