The Icelandic highlands were a treacherous place for muggles to venture. So much so that muggles did in fact rarely venture there save in small, easily manageable numbers. It was also a fact that muggles rarely ventured into the Icelandic highlands without a witch or wizard in their number, though this fact wasn't something any muggle would know. It was just easier that way - easier to steer them clear of relevant wizarding locations, and also easier to obliviate anyone who happened to spot something that they shouldn't. But at the end of the day, the fact remained that muggle presence in these parts was rare, and so wizardkind didn't concern themselves greatly with crossing muggle paths while traversing central Iceland. However, it wasn't muggles that Jormund Gandersson was worried about as he glided low along the ground of the narrow valley astride his Odyssian Journeyman broom. He was after criminals. Specifically, animal traffickers; even more specifically, dragon traffickers.
The Scandinavian wizarding community had worked very hard over the last few hundred years to nurse the population of Icelandic White Dragons back to self-sustainable numbers, but ever since having released a good number of them back into the wilds of the Skagafjordur Wilderness some forty years ago, they had slowly become aware of the fact that Icelandic Whites were appearing in underground dragon-fighting rings across Europe, and even as far as the northern Mediterranean in a couple of cases. These dragons had been recovered and re-released into the wilds when possible, after being allowed to rehabilitate in small dragon preserves in Norway and Denmark, but the Wizard-moot had decided to take a more proactive approach to the issue in the last few years. Some success had been seen in tracking down these traffickers - and poachers, as the case had turned out to be - in recent years, and none could take credit for that success more so than Jormund. His parents were Icelanders, and he had grown up on a dragon preserve in Trondheim, Norway, but had come back to Iceland after Durmstrang, taking up work as a "Rekja" - a profession more commonly known as an Auror.
The usual tracking of criminal witches and wizards had taken a turn into strangely familiar territory five years ago, though, once the folkmoot of magical beasts had declared an emergency and requested intervention by the Wizard-moot. Given his background with dragons, Jormund had been a natural choice for the task force that was put together to begin tracking dragon thieves, and he'd proven himself a highly capable problem-solver ever since. Days like this one weren't the days where that was most apparent, but it was just one of thse days where he moved closer to the solution, rather than actually solving the problem. Or at least, so he thought.
An echo traveled up the mountain canyon to Jormund's ears, and then another, and another. These weren't strange echoes, but quite familiar; the sound of wizards and dragons caught in a stand-off. The Rejka leaned into his broom and picked up speed, hoping he could get to the scene of the battle before it was too late.
Sometimes Forgivable
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Wizards of the Weald
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Re: Sometimes Forgivable
The echoes which had drawn Jormund Gandersson to quicken his pace up the canyon ceased before he reached the point, and he feared the worst, but a scrying charm revealed to him that the thieves were still on the ground, trying to package up an adolescent white dragon that they'd managed to subdue. He rocketed down into the valley as near as he dared, and then touched ground and immediately drew his wand, ready for anything that was about to happen. He was of course ready for that anything to be a fight, but with the subdued young dragon in their midst, he thought perhaps he would take a moment to be more strategic about his approach.
The wand in Jormund's hand was a mere eight inch length of Rowan with a Hrosshvalur mane hair at it's core, but it was a robust instrument in his hands, and with only a couple inches of it protruding past his extended index finger, he wove it around in a spiral motion and concealed himself with a disillusionment charm. It wasn't perfect invisibility, but it was close enough to get him close enough to them to cause the kind of havoc that favored him more than them. His specialty. Growing up helping his mother in a dragon nursery had helped Jormund develop an affinity for staying calm and not getting confused in confusing situations. So when the third pseudo-petrified body hit the ground, and someone noticed and started to panic, Jormund continued moving at a calm gait among the scurrying poachers. A reductor curse whizzed past his ear to strike the mountainside when the echoing voices caused some stones to break loose and topple, but though it made his hairs stand on end, he remained slow and steady in his movements, and was about to cast Petrificus Totalus for the fourth time when an echo rumbled down the canyon from the opposite direction in which he'd approached. It was a louder echo, a deeper echo, and an angrier echo. Evidently the mother dragon had perceived her child's absence, and they were all about to be in trouble.
"Blimey, this could've been our lucky day!" cried one of the younger trappers in a distinctly british accent that made Jormund scowl.
"Hush Neegan!" hissed a woman with a bandana across her face. "We're not equipped for an adult, we need to get out fast!"
Two trappers were dragging a piece of fabric out of a pack, and once they got it out and open, Jormund knew it was a disapparation tarp. Ones the size of handkerchiefs could be bought at toy stores that would move an object five or six feet, but he suspected this one could apparate their adolescent dragon several hundred kilometers - . With a flick of his wand, the Rejka hoisted the tarp out of their hands like a fish on a hook, and then made another flourish that carried the blanket of the wind. Unfortunately, elemental spells were a bit flashier than some others, and his position was revealed. Jormund was immediately forced to drop his chameleon charm and replace it with a protection charm that deflected the bolt slashing toward him.
