#but a bruxa is no joke

[mrabubu]

/the ref is a bit old, but the info is mostly accurate/

So, I did kinda sketch ref for my Kraang character and make her more of a person, or something, with a name and all. I'm still going to use they/them pronounce and Y/N when people will be asking something about Krangified AU.

More information about her below.

So, her name is Ana now.

About her personality before she was turned into the Kraang zombie I still can't say much at the moment (because I'm mostly focused on their interactions in the present timeline), except for her being the person who was genuinely worried about Leo and what's been going on in his head. She saw his attitude and for her it was obvious it was mostly a facade to hide his real emotions and wanted to help him, being a shoulder to lean on. I see her being the weirdo to others that found his jokes actually funny.

After Kraangification, I can describe her with one word: DEPRESSION. I mean, you've been a mindless zombie for about 10 years that practically flashed before your eyes. You wake up facing the facts that the world has been at war with the Kraang for all this time, everyone you knew grew up, your family is long gone, your boyfriend been through hell and lost his arm, and, yeah, your still kinda a zombie also facing some self-control issues. Your Kraang half is taking control over you from time to time, attacking others and even friends if provoked. Not to mention that a lot of things that used to be casual to you are now something you need to learn to be used to again, like bed or actual food. Yeah and also that little inconvenience that she has to eat people now.

She's been dozing off a lot at first, after Leo got her to their base, just staring at one point, processing the whole situation and still feeling like it's just a very long nightmare. And only Leo could snap her out of this state at least for a short amount of time.

When I've been making first sketches with her I gave her this pointed ear and horn like Kraang appendage on her forehead, and thought this kinda reminded of oni's (demons) from Japanese folklore, which kinda resonated with this whole Kraang AU concept.

I also can't stop thinking about Beauty and the Beast (original Disney animated movie) concept, only with them swapping roles in contrast to the original story.

I really like the concept of the turtles being able to make this chirping and churring sounds, and thought, why can't she make something like this? So, yeah, she can churp and purr (I don't know if there's a difference between churring and purring, still didn't understand, and this churring sound is still mostly fictional, fanon thing..? but, anyway). I like this idea of Leo and Ana being able to communicate with the language only they (and other turtles) understand.

A few more sketches with her and a couple of scenes.

Her claws on the Kraang arm can extend. I thought about her being able to shapeshift her arm further, but for now it's either extended claws, or something like a sword or some other sharp pointy thing...

I've been thinking about her fighting style, and for a reference I used the The Witcher 3 again (yeah) There's a vampire species, Bruxa and Alp, and I'm thinking her fighting style would be something like of an Alp. Fast and agile, also pretty strong (tho still not strong enough to take out big enemies like the Kraang in their suits).

I have this scene in my head that I actually been sketching already, where she's fighting the Kraang hounds, and pretty much able to lift one grabbing it by it's throat and throwing it into the tree like a rag doll.

Another thing is her screech she uses to intimidate/immobilize her enemies. It's also more of an alp than bruxa, especially in this video time code 00:36, this is pretty much how I imagine it.

I also know that I've messed up her eyes when she's in her Kraang mode, because they should be turning purple, like Raph's left eye that wasn't covered by Kraang flesh, but, uuuh, I don't want to change that at this point...

I think that's it for now...? If I'll have more ideas I'll either be making other posts, or updating this one.

[deathmoth-blog]

Beautiful black witch moth

The erebid moth Ascalapha odorata, commonly known as the black witch, is a large bat-shaped, dark-colored nocturnal moth, normally ranging from the southern United States to Brazil. Ascalapha odorata is also migratory into Canada and most states of United States. It is the largest noctuoid in the continental United States. In the folklore of many Central American cultures, it is associated with death or misfortune.

Female moths can attain a wingspan of 24 cm. The dorsal surfaces of their wings are mottled brown with hints of iridescent purple and pink, and, in females, crossed by a white bar. The diagnostic marking is a small spot on each forewing shaped like a number nine or a comma. This spot is often green with orange highlights. Males are somewhat smaller, reaching 12 cm in width, darker in color and lacking the white bar crossing the wings. The larva is a large caterpillar up to 7 cm in length with intricate patterns of black and greenish-brown spots and stripes.

The black witch lives from the southern United States, Mexico and Central America to Brazil, and has apparently been introduced to Hawaii.[citation needed]

The black witch flies north during late spring and summer. One was caught during an owl banding project at the Whitefish Point lighthouse on the shoreline of Lake Superior in July 2020.[citation needed]

The black witch is considered a harbinger of death in Mexican and Caribbean folklore. In many cultures, one of these moths flying into the house is considered bad luck: e.g., in Mexico, when there is sickness in a house and this moth enters, it is believed the sick person will die, though a variation on this theme (in the lower Rio Grande Valley, Texas) is that death only occurs if the moth flies in and visits all four corners of one's house (in Mesoamerica, from the pre-Hispanic era until the present time, moths have been associated with death and the number four). In some parts of Mexico, people joke that if one flies over someone's head, the person will lose his hair.

In Jamaica, under the name duppy bat, the black witch is seen as the embodiment of a lost soul or a soul not at rest. In Jamaican English, the word duppy is associated with malevolent spirits returning to inflict harm upon the living and bat refers to anything other than a bird that flies. The word "duppy" (also: "duppie") is also used in other West Indian countries, generally meaning "ghost".

In Brazil it is called "mariposa-bruxa", "mariposa-negra", "bruxa-negra", and "bruxa", and it is also believed that when a moth of this type enters the house it can bring some "bad omen", signaling the death of a resident. In the Ecuadorian highlands they are called Tandacuchi and in Peru Taparacuy or Taparaco. These countries share the belief that if this moth, a messenger of death, appears in your home, someone will die very soon.

In Hawaii, black witch mythology, though associated with death, has a happier note in that if a loved one has just died, the moth is an embodiment of the person's soul returning to say goodbye. In the Bahamas, where they are locally known as money moths or money bats, the legend is that if they land on you, you will come into money, and similarly, in South Texas, if a black witch lands above your door and stays there for a while, you will supposedly win the lottery.

In Paraguay and Argentina, this insect is mostly known as "ura", and there is a popular belief that this moth urinates and leaves worms on the skin of people and animals. However, the insect that lays eggs in the skin and whose larvae become embedded in the flesh is the colmoyote or screwworm (Dermatobia hominis).

In Spanish, the black witch is known as "mariposa de la muerte". Other names for the moth include the papillion-devil, la sorcière noire, the mourning moth or the sorrow moth.[citation needed]

Black witch moth pupae were placed in the mouths of victims of serial killer 'Buffalo Bill' in the novel The Silence of the Lambs. In the movie adaptation, they were replaced by death's-head hawkmoth pupae.

[dicadabruxv]

Este é um starter fechado com @4luc4rdfahrenheit + "[ jokes ] sender trying to make receiver laugh"

Sypha realmente queria entender os motivos de Alucard parecer tão empenhado em se aproximar, aparentemente deixar bem claro que odiava vampiros não tinha surtido muito efeito com o jovem. A expressão de tédio da bruxa permanecia enquanto encarava o outro tentando, sem qualquer sinal de sucesso, arrancar algum sorriso da ruiva. - Não vai cansar nunca? Está fazendo papel de ridículo. - manteve a expressão tediosa, os cabelo levemente bagunçados depois de ter tirado o chapéu do corpo de bombeiros, nem tivera muito tempo de ajeitar a aparência quando o outro apareceu. - Por que não me diz de uma vez o que você quer? Antes que eu perca a paciência e te transforme em churrasco como outros da sua espécie.

[krwioholik]

"The young lady also greets you, right Lizzie?" Geralt sighed, but still smiled at Regis, who came closer and sat next to him on the trunk, then picked up baby bruxa and sat her on his lap. Baby Lizzie watched Regis with curiosity, but kept her distance, as she sensed another vampire in him and didn't know him well enough to let him touch her. Geralt no longer had such a problem, as Lizzie quickly accepted him as her caretaker, since he was not a vampire.

