#she looks so nice and proper in the noble's traveling set

[bri-the-nautilus]

Eleonora/Roderika outfit swap

image by zlofsky2nd on Twitter

[thatapostateboy]

blown apart my life for you

Pairing: Marie Hawke x Anders

Word Count: 1347

Synopsis: Marian and Anders take shelter whilst on the run

Prompt: Day Fifteen: Tavern from the Veilbound challenge by @/nympthi and @/citadrells on Twitter

Note: Set post DA2 but pre DA:I

Crossposted: Here on AO3

Rain hammered down relentlessly on the hooded pair as they trudged their way along the muddy path entering the village. Anders could feel the tug at his fingertips to create a force bubble over them to guard from the rain, or at least summon flames to his hands to keep the bitter cold away, but he couldn’t risk exposure here, not even to keep his love dry.

“We need to get out of this rain,” Marian said to him, voice raised over the rain hammering on nearby rooftops.

“Any tent we pitch will just sink into the mud at this rate,” he noted, “We might just need to shelter until it passes.”

She glanced to the sky, darkened clouds covering the stars and moon that would usually guide their path, “I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon… There must be a tavern nearby.”

“Is that a good idea?”

She sighed, “First sign of trouble, we’ll leave, but neither of us can afford to get sick. We need to rest, eat, get dry… take a bath.”

The idea of steaming hot water, or at least something tepid, sends a shiver up his spine that he cannot ignore. Besides, he knew she was right. Life on the road was hard, they avoided crowded areas as much as they could for fear of being recognised, but there was only so much either of them would be able to take before it took a toll on them.

“Alright,” he nodded, “Just for the night.”

They carried on up the road, entering the village proper, soon finding a cosy tavern nestled at the centre. She entered first, keen eyes scanning for Templars or anyone else immediately suspicious before allowing him to enter behind her.

They both near leapt out of their skins when the bartender called to them, welcoming them in, telling them to relax by the fire and he’d bring them some stew. They shrugged out of their wet cloaks, taking two chairs next to the roaring fireplace, Anders watching the tension leave Marian’s shoulders as she began to warm up. Two steaming bowls of stew were brought to them, with warm ale and fresh bread, and Marian smiled to herself as Anders ravenously devoured his food.

She forked over the coin to pay for their meals and a room for the night. They weren’t flush with cash, not having had a lot of time to prepare before leaving Kirkwall, but by some divine will, Marian had been born with both excellent money sense and quick fingers. She knew how to lift coin from those who had enough to spare, and make it stretch to help them survive. It had become abundantly clear to him since living on the run exactly how the Hawke family had made it through their first year in Kirkwall when he witnessed her bartering with the last merchant caravan they’d passed for supplies.

He watched her chat with the bartender, clearly seeking news of their friends and family, so easily slipping into the guise of a weary traveller trying to make her way through the world in these dangerous times. It was the same way she would charms nobles and bandits alike, her genuinely kind demeanour masking her silver tongue.

She returned to sit opposite him, shaking her head to indicate that there were no obvious signs of anyone nearby; both a relief and a worry.

“He did say there’s work in town, if we needed it,” she told him, “He’d be happy to lease the room for longer.”

He sighed. It was a nice thought, having somewhere to set down roots, if only for a few weeks or months, let themselves recover, reconnect. But the longer they stayed somewhere, the greater the risk of being found, and he couldn’t allow that to happen.

“Love, we-” he began to say, but she cut him off.

“I know,” she said softly, looking into the crackling fireplace, “It’s not safe.”

A palpable silence fell between them. They had always found comfort in the quiet between them, content to just be in each other’s company, even before they were together. She would visit him in his clinic, spend entire afternoons or evenings mixing potions and poultices side by side. Or once he had moved into the estate, they would waste away hours in the library as she read or dealt with paperwork whilst he worked on his manifesto. Even in bed, they could lay tangled in the other’s embrace, no words needed between them as they traced freckles and old scars on each other’s skin.

But now… Now the silences were heavy, drawn out. She had given up so much for him. She had chosen him, and this life together, over her life in Kirkwall. Even after everything that had happened at the Gallows, if she had given him up, let that good heart and charming nature speak out for the cause, she could have stayed, probably would have been made Viscount for her trouble. And instead, here she was, living meal to meal with him, sleeping in a tent on the roadside most nights, lying for any scrap of news about the people she loved most, not knowing if they were dead or alive.

It ate away at him, knowing that he had been the cause of such suffering to her. In his plan, he was never meant to survive. He would have been killed for what happened in Kirkwall, a martyr for the cause, the noose removed from around his love’s neck.

He watched her gaze trail from the fire to the small band in the corner where three entertainers played a lute, a violin and a drum, their songs now building up pace and earning a cheer from the other patrons as they got up to dance.

It set an ache in his chest, reminding him of simpler nights at the Hanged Man, playing cards with the others, Garrett’s raucous laughter and relentless flirting with everyone, Varric’s tall tales, Maker he even missed Fenris’ brooding. And his Marian, oh how she loved to dance. She would find a partner with anyone she could grab, usually Isabela or Merrill, her lithe roguish body moving perfectly in time, though sometimes drunkenly, with the music. He had been pulled into her arms on more than one occasion, more willingly after they were involved, following her lead as she danced without a care for who was watching.

“We should get some rest,” she said quietly, but her eyes went wide as he got to his feet, offering her his hand.

“Dance with me.”

“What?”

He swept into a bow, feeling it twinge his back, but he extended his hand again nonetheless, “Marian, my love, will you dance with me?”

She blinked a few times, “But… wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” he said.

“What about drawing too much attention to ourselves?”

“We’ll be gone in the morning,” he reminded her, “Tonight, let’s just dance.”

She took his hand then, following him as she rose from her chair, leaning into his arms as they mingled with the other patrons who were moving along to the music. They moved together without words needing to pass between them, knowing the subtle hints in each other’s expressions as to who would step where and when, when he would spin her, trusting in how far he would lean her back in his arms.

The music was drowned out by the melodic sound of her laughter, the sight of her warm, infectious smile making him forget everything that was happening outside of this tavern, everything that would await them again come morning.

Later, they would retire to their room to enjoy a shared hot bath and fall into a bed together for the first time in far too long. They would sleep for as long as they would allow themselves, and past dawn they would be on the road again, towards destination and dates unknown.

But for tonight at least, he embrace her joy and her love, and pray that it would see them through.

[nitewrighter]

for the teen Titans ficlet thing, I don’t suppose you could do “there was only one bed” for robin and starfire?

*slams fist down on table* STARFIRE IS THE BIG SPOON.

----

"I think you are overacting," Starfire said, her arms folded across her garish tye-dyed nightshirt.

"Overreacting," Robin corrected, adjusting the waistband on his sweats as he stepped out of the bathroom, "And--I'm not. I've slept in lean-tos in the Alaskan hinterland and in literal trees in the Virunga mountains. I can handle a hotel floor."

Starfire scoffed. "You are being ridiculous! It is a bed! There is room for two! Plenty of my people sleep in Tesh'li!"

"Er..." Robin gave her a blank look and Starfire seemed to realize that that word hadn't translated over.

"Uhm..." Starfire's brow furrowed for a few seconds as she struggled for the closest english equivalent, "Tesh'li are like... clusters? P-piles? It is very common for families."

"...Tamaraneans sleep in piles?" Robin's brow crinkled at the mental image.

" Tesh'li. 'Piles' implies gravity is a strong factor in the composition of bodies," said Starfire.

"...right, floating..." Robin said quietly.

"The whole team had a big Tesh'li in that cave when we had that mission in Markovia!" Starfire said, clearly frustrated, "Beast Boy turned into a grizzly bear and Cyborg turned off his cooling systems to share body heat! You and Raven even shared your capes! Why is this worse? Am I worse?"

"It's not worse--I mean obviously you're not worse-- it's just---when it's just two people--" Robin drew in a tense breath through his teeth before slumping his shoulders, defeated. "It's like... an earth... thing."

"I am aware that earth has many things," said Starfire, clearly not satisfied with this answer.

Robin sighed.

"Oh!" Starfire perked up, "It is one of your earth intimacy hangups! Because large portions of your population spent several centuries convincing yourselves that your natural instinct to be close and reproduce were affronts to your creator deities! And that still lingers in your cultural practices!"

"Uh..." Robin didn't really have a response to that.

"I have been reading the Earth histories," said Starfire, a little smugly.

"That's great," said Robin, meekly.

“Well it is not like any of ‘the funny business’ will be happening,” said Starfire, using the finger quotes around the words ‘funny business.’ Robin really regretted letting Beast Boy teach her how to make air quotes with her fingers and that she had only been getting better at figuring out when to use them. “But I will respect your cultural practice and let you sleep on the floor, even though that is dumb and a little gross and you will wake up with the aching back.”

"You sure are a diplomat, huh?" said Robin, drily.

“Mm-hmm!” Starfire nodded.

