#eldham village*

[cozyandwarmm]

Working on another project:

The Beast of Eldham 🌲⛰️✨️

Because I'm veeery obsessed with fantasy themes rn 🤭

It's an one-shot about this boi who lives in a village of lees (they're like an own species i dunno haha):

I'm unsure about the name but maybe I'll go with something nordic like 'Finn'

And this kid gets sent into the forest, gets lost and eventually bumps into the legendary ler beast everyone in his village fears:

The beast (also didn't figure out a name yet) helds the boy captive and does to him excactly what every little tiny lee fears most; tickling.

Turns out he's not evil or something like that but misunderstood and just wants to tickle someone because he likes making others laugh. And the child is veeerry sensitive and ticklish and the only one in hundred of years who lets himself getting tickled by the beast.

Where the boy first was so afraid of the ler, he soon sees the good in him and starts trusting him more, so eventually the beast keeps him and they form a father-son-relationship.

[heartmeadows]

Eldham Village and the Wizard’s Tower

[deathtale0-0]

The Traveller

TW // allusions to child abuse

The Traveller was an outsider, but the problem was not that the village did not like outsiders, they just did not like him. The quiet village of Eldham was west of the capital Southwold - about a two-day ride away (as the crow flies) - and on its outskirts there lay a beast in wait, or so the villagers said. It was the monster under the bed, the shadow in the corner of your eye for the children of Eldham, the nightmare that suffocated their sleep and kept them away from the forest lurking on the edge of the boundary. Its looming presence emanated with long forgotten secrets and desires, hidden things that should never see the light of day but threatened to whenever the trees rustled. Going too close to the tree line, even just to play, would garner a harsh scolding evoked from fear rather than anger, but the branches always seemed to reach out their weary hands in greeting, or warning. Sorcery, the villagers muttered. Necromancy, houses groaned. Devilry, crows cawed. Though, of course, they did not know what it was they feared about the Traveller and his forest (as they called it) and his home, just that they felt there was something there worth fearing and that was enough.

It was within these woods, that pulsed with a faint air of magic, the Traveller resided. He was a strange man - if he could be called one. He was of a large build, hulking and yet he held himself carefully, with robes that at least appeared black when viewed from afar or from a side glance. They fluttered softly in the quiet chill that accompanied the Traveller and one felt it seep in through the tips of your ears if you ever crossed his path. The wind too could be on his side, a ghostly presence that seemed to carry the whispers of those long past and often carried echoes of something deep and dark to the very mortal ears of the villagers at night. There were always murmurs of half-blood and demon, faerie and warlock, cast with wary glances and cruel names. Some say they saw him with horns, some with a tail or cloven feet, but others disagreed and argued that he had none of those things. He never paid it any mind. For months on end, he would disappear just to return one day and continue whatever business he had there on the edge of Eldham, and though the villagers thought him to be one of dark magic, the sense that something evil was out there somehow got worse when he went away instead of better. And so, the Traveller and the villagers of Eldham had a difficult relationship as they feared him too much to chase him away and he only entered the village to buy the occasional supplies.

Colm ambled through his village, searching for a way to pass the time. He was bored, as nine-year-old children often get, and did not yet want to go home to his mother as he feared the heights her shouts could reach. The sky cried quietly, trying to hide her tears from the heavens above and so instead they dripped unto creatures below, but Colm did not mind, in fact, he wanted to cry as well, so he kept a steady pace in the drizzle. People milled around, some strolling and chatting about how the rain would be good for the crops, others hustling and bustling to bring in the clothes and protect their goods. Grey clouds filled in overhead and though it was not a dark day, the boy noticed the dreary tone in the air and hearts of those around him. Thus, he decided that it was the perfect day for an adventure. Gears turning in his head, Colm looked around and caught sight of the old path leading into the forest. Only adults could use it and even then, only to go to the river, the men could sometimes stray for hunting, but that was about it. No one would notice if he went missing, so Colm decided, as all nine-year-olds must at some point, that his adventure would be somewhere he was not allowed.

He crossed the green stretch before the tree line, approaching hesitantly, with curiosity blooming in his heart. The cries of the raindrops seemed to quieten in his ears as he arrived at the opening, before giving way to the guttural groaning of the trees as they towered over the boy and watched him questioningly.

They were interested in this little one that had come up to them. The one who wandered their woods was the only one who could quell the restlessness of their ancient souls, and yet, there was a smell of wind on the high seas with this child.

Colm turned and looked back at the village to see if anyone had caught him. There were two women watching him and speaking to one another. He could not recognise them from afar, but they did not come running and screaming to stop him and he did not expect them to. After they had watched for a moment, they silently left. Facing away from the path that led back to the village the little boy took one step, then another and entered the trees.

The thick canopy above prevented any of the sky’s sadness from leaking in as the trunks and branches seemed to close ranks behind him to seal off his path back. It was a different world. There was no wind. Everything was still as it held its breath in the boy’s sudden presence. The air thrummed with something long since overlooked in the minds of men - a quiet, gentle magic. Whether it was good or evil, that was not to be ascribed to the mesmeric nature of the boy’s surroundings nor that which inhibited it. It was a world more of shadows than light and he could not see far into the distance as everything took on a murky hue. He crept forward, bewitched, soft footfalls crunching the dying leaves beneath his feet, but only got so far before he froze; the silence turned eerie as a faint mumbling found its way to Colm’s ears.

A wind picked up in the distance as the branches began to speak to one another in harsh, angry voices. His blood ran cold, and he felt his bladder start to weaken – no longer was this any fun as all the warnings he had heard came rushing back to memory. Suddenly, all was quiet again, except for the distant sound of footsteps. Colm looked down to check that they were not his before looking up again, terrified. The murkiness seemed to have faded slightly and as he strained to get a glimpse of something, anything, he saw movement. There, a lumbering figure in the distance. Fear paralysed him, creeping into his bloodstream, as all he could do was watch as the figure kept on its path, praying to whatever gods that it would not notice him. But of course, he forgot that the gods hated him, and the figure halted and looked directly at him. The Traveller. The tales had never scared him as much as the other village children because he knew monsters that were actually real, but in that moment when all that Colm could make out was what appeared to be a mask, he turned tail and fled.

Eyes wide and arms pumping he pushed through the barrier of branches and toppled out of the forest where he scrambled to his hands and knees and stumbled away from whatever it was he had unearthed in there. The light rain was back, and he let it calm his roaring heart as he sat there, staring into the gloom. Somehow the boy picked himself up, limbs shaking, and trudged home, deciding that he had had enough for that day. But as he lay in bed bruised that night, he recalled the moment he had seen the mask and the seconds in which the Traveller had simply looked at him and, despite knowing of all the tales told around the village, a queer feeling grew in his heart. Colm wondered if perhaps the Traveller was sick, if perhaps the stories exaggerated a little, or if perhaps they were just as lonely as each other.

The next day the sky was clear as Colm determined to enter into the forest again. He had not been able to stop thinking about the Traveller, he felt as if within that momentary glance, he had felt their spirits murmur in kindred appreciation. So, he gathered his courage and left a few hours past dawn. It was a crisp morning with a slight chill that sent tingles through your body and whispered tales of legendary quests. Fresh air embraced the dawning land with open arms as wisps of mist unfurled their fingers and lingered around the village. Colm snuck away from the village with the rising sun warming his back and once again came to the edge of the forest.

He felt encouraged in the presumed safety of the waking world and took his step beyond the trees with more confidence. If the forest the day before was a place holding its breath, then this time it was the resting place of a giant as the morning dew coated the bark, the leaves, the soil, the grass, as if a master painter had carefully crafted this moment. Dragonflies were the only creatures that he could see making noise, but from somewhere ahead and all around there were a myriad of other sounds from deeper within the woods.

Colm, spellbound, wandered further in, the trees parting to make way for their inquisitive visitor as the green hue of this new universe was intercepted by tangles of sunlight that filtered through the swaying leaves. Instead of intense, it was soft and had a melancholic ghostliness. He roamed through the forest, deeper and deeper, the idea of the Traveller all but forgotten at this new feeling of wonder. Delicate moisture pressed itself onto Colm’s skin, purifying it, sending signals that he was alive and breathing, and as he took those deep breaths his lungs filled, the rich scent of earth comforting him.