"Excuse you!" chided Jormund, and he whipped another hex off at his attacker that was also deflected, but what could have become a duel was halted with the bellowing roar of an adult Icelandic White swooping into view above.
Pandemomium immediately burst out into the camp. Jormund petrified the wizard who had attacked him, and was about to start on the ones who'd had the blanket when one of them panicked and removed himself from the equation.
"Accio Blanket!" cried the young trapper, whipping his wand upward frantically. A heavy blanket from their gear whipped out of its stowing place and wrapped around him helpfully like a hungry python. He immediately toppled over in a bundle, mumbling loudly while his wand flopped around, poking out the top of the blanket wrap. Jormund grinned and was about to take advantage of further distraction when the distraction almost cost him his life - perhaps he'd grown a little too comfortable in the presence of dragons. At the last moment he saw that he was in the path of the dragon's horrible breath attack and hoisted his own wand straight up in a much more controlled casting than the lad had done.
"Aegis!" he cried.
A translucent violet dome formed over Jormund and shielded him inside a small circle of safety while everything else in the path of the dragon was strafed in a blazing blue flame of such intense cold that wizards still argued if it was in fact a manifestation of frost or fire. Those were academic concerns though, Jormund could see clearly enough before him that the young trapper wrapped in the blanket was frozen solid, icy chill steaming off his bundled form while the tiny bit of skin visible on his hand and wrist was split and cracked every bit as badly as the splinters of the wand in his dead hand. Jormund's heart sank at the sight - he'd never wanted to kill any of these trappers, merely subdue and bring them to justice.
When his aegis - his ultimate shield - dropped away, Jormund took a steadying breath to recover from the sudden heavy exertion of magic, and glanced around to find that his moment of vulnerability had gone unnoticed in the continuing pandemonium. Four or so witches and wizards had foolishly decided to drive the mother away, while two others continued their attempt to retrieve the blanket from where he'd sent it tossing about on a little wind of it's own. A couple more were... trying to pack? Jormund was astonished that any of them were still trying to take the adolescent dragon, much less pack their gear up. They would have been doing well to escape with their lives at this point. But Jormund wasn't about to let the fools die for their ignorance. Not if he could help it, and help it he could. He knew how to handle dragons, and survive in their company.
Taking in a deep breath, the Rejka ran and hand down his beard to steady himself, and then held his wand aloft once more.
"Imperio Maxima!" Jormund roared.
The wand in Jormund's hand was a mere eight inch length of Rowan with a Hrosshvalur mane hair at it's core, but it was a robust instrument in his hands, and with only a couple inches of it protruding past his extended index finger, he wove it around in a spiral motion and concealed himself with a disillusionment charm. It wasn't perfect invisibility, but it was close enough to get him close enough to them to cause the kind of havoc that favored him more than them. His specialty. Growing up helping his mother in a dragon nursery had helped Jormund develop an affinity for staying calm and not getting confused in confusing situations. So when the third pseudo-petrified body hit the ground, and someone noticed and started to panic, Jormund continued moving at a calm gait among the scurrying poachers. A reductor curse whizzed past his ear to strike the mountainside when the echoing voices caused some stones to break loose and topple, but though it made his hairs stand on end, he remained slow and steady in his movements, and was about to cast Petrificus Totalus for the fourth time when an echo rumbled down the canyon from the opposite direction in which he'd approached. It was a louder echo, a deeper echo, and an angrier echo. Evidently the mother dragon had perceived her child's absence, and they were all about to be in trouble.
"Blimey, this could've been our lucky day!" cried one of the younger trappers in a distinctly british accent that made Jormund scowl.
"Hush Neegan!" hissed a woman with a bandana across her face. "We're not equipped for an adult, we need to get out fast!"
Two trappers were dragging a piece of fabric out of a pack, and once they got it out and open, Jormund knew it was a disapparation tarp. Ones the size of handkerchiefs could be bought at toy stores that would move an object five or six feet, but he suspected this one could apparate their adolescent dragon several hundred kilometers - . With a flick of his wand, the Rejka hoisted the tarp out of their hands like a fish on a hook, and then made another flourish that carried the blanket of the wind. Unfortunately, elemental spells were a bit flashier than some others, and his position was revealed. Jormund was immediately forced to drop his chameleon charm and replace it with a protection charm that deflected the bolt slashing toward him.
"Excuse you!" chided Jormund, and he whipped another hex off at his attacker that was also deflected, but what could have become a duel was halted with the bellowing roar of an adult Icelandic White swooping into view above.
Pandemomium immediately burst out into the camp. Jormund petrified the wizard who had attacked him, and was about to start on the ones who'd had the blanket when one of them panicked and removed himself from the equation.
"Accio Blanket!" cried the young trapper, whipping his wand upward frantically. A heavy blanket from their gear whipped out of its stowing place and wrapped around him helpfully like a hungry python. He immediately toppled over in a bundle, mumbling loudly while his wand flopped around, poking out the top of the blanket wrap. Jormund grinned and was about to take advantage of further distraction when the distraction almost cost him his life - perhaps he'd grown a little too comfortable in the presence of dragons. At the last moment he saw that he was in the path of the dragon's horrible breath attack and hoisted his own wand straight up in a much more controlled casting than the lad had done.
