Later that night, Svanrige Tuirseach stared up at the stars. He had wrapped a bear fur cloak tightly around him. He held a goblet filled to the brim with mead in his hands. Two bottles filled with the golden liquid rested next to him on the railing.
Svanrige had relocated to one of the courtyards of Kaer Trolde following the events of the feast and what came afterwards. While he hadn't paid attention to which courtyard he had meandered to, he was certain it was one that had the castle forge nestled in a corner, somewhere.
He finished draining his cup and shivered, violently. Svanrige spat a curse and hastily refilled his goblet with sweet mead. Damn all the gods, why did the cold refuse to release its grip on his bones?
It had been hours since that man, that monster, that thing had appeared in Kaer Trolde's feast hall. If he had to guess, Svanrige would say it was close to dawn that midnight. He quaffed more mead, hoping that the warmth of the brew would be enough to shake the chill.
That damned thing! He could feel it in his teeth. Svanrige spat over the edge in disgust. Accursed witchcraft, damned conjury! Then he drank more mead.
After one of the two bottles were drained, Svanrige was feeling a flush on his cheeks and some warmth in his gut. The chill still lingered however. With another bottle down, Svanrige was now sure that he hadn't felt this way since the aftermath of his first real raid on the mainland. Every warrior had that one battle that marked the transition from clean-cheeked, snot dripping hindrance to a full-fledged warrior, a true battle brother to his fellow crew.
This chill felt like the shakes from that battle, something that he couldn't fight off but just endure until it passed from him.
Svanrige disliked it immensely, but he would bear it with the help of as much mead as was in the second bottle. He reached for the cloudy glass bottle with his free hand and, in a cruel joke of the gods, grabbed the bottle wrong.
He watched in muted horror as it tipped forward and fell off the crenelation he had placed it on, down down down towards the sea far below…
Until a gauntleted hand appeared out of thin air to stop the fall.
Svanrige felt a muffled whump as the air next to him was displaced. His hair was tousled slightly and the damned chill came back with a fury that robbed him of the mead-warmth instantly.
Svanrige focused his gaze on the bottle, and dared not to look up from it.
"Quite the drop, you should be more careful." A raspy voice chided him. Svanrige was very cold once again.
Svanrige felt like he had been locked in an unseen stockade because he could not bring himself to look over to the thing that had the gall to call itself a man. So his gaze remained in the bottle of ale and the black gauntlet that held it.
The bottle was moved back to the stone banister from whence it had toppled from and placed down next to its empty twin with a clink of glass against granite. Then he felt the stockade unlock from around his neck and Svanrige could move his head again.
He looked over at the being that stood next to him and inwardly qualed in fear. The half shadowed face, the visible skin with its corpse like pallor and the burning embers that served as this thing's eyes. Those accursed eyes were looking at him. Svanrige wanted to turn around and sprint back into the castle, to escape this fucking spirit. He wanted it desperately, like a sailor wants a good fuck after a long sea voyage.
But then Svanrige remembered himself and so he greeted the entity with confidence he didn't have.
"Bah, it was the wind more than me." He jested and to prove, to himself, that he wasn't fearing for his life and soul in this moment, he uncorked the bottle and took a long draught of the mead inside.
"Of course, what else could it have been but the wind?" The entity said, shadow covered lips twisting into a smirk.
There was the sound of cloth rustling against itself as this entity, Talion as it had named itself, walked behind Svanrige to his other side. The armored clad entity rested its hands on the banister and looked down at the port city below.
"I don't believe we've had the opportunity to be introduced." This Talion said to him.
"No, we haven't." Svanrige calmly replied, though he certainly felt no calm. "But you are called Talion, that much I do know."
It irked Svanrige something fierce to have been excluded from the talks his father had held with Talion earlier, after the black cloaked man had appeared in the feast hall of Kaer Trolde and called in the debt owed to him by Jarl Harald. Talion wanted to speak with the king of these lands about matters he did not divulge in open court.
Jarl Harald had been oathbound to bring the 'man' to his father and secure Talion an audience with the king. Others would call that a mere pittance repayal for the boon Talion had done for Clan Tordarroch in slaying the ice giant that had plagued the clan for moons. Svanrige was not one of those others however. This entity was after something, something unknown. Svanrige hated unknowns.
"No," Talion agreed, "But you are Svanrige Tuirseach, heir to your father and his crown. I have been told of you."
"I am heir only to the leadership of Clan Tuirseach. The crown does not fall to me after my father's death, there must be a vote first." Svanrige stifled the bitterness he felt with another draught of ale. His father grew older by the day and yet he made no moves to bring his eldest son into his confidence or to instruct him in the guidance of kingship. King Bran remained, as he had been for so many years, that Svanrige not be brought into the business of rulership until after his death and Svanrige's own election to the crown.
