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delightingintragedy · 11 months ago

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Mars Correspondences

From Christian Astrology by William Lilly

(It is mostly word for word. I tried to format it to fit into a nice correspondence list, but the information itself is untouched.)

Zodiac: Aries is his Day-house, Scorpio is his Night-house. Exhaulted in Capricorn, Depressed in Cancer, Detriment in Libra and Taurus.

Nature: Masculine, Nocturnal Planet, in nature hot and dry, choleric and fiery, the lesser Infortune, author of Quarrels, Strifes, and Contentions.

Profession: Princes Ruling by Tyranny and Oppression, or Tyrants, Usurpers, new Conquerors. Generals in Armies, Colonels, Captains, or any Soldiers having command in Armies, all manner of Soldiers, Physicians, Apothecaries, Surgeons, Alchemists, Gunners, Butchers, Marshals, Sergeants, Bailiffs, Hangmen, Thieves, Smiths, Bakers, Armourers, Watchmakers, Botchers, Tailors, Cutlers of Swords and Knives, Barbers, Dyers, Cooks, Carpenters, Gamesters, Bear-wards, Tanners, Curriers.

Diseases: The Gall, the left Ear, tertian Fevers, pestilent burning Fevers, Migraines in the Head, Carbuncles, the Plague and all Plague-sores, Burnings, Ringworm, Blisters, Frenzies, mad sudden distempers in the Head, Yellow-jaundice, Bloodyflux, Fistulas, all Wounds and Diseases in men's Genitals, the Stone both in Reins and Bladder, Scars or small Pox in the Face, all hurts by Iron, the Shingles, and such other Diseases as arise by abundance of too much Choler, Anger or Passion.

Colour: Red colour, or Yellow, fiery and shining like Saffron.

Savour: Those which are bitter, sharp and burn the Tongue.

Herbs: The Herbs which we attribute to Mars are such as come near to redness, whose leaves are pointed and sharp, whose taste is caustic and burning, love to grow on dry places, are corrosive, and penetrating the Flesh and Bone with a most subtle heat: They are as follows: The Nettle, all manner of Thistles, Restharrow or Cammock, Devils-milk or Petty spurge, the white and red Brambles, the white called vulgarly by the Herbalists Ramme, Lingwort, Onions, Scammony, Garlic, Mustard-seed, Pepper, Ginger, Leeks, Dittander, Horehound, Hemlock, red Sanders, Tamarinds, all Herbs attracting or drawing choler by Sympathy, Radish, Castoreum, Aresmart, Assarum, Carduus Benedictus, Cantharides.

Trees: All Trees which are prickly, as a Thorn, Chestnut.

Beasts: Panther, Tiger, Mastiff, Vulture, Fox; of living creatures, those that are Warlike, Ravenous and Bold, the Castor, Horse, Mule, Ostrich, the Goat, the Wolf, the Leopard, the wild Ass, the Gnats, Flies, Lapwing, Cockatrice, the Griffin, Bear.

Fishes, etc: The Pike, the Shark, the Barbel, the Fork-fish, all stinking Worms, Scorpions.

Birds, etc: The Hawk, the Vulture, the Kite or Glead, (all ravenous Fowl), the Raven, Cormorant, the Owl, (some say the Eagle), the Crow, the Pye.

Places: Smith's Shops, Furnaces, Slaughterhouses, places where Bricks or Charcoal are burned or have been burned, Chimneys, Forges.

Minerals: Iron, Antimony, Arsenic, Brimstone, Ochre.

Stones: Adamant, Loadstone, Bloodstone, Jasper, the many coloured Amethyst, the Touchstone, red Lead or Vermilion.

Weather: Red Clouds, Thunder, Lightning, Fiery impressions, and pestilent Airs, which usually appear after a long time of dryness and fair Weather, by improper and unwholesome Mists.

Winds: Western Winds

Angel: Samael

Planetary Alliances: His Friends are only Venus; Enemies all the other planets.

Week Day: Tuesday

Correspondence posts for the other planets: [Sun] [Moon] [Mercury] [Venus] [Jupiter] [Saturn]

#astrology #planets #mars #planetary #planetary magic #correspondences #magic #witchcraft #witchblr #astrology witch #magical correspondences #witches #witch community #witch #astro community #zodiac #zodiac signs #astroblr #astrology facts

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hapalopus · 2 years ago

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My current list of recurring creatures/peoples from recent Danish folklore:

Basilisk (cockatrice)

Bjærgfolk (mountainfolk)

Brøndmand (well man)

Bukketrold (goat troll)

Bækhest (water horse)

Djævel (devil)

Drage (dragon)

Dragedukke (drawing doll)

Dværg (dwarf)

Ellefolk (alderfolk)

Ellekongerne (alderkings)

Gam (giant bird that lives in the ocean)

Gravso (grave sow)

Grønjæger (the green hunter)

Gårdbo (farm gnome)

Hamløber (skin runner/soul wanderer)

Havfolk (merfolk)

Havtrold (mertroll)

Heks (witch)

Helhest (hel horse)

Helhund (hel hound)

Hyldemor (eldermother)

Kirkenisse (church gnome)

Kirkevare (church grim)

Kludeeg (cloth oak)

Knarkevogn (creaking wagon)

Kæmpe (giant)

Lange mænd (tall men)

Lindorm (lindwurm, sort of)

Lygtemand (will o' wisp, sort of)

Mare (hag/night mare)

Mosekone (swamp crone)

Mælkehare (milk hare)

Natravn (night raven)

Nisse (gnome, sort of)

Nøkke (water man)

Ormekonge (worm king)

Pesttjørn (disease bramble)

Salamander (fire salamander)

Skibsnisse (ship gnome)

Skifting (changeling)

Skovfolk (forest folk)

Slattenpatten (saggy tits)

Småfolk (little folk)

Sømunk (sea monk)

Søorm (sea worm)

Søslange (sea serpent)

Trold (troll)

Valravn (wild raven)

Varedyr (protective animal)

Varulv (werewolf)

Æven (venomous little worm)

Åmand (stream man)

Åndemaner (ghost commander)

(not including one-off creatures like Hæslevædder and Ildhund)

#danish folklore

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tzeenneth · 10 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐏𝐈𝐓

The Iron Knight is a legendary champion of Tzeentch, said to be descended from the line of the first Daemon Prince of Tzeentch. As such, what is known about him is shrouded by the inexorable march of time and twisted further by the beings with who he keeps company: liars and schemers, the daemons of the Trickster. However, some tales persist even across deceptions, retellings, and all the different iterations: a mortal man from a storied line, stricken with nurgh wrought leprosy whilst untangling himself from a scheme woven by the Changer himself.

He manages to free himself and decimate both the Nurglite host responsible for his condition and the several enemy factions by luring them into their fetid embrace, but is slain by the Nurglish disease before he can truly enjoy the fruits of his labors. However, before the Plague Lord can lay claim to his soul, Tzeentch snatches it from between Nurgle's rotting fingers. So has the Iron Knight been a sore spot and point of contention between the Changer and Poxmaster, a subject that never fails to lessen the broad smile of Grandfather Nurgle.

The Knight is named such either for his constitution or his daemonic mask, said to hide his leprotic disfigurements. A creature of few words, the Iron Knight is one of the very few daemon princes of Tzeentch who does not have wings. Instead, he traverses the Crystal Lands on the back of a large Cockatrice. His abode, the Citadel of the Iron Knight, is well garrisoned and attended as well as decorated with the petrified forms of Daemon Princes and Greater Daemons foolish enough to mock his lack of wings.

