#king henselt

[geekygamergp]

So lovely!

The Witcher 2 ten-year anniversary!!!

[virgin-iorveth-causa-salutis]

the witcher + ao3

[artistsfuneral]

Some unedited Court Jester Jaskier/King Warlord Geralt thoughts

Okay so. Jaskier is one of many children, not the oldest, not the youngest, not fit for a more religious position (they've tried, Jaskier was sent back within days) he's smart, and talented when it comes to the arts, but also a troublemaker of the worst kind, so not particularly made for marriage either. What does one do with a child like that? Send him to King Henselt as a personal gift. A court jester. Jaskier is probably around 15/16 at the time. Very much an "adult" and ready for the task that's actually so much more complicated than it sounds. Yes, a court jester mainly exists for the king's amusement, but there's also so much more. He's a 24/7 available companion, shadowing the king at all times. He's there in the throne room, sitting by the king's feet, whispering jokes and his opinions/advice into Henselt's ear. He makes fun of the nobles that he knows are up to no good, ridicules them in front of the court and blatantly talks about secret information like it's kitchen gossip. He's valuable. He always knows what's going on. He's there in the throne room, he's there at the grand balls, he's there in the far back corner of the war room, he's there in the servants passageways and he's there, he's there, he's there......

Jaskier is also there, in the throne room, at Henselt's feet, when the witcher arrives. He sits there on a little stool in a colorful doublet like a little pet. He's juggling for Henselt's amusement, his king is easily bored by day to day politics and Jaskier needs to keep him happy if he wants to keep listening. The witcher distracts the king enough for Jaskier to be able to fade into the background, to stop juggling and listen. Tensions are high at the moment, Cintra is about to be swarmed by nilfgaardian soldiers and Redania is desperately looking for allies in the neighboring countries. Henselt prefers to sit on his fat ass and watch the upcoming war with a goblet of wine in hand. Jaskier though, Jaskier is invested. So when a witcher enters the throne room of Kaedwen Jaskier sits up like a dog who's about to be given its favorite treat.

Geralt of Rivia is his name. His accent is off though and he speaks of politics and monsters as if they were the very same. With the upcoming war witchers are retreating back into the mountains and they want their home and the surrounding lands to be owned by them (so legally not make them part of Kaedwen anymore) so they can remain neutral in the war. In return they are willing to provide their services for free to Henselt (which is really valuable atm bc there's a looot of monsters hidden in the forests and mountains) and Jaskier knows this, but Henselt... Henselt couldn't care less. Too arrogant and prejudiced of a man to give witchers what is essentially their own kingdom. So Henselt turns into a giant ass, belittling and cussing out the witcher who stands there in the throne room with his head held high, showing more dignity than any king and Jaskier suddenly understands that he has to sneak away.

He does so without anyone noticing, slipping through secret passageways and ends up waiting in a shadowy corner of the courtyard. He doesn't have to wait too long to spot the infamous white haired witcher and, hoping that the rumors about their hearing are true, quickly warns the witcher about the trap set out for him a bit down the road. The witcher stops dead in his tracks and Jaskier quickly asks him (he's still hidden away, Geralt can't see him) to do something like checking his pack so it doesn't look so suspicious and Geralt does so. Then Jaskier proceeds to very.... lightly suggest the witchers could just overthrow the king and take the castle, making all of Kaedwen their land. Henselt's army is currently stationed along the borders (thx to Jask) so there's really not many soldiers around.....

And the witchers do. Not like anyone is there to stop them.

And then the witchers take over the castle and they're keeping the servants alive and many decide to flee but some remain and work for the witchers now and Jaskier of course stays as well because who else would entertain the children that are too young to help with wotk but are also too scared of the many witchers suddenly living in their home to play like they normally would. And Geralt whos basically now the Warlord is drowning in work and then he looks outside and he sees the silly little court jester imitating some of the witchers in the courtyard, singing funny songs, making the scared huddle of children laugh and smile and-

[limerental]

ficletvember 2024 - day 24

yennefer/sabrina

Sabrina Glevissig arrives at Aedirn's court apparently simply to affectionately antagonize a disillusioned Yennefer.

Stares and whispers follow the sorceress as she strides across the opulent banquet hall. How beautiful she is, the crowd thinks, how poised and delicate. How long the trail of her gown, how generous the cut of her decolletage. Oh, hopefully she has come to replace our moody and miserable court sorceress.

Yennefer fights the urge to roll her eyes and draws away from the minds of the masses. Aedirn's court in Vengerberg has proven to be full of dim-witted fools, the king included. Of course, they'd look at Sabrina Glevissig and mistake her for a woman of substance. 

“Oh Yenna, you haven't changed in all these years,” says Sabrina as she slips close enough to kiss one of Yennefer's cheeks and the other. Her smile is brilliant white, her cheeks rosy. “You're still as unpleasant as you ever were.”

“A pity,” Yennefer says as she clasps Sabrina's arms, “I had hoped to become even more unpleasant as I aged.”

“Like a moldy cheese. Or a fine wine that ages to vinegar.”

“Have you come to my court simply to exchange unimaginative insults?” Yennefer asks as they begin to walk a circuit of the room, their elbows linked.

“Your court?” Sabrina laughs. “They'd leap at the chance to exchange you for the first pretty face that comes along.”

“They'll be waiting a while longer then,” says Yennefer.

Court decorum states that she is meant to introduce the visiting sorceress to the necessary parties gathered here and there throughout the banquet hall, but Yennefer steers them away from the most chatty and convivial, not interested in being forced to watch Sabrina shamelessly flirt back with geriatric nobleman.

“It's not flirtation, Yenna. It's called being a generous conversation partner.”

“Is that why your neckline falls so low? Generosity?”

“No, that's flirtation.” Sabrina winks. Her eyes are drawn with smoky cosmetics, her lashes lengthened with magic. As a girl, Yennefer remembers being desperately jealous of Sabrina's effortless beauty. Besides being flat as board through the chest, she hadn't needed to change a single thing with her enchantments.

Sabrina hears the memory in Yennefer’s thoughts, and her smile grows smug and her gaze heavy.

“Aren't you here for some reason besides monopolizing my precious time?” Yennefer asks, interrupting her lewd thoughts.

“Please, your King Virfuril’s already drunk himself to sleep, and your court would rather you did as well. You've got nothing more important to do and no one more important to do it with.” 

“I haven't missed you,” says Yennefer.

“No, I should hope not.”

They make another round of the room, passing a particularly rowdy corner, where Yennefer recognizes the young Prince Henselt of Kaedwen, uproariously drunk and seemingly involved in a drinking contest with Virfuril’s eldest son. It's Sabrina's turn to steer them away from unwanted conversation.

