#idarran

[dukeofdogs]

Rissberg degenerates my beloveds.

[lambert2269]

hey @eskel0002

are you up for a slight detour. we've got to find him.

[wanderingwolfwitcher]

The Witcher Netflix Writers: 

[stillness138]

For the character ask meme: Idarran and Alzur

ehehe nice

Alzur:

First impression - long before cdpr did anything with him, in my head he was this mysterious, legendary, cool figure. I knew of the guy and of his accomplishments - from the double cross mentioned in Road With No Return through the zap card in gwent to the little there was on wiki/in educated videos about the creation of witchers. I remember thinking he wouldn't test the mutations on girls before i learned about the first batch of kids brought to Rissberg. Oh how naive i was :D.

Impression now - scrunkly motherfucker. I enjoy him thoroughly. The journey story is imo one of the absolute top pieces of lore writing to come out of gwent. They could've gone with the shallow notion i myself had of Alzur before really thinking critically (or to be honest, cynically, given the nature of this universe), but instead they presented two clashing points of view, both valid given their context, that helped paint the man at the center as the very much imperfect person he is. For once, genuinely decent picture of this genre of character. Also,

Favourite moment - when i unleashed the "Alzur really was a bug fucker huh" discord message onto tumblr in one of the shitpost collections and then our resident spy saw it and had it canonized in Rogue Mage 😌. Ok conspiracies aside, i think the circumstances of his death are just too fucking funny.

Idea for a story - [REDACTED] xd. Actually, i guess i can type out a peek to the level of derangement i reach sometimes: So i'm quite a fan of the album Mezzanine by Massive Attack, right. Teardrop, probably the most famous song from it, is one of those that i believe have rearranged my soul. So one day i'm listening to it, staring at the album cover, and it hits me; the bug on it looks like Viy's gwent portrait. So then my brain makes a few lightning fast connections, and the result is the idea of a short album in the style of Mezzanine, from the point of view of Galanthea as a sort of "return" into music without the Snowdrop pseudonym, with a few songs dealing with the things she learns about Alzur from Madoc, the rampage of Maribor, and Madoc's subsequent death. I consider myself musically illiterate, in that i just don't understand music theory, how songs are made, any of that stuff, but it's one of those things that i keep returning to like "it's extremely cool...to me." I guess i can always write a fic about it, but we know how """good""" i am with finishing those, too xd. Brain, why you gotta be like that.

Unpopular opinion - I love Lorenzo to bits but i think the key art for Alzur's journey is a little bit goofy 🙈. On the other hand, the atmosphere is kinda neat, so i dunno. I feel like we can all agree that Lily deserved better and that Rogue Mage is underdeveloped. I guess here's a tinfoil hat thing, i think the ice dragon might be a future tie-in for the lynx game. Smth about dragons and far north and unexplored areas and so on. But i should probably not dwell on basic imagery so much.

Favourite relationship - I think it's kinda fucked up to say that how he affected Madoc's life and caused him immense trauma is my favourite bit, because more so, like i said, i just find the entire dynamic between Alzur, Madoc and Galanthea compelling to read. Ship wise though, it's [redacted], of course. The thing is just that i wouldn't want to impose Alzur on anyone xd.

Favourite headcanon - that the Golden Nekker was like his little buddy. I kinda got that from the scrapped Rogue Mage art (because i decided to take it literally, because i have brainrot, because i need help) and i thought it was silly in an endearing way.

Idarran of Ulivo:

First impression - because i haven't read Season of Storms yet, my first exposure to Idarran was, i'm pretty sure, when his card came out. I might've heard Ortolan's monologue in a video before, but because my memory is shit, it largely escaped me. When i saw his card and read the flavor text and sort of pieced most of it together, Idarran seemed like this weird kid who's weird mostly because of the circumstances. Whose interests wouldn't be a little fucked up if they grew up in the sewers.

Impression now - that's still more or less the case. He's smart, capable, and off-putting. But i find the way of it - no pathos, not even much of edginess or self-absorption - actually quite endearing, too, he seems to me like someone who just wants to be left alone. Relatable. Granted, the accounts - at least those that i'm familiar with so far (is there something significant about his personality in any of the trpg books?) - are limited.

Favourite moment - how old fuck Malaspina did only the bare minimum on witcher mutation research and Alzur and Idarran are responsible for most of it. Though I feel like Idarran also peaced out of it quite early on, which seems to be supported by Rogue Mage and also by the fact he really just looks like he's way more into his fucked up monsters than anything else.

Idea for a story - i am quite intrigued by the beef Maxii has with the entire Rissberg group and where it went. Now i just leaked that i've barely played Rogue Mage...

