#SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP CAN SCAR STOP DYING IN THE MOST TRAGIC OF WAYS

[infizero]

watching scar shoot at ppl on the ladder and glancing back and seeing grian like pacing behind him with his sword really briefly before turning back around feels like seeing the murderer appear behind the person in the horror movie but they haven’t seen them yet

[smilemoreimagines]

something tragic about you (Geralt x reader)

Part 1

length: 1,792

tw: death of family, physical abuse, canon-typical violence

Your ears come out to a slight point, but are not entirely without a human roundness.  On one, at the edge, is a scar, thick and paler than the rest of your skin.  You resent the human in you; years ago, you tried to cut it away into a full point, rid yourself of that which reminded you of your humanity, make yourself into a true elf.  But the pain was too great and you could not finish it.

You are not angry with your father for being human, but you’re not exactly not angry with him either.  Humans took both your father and your mother from you when you were too young to remember much of them, so that now you aren’t able to feel anything in particular if you try and call them to your mind.  And you are riotously angry for that, that you were never able to know them, that humans stole that privilege from you by burning your village to the ground after slaughtering its people as you watched in mute-horror hidden at the edge of the woods.  All you retain of that night is the scent of coppery blood and screams and flickering fire.  And laughter.

You stayed in the charred wreckage for days, sleeping in the ashes of what had been your home, until a trader and his wife rode in expecting a bustling market day but instead found you, tiny and starving.  They brought you to the nearest village and left you there on the street, not wanting to cart along a toddler half-elf.  All you had left of your family and childhood was your mother’s embroidered shawl, which you were not supposed to wear outside of the house but took anyway; it was cold and you had wanted to gather winterberries and the shawl was warm and beautiful.  You are glad you took it.

You have worked in the tavern of the town ever since.  You no longer know how many years it has been.  Two decades?  Three?  

The original owner of the place was not exactly kind to you, but he very rarely ever hit you.  You’re sad, in a way, that he died, because his son Lyden is not as tolerant of your kind.  He strikes you over the smallest of things: a few drops of spilled ale, a customer complaining of your elven blood, a customer desiring you for that very same reason.  But you’re thankful for that last one, that he refuses to make you join the pretty girls upstairs.  You have instead earned your position as a barmaid, and if you have to avoid the pawing of men wanting to fulfill a fantasy, you will.  Anything to not be a girl faking moans into the night, being pinned night after sleepless night into a hard mattress.  Not that you catch much sleep, either. 

You do not like your empty, lonely room at the end of the upstairs hall.  Rather than sleep there you slip out into the woods, and creep back in before dawn.  The other girls know this, and most are kind and do not tell on you, but sometimes you are unlucky enough to sleep in and come through the back door when the owner has already risen from his bed and crossed the street from his home to the tavern to rouse the girls and collect payment from the men who stayed the night.

On those unlucky occasions when you are caught you are beaten worse than usual.  If ever you catch a glimpse of your back in the mirror after a bath, you try not to think of the sound of his belt meeting your skin. Your keeper does not like that you have some secret place to go in the night.

Even if it is just the stars and the moon that you are looking up at from your bed of moss, wrapped in your mother’s shawl.

Out here you don’t feel as though you’ll suffocate, the open air gifting you with wind, cicada song, animals rustling.  Sometimes, if you lay still enough, deer will walk near you, regarding you with soft eyes.

Tonight though, you hear none of these things that you love.  It is unnaturally quiet and still.  When a twig cracks nearby your body is already coiled and ready to jump up.  You scan the trees, not able to see much from the light of the sliver of moon, until it gives you the flash of eyes in the dark, and then you can see the man walking towards you, fast enough to make you nervous.

“Get down,” he rumbles, but in the next moment another stick snaps behind you and you whirl around in time to see too-long teeth and a clawed hand swiping at you.  You stagger back but it’s too late, those claws tear through your arm and there is only pain, white hot and searing.  You think you would rather the dull ache of bruises.  You think you would rather death.  You think nothing and hear the unnerving sound of something sharp sinking into something living, the thump of a body hitting the forest floor.  You hope that the beast will kill you quickly and be done with it all, but you feel nothing but the persisting agony of your arm and then a soft touch on your shoulder.

A voice full of gravel tells you that you will be alright.

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You wake under the cold blue sky, blink hazily at a sun that is already halfway to setting.  You’re laying on something soft -- a fur blanket? -- with a heavy cloak thrown over you.  Your arm is hot, a stabbing, throbbing pain.  You wonder idly at what happened to it, and then remember throwing your forearm up to block that creature from anything vital.  

And then you process that it’s noon.  You cannot even imagine the beating that you will get.  You bolt up, crying out at the searing pain, but struggle to your feet anyways, letting the cloak fall off of you.  But then a man is in front of you, golden-honey cat eyes wide.  

You sway on your feet, dizziness overcoming you.  “I have to get back,” you say, “Or I think he might kill me.”

“Fuck,” he says, before you tip over.  He catches you easily, but one hand presses into your bandaged skin and you scream.

