#TavernFolk

[yespolkadotkitty]

You Should Have Someone

A Geralt x Jaskier oneshot.

“You should have someone to do this for you,” Jaskier said conversationally as he carefully stitched up geralt’s latest “scratch,” a gash given to him by the sharp claws of a blood-black harpy.

The harpy came off worse, its strangely beautiful head (severed of its body) sitting on the cracked wooden table, its eyes forever open in death. 

“Gotten used to doing it myself.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, tongue sticking out very slightly as he concentrated on a jagged part. “Just because you can do something alone, doesn’t mean you have to. But that isn’t what they teach you in Witcher School, is it?”

Geralt huffed. “I would hardly call it a school.”

Jaskier studied him, the ox of a man sitting docilely in the oak chair, stone at his feet and leather on his shoulders. His great black cloak, furred with mink, lay on the bed nearby. This job hadn’t paid as well as some others, so they’d be sharing tonight. Jaskier didn’t mind. Geralt was warm and didn’t snore. And he could be sure that he wouldn’t be killed or robbed in his sleep with a Witcher nearby.

If the tavernfolk had looked at Geralt strangely when he’d paid for only one room, well then, let them look. Jaskier paid them no mind Let them think what they liked, as long as they paid him for his ballads and gave Geralt ale and the food was hot, he found that he didn’t care nearly as much as he used to.

He cared for Geralt though. What had his life been like before Jaskier? Lonely? Probably. But his wide, stoic form gave itself to a lonely life, haunting corners of taverns and wielding a sword in the darkness.

“And do they teach you to wear all black at Witcher school, too?” Jaskier tied off the end of the thread and sat back to examine his work. Not bad, all told.

“Blood shows up less on black,” Geralt muttered.

“And you haven’t thought about trying other colours?”

Geralt arched a brow. “What for?”

“You know. To feel pretty.” Jaskier gestured to his own outfit - a wine red doublet over a faded yellow shirt with puffed sleeves.

Geralt grunted. “Feeling pretty doesn’t kill monsters. No monster killing, no coin.”

“Monsters and coin.” Jaskier took a swig of the second-best whiskey the inn had offered (no sense on buying the best, they might need to save some coin for tomorrow night’s sleeping arrangements) - and then poured a generous dollop onto Geralt’s wound, just to be sure. The Witcher winced but otherwise gave no indication that he felt any pain. “Is that all that interests you?”

Something flickered over Geralt’s starkly handsome features. “Not many opportunities for much else, as a Witcher.”

“That’s sad.”

“That’s life, bard,” Geralt groused. Then, gentler, “Thank you. For this.” He jerked his arm, the one Jaskier had painstakingly sewn up and covered in second-best whiskey. “We’d better get some rest. There’s a second harpy to deal with, tomorrow.”

Jaskier was already turning pages in his notebook, the one almost falling apart with age and use, scribbling with his equally abused quill. “Gods, why does nothing rhyme with harpy? Sharply… no, not quite. Party… hmmm, well, it wasn’t fun…”

Geralt undressed silently and Jaskier managed to keep his eyes averted. Geralt’s body was a familiar sight now, and over the months Jaskier had learned most of the scars littering his tower-like form, tiny weaknesses made visible, especially when the firelight (if they were lucky enough to have a hearth) flickered over the Witcher’s pale skin just so.

Down to a frayed black undershirt and his almost threadbare trousers, Geralt crossed to the bed, taking a huge fur with him. Jaskier averted his eyes as the larger man slid under the heavy covers. He and Geralt had seen each other bathing, he’d stitched Geralt’s wounds for the first time today, but still, looking at the Witcher getting into bed seemed too intimate to look at for long, an everyday activity that one did out of habit. When people did things out of habit, they showed more of themselves than they knew.

Jaskier drank more of the second-best whiskey as the moon rose through the poorly-slatted window of their room. It hung heavy and full against the blanket of starless sky, the village beyond quiet as a grave. In bed, Geralt turned over, and Jaskier set his book down, resigned, and yawned hugely.

He stripped down to his undershirt - it would need laundering in a few days, he hoped their coin could stretch to that - blew the guttering candle on the floor out, and settled in beside his friend. In the dark, by moonlight, he let his eyes trace the bridge of Geralt’s nose, the cleft in his chin, the way his hair draped over the pillow. Let himself inhale the scent of the other man, all polished, aged leather and the lemon oil he cleaned his sword with.

“What.” The word was soft in Geralt’s gruff baritone.

Panic scrambled up Jaskier’s spine. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Geralt rumbled, not opening his eyes. “Your thoughts talk loudly for you. You are incapable of doing anything quietly, bard, not even thinking.”