Unpopular opinion - you know how there are characters that do really good in side arcs in a story but wouldn't work as the main focus? I think that's Idarran in the bigger picture of the Rissberg group, witcher experiment and Maxii's shit list. So i feel like there should be more about him, but not too much, if that makes sense.

Favourite relationship - we took Alzur's (and eventually many others') bugfucking to a literal level but i actually find the idea of "Bug" being Idarran's nickname around Rissberg equally cursed-yet-enjoyable.

Favourite headcanon - that the bald spot in his hair is a result of an experiment gone sideways or being around something gross in the sewers. Again, favourite with these characters mostly means "it's awful but it particularly captivates me" :D.

[blackberrywars]

Two Cloaks, XXXL (Chapter 2)

Rating: E Words: 2,453 Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland Additional Tags: Order Of Witchers, Young OG Husbands, Pre-Divorce, Animal Death, Pelt Tanning, Draw Me Like One of Your Skelligan Girls, Seduction, Oral Sex, Arnaghad Swallows, Anal Sex, Waking Up Together

Summary: Erland isn't quite satisfied with the blanket ruana, so he goes looking for something a bit more… substantial.

Chapter 1

AO3 LINK

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The day passes by quickly enough, when Erland has twelve lanky witcherlings to teach Signs to, and Arnaghad —surely still in his new cloak or gods help him— is far and away. With a stern warning to keep any additional practice to the courtyard, he sends the bairns off with a deep sigh. They��ve worked hard today. Even Rakhen, the tallest of the lot with the least-proportional magical talent, managed to set the row of candles alight without melting them. It gives Erland enough time to go through his own exercises. Or to slip away from the castle entirely. Alzur, Cosimo, and Idarran have little use for him beyond his unique ability to teach Signs in their stead, and he’s avoided them all by virtue of them locking themselves away in their laboratory. More likely than not, they won’t even notice him escaping into the woods. He won’t be long. He knows precisely what he’s looking for.

The beast is a relatively young one, all things considered. Hardly out of adolescence but having done an admirable job packing on his winter weight, he swaggers from tree to tree so he can spray them. It makes him all the easier to track. Under normal circumstances, Erland would avoid killing such a specimen, but Arnaghad’s cloak has to be perfect, and this beast hasn’t seen enough fights to mar his hide. As it is, he perches in a tree and waits, watching the great young bear lumber into view. Grizzled brown fur, thick and evenly spread, spanning what will hopefully amount to Arnaghad’s shoulders. He’s magnificent, but no match for Erland. A Somne puts the beast to sleep, and twin daggers through the eyes make it permanent. It’s only after his nose stops twitching that Erland realizes the beast does have a scar —a healed-over trio of claw marks on his shoulder, no doubt from a fight with another boar. He smiles despite himself. Arnaghad would probably like it even better.

Erland skins it then and there, in no mood to haul the body back up the mountain. It feels rather wasteful to not make use of so much meat, but the forest can enjoy it on his part, and he can always hunt again. More importantly, if Arnaghad finds out what he’s doing ahead of time, he’ll refuse, and that is unacceptable. So unacceptable, that when he does make it back to Morgraig, he hides the fur in the spare stable closet. Not only had Arnaghad given up on horses long ago, the big bastard couldn’t fit into the tiny space if he tried. And no one really uses the closet anyway. Not only that, but with no chimney, it will keep the pelt from spoiling, and if he hangs the thing diagonally, he can stretch each part out. Even though it traps him in with the stench, it’s the best option he has.

But Erland has personally put his bare fist through a water hag while stepping on her court of drowners. More impressively, he only vomited up half the contents of his stomach when it was over. The memory alone makes it more than easy to strip the hide entirely, scraping any spare bits of flesh and sinew until the dusk’s shadows, encroaching from the slats in the door, grow too long to ignore.

He returns the same night, slipping from Arnaghad’s heavy arms to work drowner brain oil into the tough hide. A boar brush —and he can’t help but laugh quietly, because Arnaghad uses a similar one for his own hair— spreads the stuff onto each bristle, from the short undercoat to the soft, dense winter coat. If he’d waited another few weeks, it would have been even thicker, but that would mean another few weeks of Arnaghad insisting upon his elk coat. No matter that it doesn’t cover his thighs. No matter that it slips off his shoulders if he turns around too quickly. How the big bastard hasn’t choked on its closure, Erland will never know, even if he’s had his legs wrapped around that neck enough times to know it’s as tough as an ox’s. He slips back into bed a half hour later after a cursory wash in Igni-heated water. When he wakes, tucked right back into a broad chest, he smiles and hopes Arnaghad can’t smell the chemicals.

