NAME. iorveth
RACE. aen seidhe. 
GENDER. male.
AGE. 132.
AFFILIATION. scoia'tael.
BODY. vines curl along his chest, & blood along his face ; marred by ink and blade, he is a canvas of destruction, painted in broad strokes by scar & snarl, varnished with pain. his elven beauty halved by the cruelest of weapons, he is a ghost of his race’s ethereality –– a wrathborne phantom cut in harsh lines & jagged smiles, claiming only one eye out of which to see the dh'oine he fells.

BACKGROUND. they say all elves are beautiful, that they are born thus. in Iorveth's case someone set out to change this, marking his face with an ugly scar that the elf partially hid beneath a crimson headscarf. iorveth was a living legend, the elusive leader of a scoia'tael unit whose members gave no thought to laying down their arms and continued their war against humans. stories of his deeds, of his deep hatred of dh'oine, painted him as more akin to a vengeful ghost than to an individual made of blood, bone and flesh. certain sources claimed that iorveth was the kingslayer's ally and thus involved in recent events, yet geralt's first meeting with the elf brought few answers and ended with scoia'tael archers laying down a deadly barrage. indeed, it seemed at the time that the elf would only ever answer the witcher with arrows. in the eyes of some people, like loredo or roche, iorveth was a common criminal, his hands stained by the blood of innocents. indeed, the list of those he had cut down in his "fight for freedom" could easily rival the number of ballads, romances and ditties in dandelion's repertoire. the elf was certainly a dangerous individual. he was not, however, a bloodthirsty monster. Ever cautious and aware of the game he was playing, he jumped at the chance of testing letho's loyalty, becoming geralt's ally, at least temporarily. '

TBA.

THE SKINNY: VERSE // IORVETH. 
       `& || V: ( ᵗʳᵒᵘᵇˡᵉ'ˢ ᶜᵒᵐᶤᶰᵍ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠʳᵉᵉ ᵐᵃᶰˑ )

in better ––– younger –––– times, he had been loved by a sorceress. on the heels of the victorian era, he was born a firebrand, orphaned by the boer wars & kept lonely by a penchant for solving his problems with FISTS. he chased violence like frost through summer air, & tried to enlist at every given opportunity ; but by the time the first world war had ended, his priorities had fallen into the arms of a mysterious woman. saskia was her name, & he had loved her wholly, despite the dark deathproof armor he knew she wore –– magic. for years they grew together, & saskia took the rose with the thorns ; but his vitriolic temper & scarred knuckles roused a concern in her –– she feared for him, for his life. & so she poured him a draught of years unending, the blood of a DRAGON. at age twenty-seven, he was frozen in the wildfire of youth. at age thirty-nine, he found himself in the midst of world war two, faking his death in a blast. & at age forty-four, he returned from the war to find his lover BURNED, a radical religious party having found her out. he became FIERCELY LOYAL to his country for a time, & later, only to those like him ––– touched by magic. & at age one-hundred and thirty-two, his time came to defend the community he considered family. 

immortality is not subtle. & much like age, nor is it KIND ––– it dogs your steps, changes the nature of the glint in your eye as the days burn at your back with every rise of the moon. it makes you a weapon, unmatched & peerless, a champion of whatever cause wields it. of this he was aware. & for this he  sacrificed his tacit anonymity, in its place taking up the most dangerous position a man without death can claim––– that being a high one within the military ; insomuch becoming one in the GOVERNMENT. nonpareil skill with a gun ( garnered from honing said skill since the end of WWI )  made him a feared marksman throughout the ranks ––– coupled with quick wit, charm, & undying loyalty, most men he came into contact with saw him as a brother, a lucky charm, a channel for hope.

       THIS he used to his advantage. 

he formed a separatist party within the military –– both high-ranking like himself & lower down –– for the express purpose of SABOTAGING any threat to the magical rebellion. a lying tongue twists stories to his higher-ups liking about the whereabouts of magic users–– safehouses always EMPTY, always explained tactfully. new assignments were spent burning files while he did research, & time in the field was spent DESTROYING stores of arms & weapons with his own men at his side. he became the worst nightmare of anyone in opposition to the rebellion –– some of whom clapped him on the shoulder during a debrief or trash-talked magic users with him over whiskey. all of this he endured & more –– because if he failed, those not blessed with eternity would never live to see a free day. 

his people are NOLDOR, born of SHIPS BURNED & BETRAYAL, city of gondolin a home long destroyed by the folly of mankind. his story begins with dimming of the light in the SECOND AGE, born in tandem with the forbidding of elven language in númenor, SA 3110. immortality commencing with hatred is an immortal life destined for prejudice in its own right, & that is precisely what followed. WARY in his elven youth of this 'last alliance of elves & men', but seeing necessity in it, he FOUGHT ––– ( losing an eye in the process ) ––– for a freedom that, come the THIRD AGE, he found would have been for naught. the unrelenting AVARICE of men left sauron's influence a glowing ember still, ever ready to catch flame –– the fault of ISILDUR. years pass, & he can see the shadow lengthening, middle earth bending, groaning under the weight of the looming DARKNESS. & so once more he fights, but not among MEN –– he is at CARN DÛM when his people destroy it, vowing thereafter to SPURN the race that seems to have no appetite for anything other than wealth & VIOLENCE. retreating to LINDON, he expects idleness to be a RESPITE, but finds none ––– his hand itches for the bow, & he can ignore the ongoing fight against the forces of darkness no longer. in TA 2951, immediately following sauron's declaration of his presence openly, he leaves lindon once more with a trusted regiment of archers at his back ; for the battle to come will be DIRE, the losses HEAVY, & iorveth finds he cannot STAND BY & WATCH. no man, dwarf, nor those sitting proud in MORDOR would challenge his people's freedom, for he would rather die than see them fall.