"Aegis!" he cried.
A translucent violet dome formed over Jormund and shielded him inside a small circle of safety while everything else in the path of the dragon was strafed in a blazing blue flame of such intense cold that wizards still argued if it was in fact a manifestation of frost or fire. Those were academic concerns though, Jormund could see clearly enough before him that the young trapper wrapped in the blanket was frozen solid, icy chill steaming off his bundled form while the tiny bit of skin visible on his hand and wrist was split and cracked every bit as badly as the splinters of the wand in his dead hand. Jormund's heart sank at the sight - he'd never wanted to kill any of these trappers, merely subdue and bring them to justice.
When his aegis - his ultimate shield - dropped away, Jormund took a steadying breath to recover from the sudden heavy exertion of magic, and glanced around to find that his moment of vulnerability had gone unnoticed in the continuing pandemonium. Four or so witches and wizards had foolishly decided to drive the mother away, while two others continued their attempt to retrieve the blanket from where he'd sent it tossing about on a little wind of it's own. A couple more were... trying to pack? Jormund was astonished that any of them were still trying to take the adolescent dragon, much less pack their gear up. They would have been doing well to escape with their lives at this point. But Jormund wasn't about to let the fools die for their ignorance. Not if he could help it, and help it he could. He knew how to handle dragons, and survive in their company.
Taking in a deep breath, the Rejka ran and hand down his beard to steady himself, and then held his wand aloft once more.
"Imperio Maxima!" Jormund roared.
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Wizards of the Weald
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Re: Sometimes Forgivable
The frantic motion of the camp came to a sudden stop as the “curse” took affect - in truth it was just a very powerful charm, but that was another academic matter that had no place in the wild parts of the world. Each of the trappers who had been so desperately plying themselves at different futile tasks were now staring expectantly at Jormund, but the dragon was coming around for another pass, and he didn’t have much time, so he spoke quickly.
“Take to the sky on your brooms. Tight circles, sharp turns, and don’t get in front of it, but stay close by!”
Suddenly moving with nearly perfect group coordination - compelled as they all were by the same commands - the trappers hustled off out of the way of the dragon’s terrible freezing fire breath that splashed across the ground, and then summoned their brooms to themselves and launched into the sky. Jormund didn’t watch to see how well they could follow his instructions, though. He needed to save their lives first if he was going to successfully arrest them.
Rushing over to the dragon paddock, Jormund waved his wand at one of the straps.
”Diffindo,” he commanded, and was about to cast the same charm on the second strap when he glanced back at the first and found it still very much intact.
”Diffindo!” he declared again, feeling his frustration rise. Nothing.
”Reducto!” Even the curse had no effect, and he growled at the problem. The dragon whimpered in a vain attempt to escape the sounds it did not understand, and he cast a regretful gaze over it. It struggled only weakly, and judging from the way its eyes moved, he suspected it was still partially stupified. The world was a terrible place for it just then. He had to find a way to cut the straps off.
A sudden suspicion tugged at Jormund as he looked at the pitifully endangered creature, and he grabbed ahold of the nearest strap. Sure enough, he felt the warm shape of an enchanted rune embossed on the underside of the strap. Bicorne leather, from a similarly endangered creature in Africa that Cameroonian wizards had also been struggling to rehabilitate. No wonder these trappers had been trying to rescue their gear, they appeared to have invested quite a bit in it. The Rejka scratched his wand through his beard, furiously casting about for a tool he could use to undo the straps without the specific command word. He paused when his eyes fell on the dull gleam of steel, and a thought occurred to him. The wood of the paddock was clearly fortified, that wasn’t a hard thing to come by, and the enchanted leather was rarer but still not hard. However, enchanted steel was the rarest material of the three, and as he gazed down at the heavy lag bolts that the straps tethered to, he suspected he’d found the weak link.
”Sectum Spiralis,” Jormund commanded, driving his wand down in a punch-like motion. Sure enough, a twisting hold began to bore itself in the middle of the bolt, as though it were being carved away by a goblin-silver augur, and gradually the whole head was cut off in a heap of spiral shavings. Jormund hustled along, casting the charm on the next bolt and then the next until at last the strap holding the dragon’s head down broke free. It immediately surged upward and attempted to take off, but it only got a little ways off the ground with its clumsy flapping before it tumbled over and crashed into the pebbles of the frozen riverbed. Jormund scurried over and spun a circular device hanging from his hip, giving it a couple of swipes to get it spinning until it activated the secondary spell focusing mechanism. As soon as it activated, Jormund spun his wand around in a delicate flourish, and summoned a strong dose of Spirit of Hartshorn into the air. The acrid smell made his eyes water, but the dragon perked up immediately as its senses burned, and it slammed its wings again, and struck up into the air with more purpose, winging its way toward its mother with desperate roaring.
When the huge white dragon saw her offspring coming toward her, she let out an ear-piercing cry to ward it off, and then let out one last blast of its terrible freezing flame before beating its wings and taking off after the young. Jormund breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he watched the two dragons glide off around the rim of the canyon, and then took one more steadying breath before raising his wand and pinging the raw directive command of the charm he’d placed on the trappers. The dragons were safe, it was time to address his reason for being out here in the first place.