"Don't worry, Regis. She's a little cautious, but I'm sure she'll like you." Geralt replied, seeing Lizzie hiding in him. He gave a renewed sigh when Regis expressed his surprise about the situation he was in. And what was he supposed to say? He knew that a witcher taking care of a baby bruxa was an unusual and rather strange situation, which according to Lambert and Eskel would have been considered an eminently funny joke, and Vesemir would have lashed out at him with a stick, but he found himself in just such a situation. Geralt, however, decided to take Lizzie with him, although taking care of the baby was difficult for him, since he was a witcher and not a nurse and knew nothing much about feeding and changing, but he tried to manage somehow. Fortunately for him, Lizzie was calm and showed a lot of understanding for her caretaker.

"I know it's a strange situation, Regis, but I couldn't do otherwise because…her mother won't come back to her anymore, and I contributed to it." Geralt answered briefly, not wanting to return his thoughts to that fight with Lizzie's mother. The fact was that Lizzie had been left alone in this world because of him and he had to take care of her now, although he himself did not know quite how.

"And wisely so. I certainly wouldn't hold her self-preservation instincts against her." He assured his friend, his curiosity growing as he watched how Geralt took her into his lap and how much the child welcomed it.

"Though I must admit, I am surprised she had taken to you so swiftly. Perhaps she'd not been taught of witchers yet... And for the better, I suppose." He decided, rubbing his chin in thought.

Geralt's explanation aligned with Regis' suspicions and he was glad he could cast away the other, darker ideas that had crossed his mind, and thus also cast away the inkling of doubt towards his friend. He nodded seriously at Geralt's words but there was understanding in his dark eyes.

"I shall assume it was the one who'd been plaguing lord Bruyon's land, north of here?" He was almost certain he was right. He's heard talk of the trouble that had started there several weeks past, of more and more bodies turning up.

"Such pity." He said, a pang of regret that he hadn't ventured there to investigate. Most Toussaint bruxa residents refrained from killing in such numbers, thus he suspected Lizzie's mother to be a newcomer to the area, yet unaware of the greater insistence on secrecy the local vampires adhered to. Most did, at least.

"Tell me, Geralt, what do you plan now in regards to your young ward?" He asked his friend. "And have you any knowledge of the needs of a growing bruxa?"

[thereluctantinquisitor]

pssst i saw you reblog some witcher stuff and i was wondering - DA Witcher AU??? (maybe with Varlen as a witcher, because white hair and all, but up to you!)

So I made Hanin the bard. I don’t know why. Let’s do this. (3320 words)

[PART 2]

When Varlen shoved open the tavern door, he had expected the usual warm welcome of conversations warbling to a halt and a dozen sets of eyes silently rolling in their sockets to face him. He could judge any place by that single, simple act. Some people were very good at pretending not to watch every step he took with the wary apprehension of peasants who were raised on stories of monsters and beasts. Others, less so.

The presence of a Witcher was proof, after all. Proof that it was all true.

Well, some of it, at least.

But this tavern was different. The atmosphere inside was already tense, and for once it wasn’t his fault. Stepping through the threshold, shrugging off his damp cloak, Varlen looked for the eyes but found them all elsewhere, lingering in mugs or on the feeble flames of the hearth. There was music, faint and slow - almost reluctant, as though each note was an uncomfortable interruption of a much larger, heavier silence. If Varlen didn’t know any better, he’d guess someone had died.

But he did know better, and there was no need for guessing.

Not entirely sure what to do when he wasn’t immediately confronted by hostile villagers, Varlen made his way to the bar, hoping the old trick of asking the tavern owner for news would work its usual magic. He settled on one of the tall stools, shifting slightly, the blades hanging from each hip bumping awkwardly against the outside of his thighs as he adjusted. 

Steel for humans. Silver for monsters.

“Gold for the Witcher?”

Varlen started, surprised to see what he assumed was the owner of the tavern standing before him. He must have come in from the kitchen. “I… What?”

The stocky man cocked one of his bushy grey brows, then nodded to one of the casks behind him. “Honey brew. Local specialty.” He shrugged. “Folks just call it ‘gold’ around here. You want that or something else?”

So, he was actually being offered a drink first. Things must be worse than rumour suggested. “That’ll be fine,” he said after a moment, meeting the older man’s gaze. “Thank you.”

With a brisk nod, the tavern owner bustled away, fetching a mug and heading for the cask. He turned back and introduced himself as Rolf in what felt like an afterthought as the sound of rushing liquid filled the room. Varlen didn’t bother watching what he poured or how he did it. Most folks knew better than to try to poison a Witcher now. After enough failed attempts, word gets around. 

“Took your time getting here.” The mug sloshed but didn’t spill as the man set it down in front of Varlen, the stiffness of the movement one of the only things betraying his true feelings about having a mutant at his bar. “Can’t say I’m glad to see you, but we lost another one last night, so…”

“Another one?” Varlen ignored the drink for a moment, giving the man his full attention. “How many is that now? Six?”

Rolf sighed and nodded, and something more defeated washed over him. His shoulders sagged slightly, and for a moment Varlen actually felt sorry for him. After all, the tavern was where people went to drown their sorrows. It would be difficult, being submerged in that kind of grief every day. Easy to drown in it. “No one has a clue what’s doing it,” Rolf continued with a sigh, “but whatever it is, it seems to like hunting at night.”

“Like a wolf,” Varlen muttered, picking up his mug and taking a deep gulp of ale. “Or a bear.”

“Could be.” Rolf seemed a lot more open to the idea than Varlen expected. “Sure hope we didn’t go pulling all our coin together to pay you to hunt an animal, though.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Varlen shrugged and set the mug down with a low thud. “So you have six people, all dead in the dark. Huh.” He frowned thoughtfully, then glanced up. “Men and women?”

A nod. “Four men, one woman. The Miller boy was the last taken.”

Varlen knew better than to ask, but somehow, he always did. “How old?”

“The lad?” Rolf huffed, leaning his large forearms on the wooden counter. “Not much more than fifteen winters. Can’t say I know for sure. Sorry.”

All Varlen could do was shake his head and take another drink. The boy was dead. That was always how the story went when he was involved. He was so used to it now that he never hoped for survivors. Even a wolf wouldn’t turn down such an easy meal. “Who do I speak to about the contract? You?”

Surprisingly, Rolf shook his head, then nodded towards the back of the bar. “Tall bastard over there’s who you want. He’s the one who convinced us to empty our pockets for one of your lot.”

Shifting, Varlen followed Rolf’s gaze. When he met his target, he raised his brows in surprise. Sure enough, there was a tall man at the far side of the tavern. He was in a low-backed chair, seeming almost bored, lute resting against his broad chest. His fingers absently plucked out the slow, halting rhythm that defined the room. Everything about his demeanor suggested he was a man lost in deep, melancholy thought. 

Everything except his eyes, which were locked on Varlen and likely had been since the second he set foot in the place.

The music stopped as the man stood, carefully swinging his lute across his back with the usual bardic reverence. There were no complaints that the song was over. In fact, no one even looked up as the man abandoned his post and crossed the room. Even Rolf just shook his head and disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Varlen very much alone as the bard approached. 

“Witcher.”

“Bard.” Varlen raised his mug half-heartedly. “I hear you’re the man to talk to about—”

The sound of something heavy thudding to the counter cut Varlen off mid-sentence. A brown pouch, sides bulging at odd angles, barely slid once it made contact, burdened by its own weight. Despite himself, Varlen gave a low whistle, surprised to see so much from a place that seemed to have so little. “That bad, huh?”

“Yes.” Dragging out a stool, the man sat, one foot resting against the metal bar between the stool’s legs. “If the people here had let go of their denial earlier, they wouldn’t be where they are now.” He nodded towards the room. Towards the hunched figures. The vacant eyes. The nursed ales, warming slowly to the temperature of the wavering hearth. “They’ve already paid a higher price than this.”

There was something about his words that piqued Varlen’s curiosity. “You make it sound like you’re not from here.”