Along with being master of the Citadel, the Iron Knight oversees the Black Pit. The Pit is a inky sub-dimension within the Crystal Lands that holds the prisoners of Tzeentch, though for what fell purpose none can say for sure. The Iron Knight is both charged with guarding this location and ensuring none of it's inhabitants leave and forbidden from actually leaving his citadel, cursed by Tzeentch for some slight no one quite remembers. The Winds of Ulgu blows strongly here and those taken by the Pit of Shades become yet another prisoner in this dark and endless pit. In order to obey Tzeentch's edict and observe his punishment, the Iron Knight makes use of shadowy, semi-corporeal clones to carry out his will.

Banner made with Driblex's Helbrass Reskin

#legion of nines (daemons of tzeentch)#pars mutatis (tzeentch headcanon);#tzeentch #warhammer fantasy

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mybeautifulchristianjourney · 2 years ago

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Music For the Soul

by Alexander MacLaren

The Blessedness of a Right Choice (Isaiah 7:15)

If you choose Christ, you choose all that your nature needs for its rest, for its peace, for its development, for its expansion, for its efflorescence into growing beauty through eternity. If you will take Christ for your Lord, your heart may fold its wings like the dove that came back from the flood, and may rest in His love, which is perfect and pure and wise and unalterable. If you will take Christ for your choice, and become His servant, and let Him save you and rule you, then all the seeking understanding will find in Him, and in the manifold and endless " treasures of wisdom and knowledge " into which His name breaks - like the sunbeam when it strikes upon the mirror, and is shattered into a million dancing brightnesses - all that the intellect can require. If you will take Christ for your Saviour and your King, then that mastering will which so often leads us astray, and those passions which so often plunge us into filth and mire, will own His guidance; and the lion shall lie down with the lamb, and the bear in the menagerie of your heart will eat straw like the ox, and you will be able to lay your hand on the cockatrice den and not be stung, and all the wild beasts will be tamed, and your feebleness as that of "a little child shall lead them."

If you will take Christ for your Saviour and your King, the disease of your natures will be healed, which He can only heal. For, oh! no man looks all the facts in the face, or has made a choice worthy of calling by that name, who has not looked the fact of sin in the face, and settled how he is going to get rid of the three-pronged dart which it flings - guilt, and punishment, and power - if he does not take Christ’s way of getting rid of it. There is none that can touch the central corruption of humanity, none that can bring pardon, none that can enable us to shake the venomous beast that has fastened on our hands into the fire, and feel no harm, except Christ only. You may "cut yourselves with knives and lancets after their manner till the blood gush out," and cry to all the gods besides, and to yourself, who are the Jupiter of them all, from morning to evening, to get rid of the fact of sin, and there will be no voice nor answer, " nor any that regarded."

If you will take Christ as your Saviour, and serve Him, you will find it possible to live more noble, helpful, manly lives for God and the world than by any other means. If you will take Christ for your Saviour, and yourselves be enrolled as His obedient servants, then you will secure for yourselves a future without a cloud, in which ills have no power to harm, and all things are transmuted into good, and death has no bitterness and eternity no terror. Let Baal come and do the like. Till he does, I urge that no claims can for a moment be set by the side of Christ’s.

#Music For the Soul #Alexander MacLaren #devotional #Isaiah 7:15 #The Blessedness of a Right Choice #January 30 #2023

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darkwingphoenix · 6 months ago

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For Damaria, stuff like amputations are generally reversible with curative (Healing) magic. However, learning magic is sorta like going to college, and often treated as such: It takes too long and often costs too much for any ole village to have a homegrown healer. Plenty of healers go to live in rural villages and act as a healer.

However, amputation reversing has to be done within 6 hours of the amputation, and the removed part has to be free of toxins/disease, intact, and available to be placed onto the stump. Toxins and disease are easy to remove with curing, but you'd need the limb to be mostly intact (And a broken bone can't be cured after amputation, and reversal won't work if a broken bone is present).

All other disorders are nigh-impossible or at the least too difficult for any old schmuck to get it reversed. Any genetic or related stuff from birth or very early in life can't be reversed, although cancer caused by a genetic issue can. It just won't remove the genes.

Stuff that has to be set up over time (Smoking related issues, alcohol issues, or something else) doesn't count and will easily return unless it counts as a disease (You can get lung cancer from smoking cured, but not a diabetic's insulin issues).

Essentially, if you were born with a disability or it came in over at least a 3 month period, it can't be undone. A disability caused as an effect of something else also can't, like blindness caused by disease or cerebral palsy after a car crash. These are often actually locked in after curing, not reversed.

Most people who need wheelchairs, however, get them pretty easily. Same with prosthetics. I mean, Roman soldiers who lost an arm got a replacement made of iron essentially meant to allow them to bear a shield into battle.

Most wheelchairs for the poor or more remote are really just downsized carts, sometimes (But not always) pulled by an animal. Many farmers will actually give away smaller beasts of burden to neighbors who have a wheelchair bound family member. These animals are usually a pony or smaller donkey, which can be hitched up to the wheelchair and told where to go. Most people just use their hands or a friend/relative inside though.

Due to magic, many prosthetics for more wealthy people can either be avoided (Because they can often afford quick amputation recovery), or, as is more fashionable for those amputated, have a magical prosthetic that's basically a ghost arm. These are fashionable for those with disabilities, but those who don't often make do with fancy arm-length armor sleeves even when in civilian settings.

Poorer people often depend on simple wooden legs or a trained animal like a cockatrice (A Deinonychus-Utahraptor sized animal common to my world) to act as an extra arm. Those with enough money can afford a simple mechanical arm. These aren't super fancy and can often break down in the rain, and have to be focused on to move, but they work.

Crutches aren't that hard to make. Most people who need a crutch long term just use a stick with an armpit cushion underneath.

Canes are even easier, with many poor people who need a cane long term just using a stick. Wealthier people often use a more polished cane, but the idea's the same. Blind people often have a large piece of resin or a rock slapped onto one end of the stick to act as a guide, and those with money to throw around often have a large gem or a tiny wheel. Many blind people with a loyal pet might have their pet trained to act as a seeing eye animal in public.

Whgskl. Okay.

PSA to all you fantasy writers because I have just had a truly frustrating twenty minutes talking to someone about this: it’s okay to put mobility aids in your novel and have them just be ordinary.

Like. Super okay.

I don’t give a shit if it’s high fantasy, low fantasy or somewhere between the lovechild of Tolkein meets My Immortal. It’s okay to use mobility devices in your narrative. It’s okay to use the word ��wheelchair”. You don’t have to remake the fucking wheel. It’s already been done for you.

And no, it doesn’t detract from the “realism” of your fictional universe in which you get to set the standard for realism. Please don’t try to use that as a reason for not using these things.

There is no reason to lock the disabled people in your narrative into towers because “that’s the way it was”, least of all in your novel about dragons and mermaids and other made up creatures. There is no historical realism here. You are in charge. You get to decide what that means.

Also:

“Depiction of Chinese philosopher Confucius in a wheelchair, dating to ca. 1680. The artist may have been thinking of methods of transport common in his own day.”

