Post by Firelizard on Feb 1, 2024 21:22:24 GMT
Trees came into and out of focus, casting shade and shrubbery wherever their roots lazily stretched. Wildlife of all and any sorts raced both above and below, threading their way through life and in and amongst the hooves of Roach, the almond colored mount of one Geralt of Rivia. If squirrels scampering below and scraping against the mare’s feet bothered her, she did not show it. Except if one were to parse the layered snorts of exertion as she rode along the smooth cobblestones of Loch Modan’s roadways and find the grunts of annoyance dropped in from time to time. The ashen haired Witcher who directed her had his attention grabbed from above and beyond the treeline, leaving no room or span for the antics going on at hoof level. His eyes widened, a once daily sight that used to register but a glance raising his brow as he passed it.
“Don’t see that everyday, Roach. Or well…not anymore, at least.”
Three dwarven heads of stone dominated the skyline, white froth and thousands of pounds of water spewing from their open maws. The walls of well crafted stone that these not to scale visages lay attached to stood hundreds of feet tall, almost as impressive as the Ironforge Mountain that dwarfed it from off in the distance. A battle that had been waged for centuries above the notice of the inhabitants of Loch Modan occurred, pressure and water from the once average sized body of water that had merited Stonewrought Dam’s construction clashing against magic and incredibly well crafted engineering. The sound of water crashing down below could even be heard at the sizable distance Geralt found himself from the dam itself, most likely deafening anyone who hoped to enjoy the sights at a more neck aching distance.
Geralt finally managed to tear his gaze away from the water and stone to his left, knocked out of his architecturally voyeuristic trance by another impressive feat of construction on the right. One of the many mountains that dominated the rolling hills of Loch Modan sat unmolested by water or random passerby, its great and imposing heights occupied by a veritable fortress carved into its granite face. Battlements and walls adorned with stone-like teeth and rolling fog jutted out from a central castle nestled in the bosom of the mountain itself. Kaer Morhen, an ancient Elven fortress that had occupied these lands well before the Stonewrought Dam had been constructed by unknown ancestors or magical sources. And well before any of the other Elven structures that were dotted throughout the region, for that matter. It had been Geralt’s home for decades before he had decided to stretch his legs and bloody his silver sword with monsters for far too little coin. There were some good memories to be had, even overshadowed and marred as they were by pain and hardship that formed the foundation of any good Witcher.
Flashes of misery and memories of what had gone before dissipated as Geralt approached the precisely crafted outer walls. Kaer Morhen had obviously seen better days than the present, moss and all manner of excrement, bird based and otherwise, splattering the stone with none too appealing hues of brown and green. Geralt looked off to his sides as Roach’s hooves smacked against the ancient wood of a lowered gate. His eyes inspected the moat below the lowered ramparts, empty of the water that had once made it an imposing if slightly less spectacular rendition of the gargantuan loch that dominated the area. What had once been seaweed and other aquatic plant life had been exchanged for colorful flowers and sharpened nettles. Vines snaked their way throughout this earthen display, mingling with the bones of any monster or human dumb enough to fall in. It was hard to tell if they had ended their journey in a watery or less watery grave, though the ancient rust adorning the long lost chestplates and other pieces of armor down below tilted any estimated guess in the former’s direction.
“What, no welcome party? Vesemir must be having one hell of a nap.”
Geralt spoke into the cavernous depths of the elven fortress, letting his voice carry as Roach passed from underneath the keep’s portcullis and into the grounds beyond. Overgrowth marred the features of the entrance just as badly as it had the dried out moat at Geralt’s back. A makeshift crane and wooden posts adorned one side of the grounds, producing a small wince from the Witcher as he remembered the many falls he had taken trying to cross them. On the other side of the grounds lay a training area, bereft of the overgrowth that covered much of Kaer Morhen. A finely kept and roped off area filled with a variety of weapons and equipment occupied it. The smell of oil and leather filled Geralt’s nostrils, assaulting his senses in conjunction with the glaring light reflecting off of the well polished metal implements of death and into his line of sight. It was clear that the same priorities of upkeep and maintenance for the School of the Wolf had not changed. The right ones to have, if anyone were to ask Geralt what he thought. The Witcher looked around for anyone who might, his yellow hued eyes scanning intently for any signs of life in his old home.
