#Poviss

[ormakona]

Coën (d. March 1268) was a witcher of the School of the Griffin, originally hailing from Poviss and active during the 13th century.

[minne-cerbinna]

I'm playing TW1 again and I have thoughts about this tiny little sequence in the Chapter 2 quest "Memories of a Blade", which amounts to the only mention of Coën in the game.

When undertaking this quest, Geralt is investigating the origin of the silver sword he was given to slay a cockatrice; he mistakenly believes that it might be Berengar's sword since he knows the other witcher to have been in the area. A conversation with Thaler, from whom the sword was confiscated by the guard, will lead him eventually to speak to the Gardener outside St. Lebioda's hospital in Vizima. This man used to be a mercenary under Pretty Kitty, but has since retired and works as a gardener, and had lost the silver sword at dice poker. When interacted with, he will begin any conversation with "Look how they grow!", referring to the plants in his garden. The player can then initiate the quest dialogue with option one, "I'm more interested in silver swords".

GERALT: I'm more interested in silver swords.

GARDENER: I knew one of you would come by eventually.

GERALT: You lost it playing dice?

GARDENER: I was sure I'd win. Beware, the sharp one plays well.

GERALT: Where did you get this sword?

GARDENER: Five years ago, there was a battle near Brenna. When the dust had settled, our men had beaten the Nilfgaardians. We ceased to call ourselves an imperial province that day.

GERALT: You captured the sword during the battle?

GARDENER: Yes, it was witcher Cöen's [sic]. A strapping fellow and a rare breed. Not very talkative, mind you.

GERALT: Like most of us.

GARDENER: I gave my word the sword would find another witcher. As he lay dying, he mumbled about teeth and destiny. Then he laughed -- at his own death.

GERALT: Yet you lost it gambling?

GARDENER: I kept it hidden for five years. I lost hope I'd ever run into another witcher. Miss Shani knew Cöen [sic]. She works at the hospital.

GERALT: Thanks.

GARDENER: Good luck on the path!

The quest will lead you to speak with Shani, then Zoltan, but neither will provide further information on Coën, aside from Shani mentioning that he died on her operating table -- Shani's dialogue is to provide her backstory as a medic at Brenna and to mention Rusty, and Zoltan simply assesses the quality of the blade to ensure that it is a witcher blade of good workmanship. It has no further significance to Geralt, who, without his memory, has no idea who Coën is and has more pressing matters to deal with than to look into the past of a man who died five years ago (according to the somewhat off-kilter game timeline, anyway). But it's the only mention of Coën in the games, and I find that it's a very interesting way to manifest his presence.

I think it is reasonable to tie Coën quite closely to his sword on a symbolic level, if one considers his appearance in the novels where he not only trains with Ciri, but his prowess with a sword is unrivaled even by the other witchers to the point where she believes that he may be the best swordsman in the world. Additionally, the fact that he fought at Brenna at all means that he offered his sword in the service of the Northern Kingdoms, and when he dies, he is identified by his peers as a "master swordsman" rather than as a witcher, despite the fact that they know of his nature. As such, Coën's sword is a very important possession for him to leave behind.

And from there, there is a connection to Lambert, left unsaid. To go beyond the simple fact that Coën was Lambert's friend, someone dearly loved who was close enough with Lambert and his family to get on with the other wolves and stay a winter at Kaer Morhen, the importance lies with the sword. As with any witcher, Coën wouldn't have much in the way of worldly possessions to bequeath onto someone else in the event of his prophecied death. But he does have his swords, which are established as symbolically important to him. A steel sword could be taken up by any warrior capable enough to use it, but a silver sword belongs in the hands of a witcher, and that is what Coën asked for on his deathbed, for his silver sword to be given to another witcher. While it's very possible that this is meant in a general way, that he just wanted any other witcher to take it up, to avoid the sword being wasted, broken, or dismantled for its composite parts, it also strikes me as possible that he could have intended it for a specific witcher.

Lambert is one of the instructors for Ciri when she's first learning the swordplay and acrobatics associated with being a witcher. Lambert is the one in the first game to provide the instructional descriptions of the Fighting Styles for Geralt to regain his swordplay competencies after losing his memories. And there is another bit of dialogue in TW3 that really emphasises both Lambert's connection to Vesemir, the swordmaster of Kaer Morhen, and the idea of swords as inheritance, as a manifestation of closeness:

LAMBERT: Knew the old man couldn't live forever. Huh, even told Eskel that when it came time, I'd get his sword. Fits my hand perfectly, you know.

Which is a heartbreaking notion in and of itself upon which I could expostulate, the symbolism there in the fraught relationship between Lambert and his father figure reduced to something as simple as a hilt that fits two hands perfectly. But if this is the inheritance that Lambert wants, it makes it all the more pertinent that Coën desperately wanted his silver sword to make it into the hands of another witcher. Lambert, the son of a swordmaster, wants to take on a sword as a memento of someone he has lost, and Coën, the master swordsman, left his sword behind. Even if Lambert were not the specific intended target of the sword, he would have possibly or even likely known Coën well enough to fulfill his wishes, whatever they might be.

And yet Coën's sword never makes it home or into the hands of someone who would value it, like Lambert would, this last memory of his dear friend. Geralt makes use of the sword during his time in Vizima, and then it is lost, replaced by the gifted Aerondight. And so Coën is lost with it, never mentioned again.

[dearestnevermore]

Happy 29th birthday, Meg!