“The earliest records of wheeled furniture are an inscription found on a stone slate in China and a child’s bed depicted in a frieze on a Greek vase, both dating between the 6th and 5th century BCE.[2][3][4][5]The first records of wheeled seats being used for transporting disabled people date to three centuries later in China; the Chinese used early wheelbarrows to move people as well as heavy objects. A distinction between the two functions was not made for another several hundred years, around 525 CE, when images of wheeled chairs made specifically to carry people begin to occur in Chinese art.[5]”

“In 1655, Stephan Farffler, a 22 year old paraplegic watchmaker, built the world’s first self-propelling chair on a three-wheel chassis using a system of cranks and cogwheels.[6][3] However, the device had an appearance of a hand bike more than a wheelchair since the design included hand cranks mounted at the front wheel.[2]

The invalid carriage or Bath chair brought the technology into more common use from around 1760.[7]

In 1887, wheelchairs (“rolling chairs”) were introduced to Atlantic City so invalid tourists could rent them to enjoy the Boardwalk. Soon, many healthy tourists also rented the decorated “rolling chairs” and servants to push them as a show of decadence and treatment they could never experience at home.[8]

In 1933 Harry C. Jennings, Sr. and his disabled friend Herbert Everest, both mechanical engineers, invented the first lightweight, steel, folding, portable wheelchair.[9] Everest had previously broken his back in a mining accident. Everest and Jennings saw the business potential of the invention and went on to become the first mass-market manufacturers of wheelchairs. Their “X-brace” design is still in common use, albeit with updated materials and other improvements. The X-brace idea came to Harry from the men’s folding “camp chairs / stools”, rotated 90 degrees, that Harry and Herbert used in the outdoors and at the mines.[citation needed]

“But Joy, how do I describe this contraption in a fantasy setting that wont make it seem out of place?”

“It was a chair on wheels, which Prince FancyPants McElferson propelled forwards using his arms to direct the motion of the chair.”

“It was a chair on wheels, which Prince EvenFancierPants McElferson used to get about, pushed along by one of his companions or one of his many attending servants.”

“But it’s a high realm magical fantas—”

“It was a floating chair, the hum of magical energy keeping it off the ground casting a faint glow against the cobblestones as {CHARACTER} guided it round with expert ease, gliding back and forth.”

“But it’s a stempunk nov—”

“Unlike other wheelchairs he’d seen before, this one appeared to be self propelling, powered by the gasket of steam at the back, and directed by the use of a rudder like toggle in the front.”

Give. Disabled. Characters. In. Fantasy. Novels. Mobility. Aids.

If you can spend 60 pages telling me the history of your world in innate detail down to the formation of how magical rocks were formed, you can god damn write three lines in passing about a wheelchair.

Signed, your editor who doesn’t have time for this ableist fantasy realm shit.

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lilja-the-alchemist · 3 months ago

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14th Day of the Fifth Passive Moon, Draconic Cycle

I needed to pass through a grove on my way to the next town. My map indicated that the place was protected by Harpies. Normally I’d go around such dangerous areas, but my new companion insisted she could defend me from any malicious creature we encountered.

Verena insisted she join me on my journey, both to thank me for the medicine and because our goals were pretty much aligned. I was traveling the continent to discover new flora and fauna for alchemical research, and she was traveling the same path to gain much-needed practical combat experience. She would stop from town to town to work as a hired sword much like how I would set up an apothecary.

We pressed on and, to our surprise, found a large Harpy statue right by the entrance, just to the side of the road. Vines and other wild plants had started crawling up its highly detailed leg feathers. We were just going to pass through when Pesto started making a fuss about it. I tried to scold him and tell him that it was just a statue when he turned to me and I heard a woman’s voice in my head.

“Help.”

Symptoms:

Full body rigidity

Immobility

Earth-aspected Transmutation

Diagnosis:

Clearly Petrification. But why? And from what?

Pesto and I interviewed the Harpy while Verena kept watch. Her name was Pinaria, and she was the guardian of this grove. She had been stuck there for months and was bored out of her mind. She said she had probably counted every blade of grass and every single ant in her immediate area.

I asked her how she got this way, and she explained the series of events based on what she knew personally and what she had heard from people passing by her. A nearby town just beyond the grove had begun a campaign to minimize diseases, and one of their measures was to bring in stray cats from other towns to eliminate the local rats. This move made every and all rodents in the area to move into the grove where nuts, berries, and groves were abundant.

The Harpy celebrated the newfound food source at first but couldn’t handle all of them. This sudden abundance of rodents attracted other Birdfolk into her domain… One of them was a flock of Cockatrice. In a bid to protect her domain, she tried to fight one of them but, well… That didn’t turn out so well for her.

Cure:

A bottle of Stonebane, applied liberally all over the head of the patient.

Stonebane Salve

1 handful of Velvetmoss

3 pieces of Fluffcap Mushrooms, whole

5 tablespoons of powdered Mallowroot

Simply boil all three in 5 cups of the salve’s base liquid for one hour.

Pesto could grow most of the ingredients. One problem: the base liquid for Stonebane needed to be blood from the same type of beast that cast it.

Verena beamed and said it was no problem at all, and asked me if I’d like roast Cockatrice for dinner tonight. I laughed at the thought of such a humongous beast being spit-roasted like a common chicken.

I accompanied Verena into the grove with my own offensive potions and poisons, but she insisted she wanted to take this chance to stretch after spending all day yesterday coughing up ice. And she said she wanted to showcase her skills to me since we’d be travel companions from now on.

It didn’t take long before Verena tracked down the large bird. I watched as she took the bird by surprise, immediately dealing it a hard blow to the torso. The oversized rooster lunged at her, but she managed to brace herself, swiftly lifting her shield while the bird snapped at her with its sharp beak and beat her with its wings. I could feel the gusts from where I was standing, but it didn’t faze Verena at all. She kept her gaze low, focusing on the Cockatrice’s midsection, so as not to suffer the same fate as Pinaria.

Parrying one strike after another, the knight saw an opening and slashed open one of the beast’s wings, grounding it and leaving it with one less offensive option. It recoiled in surprise at the sudden jolt of pain and its opponent’s swiftness. Seeing her chance, Verena raised her shield, braced herself, and lunged forward, ramming into the creature’s chest and very audibly cracking its ribs. Before it could fight back, Verena sunk her blade into the bird’s neck, decisively ending combat.

… In my strictly professional medical opinion, my new travel companion still looked graceful covered in sweat and sprayed with bird blood. My heart was pumping loudly from the excitement! I felt a lot safer having someone around who had experience in combat.

We dragged the Cockatrice back to where Pinaria was. I apologized for the wait, and she said it wasn’t like she had other things going on. I went to work on the Stonebane Salve as Verena cleaned herself up at a nearby spring. After an hour, the salve was ready.

Once freed from the curse, Pinaria was thankful and said she’d help us carry the Cockatrice carcass as close as she could to the next town. We agreed, and Verena and I discussed which parts we would keep for dinner (and alchemical samples) and which ones we could sell to the town butcher.