Caught up in his cosmos, he missed a step and stumbled, so preoccupied that he had forgotten the natural rhythm of walking. Upon looking down to collect himself, he realised not only that he had travelled some distance and that he could not tell what time it was, but also that he had found a path. Glancing around, he saw a small building nestled discreetly under some aged oak trees and remembered his desire to seek out the Traveller. A chill ran through his body, but he walked cautiously towards the new sight; as he did so, the trees seemed to lean in, breathing prayers or words of warning he could not tell, whilst branches contorted into gnarled hands that twisted to reach him. The air got heavier, and silence leaked out. Shadows darkened and the sun’s light dimmed as he neared the building and was able to make out that it was a shack, old and lopsided.

The shack had a single window on its western wall and was made out of timber but interwoven with vines and ivy. It was rather inconspicuous, and to Colm’s eyes it did not look that big and in fact seemed to fit only one person. Was this where the feared Traveller really stayed? He walked up to the window and stood on his toes to get a better look through the grimy pane that struggled to reveal much but straining his eyes Colm was able to make out piles of worn books, creepy jars, a staff by the rickety door and a fireplace. A bit rough, but cosy nonetheless; he could imagine that the inside would have a musty smell.

It was then that Colm saw something shift inside the shack and, peeking closer, saw a large shadow moving around. Eyes wide he ducked, wincing at the sudden movement, holding a hand to his mouth as his heart hammered so heavily in his chest that the sound, he felt, threatened to reveal his position. Ice and dread filled his stomach and spread throughout his body as he waited unmoving, crouched just below the window, clenching his bladder.

There was a creak. Colm snapped his head to the side in horror as the door opened and he saw the beginnings of a large figure stepping out. He closed his eyes in fear, he could not bear to look even though he had wanted to earlier, and his little body went rigid. Pulsing filled his brain to the point of pain as he held his breath and tried not to move, breathe, or exist. After a few moments of rustling, however, and what felt like an eternity for little Colm, he heard footsteps shuffle off in the direction opposite of where he had come.

The boy slowly relaxed his eyes, but did not open them, and took his hand from his mouth. After the sound of firm, departing footsteps quietened, he risked opening an eye, and upon seeing that there was nothing there, Colm felt his body give way as he fell to the floor in a heap. His limbs felt as light as clouds as he gulped down air to calm himself. His mind buzzed as he failed to comprehend what had just happened, how had he managed to just walk up to the Traveller’s shack without knowing he was in there? But while he was in the process of gathering himself a thought struck him, the Traveller was leaving! His bumbling fascination with the forest meant that he could not remember the way out and now the reason he had entered to start with was disappearing! So, little Colm resolved himself and wobbled to the front of the shack where the door was once again closed and saw the Traveller in the distance walking away. Sneaking from tree to tree, he trailed the Traveller on his route, trying to build back up the courage to approach him.

What Colm was not aware of, however, was that the Traveller knew that he was there and had known since the moment he felt something outside his shack. When he had come out, he saw the little boy but paid him no heed and went off on his round. You see, he was not interested in the affairs of mortals – not anymore at least – and the little one posed no harm to him, though, he did spark something in the Traveller that he had not felt in a long, long while. He wondered what it was.

As the two navigated between bark, under shadows, over mounds, the Traveller eventually turned around and called out to the boy, both hands leaning on his staff that was as tall as him. “I know you’re there.” A deep voice, one that sang its age whenever it was heard, ripe with weariness, imbued with mystery, tinged with bitterness. It was a hardened voice, but not cruel – too tired for that. It would perhaps be a deep brown or green if it were a colour, withered and worn.

Colm froze from his spot crouched behind a bush, his eyebrows rose in shock, and he again covered his mouth with his hand.

“Here I stand, awaiting the presence of the skulking one.”

The tips of Colm’s ears turned red as he burst out of his cover, “I wasn’t skulking!” Then the gravity of the situation dawned on him. He was in front of the Traveller. Gawking up at him, Colm was able to take in his appearance fully for the first time in his life. Just as the rumours said, he was clothed in somewhat tattered dark robes and a black cowl, but he also had on old grey armour that told a tale of a time long past. The metal had rusted in some parts, but the rest looked clean enough, though the wear could not be hidden. Over both the robes and armour he wore a brown threadbare cloak and a curved sword hung by his side. But what drew the most attention was the mask that his hood was pulled low over. Decayed. Eyeholes there were and yet no eyes to be seen. Fractured gold edges glinted in the low light as cracks skittered across the rough plane, revealing nothing of a face behind despite it seeming moulded to almost-human features. Once white, now faded to a dull grey stained with flushes of dirt, there was an unspeakable quality about the mask as if a thick emptiness dwelled behind it instead of life.

“Do you know what it means?”

“No, but-but it doesn’t sound nice,” his ears remained flushed, but this time with embarrassment as he forgot the enormity of the being before him.

The Traveller regarded the boy as one would a passing corpse, with a morbid sense of intrigue. He peered down at the peculiar child with his unruly hair, gap between his teeth and his eyes, such fascinating eyes. The Traveller closed the distance between them with imperceptible strides as the boy stumbled back, the sheer size of the man causing his stomach to leap to his throat and as he reached forward with his armoured hands Colm flinched terribly, eyes shut. But he felt a cool sensation as the Traveller grabbed his jaw with one hand and his temple with the other, leaning in close. “Open your eyes.” He squeezed them tighter, no one ever wanted to see his eyes, people did not like them. A shake of his head by foreign hands. “Open.” Confused, yet feeling fear no longer, Colm opened his eyes warily – something he had never been asked to do.

The Traveller held his face this way and that, trying to get a better look at his eyes, “Yes…yes, how very interesting,” he muttered absent-mindedly. Two different irises stared back at him wildly, one so pale a blue it looked silver in certain lights, the other a vivid brown that could look pure black.

Colm wrenched himself from the grip of the Traveller, who straightened, blinking quickly, and looking down. “Don’t look at my eyes,” a weak, hoarse voice.

He got a grunt in response and when he raised his head, saw that he was being left behind. “Wait! Where are you going?”

The Traveller halted and turned his head sharply. The boy stopped, suddenly feeling very alone. But as he moved on, Colm found himself enthralled because the Traveller had not shied away from his eyes like so many others, and so he decided to quietly follow.

Leaves crunched as the little one hurried to catch up to his side and gazed up at him, but, the Traveller did not respond, continuing on his steady gait through the trees.

“Strange children. Strange people. Strange creatures,” he murmured to himself.

Colm noticed strands of darkness curled around his weighted feet and presence. The darkness settled like a vague fog around the formidable silhouette, its tendrils snaking out to play with the sunlight. Just like the world around them, it seemed to the boy that the Traveller had a phantom air of otherness that shadowed his steps. His voice sounded both pained and calm, his footfalls were both heavy yet careful, his posture laden and proud. There had to be more to him than all he had heard.

The two walked for what felt like hours. Occasionally, the Traveller would stop to pull out his sword and mark the ground of trees with symbols while whispering in a language strange to the ear.

“Along the path,” a glance at the boy who was trailing his hand across bark, “I walk.”

“Why?”

“There are sleeping and hidden things, and it would not be good if they were no longer sleeping and hidden.”

“Not good for who?”

“What sort of question is that? Not good for-” he stopped walking, hesitating. He tried to resume, “Why, not good for…” There was something he was forgetting, but he could not put his finger on it. Why was he doing this? The shadows curled around him flared and hissed as the Traveller turned abruptly to the boy, walked, and scrutinised him closely. “Who indeed,” he whispered, mask inches from Colm’s face who could only gape, perplexed that he could not even make out any eyes.

“Why do you wear a mask?” he asked breathlessly.

They both stood, staring at one another. One stooped, the other transfixed. “I guard.”

Back to his trail, “Why are you here? Humans do not stray this far from their path, and would do well to avoid me,” the Traveller grumbled, not understanding why the child was here when so many others would not dare.

“Well, I think I wondered...” The rest of the boy’s sentence faded for the Traveller. Wonder. The word tickled a memory in the dregs of his mind, but he failed to grasp it.

A tug at the edge of his cloak, “Mr Traveller?” The boy watched him strangely but whatever he might have said next was cut off by a sudden gust of wind that blew through the land, whipping up cloak, robes, and hair. Leaves fled, branches scattered as a bite bled into the air, ridding it of any daylight enticement as an unearthly sense came to rest in its place.

Colm’s grip on the fabric grew tighter as his face paled, “I didn’t...didn’t realise it was this dark already,” he breathed. The sun had been setting for a while, casting the sky in hues of red, yellow, and purple as it quickly faded from day to night, and now began to be swallowed by the horizon; beams of dying light giving way to slithering shadows along the forest floor as the pair had trudged on.