“So your court isn't perfectly appreciative of you either,” says Yennefer. “Is your prince that awful?”

“He’s a hot-headed, boorish imbecile,” says Sabrina even while still smiling courteously. “It's fortunate his elder brother will take the throne. Kaedwen would likely meet its end under his rule.”

“No great loss there. Unfortunately, Aedirn will likely continue existing in miserable drudgery for centuries, whether or not I stick around to see it.”

Sabrina looks at her, a faint glimpse of alarm showing through her polite expression.

“You're thinking of abandoning court? Yenna, if the Brotherhood hears of this–”

“And where would they hear of it?” It's only a passing fantasy, the thought of leaving Aedirn to rot. “Don’t tell me you enjoy being a glorified babysitter. A mage of your power, and you've been sent along to cure your prince’s hangovers. I warm their castles and protect their borders and Aedirn's court still sees me as a joyless witch they'd love to trade for a prettier model.”

“You are a joyless witch,” says Sabrina with a sniff, even as she guides them out of the banquet hall, pointedly turning her back on Henselt's drunken crowd.

In the darkened corridor beyond the hall, she wastes little time in crowding Yennefer against a marble pillar, a thigh between her legs, her lips at her throat. Yennefer’s hands sink into Sabrina's blonde curls. 

They hadn't been friends as girls, but they'd done this often, sneaking out of Aretuza's dormitory at night, giggling and smug over never being caught.

“Tell me more about how powerful a mage I am,” says Sabrina as she kisses down her neck. 

“You'll have to work harder than that to have me singing your praises.”

Sabrina leans back, her hands fitting easily to Yennefer's corsetted waist, and her courtly polite smile has vanished, replaced by something wicked.

[veralevina15]

My OC Yustianna for The Witcher TRPG ( the part of The Witcher ask).

Kaedweni herbalist, actress, bonnet trader. So, what are you interested in: medicines, elixirs, a cup of Chamaenerion or maybe...poisons?

The apple medallion with beads symbolizes poisons (since apple grains contain cyanide). The Yustya's family is rumored to be involved in political poisonings of King Henselt's opponents.

__________________

Моя ОС Юстианна для асковой ведьмачьей НРИ. Каэдвенская травница, артистка, торговка чепчиками. Итак, что вас интересует: лекарства, эликсиры, чашечка Иван-чая или может быть…яды?

Медальон в виде яблока с бусинами символизирует яды (поскольку зёрна яблок содержат цианид). Семья Юсти, по слухам, замешана в политических отравлениях противников короля Хенсельта.

[thelostgirl21]

You know what, I think I'm going to say it here, because I believe it deserves to be heard, especially by the people of my own LGBTQ+ community.

If you identify as queer (or any other LGBTQ+ identity), and agree that it is "gross" that Netflix chose to "age up a child" (Prince Radovid), so that he could be put in a romantic and sexual relationship with Jaskier on the Netflix TV show, it is a very good example of what we mean when we talk about internalized homophobia.

It is not your fault; it is something that was done to you and against you.

But I sincerely believe that, sadly, you haven't realized the troubling implications of that argument, nor the way that it is directly targeting the queer community, especially queer men.

Because, in the source material, Prince Radovid and Jaskier are two characters that never interact nor have any type of relationship together.

Actually, Prince Radovid is literally described as "a person without any significance in a country ruled by the Regency Council" (The Lady Of The Lake, Book 7).

[Note for those of you unfamiliar with the books: Prince Radovid appears in a single scene of "The Lady of the Lake", where the young prince gets upset that the other kings (Foltest, Demavend, Henselt) bribed people in the crowd to cheer for them, the Free Company, Hemmelfart, Dijkstra and the Regency Council, without acknowledging the role that his own father had played in making the thing they are all cheering for happen, nor his mother and himself as the actual rulers of Redania (rather than Dijkstra and the Council).

And Sapkowski concludes the scene with one line of epilogue saying that, in the future, he'll make them all pay for those insults, and will become known in history as "Radovid the Stern".]

Had the source material featured a significant friendship between the adult character of Jaskier and 12-year-old Prince Radovid...

Had Jaskier acted as a guardian, teacher, parental figure, etc. to that young boy...

Had they had a canonically established relationship in the source material, featuring an age-related power imbalance between them (like Geralt and Ciri), and

Had Netflix chosen to erase that loving healthy adult-child dynamic - that would've been at the core of their relationship - to replace it with a romantic and sexual relationship instead, I would have 100% understood that it would have made people feel uncomfortable.

Because, had they suddenly decided that Ciri would be a 35-year-old when her home was destroyed and she found herself under Geralt's protection on the show, just so that Geralt could fall in love with his Child of Surprise and have wild heterosexual sex with her, I would have understood why a bunch of people would've gotten upset at Netflix for "only aging up a child so that Geralt could fuck her!"

But we're talking about two characters that never met; including one (Prince Radovid) that is so insignificant to what happens in The Witcher's story (according to Sapkowski, at least), that CD Projekt Red were able to create their own original villain off of him (i.e. inventing a story between him and Philippa where she sort of raised and traumatized him following the death of his father, leading to him becoming fearful and hateful towards mages, etc.), while continuing the story beyond Sapkowski's intended ending (something I'm pretty sure Netflix has no intention of doing for now).

TV show Prince/King Radovid is his own character, that has been written by Netflix to suit the purposes of the show.

Videogame Prince/King Radovid is his own character, that has been written by CD Projekt Red to suit the purposes of the games.

And both of these characters were inspired by "a person without any significance in a country ruled by the Regency Council" in the books, that will one day grow up to become king long after the story of the three main characters has been concluded.

In French, the slur word being used for gay men is a shortened version of a word meaning "grown men having sex with young boys"; and the idea that gay men are naturally more prone to wanting to have sex with children than heterosexual men are has long been one of the most common fears associated with homosexuality.

Saying that they "aged up a child to make Jaskier queer" - while trying to make it sound like it would be immoral or problematic to do so - is thus heavily leaning into the specific belief that gay sex between two queer men is an act of predation.

Agreeing that there's something that should make one feel uncomfortable about Netflix having aged Prince Radovid to suit their own storytelling purposes, including their decision to adapt him as an adult character that becomes romantically and sexually involved with another adult man, is basically openly implying that, since Jaskier is shown as becoming sexually attracted to an adult version of the character, had he and Radovid met in those books, he would still have "naturally harbored sexual desires" for the 12-year-old kid version of him.

It is heavily implying that there could have been something potentially problematic about the relationship dynamic between book Radovid and a queer Jaskier, that Netflix attempted to "fix" by making the character older.

And, if that's not an argument deeply rooted in homophobia, I don't know what is!

Netflix's Prince Radovid is a fully grown adult gay man that falls in love with a fully grown pansexual man.