This was supposed to be a victory in the argument for Robin--since Starfire was recognizing the boundaries he was laying out, but who was he laying them out for if she didn’t care about them? Himself? Alfred had made a point of bringing him up to be ‘proper’ and ‘gentlemanly’ (perhaps to make up for some shortcomings with Bruce) but Robin’s own childhood in the Circus was closer to what Starfire was describing--the performers spent so much time traveling and setting up and breaking down the circus that they had to catch sleep when they could, sleeping in piles, often with little regard for gender or age. He remembered sleeping splayed across his parents’ laps when he was small, or with his cheek smushed against Samson the Strongman’s bicep, or even in the pile of poodles, borzois, and border collies that made up the act of ‘Rivka’s Fabulous Tumbling Dogs.’ Sometimes he would even wake up with white greasepaint smudged in his hair from sleeping on one of the clowns’ shoulders. But now here he was, feeling like a bit of an idiot as Starfire pulled some sheets off the bed and the extra pillow and handed them over to him, before plopping down cross-legged on the bed herself and turning on the hotel room TV. 

“Did you want to watch something?” Starfire glanced at him.

“I’m fine with whatever you want to watch,” Robin shrugged.

Robin took the uncomfortable wooden chair next to the too-small hotel table where their mostly-eaten one-half pepperoni one half pineapple-anchovy pizza sat. Starfire quickly flicked through the channels until reaching a public access channel where a reindeer bellowed on the screen.

“The noble caribou,” the narrator spoke, “A proud fixture of the tundras of the north that have roamed these grass-covered polar deserts for thousands of years.”

Robin gave a glance over to Starfire who was lying on her stomach on the bed and kicking her feet back and forth, her chin in her hands like any preppy teenaged earth girl watching her favorite low-budget cringeworthy high school drama starring 29-year-olds.

“But this is not a story of the caribou, no we will focus on a friend who has been here even longer,” the camera panned down to a caribou gnawing some knotty, netted-looking substance from the ground, “That industrious, unsung hero: The lichen. This is... Life of Lichen.” 

“What happened to ‘World of Fungus?’” Robin tilted his head.

“You remembered?” Starfire perked up.

“I mean it’s your favorite,” Robin shrugged, “Or I guess this is your new favorite?”

“Life of Lichen is the sequel!” Starfire said excitedly, “Technically it is the third sequel. The first was ‘Our Friend the Algae,’ the second was, ‘World of Fungus’ and now it is ‘Life of Lichen!’ Because you need both algae and fungus to create it,” She paused a bit, “I can... change it if you prefer something else though.”

“Nah I kind of like it. It’s calming,” said Robin, “I used to only research stuff for like... missions and investigations... it’s nice to just... be interested in things.” He craned in his seat a little to see better.

“There is room,” said Starfire, scooting herself over, “You can see better here.”

Robin paused for a few seconds, then got up and took a seat on the bed, propping some pillows up against the headboard for himself to lean against. 

“While lichen bears superficial similarity to moss, there are many differences, the first starting with composition. Mosses, of course, are plants, while lichens are composite organisms, there are over 20,000 known species...” The documentary narrator continued talking as the camera panned across a rainbow of lichens on the side of a rock and Robin found his eyelids drooping, 

He could have sworn he only rested his eyes for a few minutes when he suddenly startled awake. Most of the hotel room lights were off, save for the bedside lamp, the credits were running on the TV and the previews were next week’s episode were promising to delve into the exciting world of lichens growing on trees, as opposed to this episode which mainly featured lichens growing on rocks.

“Starfire?” Robin said, his voice hoarse with sleepiness.

“Mm?” Starfire was already turning around and fluffing up her pillow, the faint green glow of her eyes creating a low spooky light in the room.

“The floor’s kinda gross,” said Robin.

“The floor is indeed gross,” said Starfire.

“Is it cool if--”

“It is very cool,” said Starfire. She reached and got the pillow he had on the floor next to the bed and passed it over to him.

“Alright,” Robin got under the sheets. Maybe he would have found more energy to be flustered about the action if he hadn’t been lulled by an hour of a husky British accent talking about lichens. Starfire seemed to be respecting his ‘earth intimacy hangups’ and slept on her side with her back to him.

“G’night,” said Robin.

“Sleep well,” Starfire’s voice was half muffled into her pillow as he turned off the bedside lamp.

It didn’t take too long for Starfire’s breathing to go slow and rhythmic, but Robin was still staring at the ceiling. 

God, I made that weird, he thought, Why did I have to make such a big deal about sleeping on the floor? I mean I literally was repeatedly saying it’s not a big deal and it wasn’t but now it’s a whole thing. What if she thinks I don’t like her? What if she knows I like her but she’s really pushing the alien thing so we don’t have to address it? No that’s awful, she wouldn’t do that--earth means too much to her to do that. That was shitty of me to think. ‘Earth Intimacy hangups.’ I don’t have earth intimacy hangups. I should probably let her know that it’s probably not cool to tell people they have ‘earth intimacy hangups’ right to their face. I’m cool with it though. Because I don’t make big deals of things. I mean it wouldn’t be a big deal to sleep on the floor. Oh god I’m obsessing over this. 

He turned on his side so that he was facing her back in the bed. He stared at her, watching her shoulders slowly shift with her breath. He tried to match the pace of his breath to hers. 

Tesh’li, huh? he thought, and he felt his eyelids get heavy. He imagined a distant world with high-ceilinged palaces, and a family sleeping in a pile on a heap of luxurious cushions and circular futons, one of their two daughters hovering upside-down just above them. His eyelids slowly slid shut, Doesn’t sound so bad...

He woke up at 2 in the morning drowning in hair.

Starfire was hovering about a half foot off the bed, half the blankets hanging off of her, still in that same ‘lying on her side’ position, though now angled so that the majority of her hair was piled directly on Robin’s face. Robin sputtered quietly, pushing hair out of his eyes and mouth and flinching hard as he realized Starfire was floating.

“Star-pft-fire?” he whispered hoarsely, still pushing hair from his face.

“Robinnn... Kan’ah peq lor-faon eshdarm...” Starfire murmured in Tamaranean.

“...What?” Robin said blankly before she dropped back down onto the bed with a bounce and a loud creak of mattress springs, still dead asleep. A cat-like snore escaped her as she readjusted herself in the blankets. Robin breathed in a steadying breath, coming to terms with what he had just seen and how it was all perfectly normal what with Starfire being an alien. Then he repeated that last mental sentence back to himself and wondered how long ago this work had claimed his sanity like it had claimed Bruce’s. He didn’t have long to dwell on that thought, however, as Starfire turned over in her sleep, wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him close, her alien strength moving him with the same ease as she might grab a stuffed animal.

“Star?” Robin whispered again as her arm snaked over his chest. He felt her body pressing into him from behind. His face was burning. 

“Hmm... Wurul tai horqarr, Silkie...” she mumbled, squeezing Robin close.

“Er.. Star--I’m not--Ggk!” Robin winced a little at the tight squeeze, wondering for a few seconds if he was going to get a broken rib,  but then Starfire seemed to nuzzle her cheek against his hair and her grip relaxed with a slight sigh.

Her hair was still enveloping him in a river of orange. She was warm--warmer than any human he could remember, and being in her arms felt like that almost- too-warm that’s perfect for dozing off while reading on summer afternoons. She smelled like ozone, and Lapsang-Souchong tea, and fresh-cut citrus. He wondered how he smelled to her. If he smelled like a memory of another planet. He listened to her breathing for a few minutes longer, as the warmth of her sank into him. He felt the exhaustion he always felt like he was barely outrunning catch up to him again, but here he was willing to let it overtake him.

Maybe I should wake her up? I mean... alien strength... don’t want to get crushed if she has a weird dream or something. Probably the smart thing to do, he thought.

“Zontar-ha peq lor-yuur’vyn...”  Starfire murmured in her sleep and readjusted herself against him again, her body curving around him. 

Eh. There are worse ways to go, he thought as he closed his eyes.

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

Title: The House in the Cerulean Sea

Author: Nnedi Okorafor

Rating: 2/5 stars

I just finished reading this book, and it was a pretty cool adventure story. That was the problem. (I mean, that's not the biggest problem in the world.) It was a decent adventure story -- or, to be more precise, a fantasy story that tried to be an adventure story -- but in doing so it was a fairly generic one, and generic in a particularly bad way. I guess it's because the standard fantasy trope I have in mind when I hear the word "adventure" is something like "a quest for an artifact of magical power," and this book basically had that. Yet it did so in ways that made the quest seem generic.

The protagonist is a teenage boy named Zuko, who has been separated from his mother (who died years ago), and he's been raised by his father in a world with magic. The story starts with Zuko doing a "solo," i.e. traveling on his own, to find his father. The plot, as far as I can tell, is standard and generic, and involves Zuko (and a magic sword and a giant monster) traveling alone across the kingdom and defeating a villain at the end; there's some cool worldbuilding at the outset with magic items and the like, and a scene or two of Zuko training himself to use his sword -- but even there, nothing special. We know that he has a magic sword and that's that, so much so that when we get to the part where he uses it there's no particular suspense involved in watching a sword fight (in fact, it's played for a few minutes straight, with all the action of a video game cutscene). As for the monster, well, the opening chapter introduces us to it, and also to a female love interest who is introduced about halfway through and who, while initially interesting, never seems to live up to our expectations of what a fantasy heroine should be like (she's smart, but also, well, kind of the perfect person to be rescued by Zuko as a child and then to fall in love with, which she does). Zuko doesn't look particularly cool until the last few chapters, and then he ends up looking cooler than ever, but it seems like a case of "cool" being used here as a synonym for "shiny," which, I mean, okay. (The last few chapters also show us that Zuko has an incredibly special ability, one that we never saw him use in the story proper, which makes it easier for us to go "oh wow, cool, this is awesome, they finally got that special thing into the story so that they can show us its awesome powers.")