#writing practice #journaling rpg #solo rpg #oc #oc rp

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happiiest · 5 years ago

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#yeah i REALLY like her #and no one really has dumb bitch disease in this manga....its nice #except for the human but it's less sumb bitch disease and more......big heart disease mixed with tunnel vision #he really enjoys cooking and food and he's really curious and that gets him into a lot of trouble #but marcille?? smart crazy smart she got bit by a cockatrice and she cast a petrification spell before she petrified #any other character with dumb bitch disease woulda just keeled over and gave up but no she used the tools and knowledge to prevent that #finally. she's used common sense in various other sotuations and worked well with her comrades too everyone works well together #instead of being dumb and completely ignoring and hurting each other

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asweetprologue · 4 years ago

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what I’m afraid to say

part two of a brand new train fic! we’ve been working on this one for a while, hope you enjoy!

part one | next

He keeps thinking about it, though. They spend a week in the little town that hired him to kill the cockatrice, half of it crammed into the healer's tiny hut. Jaskier's wound wasn't deep, but humans are so prone to infection and disease. Geralt hovers, until the owner of the hut shoos him away. She's an older woman named Madriga with gray hair pulled back against her head in a neat braid, and she reminds him so much of Nenneke that he goes with fairly little protest. Jaskier is still on bedrest, though he's recovered enough to protest the fact, so he can't follow Geralt out of the little hut like he probably wants to. Geralt lingers outside of the small home for a few minutes, not sure what he should do with himself. He still feels a tight knot of worry in his chest, and he knows it won't dissipate until Jaskier is well again.

He itches to do something, or maybe to say something. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the blood spreading out under Jaskier's fingers, and his teeth clench around the feelings that crawl up his throat. He doesn't think his tongue would be able to shape them all into words even if he tried.

But maybe he can twist some of those feelings into action, and Jaskier will understand them. He's always been good at that, always seems to understand what Geralt means even if he doesn't know himself.

He wanders closer to the center of the town, down the stretch of road that leads to the healer's hut. The day is warm and the late afternoon sun hangs low in a cloudless sky, a soft breeze blowing a burst of yellow flower petals across the dirt path. Geralt is offered a few scattered waves from some of the townsfolk as he approaches, a novel experience in and of itself. He's not sure if it's because they're grateful for his work, or if they just feel bad about Jaskier's injuries. His playing the night before the job had been welcome in the small town, and everyone loved Jaskier. They'd been more than accommodating while the bard healed.

The evening market is just getting set up as he approaches the square, and there's a young girl, maybe just on the cusp of teenhood, sitting with her elbow propped on her table. There are several trays of baked goods set out, and Geralt remembers how Jaskier had complained that morning about the plain porridge that he's been forced to eat alongside thin broth over the last few days. The healer had mentioned something about feeding him something more substantial for dinner, and that's something Geralt can help with. Relieved to find something he can actually do, some way to show Jaskier that he cares, he reaches into his coin pouch.

He makes a few purchases from the girl—a harsh haggler, to his amusement. He can't put the rest of his plan into motion until later, but he has some supplies to stock up on after the hunt anyways. He spends a while talking with the locals until he can barter for what he can. Restocking their road supplies is easy enough, and he even manages to find someone willing to part with a bottle of dwarven spirits. He's low on Cat, now, so he shells out the coin for it and then spends some time in the fields looking for berbercane fruit. It's the right season for them, and it's easy enough to spot the bright red fruits amongst the golden shafts of wheat.

Once the sun is just barely turning the edges of the grains white gold in the evening light, he makes his way to the tavern Jaskier had played at a few nights before. The barkeep recognizes him instantly, of course, and asks him when the young bard will be well enough to play for them again. Geralt shrugs; he doesn't know. Humans heal so slowly.

He's able to purchase a decent haul: a full loaf of rye bread, a clay bowl full of thick pottage, and another with baked parsnips, beats and onions. Along with the honey cakes he'd purchased from the girl, he thinks the spread will please Jaskier after nearly three full days of gruel. After a second thought, he picks up another trencher for their host, and then he bundles the goods in his cloak to carry back to the hut.

By the time he follows the dirt path out to the edge of the town and up to the hut, the shadows are growing long. It's late in the summer season, and the sun sets earlier and earlier nowadays. It's a harsh reminder that soon he will have to return to the mountains and bid Jaskier farewell for the winter. Though at this point the bard might be better off on his own, Geralt thinks darkly. If he's only going to get himself hurt, then maybe Geralt should just… let him go.

He opens the door to the hut perhaps more forcefully than needed, hearing it bump against the chair that sits behind it. The cot Jaskier is set up on is in the main area of the two room hut, and he looks up in surprise when Geralt steps through the door. Madriga is less impressed, only raising an eyebrow.

Geralt stands there for a moment, thrown by the new, exposed bandages on Jaskier's bare chest and Madriga's knowing stare, and then he hefts the bundle of cloth in his arms and says, “I, uh. Brought dinner.”

“Good,” Madriga grunts, getting to her feet. She hobbles over to Geralt—it's a miracle that she doesn't use a cane, he thinks—and takes the packaged food from him. “It's high time for him to get some solids in him.”

“One of the loaves is for you,” Geralt adds, moving automatically to help reposition the pillows behind Jaskier so that he can sit up more easily. The bard's eyes are bright when they find his, and Geralt looks away quickly, overwhelmed. “And there's plenty of stew. If you have need.”

The healer just nods, and shuffles over into the little kitchen area she has set up near the stove, pulling out a set of bowls from a chest in the corner. After a few moments she brings them the food and says, “I'll take mine in my room. Need to rest my feet. Make sure he doesn't spill on those new wrappings.” Geralt nods, holding the two bowls of pottage, and Madriga takes her own bowl and bread and closes the door to her bedroom behind her.

“This was kind of you,” Jaskier says, accepting the bowl that Geralt offers him. A half of the loaf of bread sits in each of their bowls, and Jaskier immediately fishes his out to take a bite of the stew soaked rye. He makes an appreciative sound, his eyes fluttering closed, and Geralt is left staring. Finally he remembers his own bowl and digs in, barely tasting the dish as he sneaks glances at Jaskier. The window across from the bed casts them in a faint orange glow in the dying light, and a highlight across Jaskier's cheekbone casts his face into sharp relief. He's lost weight over the last few days, Geralt realizes. He moves a portion of his stew into Jaskier's bowl.

“You're mother henning,” Jaskier says around a mouthful, laughing a bit even though Geralt knows it makes his side hurt.

“Just want you back on your feet,” Geralt mutters, going back to his own bowl. Once they're both done, he reaches into the bundle of cloth and pulls out another wrapped package, the cheesecloth sticky to the touch. He's probably going to have to wash his cloak, but he can't care at the moment. “Here,” he says, pushing the package into Jaskier's hands.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, letting the cheesecloth fall open to reveal the honey cakes. “I love these. You remembered?”

Half a dozen responses hover on Geralt's lips. Of course, he wants to say, I remember everything, I'm always paying attention to you, there's nothing else. I care, I care, I care. Instead, he just says, “You rave about them every time we're in a town. Hard to miss.”

Jaskier's eyes crinkle up at the edges. He's so beautiful, even ruffled and covered in three days of sweat and old blood. Geralt aches to reach out, but he keeps his hands to himself until Jaskier offers him one of the honey cakes. He doesn't let their fingers brush in the exchange. “Didn't know you were listening,” Jaskier says, with a wry smile.

Geralt just hums around a mouthful of honey, and he burns with all the things he doesn't say.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #witcher #the witcher #fic #fan fiction #writing #my work #train

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thevalicemultiverse · 3 years ago

Note

Actually that's not true. Anatomical differences between birds of different gender aren't as significant as between mammals, so some diseases or even the proper diet can, in fact, render a rooster capable of laying eggs.