“Take to the sky on your brooms. Tight circles, sharp turns, and don’t get in front of it, but stay close by!”
Suddenly moving with nearly perfect group coordination - compelled as they all were by the same commands - the trappers hustled off out of the way of the dragon’s terrible freezing fire breath that splashed across the ground, and then summoned their brooms to themselves and launched into the sky. Jormund didn’t watch to see how well they could follow his instructions, though. He needed to save their lives first if he was going to successfully arrest them.
Rushing over to the dragon paddock, Jormund waved his wand at one of the straps.
”Diffindo,” he commanded, and was about to cast the same charm on the second strap when he glanced back at the first and found it still very much intact.
”Diffindo!” he declared again, feeling his frustration rise. Nothing.
”Reducto!” Even the curse had no effect, and he growled at the problem. The dragon whimpered in a vain attempt to escape the sounds it did not understand, and he cast a regretful gaze over it. It struggled only weakly, and judging from the way its eyes moved, he suspected it was still partially stupified. The world was a terrible place for it just then. He had to find a way to cut the straps off.
A sudden suspicion tugged at Jormund as he looked at the pitifully endangered creature, and he grabbed ahold of the nearest strap. Sure enough, he felt the warm shape of an enchanted rune embossed on the underside of the strap. Bicorne leather, from a similarly endangered creature in Africa that Cameroonian wizards had also been struggling to rehabilitate. No wonder these trappers had been trying to rescue their gear, they appeared to have invested quite a bit in it. The Rejka scratched his wand through his beard, furiously casting about for a tool he could use to undo the straps without the specific command word. He paused when his eyes fell on the dull gleam of steel, and a thought occurred to him. The wood of the paddock was clearly fortified, that wasn’t a hard thing to come by, and the enchanted leather was rarer but still not hard. However, enchanted steel was the rarest material of the three, and as he gazed down at the heavy lag bolts that the straps tethered to, he suspected he’d found the weak link.
”Sectum Spiralis,” Jormund commanded, driving his wand down in a punch-like motion. Sure enough, a twisting hold began to bore itself in the middle of the bolt, as though it were being carved away by a goblin-silver augur, and gradually the whole head was cut off in a heap of spiral shavings. Jormund hustled along, casting the charm on the next bolt and then the next until at last the strap holding the dragon’s head down broke free. It immediately surged upward and attempted to take off, but it only got a little ways off the ground with its clumsy flapping before it tumbled over and crashed into the pebbles of the frozen riverbed. Jormund scurried over and spun a circular device hanging from his hip, giving it a couple of swipes to get it spinning until it activated the secondary spell focusing mechanism. As soon as it activated, Jormund spun his wand around in a delicate flourish, and summoned a strong dose of Spirit of Hartshorn into the air. The acrid smell made his eyes water, but the dragon perked up immediately as its senses burned, and it slammed its wings again, and struck up into the air with more purpose, winging its way toward its mother with desperate roaring.
When the huge white dragon saw her offspring coming toward her, she let out an ear-piercing cry to ward it off, and then let out one last blast of its terrible freezing flame before beating its wings and taking off after the young. Jormund breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he watched the two dragons glide off around the rim of the canyon, and then took one more steadying breath before raising his wand and pinging the raw directive command of the charm he’d placed on the trappers. The dragons were safe, it was time to address his reason for being out here in the first place.
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Wizards of the Weald
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Re: Sometimes Forgivable
The trappers descended from the sky and gathered near to Jormund. As long as they were under the effects of his Imperius charm, they wouldn’t do anything overtly aggressive or subversive towards him, and they would obediently follow any direction he gave them, but they were still lucid, and they were still afraid. They breathed heavily and dropped their brooms, looking at each other with weariness and wariness. One of them, the woman who had just chided the young man before he’d sealed his fate with the hasty cast of the summoning charm, began to approach Jormund with a hesitant look on her face when an outcry across the clearing pulled both of their attention.
“Signey, it’s Clara!” called another man down by the frozen river’s edge. The woman who’d been approaching Jormund turned away and swiftly crossed over to where a young witch - one Jormund had petrified on his way in - lay on the ground, suddenly in agonizing pain since the petrification had worn off. Or rather, it wasn’t that she couldn’t feel the pain before, it was just that now the incantation had run its course, she could freely express her response to having her left arm entirely freezer-burned. She cradled the frozen, cracked thing to herself and moaned weakly as one of the other trappers tried in vain to repair the damage with a minor healing spell.
“That won’t do no good.” said Signey, dropping to a knee beside the pair in distress.
“It could work if you give me a moment!” countered the man.
“That spell’s just first aid, Craig. She’s… Merlin’s beard. Clara, how to do you feel?”
The young woman looked up at Signey with tears in her eyes. “It burns, Signey, and it’s makin’ my whole body feel like I’m a’crackle with lightning.”
Signey cast about helplessly for something to do, and her eyes fell on Jormund as he approached.
