#anyway i would kill for one (1) dramatic ass bard and that's that

[freetheworms]

just in case you forgot, i'm still bananas for the bard

[thearvariblues]

So, About The Pockets...

The third and final part of my little “Jaskier is obsessed with pants” series. I’m sorry to say that this part doesn’t really focus on the pants or Jaskiers, uhm... unorthodox fashion research. But it’s there, I promise.

You should definitely read part 1 and part 2 before this one.

Tagging  @lottelorelei, @likecastle, @stinastar and @kalikatze, because you might want to read the last part, too. :D

*

“I’m feeling kind of nervous about meeting Jaskier this spring,” Geralt says to the man who’s walking with him through the streets of Oxenfurt.

“Finally grew some balls and decided to ask the bard to rearrange your insides?” his companion smirks. “I swear, Geralt, if you don’t offer your ass to him, I will have to sacrifice mine.”

“Lambert!” Geralt groans.

“What? Poor boy apparently didn’t fuck a Witcher last year.”

“Because I asked him not to. Well, not to fuck any Wolves, at least.”

“Jealous prick.”

“The worst thing is, he really didn’t! Or so it seems,” Geralt sighs.

“I can see the problem. He’s a fucking idiot.”

Geralt grunts.

“And what are you doing here, anyway? Sticking around just to annoy the shit out of me?”

“Meeting a friend,” Lambert smiles.

“A friend? You?” Geralt blinks, pausing. “Another?!”

“You make it sound like some sort of a miracle. I assure you, I’m fully capable of making friends.”

“Hm,” Geralt nods. “And this friend, he’s a… what? Another Witcher?”

“He’s a… bard.”

“A bard.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Lambert frowns.

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t believe a single word.”

“I don’t believe a single word,” Geralt smirks. “So what’s his name?”

“Aid… Fuck,” Lambert grunts.

“So, Aiden. Now tell me, Lambert, this wouldn’t happen to be the Aiden I helped you avenge last autumn, would it?”

“No. It’s a completely different Aiden.”

“Am I really supposed to believe that you found two friends, both named Aiden, and both willing to put up with your bullshit?”

“In my defense,” Lambert says, grumpily kicking a nearby stone, “I really thought he was dead when I asked you for help. Met him like… a week after you and I parted ways afterwards. Thought I finally managed to turn my brain into mush with all the drinking, but it turned out that Cats really do have nine lives. He lost an eye and tends to mess up his signs a lot, but nobody’s perfect, eh? And hey, turns out that Igni works against pretty much everything.”

“And you didn’t tell me for the whole winter because…”

“Because you’d probably kick me down from the balcony?”

“Damn right I would,” Geralt growls. “So where’s this Aiden of yours?”

“Don’t know. Somewhere here in the city.”

Geralt stops dead in his tracks, gaping at Lambert.

“Here? In Oxenfurt?!” he asks. “With Jaskier?!”

“Well, he needed a safe place to spend the winter, and you know Vesemir isn’t a fan of Cats,” Lambert shrugs. “Come on, it’s a big city. I’m sure they haven’t even met each other. The city’s still standing, after all.”

“You don’t understand. Jaskier–”

Geralt doesn’t even get to finish the sentence when he sees a young man leap from the window of a nearby building and land with a perfect roll that only comes with years and years of practice.

“Melitele’s tits,” he mutters under his breath while making sure his pants are properly fastened. “Nobody’s ever told you it’s impolite not to let a man finish?!”

“Hey, Geralt,” Lambert snorts. “Found your bard.”

Jaskier, hearing his words, turns his head and beams at the Witchers.

“Geralt! Lambert! So nice to see you! Would one of you mind Yrdening the fucking door for me?”

“I swear to Melitele, Jaskier, one day I am going to let you suffer the consequences of your actions,” Geralt smirks, stepping closer to the door and using the sign on them. “How was your winter?”

“Very amusing,” Jaskier smiles just as the doorknob rattles uselessly. “How about yours?”

“Drafty,” Lambert says. “Hey, you didn’t happen to see Aiden, did you?”

“Aiden?” Jaskier repeats, his eyes darting over to the door of a tavern on the other side of the road. “Well, that’s quite a funny story, actually…”

There is a loud crash from within the tavern, followed by a roared: “Cheating Witcher scum!”

The door open and a lean blond man with an eye patch over his right eye runs out, looking around frantically.

“Jaskier!” he yells when he spots the bard. “We need to go. Now!”

“Did you try to Axii your way out of cheating again, kitty?” Lambert smirks, takes a few steps forward and casts an Yrden on the door.

“Lambert!” Aiden yells and throws his arms around Lambert’s neck. “You’re here, puppy!”

“So what did you cast?” Lambert smirks, hugging him tightly.

“Aard. Not that bad.”

“It’s better than the Yrden last week,” Jaskier comments. “The guy really wasn’t happy about having to spend the night in his seat. And there was, of course, the tiny incident with Valdo Marx and Igni two days before that…”

“I’m sure they haven’t even met each other. The city’s still standing, after all. Well, what a fucking miracle,” Geralt snorts, turning to Lambert, only to realize that he is currently kissing Aiden passionately. “Oh, fuck. Jaskier?”

“Yes, dear?” Jaskier smiles.

“They’re not just friends, are they?”

“What gave you the clue?” the bard chuckles.

The shutters on a window of a house Jaskier was running away from crash open and an angry man starts to climb out, even though he can barely fit through.

“Uhm, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news…” Geralt starts, but then Jaskier grabs his hand and he promptly shuts up.

“Yes,” the bard nods. “We’d better fucking run.”

*

Jaskier puffs out his chest and frowns at the fat man in front of him – the man who, as Geralt realizes, was the one climbing out of the window of the house where Geralt met Jaskier about an hour ago, right before their hurried escape to Jaskier’s rooms in the university buildings.

“Are you suggesting, my dear sir,” Jaskier says in his best offended noble voice, “that I, a respectable professor at this university, have, as you said yourself, canoodled with your wife?”

“I saw you. With my own eyes!” the man growls.

“Impossible. I spent my afternoon here, with my dear friend Geralt of Rivia. Is that true, Geralt?”

“Hm,” Geralt nods solemnly, trying not to spit out his wine.

“But this… friend of yours was there, too!” the man tries.

Jaskier gasps for breath and places a hand on his chest dramatically.

“Did you…” he whispers. “Did you just dispute the words of Geralt of Rivia, the mighty White Wolf himself? My dear sir, this man is a Witcher! The legendary savior! Slayer of bruxas…”

“Bruxae,” Geralt murmurs.

“… strigas…”

“Didn’t actually kill the striga.”