Svanrige loved his father but King Bran's insistence on absolute adherence to Skelligan tradition grated on Svanrige to no end.
"An unusual practice. One that I have not heard of in my own lands." Talion admitted, not bothering to look up at Svanrige as he spoke. His burning gaze content to remain fixed on the city below.
"Yes, it seems that only Skellige has failed to move with the times. On the continent, the kingdoms have long since moved past the way we make kings and look what it has given them. Might and wealth beyond what Skellige will ever be capable of." Svanrige bemoaned. This was a belief close to his heart, that Skellige must be changed in order to remain free.
The feuding clans must be brought to heel and made to obey the king in all matters so that peace could rule over the isles and its people prosper. The raiders and huscarls and sailors of all the isles were made to obey the orders of one man alone, so that Skellige's enemies would never dare test her in a contest of arms. His father saw no issue with the way things were, that tradition be obeyed because that was the way things had always been done. Svanrige's beliefs had caused many quarrels between the two.
"Have those on this continent you speak of moved against Skellige?" Talion asked, obviously fishing for information. Svanrige snorted in grim amusement before responding.
"Of course. We've been fighting the Black Ones since I was a lad, though before they came north the tales said we warred on occasion against Redania and Temeria, with a couple of the kingdoms in between those fights."
"Those who have joined me have spoken about this Nilfgaard before, but it is a place unknown to me." Talion said.
Svanrige drank again. "Well that would make sense, why would a wraith of Morhogg care about the kingdoms of man?"
Now this Talion looked over at Svanrige, and he almost regretted the probing words. Almost.
"That is the tale that has spread among the warriors of Undvik following my fight against the giant that plagued them." Talion said. "And who am I to dictate the beliefs of others?"
The burning coals stared into Svanrige, and he felt very cold again. "Do you think I am one of this Morhogg's wraiths?"
Svanrige smiled tightly and ignored the sweat-soaked shirt collar pressing against his neck. "In Clan Tuirseach we are properly taught that the true Wraiths of Morhogg are the damned servants of Morhogg and as such are unable to anything but groan when they ride on the night sky. Who knows what the rubes of Undvik are taught by half drunk fishermen instead of a trained druid as is proper."
"Hmm. we shall see." Talion straightened up and climbed up onto the banister. "This was an informative talk Prince Svanrige, we shall have to do it again."
Then the armored man leaned forward and fell down towards the dark sea far below.
Before Svanrige had the chance to shout in alarm at the actions of his uncle's admitted guest, this Talion melted into black smoke which then flew towards the other side of Kaer Trolde, crossing the gorge that separated them in a matter of moments.
Svanrige stared in complete befuddlement at what he had seen. Then he looked down at the nearly empty ale bottle in his hand and came to a conclusion. Two in fact.
One, he needed more mead at once.
Two, this could be thought about tomorrow.
Once Svanrige had recovered from the stupor he had drank himself into after his conversation with Talion, and sufficiently chastised himself for speaking far too much to a complete stranger, Svanrige went to work.
What work? The work of information gathering of course.
Svanrige had been making connections and inroads with people of every walk of life in Skellige. From servants to cooks to scullery maids to merchants, porters, fishmongers, weavers, carpenters and any other person who was in the position to overhear choice gossip and rumors, all had found bits of Svanrige's coin into their purses to pass those words along to him.
Kaer Trolde was no exception to Svanrige's network of gossipers and so he went on a tour of the castle's lower levels, picking up every word that had been spoken by, to or about Talion and the Undvikers he had arrived with.
Svanrige rapidly has success on that front.
Jarl Harald kept his quarters hot, very hot. Hotter than was usual even for the depths of winter they were currently in. He was armored at all times and even slept in his mail. The same went for his huscarls not sworn to Talion. The jarl and his loyalists were in the constant presence of a priest, confessing their sins. Or informing of the danger Kaer Trolde was in. No, the Undvikers had taken over an alehouse and hadn't left it in three days. Actually, they had sailed back home the very night they had arrived and any sighting of Jarl Harald or his huscarls were actually conjured illusions by the wraithman Talion. Or they were all dead and their ghosts were haunting Talion as revenge.
The usual talk that followed the powerful.
Things were strange when Svanrige followed up on the men who had sworn to Talion. That talk was less mired in gossip and hearsay due to the lower social position of the warriors. More of the working servants had spoken to them.
They used to be warriors of Clan Tordarroch, all agree. All also agreed that they had renounced their clan in favor of personal oaths of loyalty made to Talion. One warrior had said that they had gone as far as to disown themselves from their kin, saying the oaths of exile not unto themselves, but onto their families for not swearing to the Wraith-Lord, this being their title for Talion, who had saved their lives and souls from the agent of the White Frost that had assaulted Undvik.