“This is your fault!” she complained. “You couldn’t just leave us well enough alone to ply a trade that’s only become disreputable within the last gen-”
“This isn’t my fault.” Jormund corrected, looming tall over Signey - taller even than he would have if she’d been standing. “The matter of it is that trapping dragons is entirely illegal, and I came to enforce the laws. Blaming me now won’t help Clara.”
The imperius charm prevented Signey from lashing out at Jormund the way he could see that she wanted to, but the venom in her eyes was no less clear. “Well what are we supposed to do for her then, auror?”
“Blast, Rodrick’s still alive too…” An older man knelt beside a body that Jormund had already glanced at and assumed to be dead. It hardly mattered though. The whole lower half of his body and a good portion of his abdomen were frozen solid. He was already dead, his body just hadn’t figured that out yet.
“We can’t save him,” said Jormund, “but we can save Clara if we take her arm off now, before it poisons her blood.”
The young woman began to breathe heavily at the suggestion of amputation, and as Jormund approached, she practically started hyperventilating, shaking her head and looking at Signey.
“I don’t want to-”
“Darling I need you to be brave-”
“-no I can’t-”
“-yes you can! You don’t want to die!”
Clara sobbed, holding her ravaged arm to herself as Jormund knelt beside her. She began to scramble away in pure instinctual fear, and Signey was just about to catch her when Jormund held out his wand toward the girl and whispered softly, ”Crucio.”
Signey and two of the other trappers flinched in horror as they heard the word that escaped Jormund’s lips, but as the spell took hold, Clara’s breathing slowed, and she glanced at his in tremulous uncertainty.
“What did you do?” demanded Signey. “I know I just heard you cast the Cruciatus curse. She ought to be writhing in pain, why isn’t she?”
Jormund shook his head in disappointment. “You lot and your Ministry of Magic laws. You ought to be paying less attention to your expectations of the world and more to how it actually is. That charm isn’t just for torture, it’s controls pain altogether. Now Clara, look at your friend for a moment - go on, tell me what color her eyes are?”
Clara hesitantly turned to look at Signey, and the older woman pulled the bandana down from her face to smile at the young woman.
“They’re green, like-”
”-Sectum Acutus.”
Clara instinctively started to look back at the sound of Jormund’s voice, but he reached up a hand and caught her chin, turning her face back to Signey, who was struggling to keep a smile.
“Green like what?” Jormund had already tied off the arm just below the armpit before cutting off the frozen limb. Now he worked quickly to bandage and cover the stump while the young woman described Signey’s eyes. When he was done, he glanced over at their two faces and nodded.
“An apt description. Now here, drink this. Your shoulder will start to throb in a few moments, but this’ll keep it from really telling you about what’s missing.”
Clara’s took a deep, trembling breath as she looked down at the stump of her left arm, and then gulped the potion Jormund had given her. A few moments later, she hissed as a degree of pain returned, but that was only because Jormund had shifted his focus of the Cruciatus charm to Rodrick, who even with the help of the pain control was barely conscious.
“Signey, it’s Clara!” called another man down by the frozen river’s edge. The woman who’d been approaching Jormund turned away and swiftly crossed over to where a young witch - one Jormund had petrified on his way in - lay on the ground, suddenly in agonizing pain since the petrification had worn off. Or rather, it wasn’t that she couldn’t feel the pain before, it was just that now the incantation had run its course, she could freely express her response to having her left arm entirely freezer-burned. She cradled the frozen, cracked thing to herself and moaned weakly as one of the other trappers tried in vain to repair the damage with a minor healing spell.
“That won’t do no good.” said Signey, dropping to a knee beside the pair in distress.
“It could work if you give me a moment!” countered the man.
“That spell’s just first aid, Craig. She’s… Merlin’s beard. Clara, how to do you feel?”
The young woman looked up at Signey with tears in her eyes. “It burns, Signey, and it’s makin’ my whole body feel like I’m a’crackle with lightning.”
Signey cast about helplessly for something to do, and her eyes fell on Jormund as he approached.
“This is your fault!” she complained. “You couldn’t just leave us well enough alone to ply a trade that’s only become disreputable within the last gen-”
“This isn’t my fault.” Jormund corrected, looming tall over Signey - taller even than he would have if she’d been standing. “The matter of it is that trapping dragons is entirely illegal, and I came to enforce the laws. Blaming me now won’t help Clara.”
The imperius charm prevented Signey from lashing out at Jormund the way he could see that she wanted to, but the venom in her eyes was no less clear. “Well what are we supposed to do for her then, auror?”
“Blast, Rodrick’s still alive too…” An older man knelt beside a body that Jormund had already glanced at and assumed to be dead. It hardly mattered though. The whole lower half of his body and a good portion of his abdomen were frozen solid. He was already dead, his body just hadn’t figured that out yet.
“We can’t save him,” said Jormund, “but we can save Clara if we take her arm off now, before it poisons her blood.”
The young woman began to breathe heavily at the suggestion of amputation, and as Jormund approached, she practically started hyperventilating, shaking her head and looking at Signey.