The next few weeks pass him by like that, hoping Arnaghad’s patience holds out longer than his reproachful gaze.

He stretches and tans the hide, brushes out the fur until each hair stands on its own. He sews up the eyeholes and painstakingly attaches the claws back onto the bear’s flat paws. He works (better-smelling) oils into it until not even a hurricane could soak it. Pride isn’t a noble thing, but Erland is more than a little impressed with himself when he deems it done. The massive cloak reflects the firelight ever so slightly, covering most of their bed as he stretches it out. Its head faces the door, fierce with dark fabric eyes leading down the scars that remain on the shoulder. Loud footsteps echo faraway in the hall. He can’t care enough to be ashamed of the way his own heartbeat quickens or how his blood rushes south.

Quickly, Erland strips to his tattoos, drapes himself across his gift like a poised whore, and watches the door swing open. He watches Arnaghad’s eyes adjust to the dark, and then dilate into new moons as he lays eyes on him. Timing is everything, in a battle. A strike too soon could leave a man open to attack and breathless. A strike too late could be blocked and misdirected. Erland has remembered and tried to write down everything Gryphon ever taught him, and he wonders what the old knight, let him rest, would think of this particular application of that advice.

Shock is a funny thing, on the face of someone like Arnaghad, and if Erland’s heart wasn’t beating human-fast, he might laugh at the way his massive jaw falls ever-so-slightly open. Another man, less acquainted with interpreting his love’s expressions through his beard, would likely not even notice how Arnaghad flips. He takes in the scene like a hunter. Amber eyes flick over every detail before he’s on top of him, that massive chest pressing him down. His hands cover Erland’s entirely, making fists in the soft fur he’d spent so long working on. Chapped lips cover his own, and he can’t help but to smile into it, grabbing Arnaghad’s wrists to drag those massive hands across the cloak he’d made, soft and warm and big enough to cover them both, probably. He tucks his chin down, breaking the kiss.

“Do ye like it?��

“Yes.”

A broad hand slides down to squeeze his arse, and Erland scoffs even as it makes his dick twitch against Arnaghad’s belly.

“I wouldn’t have asked if that was it. Tha’ fur is for you.”

“And this isn’t?”

A harder squeeze, which gives Erland the opportunity to slip beneath his other arm, rolling off the bed as Arnaghad grabs for his ankle. He dances away, but Arnaghad doesn’t bother following him from the edge of the bed, dark eyes never leaving Erland’s dick. Hmph. Keeping out of range is more difficult than not, but he manages to circle to the other side of the bed and drag the pelt around himself. The back half scrapes across the floor, and the arms drape down to his hips. The bear’s head flops over his eyes, obscuring his vision with the dark inner hide.

“Look, ya bastard. Caught somethin’ a wee bit bigger than an elk for ye to wear —maybe ye’ll actually keep warm in it.”

“The blanket cloak was just fine, birdie,” Arnaghad huffs, “You even hemmed it.”

“It had no hood, and I had no more blanket tae make one! An’ furs are better than wool besides, least fer an outer coat.”

“That so?”

This time, when those two hands wrap around his waist, Erland goes right along with them onto the mattress, letting the bear head flip back over his braid. One of the bear paws falls off to the side, set far two wide for his own shoulders, but Arnaghad’s oversized thumb pins the other to his stomach, sharp claws digging slightly into his navel, and if he arches his back into the sensation, only Arni would know. The fur is lighter than the hair on his own body, but it matches Arnaghad’s perfectly. Not to mention the fact that the paw is just barely bigger after drying out. Erland can’t help but smirk with satisfaction, curling his hands into the hide. He’d chosen well. Under his beard, he can see Arnaghad smile too, even if he grunts right after.

“It’s unnecessary.”

“I’d call it useful.”

“Wasteful.”

“Practical.”

“Uncalled for.”

“A right excellent gift.”

Arnaghad just huffs again, apparently deciding to drop the subject in favor of staring at Erland’s cock again, since the damn thing has decided to wake up and poke him in the belly. Direct as ever, he shoves his way down Erland’s body, never so much as pausing as he bullies his legs apart with the sheer breadth of his shoulders. Erland shifts his hips, sinking into the stretch. It’s a position that ought to be significantly more uncomfortable than it is, if not for long practice and the longer licks Arnaghad makes across his hip bone. Erland closes his eyes for a moment. Sighs out when over-large teeth nibble the fatty roll between his hip and thigh, when a broad nose nuzzles through his coarse hair, pulling it gently.

He downright fucking smiles when Arnaghad wraps that big, soft mouth around his cock.