And, had that same Jaskier from the show (or even the Jaskier from the books, that English readers and gamers also know as "Dandelion") met a 12-year-old Prince Radovid in the books, nothing romantic or sexual would have happened between them.

It's as simple as that.

Nothing gross or unnatural about it.

[valandhirwriter]

I'm also curious, so back at you for the new writers ask game (hope you haven't been asked these yet): 24, 28, 43, 47

@astaldis Thank you very much for your curiousity. And nope, those questions I didn't have before.

24. Are there any easter eggs in [insert fic], and if so, what are they?

Often, let me give you some examples.

In: A matter of Perspective the main characters find an elven laboratory in Toussaint, tracking possible conjunctons and showing that a big one will be happening soon. Two of them believe it, and once is convinced it's just superstition. The place where the find all this is under Mt. Sansespoir, which would translate as "without hope". It's a detail no one really spotted, but it is a hint, that nothing under this mountain is to be taken lightly.

And in: Seven drunken knights Erland tells the other Griffins the story of the card deck, while they are playing, the legend behind the seven drunken knights, he also claims that when he was young many a warrior had such a deck, all claiming of having bought it from someone linked to the story. But throughout the events and the shocking reveal of Erland's own misdeed, he never reveals how he got the deck in the first place, which along with the way he told the story, was an easter egg, hinting that Erland may have been witness to the original events. But in what role?

28. Does anyone read your fics before you post them? If so, who?

Some, not all. @do-androids-dream-ao3acc and @regis-favorite-raven usually take the brunt of my writing sprees when they have the time.

43. If you take/write prompts: what’s your favorite prompt fic that you’ve written?

A question of truth

It was a somewhat unintentional prompt. @do-androids-dream-ao3acc had ranted about the fandom and weird pairing the other evening and she said, that some day someone would manage to pair King Henselt with a chair successfully. I have to admit, the prompt stuck in my head, and I am really proud of the story that came out of it.

47. If [insert fic] was a pair of shoes, what kind would it be? Describe the shoes.

The Raven's Blade series - it would be a pair of really worn down walking boots, boots you crossed half the world in, but that fit your feet so perfectly, they still are the most comfortable shoes you ever had.

[oxygenbefore1775]

brief summary of jeankasa 3+1 witcher! au fic that I desperately want to write but would probably never do

(fiy this is books&games based, netflix series can go to hell)

Jean (early 30s) is the head of the royal guard of the Kaedweni King Henselt and the veteran of Brenna Mikasa (probs 40s-50s) is the sorceress at the Royal Court of Kaedwen, the veteran of the Sodden Hill and Brenna; her sorcery is almost exclusively good for the battlefield only and her politic influence is almost non-existent which is probably why Henselt tolerates her presence at court despite the fact that she is a half-elf

1: the year is something 1270-1271, before the death of Demavend and the beginning of the second northern war, Kaedwen

Henselt is on the hunt in the forest for boar despite the recent sightings of monsters/scoia’tael in the royal woods. Unable to change the king’s mind on the safety concerns, Jean insists Mikasa accompany them for protection. Jean likes Mikasa (something he suspects her of as well), but his duties as the royal guard keep him near the King, while she spends most of her time away from Court - and thus, he uses the opportunity to spend some time with her. Suddenly, a chort attacks the party, ramming down the front rows of the huntsmen (the beast probably had its den nearby and the presence of intruders who were ignorant of its warnings were enough of a nuisance to slay). Jean orders his soldiers to get to the King while he, momentarily forgetting the true extent of her abilities, rushes to Mikasa, who has kept to the side of the party. As the chort charges a second time, Mikasa makes a split-second decision to create a portal, moving the King and the majority of the party to a safe distance. However, the portal doesn’t last long enough for Mikasa and Jean to get to it before closing, leaving them alone in the woods with the rampaging beast. Setting up a portal is easy, but it still requires concentration to avoid rendering the transportation deadly - something Mikasa currently lacks. Additionally, the chort proves invulnerable to the sorceress’s magic and the soldier’s steel sword, leaving Jean and Mikasa no choice but to run. When that soon becomes ineffective, Mikasa takes a risk and teleports them. To compensate for the danger, she connects the portal to the place most familiar to her, one she can easily visualize. As luck would have it, that place turns out to be Mikasa’s chambers back at the castle. They tumble onto her featherbed. [...] Before they can do something about their compromised position though, the castle servants burst through the doors to investigate the noise.

2: the year is also something 1271, after the battle of Vergen but before the Loch Muinne gathering

The Royal Ball is held at Ard Carraigh in celebration of Henselt's crushing victory over the Vergen defenses. Jean enjoys the festivities, but Mikasa, despite being a sorceress, stands aside and doesn't engage in any conversations. Jean asks her to dance, and she agrees. As they dance, Mikasa shares her concerns about their victory over the army consisting largely of elder races, fearing it will fuel racist sentiments towards non-humans, of which she is one. Jean suggests that she seek ties with the noble families of Kaedwen to further her influence and spread anti-racism sentiments. Mikasa responds that it wouldn't be possible since she is not seen as marriage material by the nobles. Jean reassures her that such matters wouldn’t concern him (implying his deep feelings for her). Before they can kiss, the dance requires them to switch partners, leaving their moment unfinished.

3: the year is 1271-1272, Nilfgaard has invaded Kaedwen already

After the battle with Nilfgaardian forces, Jean is left wounded. Despite the draining nature of healing magic, which she doesn't often practice, Mikasa goes out of her way to treat him. Using this brief moment of peace, Mikasa takes the opportunity to talk to Jean before he is moved from the front lines to an infirmary deep in the country. Kaedwen emerged victorious from the battle, but Jean is still worried since it was only vanguard forces of Nilfgaard; a much larger and more powerful army is still to come. However, he holds out hope as King Radovid is coming to their aid soon. Mikasa doesn’t share his sentiments, hope is a fool’s ally. She confesses her frustrations with her duty and the Lodge's expectations, admitting that she sometimes dreams of escaping the pressures placed upon her. However, she quickly reassures herself and Jean (if he were awake to hear it) that she would never abandon her responsibilities, especially if her efforts mean keeping the ones she holds dear safe. She hints at her feelings for Jean, hoping for a moment of connection. What she doesn’t notice is that Jean has fallen asleep thanks to her treatment and thus is unable to hear her. Before realizing this, Mikasa had hoped for a farewell kill, but now it doesn't seem appropriate.