Alice: [tilts her head] I'm going to have to fact-check that, but if that's true, and it is possible under rare circumstances, that's pretty fascinating. Explains where -- is it a basilisk or -- no, wait, that's a serpent's egg incubated by a rooster, a cockatrice is the one where the rooster would lay the egg. . .

#~M: I want some questions! now! (ask)#~M: grin without a cat (anon)#~V: Inevitable High School #exact peak of a barn #~C: Alice Liddell #((I have Googled this and it is saying you are wrong I must admit #so I think you may have gotten bad information from somewhere #either that or you're messing with Alice #hence why she wants to fact check in-universe))#~M: with this hand I will lift your queue

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razlapin · 11 months ago

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hi i have an mlp infection au 🫣

i could go into more detail but dychjccj its 3 an and i’ll post all the edits i made tomorrow throughout the day

#mlp infection au #mlp infected au #mlp au #mlp g4 fanart #mlp au lore #my little pony #my art #cockatrice disease

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agoodgoddamnshot · 5 years ago

Text

The Pox - Geraskier & Ciri

[Gif isn’t mine]

Originally posted to my AO3 account

Bad luck has a nasty tendency to stack. Out of many lessons learned throughout his already too-long of a life, that’s one that Geralt sees occurring again and again. With Nilfgaard accosting the south of the continent, sending refugees scrambling upwards, that now seems to be the least of people’s worries.

Refugees can be housed and fed. Geralt watches from their booth in the local tavern as another small wave of them laps inside, shepherded in by the tavern owner’s daughter. The group – a family, Geralt guess – looks as weary as the rest of them. The rooms upstairs are all gone. They filled up a couple of days ago. But while he imagines the rest of them will stay, Geralt is pretty keen on moving from the town in the next few days.

But someone brought word into the town that an illness was starting to spread; and if that’s true, then that rumour has spread faster than the illness. And that could cause issues. If townspeople knew that refugees could be ill, could be carrying a disease with them, they might turn them away. And that will just lead to bodies surrounding the gates of towns and cities, attracting all sorts of creatures to come and feed.

“A smith’s wife told me that a warlock working for Nilfgaard conjured it, and then let it loose on some trading village. The damn thing spread like wildfire,” Jaskier says, plucking at the strings of his lute. The inn is pretty quiet, with most people – locals and refugees alike – all content to sit in silence. Whether or not anyone has an issue with the bard in the corner strumming a couple of notes, no one voices them. Then again, Geralt doubts they would say anything, knowing that an armed Witcher sits next to the bard.

“It’s the pox,” Geralt grunts, handing a bread roll over to the man. He’s heard whisperings about the illness, and everything he’s heard so far would suggest it’s the pox: sweats, fever, coughing, rashes and spots on the skin.

Jaskier hums, setting his lute aside. “To you, maybe. It can kill a mortal man.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “And when were you talking to a smith’s wife?”

The bard laughs softly. “Towns like these are ripe with gossip and those who like trading in it.” One of Jaskier’s hands settles on his thigh. Geralt sighs as Jaskier squeezes firmly. “I’m yours, and you’re mine. You don’t have to worry about some woman spiriting me away.”

Ciri keeps her head down, slurping at the overly generous portion of stew that another of the tavern keeper’s daughter had provided them with. Your father dealt with a cockatrice who’d been causing some issues around here a couple of summers ago, the tavern owner said, ushering them over to a booth near the back of the inn. It was secluded enough to keep them out of prying eyes. Since sitting down, their table has been laden with bowls of stew, bread rolls with pots of freshly churned butter, and tankards of ale. The keeper had returned a few moments later, handing Geralt a key to what he was assured to be a spacious room for all of them.

The word still stalked around in Geralt’s head. Father. He doesn’t know what he is to the girl. He’s never been able to find the right sort of word for it.

They eat the rest of their dinner in relative peace. Jaskier mentions other things about the supposed enchanted disease spreading throughout the south; what it seemingly does to people, how it spreads, how long people last once they contract it. Geralt huffs. It’s the pox. He knows it. A dangerous thing, of course. As Jaskier said, it can absolutely kill a mortal man. But it’s been a long time since he’s had to worry about something like the pox.

Jaskier and Ciri, on the other hand.

“Keep an eye out,” he says softly after a time. Even though sheltered away from others in the inn, Geralt tentatively brushes his hand along Jaskier’s. Most towns aren’t fond of this kind of interaction: something they’ve experienced in the years of travelling together. Fleeting insults are always quickly chased away when Geralt turns, seeking out the pitiful excuse for a man that hurls them. They usually scurry away like field mice. But even then, he’s careful.

Jaskier reaches out with his index finger, snagging Geralt’s. His skin is warm, Geralt notices with a slight shiver. Suddenly, weariness from the past couple of days on the road slinks upon him, slumping over his shoulders. Geralt looks over to the other side of the table. He nudges Ciri’s knee with his own. “Both of you.”

The girl looks up, and nods firmly. “I’ll be careful.”

Something is out to get him. Some god or deity or power just doesn’t like him at all. He can understand why; his very existence must be an insult to the natural order of things. No creature made of the earth should live as long as he does. If he were a god, tasked with creating things and putting them in a sequence, and he saw someone tampering with it, he’s pretty sure he’d go out of his way to make that thing’s life a fucking misery too.

All it takes it for Geralt to hear one cough – a clearing of the throat – for his hackles to rise. The market of the town is packed with people. A town that normally houses two to three hundred now is holding what seems to be ten times that amount. It’s nothing, Geralt thinks. It couldn’t have spread that quickly.

But apparently, it has.

A couple of hours later, when the sun has long since fled behind the Blue Mountains, and the moon has taken its place, something wakes Geralt up.

Moonlight streams in through a small gap in the curtains. Streaks of white, watery light crawl along the floorboards and reach for the foot of their bed. Geralt grunts, rubbing a hand over his face. Along his back, curled around him, Jaskier still sleeps soundly. For a moment, he isn’t entirely sure why he’s awake. They’ll be moving out of the town in the morning, and while he can go longer than most without sleeping, his muscles and bones are complaining about not getting rest. He waits for a second, ears tuned to the sounds of the inn. Floorboards creak as the nights grow cold, and someone outside staggers through the hallway, eventually falling into what must be their own room.

The arm that Jaskier has around his middle tightens. “What are you doing?” the words are mumbled into Geralt’s shoulder blade, raspy and sleep-laden.

Geralt hums, content to settle his head back down on to the pillow and let sleep wash back over him. He’s almost gone, when he hears it again.

A cough. Followed by a whimper.

He sits upright, dislodging himself from Jaskier’s hold. The bard grunts, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Geralt-”

Even in the minimal lighting, Geralt can see perfectly fine. He looks over to the other bed. Curled up and cocooned in bed linens and furs is Ciri. He can barely see the top of her head, sticking out of the nest she has made for herself. Geralt is out of bed in seconds, padding over to the other cot. “Ciri,” he says softly.

“’m cold.” The words are shaken out of her. They’re barely audible; Geralt notices her face buried into one of the pelts that had been for the foot of the bed.

Geralt makes a noise in the back of his throat. Behind him, he hears bedclothes shuffling. “What’s going on?” Jaskier grunts, wiping the last of sleep from his eyes.

Geralt perches on the edge of Ciri’s bed. He presses the back of his hand against her forehead. He clicks his tongue. “You’re not cold, Ciri. You’re sweating.”