“… ghouls…”

“There’s really nothing exciting about those.”

“… and… and nekkers…”

“Every respectable Witcher wants to be known as a slayer of fucking nekkers.”

“And drowners!” Jaskier yells after the man who’s already turned on his heel and left.

“I see you’re running our of monsters again,” Geralt chuckles when Jaskier slams the door shut.

“Oh, shut up,” Jaskier mutters, sits into his armchair and grabs his goblet of wine. “Did I get rid of him or not?”

“You annoyed him into leaving, yes,” Geralt nods. “That, or he realized that Witchers tend to have two very big and sharp swords.”

“And I have three Witchers,” Jaskier smiles just as they both hear Lambert’s high-pitched scream from the next room.

“Sweet Melitele. How much longer is it going to take them?”

“Come on, Geralt. They didn’t see each other for the whole winter.”

“I didn’t see you for the whole winter, and you don’t hear me moaning your name like a cheap whore.”

“Yes, and isn’t that a shame?”

Geralt nearly chokes on his wine.

“What?” he wheezes.

“Nothing, dear,” Jaskier says quickly and gets back to his feet to refill their goblets.

“Hm…” Geralt hums, cocking his head. “Are those new pants?”

“They are. Thank you for noticing.”

“What happened to the tighter ones?”

“An accident,” Jaskier sighs. “I keep saying it, yours are only held together by some sort of dark magic!”

“They aren’t.”

“Fine, is it Quen, then? Are you constantly Quenning your fucking pants?”

“I am definitely not Quenning my pants, no.”

“Then explain how it’s possible that your mighty ass doesn’t rip them in half!”

“I don’t know. I suppose you will have to take a look at them yourself.”

“Geralt, I’ve been looking at your pants ten times a day ever since I met you, I don’t think one more look will change… What are you doing?”

Geralt downs the rest of his wine and stands up.

“I was thinking about a… closer look,” he murmurs. “I mean… for research purposes, of course.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier says, his eyes going wide. “Are you seriously suggesting… what I think you’re suggesting?”

“That there is one Wolf Witcher you haven’t fucked yet, yes.” For someone who’s just a little taller than Jaskier, Geralt is sure good at towering above the bard. “So if you wanted…”

“For research purposes, yes?” Jaskier asks as he wraps his arms around Geralt’s waist. “I should warn you, though. I’m afraid it’s gonna have to be a very thorough research. Probably gonna take at least a year.”

Geralt smirks and brings their lips so close together that they almost – but only almost – touch.

“Works for me,” he murmurs right before Jaskier kisses him.

*

“Did you know Cat Witchers have pockets on their pants?” Jaskier asks much later, when they’re lying side by side in his bed, naked and satisfied.

“Mhm,” Geralt hums because he was just about to fall asleep. “That’s nice.”

“I mean, not for me, they would absolutely ruin my silhouette, obviously,” Jaskier continues. “But for you, they might be quite handy, right?”

“Did you… Did you have to research with Aiden to find out?”

“Well, yes. You see, winter nights tend to get boring,” Jaskier grins. “But fret not, dear heart, you won’t have to spend the rest of your life protecting me from your angry brother. They have quite an open relationship.”

“Bold of you to assume that I would protect you,” Geralt sighs, burying his face in Jaskier’s chest.

“I know you will always protect me, dear,” Jaskier smiles and presses a kiss in Geralt’s hair. “So, about the pockets...”

“Tomorrow. I want to sleep.”

“But you promised I could take a look at your pants.”

“Mhm, I didn’t specify when, though. So shut up and let me sleep.”

“Geralt...” Jaskier whines.

“Jaskier,” Geralt chuckles.

“Ugh, fine. But I like you a lot less now, I hope you’re aware of that.”

“I’ll make it up to you. In the morning. I might even be willing to go with you to that tailor of yours.”

“Really?”

“Really. But first I have to ask Aiden about the… pockets thing…”

Geralt falls asleep, snoring slightly, even though he’s assured Jaskier a million times that Witchers absolutely do not snore.

“Knew you were gonna like that idea,” Jaskier smiles and closes his eyes. “Good night, my dear Wolf.”

“Hmmm…”

*

The next morning, Jaskier grins at the tiny tailor who’s studying Geralt’s pants with interest while the Witcher just stands there with his ass barely covered by his shirt.

“Truly an excellent bottom.”

“I can see that,” the man grins back.

“You are so,” Geralt snarls, “so paying for this, bard.”

“Oh, my dear,” Jaskier laughs. “With pleasure.”

[andyet-here-we-are]

Head Over Feet

Words: 4,057 Chapters: 1/1

Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

A/N: Thanks @3tothe1 for checking my errors. You are the best, sweetheart.

Additional Tags: Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia,  Angst, Hurt/Comfort, but not that much angst etc so no worries, Fluff, Geralt writes a song for Jaskier, Geralt sings to Jaskier, mention of nightmares, Happy Ending

I hope you enjoy reading this, my dear Witchlings! 💛

(P.S: I highly recommend listening to Jonah Platt’s “Head Over Feet” cover since I was inspired by it, but shhh, we’re gonna pretend that Geralt wrote that song.)

***

“No, Jaskier. I won’t fucking sing. You better stop waiting for it.”

“But Geralt!” Jaskier whined, “You promised me!”

Yeah, right. The promise Jaskier wasn’t supposed to hear in the first place.

The promise Geralt was more than glad he had heard nevertheless.

“And now I’m saying that won’t happen.”

About two weeks ago, being the foolish, brave bard he was, Jaskier had tried to distract a Slezaerek so Geralt could kill it effortlessly. It had worked, but not without a cost, sadly.

Jaskier was hurt in the progress of doing that, and “Witchers don’t have feelings” his ass, Geralt was more than terrified that he was going to lose his little hummingbird for good this time.

“Just keep your eyes open, please,” the Witcher had almost begged as he tore a strip from his already ripped doublet and tied it cautiously around Jaskier’s wound to stop the bleeding.

“You need to keep your beautiful eyes open, understood? Jaskier? Do you understand?”

He wasn’t supposed to sleep. He shouldn’t. Because the thing with Sleazaeraks was, getting bitten by one meant there was no waking up ever again if you fell asleep.

Too bad the poison they had in them was enough to put a whale to sleep.

“And w-what’s in it for me?” was Jaskier’s answer, eyes already heavy with sleep. The antidote  the Witcher made him drink wasn’t near enough to what he needed, yet he still hoped that it would be enough to keep Jaskier awake for a while.

“Keep your damn eyes open,”  Geralt wanted to say.

And maybe the old Geralt, who rarely expressed his feelings to anyone unless those feelings had gotten something to do with anger, would say that.