4: 1272, after Radovid’s annexation of Kaedwen

After Radovid takes power in Kaedwen, he butchers almost all of the sorcerers and imprisons Mikasa to later torture her - not for information but to set an example to all others seeing as she’s a sorceress at the royal court. As she stays shackled in the dungeons of Ard Carraigh, Jean comes to her rescue. He sneaks her out of the dungeons by using the remaining influence that stayed from the years he served as the royal guard. He leads her to the channel on the outskirts of the city where an inconspicuous carriage waits for her - Jean has arranged it so that Mikasa will travel to the north where she can go to Kovir and Poviss in search of sanctuary. Mikasa wants Jean to go with her but he can’t leave his parents like this fearing that him fleeing will result in their deaths and generally he is in no danger under Radovid’s rule. It’s implied that they won’t see each other for quite some time, maybe years, so before saying her final goodbye Mikasa kisses him and disappears into the dark.

[dukeofdogs]

Master post for Gwent lore pt 1

Base set:

Monsters

Arachas Queen

Eredin Bréacc Glas

Unseen Elder

Woodland Spirit

Scoiatel

Brouver Hoog

Eithné

Filavandrel aén Fidháil

Francesca Findabair

Northern Realms:

Princess Adda 

Demavend

King Foltest

King Henselt

Nilfgaard

Emhyr var Emreis 

Jan Calveit

Morvran Voorhis 

Usurper

Skellige

Bran Tuirseach

Crach an Craite 

Eist Tuirseach 

Harald the Cripple

Year of the Wild Boar:

Thronebreaker

Ardal aep Dahy

Arnjolf

Eldain

Gernichora

Meve

Crimson Curse

Anna Henrietta

Queen Calanthe

Dana Méadbh

Dettlaff van der Eretein

Svalblod

Novigrad

King of Beggars

Cleaver

Sigismund Djikstra

Gudrun Bjornsdottir   

Cyrus Engelkind Hemmelfart   

Whoreson Junior

Iron Judgment

Merchants of Ofir

Year of the Dire Rat

Master Mirror

Grand Master of the Flaming Rose (Jacques de Aldersberg)

Sparrowhawk (Eredin)

Wrath of Brokilon (Eithné)

The Cripple (Harald the Cripple)

Emperor of Nilfgaard (Usurper)

King of Kerack (Viraxas)

Way of the Witcher

Viy

Erland of Larvik

Arnaghad 

Gezras of Leyda

Ivar Evil-Eye

Fallen Rayla

Year of the Great Oak

Stalwart Leadership

Advanced Tactics

Price of Power

She Who Knows

Duchess of Dol Blathanna

Melusine

Leticia Charbonneau

The Witchfinder

Vilgeforz

Year of The Cursed Toad

Vial of Forbidden Knowledge

Mysterious Puzzle Box

Renfri

Eltibald

Boholt

Sove & Ulula

Dagon

Svalblod Bear

Part 2

[meryllfrey]

fallesto asked:

❛ Nothing ever truly dies. ❜

@fallesto (Roche)

Ves felt a chill down her spine at Roche's words and hated herself a little for it. She wasn't some little girl who shook and cried in the face of fear, she was Ves, dammit. A lieutenant in the most elite fighting force in Temeria.

But if what Roche said was true, if the rumours he'd heard were true, it was Ves' greatest nightmare come to reality. Nights of sleep lost because of that terror -- that fat, evil man who called himself King.

Henselt. Geralt had sworn that Henselt was dead, struck down by Geralt in a vicious fight to the end. Had he been in hiding all these years?

"It can't be true," she heard herself saying. But Roche's intelligence agents were the best; they wouldn't have passed on questionable information to their Captain.

The only one who held more hatred for Henselt than Ves was Roche. And hatred made Roche careless. Stupid. Foolhardy.

"What will you do?"

[laurelnose]

His Royal Highness Prince Iorveth of the Free State of the Pontar Valley? Okay, but what about prince-consort Vernon Roche of Nilfgaard? How will they negotiate?

They … wouldn’t?

Like. First of all. Roche is a disgraced, commonborn foreign national plausibly implicated in the murder of King Henselt and, depending on where you set the timeline, also of King Radovid. At the end of Witcher II, he has literally nothing to his name. Crowning him Prince Consort of Nilfgaard not only yields no wealth or alliances, it is political suicide.

If we ignore that it makes no sense for the emperor to marry Roche, which is, to be clear, a fucking lot to ignore, then my answer is that Iorveth has no interest in negotiating with quislings and hypocrites. Roche will condemn Northern elves for fighting under the Vrihedd and Black Sun banners but Roche himself is just rolling over for the emperor these days? Fuck off! (The fact that he can’t tell Roche to fuck off because the Free State can in no way afford to offend Nilfgaard quickly becomes a source of deep, boiling resentment.) He remains icily within the bounds of politeness for diplomatic reasons but Saskia takes care of negotiations and tries to let Iorveth excuse himself as much as possible, the same way she handles Dol Blathanna.

(You can’t even get hatesex out of this scenario. Iorveth isn’t gonna fuck the consort of Emhyr var Emreis or of Geralt’s daughter. The first because cuckolding Emhyr is a suicidally bad idea. The second because it’s weird, and Ciri might mind less than Emhyr would but the optics would be bad for her if they were caught, and Iorveth is indebted enough to Geralt to at least not want to make things awkward for Ciri.)

If this is like, very AU and Roche was, idk, raised as Emhyr’s pet instead of Foltest’s or something, this … still doesn’t work because Roche is then Iorveth’s ally right up until the Peace of Cintra and the execution of the Vrihedd officers. At this point, if Roche doesn’t try to intervene — which I cannot imagine him doing, he would have no power to alter the decision and he’s not the type to break from the pack when given distasteful orders — the relationship is over. Iorveth never forgives that. He does not forgive Francesca and he would not forgive Roche.

Affiliation with Nilfgaard being a dealbreaker for Iorveth could be gotten around by making Roche consort of a different country, but I gotta say I’m not all that interested in royal!Roche in any scenario. princeveth probably kinda makes it look like I just like royal versions of characters but I don’t care about the royalty part of royalty AUs, I care about the power differentials they introduce. I mean everyone is allowed to get whatever they want out of princeveth but for ME the thing is that Iorveth and Roche are perfect equals in canon, right down to having equivalent ranks — or at least they are during the Second Nilfgaardian War and after Foltest’s death; the power dynamic is skewed in Roche’s favor during the time period where Iorveth has lost Nilfgaard’s backing but Roche can still draw fully on Temeria’s resources and military power — and princeveth is about what if they were not equals anymore. Introducing Roche as Iorveth’s social equal, from a country with more military power than the Free State (this is true of almost any country you could make Roche consort of, not just Nilfgaard), is just ... reinstating the canonical power balance but now instead of getting out the knives and fucking nasty against a tree about it they have to perform Social Niceties at each other. A completely different vibe, and one pretty much out of my wheelhouse!