Jaskier cast around for a lie. Any lie. Anything to not have to say I was looking at you, and enjoying what I saw, and enjoying this closeness, and pretending-

“I suppose I’m cold,” he said eventually, and waited, breathlessly, to see if Geralt would call him out on the obvious lie, the baldness of it in this otherwise silent room. Even the flames had died down to mere embers, their tips glowing soundless red. His own heartbeat sounded intolerably loud to his ears.

“Come here, then,” Geralt grumbled, and before he knew it Jaskier was pulled tightly against the other man. It was an embrace of comfort and warmth, and nothing more, but the Witcher was solid and warm and he smelled of safety, and it was enough.

Jaskier slept soundly, and dreamt of nothing.

[welkinite]

@fatedstories || starter call

[HEAD.]  cant quizzically as the malak regarded the Rangetsu for but a moment.  Lips finding themselves splitting into a grin at very thought.  Aye, he held himself in a SIMILAR manner.  Blade & all, he was of same make as the younger daemon he gave encounter with Eizen’s group.  A WILDFIRE behind the swordsman’s eyes that one could not dare to tame.  Such would bring the man to click his tongue yet return to his ale.  But a notion brought him to give pause yet again.  A man of RANK such as he in a hovel as the one he sat in was nigh unheard of.        “Y’know.  Walk around in places like this dressed      like that & people are bound to think things.”  Zaveid merely gave gesture to the tavernfolk that frequented the place before returning to his cross-armed stance.  Again to tilt his head in examination of the other.  Plucking away features from the LEGATE’S rigid jawline to slack stance of his own.  However seemed to he that the ale was more important before he shoved the bottle towards an empty seat across from him.        “Color me curious.  Mind talkin’ or are you just      all Abbey business & no play?”

[subscriptorium]

Homage to “The President’s Wife has a Dream” from Dogeaters

Hannah Calistri 

Advanced Fiction Workshop 

Prof Lieu 

15 March 2021 

*I decided to explore the central character of a larger piece and world I am working on in the YA fantasy genre!* 

* The character is referred to as both Wallow (name from birth) and Keep (a nickname because of her job as an Innkeeper). I wanted to explore different naming practices, and thought it would be interesting to name characters based on emotions/states/quality--- like Wallow, Giddy, Earnest, etc. *

Lake Longing was silent, there were no boats, and no waves or winds to suggest there ever were. There was only Wallow and the mist rising white from the lake’s surface. It was glassy. The mist hung low and thick. Wallow was standing on the mound, the rock pile at the center of the lake. The mist should’ve been rising but it was still. Everything was still, even the water around Wallow’s ankles. There were no ripples. She had to go down, down, down. Wallow stepped once down the rocks. She stepped again, her body deepening, without sensation. Then she plummeted

Wallow could see clearly, brightly, the green arms of the lakeweeds. The fish were teeming, the mollusks flapped around her, happy to be plucked. It was the high-season and the surface waved above, buoying the boats. They were bellies, slow moving beasts of unknown origin. Wallow was formless, like the water, she was so happy. There was no body, no Wallow, no Keep. She was euphoric

Something fell. Wallow was in the silt, buried like a clam. It was a body, the body of a woman sinking from above. Wallow watched. When she breathed, she breathed. She was breathing in the water. She watched the body fall limp down down through the lakeweeds. How could Wallow breathe? The body was naked, unmoving. It’s hair billowed, too white. Green through the water, and tan skin, splotchy with white, pie-bald. She was sinking, she was going to sink into the silt, into Wallow’s clam bed. Wallow tried to speak, to call out, but she had no voice. She was a clam in the silt. Bubbles rose from her shell, they floated to the splotchy woman body above. The woman turned and turned in a slow fall. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was open. She had a face but it was empty, a familiar face, Wallow’s face. It was Wallow, sinking Wallow

No. Wallow is dreaming, she is not a mollusk, she is Keep. The Inn is teeming with sailors and Longing Town’s finest, drunk and playing bets and dressed in leather. Keep is behind the bar, serving Earnest a stein, his face beaming, his sleeve rolled up, “I miss you,” Keep says, “I was having a nightmare,” Earnest is so close to her she can smell his mead breath, she can smell bergamot and smoke and something rotting, “The world’s a nightmare,” he says, it comes out in a song, “The world’s a nightmare,” the tavernfolk join in chorus, Keep laughs but there is no sound 

The tavernfolk turn towards her silence, Keep doesn’t know them, she is afraid, she is the girl Wallow from the mountains, they are mystic living statues, she falls to her knees and asks for her mother, they ignore her, they wear robes of grey they have white hair like Wallow and bright eyes like Earnest Earnest who has disappeared Earnest who is now Might his fur growing with flowers and Wallow plucks them while the grey monks chant and chant and they all have Earnest’s face and they all had Giddy’s face and they all have the same moving mouth but there is no sound it is all from Might his great beast bellowing the chant while the ark flowers grow blue and the air grows bright and the chant grows longer and lower and it is bells in the morning and it is ship masts in the wind and it is light light light from the core a guttural moan the Tavern is gone and Might is gone there is only voice and light chanting over and over “Keeeep, Keeeep, Keeeep.” 