But what left his mouth instead was: “I’ll sing a song for you if you hang on, if you don’t fall asleep. Just hang on till I get you to a healer.”

“Promise..?” The bard’s eyes had closed for a second before he revealed his baby blues to Geralt again, “you have to promise. It feels so tempting to sleep right now, my dear. You–”

“I promise. Hang on for me, little hummingbird. You always wanted to hear me sing, right? You have to hang on then.”

Thanks to all the gods in every religion -if they even really existed- Jaskier had managed to stay awake with Geralt’s help.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life!” Jaskier walked towards him with loud and determined steps, breaking the Witcher away from his thoughts.

“You have been waiting for only two weeks. Don’t be dramatic.”

“No, I’m not being dramatic, I’m being honest. You stop talking rubbish. I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life!” Jaskier insisted with a little, cute frown, making Geralt let out a small chuckle.

Yennefer rolled his eyes at the bard, “Ever the dramatic. Also, honest? Really? You are the most dishonest person if your songs are anything to go by.”  

“You. Lying. Snowman.” The dramatic bard in question ignored her, poking Geralt’s chest with his index finger between every word. “I knew it, I fucking knew you wouldn’t keep your promise! I should have just kept my eyes closed!”

“Don’t say that.” The Witcher said. “You…”

“You wouldn’t be here now if you did,” was unheard. But Jaskier understood anyway.

“At least I wouldn’t have to witness such a–  such a betrayal!”

Instead of saying something, Geralt looked at Yennefer, she gave him a knowing look in return -which Jaskier didn’t miss, of course-

“Wait a minute, you’re hiding something!”

“Yeah, his desire for killing you so you would finally stop nagging like a bitch,” Yennefer sighed tiredly, clearly feeling a bit annoyed by Jaskier’s antics.

“I’m not hiding something,” he lied.

He was definitely hiding something, but Jaskier didn’t need to know that.

Not yet.

“I hate my life sometimes,” the bard kept complaining, crossing his arms and finally accepting that he wasn’t going to hear Geralt singing today: “Anyway, I’m not cooking today, you are on your own.”

“And how is that supposed to be a threat? Jask, no offence, but even Ciri cooks better than you. We nearly had food poisoning the last time you tried to cook.”

“I’m sorry. What do you mean by even?” came Ciri’s voice.

Well, fuck. He probably shouldn’t have said that.

“Hey, I’m gonna go take a walk, wanna come?” Jaskier asked Ciri before Geralt could answer Ciri’s question.

“He is trying to save my ass even when he is mad at me,” Geralt thought, looking at the bard with such a loving look, but then the other man added:  “Betrayed people gotta stick together, you know,” and that loving look immediately turned into a “Disappointed But Not Surprised” look.

“Sure,” agreed Ciri, giving Geralt a meaningful look before she disappeared into the woods with Jaskier.

“Wow, you really have no idea how to talk a lady. Also, you better figure out how to complete that song before your bard gives you another tantrum and crush his lute over your head or something,” said Yennefer

“Helpful as always, Yen.”

He couldn’t deny that she was right, though.

***

After spending six more nights to complete his song, Geralt was finally ready to fulfill his promise finally.

It was certainly going to be a big surprise for Jaskier since Geralt had made it clear that he wouldn’t sing. And just three days ago, Jaskier had apologized to him.

“I’m sorry that I kinda overreacted before,” he had said. “Okay, not kinda. But I just… I’ve always wondered what your singing voice sounds like, so when you said you weren’t going to sing, I felt disappointed. Anyway, I wrote a new song, you wanna hear?”

So, yeah. He was gonna be so surprised.

And oh God, he had no idea how Jaskier could do it before so many people. “Having the voice of an angel probably helps,”  his mind suggested not-so-helpfully.

He had an audience of three people, three people that mean the world to him, and he was already stressed as hell. He would rather sing to an Ethereal instead.

The Witcher didn’t even know how to do this. How should he start? By saying “I’ve written a song for you,” or by singing out of the blue? Should he stand while singing? Or is it a better idea to just sit?

And for God’s sake, where should he put his damn hands?

Would it be weird if he just kept his hands at his sides? Would that make him look like a puppet in a box or something?

For a moment, he wished he knew how to play the lute. So he could just sit down and play it, not having to think about his hands. He should have let Jaskier teach him when he offered it months ago. Well, there was no point thinking about that now.

“Okay, Geralt, give yourself a minute. You can do this,” he assured himself and took a deep breath. “Just remember why you’re doing this, and just do whatever feels natural. Say something romantic before you start, maybe.”

When he took a look at Jaskier, who was sitting by the fire across from him with Ciri and talking to her excitedly about something, he knew that he shouldn’t be worried about any of these things. And he shouldn’t worry about forgetting the words, even though he felt like he would forget and make a fool of himself.

“Jaskier!” He called as Ciri stood up to go to Yennefer’s side. “Are you planning to shut your mouth at least for a couple of minutes anytime soon?”

“So much for making a romantic remark before you start singing. Well done Geralt, way to go,” a voice inside his head scolded him as Jaskier said something he failed to catch. It wasn’t his fault that it was what felt natural. Being romantic wasn’t his strong suit, but he was trying to improve.

“Okay, so. It won’t be the best song you’ve ever heard, but it’s the best I can do. If any of you laugh at me while I’m singing, I’ll kick your sorry asses.”

“Wait, wha–”

He took a deep breath once again and started singing, keeping his eyes on Jaskier as he gaped with wide-open eyes.

“I had no choice but to hear you

You stated your case time and again

I thought about it

 You treat me like I’m a damn prince

I’m not used to liking that

You ask how my day was”

He heard Ciri letting out a little chuckle at the “damn prince,” part, and he gave her a warning look before turning his gaze on Jaskier again, standing up.

There was no lie in it, Jaskier did treat him like he was a prince. He treated the Witcher like he wasn’t someone people were afraid of, but someone good and royal. Someone who deserved to be respected. Someone who deserved all the compliments in the whole world, not ugly slurs.

Someone who deserved to be loved.

 “You’ve already won me over in spite of me

And don’t be alarmed if I fall head over feet

Don’t be surprised if I love you for all that you are

I couldn’t help it

It’s all your fault,” he sang, pointing at the bard while singing “it’s all your fault.”

 Geralt nodded at him like saying “yes, I mean you, you silly bard,” when Jaskier briefly looked around as if he wasn’t sure Geralt was singing to him.

Of course, he meant him.

Because it sure was his fault.

It was Jaskier’s fault that his smile was more bright and dazzling than the afternoon sun, warming Geralt inside every time.