All our ships (minus findaryen) featuring Anathema's Untouchable Part. 1. We've been on board for so long, captain! Love you with all my heart, my dearest. ♥

[inexplicifics]

I don't know if you have a face claim for Rhiannon of Poviss already, but your description of her immediately made me think of Jewel Staite!

Oh, I quite like that!

[andordean]

Lost Scenes Thursday! Get to know your favourite authors better. Show five scenes from either abandoned fics where you regret they will never see the light of day, or five scenes from WIPs where you are impatient to see them out there. Long, short, one-liner... it's all good reading. Tag five other authors where you are curious.

@regis-favorite-raven tagged me in this too, and @valandhirwriter had the misfortune of reblogging it, so they're being dragged into the response here too. :D Fair warning: it's a long one. Thanks as always for thinking of me! <3

(1) This fic has no title, and it's my take on the empress ending, with my personal favourite pairing for Ciri as a ruler.

Her first instinct was to burn the letter. 

It wasn’t signed; it didn’t need to be. She had no idea how it even made its way to her--one day she just found a folded piece of fine paper in her saddle bag. The tone of the letter was official, detached. Cold. She didn’t burn it in the end, but she ignored it altogether.

The second letter was a shade softer. She ignored that one too.

The third one was apologetic.

---

The barge left them on a narrow sidewalk surrounded by grey walls, leading towards a single door at the back of a nondescript building.

"Please follow me," her companion said amicably.

Ciri looked around, trying to get her bearings, but the place was utterly indescribable. 

The man stopped before the door and turned to her with the same polite smile. "Before we go in, I am afraid I have to ask you to leave your weapons with me."

Ciri eyed him with suspicion. "Look around, good sir. You've led me to a place with no way out, and now you're asking me to give up my sword?"

"I was led to believe 'no way out' does not apply to you," the man said, stretching out his hand, waiting. 

Ciri frowned. The circumstances were looking less and less like a delicate Witcher matter. She did not like it one bit.

Obediently, she unclipped her sword and handed it to the man; he took it, but did not move even by an inch. Ciri sighed in irritation, fished out the dagger from her shoe and pushed it into the man's outstretched hand.

"There," she snapped. The man bowed–bowed–and without another word opened the door for her.

Behind it was a short corridor leading to a staircase, lit up by torches. Ciri followed the stairs up to the next level; the level of dust suggested they haven't been used in a while. They ended at a small landing and another door. She pushed it open and entered the room.

The man standing by the only window turned around to face her as she walked in. She glanced around the room first–empty, but for a small table with a bottle of wine and glasses on it–then she focused her attention on the man, and her heart sank.

He seemed a few years older than her; his clothes were of excellent quality, but with no visible signs of affiliation or rank. Dark hair in waves down to his shoulders, dark eyes studying her with open curiosity, a perfectly trimmed beard, his lips quirked in a small smirk that seemed like a permanent feature. 

Two things were obvious: he was devilishly handsome—and she was fucked.

"Thank you for coming," he said, and even his damn voice was attractive.

"Did I have a choice? Your Grace?" Ciri retorted and his smile only deepened.

"You always have a choice," Tankred Thyssen, the king of Kovir, Poviss and a few other places, replied smoothly. "You can turn around and leave right now; you have my word you shall not be bothered. But I believe it is in your interest to hear me out."

Ciri crossed her arms on her chest, and waited.

"Very well." The king gestured to the table. "Please, have a seat."

"I'd rather not," Ciri said through clenched teeth.

The only effect it had was to seemingly amuse him further. He sat down, opened the bottle, filled both cups, and offered her one. "If nothing else, this wine is worth your time."

Ciri studied him for another heartbeat before reluctantly taking the seat and accepting the glass. She took a sip for courage and had to admit he was right: it was the most delicate, beautiful red she has ever had.

"What's the occasion?" She pushed. "Is there a witcher contract that's too delicate to be made public?"

"Not quite," he said and her heart sank at the confirmation. "Thank you for dealing with the foglets, by the way. Unsurprisingly, none of the mages were willing to get their hands dirty."

"How—" Ciri shook her head. "No, nevermind."

"The guard at the market's southern gate," Tankred said, unbothered. "His job was to keep an eye on you–and to step in should you need assistance." He gave her a small nod. "Which obviously turned out to be an abundance of caution."

"I'm deeply touched by your care." Ciri took another sip of wine, when a thought hit her. "Wait—the contract—it was your doing, wasn't it? I knew the money was too good."

"The contract wasn't," Tankred said. "The fee, however—I hoped it would catch your eye."

Ciri downed the rest of the wine and put the glass on the table. "I have places to be, so if you could just tell me what this dance is about, I'll be on my way."

He studied her with this smirk of his that had already become infuriating. "Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon; Queen of Cintra, Princess of Brugge and Duchess of Sodden, heiress to Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, and suzeraine of Attre and Abb Yarra. I hope I didn't forget anything?"

There it was: all the cards laid neatly on the table, with no lies left to hide behind. Ciri took a careful breath. "You forgot a few things, actually. Queen of Cintra is no more, for Cintra is no more. Cirilla Fiona died five years ago; reasons for her death have not been made public. And you're talking to the Witcher from the school of the Wolf."

"Tell me, then, Witcher," Tankred managed to not make it sound like a mockery—no small feat considering the circumstances, "why are you exchanging correspondence with the emperor of Nilfgaard?"