The shivers wracking through her body say otherwise. Her teeth chatter, despite a sheen of sweat sticking to her forehead and the apples of her cheeks. Geralt seeks out his bag, fishing through it for some herbs he had bought from the town’s apothecary. She had given him the last of what she had, saying that with whispers of an illness spreading, most of her wares had been cleared quickly.

Elderflower, yarrow, calamine, and celandine. The hearth on the other side of the room is still burning, albeit, grey ash sits on top of still lighting embers. It still carries heat. Geralt can feel the warmth of it even at the other side of the room. But it won’t do for tea-making. “Find the innkeeper,” he says tightly, “ask for a kettle of hot water, but make sure no one comes up with you.”

Jaskier doesn’t move for a second. When Geralt looks over his shoulder, ready to ground out the order again, his eyes soften when he sees the bard watching Ciri tremble. But Geralt’s words seemingly catch up with Jaskier, and within seconds, he’s gone.

When Geralt turns back to Ciri, two blue eyes blink blearily up at him. “Am I sick?” Her voice barely holds together. “Do I have what the others have?”

Geralt clicks his tongue. “I’ll have to take a look at your skin,” he sighs. “But if it is, I can help you. You’ll be okay.”

She nods. Another cough fights its way out of her. It sounds watery and tacky, and almost has her folding in two. Geralt winces. He sets his hand on top of the mound of blankets she has around her, silently hoping that whatever it is that’s infected her will leave peacefully.

Jaskier comes back within minutes, a copper kettle in one hand. Geralt turns, holding his hand up. “Have you had it before?”

The bard’s brow furrows. “What?”

“The pox, Jaskier,” Geralt grunts. “Have you had it before?”

“When I was a child,” he answers, brow furrowed. “We all had it in my family.”

“You’ll be fine then.” Geralt directs him over to the hearth. Settling the kettle over the embers, there’s enough heat there to keep the water inside simmering. Geralt adds the leaves, stirring and steeping them until he can scent the aromas in the air. It’ll have to stew for a couple of minutes, but until then, he has to look at Ciri’s skin.

Jaskier follows him throughout the room, gathering a change of clothes for Ciri as well as some bed linens from a nearby wardrobe. When Geralt returns to her bedside, the girl whines. She’s still shaking like a leaf, but he’ll need to bring her fever down. The tea will help, but until then, Geralt sighs. “You can’t have that many blankets around you, Ciri. You’ll overheat.”

“But I’m so cold.”

“That’s your body trying to help.”

“Well, it isn’t doing a very good job.”

Despite his best efforts, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lip. “Pox can’t survive in warm conditions,” he explains, recalling on things a healer told him decades ago. “Your body is just trying to burn it out.”

Jaskier sets the clothes and bedding at the foot of Ciri’s bed. He still wears a concerned look, watching the girl closely. He shares a brief look with Geralt. The kind of look they’ve shared quite a lot recently. Since acquiring Ciri, and finding Jaskier again, they’ve become a quaint little unit. A family, one could dare to name it. Jaskier loves the girl just as much as Geralt does. They would both lay down their lives for her. But it’s fine to say all of that when the threat is physical – monsters or soldiers or bandits, all vying for her life in one way or another. But when it’s something like this, an illness tearing her apart from the inside, they’ve never felt so useless in their lives.

The kettle whistles from the other side of the room. Jaskier turns to tend to it. Geralt finds the edge of one blanket, tugging it away from Ciri. “Come now,” he gentles, “I can’t help you if you’re hiding in there.”

It takes a moment to get the blankets away, but once Ciri’s cocoon unfurls, Geralt tosses the linens and furs to one side of the room, far away from her. If it’s pox, then the sheets are infected. She’s still so small; something that Geralt can’t seem to do anything about. No matter how much food she eats, or how hard she trains in the mornings, she can’t seem to put on any amount of muscle. But she looks even smaller now, trembling and sweating and teeth chattering.

Geralt sits, gesturing to the sleeve of her nightshirt. “Can I?”

Ciri nods, helping Geralt roll her sleeve up towards her shoulder. Even without the candles around the room lighting, Geralt can make out her skin just fine. And he swallows the lump forming in his throat. Tiny, barely-there splotches, speckled all over her skin. Some of them are redder than the others, rising up slightly like oil spots. Geralt sets his jaw. “I need you to listen to me, alright?”

Ciri nods again, looking at him expectantly.

“You are not to scratch these,” he gestures to the spots. “No matter how much you want to.”

Jaskier makes a sound from the other side of the room. “The only scar I have was caused by one of them,” he says simply, stoking the embers of the fire. Ciri tilts her head. Jaskier smiles, pointing to his jaw. “It’s small, but I scratched a pox spot, and it left a mark.”

“It also just makes the rash worse. So don’t scratch,” Geralt says. His tone is one he uses when they’re out in the forest, teaching her the difference between plants, and how to properly hold on to a sword. Ciri looks at her arm, taking in the map of marks left by the illness.

“I won’t,” she says.

“Good. Do you feel able to walk?”

“I think so.”

“Take this,” Geralt places a couple of chamomile leaves into her hand, “and make a paste out of it in the washroom. Spread it all over you.” He picks up the bundle of new clothes from the foot of the bed. “After that, change into these. You’ll feel better.”

In the time it takes Ciri to do what he’s asked, the pungent smell of the tea settles over the room. Jaskier lifts the lid of the pot, inspecting it. His nose wrinkles. “I remember when the nursemaid made this for me,” he groans. “Horrid stuff.”

Geralt shushes him. “She needs to drink it.”

When Ciri steps back into the room, she does look slightly better. The tea will chase away the fever, and hopefully, the paste will cool the spots from getting worse. Geralt beckons her over. They’ve changed the sheets on her bed, and when she slides in, Ciri’s body shakes slightly again. “You’ll warm up in a bit,” Geralt assures her.

The tea helps. Whether it’s the herbs themselves or the warmth of the water seeping through her, Geralt has to pluck the cup out of her hand before Ciri falls back asleep. This time, to his relief, her body lies still, with her chest filling steadily with air. Geralt reaches out, brushing some of her hair back from her forehead. Her hair is still sleeked with sweat, but she’ll have to have an oatmeal bath tomorrow, so she can wash then.

It all looks so calm now.

Geralt sets the cup to the side. He has enough herbs to make another brew in the morning. After that, he’ll have to seek out the farmers living just outside of the town, asking for a bucket of oats. Or whatever they can spare, now that winter and a war seem keen on settling over the continent at the same time. It won’t cure her spots. They’ll go away by themselves. But it’ll help with the itching, once that niggle starts.

Watching her now, from his perch on the edge of his own bed, Geralt finally breathes. The room lapses into silence. The air settles. Every so often, it’s broken by a slight wheeze from Ciri. Geralt tries not to wince at the noise. But she’s breathing, and sleeping soundly.

It’s torture. Worse than anything he ever experienced in Kaer Morhen. Geralt flinches slightly when arms wind over his shoulders. Recognising the touch, he leans back, sighing when his back presses against the firm wall of Jaskier’s chest. “It’s probably a stupid question to ask,” the bard mumbles, settling his hands over Geralt’s chest and torso, “but are you alright?”

Geralt huffs a dry laugh. “Not at all.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. Hugging the Witcher closer to him, Jaskier hooks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder. “She’ll be fine,” he reasons. “Children get sick all the time. And rather she gets the pox now, than later when it can do her more harm.”