“I’m not.” The man’s green eyes cut across to him. There was anger behind them, but Varlen got the distinct feeling it was not directed at anything in particular. It was just there. “I am a bard. I travel.”

Varlen hummed, lifting his mug, draining another two mouthfuls of the strangely sweet brew. “Well, you sure put in a lot of work for someone who doesn’t even live here. What’s your name?”

“Hanin.” It seemed he wasn’t going to take the bait Varlen had so casually dangled in front of him. A shame. “I take it you’re aware you aren’t dealing with an animal here.”

Sighing, Varlen nodded. “Yes. I know.” He’d felt it the closer he got to the village, like a pressure on the back of his neck. Fingers wrapping tighter and tighter. Whatever it was that lurked in the nearby forest, it was strong. It was hungry. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what it is?”

Typically, canvassing the locals was about as useful as interviewing a pig about the war with Nilfgaard. So, needless to say, Varlen nearly choked on his ale in shock when Hanin glanced around then leaned in close. When he was sure he had Varlen’s attention, he murmured a single, terrible word.

“Bruxa.”

Immediately, Varlen felt that same sensation - that same weight on the back of his neck, only this time the hairs on his arms stood as well. He didn’t need to study the man to know precisely two things. 

Firstly, that he was telling him what he really believed was the truth. 

Secondly, that he was right.

“… Shit.” Varlen groaned and ran a gloved hand down his face. What he’d give for a wolf. A pack of wolves. Shit, even something as unnatural as a pack of bears would still be preferable to a single Bruxa. “What the fuck is a Bruxa doing here?”

“Quiet.” Hanin glanced around again. His stern expression was definitely for Varlen this time. “The last thing we need is to cause a panic.”

“A little panicking wouldn’t kill them.”

“No, but fleeing their homes this close to sundown would.”

He had a point, as much as Varlen hated to admit it. In truth, if he had his way, he’d clear the whole town out, tell them to relocate, and call it a day. If they were smart, they’d go. But people were rarely smart. Not when land and legacy meant more to them than their lives. “A pissed off bruxa could wipe out this entire village in a single night,” he remarked, then glanced at the pouch of gold. “You’re going to need more than that.”

The bard’s disposition shifted again, and this time the anger behind those eyes was all Varlen’s. Lucky him. “This is everything they have to spare, Witcher.”

“Varlen.”

“I don’t care what your name is. The gold is here. Take it and do your job.”

“It’s not enough.”

“People are dying.”

“People die every day.” Varlen knew it was harsh, but reality often was. He couldn’t be blamed for that, even though he always was. “I’m not risking my life against a bruxa for pocket change.”

He could feel Hanin’s rage, now. It pulsed like a living thing, and he spat each word like a mouthful of blood. “Greedy bastard - it wasn’t ‘pocket change’ before.”

Varlen gave a bored shrug. “It wasn’t a bruxa before.” With that, he stood, the stool grating along the wooden floorboards. He checked his mug, drained the last few drops, then slid it towards the end of the bar with a small stack of dirty bowls and cups. “If I’m so greedy, find someone else to do it. Oh, and tell Rolf the brew was good. It’ll be a shame to lose it.”

Even leaving the tavern was uneventful. In a town being ravaged by a creature as deadly as a bruxa, Varlen expected something to happen. An angry blacksmith blocking his path. A weeping widow. Shit, even a pissed off widow would make more sense than the complete resignation that seemed to radiate from every person he passed on his way to the door. 

Stepping outside, Varlen paused by the town’s main road, closed his eyes, and tilted his head. The sounds of the world slowly rose to meet him, rushing forward at his insistence, surrounding him, drowning him in a steady roar. Leaves rustled high above him in the canopy and it was as though the sound was happening right against his ear. Somewhere down the road to his left, a squirrel scuttled out of a pile of drying firewood. It wasn’t what he wanted. He frowned, concentrating until he heard a sparrow sing out ahead of him, nestled somewhere well beyond the treeline.

One.

He honed in on the sound, searching for more. Seconds passed. Then a finch added its voice to the mix, its song delicate and thin. Two. The more he found, the easier it was to tune out the rest of the world’s noise. A partridge met his ears next, then a pigeon’s coo. With each new bird that joined, Varlen felt something hard sink to the bottom of his stomach. A shrike piped up. A jackdaw. A—

“Wait.”

The voice, even though it sounded distant and distorted like words spoken underwater, broke through Varlen’s focus, pulling him out of his search. Grunting, he blinked his way back to the roadside and turned to regard Hanin. The man was dressed very unassumingly for a bard, in a simple linen shirt and brown trousers. No wonder Varlen had missed him on the way in.

“I already told you, I’m not…” Varlen trailed off as the man, with no small amount of disdain, held out two bulging cloth pouches, one the same as before, the other slightly smaller. If Varlen had to guess, it was enough coin to buy him a new saddle and set of shoes for Arla, and with money left to spare. “Impressive,” he confessed, folding his arms and regarding the bard. “You must have more of a silver tongue than you let on, if you managed to get anything out of that room.”

“I don’t relish this, Witcher. Save your flattery.” With a sharp motion, he tossed the original pouch to Varlen, but kept the second firmly in hand. “That one now, this one when the job is done.”

His tone indicated that he expected an argument about that, but Varlen just hefted the pouch in his hand and shrugged. “Fine. But it better not go missing while I’m gone.”

“It won’t.” Hanin made a point of sliding the pouch into his satchel, fastening it shut with a metallic click. “Because I’m going with you.”

This time there was no helping it. Varlen stared at him blankly for a moment, then let out a bright, astonished laugh. “You’re not serious?”

Hanin did not seem to share his amusement. “I won’t risk you running off with these people’s money. I will have proof that this thing is killed.”

Again, it wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of something like that. “You have my word that I won’t run off into the night,” he said, and actually tried to sound as genuine as possible. “And I don’t give that lightly.”

“Your word means very little to me.” Moving a few steps closer, Hanin paused beside Varlen, his eyes trained on the treeline. “Listen. The birds.”

While that kind of sign was clear to Varlen, he had to admit, he was surprised to hear a bard comment on it. “Yes,” he ventured, following Hanin’s gaze. “I hear them.”

For a moment, they just stood together by the dirt road, silent, shoulders drawn tight by an unspoken tension. Then, softly, the bard began to murmur something to a tune that was barely there. 

“In the tall woods of Velen, where the oak meets the sky,

seven lost birds in the treetops did cry.

But at sundown the sound of her silent screams bled

into the dreams of the woodsman asleep in his bed…”

Quietly, Hanin trailed off, and while Varlen was certain there was more to the verse, he let the matter slide in favour of something more important. “Listen. Don’t come with me. Stay here. You will be safer.”

Again, Hanin shook his head. “I… can’t.”

“Why not?” The question seemed simple enough, but Hanin clenched his jaw tight, and something about the dread that seemed to radiate from him set the pieces in place for Varlen. “You’ve heard her, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” It seemed to take everything he had to say a single word, and for the first time Varlen noticed the dark circles beneath the bard’s eyes. “I’m not alone. Here, no one can sleep anymore.”

With a sigh, Varlen reached up and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Yes. Bruxae like to do that. The stronger ones, at least.”

“Why?”

“They’re clever. It’s dangerous for them to venture into populated places, especially if they’re alone. So they drive people half mad with nightmares. Keep them awake in the dark hours. Stop them thinking rationally.”

Hanin frowned. “The people she’s already taken all went out for a walk in the middle of the night.”

Breathing deep, Varlen nodded. “People tend to do that, after a nightmare. Something about clearing their heads.” He shrugged. “It’s probably not a bad idea. Most times.” He looked across at Hanin, the bard seeming a shade paler than usual, and tried one last time to talk some sense into the man. “The only thing more foolish would be venturing into the bruxa’s territory on purpose. You clearly know the warning sign. Don’t risk your life for this.”