What I said above sounds like a huge complaint, but it's not really. There are a few things here that are pretty nice. There's a fairly interesting worldbuilding/setting -- one that draws from African mythology, and that seems at least in part inspired by a real place Okorafor visited during her childhood and later wrote about in The Shadow Woman -- and there's a fair amount of worldbuilding that's not used for anything interesting. The worldbuilding is pretty generic: the kingdoms are divided between a handful of noble families ("clans" or "tribes" as in, the clans are "people"), and the common people are mostly illiterate, though there are some interesting subclans. I guess in a lot of ways this is meant to evoke the pre-modern world, but not much else is done with it beyond the fact that it's used, and there isn't that much pre-modern to evoke beyond the pre-modern's tendency to view people in general as being more like people in their own time, I guess.

And the most interesting thing about this book -- that most of my problems with it were a result of -- is how well the story is told. This is a huge spoiler, so you should look away if that's something you care about, but in order to make the end of the book seem real, Okorafor had to create a realistic version of the final villain. I don't actually know how or why he did that -- maybe the original version was unrealistically cartoonish, and then Okorafor decided he wanted something that would look like a villain, and the final version seemed more realistic as the result. But anyway, what this means is that at the final battle, the villain was a big monster, and the big, awesome sword that Zuko finally wields in the climax was the magic sword he was supposed to have found earlier in the story. I'm not sure this was intentional (and if so, it's just a dumb gimmick), but given that the villain was real in the story in the first place, the scene felt so anticlimactic that I actually thought "that's it, that's the whole book, there can't possibly be more here." In particular, there were a couple of scenes toward the end that felt superfluous -- the love interest's introduction was fine, but her appearance and personality and the fact that she has an important thing to say (for the first of many, many times) in the last few chapters are such a big deal that you just know that these chapters must be there, for one reason or another, even though they feel like they could be cut down to nothing.

In short, this book is a sad way of telling an adventure story. It has its flaws, its genericness, its overly shiny characters -- but there's something that's very appealing about its attempt to do what I would do if I tried to turn a generic story into a good one. And that is a lot of fun.

Edit: There are spoilers for the book here, and also for the other book, The Shadow Woman. I have to be very very vague about which parts of those books are similar to what parts of this one, because I'm not sure I want anyone reading The Shadow Woman to see what's in this review. The story that is similar (mostly) is that of a teenage boy going off alone to find his father, which has become standard fantasy adventure in this century (there are some significant differences of course). (It is, if anything, slightly less generic in the case of the Shadow Woman because it takes place in a vaguely "medieval" version of the pre-modern African kingdom of the novel, and there's a lot more interesting worldbuilding and a stronger plot twist.) Also the novel has a female love interest and a scene involving swords.

[brasskier]

At first, she thought Geralt was crazy.

He had to be. That could be the only explanation for why he let the absolute nuisance of a companion that was Jaskier tag along for two decades of on-and-off adventures. She wasn’t crazy, Yennefer assured herself. There was a method to why she was letting the bard follow her around the Continent - that was, when she first found him at the bottom of a mug in the dingiest tavern Caingorn had to offer just after the dragon hunt, she had exactly zero faith that he’d manage to survive on his own. And she felt a little, tiny, itsy bit of sympathy, for how Geralt had treated him - not that it was her fault, really - but, sure. He can come along. Just until she trusts he won’t drown himself in liquor the minute he’s left to his own devices. 

  �� And gods, does he not shut up. Every hour of every day, it’s constant chatter. And if he isn’t incessantly running his mouth, he’s plucking at that damned lute, and she’s had to fight off the urge to snap it upside his head on more occasions than she can keep track of at this point. Even in his sleep, the bard isn’t quiet, mumbling incoherently to himself. (And ‘bard’ is about virtually all she ever addresses him as.) 

    But sometimes, he’s not just talking in his sleep. Sometimes, it’s a night terror, and he’s flinging himself off his bedroll and flailing at intruders visible only to him, and she should be annoyed. She really should be, that gods-forsaken bastard disturbing her rest. But he looks so haunted (by what, exactly, she is not going to be the one to ask), and he sounds so unsure, and she can’t help but take pity. So, for the first time just a week into their joint travels, Yennefer begrudgingly extracts herself from her bedroll and slips into his, wraps her arms around him, and softly calls his name (his actual name, and not just “bard”, which is an improvement) until he stills and she can feel his breath even out. And then she deposits him back, tugs the blanket up to his chin, and returns to her bedroll so she can get back to sleep. And also because Melitele forbid she has to hear what he’ll come up with if he wakes up in her arms. 

    To his credit, he tries to return her favors - and she is very favorable, if you ask her. He performs at every last tavern she’ll let him stop at, puts the coin he’s earned to whatever herb or potion she needs or even just towards their dinner. And he never asks Yennefer to portal their way to their destination - though perhaps it’s as simple as years of “don’t touch Roach” has conditioned him not to ask for favors. Come to think of it, he doesn’t complain as much as she’d expected - as much as Geralt had claimed. Sure, he carried on from time to time. But if she told him to drop it - which she had no qualms doing - he did.

    Sometimes Yennefer’s sad. No particular reason, she just is. And when all she wants to do is lie on her back and stare at the stars and think, he’ll put his lute away, cozy up next to her as close as he dares, and stare with her. Silently. Not even a peep. Sometimes Jaskier’s sad, not for any one reason or another. And when all he wants to do is curl up and not think, she’ll prop herself against the nearest tree and hum whatever tune she thinks might just make him feel better. It usually does. Allegedly, she has a better voice than Geralt. She believes it. 

    It starts to actually get kind of easy to travel with Jaskier, loathe as she is to admit it. He’s not as high maintenance as she had anticipated, both for a noble and because of Geralt’s misgivings. She starts to think she might actually miss him, which she definitely won’t admit, but she definitely also won’t send him off anytime soon. For now, he can stay, and she almost wants him to. And he certainly wants to stay; she knows as well as he that he’s not cut out for stagnance. So she keeps going, and he keeps coming with, and that’s okay.

    It starts to get cold, and when Jaskier offhandedly mentions that he ought to start heading towards Oxenfurt soon, she can feel her heart sink. But she’s not Geralt, she doesn’t have to run off and hole up in Kaer Morhen for the whole season. She doesn’t need to leave - he doesn’t need to leave. She mentions this as nonchalantly as physically possible, and Oxenfurt isn’t brought up again. 

    It’s cold. Jaskier is cold; he shivers himself to sleep at night. Against all better judgement, she slides into his bedroll, scoots him over so her ass isn’t on the cold grass, and rubs warmth into his arms. How Geralt had never gotten him warmer clothes is beyond her. And this time, she lets herself fall asleep there. She’s ready and accepting of whatever snarky comments he’ll have come morning light, but he never does. He simply stretches, yawns a “good morning”, and sets about breaking camp. 

    She should’ve put a stop to it the next night when he set up his bedroll directly next to hers, lining up the edges neatly. Should’ve told him this was not some kind of permanent arrangement, something along the lines of “there’s a whole forest, bard. Move.” But she doesn’t, and they hold each other, and it’s okay. 

    They’re in Oxenfurt proper - the city, not the Academy - and he’s drunk after a long night of performing. She’s definitely had her fair share, too, but not so much that his comment doesn’t hit like a punch to the gut. “When did you start using ‘bard’ as a term of endearment instead of an insult?” She doesn’t have an answer for him, so she shrugs. He laughs, ale sloshing about in his tankard, leaning forward on the table. It’s a beautiful sound, and she resents herself to thinking that.

    The inn is warm and cozy. Jaskier shouldn’t need her to keep him warm. But she doesn’t fight it when he cozies up anyway. In fact, she’s not terribly sure she’d want to sleep alone. Having someone to fling your arms around is nice, after all. Her favorite part is right at daybreak, the handful of moments between her waking and his. He looks so young in his sleep, the crow’s feet and smile lines she’d teased him for all but gone, altogether almost more like a boy than a man who’s traveled the world. 

After weeks of this, she finally lets go of her pride, leans down, and places a brief kiss on his forehead. And when he blinks awake, tilts his head up, and blindly plants a sloppy half-asleep kiss on her cheek, she leans into it. 

    Geralt was crazy, she thinks again. Not for letting Jaskier travel with him, but for letting him go. 

[kjack89]

An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 3/?)

Continuation of the E/R Bridgerton AU that’s honestly more aptly described as a regency-ish era fake marriage fic. Because ~shenanigans~ (Chapter 1 tumblr | AO3, chapter 2 tumblr | AO3)

It appears to this Author that the most discussed couple of this season will end up not being a couple at all. And no, this refers not to Baron Pontmercy and his latest object of obsession, a handkerchief that he claims belongs to the woman he met at the Thenardier’s ball, though it is perhaps as unlikely a pairing.

The Marquess of Enjolras and Mr. Grantaire have continued spending an inordinate amount of time in each other’s company, and no one, it would seem, is as surprised as their mutual friends and acquaintances. Mr. Combeferre was overheard in discussion with the Earl of Courfeyrac on more than one occasion lamenting the unlikely union. He seems to be skeptical on the nature of this deepening friendship, a skepticism one can only assume he shares with the other important people in the marquess’s life.

Namely, his mother, who has been keeping a low profile after their shouting match was recorded in this paper. Alas, her efforts will almost certainly be in vain if her son continues cavorting with the most unlikely of allies. And it appears he shall, as he is apparently set to accompany Mr. Grantaire on a visit to his country estate this week.