“I don’t want to-”
“Darling I need you to be brave-”
“-no I can’t-”
“-yes you can! You don’t want to die!”
Clara sobbed, holding her ravaged arm to herself as Jormund knelt beside her. She began to scramble away in pure instinctual fear, and Signey was just about to catch her when Jormund held out his wand toward the girl and whispered softly, ”Crucio.”
Signey and two of the other trappers flinched in horror as they heard the word that escaped Jormund’s lips, but as the spell took hold, Clara’s breathing slowed, and she glanced at his in tremulous uncertainty.
“What did you do?” demanded Signey. “I know I just heard you cast the Cruciatus curse. She ought to be writhing in pain, why isn’t she?”
Jormund shook his head in disappointment. “You lot and your Ministry of Magic laws. You ought to be paying less attention to your expectations of the world and more to how it actually is. That charm isn’t just for torture, it’s controls pain altogether. Now Clara, look at your friend for a moment - go on, tell me what color her eyes are?”
Clara hesitantly turned to look at Signey, and the older woman pulled the bandana down from her face to smile at the young woman.
“They’re green, like-”
”-Sectum Acutus.”
Clara instinctively started to look back at the sound of Jormund’s voice, but he reached up a hand and caught her chin, turning her face back to Signey, who was struggling to keep a smile.
“Green like what?” Jormund had already tied off the arm just below the armpit before cutting off the frozen limb. Now he worked quickly to bandage and cover the stump while the young woman described Signey’s eyes. When he was done, he glanced over at their two faces and nodded.
“An apt description. Now here, drink this. Your shoulder will start to throb in a few moments, but this’ll keep it from really telling you about what’s missing.”
Clara’s took a deep, trembling breath as she looked down at the stump of her left arm, and then gulped the potion Jormund had given her. A few moments later, she hissed as a degree of pain returned, but that was only because Jormund had shifted his focus of the Cruciatus charm to Rodrick, who even with the help of the pain control was barely conscious.
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Wizards of the Weald
- Posts: 30
- Joined: Wed Jun 14, 2023 12:14 pm
Re: Sometimes Forgivable
The complete recession of the pain in Rodrick’s body had put him at ease, but with his body still actively failing, he was weak. Jormund loosened his hold on the pain-binding charm just slightly, so that the dying trapper’s nerves became more stimulated.
“Listen to me,” he said to Rodrick, coming close. “You haven’t long to live, but I would have you make the most of your time.”
“I don’t… I don’t understand,” said the trapper. “I feel fine, just stiff.”
“You do not feel fine, you feel nothing. You may choose to call it a blessing or a curse as you see fit, but it is not the same. Your body is frozen, and it will soon fail. Now don’t waste your breath on me, speak with your friends.”
Jormund rose up then, standing taller than any of the british trappers, and walked away a few paces to give them space while they spoke to their dying friend. After a moment, he sat down on a rock and took a deep breath to steady himself. Wielding the Cruciatus charm in such a clinical, dispassionate fashion didn’t lend itself to prolonged use as an anesthetic the way using it for torture did. Passion granted energy, no matter what form it took, but this calm maintenance of such a powerful spell to which he was unaccustomed dragged on his mental endurance. He only became aware that he was starting to sweat when Clara began to approach him across the pebbles and gravel of the cold riverbed.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about your injury, they’ve a great infirmary in Vatnajokull where we’re going. Your arm will be grown back before two weeks are past. You ought to consider putting it to better use than the one you’ve lost.”
The young woman swallowed hard against a lump in her throat, and Jormund could see the fear in her eyes.
“Don’t worry, girl. You’re not going to Azkaban. That soul sapping death trap of a shit hole is a miser’s excuse for not having a place to attain proper penance. You’ll spend a year with an anti-magic seal on your hide, working the lava-forges in Skeida. It’s honest work. You’ll be alright.”
“Why are you being so good to us?”
“That’s the Imperius charm talking, girl. I’m showing you no special kindness.”
“But you’re helping us!”
“I’m not helping you!” Jormund retorted. Over by the shore where they’d propped him up, Rodrick suddenly flinched in pain as the Rejka’s hold on the spell waned for a moment. He paused and reaffirmed his grasp on the wearying magic before turning back to Clara.
“I’m not helping you, I’m just saving you all from your own stupidity. Why are you here, Clara? No I don’t mean talking to me, I mean why are you trying to steal dragons for wicked men’s sport? You’re charming enough, you’ve got some people skills and a strong arm. If you like beasts, you oughta be working at a preserve or a nursery, not robbing their nests.”
“It’s just… it’s just what we do,” Clara stammered. “It’s good money for our families innit?”
“Well your family should be ashamed to profit from your breaking of the laws.”
Rodrick began to grown in the distance again, and Signey looked over at him. “What’s wrong with him? I thought you’d numbed the pain?”
“I can’t keep it up forever.” Jormund rose and came back over to join them. “Has everyone spoken their peace? Off you go then, collect your brooms and gear; someone go fetch that disapparating tarp. Bring it all over and put it with the paddock.”
As the others hesitantly turned to follow his instructions, Jormund dropped down to a knee and looked the dying trapper in the eye. “Do you have next of kin?”