The words jolted Hanin out of his reverie, but much to Varlen’s frustration, he just shook his head again. “No. I… I am going with you.” He turned slightly, glancing back at the tavern. “I’ve seen a lot of places end up like this. Watched things fall apart and towns collapse on themselves as their people are picked off one by one.”

In truth, Varlen wasn’t sure where Hanin was going with his story. But the reality was that the sun was setting and he had preparations to make. So, he started to walk down the dirt road, back towards where he left Arla tethered to a tree. “So… what makes this place any different?”

For a moment, Varlen thought Hanin had come to his senses and wasn’t going to follow. But then the sound of a second set of footsteps joined his own, Hanin’s longer legs making short work of the distance between them. “All of the other times, I convinced myself it wasn’t my problem, and I left.” He shook his head slightly, eyes trained forward, something fearful but determined in that green gaze. It would have been impressive, in any other context. “But I won’t. Not this time. I’m tired of monsters and beasts tearing people apart.”

In more ways than one, Varlen thought. In truth, he could almost understand the man’s drive. Don’t get him wrong - Hanin was clearly out of his mind, wanting to accompany him into a bruxa’s lair. But at the same time, Varlen could sympathise. He used to be like that, when he first left Kaer Morhen. He’d take any job for half the coin other Witchers asked, simply because he wanted to help. But the world had a way of beating that kind of generosity out of you. After enough shredded bodies, lifeless eyes, bloodless corpses and thankless scorn, you learn that compassion comes second to survival. It has to, or no one would be left to walk away.

“I won’t be able to protect you,” Varlen said after a moment, not bothering to sugarcoat the truth. “I’ll have a hard enough time keeping myself alive against a well-fed bruxa.”

Hanin nodded. “I don’t expect you to.”

“When we get out there, you do exactly as I say. Down to the letter.”

Another nod. 

Varlen didn’t buy it. “That means if I tell you to run, you run. No questions asked. You run all the way back here and lock yourself inside. Understood?”

“Understood.”

To Varlen’s surprise, there was something else in the man’s voice. Something almost… amused. He paused, turning to look up at Hanin skeptically. “What?”

Again, there it was. A faint quirk of the lips this time, like he was sharing a private joke with himself. “Hm? Nothing.”

Varlen narrowed his eyes at the bard, then shrugged, continuing down the road. He could see Arla now, her tail flicking back and forth as she spotted him in return. In his mind, he went through a checklist of what he needed. Moon dust bombs. A black blood potion. Vampire oil. Silver.

And beside him, Hanin walked a few feet away, a hand on his satchel, his gaze fixed on the trees. As the sun dipped low on the horizon, the shadows of the branches stretched like reaching fingers across the uneven road.

The birds had stopped singing.

[thirstyforred]

when i see other high vampires, particularly Regis and Dettlaff, cuddling katakanas like a furry baby pets I'm blocking on the fucking sight

[su-apple]

Since today it's Halloween, look at to these tiny pumpkins who grow on trees (just kidding, they are pitangas)

[wanderingwolfwitcher]

"Long as it's just a short term thrill you're looking for. Good for that, at least... but in no rush. True Witchers ain't exactly the marrying, courting or settling down types. Not to mention the scandal a mutant like me would cause you in the court of Toussaint. Further scandal, anyways. Might give your sister a heart attack... and have her ordering her men drag me to the chopping block. Probably already trying to do that anyways. Doubt I can show this ugly mug in your fairy tale duchy again... but no real loss. Ain't my sort of place. Out here on the Path is more like it."

Eskel's deep, calm, wryly amused voice returned to Syanna languidly with a chuckle under his breath, viper eyes glancing her way and raising a brow at her suggestive words. Time would tell how matters fared between them... likely she was just joking in her flirtation anyways... he would remain professional, until professionalism was no longer desired. Better safe than sorry... he wasn't the sort to drop his guard easily, especially not with those he didn't know well at all. Though, it seemed that was liable to change in the near future. He couldn't deny she was an attractive young woman... dangerous, likely, but then there were few other types suited for Witchers. Given he had spent time with Succubus and Bruxa women and had the scars to show for it... a Black Sun lady, even the potential femme fatale sort, was mild by his usual standards of female company. Winking at her slightly, dismounting from Scorpion, he removed the saddlebags, taking the time to give the horse a pat and making his way into the caverns and getting to work, setting down his things when they were a decent ways inside. He attempted to sense for any lurking hostiles... and deeming it secure again, he nodded to himself with satisfaction. Now, on to the next order of business.

"Be right back, red hooded lady. Fire wood won't chop itself. Make yourself at home."

Removing his hooded black cloak and setting it aside, the Witcher unveiled his red gambeson, metal plated and silver studded Grandmaster Wolven armor, trousers, black boots and gauntlets, and silver spiked red leather jacket entirely. Collecting his old double sided dwarven axe from his saddlebags, he fastened the weapon to his waist sheath, turning from the cavern and marching back outside for the woods, though not venturing too far from the cavern yet. Scorpion grazed nearby along with her horse... it was good to be back among true nature again... he heard the chorus of birds and other animals calling to him, as he focused on the first task at hand. Taking his time, he set about chopping up a good amount of wood, bringing it all back to the cavern, before arranging a fire, setting the spare wood off to the side. Raising his hand over the wood surrounded by stones he had gathered and arranged, he cast an Igni Sign, lighting the pieces up in an instant, warmth and light forming in the mouth of the cavern. Making sure it was going good, with a satisfied breath, the Witcher rose up from the fire, collecting his stewing pot, then looking back over the Black Sun noblewoman's way again, speaking up again at last relaxedly, gesturing back out to the forests.

"That should suffice, for the moment. Don't need much in the way of a fancy camp, won't be staying long. Maybe we'll find some inns on the other side of the Amell Mountains... you know these southern lands better than I... but best to keep our heads down. No sense drawing further attention to ourselves. Already will get enough of it, as a Witcher down here. Doubt it matters to most that my medallion isn't a Viper or Cat. Meantime, I'll go do some hunting and fishing, bring some fresh game here, then ward up the camp's perimeter with some traps... Yrden Signs. Make sure no tin plated fools or beasts try sneaking up on us in the middle of the night. And a good Blue Mountain Stew is in order for supper... or Amell Mountain, in this case. Can come with me or remain here, if you prefer."

@starwrittenfates

@wanderingwolfwitcher continued from X

His words seemed to calm her. So far, it seemed, he had no issue with knowing she was one of the girls cursed under a Black Sun. Syanna noted how he didn't even flinch, nor look at her with fear or distrust. And was that sympathy? She knew she shouldn't be surprised since he was a Witcher and had faced worse monsters, but yet, there was something about it that made her feel warm. It made her feel...human. And it was a difference she welcomed. "Be careful, Eskel, I may just end up falling for you." She said playfully, chuckling.

Syanna beckoned her horse to continue following once he informed her of a mountain cavern up ahead. Glancing upon it, she nodded. Sure, it wasn't ideal, but it was better than nothing. "I don't mind it. I've been in far worse too, but I'd rather be here than around false knights who don't honor their code. That's another story...let me help you set up camp."

[gayregis]

quick quastion does geralt like. experience temperature. because on one hand it would be stupid if witchers couldn’t handle temperatures outside of the range they were raised in because they have to travel a lot for work, but also, in the witcher 3, you can wear mastercrafted ursine armor in toussaint and not die of heat exhaustion

[bethdutten]

hiii can you write some about netflix!eskel where he takes his gf reader to kaer morhen bc he doesn't want to leave her alone?

“You’re coming with me.”

It wasn’t a question, or a suggestion. It was a demand. And Eskel didn’t make those often with you.

You raised your eyebrow, before directing your attention back to the vegetables you were chopping. “Esk, I can make it the winter without you.”

“Maybe I can’t make it without you,” he countered, hoping you’d take it for a romantic gesture, and not what it really was; an admittance of insecurity and fear.

But of course, you saw right though it. Eskel didn’t say shit like that, not without a smirk and a joke following. “What exactly are you so afraid of?” you asked, setting down the knife and staring over at him.