[sebdoesthings]

The Knife in His Coffin (Geralt/Roche) - Full Chapter 1

Link to Ao3

Chapters: 1/21 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Vernon Roche Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vernon Roche Additional Tags: Spoilers for The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings, retelling of chapter 3, Slow Burn, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Canon Compliant, -Ish, small deviations from canon, Missing Scene, Extended Scene, Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Pining, Explicit Sexual Content, Anal Sex, rape mention, Not Beta Read, Hopeful Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Loc Muinne (The Witcher), Team Dynamics, R&R

Summary:

Triss was a sorceress, more than capable of escaping or killing Letho if push came to shove, and while Roche was exceptional among humans, he was, in the end, just that. Human. An ordinary human with extraordinary skills and training. But against Dethmold, well… Geralt had chosen Vernon Roche once before, and deep inside, he knew he would do it again.

In just a few weeks, Vernon Roche has lost nearly everything that was dear to him. He’s lost his king, lost his men, and is about to lose his country, too. The only thing driving him now is a burning desire for revenge, and he will cross mountains to get it. With Ves left behind for safety, there is only Geralt by his side on the arduous journey to Loc Muinne - and they are about to realise that a lot can change in a week when it is filled with nothing but silence and each other’s presence.

Full First Chapter (Continued under Read More)

The journey to Loc Muinne had something haunting about it, and it wasn’t just the importance of the summit that was scheduled to take place there. In fact, neither Geralt nor Roche had much interest in it at this point. Too much had been lost, too much blood spilled, staining their hands.

No, the ship was haunted – not literally, but by the emptiness of the space where the last time they’d boarded it, there had been if not laughter, then at least people filling all its corners. Now Zoltan was in Vergen, Dandelion on the way to Oxenfurt, and the corpses of the Blue Stripes burning on a pyre Geralt and Roche had erected. The Witcher could still see columns of smoke in the distance, but he wasn’t sure whether one of them came from the ashes remaining of Roche’s unit. Regardless, the stench would cling to Geralt’s clothes, skin and soul until his dying day.

It was only a handful of people now. While Geralt and Roche had been in Vergen, Ves had picked up a few scattered layabouts in order to man the ship, though they spoke little. It was eerie, to see a crew so demotivated and quiet when usually songs and laughter would be carried across the ship in tandem with the sounds of labour. But there was only the howling of the wind in the sails now, and the croaking of a few drowners on the river’s shores.

Vernon Roche had barely spoken a word since they’d set off earlier that day. Once so opinionated and vocal, he now stared at the horizon in the wake of the ship, even though Geralt knew the smoke must not be visible to his eyes anymore. Gone was the drive that had propelled him towards Vergen, towards that room carved into the rock. Gone was that drive that had guided his dagger between Henselt’s ribs.

Roche suffered, that much was plain to see – there was a tension to his expression that outmatched all the hardness he’d shown in the past. Seething rage and abysmal sorrow lay just beneath his skin, going deeper even than after Foltest’s death.

Geralt stepped up to the helm and past Ves at the steering wheel. She gave him a look in passing, and he didn’t quite know how to interpret it. Leaving her behind, Geralt stopped next to Roche. The man didn’t move even an inch.

“You alri—”

Geralt didn’t get to finish, as Roche abruptly turned from his spot and walked away, down the stairs and into the captain’s quarters. Geralt stared at the empty space where he’d lost sight of him, and Ves sighed.

“’S no good talking to him,” she said, and her voice was tinged with uncertainty and sadness. Geralt stepped up to her, and when he came to a halt, he could see her hands trembling as they clutched the wheel. There were glistening streaks down her cheeks, and her eyes were bloodshot. “Not when he’s like that.”

“Might’ve figured,” Geralt mumbled and leaned his elbows on the railing overlooking the deck.

Only a handful of their sailors were at work, one busied himself with a tangled rope, another scrubbed at the planks, but the rest huddled together playing dice or chatting quietly. The wind was harsh, and the spray blowing up onto the ship cold.

Geralt peeked over his shoulder at Ves. “Anything to be done? Or is it a case of the waiting game?”

“The waiting game, most like,” Ves said. “But I’m not sure how long you’ll be waiting for. I’ve never seen him quite like… well… that. And he raged something fierce when they found you in the solar at La Valette castle.”

“Not surprised…” Geralt thought back to what they’d seen in that tent. He’d felt his own heart drop at the sight – after all, he’d made friends with the Blue Stripes. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed the tattoo on his neck. But for Roche… he couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like for him. To see his entire unit executed while he was away, and to feel not only responsible, but downright at fault for their deaths was…

“Don’t dwell on it,” Ves said, seemingly reading his thoughts.

“Can you tell me about them?” Geralt asked, lifting his head from where it had slumped between his shoulders. “The Stripes?”

“Met them yourself.” Ves shrugged. “Fought with them, got drunk with them, went to a brothel with them. Not much more to bond over with soldiers.” The way she talked, it sounded dismissive, but Geralt could hear the tension in her voice.

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Ves didn’t respond, and after a while, Geralt turned around, leaning his back against the railing. He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture he’d discovered came naturally to him.

“What about you?” he asked. “You holding up?”

“What’s there to hold up, Geralt? I’ve been raped, my closest friends got murdered, my king is dead, and my commander’s damn near losing his mind over all of it,” she snapped. “If those elves hadn’t ruined me as a girl, I’d be worried the only thing I’d be holding up soon would be a bastard child.”

Geralt’s chest constricted. He wondered whether she would know it was Roche who’d killed Henselt once the news of his death spread. Right away, he knew with certainty that she would.

“Right… Sorry.” he shook his head when he realised it was the second time in a very short while he’d said the word. He pushed off the railing and started down towards the stairs before pausing, half turning back to Ves, and then deciding against whatever had been on his mind and continuing on. “Gonna get some food.”

The first day of their expected three-day journey came to an end without much of a silver lining. It was dark and grey outside, and there was a light drizzle coming down. Geralt, Ves and Roche met in the captain’s quarters to eat dinner, but even though the selection was good considering their hasty departure, none of them seemed especially pleased to be there. Roche chewed his food with broiling anger, which Geralt hadn’t previously thought possible, but his grimace definitely let him know he’d prefer to sink his teeth into a certain mage’s throat instead.

Ves attempted to start a few meagre conversations, but Geralt could barely remember them the moment they slipped away.

The food tasted like ash in his mouth, and every time he took a bite, he was reminded of the funeral pyres they’d erected for the Blue Stripes. Geralt hadn’t thought Roche would want to lose any time after they’d learned Dethmold had slipped away to Loc Muinne, but he’d insisted on returning to the Kaedweni camp. In that moment, Geralt knew he’d gotten a vital glimpse at the man by his side, and it made the whole situation even more devastating.