One can certainly speak of the restorative benefits of country air and time spent away from the city and the season. But proceed with caution, Lord Enjolras – scandal is not confined by geography. 

Nor, for that matter, is this Author. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1831

“I still cannot believe that I agreed to this,” Enjolras grumbled as he followed Grantaire into the carriage set to take them out to the country to visit Grantaire’s home.

“Honestly?” Grantaire said cheerfully, settling in the far corner of the carriage and stretching out luxuriously across the bench. “I am as well. I half-expected you not to show up this morning.”

Enjolras scowled slightly as he sat down across from him. “When I make a promise, I usually see it through,” he said stiffly.

Grantaire just laughed. “Leave it to you to take it as an impingement on your honor to suggest that you might have had misgivings about this particularly harebrained idea. And before you somehow take umbrage on my own behalf, surely if anyone is allowed to call this endeavor harebrained, it is myself.”

“Then am I allowed to take umbrage at the idea that you cannot even bring yourself to believe in your own schemes?” Enjolras snapped.

The carriage jolted suddenly as the driver spurred the horses into motion, and Enjolras pitched forward, reaching out to brace himself against the far wall of the carriage. Instead, his hands landed squarely on Grantaire’s chest. “Careful,” Grantaire said, his voice pitched low, and Enjolras flushed as he struggled to right himself.

“It seems this venture may very well be cursed,” he managed when he was finally settled back in his own seat, still flushed and avoiding Grantaire’s eyes. “Or at the very least, off to the most inauspicious start in most of human history.”

Grantaire shrugged, glancing out the window of the carriage. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “It’s not every day one finds oneself in a compromising position with a marquess, after all.” He smirked at Enjolras. “Pity one of us isn’t the proper sex, or this entire thing would be settled already.” 

“Be serious,” Enjolras snapped, but Grantaire ignored him.

“I mean, caught in a scandalous embrace with a marquess, unchaperoned in the back of a carriage…it would be the scandal of the season, if not the decade.”

Grantaire sounded strangely wistful, and Enjolras gave him a look. “Forgive me,” he said curtly, “but I have the mental capacity for only one fictional scandal at a time, and I believe what we’re planning with your deceased sister takes precedence.”

His tone brooked no argument, not that this had ever once stopped Grantaire, but for once, Grantaire let the topic drop. “Very well,” he said instead, settling back into his corner and rapping his knuckles in a staccato rhythm against the side of the carriage. “But it is a long trip, and if I don’t have fantasy to entertain myself with, you’ll need to provide a more suitable topic.”

Enjolras blinked. “I assumed you would spend the trip sketching or painting or something,” he said, a little awkwardly.

“In a moving carriage?” Grantaire asked, a little incredulous, and as if to prove his point, the carriage swayed dangerously before righting itself.

Enjolras shrugged, feeling himself blush again. “You just seem to have the ability to sketch through anything,” he muttered. “Namely my every speech.” 

Grantaire smirked. “Can you blame me?”

“For not paying attention to a word I’m saying?”

“Now, that’s not entirely fair,” Grantaire said mildly. “I almost certainly catch about every fourth or fifth word.”

“Perhaps that’s the reason you can’t find it in yourself to believe in anything,” Enjolras said sourly.

Grantaire just laughed. “Perhaps,” he agreed with a lazy smirk.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and glanced out the window, dismayed to see that they had not even left the city yet. “Fine,” he said abruptly. “Then tell me about your sister.”

To his surprise, Grantaire’s smile disappeared and his shook his head. “No,” he said. “While I certainly cannot blame you for curiosity about your bride to be, now is not the time to speak of her.”

Enjolras looked closely at him. “You must have loved her very much,” he said quietly.

Grantaire shrugged again, looking uncomfortable. “She was my best – and for longer than I care to think about my only – friend. And that is all that I will say on the topic.”

He said it quite firmly and Enjolras inclined his head. “Very well,” he said. “Your father, then – if Lady Whistledown is to be believed, he is out of the country, correct?”

Grantaire had made a face as soon as Enjolras mentioned his father, and he shook his head. “Must we ruin this sojourn with talk of my father?” he asked plaintively. “Certainly you would not wish to speak of your mother, would you?”

Enjolras scowled. “Indeed I would not,” he said. “But need I remind you before you bring my mother into this, it was you who demanded conversation, so forgive me for trying to start one.”

Grantaire sighed, and to Enjolras’s continued surprise, actually managed an expression that at least resembled genuine contrition. “No, it is I who must ask your forgiveness,” he said. “I am not used to speaking of my family.” He managed a wan smile. “One of the benefits of not being noble – no one much cares to whom I am related.”

“They’ll certainly care a bit more after this,” Enjolras murmured.

“Well, you’re probably not wrong there,” Grantaire said with a snort. “But that is a problem for the future, so do not think you will somehow use my hesitation to get out of this arrangement.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” Grantaire said, hesitating before adding, “But I apologize for stymying your attempts at conversation, so to make up for it, a promise: ask me any question, and I swear I will answer it.”

“Anything?”

“On my honor,” Grantaire said solemnly with a nod.

Enjolras considered it for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “Then answer this: why are you doing this?”

“Anything but that.”

Enjolras frowned. “Grantaire—”

“Anything but that,” Grantaire repeated, his expression and tone both as serious as Enjolras had ever witnessed. He paused and seemed to force his expression into something more approximating his normal jovial appearance. “Come now, you out of everyone should know that my honor is worth very little.”

“To you, perhaps,” Enjolras muttered. “Very well, then…” He trailed off, casting around for a somewhat neutral topic. “Tell me about your home, I suppose. After all, I should know something about where we are traveling, and besides, it’s not every day that I get to visit a new money estate.”

He said the last words teasingly, and it had his desired effect: Grantaire half-smiled and shook his head. “I always knew you were a secret snob, looking down your nose on the landed gentry,” he said, equally teasing, and Enjolras relaxed, glad for reasons he could not quite articulate that they were back on their usual footing. “But there’s not much to tell. It’s a nice enough manor, just outside a small village. My sister and I were discouraged from going to the village much as children, so I doubt any there would even remember us, which works to our advantage, of course. But there was a wood on the other side of the house, and that’s where she and I spent most of our time…”

His words washed over Enjolras like a warm blanket. Despite usually being the one giving long speeches, Enjolras was quite surprised to find that for once, he was content just to sit back and listen as the carriage ride continued, bearing them both towards the house that Grantaire was describing with considerable enthusiasm.

So vividly did he describe it that Enjolras knew without Grantaire saying anything when they approached, the winding stone drive just as he had described it. But Grantaire had perhaps undersold the manor itself, which was massive, towering over them as they disembarked from the carriage. 

“Impressed?” Grantaire asked, with a sort of put-upon boredom, shooing the driver away and offering Enjolras his hand instead to help him down.

Enjolras just made a small, neutral noise. “As my mother would say, you have done well for yourself.”

Grantaire barked a laugh. “High words, coming from her,” he said with a grin. “Though don’t think that I’m so new of money that I didn’t recognize the veiled insult in there.”

Enjolras laughed lightly. “Like I said, it’s what my mother would say,” he reminded him. “As for myself, it looks as noble a house as most I have seen in my life.”

“A mighty compliment,” Grantaire said, making a mocking leg. “Now please, my lord, let me offer the finest hospitality in at least the surrounding several acres.”

Together, they crossed to the door, where a man and a woman waited for them. Grantaire greeted both as if they were family, kissing the woman on the cheek and shaking the man’s hand. “My lord, if I may present my butler, Le Cabuc, and my housekeeper, Madame Hucheloup.”

Madame Hucheloup bobbed an awkward curtsy, her eyes wide. “Lord Marquess,” she said, and Enjolras couldn’t find it in himself to correct her on the title.

Le Cabuc gave him a stiff nod, clearly not as impressed as the housekeeper. “My lord,” he said. “You must forgive us, we are not used to entertaining gentlemen of your standing.”

“I am certain whatever arrangements you have made will more than suffice,” Enjolras assured him with a tight smile.

“In more ways that one,” Grantaire murmured in an undertone. “I have already filled Le Cabuc in on our plan, and intend on letting Madame Hucheloup know this evening.” He nudged Enjolras in the ribs, smirking again. “She shall likely stand in for my sister during the fake wedding.”

Enjolras frowned. “I didn’t realize there was going to be an actual wedding,” he hissed, following Grantaire inside. “Surely the town vicar will realize that Madame Hucheloup is not your sister!”

“The town vicar drinks more wine and whiskey than I do,” Grantaire informed him. “He will not recognize anyone, I promise you that. And we need this to look real, do we not?”

“I suppose,” Enjolras said reluctantly.

Grantaire clapped him on the shoulder in what he clearly thought was a bracing kind of way. “Chin up,” he said. “It will all be over soon enough. In the meantime, I am certain that Madame Hucheloup will have laid enough food to feed a small army. Do you wish to change before dinner?”

Enjolras looked down at his clothes, which were rumpled and dusty from the trip. “I won’t if you won’t,” he said, and Grantaire grinned.

“Deal.”

----------

After dinner, Grantaire showed Enjolras to his room, a large, airy chamber that was adjacent to Grantaire’s, and Enjolras went to bed early, determined to get a good night’s rest.

Instead, he woke early the next morning, a force of habit that was not helped by tossing and turning for most of the night at the thought of what they were about to do. He and Grantaire had not yet discussed exactly how the scandal was to unfold, but he imagined that they would figure that out sometime that day.