He knows. Of course, he knows. Some distant, logical part of him knows. But it just happens that that particular part of his brain hasn’t been communicating very well with the rest of his mind – especially where Ciri is concerned. He wonders distantly if this is how all guardians feel when their charges are in danger.

“It seems the White Wolf has grown gentle,” Geralt mutters. Whatever fear that had been coursing through his veins is being chased off now. The warmth radiating along his back from Jaskier sees to that.

The bard hums. “A wolf’s single most important duty is to protect its family, isn’t it?” Jaskier murmurs. Gesturing to Ciri, Jaskier continues. “She’ll be up and about, gallivanting off into forests and caves with you again in no time at all.”

Geralt turns his head. His nose brushes along the arch of Jaskier’s cheekbone. Setting his lips against the ridge, he sighs. “Thank you for helping,” he mumbles against skin, turning in Jaskier’s hold.

“I know that in the grand scheme of destiny, she belongs to you,” Jaskier sighs, tilting his head when Geralt’s lips move towards his neck. “But you belong to me. So, by proxy, I guess she’s mine, too.”

Jaskier has to swallow a hum when he feels a puff of a laugh against his neck. “It seems so.”

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sepublic · 5 years ago

Text

Various Headcanons, Speculation, and Observations

-Wrath was in the Abomination Track when he was younger, but an accident severely damaged his arms. In order to still use them, he infused them with Abomination goop to give them stronger, shape-shifting properties- However, his hands were still too damaged and he could no longer perform Magic as a result. Because of this, he couldn’t be placed in the Emperor’s Coven and was instead relegated as Warden of the Conformatorium, placed in charge of the Magic-less Emperor’s Guard. The incident that damaged his arms could’ve been a disease, or the cause of a social deviant- Or maybe he’s just a jerk.

-If Luz was placed into the Potions Track, it could set up a conflict between her and Boscha, further providing support for this idea!

-Amity originally came across The Good Witch Azura through the library, specifically because the Librarian bought the books from Eda. We know he’s associated with her before and vice-versa, after all. The Librarian probably saw the value of including Human literature, or may have been scammed. Given how Eda tried to burn the Book 1 she got from Luz, she remembers that there’s already one at the library and thus the one she has is now worthless, and/or the Librarian is no longer interested in buying more Azura books from her.

-Crack Theory, do not take seriously: King and Bellows are a dual-personality, having once been a united being before they were split apart. This is why King is associated both with Luz’s pet snakes, which are also the Gildersnake in The Good Witch Azura, and ANOTHER character from the books, the fluffy dog. King also sounds like he’s merely parroting what others have said about/told him...

-What if the thief who stole Lilith’s lunch money during Eda’s childhood was Amity’s mom, AKA Mrs. Blight?

-Bumper Robinson voices Principal Bump.

-Both Boscha and Braxas were present at Luz and Amity’s duel and were close to each other and Willow and Gus. This means they also probably saw Amity ‘cheat’ at the end.

-Is Bellows a cockatrice/basilisk? There’s the flame, bird, and reptile motifs, all wrapped up into one neat, mythical package!

-What if the ‘Two Witches’ in the Eye Codes Poem refers to Eda and Luz, not Eda and Lilith?

-Eda had orange hair and is a troublemaker, while Lilith has blue hair and is a more conventional witch of the law. Hecate is associated with orange and is an antagonist, while Azura is associated with blue and is the protagonist.

#the owl house #owl house #speculation #warden wrath #the owl house eda #edalyn clawthorne #the owl house luz #luz noceda

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vulturhythm · 5 years ago

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1/2 I have an angsty idea (BTW, this is Tristan and Iseult anon - I'm so flattered you wanted to give me a nickname! If you still want to, Skyleen is good since that's what I've been using on AO3). Anyway, my idea isn't too unique from what you've already posted because what you do you do so well and I like it so much). It revolves around Jaskier being horribly sick/poisoned and Geralt desperately trying to find a cure - maybe it's something specific, like a near-extinct herb or the heart of

... heart of the beast that originally poisoned him, but in any case it's really hard to get and Geralt has to go on a lot of dangerous journeys in search of it. Meaning he has leave Jaskier behind (it's a conveniently prolonged illness). And he keeps failing. He keeps going out on any tips, even the most unlikely, brutalizing himself for a few days/weeks trying to kill monsters/please mages/bribe kings/capture demons or whatever he thinks he needs to do, but he always comes home empty handed...

... and Jaskier's always sicker, weaker, worse when he comes back. He'll spend a few days with him, caring for him, loving him, pleading with him to stay strong, before preparing to head out again. And eventually Jaskier realizes nothing is going to work. Even if Geralt did find something, the illness has progressed so far it wouldn't do any good. So he asks Geralt to stop. Stop hunting, stop risking his own life, stop leaving and just stay with him until the end. And Geralt can't.

Can't give up, can't face losing Jaskier, can't accept (what he sees as) Jaskier losing faith in him. So he goes out again, and again. Eventually, the disease and despair break at Jaskier until he clings, begs Geralt not to leave him, and Geralt does anyway, using his greater strength to remove Jaskier's hands from his arms, clothes, hair, Jaskier's cries echoing worse than any curses from Blaviken. On the last trip, he finds the cure. Having lost his horse to some calamity, he *runs* back...

... to Jaskier, full tilt, past even a witcher's stamina and returns to wherever they've been holed up incoherent with exhaustion and fear. Is he too late? What do you think? (Also, thank you for writing such lovely angst! I think it's the best way to get the love out).

thank you so, so much for sending me this beautifully tragic idea! i do hope this is up to your standards.

- - - - -

i won’t let you die

sorceresses are wretched things.

this is an opinion geralt has formed over a fucking century of enduring their treachery and their torment and their taunting, all the times he’s fallen into bed with one be damned. those times were fucking meaningless when compared to the love he found in jaskier.

meaningless, worthless, pointless - and now, looking back, he fucking hates himself for them.

he hates himself, for it was a sorceress whose rage when denied geralt’s aid in the coup of a crumbling kingdom was unmatched - whose rage led her to curse the bard at geralt’s side, merely fucking standing there, not even doing a damn thing.

he wasn’t doing a goddamn thing.

geralt is snarling, spitting, cursing, demanding an explanation, a cure -

the sorceress drops dead, an arrow through her skull, shot from the ramparts of the castle ahead, and, well.

geralt knows when he isn’t welcome.

he pulls jaskier away, runs from the city square, pulls his bard along through the seething, screaming, rioting crowd.

at first, geralt thinks the curse was maybe just as simple as the little rash that pops up on jaskier’s skin within they hour, as they walk away and leave the kingdom behind.

(it will be decimated by week’s end.)

he learns quickly he is wrong when jaskier doubles over and vomits on the trail.

there’s blood amongst the bile.

geralt’s heart seizes.

he pushes roach hard, hard, hard to the next town over, one where the healer and the mage are one and the same.

“it’s a disease,” the man tells them, and there’s sympathy in his eyes and something sort of like relief in jaskier’s, but - “and it’s one that can’t be cured.”

geralt knows he can never forget the fear that crossed jaskier’s face.

worse, later, is the resignation.

“geralt - “

“i know. i won’t let you die.”

he goes to yennefer next, even though to see her face is to grimace inside.

it’s been a week, and the rash has spread, and jaskier complains of stomach pains daily, even when he hasn’t eaten, even hours before he vomits blood.

yennefer takes one look at geralt before her gaze slides to the bard at his side, and she sighs, and motions them inside.

they learn nothing more.