“I’ll sleep below deck with the crew,” Geralt announced when he’d finished his food and stood from the table. Roche and Ves looked up at him with surprise.

“You can stay here,” Roche said. “There’s enough space.”

“Need some time… alone,” Geralt muttered and briskly vacated the room. Behind him he could hear Roche’s raspy voice as he walked away.

“What’re you looking at me like that for?”

“Well if you weren’t such a sulking grouch all day—”

“Oh so now it’s my fault? He can sleep with the lads if he wants, what do I care? He’s a grown man!”

Their voices, despite the increasing volume, faded into the background as Geralt descended below deck.

The Percival had once held all of the Blue Stripes and more, and was still haunted by their presence in the hammocks that hung limply between the beams, too many to occupy. Geralt stalked through the room, ignoring the sailors as he went, and flung himself into one at the very back, turned towards the curved interior of the ship’s belly. Right about now, he would’ve been glad for amnesia.

Roche and Ves finished their meals in silence once their immediate outburst regarding Geralt’s departure had blown over. Afterwards, Roche eyed the book sitting on a pile of things they’d shoved aside to make space for plates and cutlery. The History of Loc Muinne Through the Ages of the Vrani, Elves, and Humans. It was horribly dry, and so Roche turned instead to packing his pipe while Ves pored over the map she’d moved to her bed for the meal.

He took a drag, and the smoke filled his lungs, briefly dispelling the raw emotion that had been clawing at his insides all day. As he held the smoke there, the image of his Stripes dangling inside that blasted tent flashed before his eyes again. The mud caked onto the worn soles of Pinto’s boots, the hood torn from Silas’ head to fit the rope, the striped mask Finch had always worn to cover his harelip stomped into the dirt beneath his feet.

As a choked sound forced itself up Roche’s throat, he coughed, the smoke suddenly burning his lungs. He thumped his chest with his fist – more forcefully than need be – and squeezed his eyes shut, but the images would not blur and the memories not fade.

He remembered how the Stripes would whoop whenever he joined them for training; how he’d spent long evenings studying their strengths and weaknesses to build a solid formation. Experienced again the frustration he’d sometimes felt when they had turned loud and rowdy the night after a successful campaign while he sat poring over his report. Now their laughter filled up his head, but only silence met his ears.

Where he had just been clutching the medal around his neck, now his fist slammed down onto the table, rattling the plates, bowls and bottles left from their meal. On the bed, Ves flinched hard and whipped around to stare at him wide-eyed. When she saw him bent over the table unmoving, she let out the breath she’d been holding.

Roche rubbed a hand over his face and into his hair, pulling off his chaperon and coif. With a sigh, he dropped them on the chair next to his own.

“I’m… sorry, Ves,” he pressed out.

When he looked up at her, he found he couldn’t make sense of her expression. For the longest time now, they’d been able to read each other like a book. It simply came with being commander and second-in-command. And now, just as Roche realised he didn’t know what was going on in her mind, he could tell she fared similarly. And it worried him more than he wanted to admit even to himself.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Roche took in the room. There were three narrow cots in the back, almost touching each other. They’d shared the cabin up until now, and had done so for as long as the Percival had been the Stripes’ vessel, but now the air seemed too thick to breathe, the spaces between the cots too small.

“Do you want me to leave for the night?” Roche asked, glancing at Ves.

She frowned, staring at a spot in the air just next to his face. “You’re the commander, you’ve a right to sleep here.”

“But I’m not asking as your commander, Ves.”

Finally, their eyes met, and she blinked a few times rapidly. Her shoulders slumped and she curled in on herself, forearms coming to rest on her thighs. Her gaze flickered over Roche’s face and then disappeared as she closed her eyes.

“No,” she said softly. “I don’t mind.”

Ves rolled the map out on the table and looked over her shoulder at Roche. He’d only just gotten up, and judging from the disgruntled look on his face, he hadn’t slept much.

“I’ve sketched out a potential way up to Loc Muinne for us,” she said. “Come have a look.”

Frowning, Roche fiddled with the cuff of his shirt. “You’ll stay here.”

“What?” Ves half turned towards him, one hand resting on the map, fidgeting with a corner.

“I’m only taking Geralt with me,” Roche said and finally looked at her.

“You’re replacing me.”

It was moments like these when her age really showed, and it was eye-opening each time. Roche took a step closer and clamped a hand over the Blue Stripes badge on her sleeve.

“You’re my second-in-command. No one can replace you. Which is why I need you here. Alive,” Roche said, eyes boring into hers. “The Summit is in little over a week. You’ll remain for three, and if I’m not back by then you’ll go to Vizima.”

“You can’t just expect me to sit still and twiddle my thumbs for three weeks, Roche,” Ves said, balling her fists and leaning forward, but her vigour soon faltered. She swallowed thickly. When she continued, her voice was very quiet, and she stared at the ground between them. “I need you alive, too, you know? When— when Henselt released me into that tent, I— I thought wherever you, were they’d killed you too.”

Roche’s throat closed up, and he squeezed her arm.

“I didn’t know what to do, I— it was as if I was back in the Scoia’tael camp, after…”

Her voice petered out, and a tear fell from the tip of her nose. When a sob broke from her throat, Roche pulled her close, and she fell against his chest, digging her nails into his back.

“But you’re not there anymore. And you’ll never be there again,” Roche said, and her hair swayed with his breath. “We can’t change the past, but we can change the future, Ves. Which is why I need you present to do that if all else fails.”

Ves hiccupped and wiped at her eyes as she stepped back. “What would you have me do… in Vizima?”

“If discussions at the Summit fail, Temeria will most likely be divided up, but our people won’t surrender. There will be uprisings. Riots,” Roche said. “Make sure they have a leader.”

“What does that mean, Vernon?” Ves asked, letting out a concerned breath. “What the hell are you planning?”

“Whatever it takes,” Roche said and turned to face the map. “Now show me that path you found.”

“Geralt, can we talk?” Ves asked the Witcher, who stood at the helm of the ship, leaning against the railing and doused by a misty spray of Pontar water.

He looked at her over his shoulder, but didn’t move. Behind her, Roche strode across the deck. They’d begun the day shut away in the captain’s quarters, and once they’d finally emerged onto the deck around midday, Roche had begun barking orders at the sailors to keep them busy.

“What is it?” Geralt asked and pushed away from the railing.

Ves took a glance across the ship and then motioned towards the captain’s cabin with her head. Geralt frowned, but followed her inside.

“I need to ask you a favour,” Ves said, sitting down at the table. A bowl of green apples sat on it, and she picked one after circling her hand above it in deliberation.

“Uh-huh?”