It was his fault that he had the biggest heart of gold Geralt had ever encountered, filled with so much love.

His fault that he had a voice that would make angels weep with jealousy. His fault that he was just so… Jaskier.

“Your love is thick and it swallowed me whole

You’re so much braver than I gave you credit for

That’s not lip service”

He found his hands moving naturally against his will as he sang. Guess he was worried for nothing.

“You’ve already won me over in spite of me

And don’t be alarmed if I fall head over feet

Don’t be surprised if I love you for all that you are

I couldn’t help it

It’s all your fault”

 He sang the chorus once again, walking towards the man who he was able to render speechless for once, for a good reason hopefully this time. Speechless, and surprised as hell.

When he was finally in front of Jaskier, he reached his hands out tentatively towards him, hoping that the bard would just take the hint and hold them. Sadly, he didn’t. So Geralt just bent over and grabbed his hands, pulling him up from the log he was sitting on. Then, with a barely audible sigh, he closed his eyes, not sure if he could sing that part while looking at Jaskier.

He kept singing after swallowing thickly to find his voice again, not letting go of the bard’s dainty hands:

“You are the bearer of unconditional things

You held your breath and the door for me

Thanks for your patience

 You’re the best friend that I’ve ever had

Let’s be boyfriends

What are we waiting for?

What took me so long?”

 “Did he just ask him to be his boyfriend?” Geralt heard Ciri gasp quietly.

“Fucking finally,“ he was sure that Yennefer was rolling his eyes right now, “they were already acting like boyfriends anyway. Well, or more like an old married couple.”

Wait, were they?

Deep down, he knew that Jaskier had feelings for him, too. But still, he couldn’t help but think “What if I’m wrong?”

What if he was opening his heart only to get it broken?

No, no way.

He was being ridiculous.

Jaskier loved him, too. There was no way that would happen.

He knew that he did. Maybe Geralt was just too stubborn to see it at first, maybe it got him decades to accept that someone could truly love him, yeah, but he finally did accept it.

They loved each other.

And it was only Geralt’s fault that he kept pushing Jaskier away from himself for so long.

It was only when he finally was succeeded, he regretted it.

He regretted it deeply.

He was aware of everything after having to spend half of the year Jaskierless - yes, it was a real word to him, more real than any word, even, it meant “suffering” “pain” and “sadness” in his dictionary - he was aware of his love for him.

If anything, it was Jaskier who should have been afraid.

Afraid of getting hurt by him again, afraid of being vulnerable again.

Because he had already laid his heart bare to the Witcher before, yet Geralt had broken his heart so badly.

But Jaskier had given him another chance anyway, and Geralt had promised himself to do his best not to make him regret it.

The white-haired man had said goodbye to The Old Geralt right when he got that chance.

“Goodbye,” he had told him, “no longer hiding behind excuses, no longer always avoiding to express yourself. Maybe it will be difficult to say goodbye to you, I know. And you will appear again in front of people I don’t know, as it should be, but I have to say goodbye to you. ‘Cause if I go on like this, I will only cause harm to my loved ones, thinking that I am protecting them.”

Perhaps it seemed like there was no radical change at all since one couldn’t suddenly say goodbye to the person he had been for years. Old habits die hard, after all.

But changing was the important thing, no matter how slow.

Back in the day, Geralt would pretend he didn’t care or like it whenever Jaskier composed a new song. But the new Geralt would make little comments on his songs instead of acting like he wasn’t even listening.

And even just saying “That’s a nice song,” or “I don’t hate it,” with the tiniest smile was enough to make Jaskier happy. It was enough to make him realize that things weren’t the same anymore.

The new Geralt showed it when he was concerned for the bard, and he paid attention to Jaskier’s feelings, to his warnings, to him.

He tried his best to make it up for his every mistake.

He tried his best to be the friend Jaskier deserved since the very beginning.

It wasn’t just a one-sided deal, though. Because Jaskier had his own regrets as well, and he knew that neither he nor Geralt was flawless.

There were moments Geralt would get mad about something that had happened; moments that required him to be alone for a while.

While old Jaskier would try to lighten the mood with jokes and would force him to say something, new Jaskier wouldn’t do that.

He would just say: “I’m here if you wanna talk,” and when Geralt was back, he would do his best to make him feel better. He would get him in the bath if Geralt wanted him to, washing him with such care. Then he would make him a nice cup of tea before insisting that he needed to take a nap.

Not once would he open his mouth to say anything about whatever had upset Geralt unless the white-haired man said something about it first.

One of these days, Geralt had asked the bard while he was washing the Witcher silently: “Do you remember when I said that I needed no one..?”

With that question, the gentle hands that massaging his scalp had come to a halt.

“You know what they say,” Jaskier had replied bitterly, the tone of hurt in his voice making Geralt ache “one has to forget first to remember.”

“I was wrong,” Geralt had admitted with a mumble after a moment of heavy silence, turning to his right a bit and reaching over to hug the bard’s legs. “I was so wrong.”

“I need you,” he had thought, his hair dampening the other man’s trousers, “I need you in my life, Jaskier. I can’t say it out loud, but please hear my silent words. Find them in my actions, find them in my touch.”

As if reading his mind, Jaskier had moved one hand to Geralt’s bare shoulder and caressed the skin there gently and slowly before saying: “You have me, Geralt. And I’ll be in your life as long as you want me to be. As long as you act like it.”

Things had changed again after that. In a good way.

They had become more touchy with each other. Jaskier was already a touchy person, but Geralt couldn’t say the same for himself.

Normally.

After their little conversation, Geralt was feeling more comfortable with showing his affection with little things, like ruffling Jaskier’s silky hair when he would pout, annoyed at Geralt for something. Or when he would do something impressive.

Little things like calling him “little hummingbird”  instead of just “bard” because Jaskier reminded him of one.

Just like a hummingbird, he was unique and beautiful in every aspect, and it was hard to catch up with him since he was constantly in motion. Also, he usually talked non-stop and when he would stop singing or talking, he would start humming this time. And eh, let’s not forget about his colourful outfits that suited him so well.

So, Geralt called him “hummingbird”, and he could swear that Jaskier’s eyes shined with happiness whenever he called him that.

Maybe he could finally call him “my little hummingbird” pretty soon.

“I’ve never felt this healthy before

I’ve never wanted something rational

I am aware now

I am aware now

 You’ve already won me over in spite of me

And don’t be alarmed if I fall head over feet

Don’t be surprised if I love you for all that you are

I couldn’t help it

It’s all your fault”

 And he was done.

Yet, even after he finished singing, he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes.