“Fuck,” he says again.

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When you next open your eyes it’s sunset and the man is sitting right beside you, his cloak once again thrown over you.  

When he sees you stir he places a hand on your shoulder, a gentle pressure, and says, “Easy, little elf.  You lost a lot of blood.”

You don’t have time to worry about that.  You sit up despite the hand meant to keep you down and ask, “How long have I been asleep?”

“Somewhere you need to be?”

“How long.”

He grunts.  “Almost two days.”

Two…?  Shit.  Fuck.

You try to get to your feet again, but he just grabs the hand of your good arm and tugs you back down to sit, which is when you notice you’re no longer wearing your dress.  Instead you are practically swimming in a shirt that smells of pine and horse, and your shawl is wrapped around your shoulders.

You look down at the shirt, then at him.

Unfazed, he says, “Your dress was soaked in blood.  It’s nearly winter; you would have frozen.”  

You can’t say you wish he’d left you in a blood-soaked dress, so you let it go.  

Next, he asks, “Who do you think is going to kill you if you don’t get back?”

You don’t want to tell him.  You don’t know this man.  You grip the shawl tighter around you and look at the ground.

“Is it the same man that bruised you up and left scars on your back?”

Now you look at him.  No one has seen them before.  Lyden never hits you where it will not be covered by your clothes.  He likes to kick you once he has you on the ground, so your back is nearly always painted black and blue, not to mention bloody when he lashes you; you often have to sleep on your stomach.

And now, with this new wound that has already seeped through the bandages…

“How bad is it?” you ask.  “How deep?”

He shakes his head.

Fine.  You pull at the knot tying it together and unravel the stained cloth before he can stop you.  For a moment you worry you’re going to faint again, but the feeling passes.  It is four gashes into the meat of your forearm.  The worst two are stitched fairly neatly, but the edges still tug apart slightly, just enough that you can see more of your own inner anatomy than you would care to.  You are careful to keep your arm palm-up so you don’t brush anything along the ragged cuts.  

“Please cover it again,” you say.  “I shouldn’t have looked.”

He sighs and reaches into a bag laying next to him, procuring a fresh cloth.  As he re-binds you, you can’t help but think that like this you won’t be able to fulfill your duties as a barmaid.  The only work you will be able to do, that requires no lifting, is on your back, under the weight of a man.

You do not like the feeling of fear, of powerlessness, but now it seems to ooze from your heart.  Your eyes are still on his face but your vision unfocuses, blurs.  You can’t remember the last time you allowed yourself to cry, to give in to hopelessness.

“What hurt you?  Left you so beaten?”  The heaviness in his voice requires an answer.

You choke out a laugh that is more like a sob, tell him, “Not what.  A man.  A man who will now have no use for me other than to fulfill the perversions of his customers.”

This man, who saved you and has cared for you even though he knows you are elven, shakes his head and growls, “Then that is no man.  He’s worse than the beast that tried to kill you.  He chooses to hurt.”

You nod and wipe at your wet face, more angry than scared now and annoyed at yourself for crying in front of a stranger.

“If you truly need to return to him I won’t stop you,” he says, but you don’t make a move to leave.  

The dying sun, in a last burst of light, glints on the pendant that hangs from his neck, and something in your memory clicks.  The wolf pendant, silvery hair, gilded eyes...

“You’re the Witcher, aren’t you?”

He hmms, and nods.

[asterrats]

http://heir-to-the-diamond-throne.tumblr.com/post/152627197946/30-more-character-questions I want to talk about zo!!!! + some misc lore ideas.. bc they crop up

Can they sleep with a leg/arm dangling off the side of the bed?

no, he becomes a duvet burrito

What’s their favourite weird food combo?

he’s had a craving for raw meat since reviving but hasn’t acted on it, (lore wise? maybe some revivals get that bc they just crave the freshest dead food, rich in soulness)

When they sneeze do they cover their mouth, hold their nose, or do nothing?

last time he sneezed, he instinctively used his death hand and splattered a load of it across the fancy room he was in.... so he just doesn't use a hand at all anymore. he’ll turn away from someone or food tho

What was their favourite nursery rhyme when they were a kid?

???? I don't have much.... in world stuff for this, probs something abt magic keeping the kingdom safe blah blah

What’s the longest they’ve ever stayed awake?

i’d say revivals can still be fully functional w/o a few days sleep, things would start to drop off after that. most still sleep regular sleep patterns, bc of habit, and theres no point being up a night if your current job is to deal/talk to ppl.

zo probs has never pushed it that far bc hes a sleepy bitch

Do they have that one muscle that always cramps?

he gets cramps around his old stomach wound, if he pulls it too much

Would they prefer to be telekinetic or telepathic?

telekinetic, bc thatd help w/ nearly anything and everything. assist w/ his lack of arm, throw things at ppl.... tho sometimes he’d like to tell skele to not be a dumbass w/o having to open his mouth

Do they use someone to warm their hands/feet in the winter?

no!! don't touch

Do they walk normally down the street or kick every leaf pile they can find?

leaf piles r not a distraction for him

How do they cry?

rarely, but messily

Do they whistle?

hes gonna have the tragic backstory of being told to stop the second he tried to whistle and he never did it again

How do they sleep?

he can sleep practically on command

What do they find creepier - the basement or the attic?

basement.... at least you could try to break out an attic. basement probably equates more to castle dungeon/jail cell, which he is def more scared of

If they had wings what colour would they be?

black bc edgy and matches the death magic

Any scars?

he’s got a stomach wound, right eye socket and a wound near his left collar bone festering with death magic. not exactly scars, but not exactly flesh either.