Taking a bite of her apple, Ves let several seconds run by as she chewed. When eventually, she lowered the apple and cradled it in her lap, she slumped a little in her posture. “Can you look out for Vernon on the way to Loc Muinne? I’m worried he’ll be too impulsive in his thirst for revenge, and there’s a lot of dangerous people among the nobles gathered there. He can be too trusting sometimes. Believes in promises being kept once given.”

Geralt shrugged as he stood there in the middle of the room, crossing his arms. “Know him better than I do. You’re his right hand, making sure he doesn’t do anything too stupid is basically your job.”

“That’s why I’m asking you. I’m doing my job.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to Loc Muinne, Geralt. It’ll be just you two.”

Geralt hesitated and lowered his arms. He scanned Ves, but couldn’t detect anything unusual apart from the concerned expression on her face.

“Why? Didn’t think you’d ever leave his side. Do you need a doctor?”

Ves shook her head. “I’m not sick – or pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking. Can’t. Henselt’s just another nightmare to add to the bunch, I suppose…” Geralt knew there were things she left unsaid, though he decided not to press her. “But orders are orders, so I’m to stay behind with the ship.”

“Roche ordered you to stay?” Geralt’s frown deepened.

“Mhm. This morning. Talked about defending his interests if… if he didn’t come back, I assume. He was vague. Geralt, I think he might be planning some sort of suicide mission.” When she looked up, Ves’ eyes were wide and glistening in the low light. “Just… look out for him. Talk to him.”

“No use talking to him when he’s like this. Said it yourself,” Geralt said, raising a hand in emphasis.

“Eventually, he’ll need to, and I’d prefer if you were there. He trusts you, Geralt.”

“Not so sure about that.”

“Oh, please,” Ves said. Her voice dropped, all warmth gone from it in an instant. “I’m not in the mood for rebuttal or denial. He wouldn’t have let you escape the dungeons of La Valette castle if he’d had even a shred of doubt about your innocence. He trusted you – trusted you didn’t kill his king, because it made no sense, and trusted you wouldn’t run away after leaving the gates of the castle.”

Geralt let a bout of silence pass without interruption.

“I didn’t, back then. Trust you, that is. Vernon ordered us onto the ship with no explanation, and I didn’t question it. It’s not my place. But when he revealed his flimsy plan, I told him what I thought of it. That we couldn’t trust you, couldn’t be certain of anything. I wondered whether you’d influenced him with one of your Signs, even though I didn’t quite know how they worked at the time.” Ves looked at Geralt from bloodshot eyes cast in dark shadows. “I thought he’d lost his mind, Geralt, but he was right. He saw the big picture when I couldn’t. I think… I think he might truly be losing his mind now. Don’t let it happen, Geralt. I might be his second-in-command, but you’re his friend.”

“Don’t they say Vernon Roche has no friends?” Geralt asked, and gave a grim smile when he remembered the saying he’d picked up some time ago. “And if each of his friends came to bury him, Roche would have to do it himself.”

“Apparently, it is enough to put a knife into his coffin and he will succeed,” Ves continued. “Put a knife in his coffin for me, Geralt, will you?” Geralt huffed, considering her for a moment before turning to leave. “See if I can spare one.”

Read the second Chapter on Ao3

[walentywki]

in my mind geralt of rivia always sides with nonhumans. geralt of rivia does not care about politics and would do his best to avoid meddling in a king’s (especially henselt’s, who is a bitch) business. and MY geralt of rivia would ALWAYS choose iorweth’s path.

[limerental]

ficletvember 2024 - day 13

Geralt must keep Roche out of danger in Kaedweni army camp after he's magically transformed into a yappy little dog.

The little dog is maybe ten pounds wet with stubby legs and wiry hair, the sort kept on farms to sniff out rodents. The flicker of magical light has hardly faded before it begins to yap in alarm.

Geralt has a headache already. 

“Was that really necessary?” he asks Dethmold, who looks far too pleased with himself. 

“Oh, it will wear off in a few hours,” Henselt's wizard says, waving a perfumed hand. “It's not as if there's much of a difference anyhow. He’s an irritating little beast either way.”

“And I'm meant to do your king's errands while making sure a small dog doesn't run off a cliff?”

“If you like him enough,” says Dethmold with a shrug. “I'd kick him off the cliff myself, but then, I might scuff the leather on my boots.”

Without another word, the wizard saunters out of the tent off to do whatever wizards do all day. Be an inconvenience, mostly.

The little dog hasn't stopped yapping, the effort of its barking rhythmically lifting its front legs off the ground.

“Quiet, Roche,” says Geralt more harshly than he means, and the little dog obeys at once, tail tucked and ears slicked back. “Huh.”

If the commander of the Blue Stripes, presently transformed into a tiny mutt, can still comprehend orders in this form, then maybe he won't chase something off the first cliff he sees or bite anyone's ankles.

Geralt sighs and gathers up the small pile of discarded clothing and gear to stow in his pack, noting that at some point in the next few hours he'll likely have to deal with a very naked, very humiliated Vernon Roche. Hopefully all in one piece.

Feeling a little sorry for his earlier harshness, Geralt stoops to awkwardly pat the little dog on its head. Its fur is deceptively soft, especially between its unkempt ears.

“You in there, Vernon?” The animal’s head tips at the name, oversized brown eyes watering. While promising, that's not much confirmation that it understands him. 

“Sit," he orders.

The dog stares at him.

“Lie down.”

Its little body begins to quiver.

“Right, I wouldn't be in the mood for tricks either in your state.” Geralt has a vague memory of having once been transformed into a cockerel, but like most of the things he remembers lately, the memory is hardly useful and the context evades him.

“We’ll head back to your camp, and I'll try to keep you from being eaten by a large bird. Or something. It'll be fine.”

Things promptly go to shit.

Geralt should have thought to fashion a lead for the little dog, just in case, but if he were suddenly a dog, he'd hope no one would leap right to collaring him. 

At first, the dog trots beside him as they leave Henselt's camp behind, wandering onto the main thoroughfare of the Kaedweni army camp. Then, its body stiffens, scenting the air and the animal suddenly launches off at a run and almost immediately out of sight.

“Shit,” says Geralt, awkwardly burdened by the extra gear, and ignores the judgmental stares of dim-witted soldiers to hurry after the dog.

He follows the sound of harried barking rather than searching for tracks, and rounds a row of tents to find a cook threatening the little dog with a wooden spoon as it leaps at his legs, a serving girl cowering on the other side of the cooking fire.

“This your mutt, mutant?” the cook sneers. He’d threatened to spit in his food if the king let a Witcher stay in the army camp and probably had been interrupted leering at the poor girl. “Behaves just like you.”

After an unnecessary amount of insults directed his way, Geralt manages to coax the cook into giving the dog a scrap of meat to appease him. The dog growls as it gnaws the offered morsel, but before Geralt can snatch him up, Roche is off again. 