Rodrick nodded weakly. “My brother and his live in Holland. I’ve told Signey what to do.”
Jormund shook his head. “They’ll not be speaking to anyone but their own kin for the next year. I’m not sending your friends back to be incarcerated in Azakaban.”
A perceptible wave of relief colored Rodrick’s waning features. “Thank you for that.”
Jormund nodded, but he could feel his weariness starting to grow. “I’ll speak with Signey about your family then. I’ll get word to them.”
The knowledge seemed to be enough for Rodrick. He nodded weakly, even as he breath grew shallower. Jormund had secretly hoped the trapper would have expired by now, but he seemed to have survived with just enough vitality to outlast the endurance of the the rejka’s charm. Rallying one last surge of effort, Jormund pushed down the trapper’s pain until he was too understimulated to remain conscious. He wouldn’t have felt anything anyway, but it didn’t seem fitting to make him suffer any terror at the end after having put so much energy into staving it off this far. Jormund leaned down, close to the unconscious man as he could, and gently rested his wand against the shallow-breathing chest.
”Avada Kadavra,” he whispered. A flash of blue-green light pulsed from the point of his Rowan wand, and then Rodrick’s chest stilled.
“Listen to me,” he said to Rodrick, coming close. “You haven’t long to live, but I would have you make the most of your time.”
“I don’t… I don’t understand,” said the trapper. “I feel fine, just stiff.”
“You do not feel fine, you feel nothing. You may choose to call it a blessing or a curse as you see fit, but it is not the same. Your body is frozen, and it will soon fail. Now don’t waste your breath on me, speak with your friends.”
Jormund rose up then, standing taller than any of the british trappers, and walked away a few paces to give them space while they spoke to their dying friend. After a moment, he sat down on a rock and took a deep breath to steady himself. Wielding the Cruciatus charm in such a clinical, dispassionate fashion didn’t lend itself to prolonged use as an anesthetic the way using it for torture did. Passion granted energy, no matter what form it took, but this calm maintenance of such a powerful spell to which he was unaccustomed dragged on his mental endurance. He only became aware that he was starting to sweat when Clara began to approach him across the pebbles and gravel of the cold riverbed.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about your injury, they’ve a great infirmary in Vatnajokull where we’re going. Your arm will be grown back before two weeks are past. You ought to consider putting it to better use than the one you’ve lost.”
The young woman swallowed hard against a lump in her throat, and Jormund could see the fear in her eyes.
“Don’t worry, girl. You’re not going to Azkaban. That soul sapping death trap of a shit hole is a miser’s excuse for not having a place to attain proper penance. You’ll spend a year with an anti-magic seal on your hide, working the lava-forges in Skeida. It’s honest work. You’ll be alright.”
“Why are you being so good to us?”
“That’s the Imperius charm talking, girl. I’m showing you no special kindness.”
“But you’re helping us!”
“I’m not helping you!” Jormund retorted. Over by the shore where they’d propped him up, Rodrick suddenly flinched in pain as the Rejka’s hold on the spell waned for a moment. He paused and reaffirmed his grasp on the wearying magic before turning back to Clara.
“I’m not helping you, I’m just saving you all from your own stupidity. Why are you here, Clara? No I don’t mean talking to me, I mean why are you trying to steal dragons for wicked men’s sport? You’re charming enough, you’ve got some people skills and a strong arm. If you like beasts, you oughta be working at a preserve or a nursery, not robbing their nests.”
“It’s just… it’s just what we do,” Clara stammered. “It’s good money for our families innit?”
“Well your family should be ashamed to profit from your breaking of the laws.”
Rodrick began to grown in the distance again, and Signey looked over at him. “What’s wrong with him? I thought you’d numbed the pain?”
“I can’t keep it up forever.” Jormund rose and came back over to join them. “Has everyone spoken their peace? Off you go then, collect your brooms and gear; someone go fetch that disapparating tarp. Bring it all over and put it with the paddock.”
As the others hesitantly turned to follow his instructions, Jormund dropped down to a knee and looked the dying trapper in the eye. “Do you have next of kin?”
Rodrick nodded weakly. “My brother and his live in Holland. I’ve told Signey what to do.”
Jormund shook his head. “They’ll not be speaking to anyone but their own kin for the next year. I’m not sending your friends back to be incarcerated in Azakaban.”
A perceptible wave of relief colored Rodrick’s waning features. “Thank you for that.”
Jormund nodded, but he could feel his weariness starting to grow. “I’ll speak with Signey about your family then. I’ll get word to them.”
The knowledge seemed to be enough for Rodrick. He nodded weakly, even as he breath grew shallower. Jormund had secretly hoped the trapper would have expired by now, but he seemed to have survived with just enough vitality to outlast the endurance of the the rejka’s charm. Rallying one last surge of effort, Jormund pushed down the trapper’s pain until he was too understimulated to remain conscious. He wouldn’t have felt anything anyway, but it didn’t seem fitting to make him suffer any terror at the end after having put so much energy into staving it off this far. Jormund leaned down, close to the unconscious man as he could, and gently rested his wand against the shallow-breathing chest.