“incurable,” she says, and if geralt didn’t know full well her loathing of jaskier, he would think she sounded... apologetic. “he’s got two years at best, likely less.”

“there has to be something -“

“geralt. i can’t do a thing.”

“geralt, surely someone will know... a - a different sorceress, a mage...”

“i won’t let you die.”

they go to another mage next, one tucked away in the depths of a town from which geralt has long since been banned.

it’s here that, finally, they get something - a name, a cause.

“it’s eating away at him,” says the old mage, “from the inside out. it’s an ancient thing - dark magic, as dark as i’ve seen. they say... well.”

“what?” geralt snarls, his grip on jaskier’s arm only tightening when his bard sways closer against his side.

“dragon heart, they say. little more than theory, but - “

and just like that, geralt is out the door, jaskier close behind.

“you can’t go after a dragon alone - “

“i won’t let you die.”

jaskier is weaker.

the rash has become boils here and there, on the backs of his hands and arms and shoulders, and he can no longer play the lute without pain.

as much as it tears geralt apart to leave him behind, he does.

he leaves jaskier at home in corvo bianco, begs their nearest neighbors to drop in, keep him well...

swears to come back alive.

“promise me you’ll come back if it’s a false lead - “

“i won’t let you die.”

he slays the dragon, a fierce red thing far up north, slices out its heart and carries it back to blaviken tied to roach’s haunches.

the old mage is waiting, ancient tomes and tablets and scrolls open on every surface, herbs and plants and monster pieces on top of and among it all.

“if this is right,” says the mage, “it’ll be violet at the end, but, well,” he amends, as he checks a scroll, “translating these have been next to impossible,” he admits, as he slices off a section of the heart, “and it might not - “

the broiling mixture in the cauldron turns a horrid, bloody red when the heart is dropped inside.

geralt feels nothing but dread.

“geralt, you can’t possibly kill enough dryads in time -“

“i won’t let you die.”

the second time he leaves from corvo bianco, he leaves jaskier in pain.

the boils are becoming lesions, and the bloody bile is a daily occurrence, and his singing voice is all but gone.

geralt sets off for the forests, and, well...

he slays fifteen of the forest nymphs, and he feels guilt biting at the back of his throat each time he shaves bark from the dead dryads’ trees, but jaskier’s red and bleeding skin is at the forefront of his mind.

the potion goes gray this time, deep and dull and dreadful, and geralt wants to scream.

jaskier is coughing now.

geralt stays home for a week, mourns the loss of jaskier’s warmth in his arms, for his bard cannot bear the touch of another’s on his sore and blistering and bleeding skin.

it pains him to see, and yet...

he cannot rest.

he leaves at week’s end, the edges of the world on his mind.

“geralt, please, just stay - “

“i won’t let you die.”

twenty tongues of elven warriors.

geralt sees the hatred, the betrayal, the disgust in filavandrel’s eyes as he slaughters those that remain.

he sees it tenfold when he slays the elven king where he stands.

he sees it in the surface of the river when he crouches down to wash his skin free of blood, reflected in his own eyes when he does his best to clean his own wounds.

he sees it in the washed-out green the cauldron’s contents turn.

he sees it in jaskier’s eyes when he returns home, tells him of the fall of the elves... tells him of the new scars upon his back.

“please, my wolf, stay behind this time...”

“i won’t let you die.”

fang of demon.

five new claw marks across his jaw.

jaskier cannot stand without doubling over in the worst fit of blood-splattering coughing geralt has ever witnessed.

the potion is black.

“geralt, it’s okay - “

“i won’t let you die.”

flesh of the one cursed before first breath.

a night in a crypt, a broken wrist, a gash on the flank.

jaskier’s eyes are bloodshot and his voice is frail. he cannot walk alone.

the potion is teal.

“geralt, please, if you love me - “

“i won’t let you die.”

eye of the beast upon the highest throne.

a king slain, a kingdom out for his blood, an arrowhead through the shoulder and a ribcage of splintered bone.

jaskier is bedridden.

the potion is gold.

“geralt, my love, *please,* i beg of you - “

“i won’t let you die.”

fang of the lycanthrope.

scar across the chest.

white.

“the cure doesn’t exist, geralt, stay home - “

“i won’t let you die.”

sting of the manticore.

wounded in the side.

bronze.

“it won’t ever work, my love, please let me die in your arms - “

“i won’t let you die.”

vessel of the djinn.

broken, battered, bruised.

charcoal.

at the end of the fifteenth month, geralt leaves his beloved behind for the last time.

he leaves jaskier coughing, choking, begging, grabbing for his arms, his hands, anything to keep him close -

grabbing for him despite the wounds geralt and the healers have done their best to keep bound -

begging for him despite the way his voice is all but gone -

sobbing for him despite the way he can barely even breathe -

but geralt draws away, shakes his head, whispers one last time, “i won’t let you die.”

he can hear his bard’s sobs well beyond the walls of their home.

twenty nine days.

wyvern, harpy, dwarf, virgin, cockatrice, gryphon, chimera, basilisk, leshen...

vampire, succubus, drowner, kikimora, barghest...

the monsters blur together after so long - after so much of his blood spilled.

geralt is growing weak, growing tired -

growing slow.

and then, one day -

one day, he stumbles as he walks back into the mage’s tower, stumbles and catches himself on the edge of the cauldron, and -

and his blood, the blood that’s fucking covering from melitele only knows how many fucking cuts and gashes and scrapes and gouges -

his blood drips from his palm, from his wrist, from his fingertips, and it falls into the cauldron -

and the concoction of herbs and roots and flowers and bones and brains and heartstrings and feathers and stones and blood, it -

it turns deep, vibrant violet, and -

and geralt goes still.

he’s never pushed roach as hard as he does that day, the next day, the next...

it’s the third day when a group of highwaymen cross his path, when they fire at him from the hillside, when a crossbow bolt strikes roach through the sockets of her eyes, and -

and geralt tears them all down without an instant of hesitation, and he pauses to mourn the loss of his cherished companion, but -

but jaskier is waiting, and -

and geralt runs.

his legs ache and his lungs burn and his ribs feel as though they may shatter again from the strain, and he is bleeding, and he is dying, but -

but jaskier is waiting, and -

and he loses track of the days and of how many times he trips and falls and of how many times he drops to his knees and then to the ground -

and still he runs.

i can’t let him die.

geralt feels as though he may collapse by the time he stumbles against the doors of corvo bianco, but still he moves,

still he pushes on,

pushes the door open and almost falls inside, and -

and he cannot breathe, and his vision is hazy, and he knows that he’s gone too far, but -

but jaskier is waiting, and -

and he steps through the doors of the room they’ve shared for so many long and perfect years, and -

and he reaches into his pocket for the vial of antidote, and -

and he looks up, and he goes still.

the vial falls to the floor.

geralt lurches the few steps to the edge of the bed, drops to his knees, reaches out to touch the back of a cold, cold hand, closed tight about a scrap of parchment he can’t bring himself to acknowledge.

he lowers his edge to the mattress, and he breathes in, and he breathes out, and...

and at last, the witcher is still.

geralt,

my beloved, i have kept alive as long as i can. i have spent my life at your side, and there isn’t a day of it that i would have changed.

my only regret is that i did not die in your arms.

i love you.

live well.

#answered asks #skyleen #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt x dandelion #gerlion #my fics #character death #don’t break out the pitchforks #you asked for this #it’s not on me this time

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