Eskel wouldn’t meet your eyes, absentmindedly scratching at his scars as he tried to think of how to word this. “I just don’t… I don’t know what is out there. And I can’t protect you if I am not here. I would feel more comfortable if you came with me—“

“Is it monsters or men you want to protect me from?” you cut him off, narrowing your eyes.

When you’d met, Eskel had been… well, he’d been in the middle of trying to kill himself by not doing anything to keep himself alive. He’d let a bruxa take a chunk out of his leg, and was half dead when you found him. Luckily, you were a powerful enough mage to save him in time.

Eskel had just been so lonely. After another winter watching all his brothers at the keep have someone, he didn’t know how much longer this aching feeling of worthlessness could be carried. If being a Witcher didn’t scare people off, his scars sealed his fate— no one would ever want him.

He walked the Path alone, and when it got to be too much, he stopped at a brothel in Kaedwen. Just to get some sort of affection, even if it wasn’t real. But the mistress almost turned him away at the door, afraid none of her girls would be able to stomach him, no matter what coin. A girl eventually offered— like a sacrifice, to the monster he was— but looked so terrified and disgusted that he left immediately, coin on the table as an apology for his very presence.

And when he woke to your face leaning over him, washing blood off his forehead with the gentlest, kindest touch, he thought he’d finally succeeded and died, and he was in a heaven that would let him in despite all he’s done. To this day, he’s still not sure you aren’t an angel sent to him that will disappear soon.

Hence why he didn’t want to leave you.

You sighed when he didn’t respond, knowing by the look in his eyes what he was thinking. You had spend so long trying to convince him he was worthy of so much love, but the wounds from the past were in too deep, scarring him permanently like the marks on his face. But you would accept all those scars, because you’d never loved anyone this much.

You walked over to him and held his face, guiding him to look at you. Your thumb brushed softly over the notch in his lip, following the scar slightly before you leaned up and kissed him. Eskel kissed like a man starved, and fuck, you could spend all day just kissing that man.

When you finally pulled away, he was smiling, warm and pliant under your ministrations like you knew you could do. You grinned, tucking that stray curl behind his ear. “Don’t want to go without that all winter, hmm?”

“You know I can’t,” he replied, and there was still an edge of fear in his voice that he couldn’t keep out. Because now that he had you, he truly couldn’t live without you. You saved him, in more ways than one.

You nodded, nuzzling into his neck and holding him close. “Fine. But we’re going through a portal, I’m not fucking walking.”

He hummed, too happy you agreed relatively easily to argue. He still didn’t know why you loved him; wasn’t sure he believed you really did half the time. But he could smell how aroused you were when he took you to bed, smell the happiness when he kissed you and the slight sour smell of distress when he had to leave for a hunt. Those are things you couldn’t fake, and why would you? You didn’t have to save him, didn’t have to take him in and get to know him and love him. 

The next morning, you both arrived at Kaer Morhen through a portal, horses and packs and all. You helped him get Scorpion stowed away, then took his hand and headed towards the door.

“Wait,” he stopped you, giving your hand a squeeze and freezing before the door. He didn’t think this through. What if you saw one of his brothers and realized you could do better? Maybe taking you to the wolves’ den wasn’t a good idea.

You sensed his trepidation, and dropped his hand. “Eskel? If you don’t want me here, I can—“

“Just promise me you won’t leave me,” he whispered, eyes catching yours before they dropped to the ground. Gods, he sounded so pathetic.

You frowned, placing the pack of potions you were holding down and tugging him towards you. You tangled a hand in his hair, scratching your nails at the nape of his neck in a way that made him absolutely purr, guiding him down and towards your lips.

The kiss was deep and heavy, your other hand resting on his scarred cheek as he licked into your mouth and moaned softly. You only pulled away when you felt dizzy, lack of oxygen and abundance of Eskel making you weak on your feet.

He had a smile on his face now, leaning in for one last quick kiss. He was positive anyone inside heard your soft moans even though the thick door, and you both smelled satisfied and content. Moments like this, Eskel wasn’t sure what he was so afraid of. You loved him. He knew this.

“I wouldn’t ever leave you,” you said, taking his hand again. “So, please, show me where you’ll be hiding me for the winter so I can warm up.”

[seasonsofeverlark]

The Last Wish

Author: @alwayseverlark​

Prompt: My birthday is February 27 and I’d like to request Everlark/The Witcher crossover. Any rating is fine. [submitted by @bandathebillie​]

Rating: M _______________

Chapter 1: Regrets

“Peeta.” 

He opened his eyes and realized the sun was already high in the sky. The strong light was damaging his sensitive witcher eyes. He moved his hand to his forehead to block out the sun, although it was totally unnecessary as he could shrink his pupils at will. 

Some habits die hard, and Peeta, although he was one of the best Witchers, still struggled with some of his human emotions.

Mutts don’t have emotions, don’t feel, and certainly don’t need to block the light with their hands because they barely sleep, he thought, irritated. 

“It’s late,” Johanna said, opening more windows along with the door. “You have overslept. Both of you. Lavinia, get lost now.” Her tone was harsh. 

Peeta looked at the woman lying beside him on his bed, and bits of their night together came to mind as she rose and started dressing in a hurry, moving toward the door to leave.

“Wait, Lavinia,” he said, sitting up on the bed. The sheet fell from his defined, bare chest to cover his waist and thighs; the girl only looked at him for a brief moment before sneaking out of the room without uttering a word. 

He collapsed in bed again and sighed. The girl he remembered from the night before was completely dissimilar to the girl he had woken up with. The nymph he had envisioned had vanished.

The eyes of the girl he’d woken up with were green instead of mercury grey. 

Her hair was shorter and red, instead of glossy brown, and didn’t cascade down her back. 

Her tread was heavy and loud, nothing like the light and graceful stroll he remembered all too well.

And the scent lingering on his skin was all wrong.

It didn’t matter how much he drank or which potions he took to try and sleep and forget, even for some glorious hours, the never-ending void of his life, every time, when the moonlight illusion ended, Katniss wasn’t with him, and the insomnia returned in full force. His heart clenched, and a far too familiar shame washed over him.

“Could you please apologize to Lavinia for me?”

“Sure thing,” Jo said. “But do you want me to apologize to half the maids of Melitele, also?”

“Jo, stop!” Peeta exclaimed. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, in that case, you should tell Lavinia.”

“Will do, but please, drop it now.” It was the regret he felt speaking now.

“Ok, no worries. I know you need to depart; Finnick is waiting for you,” Jo agreed too easily for his liking and headed toward the door. Her hand on the knob, she said, “Oh, Peeta! One more thing…”

“Yes, Jo?

“You should also tell her your heart belongs to Katniss.” 

Just the sound of her name was enough to open the raw wound she had inflicted. Since then, nothing made sense anymore. He was more reckless than usual, only seeking the most difficult but most lucrative monster hunts: strigas, bruxas and kikimoras…but he had a plan, well, sort of.

When Peeta reached his friends, he saw that they were engaged in humorous banter. Jo and Finnick might have different personalities, but their bond was undeniable. 

“I’ve been told you had a ‘pleasant’ night and a ‘tough’ morning. Really, Peeta, sometimes you are so cliché! And so predictable.”

“Shut up, Finnick. Your voice isn’t more tolerable when you speak.”

Finnick looked hurt; he could take a lot of jokes, but he was extremely sensitive when someone picked on his voice. Or his songs. Or his lute.

“We should go,” Peeta said.  

Jo could sense some hesitation in him, and his features tinted with grimness. “What is it?” 

He searched for something in a bag hidden between his armor and shirt before handing her some precious gems: sapphires, rubies, amber, emeralds, and diamonds.

“Take these. If…” Peeta  paused for a moment, “if she comes, give them to her, please. She will need them.” 

“You know Katniss won’t come here, but even if she did, she would never take these. You know what she thinks about charity,” Jo answered in quite the harsh tone.

“She should; I owe her…”

“Money?” Jo asked, now surprised.