He woke so early that most of the staff was not up yet, and rather than inconvenience anyone by ringing them ahead of their usual wake up time, he instead slipped out the front door, taking the well-worn path down to the nearby village. It was a beautiful spring day, and despite himself, he found himself enjoying the walk.

Even though he tried to spend at least a little time in the villages that part of his family’s lands each time he visited, he could not imagine any time that he spent there would ever be like this, slipping down the winding streets as an anonymous stranger, watching the comings and goings of the townfolk.

He had just purchased a delicious-looking handheld pie from the baker when he felt a hand on his shoulder and immediately tensed. He turned, relaxing when he saw it was Grantaire. “Oh,” he said, relieved. “I thought—”

Out of nowhere, Grantaire’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him reeling backwards, his pie splattering to the ground. “What in the bleeding—”

“I do not know who you think you are,” Grantaire shouted, “but if you think that you can take advantage of my sister, sir, you have another think coming.”

Enjolras rubbed his jaw, blinking up at him as he tried to piece together what the hell was happening. “I don’t know—”  he started, but Grantaire cut him off.

“You know perfectly well,” he growled. “Meeting with her in the middle of the night with no chaperone? Impugning her honor, with nary a marriage proposal in sight? I will not stand for it, my lord – on that, you have my word.”

The passersby had all stopped to stare, some openly gaping, others whispering to each other as they watched. “Your sister’s honor remains intact,” Enjolras said, slowly catching on to where this was going, but wondering why Grantaire was doing this here and now. “I give you my word—”

“Your word means nothing to me,” Grantaire said coldly, his expression flinty, and for the first time, Enjolras realized what it must be like for any who had crossed Grantaire. It was a formidable sight, and one he hoped not to be on the wrong side of for real anytime soon. “You will marry my sister, and before the week’s end.”

“And if I refuse?” Enjolras asked.

Someone in the crowd gasped, but it was the only sound anyone made as they stared between the two men. For a moment, it almost looked like Grantaire was smiling, just slightly, but it disappeared so quickly that Enjolras could not be certain that he did not imagine it. “Then it shall be a duel. First light on the morrow – guns or swords, your pick.”

This had absolutely not been a part of their plan, and Enjolras gaped at him. But before he could stop himself, before he could end this ruse with a few simple words, his idiotic pride got the best of him in the worst way possible at the worst time possible. “Guns,” he heard himself say. “First light on the morrow, and we shall see whose honor is left standing.”

Now Grantaire did smile, an almost feral grin. “I look forward to it, my lord,” he said, his voice low, and he turned and swept away without uttering another word.

Enjolras stood still for one long minute before realizing that every eye was still on him, and the whispers were starting to grow in volume. He flushed beet red and quickly hurried away, heading back toward the manor, his head reeling at what had just happened. 

About halfway back to Grantaire’s house, the man in question fell in next to him, his cold expression replaced by a genuine grin. “Well, that went well,” he said cheerfully, and Enjolras gave him a withering look.

“Did it?” he asked sourly, wincing at the pain still radiating from his jaw. “Because I was just about to ask you what in the bloody hell you were thinking.”

Grantaire clucked his tongue. ��There is no need for that kind of language,” he scolded, still abominably cheerful.”

“Says the man who just publicly challenged me to a duel!”

Grantaire stopped so suddenly that Enjolras ran straight into him. “Yes, you idiot,” he said, but despite his words, his tone was soft, patient even. “I just very publicly challenged you to a duel. If you think that the townspeople won’t be telling everyone they know about that—”

Enjolras shook his head slowly. “And what if I had just agreed to marry your sister?”

“Honestly, I was mostly expecting you to,” Grantaire said with a shrug. “After all, it’s not necessary for the ruse that we actually have a duel, just that the challenge and scandal is made known.” Enjolras flushed and opened his mouth to apologize and explain, but Grantaire didn’t let him, continuing thoughtfully, “But in honesty, this lends a certain...verisimilitude to the whole affair. After all, no one would believe that you would so quickly agree to a marriage.”

“I suppose not,” Enjolras reluctantly agreed, before adding, a little sullenly, “Though speaking of verisimilitude, I don’t think you needed to punch me quite so hard.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Oh, do not be such a baby,” he scoffed. “I pulled my punch.”

“You could have fooled me.”

Enjolras knew he sounded like a petulant child, but he didn’t much care. Grantaire rolled his eyes again. “Believe me, had I punched you with my full strength, you would have a broken jaw.” Enjolras was tempted to tell him that he wasn’t entirely sure his jaw wasn’t broken, but Grantaire glanced at the look on his face and sighed. “Oh, come here.”

He reached out and Enjolras automatically flinched. “What are you—” he started, breaking off when Grantaire cradled his jaw gently between both his hands, prodding gently with his fingertips, his touch almost feather-light.

Enjolras knew he was blushing, but if Grantaire noticed, he didn’t say anything. “See?” he said instead, his voice quiet. “Nothing broken. I doubt you’ll even have much of a bruise.”

His fingers skimmed lightly over his skin as he traced his jaw, and Enjolras swallowed, hard, realizing for the first time just how close they were standing. If anyone happened upon them, standing like this, the scandal in question would not be in relation to Grantaire’s sister. He cleared his throat. “You can let go of me now.”

Grantaire’s hands fell to his sides, and Enjolras wished he didn’t immediately miss the warmth. He shoved his hands into his pockets and they both started walking back toward the house. After a long silence, Enjolras cleared his throat again. “So what now?”

“Now, we make sure that one of the townsfolk’s accounts of what happened gets into the right hands so that it gets to Lady Whistledown,” Grantaire said.

“And after that?”

Grantaire smirked at him. “After that, we have a duel to plan.”

[sometimesiwrite]

Steady As She Goes

Part 1

Fandom: The Witcher

Characters: Essi Daven/Lambert

Summary: Lambert begrudgingly insists on escorting Essi through Velen on her way to Novigrad. On their three days' journey, an unexpected bond is formed as the unlikely traveling companions encounter one another in new light. But will they get through unscathed?

Warnings: Lambert-typical language; pragmatic killing of a small animal (not a pet, for food); sexual assault (groping, not Lambert); reference to gore, head trauma; lethal self-defence; shock/trauma response, adrenaline crash; cliffhanger

A/N: A little while ago, I wrote a little letter to Lambert (you can read it here if you’re so inclined—mind the TW). I wanted to thank him, but more importantly, I wanted to offer him a place in my heart and my brain along with his brothers. This story started from a small prompt and has since turned into a 12+k proper-ass Story. This is part 1. Please join me in joyfully welcoming Lambert to the ranks with a wordcount he deserves with a character who has also become very dear to me. 

MASTERLIST

@morethangeraskier

Essi eyed the back of her travelling companion with curiosity as they rode North toward Crow’s Perch: the tight swing of his hips still keeping tempo with his horse’s cadence; the sharp alertness at the nape of his neck as his eyes scanned their surroundings; the subtle forward tuck of his shoulders; and every muscle in his body fine-tuned and ready for action in the blink of an eye. Even his silence seemed to radiate a low buzz that tingled the air around him and made Essi wonder how many thoughts and calculations were crammed inside his head at once. She’d found it charming rather than off-putting how irritatedly he’d suggested accompanying her through Velen. There was a genuineness about his prickly outward demeanor—she felt like a detail worthy of practical consideration rather than a damsel on the road and she appreciated it. Better than most alternatives.

The fact was, Lambert had insisted. Not because she was attractive (yeah, yeah, big blue eyes, blonde hair, yadda-yadda, who cares), not because she seemed helpless (there was something keen behind those big blue eyes, and he’d known better than to ignore it), but because it seemed like the right thing to do. She’d explained she was an experienced traveller, knew the roads well, had good relationships with the innkeepers along the way. She would be fine, and didn’t want to take him out of his way. 

“Sorry. Not happening. I’m coming with you.” Why? “Bandits.” 

He would know. He’d spent the last few days doing nothing but clearing out Nekker nests and trashing bandit camps all over Velen, and the last thing he needed was the innocent blood of some wide-eyed woman-bard on his hands. “Back to fucking Novigrad,” he’d grumbled, turning his horse back North. He sighed heavily and waited for Essi to catch up, “Fuck me, I need a drink—alright, stay close on my tail for the next little while. We’re taking a shortcut.” As they rode, Lambert gave his new companion a rundown of “ The Rules”.

“No chit-chat, I’ve gotta keep focused, plus I don’t like excess noise. If I say ‘duck’ you duck. And I mean get the fuck down and stay silent. If I say run, run and don’t look back. I’ll find you later. Do your best not to panic or freeze up on me, I need you to listen carefully and do exactly as I say.”

Essi nodded earnestly beside him, her big blue eye fixed on his lips, taking in every word. He wasn’t used to actually being listened to. It was nice. A little off-putting the way she stared, but it was... nice. 

On that topic, “One last thing,” he said, turning away to watch the road and check their sides, “Don’t get any ideas. I’m only doing this because no one deserves to die at the hands of heartless assholes except other heartless assholes. I am not Prince Charming, I am not a knight in shining armour, and I absolutely have no intentions of sweeping anyone off their feet. Capisce, bard?”  

Essi smiled elusively, turning her own eyes back to the road. “Good. I’m no princess or damsel, and I’m hardly looking to be swept off my feet. As far as I’m concerned, we’re merely travelling in the same direction at the same pace.” 