That came as a surprise. Ciri glared at him for a moment in silence, mulling over her options—which weren't many. Not with him clearly knowing bloody everything. 

With limited alternatives, she settled on the truth. "If you know so much, then surely you know I told him to go and fuck himself."

(2) Most recent WIP - Ghost sequel, Cahir/Ciri

"I did not realise the tincture calls for myrrh powder." 

Cahir nearly jumps at the vampire's voice, and looks down at the contents of the mortar. The resin he's been working on is indeed ground to a fine ash. So much for escaping Regis' scrutiny.

"Sorry." He grimaces. "Got lost in thought."

"This much is obvious." Regis studies him with a slight frown. "Anything of concern?"

Cahir can't decide whether it's a blessing or a curse to have someone as inquisitive as Regis privy to his deepest regrets. 

"Not really.”

"So Ciri doesn’t seem to be in mortal danger?”

"Not as far as I can tell," Cahir says. 

Regis studies him for a heartbeat, but Cahir doesn’t elaborate; there are limits to which he’s willing to embarrass himself, and his last dream definitely falls into that category. After what feels like an age, the vampire nods and moves past him to rummage through a box on the floor, fishing out a glass vial. He takes the mortar from Cahir, transfers the ground resin into a vial and carries it over to a little stove in the far corner; atop it, a bowl sits, surrounded by a metal frame. Regis attaches the vial to the frame, fills the bowl with water and lights the fire in the stove. 

Cahir watches him in silence, waiting. The resin needs an hour or so of steeping in boiling water; he has a distinct feeling Regis isn’t planning to go anywhere in the meantime.

"That reminds me," Regis says offhandedly, his tone confirming Cahir’s worst suspicions. "Whatever happened to that delightful young woman whose grandmother you helped? Mila, was it? I have not seen her around in a while.”

Cahir sighs, resigned. “And you probably won’t.” 

“Shame. I liked her wit.”

The water in the bowl is bubbling happily; Regis readjusts the vial to make sure the resin in it is fully submerged, then leans against the work table facing Cahir and studies him intently. “You do realise clinging to the past is no way to live?”

“It's the past that is clinging to me,” Cahir retorts, his voice a little too sharp. He takes a breath. “And it’s what I deserve.”

“Nonsense,” Regis huffs. “What you deserve is to move on. To be happy.”

“But I am happy.” Cahir makes a sweeping gesture, encompassing the workshop. “What you taught me—helping people—makes life worth living. And I have you and Dettlaff. What else could I want?”

“Companionship. Friendships other than with two aging vampires,” Regis counters. “I hate to see you cutting yourself off from others your own age—your own kind.”

“My kind wants me dead,” Cahir points out. “I’m a wanted fugitive. I can’t—I can’t trust just anyone with the truth. You of all people should know that.”

“It may be time to trust someone with your story.”

Cahir rubs his forehead. It’s not the first discussion they’ve had on the subject. “What we went through… It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t seen what we saw. Someone who’s not—broken.”

“This world has been broken in more ways than one,” Regis says patiently. “It may be time to take a risk and crawl out of your shell. War has scarred this land deeply; you may find that you are not an exception.”

“Maybe one day,” Cahir says dismissively, keen to change the subject. “For now I am content with the friends I have.”

Regis studies him for a moment in silence. “In this case,” he says, and Cahir has an eerie feeling he’s walked into something he may regret, “what would you say to a break?”

“A break?” Cahir repeats.

“There’s a selection of rare manuscripts I have sought for a while. I just received a letter from an antique dealer in Novigrad that he came into possession of one. Besides, some of our supplies are thinning out. And you could do with a break. A change of scenery.”

“You wrote to Dandelion.”

Regis is a picture of innocence. “I may have told him you’d be there before the month is out.”

Cahir shakes his head with a soft laugh. “If you want me out of the house to give Dettlaff a break, you can just say so. No need to interrogate me beforehand.”

“Nonsense,” Regis scoffs. “Dettlaff enjoys your company. And I enjoy interrogating you.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Cahir says with a fake scorn. “Maybe I do need new friends.”

“Being right is a privilege of age. I’ll arrange for your horse to be ready.”

(3) Bodyguard!AU, Cahir/Ciri. A fully plotted one that I'll probably never actually write.

Agreeing to this was a mistake, Cahir thought as soon as Princess Cirilla marched into the room, her whole posture an eponym of contempt--whether for the arrangement, or for him, Cahir had no way of knowing. 

"Sit down."

"I'd rather not." Her voice was ice cold, but Cahir didn't let that fool him; there was simmering rage just underneath the surface.

The emperor regarded her for a heartbeat, then nodded. "Very well. This man here," he gestured at Cahir, "has been assigned as your personal bodyguard. He will accompany you everywhere from now on until I say otherwise. Am I making myself clear?"

"I don't remember agreeing to this," Cirilla spat.

"I have reasonable grounds to suspect people in my circle are in danger," var Emreis said, his voice softening just a fraction. "I ask you to trust me, and my sources."

"Trust you?" Cirilla's composure was gone in a blink, replaced by such fury that Cahir had to rethink his earlier assessment. Perhaps all that contempt was reserved for the Emperor, after all. "Trust you to do what exactly?"

"To act before I am faced with an impossible choice."

"Impossible choice," Cirilla repeated, venom dropping off every syllable. "Heartwarming. When does this dog of yours start his assignment?"

"Immediately."