The Traveller yanked his cloak free, frowning at the boy whose hand now fell awkwardly, “It is with swiftness that the darkness falls here, you would do well to remember that.”

“What was that?”

There was no response as the Traveller simply gazed off at something.

“I mean, what, what was that wind? You felt it too, didn’t you?” He nervously wrung his wrist, eyes darting around, he shuffled closer to the hulking being. But the Traveller ignored him and turned around, heading back the way they had come as the boy scurried to stay near and keep up with his quickened pace. “Wait for me!”

Colm peeked behind them every so often, fearing what he may see while being unable to resist the pull of something out there. Distant giggling faded in and out, reverberating around the empty world, but nothing could be seen; there was only the light prickle on the back of his neck that set the disquiet of death into his ivory bones.

“Is there something out there?”

A beat. “Mayhaps.”

The forest was filled with a tangible silence now as twilight descended, only broken by the odd hoot of an owl, warding off unwanted visitors. A thick fog oozed in from nowhere, crawling over path and under hill.

“That word. Tell me about that word. Wonder,” the Traveller instructed Colm, not slowing.

The child was bewildered, “What?” then aghast, “You can’t be serious. It’s just something that-that you feel. Like, wow.”

“Explain.”

And so, Colm spent their journey back explaining to the Traveller what wonder was, and when he was done he was asked about curiosity, and then fear.

“But you must get scared, everyone does,” he probed, “I don’t like explaining this one, pick-”

It happened in the blink of an eye. A tendril of fog slunk across the belly of the woods, snatching Colm’s ankle in its numbing, phantom grasp as wraith-like figures appeared in the haze. The boy hit the ground and began to get dragged away. He did not know where to, only that behind him the air was beginning to fill with an ancient malice. Fingertips burning raw, he dug his hands into the soil desperate to find a grip.

“Traveller!”

The Traveller ignored him, mumbling to himself while trekking.

“TRAVELLER!" Tears streamed, a sense of panic overwhelming him as he called for the only one who could help. His cries tore through his chest, “PLEASE!”

The Traveller ignored him again but paused. He stood there, listening to the pleas that made him feel strange, he grunted, turning slightly to see the boy being hauled away. Then, for a reason unbeknownst to himself, he raised his staff high, growing to the size of a bear, before crashing it down to the ground on one knee. Upon impact, a feeling of challenge rippled through the air and his shadows writhed and screamed, flaring dangerously as they lunged outward. All grew quiet once more.

Colm had been dropped. He staggered to his feet, limbs shaking, blinking rapidly. His lungs, shattered with the desperation of his howls now cooled with the fresh intake of night air while his dirtied hands marked his face as he wiped the trickling evidence of his fear. Silver and brown eyes glistening, nose running, the boy was a sad sight. The Traveller walked over to him and knelt.

“You are an intriguing creature; thus, I will answer you one question.”

Hesitancy. Then, “Why do you wear a mask?”

A weary sigh – the most human sound from him all day. “Cursed I am, that is the matter. Dealt a blow of misfortune from the gods. Whosoever looks upon my face is welcomed with greeting in the arms of those passed.” He tapped his mask, “This is my own, I made it, am shackled by it – burdened and forsaken by my love of something that lingers on the edge of memory.” He stood heavily. “It is long since I donned this burden for the sake of that which I cannot recall, but I think once I had those things you spoke of earlier, yes, they were vague, but there.”

Colm watched the Traveller, who watched him back and then set off back on his path. He waited a moment before following after him and clutching a small piece of his large cloak. The Traveller said nothing. Tugging on his sleeve, a dark scar disappearing from view, the boy spoke softly, “I’m cursed too.” The Traveller peered down at the little one whose different-coloured eyes flickered in the pale moonlight, then turned away, grunting, as the two made their way back to the shack.

Arriving, the Traveller went to head in immediately when he was stopped by a voice.

“Can I-?” The boy hesitated, looking down to his feet and then to the door. “Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked quietly, shining eyes turned to look at the Traveller imploringly.

A grunt.

Colm fidgeted, rubbing his wrist, “Can I come tomorrow?”

A moment of silence. Another grunt.

A smile broke out of his face as he moved to hug the Traveller before catching himself, he shifted awkwardly on his feet for a moment as the looming figure watched him curiously, and then darted away from the shack.

“See you tomorrow,” he called from down the winding path as he gradually faded out of sight. “Don’t worry! I remembered the way back.”

The Traveller was confused. He had his books, his fireplace, his staff, his cloak, even his mask, but things felt different, felt odd. His cloak sweeping on the floor, he looked around checking that everything was in its place and pondered for a bit once he confirmed that they were. Why did things now feel empty? Nonetheless, just as it had long ago, the feeling of emptiness soon faded, and the Traveller was left alone with his shadows in the forest that had a way of hushing his hauntings. And yet, sleep was difficult to catch that night.

He waited a bit outside his shack the next day and as he was about to set off his wisps of darkness started to writhe and wail, growing in size. Something was not right. The Traveller stood like ice, listening, but all was silent in the woods, the trees told of no troubles. It was elsewhere.

Staff in hand, he took off towards the village, ducking under branches, dodging past trunks, arriving at the tree line. A fine rain had covered the land and it was a grey day. He stalked into the village, searching for the little boy; those that saw him approaching paused, struck with the fear of his presence made real. His staff thudded rhythmically along the ground as he took in the horror-stricken, hate-filled faces of those he passed, caring nothing of the ill will that plagued his appearance.

Then his eyes caught something, and he came to a stop, fixated with a shape on the ground.

Dead.

The boy was dead.

He lay face down in the dirt, on the path. His body a canvas painted with hues of purple, green and yellow that bled together to form the bruised masterpiece. Underneath the paintwork, his body was tinted blue as raindrops caressed his cold, corpse. He had been dead for a while.

People merely passed around the boy, taking no notice of the small life that had been snuffed out, and that that did appear to see him hissed in their tricksy language about how their harvest would be better now and their village head would recover. The Traveller walked up to Colm, paying to mind to those shuffling to avoid him as he neared, gaping at him. He nudged the body with his staff impassively before kneeling and turning it around so that he could see the boy’s face.

Villagers watched with uncertainty from a little way off – he had been given a wide berth.

His eyes were closed and there were faint bloodstains inked onto his skin leaking from his nose that twisted unpleasantly and dark marks traced the lines of his face.

Horrified by this odd display, the people edged closer.

The Traveller cradled the little corpse, reaching his gloved hand forward clumsily to push a lock of hair behind the boy’s ear and then tenderly open one of his eyes.

They spoke in low voices amongst themselves, some pointing, others praying.

A silvery eye gazed up at him, alone, and the Traveller was reminded of the fleeting look the two had shared in which their souls had muttered in mutual loneliness.

Jeers and taunts arose now as this feared being appeared to show weakness in his gentle handlings of the village boy.

Everything had faded, sounded as if it was underwater. All that he could feel was something deep within him creaking, teetering on the edge, snapping. He lay Colm’s body on the floor, “Shame.”

Standing slowly, he registered those around him, heckling, shouting, cursing, and no longer did he feel something tug at the edge of him. Stepping over the boy, the Traveller reached up to his mask and stripped it from his face, embracing the curse.

Nobody knows what became of Eldham village.

But the trees hold their secrets. They saw. They heard. And they kept it quiet, for the one that had walked with them for so long had buried the boy and disappeared, the mask that had kept the world protected from him for generations lay forgotten alongside the small, nameless grave.

[beevynn]

Weeping of a Wolf

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4821

Summary:  No matter what Geralt calls him, Jaskier isn’t a lark.

Read below or on AO3!

No matter what Geralt calls him, Jaskier isn’t a lark. Not an innocent little songbird who does nothing but twitter through tree branches with a melody in its breast. He can’t be, not when the whites of his teeth are bared and the soft blue that makes up his eyes freeze over. Jaskier isn’t a songbird. He’s a wolf. One that lives the daylight hours in a sheep's skin, bleating a song to a crowd who are none the wiser of the predator in their midst. He warps people's perception of him with a sweet voice that hides the sharpness of his words, elaborate clothing to hide the lithe body underneath, and a ditzy personality to hide a plotting mind. He could handle far more than he let on.

Sometimes Geralt forgets that.

“-a friend of humanity!”