[loreweaver-universe]

Okay, I get that you’re all hyped up from your conversation with the tavernfolk, but that doesn’t track at all.  If the woodsman was the Beast, he had you.  Back at the mill, remember?  Where he led you and tried to keep you safe?  I don’t know what he’s done to Beatrice, but you’re on the wrong track, Wirt.

[toakiora]

Tamir, Turaga of Fire

Flickr Gallery

Theme: Moon of Silence

Today marks the tenth anniversary of Ta-Koro’s fall. I have nearly scoured the entirety of Akota Nui in my search for knowledge, but I have yet to bring myself to traverse Ta’maunga Peak. Perhaps it’s simply my Ko-matoran instincts holding me back- surely I would perish in the heat, yes? No, the truth is I’m fearful- fearful of what may lie at its summit. Few Ta-matoran survived the incident- most weren’t present in Ta-Koro at the time. The few who escaped, however, claim to have seen a monstrous figure, silhouetted by the smoke of the volcano’s mouth, before their home was rendered to ash. Well, that’s what I’ve overheard from some tavernfolk- on a few separate occasions, that is. Many disregard these accounts as histrionic nonsense- that Ta’maunga simply erupted, and Ta-Koro perished in the resulting blast. Yet, none have dared ascend the molten mountain. Do they too hold such apprehensions? My travels have shed light on the shadows of our world, and I fear I’ve only glanced the edge of the abyss. What lies deeper in the darkness, I fear, would render me mad. Nevertheless, my choice is made.

The other day, I managed to find myself seated next to cloaked figure in a tavern on the border of Onu-Akota. I managed to glance her face beneath her hood- a gorgeous Ta-matoran. I could not contain myself, and I pressed for answers.

“What happened to Ta-Koro? Do you know the whereabouts of Tamir, your turaga? Did he truly perish in the incident?”

She quickly silenced me with a stern look. Drawing me close, she revealed the scimitar beneath her cloak- one which, based on its worn edge, had seen quite a bit of use- and said:

“Keep your voice down or I’ll cut your tongue out, or would you prefer those bandits make us toys for one of their clients?”

She was not mistaken- there were some rather-unsightly individuals huddled in the corner eyeing us suspiciously.

“I’m sure you know what a fine lady like me would fetch in the trafficking market, and I don’t plan on going back.”

Her eyes revealed everything- everything she’d lost. Her home, her loved ones- her innocence. I was overcome with a great sense of shame. Regaining my composure, I whispered:

“I know a simple apology will not suffice, but I’ll say it nevertheless. I’m-” She interrupted:

“I recognize you. You’re Kotapa, the chronicler, right? Look, I’m on my way to take care of some important business, but I need you to do me a favor. I know you’re searching for knowledge and stories and whatever, so I’ll let you in on a little secret, but only if you promise me something.”

Intrigued, I obliged.

“Good. I need you to meet me out back at midnight- tell no one. When we meet I need you to tell me all that you know about this:”

She lifted the top of her burlap sack open just for me to barely see what lied within- it was Tamir’s mask! Admittedly, I nearly jumped out of my seat, like a child, in excitement, but her strong hand, now on my shoulder, halted me. Again she glanced towards the group of bandits.

“One of them’s gone!” she quietly exclaimed.

Before we could assess the situation further, the missing bandit, unconscious, burst through the window. A female Onu-matoran, whose figure was hard and refined, kicked in the tavern door.

“Sygnus, it’s time we leave!” she yelled. Before we could move, the group of bandits were upon us. The Ta-matoran, Sygnus, and her colleague made quick work of them. They took to the door, but not without Sygnus leaving me with one final message:

“Meet us here in a week. When we return, our next stop will be Ta-Koro.”

~excerpt from the journal of Grand Scholar Kotapa

Will of Fire

“Remember, my son, fear the flame. It knows neither friend nor foe- only endless hunger. Guide it, so that it may consume the dark. Guide us, as I had once before.”

~Tavian’s final words

Bonus: Magma Swords

Relics which predate even the Ancients. Legend tells of a great leader whose flame shed light upon the blackest nights and brought an end to the reign of darkness.

[loreweaver-universe]

I dunno if this is actually character development or if he’s just buoyed by the tavernfolk’s cheering, but C H A R A C T E R  D E V E L O P M E N T

( Q U E S T I O N  M A R K )