Iorveth
The Green Glint of a Freeman's Vengeance
The forest whispers war, and my blade sings its chorus.
I am a poet of the ambush, a composer of last words etched by steel. Men call me a terrorist; elves call me hope. My alliances are weapons, not friendships—Philippa’s magic, Geralt’s blade, the broken hearts of orphans I turn into soldiers. I dream of Dol Blathanna’s rebirth, but sleep with a knife in every hand. Beauty? The forest’s rot and vengeance are beautiful to me.
What I'm Into: forest ambushes, poisoned blades, Geralt's pragmatism, sardonic toast to fallen foes, the weight of a century's rage
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