”Avada Kadavra,” he whispered. A flash of blue-green light pulsed from the point of his Rowan wand, and then Rodrick’s chest stilled.
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Wizards of the Weald
- Posts: 30
- Joined: Wed Jun 14, 2023 12:14 pm
Re: Sometimes Forgivable
The worst of the encounter was past after Rodrick was gone. The circumstances as they were didn’t sit well with Jormund’s sensibilities, but they were what they were, so he made the most of it. Proding his Imperius charm as little as possible, the rejka gathered information from each of the trappers so that he could make sure their families were contacted, and he also had Signey explain the precise function of the disapparation tarp to him so that he could be sure whether or not it would lead back to a place where they could capture more trappers - it was, and so he set it aside. All of the effortless cooperation made his job easier that day, but it still didn’t sit well, and once he’d sent word back to the Wizard-moot through a small portrait of a selkie regarding his location, he bound each of the trappers to each other and then sat them down and individually released each of them from the Imperius charm. Some of them became decidedly more verbally hostile after that, but not all of them. Signey sat quietly and stared at him, clearly disquieted by all that she’d seen that day.
He didn’t make Clara sit among the jostling fools and when one of them had the nerve to complain about it, he’d already been kicked twice by the time Jormund offered to remove one of the man’s arms as well if he preferred to join Clara in her fate. That was the last of it from them. A few hours later, another rejka appeared on a broom and opened a small box which contained a portkey in the shake of a gavel. It took them back to Vatnajokull where Clara was carted off to the little hospital where she would spend the first two weeks of her sentence; the others met with a small tribunal of the Wizard-moot where their sentence was declared based on a mound of evidence and Jormund’s firsthand account of their activity. They were sent off to receive their anti-magic seals, and after that they would be sent to the trullan lava forges in the volcano field beneath the Vatnajokull glacier. Clara would of course join them once her arm was regrown, but that was all beyond Jormund’s sphere of concern. The trapper’s den at the other end of the disapparation tarp was his next project, but that would have to wait for proper permissions as well, because it was going to let out somewhere in the Tollymore Forest of Northeast Ireland.
Jormund went home that day to his little cabin in a lakeshore hamlet beside Jokulsarlon and sat down at his desk with a heavy heart. He reflected back to the teachings of Professor Heinz from his time at Durmstrang, and reminded himself that he hadn’t done anything wrong that day. It still felt strange know that he had - in the eyes of some - committed the most unforgivable sins of wizardkind by helping those trappers that day. After drumming his fingers for a moment, he reached for a thick, leatherbound book on his desk and selected a quill.
“Singularly bizarre and sobering day in the wilds of Iceland today,” he wrote, knowing the scribbles would be seen by a select few others in time. “In an effort to provide aid and comfort to criminals whom I proceeded to apprehend, I found myself casting each of the unforgivable curses at least once within ten minutes. Rescuing fools from dragons is complicated business, it seems.”
A while later, as he was sitting down with a bowl of pottage, Jormund noticed new script had appeared beneath his in a different hand. It read quite simply, “Protecting the ignorant is never simple. Stay brave my friend.”
He didn’t make Clara sit among the jostling fools and when one of them had the nerve to complain about it, he’d already been kicked twice by the time Jormund offered to remove one of the man’s arms as well if he preferred to join Clara in her fate. That was the last of it from them. A few hours later, another rejka appeared on a broom and opened a small box which contained a portkey in the shake of a gavel. It took them back to Vatnajokull where Clara was carted off to the little hospital where she would spend the first two weeks of her sentence; the others met with a small tribunal of the Wizard-moot where their sentence was declared based on a mound of evidence and Jormund’s firsthand account of their activity. They were sent off to receive their anti-magic seals, and after that they would be sent to the trullan lava forges in the volcano field beneath the Vatnajokull glacier. Clara would of course join them once her arm was regrown, but that was all beyond Jormund’s sphere of concern. The trapper’s den at the other end of the disapparation tarp was his next project, but that would have to wait for proper permissions as well, because it was going to let out somewhere in the Tollymore Forest of Northeast Ireland.
Jormund went home that day to his little cabin in a lakeshore hamlet beside Jokulsarlon and sat down at his desk with a heavy heart. He reflected back to the teachings of Professor Heinz from his time at Durmstrang, and reminded himself that he hadn’t done anything wrong that day. It still felt strange know that he had - in the eyes of some - committed the most unforgivable sins of wizardkind by helping those trappers that day. After drumming his fingers for a moment, he reached for a thick, leatherbound book on his desk and selected a quill.
“Singularly bizarre and sobering day in the wilds of Iceland today,” he wrote, knowing the scribbles would be seen by a select few others in time. “In an effort to provide aid and comfort to criminals whom I proceeded to apprehend, I found myself casting each of the unforgivable curses at least once within ten minutes. Rescuing fools from dragons is complicated business, it seems.”
A while later, as he was sitting down with a bowl of pottage, Jormund noticed new script had appeared beneath his in a different hand. It read quite simply, “Protecting the ignorant is never simple. Stay brave my friend.”