On a less perfect evening, he might try pulling his bear’s own fur, but that had always been a gamble between gruff irritation and a good hard fuck. Instead, the space behind Arnaghad’s ears molds to his grip, easy handholds where he could grab any other lover around the head. Not to control, tonight. Not when Arnaghad’s mouth is so sweet, intent on pleasing him and more than capable of doing it without Erland yanking on him. He blames the ache in his cheeks on how even when Arnaghad pulls off after a few minutes, he makes certain to kiss the sensitive spot under his tip. Still, a token grumble is the least he can do.

“Are ye not going tae finish the job?”

“Yes,” Arnaghad says evenly, reaching into the side of their bed to retrieve a well-loved tin, “Or would you rather do this like whelps with nothing but spit?”

Erland just rolls his eyes and lays back. From this angle, he can watch Arnaghad’s dark, frankly luxurious eyelashes close as he gets back to the task at hand, sucking hard enough to make him groan. Arnaghad works in a familiar rhythm, with enough pressure that Erland’s hips buck ever-so-slightly into the back of his throat. Doesn’t even pause when his braids fall over his broad face and the beads clink loudly into each other, just presses his fingers gently into the space behind Erland’s balls, and then he really bucks. Like a whelp. He feels rather than sees that thought cross Arnaghad’s mind with the curl of his lips. Cocky bastard. Still, he reaches down to push the braids back behind Arnaghad’s ear, runs his fingers over the delicately-carved lines. It’s easier to buck up on purpose when he crosses his ankles on that blue-cloaked back.

At least until Arnaghad takes the choice out of his hands and just pins his hips to the pelt with one broad hand. Then Erland suffers properly. Suffers Arnaghad’s mouth, big enough to swallow him whole if the big bastard didn’t know he was more sensitive at the tip anyway. Suffers efficient strokes of a thick finger slipping up his arse, a broad thumbprint against his rim, hard enough to make him nearly choke on his own spit. Suffers the disgusting, wet sounds of deceptively full lips pressing on his balls. Arnaghad hadn’t always known how to take him apart, but he was a quick learner with a long memory.

Erland can’t stop it when the lights go off behind his eyes. Arnaghad just holds his hips still, forcing him to come down his throat.

When his ears stop ringing, he glances down at the near-imperceptible smirk buried in that beard. The tin has reappeared in Arnaghad’s left hand, and Erland just rolls his eyes even as he pulls one of his thighs up and back.

“I know it’s half the reason ye got so feckin’ big, but you don’ have ta swallow every time something’s in yer mouth.”

Arnaghad’s hand on his hip turns bruising at the jibe, but he just shrugs, using the other one to coat his dick in the oil.

“Spitting would mean getting up.”

And maybe Erland is just a bit cracked in the head, but his chest swells anyway. Pragmatism had always been Arnaghad’s way, and applied to fucking, it’s practically a sweet nothing whispered in his ear. Sweet enough to make Erland bring his leg back down, kicking Arnaghad hard enough in the shoulder to push him off and pulling up onto his knees so the pelt falls off his shoulder. His bear takes the hint, flopping onto his back atop the fur, big body fitting perfectly within it. A bear atop a bear. Erland straddles him, and can’t help but smile when he slides back, feeling Arnaghad’s cock propped up between his cheeks.

“You gonna finish the job?” Arnaghad says, running his hands up to cup the backs of his knees.

Erland reaches back to adjust the angle and sinks down the barest inch, burying the groan in his chest. He finds his handholds again, fingers brushing the fur through Arnaghad’s hair, smiling wider at how closely the colors match.

“Only if ye wear the cloak the second round.”

He thrusts back down and throws his head back, not bothering to wait for an answer.

— — — — —

The next morning, when it’s Arnaghad’s turn to shovel snow again, he puts on the pelt without complaint, securing the ties and letting each paw hang down his chest, claws sharp and fearsome. His hood stays pushed back, and it nearly blends in with the dark mass of Arnaghad’s waves. Everywhere else, the rich brown fur strikes handsomely against woad blue. And while Erland has always thought Arnaghad beautiful, he dares anyone to disagree today. His big bear looks very warm indeed, and all he feels before drifting back off to sleep is a kiss to his temple and the gentle brush of thick fur against his collarbone.

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I had fun with this chapter, I won't lie, late as it is. I just had to keep adding stuff, and I couldn't leave off until I recreated the lovely scene from @whyzowl's wonderful art piece of Erland riding Arnaghad into the sunset. It is glorious, and everything I dreamed of with my request.

While I could draw from personal experience/culture on the last cloak, this one required a bit more research, so if you want to learn a bit about medieval fur treatment/usage, try here and there. The brain oil is real, even if it's usually deer oil instead of drowner.