(4) Blood Ties sequel that has a solid plot and some 40% written. Regis returns to Cintra as things go to shit, yet again

Absence was what shook him out of the slumber. He didn’t recognise it for what it was; not initially. The pull of the Unseen Elder that came right after–and the animalistic fear that always accompanied his summons–tuned out any subtler sensations. It wasn’t until the Elder’s claws were at his throat that Regis understood what had happened. 

The space in his mind that belonged to Ciri ever since their bond formed, the space that had echoed so brilliantly with her presence, that had shimmered with vivid colours at the edge of his consciousness even during his hibernation–that space was now deadly silent. 

He set off immediately, the Elder’s threats and demands irrelevant in the face of his own dread.

Vampires did not recognise gods, nor had a need for them–yet Regis found himself fervently praying that he wasn’t too late.

---

“You love her,” Tankred said. It wasn’t a question - not with the way the man was holding Ciri’s hand, his lips a pale line, his attention entirely focused on her shallow breathing.

Regis turned to him with a frown, but his expression immediately softened.

“I believe you can answer that yourself, Your Majesty,” he said gently, “if it’s possible to see her for who she is, and not love her.”

Tankred was silent for a heartbeat, bracing himself.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Regis’ eyes narrowed, his face hardening.

“Is it important?”

“Any moment now my children will be here. I nearly lost them once already,” Tankred said with a forced calm. “Yes, it’s important.”

The barber-surgeon looked at him for a long moment in complete silence.

“A monster,” he said eventually, his voice carefully level and cold as ice. “A blood-sucking beast. Have I adequately satisfied Your Majesty's curiosity? Should I remove myself now to ensure the heirs' safety?”

Tankred couldn’t help casting a glance at Ciri, looking for bloodied marks on her neck. Regis grimaced and pointedly took Ciri’s hand, showing him a single needle puncture on her finger, already healed.

Tankred’s mind was rushing. When Ciri had told him about Regis, he hadn't paid much attention to her story. But later, when he had gotten the reports about the man’s role in the uprising, a few details were strange enough to inspire a more in-depth research. He never arrived at any resolution, and most definitely not at the one the man had just offered him, but then again, he wasn’t particularly surprised either.

After all, a close relationship with a vampire was exactly Ciri's style.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he said. 

Regis raised his eyebrows.

“That’s it?” he mocked. “No guards, no garlic, no blessed water to repel evil?”

“When it comes to topics one is unfamiliar with, it's prudent to look to the experts in the field.” Tankred shrugged. “Of the two monster experts I know personally, Geralt calls you a friend, and Ciri's trust in you is boundless. Besides, you may have just saved her life.” Tankred broke off for a moment, and added with a forced smile. “And none of these protective measures would have worked on you anyway, would they?”

(5) One of some three hundred scenes covering the next thirty years of Ciri's rule, a few years after the previous snippet

Damian walked in, and stopped at the door. He had expected to find Ciri alone, but both Tankred and Regis were there, sitting at the table. It was the first time he met both of them since–

Well. Since circumstances changed. Since everything changed.

As if sensing his discomfort, Ciri sent him a warm smile. "It's time you joined our little circle of conspirators."

"Such an unbecoming word," Regis said. "We hardly ever conspire."

"Once a quarter at the most," Tankred added, as he beckoned him closer. "Wine?"

"I'd rather not," Damian said carefully; Tankred smirked and gestured to the chair beside him.

"Now, now," Ciri cut in. "He's still mine."

"You have the vampire, don't be greedy," Tankred shot back, and Damian's confusion grew tenfold.

"The vampire?"

For the first time that Damian knew him, Tankred looked…chagrined. The silence that followed was broken by Regis, clearing his throat.

"Our King means me," he said gently, looking at Damian. 

Damian just stared at him, trying to wrap his mind around this new revelation. He was vaguely aware of Ciri, studying him with an inscrutable expression from across the table. Through his shock, he felt the missing pieces slot into place as the full picture finally unraveled before his eyes.

"That's how you were able to save Ciri," he breathed. "Both then–and now?"

Regis gave him an appreciative smile. "Indeed. My nature does have its uses." 

"You understand, naturally, how this has to remain a secret," Tankred cut in. "And for that, I do apologize, Regis; I was way out of line to reveal it so casually."

Regis noded. "Thank you, but you were also not wrong. The situation does call for the truth, and we all know our General is worthy of the trust put in him."

For the third time Damian felt as if the rug was pulled from under him. "General?" 

"You bloodsucking bastard," Tankred offered pleasantly at the same time. Regis shot him his most serene smile, and Ciri–Ciri burst out laughing.

[the-witcher-confessions]

"I wish we had more games developing Lore like "Thronebreaker". I'd like to play something like this about Skellige, Kovir and Poviss, Nilfgaard and Ofir. Hopefully, CDPR won't give up such projects!"

[crashdevlin]

Don't Hide (A Witcher fic)

Author’s Note: This is part three of my Witcher series, which started at Opposites Don't Attract and continued to Left In the Cold 

Summary: Y/n finds herself in Poviss, living an almost-normal life in the North. A blizzard leaves her stuck.