“Well, no,” Peeta replied, passing a hand through his long hair, “but sort of… She needs money to get back something she wants desperately.” 

“What happened between the two of you, Peeta?” 

“Forget it,” Finnick chimed in. “He won’t tell you. He hasn’t even told me.” 

“It’s none of your fucking business, Finnick,” Peeta snapped. “And none of yours, either, Jo.” 

Jo seemed ready to snap back, but at the last moment, she changed her mind. Peeta was her friend, and she could see he was suffering. She’d never seen him, or a Witcher, for that matter, reveal his feelings as Peeta was doing right now. That showed Jo how deep his feelings for Katniss ran.

“Then, how did you meet each other?” she asked, because the chances of a sullen mage and a fierce Witcher meeting and developing that kind of bond were rare.

“You can put that fateful event on Finnick,” Peeta grunted, although the three of them knew he didn’t mean it. And Peeta knew also that as soon as he laid eyes on her steely greys, he was a goner. “It all started one day when we were hungry and fishing on the outskirts of Rinde…”

TO BE CONTINUED

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Fic Idea: Geralt being very self conscious about literally all of the inhuman traits he has (he probably has even more than most Witchers because of the extra trials) and trying to hide them entirely or just make them less obvious when Jaskier starts traveling with him, probably angsting whenever Jaskier notices, and some nice h/c from Jaskier ( + feral bard ready to stab all the humans who made Geralt feel like that and/or horny bard with a broken brain bc “oh no hes getting hotter”)

so I did this from Geralt’s pov bc honestly I was just feeling the angst today? Its the first day of classes and a bitch was overwhelmed so here. we. go.

also I couldn't get that face out of my head from the betrothal episode where he’s watching the chaos before the fight breaks out and he looks like a confused puppy?! y’all know the one? god its so cute.

Waringins: none

__________

Geralt had always managed to stay far away from the average human. They always cringed and drew back at his slightly off appearance, until Jaskier started following him. 

It started with his teeth. On the rare occasion he gave in and smiled at the bard’s jokes he noticed Jaskier staring at his teeth. They weren't fangs per se, but he had pronounced canines before the trials, now they were rather obvious. 

Jaskier made to say something, paused, then changed the subject. Geralt ran his tongue over his teeth and feigned attention for the next few minutes of the bard's story. He spent the night trying to decide if Jaskier was scared or disgusted by him.

When Jaskier insisted on brushing twigs out of Geralt’s hair after a contract rather early on Geralt felt a panic he wasn't sure what to do with. He’d already accepted that he needed the bard, though whether for personal or professional reasons he hadn’t made up his mind, and he didn't want him running when he realized Geralt was more wolf than expected. His hair was coarse and unruly, another side effect of the trials, but Jaskier hummed in content as he ran his fingers through it. 

“It’s softer than it looks.” he murmured.

Geralt only grunted, surprised but still not entirely at ease. 

Months down the line they were having to haggle over the fee an alderman owed and Geralt growled. Not a human growl, no. He was tired and covered in blood and, frankly, really fucking angry and he’d let an animalistic growl leap out of his chest. He could smell the fear in the air and made sure to avoid Jaskier’s eyes. He couldn’t bear to see the disgust reflected at him. They got 100 orins above asking price though. 

When they reunited after the winter Geralt was far more careful. Less smiling, kept his hair neat so Jaskier wasn’t inclined to fix it, even made sure to rest better so he didn’t slip up again. 

Of course his plans went to shit after a week. He’d taken quite the beating from a bruxa before killing it and Jaskier had insisted he lay down while the bard skinned and cooked their dinner. 

While it roasted Jaskier laid down next to Geralt, brushing the hair out of a cut to begin with, but when Geralt leaned into the gentle touch he ran his hands through his hair. Half asleep, Geralt thought maybe this was a bad idea, he'd managed to keep up his civilized human act for a few days now, but it just felt so nice. Jaskier continued his gentle strokes for a few minutes, nudging Geralt closer to sleep despite the hunger eating at his stomach. When the bard finally pulled away to check their dinner Geralt gave a high pitched whine, not unlike a puppy.

Jaskier froze, "Did you…"

Geralt cleared his throat, gingerly sitting up to lean against a log and grumbling, "No." 

"Yes, you… Geralt that was cute." Jaskier was squatting next to him, fussing with his bandaged arm to busy his hands.

Geralt was too tired to control his facial expressions, completely baffled by his words he turned to him, "I'm an animal and you think it's cute?" 

Jaskier sighed, abandoning the bandages and resting his elbows on his knees, giving Geralt an exasperated look, "You are not an animal. I, for one, am quite drawn to your differences."

"You mean the fangs and fur for hair?" Geralt didn't believe him for a second and he made it clear with his tone. 

"Your teeth don't scare me in the slightest." He heaved a sigh as he stood to take the rabbit off the fire, "In fact I think they suit you well." 

"Suit me?" 

"Yes. Adds to the total attractiveness you have going on." Jaskier handed a rabbit leg to Geralt as if their conversation was completely normal, as if Geralt's heart wasn't about to beat out of his chest. 

He realized he was staring, probably oogling up at the bard but he was too lost to care, "And the growling like a dog…?" 

"Mm!-" Jaskier spoke around a mouthful, waving his free hand as if conducting an orchestra, "-That was rather hot." 

"What!?" The panic in Geralt's chest was slowly disapating until Jaskier's words transformed it into something else entirely.

"Oh please! Don't act so surprised," Jaskier was snickering now, looking down at Geralt with an amused bewilderment, "You've fallen into many a bed since we first met, how do you not know?" 

Geralt picked at the hare, more self conscious than ever, "I just… most of them think it will be a story for the tavern, the, uh, 'thrill of the other'. A challenge."

"Yeah. Idiot. I too would be telling everyone about bedding the hot witcher who saved the townsfolk." Jaskier rolled his eyes as he sat on the ground next to Geralt, "Not to be untoward-"

"You always are." Geralt teased.

"-It's more fun- what I'm trying to say is, I find all of you appealing. Your little wolfy bits and habits and the quintessential humanness of you as well. You are not an animal, Geralt, and you don't deserve the way scared little weasels treat you." 

Geralt was silent for a moment, chewing at some gristle stuck in his teeth as an excuse to think. 

Jaskier lowered his voice, a hint of nerves on his tongue, "I know you're realigning how you view yourself up in there but I did just do a little confessing and it would be nice if you said something. Anything." 

Geralt tilted his head, looking at the bard from under a furrowed brow, "You're attracted… to me?" 

Jaskier nodded, now the one to look away, "When you say it so plainly…" 

"Hmm." The panic from before was entirely replaced by a terrifying warmth spreading through Geralt's chest. This idiot of a human who had seen him at his worst wanted him for him. In 80 years the closest he'd come to this kind of feeling was the bond with his horses. 

He couldn't put words to it, not in a million years, so instead he shuffled closer to the bard and rested his head on his shoulder. Jaskier placed a hand on his knee and he let out a deep rumbly sigh of content. 

They finished their meal in silence, more than enough words passed between them for the night. 

[moonchildjet]

Pelos portões do Acampamento Meio-Sangue podemos ver entrar uma nova esperança. Jet Kritsanapong Namwirot, filho de Nyx, com seus vinte e três anos, será a nova luz ao nosso lado. Jet é Líder do Chalé 2Γ.