An agreeable grunt from Lambert signalled the end of the conversation and the beginning of “quiet time” which Essi did her best to honour. It was difficult at first. The poet was accustomed to conversation with strangers she met on the road—where they were headed, where they were coming from, how their journey had been. But Lambert was a witcher. Her usual litany of questions were either already answered or were none of her business to be asking in the first place. She was more or less quite content to travel in silence on an average day. But this was not an average day and her mind was bursting with curiosity, which made for a restless start to their journey. 

“What’s your horse’s name?” Essi finally asked as they stopped briefly at a stream for water. She decided it was an innocent enough question with a short enough answer to risk breaking the rules. 

Lambert gave her a disapproving look, a scolding reminder about ‘no chit-chat’ perched on the tip of his tongue. To her credit, she'd surpassed Lambert’s expectations for what he’d learned to expect from bards in the category of Not Talking. She’d only hummed a little and only then when she was lost in thought, large blue eye staring into the distance. She was an odd one, this woman, with her deep eyes that blinked too slowly sometimes. But his medallion was still and he didn’t have that gut feeling that usually told him when something was off. It was a harmless enough question, anyway… 

“Royal,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Never met a noble that wasn’t a horse’s ass.” 

Essi let out snicker, flashing her pearly teeth with an open grin. He was abrasive, sure, this witcher, but he was quickly proving himself to be animated and clever. She also believed him to be kind, despite his best efforts to prove otherwise. Whether or not Essi would earn a glimpse of his full capacity remained to be seen, but regardless she found his particular brand of panache refreshing. 

"Yours?" he asked with a nod back at the small Icelandic gelding currently occupied with nibbling at some honeysuckle.

"Ginger," Essi replied, kneeling to take her turn at the stream, refilling her waterskin and drinking from her cupped hands. She stared at her saddlebag. “Wait here,” she said, striding to her horse and extracting a bundle of fabric.

“Whoa, hey, where’re you going?”

“It’s alright, I’ll only be a minute,” she assured him as she headed for a thicket.

“Nuh-uh, can’t let you just wander off and get yourself killed before we even reach the first signpost. What’s the plan, Goldilocks?”

“I’m just…”

“Just…?” Lambert gestured impatiently.

Essi squared her shoulders to him, “Going to change my dress. It’s too hot, and I would like to feel Just Right.” 

Her sharp-witted comeback earned her a raised eyebrow. It was rather warm, the witcher had to admit. Early summer’s heat glared down with the midday sun, tempered only by an occasional cool breeze from the West. Lambert himself had pulled off his gauntlets, opened his jerkin, and tied a damp kerchief around his neck—witchers were less susceptible to heat stroke or hypothermia, but they were no less vulnerable to discomfort. It was only fair to allot his companion the same opportunity.

Lambert did a quick sweep of the area. Looks fine, sounds fine, smells fine… “Fine. Three minutes.”

He stood guard in front of the only gap in the dense bushes and waited for the sounds of rustling fabric to subside. After two and a half minutes, Essi emerged, hitching up her linen sleeves. She returned her former dress to her saddlebag and extracted two slender, ornately-carved whale bone sticks which she used to scoop her long, thick hair off the back of her neck and secure it in a twist. 

Essi squatted back down beside the little brook and let the cool water trace over the tender undersides of her wrists, cooling her veins and refreshing her as the breeze fluttered the light fabric against her skin. Much better, she thought, glancing up at Lambert. This new garment was more loosely-fitting, he noticed, save for the cinch that tied around her waist. 

She looked nice—comfortable. She looked comfortable. The dress looked comfortable. 

Essi smiled up at Lambert as she stood, pressing her damp hands to the sides of her neck and ooooh it felt nice. She thought she caught the smallest hint of a smile as the breeze wafted a bit of honeysuckle their way. He still looked tired, but he seemed lighter. Something new had come into his rugged, sun-tanned face. Boyish, maybe?

“Better?” Lambert asked. He barely waited for her to answer before he continued, “Let’s get moving, I want to make tracks before we lose our light.” Essi mounted without protest and they were on their way again, quietly riding single-file until they reached an acceptable spot to settle down for the night. Lambert left the travelling poet to make camp while he hunted for some dinner. Essi went about setting things up. She dug a small fire pit with a trowel she kept on hand, gathered kindling, and stacked it neatly to the side where it could be easily reached. Finally, she dragged two logs from the underbrush and placed them on either side of the small hole. It was, perhaps, a little domestic, but the witcher still seemed tired, and he was going out of his way to give her a safe escort through dangerous territory. She’d wondered earlier about offering him some coin for his trouble, especially seeing as he was doubling back and wouldn’t have any opportunity for new contracts. Then again, she’d thought, perhaps that might insult him, make him feel like a hired bodyguard. In the end, the very least she could do was help make the experience a little nicer. She could ask about payment when they arrived in Novigrad. 

A loud whistle caught Essi’s attention and she turned to find Lambert approaching with what looked like a squirming ball of fur. Upon closer inspection, it was a rather fat grey squirrel. “Dinner,” Lambert announced, looking pleased with himself. He held the creature toward her, “Care to do the honours?” He waggled his eyebrows facetiously. The witcher had always prided himself on his capacity to read people, to pick up on the little things that others might miss, second-guess, or excuse away. So far, after nearly five hours on the road with Essi Daven, Lambert still couldn’t get a clear read on her, and he decided (for whatever reason) the quickest way was to hand her a small animal. 

Essi looked down at the wriggling creature cupped in Lambert’s hand, her eyes devoid of any specific expression. The poet could have been feeling anything: shock and horror, stony rage, remorse, awe… casual hesitation. In fact, the only feeling that wasn’t in the running was glee, and while Lambert hadn’t expected it in the first place, it was still a relief to know he wasn’t sharing his camp with a psychopath.  But what was she going to do with it, this wide-eyed, innocent-faced, prim young traveler? Probably some tree-hugger shit like let it go. 

Essi lowered her eyes to the wriggling rodent. It had been a while since she’d had to procure a live meal. She could have declined, easily, graciously, and her witcher companion would probably have shrugged and thought ‘no surprise there’. But she knew a schoolboy’s smart-assery when she saw it—the audacious victory behind his bright citrine eyes told her everything she needed to know about what he was expecting from this brief-but-loaded exchange. A shriek, a gasp in horror, perhaps a distressed stomp of her feet and fitful shake of her gilded head? 

Essi reached a slow, dainty hand towards the squirrel, enveloping the soft, furry body as Lambert mentally prepared himself to go set another snare. There was no way this bard  would ever be the type to—

Crunch.

—Lambert’s face went slack as the now-very-limp squirrel was handed back to him. 

“I wouldn’t’ve thought a witcher would be so squeamish,” Essi remarked, casually wiping her hands on her skirt. Lambert said nothing but stared at her with a look of defeated befuddlement. She fired again, her sweet, melodic voice dripping with offhanded superiority, “Was that all? Or do you need me to clean it, too?” She blinked blankly once again as Lambert gaped, even less sure what to make of the young woman who had just snapped a rodent’s neck.

“No,” he answered petulantly. “I can do it.” He pulled his buck knife from its sheath on his thigh and went about his business. He was quiet and brief with her for the rest of the evening, and she was beginning to feel her own irritation mount. She had half a mind to bite back the next time he snapped at her for asking a simple question. Though, she admitted, he didn’t seem the type to back down easily. If she prodded at him, he might decide to leave her, and they were on a different route, completely unfamiliar to her. She’d be as good bear food without his directions.

No, she decided, it was best not to go digging and let whatever it was that was eating at him subside on its own. With no assurance of peaceful conversation and nothing but the crackling of their small fire to drown out the distant howls of wolves, Essi asked if she could play quietly on her lute—not too loudly, she promised, remembering what all she knew about a witcher’s senses, how sensitive they are. She’d asked in her usual straightforward way, her big blue eyes blinking slowly at him from across the fire. A simple request, and one that he couldn’t very well deny at the risk of being a Grade A Jackass. 

Ordinarily, he would have jumped at the opportunity to claim that title, but Essi didn’t deserve that. Stranger or no, she’d been quiet and courteous, and had shown herself to be witty and good-humoured to boot, laughing at even his crassest jokes. So what could he do but bob his head from side to side and relent, reserving the right to end it if he deemed it necessary. He’d met enough bards in his time to know that his and their definitions of “quietly” were rarely on the same page of the dictionary.

But Essi kept her word, and took up a slow, gentle melody that drifted airily through the fading twilight. The witcher might even have called it pleasant, as the dusky grey shifted to darker and darker shades of nighttime. Lambert took out his whetstone and, after a few strokes along his dulled steel blade, found his mind wandering. The poet’s voice was captivating without demanding attention—sometimes clear and bright, but never piercing or imposing; occasionally breathy, but always expressive. His eye drifted to the instrument in her hands, no longer content to merely hear the music, but wanting to watch its creation. The taut catgut strings pressed divots into thick calluses on her left hand as she fingered the fretboard, her hands flexing no differently than if she were playing at full volume. But how was she strumming so quietly? Shit, gotta keep focused. Stay on task. The whetstone once again returned to steel as Lambert pulled his mind back from its daze. 