When Jaskier pulled his hands away, he felt his heart clench in his chest. He cursed himself in his head, feeling too anxious to even breathe. Did he fuck everything up? Just like that? Did he just misread everything like a goddamn fool?

What was gonna-

Before he could ask himself any further questions, he felt a feather-light touch on his cheeks.

He opened his eyes only to find Jaskier’s stunning blue eyes shining with tears, looking at him like Geralt had just caught the moon for him.  

Geralt waited for him to say something.

Anything.

“Was my singing so terrible it made you cry?” He asked when Jaskier said nothing in a full minute. The bard’s face was so close to his that he could count the drops that were nestled on his long eyelashes.

The white-haired man wiped his tears away with his thumb gently as he leaned in to press their foreheads together. “Or you didn’t like the song? I believe it was much better than The Fishmonger’s Daughter.”

He knew that Jaskier would say something if he made a comment on one of his songs. This was a trick he had learned a long time ago.

“Excuse me,” here it came, “but The Fishmonger’s Daughter is a great song.”

“No, it isn’t. You just sing ‘ba ba,’ and ‘ta-da-da’ for half of the song. Even four years old can do that.”

“And people love it. They love to sing along and it’s catchy, also it has a story in it like every one of my songs,” Jaskier claimed with a weak voice and swallowed as Geralt ran his fingertips lightly along the side of his neck. He sounded like he could break at any moment as he whispered after wrapping one hand around the Witcher’s waist: “Now will you just shut me up with a kiss or should I just keep–”

And who was he to deny Jaskier of something he wanted as well..?

So Geralt shut him up with pressing his lips against his soft lips, kissing him gently but passionately. At first, Jaskier just held him close instead of kissing him back, but then his eyes closed and he returned his kiss with equal fervour.

He could hear the distant cheering of Ciri and Yennefer as they kissed for God knows how long. It was strange how a couple of minutes had felt endless, but also too short at the same time.

“Hey,” Jaskier swallowed again when Geralt pulled back a little and broke the kiss so they could take a breath, “I’ve never heard this song before. Where did you…”

“Because it was written for you, you silly, beautiful dandelion,” answered the Witcher. “By me.”

A beat.

And with that, a loud sob broke free from Jaskier’s throat, tears falling freely over his beautiful face as the sound of footsteps going off into the distance was heard.

“I’m so afraid that this is all happening in my head,” he whispered, burying his head on Geralt’s shoulder, his frame shaking slightly. “I’m fucking terrified that this is nothing but a vivid dream. I’ve waited for so long, Geralt. Countless times I’ve dreamed about hearing you say that you wanted me, too. Not just as a friend, but more. And now, I–” Jaskier took a shaky breath, “Could we just…”

Geralt hugged him, rubbing small soothing circles on his back, not needing Jaskier to complete his sentence.

He knew what he meant anyway.

Because Jaskier wasn’t the only one who felt like this.

There were nights Geralt would still wake up in cold sweat, finding it hard to believe that Jaskier was in the same room with him for real.

More often than not, the bard wouldn’t realize that Geralt had woken up since he was a heavy sleeper who wouldn’t notice if an earthquake happened. So, the white-haired man would just watch him sleep until he could convince himself that he was real.

An impulse to brush his fingers through Jaskier’s silky hair would come up every time without any exceptions.

Sometimes he would almost reach out to him, but then he would instantly retrieve his hand, afraid of waking him up even though he knew that he probably wouldn’t.

But sometimes, he couldn’t resist that impulse and would brush his fingers through Jaskier’s hair oh so carefully. And then stroke against the softness of his cheek before pulling the thick comforter over him, smiling because: “this is real.”

In that rare moments when Jaskier would wake up to see Geralt awake, trying to calm himself, he would ask him what was wrong. And the look Geralt would give him would always be enough for him to understand that what his nightmares were about.

The bard would pull him into his arms then, singing softly, lovingly in his ear.

“Can you just…”

Geralt would start after Jaskier would stop singing eventually, but he could never finish his question.

He could never ask: “Can you just keep holding me for a little while longer?”

But he didn’t need to.

“Sure,” Jaskier would keep holding him as Geralt would close his eyes, listening to the relaxing heartbeats of the bard.

“I’m here, you adorable, big snowman,” he would whisper afterwards. “I’m here.”

So, no.

Geralt definitely didn’t need him to complete his sentence.

“Yeah,” he nodded, pulling him even closer to himself, not even able to tolerate being two-inch apart from him, “we can stay like this, Jaskier.”

“Don’t let go,” Jaskier begged after a while, “Please, don’t let go.”

Just like he did when his screams would break the silence of the night sometimes, alarming all of the Witcher’s senses with concern.

Just like when Geralt would hold him loosely to calm him down, telling him to just follow his breathing and to breathe with him, nice and slow as he would take Jaskier’s hand and place it on his own broad chest.

“Never.” He assured him sweetly, breathing in Jaskier’s heavenly scent and placing a little kiss on his shoulder “Never again, my little hummingbird.”

Seriously…

What took him so long..?

[ruffboijuliaburnsides]

voiceless jaskier au (pt 7)

Chapter 4 is, with this, complete and shortly will be on AO3! And also possibly my longest chapter. YAY! 

In which I actually let Jaskier have a Not Shitty Day (and Geralt has a much more shitty day)

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) Now on AO3

---------------------

Geralt was, perhaps unsurprisingly, not back yet when Jaskier woke up, surrounded by the papers that held everything he'd purged the night before. He sat and stared blankly at the detritus of his hurt and anger, feeling hollowed out and weary.

Hollowed out and weary, but not like he was going to get lost in the mist again, which brought on a feeling of something like relief. He got out of bed and pulled fresh(ish) clothes on, being careful not to disturb any of the papers as he did. That was the thing, he was angry still, and he thought he had every right to be. Geralt didn't get to be overwhelmingly attentive one moment and then just refuse to listen to him the next, especially before running off to maybe get himself killed without thinking about how Jaskier would survive.

No, Jaskier thought with an admittedly bitter-tasting sort of pride, the papers would stay. He couldn't yell at Geralt, but as emotionally raw as he felt glancing over the things he'd written, maybe it would get through to Geralt and he'd look next time. And the time after that. And every time Jaskier was trying so hard to reach out of the silent pit he'd fallen into to connect to another goddamn person.