The tavern was filled with the rambunctious cheers of the locale as Jaskier climbed upon a table to sing his last notes to the throng. With a flamboyant flail of his arm, he dipped into a bow gathering the overfilled coin bag at his feet, “My good people of Eldham! You may rest easy knowing the wretched basilisk that has tormented your lives has been slain! Slain by the mighty Geralt of Rivia himself!” Jaskier sent a wink to the solemn figure haunting an empty corner, “Yet tonight is not just a night to celebrate the ending of a monster, but a night to celebrate the men who lost their lives to protect this village before a witcher arrived!”

The crowd roared once more as Jaskier hopped off the table and swiped a tankard of ale from a passing barmaid, “Let the ale flow long and swift,” he proclaimed as he raised the drink, “as we celebrate those brave men!”

With that final proclamation, Jaskier swung his lute across his back and turned to mingle with the people. For a town that had lost serval on their own, they were rather cheery. If he was being completely honest Jaskier didn’t know whether they were usually ones to celebrate life rather than mourn or if they were drinking their grief away. Either way, everyone was very loose with their coin and Jaskier has made more tonight than he has in a very long time.

He felt a bit bad about taking it... Until he realized how much he needed it.

Suddenly Jaskier was jolted forward as a meaty hand seized his shoulder, when he spun around he was met with a disheveled looking man, who’s dull brown hair tangled around broad shoulders.

“Where ya headed, pretty thing? Wouldn’t you like to sing us another song?”

Jaskier smiled and looked into bloodshot gray eyes, “Ah, my good sir. I have already performed a rather extravagant closure. I am done for the night.”

The man belched, sending a foul smell directly Jaskier’s way, and tightened his grip bringing the smaller man closer, “A different kind of performance then. With all that dancing you were doing it's pretty clear all you want is to be shoved down and fucked.”

There was a pause as the people around them grew silent. Everyone watching the altercation between the two closely, but none of them trying to put a stop to it. Not that Jaskier needed the help. With a firm push from the bard, the drunkard stumbled back and landed ass first on a nearby bench. He grumbled and tried to push himself up until a finger was gently tapped against his forehead. When he looked up he was met with a seductive look. Jaskier smiled softly and straddled the man, as he got himself comfortable he pushed locks hair away from a red face and unclasped a few of the buttons on his shirt.

The man grinned and placed clumsy hands on Jaskier’s supple waist, “Ah, you know exactly what you’re made for-”

There was only a flash of silver as a warning as Jaskier whipped his dagger from its resting place and let it rest against chapped lips. There was a struggle until the man froze as Jaskier shoved the better part of the silver stem into his mouth.

Drink glazed eyes met piercing blue.

“Shove? Oh, Darling, I am partial to a bit of shoving,” Jaskier purred as he leaned to put his mouth near the trembling man's ear, “Would you like to know what happens when I shove my pretty little bird deeper down your gullet?”

When the man did nothing but whimper Jaskier hummed and placed a well-manicured hand on a scruffy cheek, “I’ll have you know I don’t take kindly to people grabbing me untowardly, but I am a nice man, I’ll forgive you as long as you apologize.” Jaskier then waited until a sound that resembled an apology escaped around the dagger, “There we go.” He then slowly pulled it out and wiped its spit slick shaft on the man’s tattered shirt. “Have a wonderful night.” With those parting words, Jaskier shifted his weight off of the man and returned his weapon to the hidden pocket in his doublet.

When he spun around Jaskier was met with the sight of Geralt standing frozen just behind him. His body tensed and hands clenched, he looked as if he had been frozen mid lunge. The group of people that had stood near the slight squabble had strayed away. Whatever self-preservation instincts they had forced them to move away from the sight of an angered witcher. The air in that corner of the tavern had grown heavy with a feeling that they couldn’t deduce. It was understandable that they fled.

There was a fluttering feeling deep within Jaskier’s stomach as he sauntered the few steps between himself and his witcher. He then linked his arm with Geralt’s and escorted him away from the scene, ignoring the whispers that erupted around them.

“Now, now, Geralt. There was no reason for you to unseat yourself. I can handle a small scale ruffian on my own, you know this.”

Jaskier chuckled when the response he was given was a harsh grunt. He licked his lips and watched as Geralt’s eyes, dark with expanded pupils, followed its path. It seemed that Geralt had forgotten just why he had gotten up, he had been sufficiently distracted. The relationship between the bard and witcher had been steeped in mutual attraction since the first time they encountered one another, and it had only grown into something more since then. While Jaskier seemed to permeate their everyday life with his Geralt’s only ever broke through his well-fortified walls during instances like this. Jaskier lived for them. The moments reminded Jaskier that his feelings were not one-sided. That even though Geralt refused to acknowledge them they existed. Jaskier just hoped they are as strong as his own and that Geralt would come clean about them soon.

As Jaskier continued to lead Geralt away he passed a tip to the innkeeper, mumbling an apology about the quarrel. He then made his way up the creaky steps, Geralt still silent by his side. When they made it to the room Jaskier unwound his arm and shut the door with a satisfying bang.

“Well, that was a rather eventful night, wasn’t it?” Not waiting for a response Jaskier took his lute from his shoulders and placed it lovingly on the chest of drawers already cluttered with his belongings. “I haven’t had to unsheathe in quite some time. It’s good to know I’ve still got it.”

As he began organizing his possessions he shot a glance at the man who continued to stand still at the doorway. Geralt's nostrils flared with each carefully calculated breath and his golden eyes did not move from where they watched Jaskier flutter around.

“Fuck.”

Jaskier slowed what he was doing and watched as Geralt slowly lost whatever battle he had been having with himself. Geralt's eyes slammed shut and his chest heaved with a breath he held before releasing it with a shaky whoosh. When he reopened them they were pleading.

“I can't do this any longer.”

The witcher then moved forward, his steps slow and cautious as he approached Jaskier, who had completely paused as he watched Geralt. When he stood in front of the bard Geralt let himself fall roughly to his knees and pressed his face into the fine silks that covered Jaskier’s stomach. He took a moment to just breathe in the scent of the man. Underneath the false floral smell Jaskier spritzed himself with daily was the one that never failed to drive Geralt crazy. It was a smell that Geralt could easily follow, even if he was half-blind and delusional from a fight gone wrong. Sunshine and happiness. It was hard to describe it but a majority of the time Jaskier smells like some omnipotent being plucked a flare from the sun, gave happiness a smell, and bundled it together, creating the bard known as Jaskier. Every time Geralt smelled it his body felt as if it were being closely held and the darkness behind his eyes blazed with the brightest shade of yellow.

Geralt was brought out of his reflection when he felt his chin being cupped and his face being urged to look upward. He was met with Jaskier smiling tenderly.

“Is this it then, Geralt? Are we finally taking the leap?”

Geralt huffed and nodded.

Jaskier smiled, “Good.”

With that said Jaskier crouched in front of the kneeling man, not breaking the eye contact between the two of them. When he had settled he brought his other hand up to fully cup Geralt's face, running his thumbs softly over the groove under Geralt's eyes. They continued resting like that in silence, no noise in the room other than the breathing of the two men. Once slow and soft, and the other rapid and shallow.

Jaskier closed his eyes and placed his forehead against Geralt’s, “Finally.”

Jaskier softly pressed his lips to Geralt’s, and it seemed that was all that needed to be done to set him off. As soon as Geralt felt the pressure of Jaskier’s lips on his own it was as if someone had cut the wire holding him taunt. His bones turned liquid and he slumped forward into the kiss. He was frantic in the way he clawed at Jaskier, almost begging for him not to stop. He grunted when he felt Jaskier lean back.

“Come. Let’s move this to the bed.”

Jaskier helped Geralt stand on shaking legs and moved them towards the closer of the two beds in the room. He had him sit on the edge of the bed and widen his legs so Jaskier could have space to stand. Then he kissed Geralt again. This time putting as much passion in it as he possibly could.

Geralt groaned when he felt Jaskier breach his lips and caress the roof of his mouth with his tongue. He quivered as fingers firmly clasped his silver locks and positioned his head right where they wanted it. The dual sensation of pleasure and pain rushed through his body as his cock leaked in his trousers. When soft lips were removed from his own he chased after, trying to return them to their rightful place. They had been taken away from him once, he didn’t want that to happen again.

Breathing heavily, Jaskier stroked the bridge of Geralt's nose, “Alas, I am a simple human, and sadly, that means I am forced to breathe more often than someone who has been made to be so much more than I.”