Pairing: Geralt x Reader 

Word count: 2330

Story Warnings: a bit of angst, confrontation, some kissing

~~~

Poviss was cold. A Northern mountain territory with residents who weren’t used to outsiders. They were surprised when a witcher approached the gates of Tredam, but you just set your eyes on the snow beneath your boots and stepped past the guards. Your first instinct was to find the tavern, but you stopped at the town message board first. Maybe to find a job. Maybe to find a place to stay. There were several notices for missing cats and dogs, but the page that caught your attention said Shak for rint. 2 rooms plus outhous. Shit at keeping out cold but has a pit. Build a fire. Find me at Bicages Inn. Ask for Liam.

You pulled the parchment down and folded it, tucking it into your shirt. You adjusted your cloak and headed down the mud and stone covered main road through Tredam, eyes on the sign hanging from a building in the distance.

"Yer a witcher?" The man at the bar named Liam barely looked at you as he spoke and you could imagine him wanting nothing to do with you...until you realized that his accent was Skelligen and he wore no symbol of clan loyalty. An exile. An outsider, just like you.

"Yes. I'm just looking for a place to lay low for the winter."

"Ain' there a spot yer kine go ta fer the cold months? Off ta the East?"

Your lips went thin as you pressed them together for a moment. You cleared your throat and looked toward the barman, who nodded at you and grabbed a mug to fill it for you. "I'm not welcome at Kaer Morhen." You pulled your medallion out of your cloak and dangled it where he could see the cat head. "Cats are banned. Lucky me, I'm an outsider even from the other outsiders."

"Heard things 'bout Cat witchers."

"All true," you interrupted. "Foul, chaotic, rude, quite insane, the lot of us. Fortunately, I've denounced much of my teachings. Which is why I'm not in the Southlands with the Cat Caravan."

"Yew got a hundred florins?" he asked after several quiet moments. You nodded. "Yew can have the cabin 'til first thaw, then. Have yer drink an' then I'll take yew to it."

"Thank you," you said quietly before taking a seat on the stool beside him.

The cabin was deep in the woods outside Tredam and it was small, a bedroom and a kitchen and sitting area, but it was more than enough for you. Liam left you alone. You made witcher potions. You cooked in the firepit. You did small jobs around Poviss to earn coin for liquor and food. It was the closest to the simplicity of normal peasant life as you'd ever experience.

Once they got used to your presence in their town, several of the people of Tredam were fairly welcoming, offering smiles and greetings when they saw you. They knew your name. They knew your drink order at the tavern. They knew which herbs you needed before you walked into the apothecary. They knew what book you were reading that week and had suggestions for what you should buy next. They accepted you. No wonder Liam felt comfortable in Tredam.

The second storm of winter was much worse than the first, leaving you stranded in your cabin. Your horse, Daisy, was boarded in the stable behind the tavern and, though you missed your animal companion, you were grateful for that. She would have frozen in the blizzard. You, however, were at least alive in the cabin, fire blazing, bundled in cloaks and blankets.

You sensed movement outside the log walls of the cabin and your brow furrowed. The snow had been falling without stopping for hours. Who, in their right mind, would be out in that sort of weather? And why hadn't you heard them approach?

You stood and grabbed your steel, immediately thinking of Joel. It would be just your luck that Marchioness Woudsly sent another witcher your way. You couldn’t kill another of your brothers. You would die first. But if it wasn't a Cat…

You opened your door with your sword ready and gasped as your eyes fell on the white-haired Wolf you left behind months before. You froze, fingers gripping the handle of your sword as he looked down at you, snow whipping around him on strong wisps of wind.

"Are you going to kill me or invite me in?"

You blinked at him a few times before you sighed and lowered the sword, stepping out of the doorway and dropping your eyes to the wood floor. He stepped in and shut the door, shaking snow off of his hair and shoulders. You bit into the inside of your cheek as you sheathed your sword. What were you supposed to say to him? Did he come to Tredam to find you? Was he on a job? Were you the job? Would Geralt ever take a contract like that? Not against a human, but you weren't human and if he thought you murdered the Marquees…

"What are you doing here, Geralt?" you asked, pulling your cloak around you tighter.

"Did you expect me to stay in Kagen?"

"N-no," you stumbled, moving closer to the fire and avoiding the amber eyes staring at you through the dim light of your cabin. "But I didn’t expect you here, either."

"Obviously." You ignored the tone of his voice as you sat on a small wood stool and warmed your fingers near the fire. He watched you for a few moments before moving to lean against the wall. "You never came back."

"Obviously," you responded, shortly.

"Why?"

You tucked your hands under your cloak and stared at the flames. How the hell were you supposed to answer that? How were you supposed to tell the great White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, the most famous witcher of the time, that you were too bloody sensitive to be baited into a heartbreak at his hands? How could you tell him that you'd never recover from the fall? How could you tell him you'd regretted riding away since the moment you mounted up?

"Why not?" was the answer that escaped you. Not much of an answer, but it didn’t get you killed so it must have worked well enough.

He let out a small sigh and shook his head. "I didn't take you as a coward."

Your eyes went wide, anger immediately racing through your blood. Rage heated your face. At least you weren't cold anymore. "Excuse me?"

"You got scared and you ran away," he accused. "You're a fucking coward."

You leaped to your feet, glaring up at him. "Nothing about you scares me, Wolf!"

He just glared back at you. "Could have fooled me, Feline."

"Oh, fuck off!" You scoffed and threw your hands up. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Can't you take a fucking hint? I don't want anything to do with-"