Also, as @hungarianbee pointed out in my PMs, why yes this is Erland performing a birdie courting ritual for Arnaghad. And yes the big bear is being so patient and indulgent about it.

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Taglist: @hellinglasses, @hungarianbee, @halehathnofury, @tumbleweedtech, @round--robin, @on-a-lucky-tide, @keirametzbrassknuckles, @girls-and-honey, @the-butch-of-blaviken, @alllthequeenshorses, @t4tlambert, @karolincki, @blankacctoseeposts (if anyone wants to be added/removed, pm me and I'll have it done no problem)

[cake-shop-rarepair-bingo]

Hello!! I have a quick question: what's your opinion about ot3s where Character A/Character B is very popular but Character A/Character B/Character C isn't? Would that count as a rarepair for the purposes of this event? Thanks! <3

It depends on your fandom! For examples, I'm going to use the Witcher fandom. If you wanted to do Geralt/Jaskier/Idarran? I would say no, not really. Because the main characters will absolutely overshadow any rare characters, and often feels to readers like the "main" pairing is the focus and oh- yeah I guess this other blorbo too. If, say, Eskel/Geralt/Idarran, where Eskel/Geralt are now big enough and popular enough that they no longer count as rarepair for us... But are not the top pairings? Then that ot3 would indeed be rare. It boils down to that if the ot3 isn't in the top pairings for your fandom as listed by ao3, I don't see why it wouldn't count! There are so many fandoms that I cannot possibly know them all. And honestly, I'm not going to police anyone anyway? If you believe it counts, go for it. Notes: Geraskier has over 20k works, and is by far the biggest ship in the fandom. Eskel/Geralt has 1100, so larger than most, but no where near the same size.

[thirstyforred]

for @cake-shop-rarepair-bingo

Title: O fanach robali Prompts: Thirsty's Special Challenge Card: Savolla || Main Card: meet ugly || Additional Inspirations Card: write in another language Fandom: The Witcher, Gwent Rating: G/Not rated Warnings: No Additional Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Savolla/Sandor de Baccalá Additional Tags: gossips, meet ugly, bug lovers & enthusiasts Summary: 5th chapter of the untranslatable fic about the most colorful novigradians, now about entomologists 💕🐛

the unpolished version under the cut :p

provided via Google Translate lmao

Everyone always knew that if old Wiley announced the arena was closed for the weekend in the summer, it was better not to go there at all, no matter what. There was talk that it might be a thicker party of the Kameleon company. So with the sense that if you were not in the subject, so to speak, there was nothing to look for. Only the truth is that it was a meeting of entomologists and they always paid the motherfucker good money for lending the arena.

Because these entomologists are not some village bug fans, but real experts and scholars. Mages and lecturers from Oxenfurt, all of them even from Nilfgaard or Ofir appearing to look at insects.

Well, it is known that such company is a total of greater deviations can have anything Chameleon frequenters. They're just less colorful.

And so they met Savolla, the magician who was expelled from Ban Ard for disciplinary reasons, which is rare there because the school is not famous for its discipline, and Sandor de Baccalá, some minor duke and agent of the blacks.

They only saw each other and the cats started to tremble because they had an ideological clash or who the hell. Savolla was of the Idarran school - that constructs like the Frightener made. And Sandor from Alzul, that is, experimented with mutations. They would gobble about the effects of using something on something's glands, and there would be fisticuffs.

Entolomodists, however, like insects, follow unexplored paths, and you can also find them at the bottom of a glass at the end of the evening. Someone ingenious introduced both gentlemen to Zerrikan moonshine with a scorpion, and before dawn Savolla and Sandor promised each other lifelong friendship, even love, and cooperation between the Salamander and Nilfgaardian intelligence.

And it was from this beautiful relationship that the project was born, which the gentlemen presented the following year, proud as if they had given birth to it themselves. And it was the same self-reproducing Kikimore Queen that escaped from the arena and smashed half of the building.

The Old Fucker wouldn't be swayed by any amount of fistech or black gold, and this was the last year of the entomologists' convention.

[tumbleweedtech]

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​ Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dettlaff van der Eretein & Idarran of Ulivo, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy Characters: Idarran of Ulivo, Dettlaff van der Eretein, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy Additional Tags: Mentioned Alzur, Child Abandonment, Idarran's Centipede Friend, Unethical Experimentation, Substance Abuse, Witcher Rarepair Summer Bingo Summary:

Idarran of Ulivo was a child left abandoned in the canals of Vizima.

But gifted with magic and incredible talent for mutations, he found a way to make his own friends.

This fic is a little bit of a wondering on how, exactly, Idarran may have found himself in Alzur's clutches.