Geralt shook his head, he wasn’t more than Jaskier. How could he, as tainted as he is, be more than the child of actual sunshine. It was bad enough that he was corrupting Jaskier with his destroying touch. He could practically feel his darkness eating away at Jaskier’s light, selfish in the way it tried to bury itself in the warmth.

Jaskier’s soft expression transformed into something sterner as he watched Geralt get lost in his thoughts. He knew that face. Though it remained fixed in its regular stoicism Jaskier could tell every time Geralt started his self-deprecating thoughts. One’s eyes tell no lies.

“Where have you gone, Geralt? I do expect you to stay here, in this moment, when I am with you.”

This broke Jaskier’s heart, the fact that Geralt felt so undeserving of love. Undeserving of any niceties. That this man, and he is a man, no matter what mutation he has been through, felt like a lesser being. Jaskier has seen him give what little food he had to a street urchin, though he himself had not eaten in days. Has watched as he took stone after stone from the ungrateful fools that threw them. All the while screaming monster, as if they weren’t the monsters themselves. Though Jaskier never fails to try to throw himself at the closest perpetrator he is always held back by a steel arm.

They don’t understand, Jaskier. Let them be.

If the rest of this night goes as Jaskier plans he will forevermore happily disregard those words.  

Jaskier pressed a gentle kiss to Geralt’s cheek and asked if he could stand once more. When the answer was given by Geralt silently rising Jaskier smiled and said two words: good boy.  

A reaction happened immediately, a jarring shudder rushed through Geralt’s body as he took a sharp breath. Jaskier brushed his nose against the pulse point on Geralt’s neck and could feel the thrumming of his heart. It was beating the same pace as Jaskier’s own does when he luxuriates. For the witcher that was practically racing.  

While Jaskier yearned to throw the witcher down and show him just how much he cared he knew he had to take it slow. He wanted to take it slow. He wanted to run the softest of touches down every scar, followed by the gentlest of kisses. Take hours to massage each knot that burrowed its way into the witcher’s body, praising the man for all his good doings. Geralt is a savior that walks the same path as regular men. He deserves to be cared for. He deserves to be worshiped.  

Jaskier will do just that.  

“Geralt, may I undress you?”  

Geralt’s lips pursed with a steadying breath and he nodded, “Please, Jask...I-I.”

Jaskier calmly shushed Geralt and took a calming breath of his own. Never has he heard Geralt stutter, not able to find the words. He slowly undid the buttons that held Geralt's shirt together, kissing every inch of skin that was exposed to him. He then let steady fingers pull the end of the shirt from where it was tucked into Geralt's trousers, bringing it over his head and allowing the wolf medallion he war to fall loose and rest itself on the fuzz of Geralt's chest hair. Throwing the shirt behind him Jaskier then began on the buttons that lined the front of Geralt's pants, and in one fell swoop ridding Geralt of both them and his smallclothes. He skipped his attention over the half hard cock that swung between muscle bound thighs and urged Geralt to lift each foot so he could gather the pants and toss them to join the crumpled shirt.  

Then Geralt was left to stand bare in all his naked splendor. He was stunning. Jaskier, of course, knew that, being the one to practically force Geralt into the nearest body of water to bathe. He usually always took a peak, he was only human, but there was something different about the fact that this time it was Jaskier’s own hands that stripped the witcher of his clothing. It was intimate in a way the two of them had never been.  

“Lie down, Geralt. On your back if you would.”

Geralt quickly followed the command as he had been trained to do. He let his head rest on one pillow and held his arms rigidly at his sides, lost in his head once more as the bard moved away. He wanted Jaskier, he wanted him so badly he felt as if he could crawl out of his own skin. Yet, he was frightened. As much as he hated to admit it he was terrified of what was to come. Not of Jaskier, never of Jaskier. That man could shatter Geralt with an ease no other being that walked this world could, but that wasn’t what scared Geralt. Jaskier could never, would never, bring harm to him.  

It was Geralt that could hurt Jaskier.

It was Geralt who had hurt Jaskier. He would give anything to take those words he spoke atop that damned mountain away. Anything. While he had said his words of apology the consequences of his actions still haunted their relationship. Jaskier’s eyes dimmed anytime Yennefer was mentioned, and he withdrew into himself anytime Geralt turned towards him in anger. Even with Jaskier trying his best to hide it Geralt could always tell. It was the only time Jaskier’s smell became sharp with the pungent scent of decay and the thick feeling of sludge coated the back of Geralt's tongue.  

Geralt loved Jaskier so much. It was easy to admit it to himself. And it was because Geralt's love for Jaskier was so strong he kept a barrier between the two. Jaskier was delicate and he didn’t deserve the curse that was Geralt's love to be cast upon him.  

But Geralt was weak. Especially today.  

It was rare for Jaskier to be forced to defend himself. Most folk were too scared to touch the bard that traveled with the white wolf. It was also few and far between that someone was stupid enough to put their hands on Jaskier in the witcher’s presence. Still it happens, it happened tonight. Jaskier was glorious in the way he handled himself. Seeing Jaskier put someone in their place always caused a small bundle of hope to form in Geralt's heart. It reminded him just how strong Jaskier was and whispered to him that Jaskier could handle anything that Geralt threw at him. Usually Geralt could tell that feeling to piss off and shove it aside but something had happened to shake Geralt’s defenses.  

When Geralt rose that morning he was met with the sight of Jaskier’s sleep soft face. The bard had rolled off his bedroll and had somehow wormed his way against Geralt without waking him. All Geralt could do was revel in the feeling of Jaskier’s body as thought after thought of what they could be slammed into his consciousness. It caused Geralt physical pain to move away from Jaskier instead of taking him into his arms.  

Geralt had ran to the nearest town, hoping they had a job he could distract himself with. He was lucky they had a basilisk issue. The fight served its purpose for a while, but all his feelings came rushing back when he saw Jaskier entertaining the crowd. Chestnut hair tousled, and eyes gleaming as he sang. The sun had gifted him fresh freckles and they practically sparkled whenever Jaskier twirled through a beam of light that bled through the cracked wood of the ceiling. He was beautiful.  

Geralt had tried to drown his thoughts in ale, but then he was watching as someone forced themselves onto Jaskier. He quickly made his way over but had frozen when Jaskier proved he could take care of himself. He knew he had lost the battle when Jaskier led him to their shared room.  

Now this was happening.

It seemed that Jaskier had stripped himself of most of his clothes and was left in only his underthings as he sat beside Geralt, watching the man. When Geralt looked at him he smiled and gestured with a small vial of oil that was in his hand.  

“You need to relax Geralt,” He said as he removed the cork, “How about a massage?”

Jaskier then poured a small amount of the oil in his hands and rubbed them together to warm it. He then took hold of Geralt's clenched sword hand and began massaging into it, kneading the stiffness away and working the oil into the tough skin. Before he moved his touch upwards he kissed the open palm.  

“You have used this hand to save countless lives. Including my own.” Jaskier nuzzled his cheek into it, “I am honored to be able to hold it like this.” He then let go of the hand to rub against Geralt's arm. “You’ve trained tirelessly to better your reflexes. It had been an honor to be able to watch.” He then straddled Geralt's lower stomach and pressed his ear to Geralt's chest, where his heart was. “This beats to keep a wonderful man alive.” Jaskier then looked at Geralt, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It is an honor to be able to listen to it.”  

Geralt shook his head and quietly murmured, “It shouldn’t be. There is nothing about me that you should be grateful for.”  

Jaskier caught Geralt's lips with his own for a slow kiss, “I am grateful for everything about you. I adore you.” A laugh bubble from his chest as he shook his head, “How can I not when you radiate even though you shroud yourself with shadows? You have such a beautiful light, Geralt. Disagree with me all you like, I know it to be true.”  

Geralt quivered and his eyes began to burn, with each word Jaskier cut deep. Releasing something trapped within binds Geralt doesn’t even remember tying. Jaskier’s silver tongue waxed poetry about everything Geralt found undesirable about himself. His eyes, his hair, even his teeth. It became very apparent why Jaskier was known widely as one of the most renowned bards. He weaved such believable stories.  

Jaskier raised his head from where it was buried in Geralt's chest, an earnest look on his face. “I’m going to take care of you, Geralt. For as long as my heart beats. Starting today.”