It wasn’t long before curiosity got the better of him and he glanced back to the instrument cradled against the musician’s midriff. It looked delicate. Like something that could shatter if he held it wrong. Glancing to the hand nearest him, he could now see she was using the soft pad of her thumb to strum rather than her fingernails, which were long and carefully-shaped; well-honed in that sense, Lambert mused. He’d never paid attention to a musician this closely. They always drew crowds in the cities and experience had taught him that performers on the road were just as likely to pick a man’s pocket as they were to put on a show. But this was different. Essi wasn’t performing—on the contrary, she almost seemed to be in some kind of trance. She wasn’t even looking at her hands most of the time, and from the lyrics, Lambert began to wonder whether she was making it up as she went along. It was impressive, the way she knew her instrument so well. Despite his previous feelings of irritation at having had his ass handed to him, he couldn’t deny skill when he saw it, and Essi was clearly a master of her craft. 

The whetstone had been silent for close to a full verse when Essi looked up, wondering if perhaps the witcher was growing tired of the noise. She found Lambert closely examining the hone of his blade, and so, thinking nothing of it, went back to her playing.  It took him longer than usual to sharpen his swords. Longer still to replenish his potions and oils. He should’ve made quick work of it. Would have, too, if it wasn’t for the fact that he found the music so… pleasant. It was difficult to meditate. Not because he couldn’t relax, but because he didn’t want to stop listening. He just—there was something about… It didn’t matter. It wasn’t important. Get the shit together for tomorrow, go to bed, get up, and hope you don’t have any trouble on the road. 

Lambert laid out his bed roll and the music silenced abruptly. “Oh, are you turning in? I’ll stop now,” Essi gently lay down her lute next to her saddle bags and started to get her own sleeping mat. It was thin, Lambert noticed, as he watched her set up. His long, tired body stretched out, hands beneath his head, as he stared up through the dense oak canopy above them. 

“Thank you,” Essi said, now standing by his head. 

Lambert craned his neck to try and see her properly and resorted to propping up on an elbow. “Yeah? What for?”

“For finding us food and for letting me play a little,” she said with that same matter-of-factness that made Lambert feel both comfortable and uneasy. 

“Yeah, well,” Lambert flopped back down on his bedroll, “Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep, we gotta keep moving in the morning. I don’t want to be out here longer than we have to.” He waved a dismissive hand in Essi’s direction, and she took that as her cue to leave him alone and be quiet. 

“Goodnight, Lambert,” she murmured softly before turning and crossing back to the other side of the fire. She settled under her blankets and, after some drawn-out negotiations with a few poorly-located lumps in the ground, she was able to lie still and close her eyes. The insides of her eyelids flickered orange with the fire as it danced beside her. Before sleep took her, she heard a muffled voice from across the flames. 

“G’night, Essi.”  ---- Essi rose early, but not early enough for her travelling companion. The fire had already been doused and buried, and Lambert’s things were all neatly packed away and ready to be loaded onto Royal. Both horses were still hitched, and sleepily nibbling on some dewy crabgrass as the grey mists of early morning lingered. The sun hadn’t risen high enough yet to burn away the moisture, and Essi bundled her blanket around her shoulders against the chill. Lambert, she presumed, was off doing something witcher-y—taking a leak more like, she wagered as her own bladder complained. The moment he returned, Essi shot up from her log and headed into the trees. 

“Just where do you think yo—”

“I have to piss!” she called back over her shoulder as she traipsed into the dense wood. 

“Heh, good morning to you, too!” Lambert scrubbed his hand through his scruffy brown hair and ambled back to the fireside to begin packing and saddling the horse. When he arrived, he saw Essi’s things were also neatly packed away and stacked by her own mount. He offered a brief nod of approval before stowing his things, making quick work of the well-practiced process. By the time Essi returned, not only was Royal fully-prepared and Lambert armed and armoured, but Ginger was also mostly packed with the exception of one bag and the lute, which was cradled in the witcher’s hands as he crouched near the ground. She paused a little distance away and waited, observing as she listened to the faint sound of strings being delicately plucked.

Lambert looked up, embarrassed. “I uh… sorry.”

“What for?” 

Lambert stood carefully as Essi approached and dropped his gaze, holding out the fragile instrument for it to be angrily snatched back. The musician paused for a moment, observing this gesture of cowed humility. It was a habit, she suspected, born from decades of harsh punishment without explanation, frivolous harm without justification. Essi could sense the shame as it rolled off his shoulders, the prickly-heat of defense building under his skin. She took the lute and a swell of sadness washed through at the stark evidence of the world’s cruelty—that a man should be ashamed for a little harmless curiosity only told one story: pleasure’s not for you. 

Lambert looked up to find Essi still standing there, staring at the lute in her hands. “Did… did I…?” he pointed to the instrument.

“No,” she smiled softly, “not at all. And I’m not bothered that you looked at it. If you like, you can look at it again. I can even show you a chord or two?”

“Ah,” the witcher scratched the top of his head, “that’s okay. It’s, uh… I mean it seems like it’s good—well-made. Never seen one up-close like that.” There was a lull in conversation as Lambert ran out of things to say. But Essi just stood where she was, smiling her little enigmatic smile and blinking at him. He turned back to the horses, and motioned for Essi to do the same, “I, um, packed up your stuff, well most of it.”

Essi took the hint and followed suit, strapping the few remaining things to Ginger before mounting. After a brief survey of the area to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything, the two were off, Essi following behind as Lambert continued on his shortcut through what mainly seemed to be wilderness for the first several miles. They finally emerged at a small footpath, though, and Essi finally got her bearings. They were back in familiar territory, at least for the time being, and it was proving to be a beautiful morning. Even Lambert seemed to be in a better mood, offering her things to eat along the way, and even starting his own little snippets of conversation. 

It was an hour or so after midday that Lambert’s ears pricked at the sound of hooves in the distance. Could be soldiers, could be travellers… could be bandits. After a few minutes, they seemed to fade, and the witcher relaxed a little as the path took them into a wooded area by yet another stream, though this one was deep and flowing quickly. Better keep my ears sharp, Lambert thought as they rode along. Water’s too loud. Can’t hear for shit. They stopped next to the water to stretch their legs and replenish their drinking vessels again. The rest of the journey would take them mostly through high ground without much shade, and swampland. Any water they wanted to have with them, it was now or never until they reached Novigrad the next day. 

Lambert relieved himself against a nearby tree while Essi washed her face and, having determined the coast was clear, gave her the go-ahead to have a squat in the underbrush. He was still on the alert. It wasn’t a high-traffic area, so in theory bandits would be less interested in diverting from the main road. On the other hand, a less-trafficked area meant less chance of a hideout being discovered. But it smelled okay, although the wind was coming across the water. And it sounded okay, although the water was so damn loud. And things looked okay, aside from the fact that there was only so far even a witcher could see without trees getting in the way. 

A twig snapped in the woods behind him and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled, his hand mechanically finding the grip of his steel sword. He chanced a glance back into the woods—Fuck it, what’s the point of modesty if you’re dead? Another twig, this time from another location beyond the line of trees. There was a flash of golden hair as Essi finished her business and stood up, straightening her skirt. She turned to Lambert, ready to scold him for looking until she saw his hand on his sword. Somewhere in the near-distance, a horse whickered. The witcher lifted his finger to his lips and the poet stood stock-still, her hand slowly reaching for the small dagger at her waist as her heart beat heavily in her chest. Something rustled to Lambert’s left, and he turned, stepping quietly as he stalked in the general direction of the sound.  It wasn’t wolves or Endregas, they were too high for Drowners, too woodsy for Nekkers. 

Essi watched with interest as the witcher’s body went on full alert, his senses sharpening, his posture shifting, muscles coiling to accommodate any number of reflexes. She scanned the trees in front of them then looked back out to the road, marking the location of her horse in the event Lambert told her to run. A large horse came to a standstill beyond the edge of the woods somewhere and Lambert froze, listening carefully for sounds of footfalls or rustling clothing.The gears started to click a little faster as Lambert entertained the possibility they were being surrounded. He flicked his left hand at Essi in the direction of the road: get out of the woods. Quietly. Without a second thought, she began to carefully make her way back to the road as silently as she could, Lambert following, his eyes still searching. 

Just as Essi’s feet met the smooth dirt path, a beefy arm wrapped tightly around her waist. But the brute was foolish enough not to cover her mouth first, and Essi let loose a loud, powerful scream that a witcher would have heard at least a mile away. Lambert abandoned his methodical retreat from the woods and came crashing onto the path, fixing his eye dangerously on his target as he circled his sword around his wrist. The witcher felt a rush of angry heat flare under his skin at the sight of Essi kicking and clawing in the bandit’s sweaty grip. He was large, reeked of booze and the funk of cured meat. Essi fought the urge to gag at the stench of his clothes as she did her best to keep her mind sharp, or else risk becoming collateral damage. Her best bet: keep her eyes on Lambert.

“Hands off the bard and you might keep your head,” the witcher barked as he approached. “Can’t make any promises about your other appendages, though.” He wanted to lunge, run him through, gut him and leave him to the wargs... but it was too risky. He was holding Essi too tightly, and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t snap her neck if Lambert took a wrong step. To make matters worse, the trees were full of footsteps. Eight, maybe ten men. Hmmm. 