Different warriors said that they had forsaken the gods entirely just as the gods had forsaken them and had been seen physically removing priests that ventured near them. Then others said that they had become the living damned for allowing a servant of Morhogg to save their wives, sons and daughters and it is known by all that the damned kept each other company in their torment.
These black clad warriors were merely the vanguard of the strange man's forces. All of Clan Tordarroch had deserted Jarl Harald for their cloaked savior. No, said others, this is the sum of those that joined him. The ships that ferried them from Undvik to Ard Skellig were either Jarl Haralds or Talion's, depending on the tale. So too were the words bandied about the allegiance of the rest of Clan Tordarroch. Either none were still loyal to Jarl Harald, or all still were outside of those right here under the Wraith-Lord's command.
All the rumors and passed along conversations varied in the reasons each warrior or group of warriors had sworn to Talion, but all that Svanrige heard agreed that the warriors had defaced their shields and clothes black of their own volition and none had yet said that Talion had ordered them to assume his black heraldry. All warriors, regardless of their stated reason for swearing to the entity, made mention of the new appearance just feeling right to them.
Svanrige made note of the talk that repeated itself again and again in the rumor mill, then he inquired about Talion himself.
Talion, as the bar wenches told Svanrige, was both everywhere and nowhere in Kaer Trolde. In the span of two days and nights, he had been in every tavern, alehouse and whorehouse in the port city that dwelled in Kaer Trolde's shadow. He was asking after Nilfgaard in one, Temeria in another, Redania in the next, the war in the one after that and any topic in between at all the others.
The barbers agreed that in all the places he visited, Talion was looking for one person in each establishment he visited. A person who, if the gossip was true, was uniquely suited to inform on the one topic that the man was asking about.
The porters said that they couldn't find where he stayed the night or kept his quarters in the city, for Svanrige had heard from Uncle Crach that Talion had turned down offered quarters in Kaer Trolde. It was like he never slept, they whispered in nervous tones to Svanrige. Unnaturalness clung to him as the fishmonger's wives had chittered amongst themselves at the morning market.
Svanrige found that Talion then spent the next days on martial affairs, watching the drills of the An Craite warriors at the citadel and examining the castle armories. Patrolling guardsmen swore they had seen him ghosting around blacksmiths too, checking the coal and tools as he pleased.
It seemed to him, as the days progressed, that Talion had cast a wide net to amass as much information that was related to what he was looking for. As the days progressed, Svanrige observed through the lense of rumors and second hand retellings as Talion identified what he was looking for and as such narrowed his coming and goings. Though none of Svanrige's people could ever seem to overhear the man, even though some said he had been speaking near them.
Soon enough the sightings came into Svanrige. Talion had been sighted near the homes of Temerian merchants who had fled to the isles after that kingdom's last port had fallen to the Nilfgaardians, and now did business out of Novigrad. Then he was at the foreign markets, slipping among the crowds to peer into the stalls run by Redanians, Koviri and the rare Cidarian merchants.
Then he was seen among the taverns that were known to be overrun by Temerian exiles that had found port in Kaer Trolde in twos and threes after Nilfgaard had crossed the Yaruga and smashed the forces that fought under the silver lilies. Svanrige knew that his uncle kept a close watch on these armed and bitter men for the potential threat they could pose to the peace of the city.
Following these exploratory meetings, as Svanrige deduced them to be, other continental exiles congregated around Talion's visits, though nobody seemed to ever be able to place Talion's exact location. The few Bruggians that had sailed out the mouth of the Yaruga and had maintained their ships for the past year. A handful of Aedirnian knights and a band of foulmouthed Verdenian crossbowmen who had turned to mercenary work were reported to have been paid visits by the wraithlike man.
Yet as the days added up to a fortnight, then two and the date neared the new year, it seemed to Svanrige that Talion was waiting for something before putting whatever plan he was obviously putting together.
That wool gathering was put to rest when, one day, Talion appeared in the feast hall of Kaer Trolde once again.
A/N: Well I told myself that I would get a chapter for this story put out in the month of October and it is still October, so i am a man of my word still. Talion continues to be Talion and Svanrige wasn't drunk enough for that conversation. Imagine how his father felt earlier.
Trying out this thing were the main subject of the story is doing stuff off screen and the story follows that through a different character who doesn't have the full story of the protag actions(in this case being Svanrige watching Talion move throughout Kaer Trolde and gather information on where exactly he is. Separated by like one to two degrees of people.). Thoughts on how it turned out would be appreciated.
See everyone next time, thoughts and comments welcomed as always.