"Liar," he interrupted, stepping closer.

"Gods, you are an arrogant son of a bitch, aren't you? I left you in Kagen because I didn't-"

"Because you're a coward."

"I'm not a--what kind of witcher do you take me for?" He just tilted his head, looking down at you with that frustratingly handsome face. You let out an angry grunt and turned away. "You are infuriating! I came here to get away from you!"

"You admit you ran away to hide, then?" You didn't even have to look to know he was smirking.

"I'm not hiding!"

"Yes, you are."

"I am not!" You whipped back around, glaring at him again. "You need to leave. I don't want you here. I don't want you around. I don't want a wolf in my home-"

"You don't have a home, Cat." He pushed back away from the wall and stepped right in front of you. "This is just a cabin you rented to hide."

"Fuck off, Geralt." You grabbed the cold iron of the door handle and pulled it open. Snow piled up on the doorstep, halfway up the frame. In just the short time he'd been in your cabin, the storm had gotten worse. You couldn’t send him out in that. "Fuck."

"Guess you're stuck with me."

You slammed the door and looked from the fire to the bedroom door. It was the only place to get away from him, but were you willing to risk the cold?

You certainly tried. You wrapped your cloaks and blankets around you on the wool-stuffed mattress in the bedroom. You held out stubbornly, listening to Geralt breathing beside your fire, until the cold overwhelmed you. It was your fire, after all. Why should he get to enjoy it while you froze your tits off?

You refused to look at him as you dropped to the floor beside the fire, grateful for the warmth flowing into your limbs. You sat in silence for what seemed like hours, tension settled over you as the wind roared outside.

"I waited for you," he said, eventually. You kept your eyes on the fire. "I knew you weren't coming back after the second day, but I waited."

"Then you're a fool," you responded quietly.

"A fool to hope, I agree." You rolled your eyes. 'Hope'. He couldn't have really hoped you'd come back. "I waited a week. Until the bard came back to tell me you'd ridden North."

You shook your head. You told Dandelion not to involve himself in your business.

"Geralt…"

"Why?"

You closed your eyes and bit the inside of your bottom lip. Maintaining silence on the issue at hand probably wasn't feasible. Not with him stuck in your cabin. Your hiding spot...because, really, he was right wasn’t he? You were hiding from him…and here he was.

He waited for your answer, didn't press. Witchers were nothing if not patient.

"You don't want me, Geralt," you said, looking over the flames at him. "I'm just a stray Cat that you play with sometimes. I'm not…"

"Don't bring up Triss and Yen."

"How can I not?" You pulled your cloak around you tighter and hugged yourself. "You think I'm just going to ignore them? Or any of the others? You have a type, Wolf. Sorceresses for relationships, whores for fun. Which category do you suppose I find myself in?"

He hummed and focused his eyes on the fire. "Do you...know why I'm called Butcher of Blaviken?"

You didn't understand why he was asking. Everyone knew the story...and anyone with an intimate knowledge of witchers, especially of Geralt, knew that he'd had no choice. "Of course."

"I don't think you do."

"Well...then enlighten me," you urged, curious as to how that massacre had anything to do with the conversation you were having.

He was silent for a few moments before he let out a small groan and looked up to catch your eyes. "There was a woman...Renfri. Not a sorceress...not a whore...a princess." Your jaw dropped a little. "She was one of the princesses marked as harbingers of Lilit. She managed to escape when she was taken to be killed. She was...beautiful, resourceful…"

He looked back down to the fire. "When I met her, she was the leader of a group of bandits. A princess, who should have been a queen by all blood-rights, was stealing for her supper."

"The bandits that you…"

He nodded in answer to your question. "She was determined to get revenge on the mage that ruined her. She asked for my help. I asked her to…" He shook his head. "I asked her to walk away, let go of it. She couldn't. She went after him...any means necessary...go through all who stand in her way...me included. She wouldn’t stop."

You licked your lips and leaned forward. "She was consumed."

"She was the first woman I felt anything for. I didn't think I could feel before her." He looked over at you. "She made me feel...and I had to kill her."

Your throat clenched around the sudden rise of emotion, your brain replaying Joel attacking you. You looked away, tears welling up in your eyes. "I had a brother. I left him behind at Dyn Marv. He was offered a contract on me." You swallowed thickly. "He wouldn't stop either. He was so angry with me."

You took a shaky breath and sighed it out. "I feel, Geralt. And I know you feel things too, but it's different. It's different for me. I'm not a wolf. I can act like I'm just like you but I'm not."

"You don't make sense." He stood and looked down at you. "You know I feel for Yen. You know I feel for Triss. But when it comes to you, I'm a wolf so I'm heartless."

You opened your mouth to argue but he kept talking. "I do feel for you. I care about you and knowing you left me waiting for you in Kagen hurt. Knowing that you decided to hide from me hurt. So tell me, Cat, if I'm just a wolf with no emotions, why was I compelled to find you? Why did I have to see your face again? Why couldn't I stop?"

You stood slowly, on shaking legs. “It’s...just…” You licked your lips, trying to find words, but finding none.

He reached out and grabbed your shoulders, looking down into your eyes. “Don’t.” He leaned down and lightly pressed his lips to yours. He felt like fate. You reached up and wrapped your left hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss you harder. “Don’t hide,” he mumbled into your mouth as he pushed you back into the wall.

Heat enveloped you as his body pressed into yours. The cold of the blizzard was forgotten. The fear of the future was forgotten. For a moment, everything was okay and you didn’t need to hide.

[buds-and-baubles]

🖊🖊?

yaay! i worry that i'll go a little overboard about her but.