“Don’t see that everyday, Roach. Or well…not anymore, at least.”
Three dwarven heads of stone dominated the skyline, white froth and thousands of pounds of water spewing from their open maws. The walls of well crafted stone that these not to scale visages lay attached to stood hundreds of feet tall, almost as impressive as the Ironforge Mountain that dwarfed it from off in the distance. A battle that had been waged for centuries above the notice of the inhabitants of Loch Modan occurred, pressure and water from the once average sized body of water that had merited Stonewrought Dam’s construction clashing against magic and incredibly well crafted engineering. The sound of water crashing down below could even be heard at the sizable distance Geralt found himself from the dam itself, most likely deafening anyone who hoped to enjoy the sights at a more neck aching distance.
Geralt finally managed to tear his gaze away from the water and stone to his left, knocked out of his architecturally voyeuristic trance by another impressive feat of construction on the right. One of the many mountains that dominated the rolling hills of Loch Modan sat unmolested by water or random passerby, its great and imposing heights occupied by a veritable fortress carved into its granite face. Battlements and walls adorned with stone-like teeth and rolling fog jutted out from a central castle nestled in the bosom of the mountain itself. Kaer Morhen, an ancient Elven fortress that had occupied these lands well before the Stonewrought Dam had been constructed by unknown ancestors or magical sources. And well before any of the other Elven structures that were dotted throughout the region, for that matter. It had been Geralt’s home for decades before he had decided to stretch his legs and bloody his silver sword with monsters for far too little coin. There were some good memories to be had, even overshadowed and marred as they were by pain and hardship that formed the foundation of any good Witcher.
Flashes of misery and memories of what had gone before dissipated as Geralt approached the precisely crafted outer walls. Kaer Morhen had obviously seen better days than the present, moss and all manner of excrement, bird based and otherwise, splattering the stone with none too appealing hues of brown and green. Geralt looked off to his sides as Roach’s hooves smacked against the ancient wood of a lowered gate. His eyes inspected the moat below the lowered ramparts, empty of the water that had once made it an imposing if slightly less spectacular rendition of the gargantuan loch that dominated the area. What had once been seaweed and other aquatic plant life had been exchanged for colorful flowers and sharpened nettles. Vines snaked their way throughout this earthen display, mingling with the bones of any monster or human dumb enough to fall in. It was hard to tell if they had ended their journey in a watery or less watery grave, though the ancient rust adorning the long lost chestplates and other pieces of armor down below tilted any estimated guess in the former’s direction.
“What, no welcome party? Vesemir must be having one hell of a nap.”
Geralt spoke into the cavernous depths of the elven fortress, letting his voice carry as Roach passed from underneath the keep’s portcullis and into the grounds beyond. Overgrowth marred the features of the entrance just as badly as it had the dried out moat at Geralt’s back. A makeshift crane and wooden posts adorned one side of the grounds, producing a small wince from the Witcher as he remembered the many falls he had taken trying to cross them. On the other side of the grounds lay a training area, bereft of the overgrowth that covered much of Kaer Morhen. A finely kept and roped off area filled with a variety of weapons and equipment occupied it. The smell of oil and leather filled Geralt’s nostrils, assaulting his senses in conjunction with the glaring light reflecting off of the well polished metal implements of death and into his line of sight. It was clear that the same priorities of upkeep and maintenance for the School of the Wolf had not changed. The right ones to have, if anyone were to ask Geralt what he thought. The Witcher looked around for anyone who might, his yellow hued eyes scanning intently for any signs of life in his old home.