Jaskier then kissed down Geralt's chest, licking over the raised scars that littered it as he went. He dipped his tongue into the divot of Geralt's navel before nipping at each hip bone. As he did that his breath ghosted over Geralt's softened cock, triggering it to twitch back to life. He took the hardened length into his hand and licked away the bead of precum that had gathered on the tip. Geralt's cock was as impressive as the man himself. Jaskier felt the corners of his mouth strain as he sucked the tip. With a few calming breaths he inhaled the entirety of Geralt, causing the man to moan and arch his back. Rough hands grasped at Jaskier’s hair, but the pressure was removed as soon as it had come as Geralt had jerked his hands back and pressed them over his mouth.  

Jaskier hummed as he relaxed his throat, allowing the last of Geralt's cock to ease into his mouth, the entire length resting heavily on his tongue. He closed his eyes and scented the heady smell of Geralt as his nose rested against the wiry hairs on his pelvic bone. Jaskier was in no rush, all he did was hold Geralt's cock in his mouth, swallowing the fluids that pooled together regularly. Eyes still closed, Jaskier slid his hands up Geralt's body until he bumped into the bony points of elbows. He grabbed them and tugged, urging Geralt to remove his hands from his face and instead weave them into Jaskier’s hair.  

The weight of Geralt's cock and the firm grasp on his hair caused Jaskier’s prick to swell within his pants. He had been half hard the moment Geralt fell to his knees in front of him, but the act of bringing the man pleasure brought about his full arousal swiftly. Jaskier moaned and opened his eyes, meeting Geralt’s. He did not let his gaze falter as he tightened the ring of his lips and slowly dragged them up, using a hand to stroke every exposed inch as it left his mouth. He continued this pattern, of sucking and stroking, until the hands in his hair twitched and the thighs framing his head tensed. Those actions signified the time for Jaskier to stop. He allowed the cock to fall free from his mouth, resulting in a whine from the witcher.  

“I’m not going to stop,” Jaskier said as he stroked the cock at a leisurely pace. Enough to keep arousal, but not enough to bring about completion. “I’m going to give you more.

Geralt bit his lip and tried his best to keep his eyes locked with Jaskier’s. The minstrel's hand felt heavy on him, the mixed feeling of soft palms and rough fingertip caused him to release sounds he would usually be embarrassed of. He almost shouted when the additional pleasure of Jaskier sucking one of his heavy balls into his mouth was added.  

There was a slight pressure at his entrance.  

“Has anyone ever touched you here, dear heart?”

Geralt shook his head at the question. While he has had many lovers in his lifetime none of them took interest in him that way. They had been sufficiently distracted. Geralt himself never thought of it during sex. The only time it had ever been brought up was with Yennefer, but the look in her eyes didn’t send a heat of arousal up his spine like the one in Jaskier’s did. If he was being honest it had caused his arousal to wane. He wasn’t afraid to admit Yennefer intimidated him.  

“May I touch you here?”

This time Geralt nodded, almost frenetically. He readied himself to allow Jaskier to breach him but found himself shocked when instead of blunt fingers touching him it was a warm tongue circling his puckered hole. He threw his head back with a hiss as he felt the tongue curl into him and widened his legs to allow Jaskier better access. When the broad edge was pressed against him in a sloppy, opened-mouthed kiss, his hips jolted involuntarily. He felt rather than saw Jaskier fumble for the oil that had been disregarded by his side. When a slick finger pressed against his hole he melted, allowing it to slowly sink into him.  

“Jaskier!” Geralt panted, as he canted his hips, begging, hoping for more.  

A second digit joined the first and the tongue returned, sliding between the fingers with a loud slurp. There was a moment of stillness given to Geralt before he felt the fingers curl. Then suddenly his whole being felt as if he had been struck by lightning. Each tremor that quaked him came from a place deep within his body that Geralt did not know existed. He had never felt pleasure like this, it was dizzying. He could hardly breathe as he was bombarded with the overwhelming force of Jaskier’s attention.  

Jaskier firmly clasped the base of Geralt cock as he continued to massage Geralt's prostate. He watched fondly as Geralt writhed in pleasure, furrowed brow glistening with a sheen of sweat, bottom lip chewed raw with a sharper than normal canine. The man was an absolute vision when he allowed himself to bask in pleasure instead of using it as a means to an end. Jaskier could compose sonnet after sonnet about him, this person who seemed to encapsulate the beauty of both the sun and the moon. Jaskier loved him so much his soul ached.  

Love.  

Jaskier huffed at himself. After all this time he still hasn't said those seemingly simple words out loud. He has told Geralt countless times that he cared for him or that he would follow him until the end of time, but his deeper feelings always remained hidden, tucked behind the sweet words of songs. Geralt probably has no clue, as dense as the man is, of just how strongly Jaskier feels for him.  

“I love you.”

Jaskier suddenly felt lighter as he said those words, and couldn’t stop the beaming smile that stretched across his face.  

“I love you so much.”

Geralt's eyes sprang open and he searched Jaskier’s face, scanning for any hint of deception or regret. When he found none he felt something in his chest collapse and reached desperately for Jaskier. He ignored the sudden empty feeling as Jaskier’s fingers left him and gathered the smaller man to him, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s waist. He felt a sob try to claw its way out of his throat as hot tears leaked from his eyes. When he buried his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck he was hit with the pure scent of Jaskier’s love, he could no longer hold himself back and a deep, broken howl tore from him. He felt arms wrap around him and a soft voice let him know it would be alright, that he could let everything go.  

And so Geralt let himself be shattered.

[greatmar2]

The Small Town of Eldham

Happy Birthday @arcalika ! :D

A tale of a small town in the middle of nowhere. 

2435 words

Read on Dragon Press

The small town of Eldham was both well-known and held little interest for anyone. The nearest king didn't even bother sending ambassadors to declare his sovereignty. The town had sprung up beside a well-passaged road - many travellers and merchants slept within the inns and browsed the farmer’s market, but none of them stayed nor set up shop.

Well, almost no-one. The locals were few enough in number that they knew each other, and knew when some youngster decided to try their luck at big city life, which one of the butcher’s sons did last year - or when the rare traveller decided to join their ranks, such as Old Man Roran.

The folk of Eldham were not sophisticated - what little currency merchants left them with was often pooled together to buy supplies essential to the upkeep and running of the town and its inns. If there were no inns, there would be no business - and the small town of Eldham would be forgotten.

Unfortunately, as is with many roads in these times, bandits and highwaymen abounded. The small town of Eldham had had to hope that the wealthy merchants travelling to or from Golssam brought enough of their own guards - for the town’s meagre defences and self-trained guards stood little chance against any determined raiders.

That is until Old Man Roran arrived several years ago. He spoke with an accent unknown to the townsfolk of Eldham. He did not like to talk about himself much, but the villagers had pieced together some of his story. His still-strong build despite his age and his battle-scars spoke volumes on their own.

He had spent his first few months in the town drinking to the point that the innkeepers had had to source alcohol from passing merchants. The villagers were not fond of him, but he did not disturb them overly much and he supplied them with coin, so they tolerated him.

Things changed the night he broke down. At first innkeeper Johan was preparing to throw him out until he sobered up, until he realised that this was not a drunken rage but a drunken mourning. Johan led the drunk to the room he rented and spoke to him - partially out of concern for the previously stoic old man and partially in the hopes of learning more about his past.

Gossip of what was said quickly spread through the town. These rumours, although not the most accurate, gave the villagers an idea of his past and softened their hearts to him.

As many had already been certain of, he came from a far-off kingdom. The gossip varied greatly on what exactly he had once done for a living, but the townspeople knew what had brought that to a stop: thieves had killed his wife when he was not there to defend her. Sometimes he had had children, sometimes he had only a wife. He tracked down the thieves and killed them, each telling of the story added more creative methods of killing. Some say that upon returning home once his bloodlust was sated, he found something precious that his wife had hidden. But the empty home was too painful, so he travelled. Various recitations of the story told about how he crossed kingdoms, barren wildernesses and navigated much of the known world in search of somewhere he could call home - only to find himself still restless. Eventually, he had arrived at Eldham, bordered by deep forests on one side and mountains that touched the sky on the other, and had given up his search and fallen to drink.

Before returning to his duty as inn host, Johan had told the old man that anyone who could contribute to the town was welcome. To Johan’s surprise, he found Roran’s room empty in the morning. The old man was not seen in the town for a couple of weeks, but he was eventually spotted returning to the town with a determined look on his face. He spoke to the elders and offered to help the good people of Eldham defend themselves from the increasing bandit activity. After some discussion and him conceding that his only pay would be lodging in an inn and free food, they agreed.

He spent the following months training the town’s few guards, recruiting a few more, overseeing major overhauls to the town fortifications, and also eating more food than Johan thought possible.