INFORMAÇÕES BÁSICAS:

Nome: Jet Kritsanapong Namwirot

Idade: 23 anos

Parente divino: Nyx

Arma: Selínis, a athame que ganhou de sua mãe

RESUMÃO EM TÓPICOS:

 praticamente morava numa loja de artigos esotéricos e aprendeu witchcraft com a dona da loja 

 durante toda a vida dele ele achou que as pessoas ficavam longe dele porque ele era bruxo, mas, apesar do preconceito existir sim, a verdade é que ele tem um poder que desperta medo nas pessoas com quando as olha nos olhos e ele não sabia disso . antes de entrar no acampamento ele não tinha ideia de como controlar esse poder e agora que tiveram a memória apagada voltou pra estaca zero então assim: não recomendo olhar os olhos do jet 

ENTRETANTO ele é um bolinho de amor (apesar da pose de emo) e  distribui potinho de energia positiva pras pessoas do acampamento, feitiço para evitar pesado e todas essas coisas 

é uma pessoa EXTREMAMENTE noturna, você praticamente não vai vê-lo na luz do sol e ele fica com muito mais energia de noite. A lua também afeta diretamente o humor de Jet. 

 demorou um bocado pra ir pro acampamento meio sangue (tipo com seus quase 20 anos mesmo) porque tava sempre cheirando a incenso e vela aromatizada que os monstros não achavam ele 

 faz leitura de tarot e de pêndulo

0 habilidades de luta até antes de perder a memória então jokes on mnemosine que não afetou ele porque ele já era terrível antes

BIO:

Kritsanapong foi deixado na porta da casa de seu pai logo que nasceu, e a surpresa foi extremamente bem vinda. O homem que antes era bastante solitário e triste agora tinha o pequeno para alegrar seus dias, mesmo com toda a dificuldade e as adaptações que foram necessárias para o novo bebê. O homem tinha uma ideia de quem poderia ser a mãe de Kritsanapong, apesar de não fazer ideia de que ela era uma deusa. O apelido Jet veio depois, quando seu pai notou que os olhos da criança eram negros como a pedra preciosa de tal nome. Jet cresceu bem apegado ao pai (que infelizmente tinha que trabalhar bastante para sustentar a ambos, e isso fazia com que o homem não tivesse mais tanto tempo para o filho conforme ele ia crescendo) e por algum motivo, muito apegado a lua, de tal forma que as fases desta iriam interferir em seu humor, ele iria gostar de olhar e conversar com a lua, precisar vê-la e ser iluminado por ela para dormir - isso quando conseguia dormir de noite, uma vez que se sentia mais energizado e mais produtivo durante esse período.

Morava perto de uma loja de artigos esotéricos e tinha que passar por ela quase toda vez que saia de casa. O local que muitos evitavam e atravessavam a rua para não passar perto chamava a atenção de Jet de uma maneira descomunal. Ele sentia uma energia boa vindo daquele lugar, uma energia que o chamava. E um dia ao voltar da escola, resolveu finalmente colocar os pés lá dentro, ficando extremamente encantado. Tinha por volta de seus onze anos quando isso aconteceu, e ele contou toda essa história para a dona da loja, sendo ela também a única que trabalhava ali. Desde então, a loja virou seu segundo lar. Jet adorava aprender sobre a história das bruxas e da bruxaria, adorava os cristais, os incensos, as velas. Passava o dia lendo livros, aprendendo com a dona da loja e até participando de rituais com ela. Aprendeu a ler tarô, aprendeu feitiços, a mexer com cristais e ervas e tudo envolvido com isso. Em casa, fez seu próprio altar e aos poucos ia colecionando os próprios itens, fazendo sua agenda e rituais de acordo com as fases da lua e dias da semana, sempre usando seu quintal para ficar diretamente ligado a lua. Não foi espanto nenhum quando ele resolveu seguir o caminho da bruxaria lunar, e apesar de optar por não seguir a religião Wicca, Jet era muito devoto e ligado a divindades que representavam a Lua, como Ártemis e Selene, sempre fazendo rituais, orações e entregando oferendas as deusas.

Outra que lhe chamava muita a atenção e que Jet sempre foi muito curioso sobre, sentindo uma intimidade e uma ligação extremamente forte com essa deusa, era Nyx. Ainda que não fosse a representação da lua como Ártemis e Selene, ela era a deusa da noite e patrona das feiticeiras e bruxas, sendo assim, Jet não conseguia a deixar de lado em suas adorações, ainda mais quando tinha plena certeza que foi essa deusa quem lhe abençoou com seu talento e facilidade com a magia, além de ter arrumado seu destino para que ele se encontrasse com a bruxaria tão cedo em sua vida. Era grato a Nyx, e tão devoto a ela quanto era a Ártemis e Selene.

Não é nem preciso mencionar os preconceitos que sofria na rua e principalmente na escola. Jet nunca escondeu que era bruxo, e talvez fosse isso que causasse medo em seus colegas de classe. Os boatos que corriam por aí sobre Jet ser sério e misterioso, envolvido com magia negra, demônios e o próprio satanás também não ajudava nem um pouco a ele se enturmar, porém, ao contrário do que todo mundo pensava, a magia que Jet praticava sempre foi voltada para o bem. Para o amor próprio, para cura, para espantar os maus espíritos e energias ruins. Para ajudar na boa sorte, dinheiro, família. E do mesmo jeito que era sua magia, era sua personalidade: Jet era um garoto doce, esforçado, bondoso e gentil com qualquer um que aparecesse e tivesse coragem de se aproximar, o que infelizmente não acontecia muito. O preconceito e o medo que as pessoas tinham dele era o suficiente para que aproximações fossem raras.

A varinha e a athame foram presentes de sua mãe, ele só não sabia disso ainda. Um dia quando ao chegar na loja de artigos esotéricos que ia desde criança após as aulas, a dona do estabelecimento o entregou os dois itens, alegando que uma mulher de cabelos negros e pele pálida deixou ali para ele. Sabia que não se devia aceitar presentes de seres não humanos, mas sentia uma ligação forte com tais objetos, assim como sentia com Nyx, então recebeu-os mesmo assim. A athame de punhal preto tinha uma pedra jet nela e gravuras da lua, o que fez Kritsanapong ter certeza que foi feita especialmente para ele, assim como a varinha. Os objetos foram muito bem vindos em seus rituais e feitiços por um bom tempo, e serviram apenas para isso por esse período, uma vez que tal espada nunca foi feita para machucar ninguém, ou pelo menos era o que Jet pensava. Até ser atacado por um monstro no meio de um ritual. Aquilo não era nada parecido com o que já tinha visto ou lido, e parecia muito disposto a matá-lo. Jet nem pensou: enfiou a athame no peito da criatura, que agonizou de dor e virou pó. Nesse dia, Jet percebeu que a espada que recebeu de presente de Nyx também o protegeria várias vezes.

Fez uma oração para a deusa, oferendas e tudo mais naquela noite, e não demorou a receber uma resposta: Um grupo de semideus apareceu para levá-lo ao Acampamento Meio-Sangue, onde diziam que seri amais seguro para alguém como ele. Jet não pensou duas vezes. Pegou seus artigos mágicos, roupas, despediu-se de seu pai e de seu melhor amigo e foi. Chegando lá, não demorou nem vinte e quatro horas para que Nyx o reclamasse como filho, e Jet agora sentia que tudo em sua vida fazia bastante sentido.

[jaskierswolf]

May I ask for a belated Christmas prompt of jaskier and geralt being pining idiots with lambert, eskel, Vesemir, yen and ciri tired of it. So they plot and oh look miseltoe that is conveniently above where the two idiots are standing and Maybe some alchol and never have I ever?

My prompts are technically closed but my Boxing Day plans got cancelled by the plague... so why not? I wrote this whilst waiting for my game to install... so woo! Multi-tasking. It’s just over 1k. Geraskier fluff!

Warnings: Alcohol, very minor mentions of sex,

Also on AO3

____________________

Geralt growled into his White Gull. This was a terrible idea. It may be a tradition at Kaer Morhen but it was Jaskier’s first year at the keep and he really didn’t need to get involved with the drunk antics of three witchers. Geralt winced as he remember the last time they’d played Never Have I Ever. He couldn’t remember whose idea it had been but it had been a disaster. Geralt was determined to keep his head screwed on this time but the bloody bard wasn’t making it easy. 
 “Never have I ever....” Jaskier sang with a grin on his face. His cheeks were already flushed from the vodka and he was leaning heavily against Geralt’s side, his hand playing with Geralt’s hair. “Slain a bruxa!”

The three witchers all groaned. “Fuck sake, bard,” Lambert growled “You can’t just go through the whole bestiary until you run out of monsters.”