“Sorry about your ankles,” he calls behind him to the swearing cook, not really sorry at all.

After failing to nab the dog as it rustles in a trash heap, the little creature finally stops to sniff at a spot on the outer wall. The dog turns in a circle and lifts its leg to mark the wall, and Geralt figures he should divert his eyes to give him privacy and so promptly loses his chance to snatch the dog up as he rushes of again.

For his part, Roche seems to be having an excellent time as a dog. He barks loudly into the wind, little ears flapping, stubby legs eating far more ground than should be possible. 

Geralt loses sight of the dog once or twice but follows its high-pitched yap without much effort. 

It's not the worst way to spend an afternoon. Better than the slogging about in crypts he'd been planning on. As long as no wayward harpy tries to swoop down to make a meal of the yappy creature, the curse may wear off just running circles around the camp.

Unfortunately, the dog soon makes a beeline for the front gate, and though Geralt gestures to the Kaedweni guard to block the door, the soldier soundly dislikes him. He opens the gate wide as the dog bites at the leg of his trousers, shaking its head viciously. Geralt may have been able to catch the dog as it ptoceeded to lift its leg once more on the guard's boot, but the soldier promptly tries to drive said boot into the little dog's abdomen, narrowly missing as it darts away and out of the camp.

Yes, if Roche is aware and awake in there, he's having a very good time indeed.

Once outside the main camp, the dog turns predictably toward where the Stripes had pitched their tents beyond the walls. 

If Geralt knows Roche and his men, they'll never let him live this down, if they get wind of it. He’ll have to grab the dog before it reaches camp or risk Roche's surly wrath over the months of recurring dog jokes.

On open ground with less distractions, Geralt catches up quickly, but the mutt still evades him. Finally, he thinks to use a harsh command.

“Quit,” he all but growls. “Roche, quit.”

The dog cowers, whining, and Geralt scoops him into his arms with minimal effort.

“Should have done that right away, I guess,” he tells the dog as it licks at his palm, and he scratches absently behind its ears as it shivers miserably. He feels bad about the scolding, given how intensely the little dog reacts to his harsh commands. Geralt wonders if he would react the same to just anyone's barked orders. The dog whines low in its throat. 

Will Roche remember all this when he turns back? Geralt hopes not. 

Fashioning a lead out of spare leather, he secures the little animal and sneaks through the back of his tent to avoid detection. The Stripes are in the midst of cooking dinner, roughhousing and laughing together.

“Where's Roche?” asks Ves, as Geralt emerges for dinner some time later. “What’s with the dog?”

“Well. He'll be back soon. And the dog's lost. Looking for its master.”

Bearing two bowls of dinner, he returns to his tent and settles down to meditate for the evening. The dog laps the food up messily, then turns in several circles, digging in Geralt's blankets and flops down with a grunt curled against his legs. It lets out a long-suffering sigh from its whiskered snout.

“Long day, huh?” Geralt asks and the dog's tail thumps against the blankets. 

They doze together peacefully that way, until there’s a sudden burst of light, and Roche is very human again, face pressed against Geralt's thigh.

“You're not going to lick me again, are you?”

“Oh fuck you, Witcher,” grunts Roche, voice hoarse from all the barking.

Days later, Geralt thinks maybe it couldn't have hurt to let Roche the dog run full tilt into the Blue Stripes’ camp, barking exuberantly.  Would he have leapt at his fellows feet and wriggled with joy, just like any hound pleased to greet its family?

Watching Roche mourn his dead, empty and worn, Geralt wishes comfort could be as simple as it had been then. An easy pat on the head or a scratch behind the ears.

[windflowerofskellige]

Okay I'm super unhinged about this interaction in a positive way from my Shani/Radovid oneshot so here !!! Look at it!!! (It has like zero dialogue tags because it's not edited but I'm obsessed with the dialogue forgive me)

“You still in pain?” She asks, gently.

He does not know how to vocalise the answer. A yes would be admitting weakness, a yes would acknowledge the witch’s hold on him. The picking at his sleeves stops, but he cannot look her in the eyes.

“Perhaps…” is all he manages to mutter out.

“Did the treatment last time help any?”

“It… Made it easier I suppose?”

“So it eased the pain?”

“It made it bearable, yes.”

“You know, you’ve never told me how this happened. I haven’t seen a case this severe since I shadowed Professor Anemone, and we worked almost exclusively with witchers.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well I don’t suppose the King is walking around fighting monsters on the daily.”

He smiles wryly, “my dear Shani, you’d be shocked if you knew how many monsters wander about the palace.”

“This isn’t Temeria, diplomats and nobles aren’t monsters with sharp claws that tear muscles, and irreparably damage nerves the way yours are.”

“Temeria’s palace is full of monsters in the normal, less dangerous sense. Oh what's a strigga to someone who holds all the power in the world Shani? A strigga acts out of instinct, hunger, and the need to survive. Should she be blamed for the damage of her claws more than the men and women wandering about knowing full well the damage they cause and revel in it as a joyous activity? No, that’s why there’s a steel sword amongst witchers as well.”

“Don’t you want to get rid of witchers?”

“No, I want to rid of mages. Sorcerers, Sorceresses, they are a blight on this society. They are the monsters more than the witchers they create. What’s so hard to understand about that?”

“The educated man might be lumped in with those who can control the tides with a wave of their hand, no?”

“In Novigrad, perhaps. People will use it as an excuse to rid of the undesirables wherever they fall in relation to the true enemy. But my campaign is solely against mages. Foltest of Temeria, Demavend the Third of Aedirn, my father, even Henselt of Kaedwen in a roundabout extent, have fallen victim to the tyranny of those men and women exempt from society’s bounds, knowing nothing but a grab for power and control. It is a gambit. But I did not come to talk politics, I would’ve summoned you to stand before me in Tretogor if I desired to talk politics, and frankly, the look of a politician is not one that suits you.”

[eponymous-rose]

Now Streaming - Witcher 2 First-Time Playthrough!

I have achieved Peak Weekend by showering at 10am and immediately changing into a fresh set of pajamas. Time to stream!

After being stymied by a game-breaking bug, Geralt is back at it, wandering across both sides of a conflict through a mist full of ghostly soldiers in search of Triss (who it turned out had been compressed to pocket-sized and kidnapped), a friggin' silver sword after forgetting to pick his up after a cutscene (nobody's fault ahem), and some of the elements needed to break the curse on Saskia after her poisoning (like Henselt's blood, leading to the fun "calm down I'm not here to kill you I just need your blood" exchange).

Will Saskia survive? Will the tensions mounting in the city come to a head before then? Will another king bite the dust? Some of these questions may be answered today!

Link here