That decided, clothed and with a clean face from scrubbing in the washbasin, Jaskier considered his options. He could swear up and down to the innkeeper that the witcher would be back to pay for any meals he might have while staying alone, but the fact was that most people would be dubious of a witcher's guarantee to come back. Especially given how quickly he left, for the next town over. Jaskier could, instead, set up in the main room or the town square with his lute and play, and hope for some generosity from the townsfolk. The problem was that without his voice, he was limited to only the sound of his lute itself. Which, admittedly, was fantastic, but wasn't likely to earn him much of anything. Instrumental music was for banquets and noble halls, before the night moved on to more energetic entertainment. People in a little place like this looked to a bard for entertainment with jigs, melodramatic ballads, tales of adventure, and songs about maidens fucking farmboys. Jaskier could play a mean jig, but for the rest... well.

And anyway, doing that would mean actually playing, and thinking about it still made something twist up in his stomach.

No, not today, he thought, and snagged his tablet before heading to the door. Today, he would hope that the innkeeper or one of his neighbors would take pity on him and give him some sort of small job to do in exchange for food or a little bit of money. It wasn't something Jaskier was looking forward to, silently begging for the chance to do menial labor, but it wasn't like he had many options.

**

The innkeeper did have a few unskilled tasks that he usually had his daughter do alone, but he seemed to be perfectly happy to let Jaskier help with them in exchange for food, even giving him breakfast before setting him to work.

"That witcher of yours left you here without coin for food?" he'd asked, eyes narrowed, when Jaskier approached him. Jaskier shrugged, spreading his hands dramatically, trying to play it off as sort of a 'witchers, am I right?' situation. The innkeeper shook his head, grumbling. "Damn thoughtless creature," he'd said, and ushered Jaskier into a seat near the kitchen. Jaskier wanted to protest, to speak up in Geralt's defense, mention how careful Geralt had been up to this point, but once he was seated and eating porridge and sausage, he had to admit he didn't disagree.

Geralt had been damn thoughtless, and Jaskier was still fucking angry.

The chores were hardly complicated, even for him. Washing breakfast dishes, helping boil water for laundry (which he was allowed to drop his own dirty clothes into, and pointedly did not bring Geralt's down for), helping hang the laundry to dry. Not exactly easy, nor the sorts of chores he'd ever had to do growing up, but it was something to pass the time, and made him at least feel useful for the first time since the djinn. The innkeeper's daughter was seventeen, sharp as a whip, and named Hanna. She kept up a steady, if not constant, commentary throughout the day, giving her thoughts on what she wanted from life, how well (or poorly) Jaskier was doing at following her directions, and various gossip and theories about passing townsfolk that they could see from the back yard of the inn. She got him to laugh more than once with her sharp commentary, and he felt if they could've had a proper conversation he would've enjoyed her even more. She even shared her lunch with him, half a small loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and an apple that she imperiously demanded he slice for them, which made him laugh yet again.

(She'd started singing at one point, in the absent way people did when they were doing a familiar task, and he'd faltered in his movements hanging the laundry on the line, his hands frozen in the process of pinning someone's chemise up. He'd forgotten until that moment, despite not being able to answer her as she chatted, that he couldn't sing anymore. It hit him like a punch to the chest and for a long moment he felt like he couldn't breathe. Hanna hadn't said anything, but she must have noticed, and she resumed talking about the exploits of her friend Maja instead of her song, and didn't sing again. Jaskier felt guilty and grateful in equal measure for that.)

It was a good day, probably the first good day he'd had in... how long had it been, two weeks? Longer? The first good day since even before the lake, though he'd hoped briefly when he found Geralt that his day was getting better. More the fool him. But this day of feeling useful and not pitied was what he needed and Jaskier was very relaxed (if already sore and sweaty) by the time the late afternoon sun was warming him as he weeded the kitchen garden alone, Hanna having gone in to help start supper.

Or he was relaxed until the door to the kitchen was thrown open with a loud bang, and he briefly was grateful for his enforced silence because he can tell he would've just screeched embarrassingly otherwise. Geralt of fucking Rivia was the culprit, looking tensed for a fight. Jaskier barely had time to wonder what could possibly have gone so wrong while he was outside that Geralt was looking like that when Geralt's eyes locked on him, kneeling in the dirt with his shirtsleeves rolled up and a weed in his hand, and the tension seemed to bleed out of him. Not that anyone but Jaskier or maybe another witcher would've noticed, as little changed, but the feeling that Geralt was readying himself for a dust up dissipated.

Jaskier obviously couldn't say anything, but that was very far from anything he expected to happen, and he raised an eyebrow, not otherwise moving.

"Excuse me," Hanna's voice came from behind Geralt in the kitchen. "If you don't mind, sir witcher, we're busy in here. Go out or come in, but don't just stand there all in the way!"

Geralt half-turned with a startled frown, and Jaskier couldn't imagine the scathing look the girl must've been giving him that prompted him to simply grunt out a quiet "Sorry," before stepping outside, closing the door behind him.

Jaskier almost laughed at the disconcerted expression on Geralt's face in the wake of whatever look Hanna had subjected him to, before remembering why he was out here in the first place. Instead, he pressed his lips in a line, his good mood already fled in favor of lingering anger and resentment, and pointedly looked down and resumed weeding. Geralt walked closer and it occurred to Jaskier that he'd left his tablet upstairs after going to fetch his laundry, because he didn't want to risk it getting lost or stepped on, and Hanna hadn't needed it to get on just fine with him. Whatever conversation he had with Geralt right now was, by nature, going to be extremely one-sided, as Jaskier both couldn't talk to him and wasn't speaking to him.

Geralt stopped at the edge of the garden plot, a few feet away from where Jaskier was kneeling, and just... stood there. Jaskier'd intended to just let him stew until he felt like speaking up, but eventually the silent looming got to Jaskier, and he left off the weeding to sit back on his heels and spread his arms. What?

"You weren't there," Geralt rumbled, an inscrutable and alien (to Jaskier, anyway, which was actually pretty strange) expression on his face. Jaskier frowned slightly, then pushed himself to his feet and brushed his hands off on his trousers, eyes never leaving Geralt's face, and the expression he didn't recognize.

"You weren't there," Geralt repeats after a few beats of silence, clearly struggling to get words out. "There was all the paper talking about how angry you were, and your lute was there, and the wax tablets were there, and it didn't smell like you'd been there for hours."

Oh. Jaskier's shield around his heart cracks a little bit. The big idiot had been scared. Of something having happened to him, maybe, or of him having left, or something Jaskier can't think of, but the point was that Geralt was scared and had flipped out because of it, stormed the kitchen and threw open the backdoor to make sure Jaskier was there. There was "mad at him" and there was "being an ass to him", so Jaskier softened and reached out a hand to put on one of the arms Geralt had crossed protectively in front of his chest. A soft little exhalation escaped Geralt's lips, and Jaskier thought honestly if he was the sort of person who cried, Geralt might be crying from relief now. Jaskier had wanted Geralt to know and understand how angry he'd been last night, but he'd never really meant to scare or hurt him, so it was his turn to apologize. Not for being mad, he refused to apologize for that sort of thing, but for scaring him.