my witcher books/games oc, brigitta of skellige/faroe isle! she's also known as eryr ar aur an deith aka eagle of gold and flame. she is a witcher from the school of the griffin.

she's 6'4", depressed, and both the perfect embodiment and contradiction of the knightly values that the griffins abide by. her best and only friend is her horse, enbarr.

she was born in clan dimun territory of faroe isle, skellige to pirate parents and was taught young how to defend herself by practicing with a wooden sword and learning how to fire a crossbow at any sirens out at sea who tried to attack their ship.

when other pirates came aboard their ship to attack and were too caught up in fighting to notice they were going to crash, brigitta had no choice but to jump overboard in order to save herself. she was unscathed minus a deep wound on her chin that was bound to become a scar.

she remained alone until a griffin witcher named erland was sailing his way back to their fortress in the mountains had spotted young brigitta and couldn't in good conscience leave her to die. injured brigitta's first response to seeing him was to attack him with a board.

it just so happens they were in need of more witchers and here she was. erland, the leader of the school who had final say, was skeptical about taking her in. he had seen first hand when he became a witcher all the girls die from the trials and did not believe she would survive.

oh, she survived. she survived additional trials like trial of the sword. it however, left her with a nasty scar across where her throat meets her chin and a gravely voice. she even chose her final trial of the griffin to be the first recorded person to perfectly recite liber tenebraum rather than retrieve a griffin's egg from a nest.

at the keep she met coën of poviss, who became a brother to her and her only friend her age. they were griffins and survivors from the same batch of new witchers and did everything together.

after the events of the mages' attack on their keep that lead to the avalanche and snow burying most of the school that left only the leader of the school and one other alive, coën and brigitta to winter at kaer morhen due to the school of the wolf's generosity.

while she had befriended the wolves and even the child surprise (cirilla), she preferred to spend her time mainly elsewhere. either meditating, reading, taking care of the stables and animals, or with just coën. they still had eachother.

(spoilers for the books in case you wanted to read!!) after discussions of a witcher's neutrality came up and coën decided to fight in the battle of brenna, brigitta didn't want him to leave but knew she couldn't stop him. which made it worse that he died at the battle and how he died.

brigitta took this horribly and left behind the only place she could winter at when not on the path to throw herself into contracts in her grief. she became reckless and animalistic in nature, putting herself and others at risk. she would've stayed that way if it weren't for a monster trying to attack her horse. she realized what she was becoming and it brought her back to herself.

now, she travels the path with the road as her home and enbarr her only companion. essentially, she is the last griffin as their leader is a recluse in a cave a shell of himself, and the other remaining vigil over the mass burial to also be a shell of himself.

[teatitty]

Dandelion's fame is said to span from the buina river to the yaruga. After cross referencing multiple maps to figure out what kingdoms his name is most known in, I can now safely say that the consistent ones shown between these two rivers are: Redania, Kaedwen, Aedirn, and Temeria, with the big notable areas in those kingdoms being Lyria, Cidaris, Vergen, Brugge, Novigrad and Ard Carraigh

Directly below the yaruga river are Cintra and Angren, so at a push you could say anyone who lives near the river's borders of those kingdoms might have heard of him too, but canon wise his reach is basically everything above Cintra which is a huge fucking area. I think the only places his reach is exempt from in the far north are Kovir and Poviss

But yeah there you go. A fun neat little lore fact for you that took up about two hours of my time because I was tracking down and reading about a dozen different goddamn maps made for this series, including the ones in the games and a few done by fans. My eyes hurt from it all

[yellowspiralbound]

Witcher Fun Facts from the Table-Top Role-playing Game

These facts are about as canon as the lore in the game or in the reward trees for the gwent app as it is put out by CDPR. These are the things that stuck out to me the most, there are obviously more facts than these in the TTRPG.

• There is a sentient species living north of Kovir & Poviss despite it being widely believed that habitation farther north is impossible. The only way people on the Continent know this species exists is because some of their art will occasionally show up in Kovir & Poviss. It is not known whether those living there are human or something else. (If I was in charge of the TTRPG, the species living up there would be orcs because according to the wiki, Elder Speech was developed by Sapkowski for use by elves and orcs. Obviously orcs never showed up in the series but having them live up there would be a nice Easter egg.)

• The man that decapitates Yennefer's horse at the beginning of Witcher 3 is from Gemmera, a vassal of Nilfgaard and the sword he is weilding is called a torrwr

• It is implied that Cat witchers sleep four to a bed while they are at the cat caravan as the wagon type they use has an interior that is described as having one large bed and one small piece of furniture (a wardrobe, dresser, table, etc.) but can comfortably sleep four.

• Prosthetics designed specifically for witcher and sorceress use exist

• No ship from the Continent has ever returned from Ofier (which is located past Skellige for whatever reason I thought it was east of Zerrikania but I think that's because I'm a dumbass looking back) though whether that is "because they perished or because they prefer Ofier is not known."

• It's implied there are witchers in Ofier, which means that either Ofieri mages had the same idea as mages from the Continent or that witchers from the Continent traveled to Ofier (if I was in charge, the Ofieri witchers would be the Crane witchers from that non-Sapkowski short story collection)