Eldham quickly saw the benefits of Roran’s work. The defences, more skilled guards, and Roran's fierce fighting in the town's defence quickly made it clear to raiders that this town was no longer a soft target. Attacks on the central town ceased soon enough - but it became clear that travellers and the village’s farmers were still having issues, albeit somewhat lessened. Roran began setting up patrols, but they were not very effective due to how little population Eldham could spare for its defence. He would have to settle for having made the core town a safer place.

Nonetheless, the bandit attacks steadily decreased in frequency and the villagers were grateful for his help. Eventually, the elders donated some land to him and the town came together to help him build something he could finally call home again. With this act, he was considered part of the village.

This was all years ago. Although Roran spent large amounts of time out of town, presumably on patrol for signs of bandit activity using his astounding tracking skills, when he was in town he worked hard and made himself a valued member of the community. He soon joined the town elders in decision making, considering his wizened age and considerable contributions to the town.

Tonight, the town was buzzing. Activity had been increasing over the past few weeks. The people who now overflowed the inns were not ordinary travellers or merchants - they were knights and their entourages. There were tents pitched outside town and the occasional knightly quarry.

What could cause all this excitement, you may ask? Well, one of the town guard patrols claimed to have had spotted a dragon. Although this claim seemed ludicrous, as dragons had been exceedingly rare for many generations, the patrol members were trustworthy and nothing could stop rumours from spreading. Those rumours eventually reached the ears of travellers and merchants, who spread them yet further. Despite there being no other sightings from trustworthy sources, supposed evidence of dragons came out of the woodwork. Once the first knight arrived, this attracted the attention of others. Eventually, it became a sort of competition to see who could find the dragon first and claim its loot. Even some poets and bards appeared, searching for source material.

Weeks of search parties turned up empty handed - even the town guards’ search parties found nothing. Interest would begin to wane, but every now and then a search party would vanish - reigniting the excitement and focusing searches in that area.

At nights, the inns and taverns were jam-packed. Knights were sharing discoveries and looking for hints that might give them an advantage over their competitors. Villagers also participated in this somewhat but were more there to devour and spread any gossip of what the knights found.

On this particular night in Johan’s inn, one of the patrol group who had spotted the dragon was again being questioned by a newly-arrived by a knight. This knight was somewhat different to the others - his family had cultivated the reputation of being dragon-slayers. Despite not having killed a dragon since his grandfather’s time due to the decline in the beasts’ appearances, this still lent Lord Dellworth the air of an accomplished fighter.

“I swear, Tom and I saw it bright as day.”

“How come it did not see you?”

“We know how to move stealthily through the forest and when to not get too close, you can take my word for it.”

“Hmf. And how big was it? Please save the exaggerations for the poets.”

“Not all that big. Its shoulder height was probably a little greater than a horse’s.”

“Oh… that’s fairly small. It must be only several years old. I doubt this beast has accumulated enough wealth to be worth all the rah-rah, especially if it has spent all its time in these parts.”

“You’re welcome to leave it to us, Lord Dellworth,” piped up another wealthy knight - Lord Hemington. “I've lost a squad - all seasoned fighters. No way a monster that small could have got them. I think there is a bigger fish to fry.”

“Hmm, my family did observe in the past that younger dragons are occasionally watched over by what is presumably their parents. My apologies Lord Hemington, I think I shall stay.”

“No need to apologise. I believe it would be in the spirit of healthy sportsmanship for me to share information. Additionally, if we were to work together somewhat, this could also be of a benefit to our - and our men’s health.”

The whole inn seemingly quieted and collectively leaned in to hear what was being said.

“Yes, I must say that the ‘competition’ the lesser knights have been holding here had been rather counter-productive.”

“I concur. So, the squad that I mentioned? They were searching in the direction of the mountains. A later squad found charred rock and shrubbery, but I have no means to confirm what caused this. I imagine that your family’s ‘research’ has discovered that dragons prefer to live in caves?”

“Yes, but the peasant here says he saw the creature in the forest.”

“Dragons are mobile creatures!” Added a sundry knight.

“But the most reported disappearances I have heard of were in the direction of the mountains,” countered Hemington. He turned back to Dellworth. “I say we search more systematically than the hodgepodge that has preceded us.”

“The mountains are dangerous for anyone not prepared,” warned Old Man Roran. “If this is the dragon rather than naivety, it could be doing this on purpose to lead you astray. I’ve also led parties that way and we’ve found nothing.”

“Indeed…” muttered Dellworth, “They are remarkably intelligent for beasts. Has anyone drawn up a map of the area?”

A map was offered to the knight by another, and the rest of the evening was spent planning search patterns. It seemed that the knights, at least those present, were finally planning on working together.

The following morning, the town was woken by shouting watchmen. Groggy-eyed knights and soldiers emerged from the inns and tents, trying to find out what the commotion was about. They soon discovered it for themselves.

A massive golden dragon - far taller than a house - easily stepped over the town walls and, with massive strides, soon arrived at the centre of town. Only utter shock, at the sudden appearance of the quarry they had spent weeks searching for, and the sheer size of said quarry, prevented a fair number of knights taking up their swords and charging to their deaths. Though they quickly started gathering the courage to do so.

The dragon’s scales glittered like freshly-minted coins in the morning sun, fitting together to make the strongest chainmail. Its wings were furled sails, and its horns the finest ivory. Fire burned in its eyes and its belly. Yet, it was not without flaw. There were chips on its horns, chinks in its chainmail and scars on its wings. Those shining eyes also held great age and a weathered countenance. This dragon had fought before.

“Knights!” The dragon called in a voice so powerful and deep, vibrations could be felt in the knights’ equipment. “It is clear to me that you do not wish to cease your search for me. Your hearts are full of the greed your stories so often depict us as having. Let it be known: I have no treasure for you monsters. Not unless you were to kill, butcher and sell me like barbarians. I protect my offspring and I protect the small town of Eldham along with the good people who reside within it. Any who wish to do harm to either shall face my wrath. If, having heard there is no mountain of gold, you have set your gluttonous eyes on me - you are welcome to do battle with me. There is a large clearing in the forest half a day’s march from here. Head southeast until you find a stream, then follow it downriver until you find yourself at the edge of the clearing. I shall wait there for three days for any who wish to challenge me. After this, I expect you to abscond from here or swear upon your honour that you shall become defenders of Eldham. Be warned, however, ye who wish to battle me. I am not unpracticed in fighting humans, Dellworth.” That last, pointed, statement being said, it took a deep breath and spewed a pillar of intense flame skyward, causing all those nearby to shield their faces from the heat. It then unfurled its wings, leapt to the air and flew away - the downward wind knocking over all the knights who had been slowly approaching. The dragon swiftly flew away, vanishing from sight surprisingly quickly.

The dragon had struggled with the enunciation of the human vocabulary, but its message was clear. The town sat in silence for some time in the dragon’s wake, before erupting into debate.

Tales of what happened next are not all in agreement. Some say that most of the Knights quietly and cowardly dispersed with only a few fighting the dragon. Others say that they all banded together to attack the dragon. Yet more claim that the village elders decided it would be beneficial to have a dragon as the town’s guardian, and drove the greedy knights out of the town.

Where the stories do agree is that the Dellworth family line ended in flames the next day. Two days following that, the small town of Eldham officially accepted the dragon and its children as their guardians. Protectors that defended their treasure fiercely. In the decades following that, the town became not so small, a lot more scholarly and a centre of trade rather than a forgettable pause on the trade route. His job now taken care of, Roran said his farewells to the town - saying it was high time to see his kids. Very soon Eldham was no longer a worthless settlement that King Dezari could ignore and, seeing the benefits reaped so far, he decided it would be mutually beneficial to declare the dragon an earl of the kingdom.

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Hendral

the open nation of Hendral is ruled by a small council and a king, this nation is made up of an alliance of five or so small kingdoms that have banned together to protect each other, the council is made of of several races, the Talwin elves, the Brandel halflings, the Corbin's who are human, Feldran Tabaxi. This nation is the main defense against the demon invasions and its capital is Vera Mundus. Hendral borders Veraldin, Sehlean and the Republic of Praetus to the south.

Vera Mundus- Small villages: Lunar mills- lumber village in northern Hendral under the dominion of the Corbin's. This village is a major exporter of lumber and is widely traveled for its famous wood work and Moonmarrow brew. Glanchester- northern Hendral Home of the Corbins and First port of Hendral. A sprawling port city governed by the Barons of the north where a large majority of the Hendral Navy is being stationed.