Jaskier looped his arm through Geralt's, dirt and sweat and all, and tugged him back towards the door. Geralt let himself be led, not taking his eyes off Jaskier as they moved. Jaskier waved and smiled apologetically to Hanna and her mother as they cut quickly through the kitchen, and saw the disdainfully disappointed look the innkeeper shot Geralt as they passed, and then it was upstairs and into their room. The pages that had been scattered on every surface were more or less in a pile on the bed, like Geralt had grabbed each one of them, read it, then grabbed the next and the next, before dropping them and racing out to find him. Which... was probably what had happened.

The giant idiot.

Jaskier unlinked their arms to move the papers, dropping them to the side of the bed carelessly, because frankly they didn't matter now that they'd been read, herded Geralt to the bed and pushed him to sit down, and then retrieved his tablet from the side table, rubbing his hands on his trousers again to keep any dirt from getting ground into the wax.

You're an idiot, was the first thing Jaskier wrote, turned around to show Geralt with fond exasperation. Geralt opened his mouth to respond and Jaskier held a finger up to stop him, adding more under it. And an ass. Geralt huffed, frustrated, and scowled slightly.

"Jaskier."

Oh, fine, he'd go faster and stop just listing things that Geralt, patently and provably, was. I'm angry, not stupid. What did you think happened?

"I don't know," Geralt grumbled with a faint grimace, not looking up at Jaskier's face. "The papers were ripped out of your journal. The messages seemed... desperate."

Jaskier sighed and sat on the bed next to Geralt, tucking one leg up under him, and smoothed the wax before starting in on a longish message.

You didn't look when I had a message to show you. This is my voice right now. I can't shout. Maybe throw it at your head but it might break. And you didn't think about how I would pay for anything, which was what I was trying to ask you. But you didn't look. You can't not look, Geralt. His handwriting wasn't great, admittedly, especially writing smaller, but it was readable when he held it out to Geralt.

"Hm," Geralt handed the tablet back, and Jaskier started smoothing the wax again. "I'm... sorry. It was thoughtless. You could've gotten hurt." He sounded sincere to Jaskier's ears, if a bit reluctant. Jaskier knew Geralt struggled to talk about his own feelings, let alone his fears. Jaskier had never known Geralt to talk about his fears, and while he hadn't said so explicitly, the fear that Jaskier could've gotten hurt, and it would've been Geralt's fault, seemed like an obvious jump from what he'd said. And really, it made sense. Geralt considered what happened to Jaskier's voice his fault. It would be him failing Jaskier again if anything but a truly spectacular meltdown and some laundry had happened while Geralt had been gone.

Jaskier bumped his shoulder up against Geralt's as he wrote, Geralt leaning in a little to watch the letters forming, and Jaskier's breath almost hitched from the smell of him so close in his space (even the sweat and horse that permeated him). Forgiven if you never do it again. Promise?

"I promise," Geralt responded even before Jaskier finished writing, solemn as anything. "I'll always look. If it needs to wait, I'll say. But I promise I'll look."

Jaskier patted Geralt's knee in acceptance and smiled. Good. Dinner. He stood, then stopped on his way to the door to quickly add, I earned dinner tonight. You can pay for baths. He showed Geralt and gave him a smug, cheeky grin, and Geralt's eyes flicked from the tablet to his face and met his eyes without response for just a moment too long to be entirely comfortable. Then the moment passed, and Geralt pushed himself to his feet.

"All right," he agreed. "You look like you've been rolling in the mud all day, you could use one." He chuckled at Jaskier's indignant expression and got a smack upside the head with the tablet as they made their way back downstairs.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) Now on AO3

[cursewoodrecap]

The Hunt for the Teal Deer

Due to some changes in our player lineup, I figured our party’s newest member might want a tl;dr of the Campaign So Far without having to read the enormous bricks I put out on a highly irregular basis. HENCEFORTH, A SUMMARY. (Contains spoilers for stuff I haven’t properly recapped yet. I mean...I’m pretty sure this blog is mostly read by the players? But fair warning nonetheless.)

It’s still kind of a brick but here have a couple thousand words instead of fifty billion.

ARC 1: THE WITCH OF OVRUCH

Near the tiny Valdian trading village of Ovruch, four adventurers meet:

1. Kyr Valeria Argent, a paladin of the Order of the Rose, who is here to investigate a Beggar Knight going missing. Silver dragonborn Paladin, Oath of the Crown.

2. Sgt. Clementine Haxan, a former soldier of the Kevan empire turned soldier-of-fortune who is investigating a Beggar Knight going missing. Drow Fighter, Battlemaster.

3. Gral “Joybringer” Omokk’duu, an orc bard who serves Duke Shieldeater, here because he’s trying to recruit translators to help Orc/Valdia relations. Orc Bard, College of Whispers.

4. Shoshana bat Chaya, a local who’s been outcast from her village since a close run-in with the curse that left her with dark powers and a mildly inhuman appearance. Half-elf Sorcerer, Shadow Magic.

The three foreigners interrogate the young witch, who was interrogated yesterday by the Beggar Knight. They realize the Beggar Knight, Ser Balderich, went to investigate the place where Shoshana had her Curse accident. 

They are interrupted by the village being attacked by a group of bandits and wolves, led by a werewolf, who seem to want to capture Shoshana as some kind of Chosen One. They defeat the bandits and head into the woods to find Evil Wolf Guys HQ.

In the spooky dark ravine of Wolf Guys HQ, they find a) the imprisoned Ser Balderich, who they free; b) a shadowy nasty guy who has direwolves, who they beat up; and c) a trail of corpses and some diary fragments from a mysterious huntress who had been one of the evil-wolfguy leaders before she rebelled against them. The letters clearly indicate she had some kind of close relationship to Shoshana before Shit Went Down.

Shoshana is like, “alas, they shall believe I am forever tainted by evil magic and it’s only a matter of time until I turn evil, they’re probably going to execute me” and the rest of the party is like “wtf no we’re not gonna do that. Stop being emo.”

ARC 2: THE MISTS OF HOLZOG

The party heads to the town of Holzog to meet up with Ser Quentin Morozov, a Cursebreaker Knight who’s a friend of Ser Balderich’s. On the way, they meet Flynn and Fiona Fairgold, a dramatic, theatrical knight and his practical, mute sister. They also find out that in Holzog, strange mists come out of the lake every couple of weeks, filled with strange noises and creatures.