• Mutagens were applied to women by the Manticore witchers but whether it worked or not is "inconclusive." Note that the TTRPG book is written from the POV of a Temerian dwarf and a scholar from Oxenfurt so weather or not these mutagens took is genuinely up in the air.

• Memories of one's life before being taken by a witcher directly affect how likely a trainee is to survive the mutation process. If you do not have memories before your life at whatever witcher headquarters, you are more likely to die during mutations.

• Geralt is not the first witcher to be famous and have ballads sung about him. There was a Griffin witcher called Raven who had a similar level of fame.

[lambert2269]

I should probably not. I fucked up too, and it's clear I only put others in danger. I'll... I don't know. Find somewhere to go.

Well that was... fucking wild. I need a drink.

[vongole-biankou]

Finally designed an outfit for my Witcherverse Sorceress OC, Giselle of Ghelibol! 💚

✅ Language nerd, rebellious, vague affiliation to Kovir & Poviss

✅ Girlfriend is a big buff Bear Witcher

✅ Accidental auntie figure to a (not so) tiny dragon girl

✅ Trans lesbian queen

[zhraek]

my headcanons (and not hcs cuz it's a fact) for the witcher countries but i'm not sure if you want you can add something of your own

kovir and poviss - finland (i'm not sure but its position and weather conditions reminded me very much of this country) kaedwen - russia (some moments that were shown in the books and games reminded me very much of some things about russia… that i heard irl… in a bad way btw) redania - poland (it's obvious) temeria - ukraine mahakam - germany aedirn - serbia (i'm not sure tbh) skellige - scotland (obvious too) cidaris - lithuania verden - croatia lyria and rivia - czechoslovakia before separation (obvious) cintra - estonia (obvious) toissant - italy cuz nilfgaard is literally the roman empire so

[inexplicifics]

Hello again!

Thx for answering my asks! I forgot that I sent the baby goat video to you 🤣

I have another question based on Chapter 10:

When did Livi give up her titles? I went back to her story (a fun reread) but I didn’t see it. But then I was thinking, it was when she (and Milena, Jaskier, and Sasha) all swore fealty to Geralt. Was that it?

Also, I’m curious about the political implications of Poviss joining the Wolflands voluntarily. That’s a major change. Even more so is the idea that potentially conquered areas could leave the Wolflands. It’s ambiguous and I hope to see more on that in the future.

And I’m excited to see what comes from Cahir and Morvran’s conversations with the Witchers. They have been given a lot to think about both morally and politically. Can’t wait for Emhyr’s reactions to everything.

I don't think Livi gives up her titles on screen, but it's probably part of getting her settled into Kaer Morhen. There was probably a formal letter to her father involved.

The political implications of Poviss joining the Wolflands voluntarily are, as you say, fairly major. The Council is still working on what, precisely, this is going to mean.

[toussainttwins]

What is your take on art? Is there a form of art you enjoy the most, either paintings, sculptures, literature, architecture? What part of it evokes strong emotions from you? Is there an artist you admire? Say my name or I'm going to throw a tantrum.

NATANIS We enjoy all art that conveys a passionate feeling at its core. It is like a jam tart for any succubus; we can't live by the pastries alone, but it gives our voracious hearts a delicate repose.

My lambkin of a sister prefers doleful love ballads and poesie courtoise, while my horns and heart are truly tickled by...fireworks. And any painting that has fireworks in it! Both of us adore pageantry, for it usually boasts many clever masks and fanciful dresses. Grievously, a maiden can't visit all festivities herself, but that's where tinted engravings come to the rescue. Our longing gaze travel through the whole continent, from Nilfgaard to Poviss ( ah, their new crab-claws shade makes my mouth water! ). We are dutifully subscribed to any Galerie des Modes et Costumes that can reach Toussaint. Thanks to our wise and learned Royal Sangbonbon many do! Some costumes from the Dreamveil seduced the audience from abroad via the plates, and we almost danced our hoofs off in joy! Besides, it's nourishing to meet a sangbonbon, who can appreciate both your kisses and your dress. We enjoyed being drawn for the fashion plates very rather much ( although, Nissa took my place most of the time, for my hoofs were too fidgety to stay still ). Thankfully, our fair Duchy can boast many an occasion to dance and marvel at the beauty, even without the glimpses from abroad. Masquerades, tourneys, our Belovedness the Duchess' Birthday revelry, The Festival of the Vat. No wonder, that poetry and fine arts flow in Beauclair as freely as wine. Being cultured succubi, we appreciate its higher forms no less fervently. Of the painting we adore trompe l'œil genre most of all. Ah, it deceives the eye so cleverly! The Dreamveil can boast several on its walls, as well as two portraits, that hold our greatest secret plainly for all to behold. See, everyone is assured that it depicts the same lovely visage, when in truth it is I and Nistana! Almost at every corner of Beauclair there is statue of such a tempting shape, that you risk mourning to be born a succubus. Even cold marble awakes hunger. Be it due to the likeness or the love of the artist, that was fed to the work, we haven't decided for sure. Talking about sculptures...was it you, mistress van Bredevoort, who worked upon the historical pageantry of the last year, dedicated to our glorious and heroic sangbonbon of old, Reginald d'Aubry? We adored the scenery that represented his paramour dying in his arms so! Our poor hearts were ready to burst, so believable, terrible and beauteous it was!

[the-nettle-knight]

I have Opinions on the adjective and demonymic names for the countries in the Witcher, which don't seem to have been fully fleshed out in the various canons, or at least aren't used consistently in fics. Eg. I think it should be Kaedwen- Kaedweni, rather than Kaedwenian which sounds kinda silly. It doesn't come up a lot but Poviss- Povish maybe?

Does anyone else have thoughts on the topic?