Edinborourgh- Northwestern port city ruled by the Corbins, a trade center for Northern Hendral that has trade routes with Ahm’serrin the port city of Sehlean and Farfair of Praetus.

Eastcliff- northern Hendral village under the dominion of the Corbins, viewed as a cultural center of the nation second only to Vera Mundus Itself, know for it’s vast foods, art and strange festivals.

Talywick- village in western Hendral under the dominion of the Talwin Elves, home to the estate of the Seveon family and main base of operations of Seveon Spellworks.

Farnfoss-Western village under the dominion of the Talwin Elves, popular land for Druids and rangers of all kinds because of the vast grove of witchwood trees and Arcatan trees, known for its vast harvest and rumored to contain a portal to a different plane.

Falkirk- Western village under the dominion of the Talwin Elves, home to many seedy individuals this town is ruled mainly by the vast syndicate known as the Cross Co. a company that runs many casinos and various other dubious business.

Glanyrafon- western Hendral under the rule of the Feldran Tabaxi

Skegness- Eastern village under the rule of the Feldran Tabaxi

Everport- Eastern village under the rule of the Feldran Tabaxi

Rivergrove- Training ground village ruled by the Feldran Tabaxi

Eldham- southern village under the watch of the Brandel Halflings, this village is quaint and home to rolling hills and farms filled with small houses as well as a few large ones but this town is mostly populated by small folk such as halflings. Pathstow- Southern village under the watch of the Brandel Halflings, a small town on the way to a fortress this village is often moved through by Military forces and as such is often used for training and many competitions. Sharpton- Southeastern village under the watch of the Brandel Halflings home to the Foundry, a small group that gives out jobs to adventures.

Fayburn- small farming village under direct protection of the High king of Hendral. A major producer of food and product for the Capital of Vera Mundus.

Silverwater- Large archive of knowledge watched by the Arcanum council and governed by the High king of Hendral. Home to the Arcanum Archives where the largest gathering of knowledge mystical or otherwise is located in Hendral second only to The Arcanum Council and academy in Vera Mundus. Fortresses: Bows shallow- Hendral fortress on the board to Veraldin

Shalefury- Hendral fortress on the border to Sehlean

Anvilhead- Hendral Fortress on the border to Veraldin

Irongarde- Hendral fortress on the border to the Republic of Praetus

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Leefside Island Locations

Torrine is the largest city on Leefside Island, having been founded by Captain Glynwynn Leef 255 years ago under the command of King Anghor of Hollbeck. Captain Leef came from the country of Crull - southeast of the island - and once word was spread of the cluster of islands, other explorers quickly followed, and soon various other settlements arose. While Torrine does have a large port, it is used exclusively to house fishing boats, and it is very rare for anyone to travel back to the mainland. Torrine is a very busy city and it’s very well kept. The citizens rely heavily on the fishing industry, as well as on its many markets.

The Wallowdale Wastes were once a settlement created by pirates who had also come from the mainland. They had tried conquering Torrine, but were unsuccessful, and now Wallowdale lies in ruins, only home to the occasional thieves and bandits. But with the arrival of the pillars, monsters have now also taken over, and roam throughout the Flatlands.

Blue Field lies close to the Landbryde Mt. Range, and was created after the construction of a tunnel through the mountains. The citizens have been known to heavily tax travellers who want to take a short cut through the Fallkirk Tunnel to the market town of Newham.

Porthcawl is a rather secluded city as it is dangerous to pass through Foolshope Forest - especially without a guide. It relies heavily on farming, and thus has suffered quite a lot since the arrival of the pillars which have destroyed much of the land as toxins from a nearby pillar have poisoned it.

The Rocks are appropriately named uninhabited rock formations off the coast of Porthcawl. They are dangerous to navigate through, though at one point were used as a place of exile for criminals and the terminally ill.

Arkeny and Blue Field have been in cahoots since the construction of Fallkirk Tunnel. The small settlement is at the end of the Landbryde Mt. Range, and make passage through very difficult, trying to redirect people through Fallkirk Tunnel and charge them for entry. Blue Field shares their earnings with Arkeny as neither settlement has a very lucrative industry of their own.

Forstford is a very desolate and barren settlement at the edge of the Midlands. It once was more successful, but after the eruption of Spire Volcano fifteen years ago, many of its citizens were forced to abandon the town. Those who remain have done so simply for a chance to mine the steep mountains of the Midlands for valuable ore. There is also the Mountain Path that starts in Forstford which is a trail that leads up the mountain to the Midlands. It is much easier to traverse the path than to approach the Midlands from anywhere else.

Newham is a very popular market city. It sees many people come and go all day everyday, and very few people actually remain permanently in Newham for long.

Middlesbrough is less a village and more a port that allows passage to Wombourne Island. There are less than 30 permanent residents.

The Ashborne Ruins were once better known as the village of Bellmoral, and it is shrouded with mystery. Somehow, overnight, the village’s entire population went missing, and the village was destroyed. Some thought it may be the result of the volcano - hence the new name ‘Ashborne Ruins’, nut no one knows for certain.

Doveport may be the largest settlement on Wombourne Island, but it’s nowhere near as large as the cities on the mainland. Those who live on Doveport are rather reluctant to get involved in any conflicts on the mainland, and people seeking a quieter lifestyle move to Wombourne and Llyn.

Swindon is much like Arkeny in that its inhabitants make passage through the Swamplands very difficult. Given that their land is already nearly impossible to farm in and they refuse to use resources from the nearby Archmouth Forest, they don’t have much agriculture to rely on. And so, prices are high in Swindon, and you’d better be prepared to pay a pretty penny in order to use their bridges.

Dalry - is a highly religious settlement. The church of Silvanus in Dalry has a huge influence on the village, and they are known for being very exclusive of newcomers. They are extremely protective of the Archmouth Forest which they believe to be home to a forgotten sacred temple. However, those who have issues travelling through Swindon may find it easier to travel by ferry in Dalry.

Farwater is home to some of the best healers on the Island of Leefsidegiven how the Archmouth Forest is home to highly magical plants full of medicinal properties. And while those in Farwater have no problem harvesting these plants from the Archmouth Forest, the people of Dalry and Swindon are both highly against this, and thus there have been high tensions between the settlements.

Burnabbe Island is a whole island for Presley’s character because he wanted to be a greedy greedy man.

Eldham is quite a rowdy city known for throwing lots of parties. It is a gambling town, and thus sees its fair share of violence from pub fights to brawls in the streets. Overall, it can be quite a dangerous place to stay.

Wandermere Camp is a settlement that appeared shortly after the arrival of the monsters, as it is one of their primary camps on the island. Going anywhere near it is risky unless you’re prepared to fight your way through.

Things to Know

Since King Anghor instructed the exploration of the Warcester Isles, his rule extends to Leefside. A Lord was appointed by him to Torrine (Lord Holden), and is in charge of government on the island (the equivalent of a president), while other cities and towns have mayors who are elected by the townspeople.

The most popular deity worshipped on the island today is Bahamut, although, Silvanus - worshipped in the Swamplands, and Pelor - worshipped in the Flatlands are also practiced. Overall however, those devoted to religion are rather scarce these days.

The mainland (the giant continent to the southeast of the Warcester Isles) has had a huge problem with overpopulation, war, and famine. So the King of the country Crull (King Anghor) sent Captain Leef 255 years ago to search for new land for the more noble / wealthy families to move to.

Leefside Island was once known as Naporia - which meant Bountiful in Old Common. Those who were living on the island before Captain Leef arrived and began colonizing spoke Old Common, while now the most popular language is Common. Those who speak Old Common were known as the natives, although they too at one point were immigrants from the mainland several hundred years before Captain Leef arrived.

Before the arrival of the giant floating island, there were no monsters.

For the most part, the newcomers and the natives got along quite well and worked together to better each other’s settlements. There were a few disputes over where the newcomers were allowed to settle, but overall the integration has been quite peaceful. 

Life on the island before the arrival of the floating island (known as “The Descending”) was pretty great for most people. There wasn’t a lot of poverty, and for a while the island received a lot of support from the King.

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Rainy day in Eldham village

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This is what I’ve been working on lately. It’s gonna take forever to finish ugh

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The Lounging Unicorn tavern

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this is like my fave thing about the whole village tbh

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Making progress!!

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Jarrett doesn’t mind the thunderstorm, it’s the guarding that gets kinda boring since nothing ever really happens in Eldham anyway