Jaskier giggled and buried his face in Geralt’s neck. Geralt felt his cheeks warm. Jaskier had always been an affectionate drunk but it seemed different in the comfort and safety of Kaer Morhen, under his brother’s watchful eyes. He could almost believe that they were a couple with the way Jaskier was clinging onto him. He suppressed a shiver as he felt Jaskier’s lips brush against his neck, he swallowed and took a large gulp of his White Gull. The bard was just affectionate and he’d not had the pleasure of any company for a few weeks now, that’s all it was.

“You smell nice,” Jaskier sighed, the words barely audible to anyone who wasn’t a witcher, but unfortunately witchers weren’t in short supply around the table.

Lambert scoffed and chugged his own drink. Eskel just shook his head, a smile dancing on his lips. “Never have I ever kissed another witcher.”

“Oh fuck you!” Lambert yelled and finished his drink.

Jaskier whined. “Does it have to be on the lips?”

Eskel shrugged. “Didn’t specify.”

Jaskier nodded and kissed Geralt firmly on the cheek, winking as he took a drink.

“Never have I ever fucked a succubus,” Lambert muttered glaring at Eskel. Geralt rolled his eyes and joined Eskel in taking a drink.

Jaskier was utterly delighted and begged them for the story, scrambling for his notebook and quill. Geralt let Eskel tell his story first, hoping that Jaskier would be distracted enough by the end but he had no such luck, reluctantly he recounted his own tale. It was worth it for the blinding smile Jaskier gifted him with, the kind that made his heart beat a little faster in his chest. He couldn’t help but give his bard a faint smile in return.

“Never have I ever…” Geralt trailed off, all thoughts leaving his head as Jaskier gazed at him with adoration. Jaskier licked his lips absentmindedly and all Geralt could think of was how it would feel to kiss his bard. He hadn’t realised he’d never finished his sentence until Lambert loudly cleared his throat.

“Any time today would be nice, wolf.”

Geralt growled and pointedly avoided looking at Jaskier. Bloody bastard was too beautiful for his own good. It was the bane of Geralt’s life.

“Never have I ever used a bomb to catch fish.”

Lambert cursed and stormed off to the kitchen to get more booze. Geralt smirked and took a small sip of his drink. It was good to be home.

__________________

The next evening, once the hangovers and embarrassment had passed, Geralt walked into the dining room to find Lambert and Eskel whispering to each other. They broke apart as Geralt entered the room. He glared at them suspiciously then went to go find Jaskier, two sweet buns in hand. It kept happening over the next few days, and Jaskier had noticed too. They both entered the dining room together one evening to find Lambert and Eskel cackling, but neither witcher would let them into the joke. Geralt and Jaskier had exchanged confused looks before sitting down to eat.

It all came to head on the night of the Winter Solstice. Geralt and Jaskier came down to dinner together, as they always did. Jaskier still managed to get lost around the keep so it was easier for Geralt to fetch him from his room before heading down to the dining area together. They were just coming through the door when Lambert yelled at them to stop.

Geralt froze, instantly moving to shield Jaskier, an instinct he’d developed from years on the path  together. Jaskier grabbed his arm and hid behind him. Lambert and Eskel just laughed, pointing to just above Geralt and Jaskier’s heads. Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he saw what they were standing under.

“Really?”

“It’s tradition, Geralt. Wouldn’t want to break tradition. I heard you get cursed if you break tradition.”

“Oooh mistletoe!” Jaskier sang.

Geralt started to move away but Jaskier grabbed his wrist, his blue eyes sparkling with… hope? “There’s no curse,” Geralt muttered, feeling a blush rise on his cheeks.

Jaskier tilted his head and pouted at him. “Oh come on, Geralt. Is the thought of kissing me really that bad?”

“No, it’s not that. I… fuck,” He growled and shot a glare at Lambert who was barely concealing his laughter behind his hand. “I thought you wouldn’t want to kiss me.”

“Oh my darling, I want nothing more, if that’s what you want?” Jaskier bit his lips and gazed up at him through his eyelashes.

Geralt swallowed and cupped Jaskier’s cheek. “Sure?”

Jaskier smirked, not answering his question, at least not with words. He reached up and pulled Geralt into a kiss, their lips slotting together as if they’d always meant to be. Geralt’s heart raced in his chest and he wrapped his arms around Jaskier waist, pulling the bard closer. It was everything that he’d imagined. Jaskier’s lips tasted better than the sweetest wine, they were chapped from where Jaskier had been chewing at them but it didn’t matter because it was Jaskier. He was kissing Jaskier. He laughed into the kiss as Jaskier’s hands threaded into his hair.

“Guess you’re sure,” He muttered against Jaskier’s lips.

“Oh just shut up and kiss me!”

And so he did.

[buriedlove]

idk if this has been asked already, but on a 1 to 10 scale, how resistant are the RO’s to MC’s puppy dog eyes?

Ok this is the cutest ask. Here goes...

The official resistance scale…

Alex - 1

Have you met this boy? The softest wolf boi in history. Sure he could probably rip a tree out of the ground, but when it comes to MC’s puppy dog eyes he’s helpless to resist. One little pout and he’ll bring you the world on a tray.

Rota - 9

Rota is new to the world of puppy dog eyes and will fail to understand what they mean 9/10 times. Keep trying, she might catch on one day, although clear dialogue is probably a better path to the end goal with a Valkyrie.

Abe - 2

Abe is absolutely unable to resist a request from MC in any form, but add wide eyes and a pout into the mix and the poor guy loses his actual mind. The only reason he’s a 2 and not a 1 is that he sometimes gets so wobbly around the puppy dog eyes that he makes his excuses and leaves.

Eli - 6

Eli is actually quite resilient around the puppy dog eyes. He’ll often joke with MC and laugh them off, although secretly he really wants to make sure MC is happy. He may jokingly say no at first, but you can bet he’ll act on them at a later date.

Aayush - It's complicated

Aayush can range from a 10 to a 1 depending on the situation dependent entirely on whether he is worried for MCs safety. His natural state is to melt into a big pile of charming goo around the puppy dog eyes, but if they’re used in a situation where MC wants something that Aayush believes could be dangerous he’s a firm 10 for resistance.

Catarina - 4

Catarina is strong willed and isn’t easy to influence, but it’s a different story when it comes to MC. Her magic normally won’t protect her when it comes to the puppy dog eyes and she’ll transform into the softest Bruxa you’ve ever met, unless MC catches her on a bad day.

Cerri - 10 (not really, but ssh don't tell her that)

Cerri’s external reaction is resistance level 10. No reaction at all. She’s a tough she-wolf, remember. But really? She’s a 3 at best. A soft girl trapped inside the body of a hard ass. She might scowl, but secretly her heart just skipped a beat.

[hissweetkiss]

i love the idea of jaskier always cooing at geralt in like such an endearing way. just being able to see the crease between his brows disappear and go to bed knowing that geralt knows he’s loved.

like, as he bathes him and dotes on him after he comes back covered in grime after a contract in the swamps, he kisses his temple or the top of his head. he absolutely swoons over him, and when he grumbles in protest, jaskier just says “oh, hush you big baby.”

or the random moments when they are sitting on opposite ends of the fire, or even close enough to feed off of each other’s warmth, and jaskier looks at him and says, “you’re beautiful.”

“no, i’m not,” he gets in reply.

and jaskier laughs. “you are, though. you’re as beautiful as the stars in the—“

“jaskier.”

“—and when the moon shines so bright you can see it during the day.”

or the days when geralt is in a really good mood, and he smiles when jaskier sings and laughs at his jokes. then jaskier gives him tokens along with his swooning words.

he’ll help him pick flowers for geralt’s potions, and geralt will tell him stories that jaskier has never heard.

“you’re actually very good at telling stories,” he says after hearing the story of geralt’s first bruxa. “did you know?”

geralt laughs, his arm over his eyes while he lazes by the stream they’ve collected supplies from. “i did not know.”