If they were any kind of mythical creature what would they be and why?

strong.... ? werewolf :(

What is their biggest fear?

dying again? it wasn't fun

What would they die for?

not a whole lot rn, he’s in revenge mode and needs to be alive for that. but there is a cute guy about he wouldnt want getting hurt ;0

Are they a fan of the warmth or the cold?

WARMTH. the cold just gets inside him too much, 

If they had one wish what would it be?

get his arm and eye back, but nothing could magically prompt them growing back bc he died w/o them :/

What’s their favourite way of being kissed? (if they like being kissed)

brief little kisses..... ;3;

Favourite colour?

blue ? 

Do they stim at all?

he does enjoy the sensation of his death magic liquifying,

Have they ever woken up screaming?

I wanna say yes, for angst. he probs gets bad sleep paralysis due to how he died... getting death dreams. you feel like ur trapped in your body where u died

What’s their favourite meal?

a meat pie..... his mothers cooking,

If they were given the chance would they change any physical aspect of themselves? (Hair/tattoos/gender etc)

not really... maybe wishes he could grow a proper beard

Do they have any coping mechanisms?

...he doesn't cope. he didn't cope in life either really, just drank n stuff. im sure he gets to punch enough things to tackle the anger now

Can they cook?

very basic stuff, soups mostly. he’d like to learn to bake, but I doubt he can go ask his mum for help now.... 

Are they a fan of sleeping in the nude?

no, he gets cold and if he has to wake up quick, that's the worsssssst

What is the one thing that will immediately piss them off?

not a lot actually..... all his angry energy only flares up for revenge !!!

-----

http://heir-to-the-diamond-throne.tumblr.com/post/151524305436/30-character-questions p2.....

When they tap their fingers do they use the pads of their fingers or their nails?

oooo, idk? nails ? click click

What textures can they absolutely not stand?

itchy fabrics ? maybe his old uniform never sat right w/ him

How long can they go without showering before they feel gross?

hed probably try to swim in a river every morning if he has the chance

Do they leave clothes on the floor or a chair?

yes

Do they sleep with the bedroom door open or closed?

most places he stays aren't his permanent home, so closed

Which do they prefer: 3am or 3pm?

3pm

If they suddenly woke up with animal ears and tails what animal would they be?

:3c

If they could only eat one thing for 20 days straight what would it be?

soup!

Are they the type to re-read a book?

he likes reading so probs,

Would they want to know the exact date and time of their death?

YH PLEASE, so he could find out what happened and who to get revenge on

What’s their favourite mythological creature?

not a lot exist in universe...

If they had to listen to one song on repeat 100+ times what would it be?

now thats what i call gregorian chants 69

Do they believe in an afterlife? 

hes living the afterlife rn

When they get tired do their eyelids twitch? 

yh?

What are their favourite textures?

soft,

Do they crack their joints? 

yh def, you get all stiff w/ that death goop in ya

Would they eat/drink something too hot or wait for it to cool? 

hed wait, hes not dumb :////

Are they the type to adopt strays? (Animals or people)

no... 

Do they get work done straight away or wait until the last moment?

he’d keep to his work rota pretty strictly. but on bigger projects, he’d procrastinate

How do they bathe/shower? Long or short? Hot or cold?

if he gets in a warm bath hes not leaving in a hurry

Are they the type to daydream?

he’s had recent flits and revelations of thinking thru his memories and flashbacks, but his idle mind doesn't drift that much

Do they work best in a messy space or a neat space?

he doesn't do a lot of indoor work.. if he could keep his own books in his bunk, it’d be a right mess

Do they keep any personal photos? 

photos don't exist and I doubt his family was ever rich enough for portrait artists

Do they indulge in anything?

sleeping in, being warm and comfy,

Would they do the exact opposite of what someone says just to spite them? 

to a degree,,,, he isn't gonna endanger himself or anything

If they’re alone and hear a noise would they go and investigate?

yh, he knows he can be the scary one to whoever/whatever he encounters

If they’re lost what is the first thing they would do?

retrace his steps, ask for help, sleep

What is that one dream that makes no sense but is absolutely terrifying?

one time he had a dream he owed a cooworker an apple, thru the rest of the dream it haunted him and twisted it w/ fear for some reason

What is the stupidest thing they’ve ever done just because someone said they couldn’t?

slept w/ someone? >:)

Are they stoic or melodramatic about being injured?

stoic? he’ll patch up w/ his death magic and move on until he can get some proper medical attention