 Witcher Rarepair Summer Bingo Prompt: Running Away Together

[wanderingwolfwitcher]

The Witcher passed through the woods away from his camp slowly but surely, Meteorite Steel sword and casting hand risen to the ready, viper eyes sweeping the forest trail and surroundings. Enhanced senses taking in every sound and scent for miles in each direction... looking down to the tracks of many sizable, insect legs. His quarry was cunning, capable of laying traps, intelligent... but could not hide its trail easily, with all those legs and its size. It was smart enough to know by now that he was on its trail... smart enough to run from him. He would not allow Idarran of Ulivo's latest abomination set loose on the world to kill any more folk than it already had. Didn't hurt the contract on it paid well, and it would make a hell of a trophy, of course. Then, after awhile, passing through the latest thicket of bushes, a figure on the other side of it awaited him in a grove, and he paused in his tracks, startled for a moment, assessing the figure and scene rapidly. Not many were able to catch him off guard... but it was a she elf... light on her feet, knew the land far better... and he had been so focused on the hunt she must have slipped his senses.

Eskel silently studied the red haired, emerald eyed, pointy eared, otherworldly beauty, reading her features, and looking between her and the weapons she had, along with her attire that blended far better into the forest surroundings than his own did. A Wood Elf, given the territory he had made his way into, a soldier or guard most likely. He had been hoping to avoid them, avoid as many people as possible, but was unsurprised he hadn't. At Kaer Morhen they had been taught nobody knew woods better than elves, or mountains than dwarves. Fighting either in their respective territories was more often folly than not. While he could more than fight them, he wasn't a fool, and not about to make enemies of them in their own land. Especially when there was a mutual threat involved, his reason for being here. Some guild negotiation and diplomacy would have to prevail over intimidation. Lowering his sword and casting hand, though ready to dodge aside or deflect her arrow if she loosed it at him, he inclined his head in her direction, deep, calm voice washing over the being slowly, mutilated visage smiling faintly her way.

"Evening, Lady. Can lower that bow any time, ain't intruding on your Elvenking's Woodland Realm without a damn good reason. Here on a hunt... and not for animals. Best you save those arrows... there's an insectoid monster called an Idr that came this way. Eats humans, dwarves, halflings, orcs, goblins and elves alike... ain't fussy, and has a foul temper. Long story. Can call me Eskel. Or Witcher. Either is as much me as the other. And who might you be?"

@wandering-woodlands

[wanderingwolfwitcher]

"Danger I can handle... even when it ends up taking a lovely and enticing form. The most dangerous things in this world often have them. Bruxa, for one personal example... at least before the claws and wings come out... the fangs I have less of a problem with... but I digress. Have so many stories you would develop grey hair by the time I was finished with just half of them."

The Witcher's deep, amused voice returned to her with a chuckle and wink her way, the old fang scars along his neck almost tingling at the memory, continuing to stir the now simmering stew and add in a few more spices. It was going good now, just about ready... his appetite was becoming ravenous. Yet when she spoke again, his viper eyes and attention returned to the noblewoman, considering her blue eyes and words carefully. Memories stirring of the Trials he had endured long ago... of Sad Albert, down in the laboratory... the sorcerers hovering over him, inserting tubes in him... chanting and casting their magic... inserting glowing yellow liquid filled syringes into his eyeballs, turning them from normal and blue to serpentine... one of the many reasons he had chosen not to bring Deidre to Kaer Morhen when he should have. One of his excuses and self justification for his chosen course of actions, one he thought about often. She would not have survived the process... and had been a Princess anyways, destined by birth for a better life and upbringing than she ever would have had at Kaer Morhen. Or so he had believed or fooled himself into believing... and had been wrong about. The Black Sun and the old fools of the Council... along with destiny, had seen to that. More likely, he had simply not wanted to be laughed out of Kaer Morhen by the old guard that had run the place before the pogrom for even suggesting she be brought to the school for training. It was a bitter thought and memory, among the many conflicting ones that he carried.

"You're better off as you are, poorly as destiny has treated you. Wouldn't have very long a life, if destiny tried to make you a female Witcher. Alzur, Cosimo Malaspina, Idarran of Ulivo and the other Witcher creators found that out the hard way over three centuries ago, in their early mutation experiments at Rissberg Castle and Kaer Seren. The mutagens and magical rituals of the Trials only work on pre pubescent boys... and even then, perhaps three out of ten times at best. The rest... the ones it doesn't work on... well. The less said the better about what happens to them... especially during supper. And even if they do survive, it means a week straight of agony the likes of which I have no other experience to compare it to... not even the way I ended up with this face. Burning all over... inside and out... and all while strapped down to a laboratory table. Unable to tell your own screams in the darkness apart from the other children's screams. And that's just what Witchers endure before the training begins. Without the mutations of the Trials, training or not, the first genuinely formidable monster a Witcher would face would also be their last."