Gral recognizes that shit and tells his backstory: Duke Shieldeater’s son, Bullbreaker, led an expedition into the heart of the wood to try to defeat the Curse. Gral was part of Bullbreaker’s party. Strange, warped creatures seemed to appear out of nowhere and attack, and most of the orc battalion vanished into the mists, no bodies ever found. The takeaway: Gral believes that the Curse isn’t random; it’s coordinated and it has leaders and commanders.

Our investigations lead us to a former artists’ colony on an island in the lake. Turns out the artists had been tempted by some strange power to open a portal to a weird space between dimensions. The portal keeps closing and opening, causing the mists. Like idiots, we hurl ourselves into the portal, and find Weird Shit inside. Doors to other dimensions that are different story genres! Weird eyeballs everywhere!

We find out Gral’s old commander Bullbreaker has been lost in one of these other dimensions, and is trying to Samurai Jack his way home.

Most importantly we get some info: The Curse is caused by four entities, who are Prisoners. We’re unsure what imprisons them. We’ve figured out two so far: The Hunt, which is the werewolves and bandits and murder and stuff; and the Key, which is the pursuit of knowledge and the bending of reality. 

Anyway we escape and close the portal. Also we met some mad scientists from Sturmhearst University, which was fun.

ARC 3: THE DEAD OF MORNHEIM

Our Cursebreaker friend hires us to investigate why a squad of elven war veterans seemed to turn to the dark side while fighting the curse in Mornheim, a city which is experiencing a zombie apocalypse. Turns out the squad is Clem’s old unit! Drama!

Mornheim is really Tim Burtony. It used to be a place where undead could not rise, so everybody buried their dead there. And then the Curse happened, and now ALL the dead are rising. Welp, fuck.

We meet up with Lady Aubrey von Mornheim, Ser Balderich’s daughter (there’s family drama there), who gives us the inside scoop on the local lore.

We fight through the catacombs and investigate the old manor house. We find three important things: 1) Lady Aubrey’s mom, who’s haunting the shit out of the place; 2) a SECRET WIZARD LAB with a MYSTERIOUS SPELL SCROLL; and 3) some cultists.

The mysterious spell scroll, which is weirdly druid-y, seems to be a ritual for purifying a water source. The local lore implied that the undead curse began/stems from the source of the local river. HMM.

Meanwhile, there’s cultists, led by...A MEMBER OF CLEM’S OLD UNIT. One who she hates; she accuses him of getting their beloved Captain killed. He’s like “it’s cool we’re gonna bring her back from the dead!!! The Pale King says we will get eternal life if we serve him!!!” and Clem is like “okay that sounds terrible” and stabs him. We kick his wight ass and the ass of another of their squad, who “came back from the dead” but was actually possessed by a dybbuk, a malevolent spirit that takes over corpses and impersonates them.

Seems like this “Pale King” is Prisoner #3, in charge of Undead Shit.

We fight some other cultists and find an aaaancient corpse that indicates some kind of ancient collaboration between the old Aquilian Empire and the Valdians, which is a Fun Lore Mystery.

Clem’s old squad also has an assassination plot going against their former commander, who they hate.

Valeria the paladin really wants to do the spell scroll ritual to protect the town, but we need several rare plants as spell components. We decide to go to Bad Herzfeld, where we hear there’s lots of plants.

ARC 4: THE ROOTS OF BAD HERZFELD

Our concerns going into Bad Herzfeld:

1. We need spell component plants.

2. We know about this evil fungus that infects people and makes them into Evil Fungus Monsters.

3. We hear there’s about to be a huge gathering of trolls. Valdian trolls are generally peaceful, but, like. A fuckton of trolls + evil brain fungus that makes you evil = BAD.

We fight an evil circus, but that’s more of a side quest.

We get to Bad Herzfeld and it’s a jungle out there, folks. We manage to get all our spell components even though we have to fight various angry plantmonsters and hallucinogenic fungi. We also meet a very nice troll who is a Doctor for Trolls, he is one of our favorite NPCs.

We have a brief encounter with one of the reclusive druids who resides in the forest. The druids seem to be fighting the Curse as well, with sporadic guidance from the old gods of the Greatwood, but it turns out they don’t have many more answers than we do.

A former druid, however, has become the spiritual leader of the local farming community. Which is a problem because she has turned it into a cult that infects people with the Evil Fungus Spores. It’s a very “Insiders Good, Outsiders Evil” mindset. They are planning to wait until more trolls show up for the big troll gathering, then infect them all with fungus. This is Prisoner #4, The Growth.

We burn down their temple with extreme prejudice. Unfortunately, guarding the temple is a plantmonster that was once Valeria’s beloved mentor, Kyr Marius. We destroy him but it’s tragic.

The trolls are like, “oh evil fungus? Aight we’re out.” Also we met more of those mad science doctors, but botanist ones this time.

ARC 5: PENITENTS SUCK

On the way back to Mornheim we go through the crossroads trade stop of Three Oaks Junction, which has been taken over by Penitent Knights, who are very into inquisition, and self flagellation, and persecuting the hell out of anything that even blinks the wrong way. Sinners must be purged from among the faithful!!! Anyway they’re violent jerks and we free the town. Penitents suck.

ARC 6: THE TROLLSTONES

Back in Mornheim, we go to the source of the River Morn to do our fancy ritual. Turns out there’s an ancient troll-king buried there, who rose as an undead. His demigoddess mother blessed the waters there so that no undead would ever rise. That blessing is gone now, of course. Problem is, there’s ancient Aquilian ruins that indicate the blessing was later used as a Containment Zone for something super evil, and whatever evil thing was there has now escaped. Hella lore, though.

We do our fancy ritual, which doesn’t restore the No Undead blessing but does provide some protection for the citizens. Yaaay!

ARC 6: HOESKA

We jet off to Hoeska Castle, HQ of the Cursebreaker Knights, because we have hella knowledge about how the Curse works now and we should probably, like...let the experts know? Turns out Hoeska Castle is owned by an ancient vampire, who has teamed up with his longtime nemesis - the vampire hunter Ser Brigid Koenig, who is now trying to solve the dang curse and has founded the Cursebreakers. We share our information and also fight a big nasty wolfmonster who’s been eating the knights. There’s a professor from Sturmhearst the Mad Science University, who confides in us that the Dean keeps vanishing and leaving strange otherworldly gifts. Sounds like Key nonsense; we’d better go check it out!

Clem’s player decides to leave the campaign at this point; in-story, Clem has gone to prevent her former unit’s assassination plot while we confront threats closer to home.

~AND THAT’S WHAT YOU MISSED ON THE CURSEWOOD~