Eskel reasoned slowly and calmly, remembering the times he had spoken to the others at Kaer Morhen about such things. He had objected to Leo being trained by Vesemir, making the same argument about the Trials... just as he had been skeptical of Ciri being brought to Kaer Morhen for training by Wolf. Being a Witcher was not a romantic title like being a Knight... in the old days you didn't just pick up a sword one day, learn some textbook monster knowledge and how to pirouette and be considered a true Witcher for it... Alzur's mutations were key to being a Witcher and surviving in such a dangerous life. Leo's needless death from a crossbow bolt he could not dodge or parry had proven that. It was not a role to be adopted on a romantic whim... as Geralt had done in regards to Ciri... and Vesemir getting likewise soft and attempting to do the same with Leo. Ciri's strange Elder Blood powers were likely the only reason she had survived some time on the Path. A true Witcher underwent the entire process, or the purpose, capability and role of a Witcher, of Alzur's vision, was diluted. He was a traditionalist, first and foremost, for very good reasons. Life on the Path was not a game or fairy tale, nor something everyone could be or should aspire to be. Destiny chose Witchers, people could not choose to be one. Of course Geralt had thought Ciri to be all of their destinies... Eskel remained skeptical of that claim... she had been Geralt's, certainly, as Deidre had been his own. A destiny he had betrayed... but his destiny nonetheless. At last, he sampled the stew again and deemed it suitably prepared, looking Syanna's way again and beckoning her closer to the fire and stewing pot, retrieving a bowl for her as he spoke up again. Glancing idly between the stew and her.

"Stew's finished. Come dish some up, let me know what you think of my cooking. Hopefully my meals are at least somewhat better at improving the mood than my dour stories. As for the Emperor, he cares and always had cared only for himself. His own power. As it is with damn near all monarchs outside Upper Aedirn. I would suggest that senile old puppet Usurper that killed his father, cursed and cast him out as a boy broke something in him a long time ago. And what they both did to the Viper School and its Witchers... well... seems he ended up taking more after the Usurper than Fergus."

@starwrittenfates

"Know how it is, how harsh and unforgiving the world is, from an early age. Though at least we Witchers were better prepared for a world that despises us, before setting foot on the Path. Still, there is what you are taught, and how people, the world and destiny play out. Many young Witchers, for all their training, skills and mutations, have met with unpleasant, sudden, undignified ends... only experience, wisdom and caution can really keep those of my kind alive for as long as I have been. Life and destiny has a way of weeding folk out, however prepared they are. And suffering reveals character."

Eskel's deep, calm voice gradually returned as he worked away at the stew, in the wake of the noblewoman's words about her evidently bitter past. It made all the more sense how she had turned out, her personal motives for joining him against Stregobor and Eltibald... both of them had unfinished business for personal, related reasons. He felt some more sympathy for her, not that he would allow it to make him drop his guard altogether. There was no denying she was dangerous, Sorceress or not... but something told him most of those who had suffered at her hand had been unsuspecting, naive, underestimated her for her beauty. Not a folly he would commit again, after his dealings with Sabrina. At Syanna's mention of the fairy tale, and connecting the two of them closer together, the Witcher uttered a low chuckle under his breath. Not an inappropriate comparison, right down to her chosen attire. Most adults outgrew fairy tales, but it seemed she held on to them... a smart decision... true or not, their were always lessons to be derived from fairy tales. Even if he had his grave doubts she was anywhere near as innocent as the Red of the stories had been. She probably had been though, once upon a time. As he drew closer to finishing up preparing their meal, savoring the scent filling the cavern, he found his voice again, amused, viper eyes returning to her blue pair.

"Perhaps so, Red. Better a fairy tale sort of girl than a Sorceress any day. Always been more like the Woodsman than a Knight sort myself. If I'm not at Kaer Morhen, I'm more at home on some mountain, in a forest, or some cavern or other. I help who I can, where I can, on the Path, but I ain't swearing chivalry oaths or fealty to some noble, just so circumstance will inevitably lead me to break the former to uphold the latter. The Witcher's life is the only life for me. An honest, free one, where we belong only to ourselves. A luxury even your cousin Emhyr can't afford, for all his power. Golden shackles are still shackles. Perhaps that's part of why so many despise us. We get to exist outside their social hierarchy and duties. The Emperor of Nilfgaard means no more or less to me than the lowest peasant. All are merely potential clients to me."

@starwrittenfates

[zhraek]

i forgot about idarran’s ability and accididentally did this shit and i was so suprised to what happened that i couldn’t stop laughing until the end of game

i think that guy who played aggainst me was also laughed because of my strange “tactics”

[trickylie]

[wise-lizard-wizard]

Gwent time!

Please be warned!

Mentions of:

Child torture

Unethical experiments especially involving children

The creation of witchers

The sheer evil of Alzur and his asshole friends.

Mages just being assholes in general

Stregobor.

You have been warned!

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.

.

.

.

I hate Alzur. I hate a lot of the witcher cards. I hate Alzur's master, Cosimo Malaspina and I hate their buddy, Idarran of Ulivo.

The sheer cruelty makes my blood boil. Sure, I know that's the point. These were horrible, evil characters. But the lofe we are given to work with here just makes me want to commit murder.

I have never in my life hated characters as much as I do these ones.

I have never been as close to Lambert as I am now. Like, yes, Lambert. You, Lambert, are completely, 100% correct.

I feel so conflicted over Vesemir. One the one hand, we have this witcher mentor Geralt respects. On the other hand that I just can't get over, he let children die. He put them through horrible trials in which many of them were killed. He made them participate in the mutagen trials. He willingly let children suffer and die.

And I can't forgive that.

Mages debate on whether what they (Asszur, Idiot and Cosm-bitch) did was ethical. They aren't referring to the child experiments tho.

Like, ugh.

So many of the witcher mages are evil assholes.

I especially hate Stregabor.

These are just the people I can name from the top of my head.

And so many people and kids suffered because of them.

Sure, you can argue that the making of witchers is a sacrifice to save the world from monsters, but really?

In the end, witchers are a dying breed. Everyone hates them. Monsters keep breeding and people keep being awful human beings.

Was the end really worth the methods?

Idk man.

I just... Feel so shitty and horrified for those kids.

So many died in pain.

I can't stand it.

[wanderingwolfwitcher]

“Mmm. Part of the profession. Been too long, Morrigan. Not usually fond of woods witches... witches of any kind... but you meet all sorts of interesting folk on the Path. Rare exceptions to rules. I'd say you're one of them. Higher up on the list than most."

Eskel's deep, calm voice spoke to the alluring raven haired swamp woman before him with some amusement and a trace of a fond smirk touching his marred visage, viper eyes studying her pleasing form and own yellow pair again. Uttering a low, slight chuckle under his breath as she circled around him, acting coyly and enticing as ever. When he had heard his quarry was headed out into these particular woods and swamp land, he had been wondering and silently hoping that she was still living in the area. It seemed destiny still held some pleasant surprises for him, on the Path, a reunion with one of the few decent, interesting folk he met on it. Given her profession and this place being her home... to say nothing of the interest perhaps lingering between them... he had little doubt she would be willing to accompany him, if offered. The Witcher remained standing where he was, looked between her and their forest surroundings for a moment, before returning his attention Morrigan's way and languidly explaining the reason for his presence, folding his arms comfortably over his armor and silver wolf head medallion as she continued circling him. Returning some of her teasing manner as well.

“Unfortunately, here on business for now instead of pleasure. Contract. Pursing an Idr, one of the monsters created and set loose by a madman... a renegade sorcerer named Idarran of Ulivo, one of the creators of my kind as well. Insectoid, centipede-like being, crafty, cunning... more intelligent and dangerous than most experiments. Magically enhanced. Figured if you were still here you might want to tag along, being as it's nesting and preying in your territory. Only one dangerous magical being allowed around these swamps. Best we kill it, before it reproduces. Enough of them in the world as it is. Its entrails and blood are valuable as well, a unique being... know of some alchemists and mages who offered an arm and a leg for each. Wouldn't be opposed to splitting the reward. Sure you could talk me into it. Into a few things."

@morigns

❝ As always, witcher, you have defied death against all odds. ❞

   The quirk of a smirk, splayed upon deep red lips as golden eyes flash in the firelight.   Tis been, indeed, too long, since last the Witcher had chanced upon her — and even though the witch shall neither show nor say it, the fondness in her otherwise sour expression    is real.

                              ❝  ‘Tis a comfort, is it not? to think                                       there is one thing assured in this world. The mighty wolf shall yet survive us all! ❞ Morrigan trills, circling the Witcher as though a vulture and he, her prey. ❝ Shall I guess your purpose in returning here? You sought something in my wilds... something that is... here no longer? ❞ she taunts, trailing off.

@wanderingwolfwitcher

[thirstyforred]

✦ thirsty's fav gwent cards (457/∞) Idarran of Ulivo

“ Thanks for the offer, but I prefer to create my own company. “

[martianapplecrumble]

Um Idarran... your crush on Gale is really showing