“Oh-ho-ho, look what we got, lads!” the bandit called to his approaching comrades as they began to filter out from the woods. “Your plaything still any good, witcher? Or have you ruined the fun for the rest of us?” The man grasped roughly at Essi’s breasts and Lambert felt his stomach drop as her eyes met his. He knew the look that was waiting for him behind those eyes, that broken terrified look of “I trusted you.” But the look never came. Those big beautiful blue eyes were steely and determined in spite of the fear he knew was churning in the background and he felt a thrill of triumph. Essi was still with him in whatever this was about to turn into. Not only that, she was thinking something, devising a plan. Lambert hoped to Gods it wasn’t something stupid. What is it, Essi? What are you thinking?

As if in answer to his question, Essi tilted her head, seductively baring her neck to her aggressor as Lambert’s options quickly decreased, the other bandits starting to close in, clearly in no rush, confident that they could easily take one man even if he did have two swords on his back and eyes like a cat. Sure boys, that’s going to go real well for you. He did a quick circle, taking stock of their exact locations before turning back to Essi, watching carefully as her hand traced up the outside of the bandit’s right leg. Yes, Essi, come on, come on, come on… 

The man rasped something foul in her ear, but all she could hear was the sound of her ears ringing and her own heart beating out of her chest as she did her best to focus on the task at hand. She barely knew what she was doing, but the witcher was watching her every move intently, and that somehow made whatever she was about to do feel possible. She felt her thumb brush the cool handle of her dagger, and Lambert nodded almost imperceptibly. Do it. 

With a swift, fluid movement, she plunged the short blade into the man’s side and he roared in pain as his compatriots mulled around in confusion, their fisstech-addled minds still catching up. Lambert took the opportunity and sliced through the three nearest him with swift, clean strokes, focusing back in on Essi just in time to see her take a right hook to the face. She fell to the ground and blinked heavily, her vision blurry and head spinning. Her fingers found a large rock as a pair of meaty hands grabbed her legs, pulling her across the rough dirt road. She scrambled and turned, bringing the heavy rock squarely to the side of the man’s head with a sickening crack. He fell limply to the ground as the poet found her way to shaky legs, the makeshift weapon falling limply from her hand. 

From out of the chaos of grunts and screams and clanging weapons, Essi heard her name, “GET OUT, GO, GO!” It was Lambert. Without a second thought she stumbled the short distance to Ginger and mounted, bolting across the river and holding on for dear life. She rode until the horse slowed, until she wasn’t sure where she was or whether the river she’d stopped beside was the same river or a different one. Essi dismounted and only then noticed that her hands were shaking. Interesting, she thought, as she was overcome with trembling and heaving sobs. I suppose this is what they mean when they say ‘fear catches us later’. She sat on a boulder and listened to the clear water, waiting for Lambert to find her.

[merakiaes]

Best Friends Headcannon - Geralt Of Rivia

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x reader (platonic)

Requested: By @by-the-primes​

Prompts: None. 

Warnings/notes: This is my first time ever writing a headcannon and it turned out more of a one-shot hahaha xD I went a bit overboard and I’m not used to this kind of post at all so sorry if it sucks. 

Wordcount: 3430

Summary: Headcannons of being best friends with Geralt. 

You had first met Geralt of Rivia when you were merely twenty-four years of age. 

Seeing as you were human and didn’t age the same way he did, you were quite a bit younger, even though he didn’t look to be a year older than thirty. 

You were of noble blood and with your parents’ consent, you had headed out into the world to “find yourself”, but in reality, you just didn’t want to be stuck at home in tight, frilly dresses listening to your mother go on about potential suitors all day, every day.

So with only a bag containing some clothes, gold and other things needed to survive, you headed out on your own. 

Having been locked up pretty much your entire life had made you quite the bratty smartass. You didn’t have a filter and rarely knew when to stop talking back to people, which was the first thing Geralt got to learn about you upon first meeting you.  

Long story short, he had to save your ass in a tavern when you had picked a fight with the wrong person, severely having underestimated the amount of backup your new enemy had. 

At this point, you had only been on your own for approximately a week and still had plenty of gold left, and offered to pay for his dinner and room as a thank you. 

He accepted, but stared at you weirdly the entire time, sitting quietly until you told him to get on with it and speak his mind.

“Do you not know who I am?” “White hair, amber eyes, Witcher pendant hanging around your inhumanly muscular neck, yeah I think I have an idea. I just don’t care. Heroes and villains, we're all somewhere in between.”

You parted ways the same night as he stayed behind to care for a monster-problem, and you headed on to the next town. 

It was already the next day that you met again. 

He had come to the town you had landed yourself in and left into town for some business, and come back to the stables to find you petting and talking to Roach, feeding him apples from your bag. 

“Hm, you again.”  “Nice to see you, too, Witcher.”

You traveled to your next destination together, and Geralt quickly realized that you were in no way a noble lady, despite being raised so. 

You were a big eater and completely terrible at singing. Your personality was gruff and grumpy, but at the same time, you never seemed to drop the sarcasm. Your humour was crude, your language vulgar, and your temper was a ticking bomb. 

The latter forced Geralt to have to step in and prevent you from digging your own grave on more than one occasion. 

“Be nice.” “I am.” “You threatened them with a knife.” “But did I stab them?”

He acted out of logic, and you acted out of your emotions. 

“Learn how to sit back and observe. Not everything needs a reaction.” “That’s easy for someone who is incapable of feeling to say.”

You set camp together later that night, Geralt leaving you in charge of the campsite while he planned to go fetch some firewood.

“What if something creeps up on me?” “Trust your gut.” “I have anxiety. My gut is always telling me to abort mission.” “How have you survived on your own so far?” “Well, I’ve only been on my own for a week as of yet.” “Hm.”

You would think he would be the one snoring but he laid as quiet as a mouse throughout the night. 

Instead, you turned out to be the one with the sinus problem, your snoring keeping him awake and leaving him aggravated to the point where he wanted to smother himself with a pillow the next morning. 

“Good morning, sunshine.” “No.” “I believe the proper response is good morning.” “No.” “Yes, but-“ “No.”

You went on with your morning, and he handed you the map to which you were quick to shake your head. 

“No, no, no. You do not want me navigating. I’ll accidentally navigate us off a cliff.” “Then we die. Now shut up and turn the map in the right direction.” “Alright, alright, I got it. I know where we’re going.”

Fast forward an hour and you’re standing at the edge of a mountain, looking out over the landscape of a town you had never before seen or intended to go to.

“I thought you said you knew where you were going.” “Yeah, I lied. But in my defense, I did tell you not to put me in charge of navigating.” “That you did.”

You were forced to turn around and go back to camp, and start the journey all over again. 

But you didn’t reach it, instead being captured by a couple of elves along the way. 

Despite barely knowing you, Geralt was instantly protective of you. 

“I’m trying my best to be polite but if you move that knife a centimeter closer to her I will tear you apart.”

Unbeknownst to him, as he was taking punches behind you and trying to talk himself out of your difficult situation, you were taking your flexible wrists to advantage, being able to snap them on command, allowing you to get out of cuffs. 

To say that he was terrified when he caught sight of your limp, deformed hands was an understatement. Luckily, however, it was enough to stun your captors and allow Geralt to knock them out. 

You found Roach right where you had left him before you had been taken, and continued heading to your original destination. 

After making it to the right town this time, you parted ways, but once again destiny brought you together the next morning and from then on you just kinda stuck together. 

Being a Witcher was work enough, but now he also had to take on the responsibility of keeping you safe. Something that proved very hard when he was the one wanting to kill you most of the times. 

You just never shut up, it was infuriating. 

But it did work in his favor sometimes, too. More often than not, you would do all the talking for him whenever he was approached about a monster-problem so that he wouldn’t have to. 

In most cases your vocabulary was cut down to “piss off”, “we don’t care” or “leave”, but on the rare occasion, you would switch it up with a “come to mama” if they flashed a bag of cold in front of your eyes, followed by a shameless order in the likes of “Geralt, go do your thing.” 

When he would only stare at you in annoyance for selling him off, usually in the middle of his meals as most people approached you in the taverns you stayed at, you would only add “please” because you knew it would vex him further. 

But still, he would get up with a gruff rumble of his chest and stomp off to do his job.

You frequently started calling him Sunshine, the irony of it just being so good. 

He found the nickname irritating. As he did almost everything else you did. 

You were a very restless person, almost always tapping your foot or bouncing your leg whenever you sat down. 

“Stop that.” “The fact that you’re telling me to stop makes it so much more enjoyable.”

It got so annoying after a while he had to start putting his feet on top of yours underneath the table whenever you sat down in a tavern, or else he wouldn’t be able to eat in peace. 

It became a tradition for you that he ordered chicken and you ordered pork whenever you would stop to eat, and then you would give each other half of your food so that you each got a little bit of both. 

Much to his dismay, you also always switched his ale out for water if it was still light out, telling him it was unacceptable to start drinking before dark. 

How you always managed to succeed with it he didn’t know, because his eyes would purposely follow the tavern worker the entire way from your table to the bar to see to it that nothing happened on the journey. 

And still, he always received a boring mug of water. 

Before he met you he could travel for days, only sleeping in the woods. 

But you had a bad immune system, so now that you were moving together you could never move for too long at a time if the weather got bad. You needed to sleep under a proper roof in rain and storms to avoid you getting sick. 

After a while, the clothes you had brought with you from home weren’t usable anymore and had to be replaced. 

The only thing left from your original pack now was the blanket you had slept with every night for your entire life and four heavy books that you read over and over again. 

When in danger and having to get away quickly, Geralt had insisted countless of times just to leave it behind, to which you had insisted to go get it even if it meant putting your life in danger. 

After a while, he just got used to it and picked up the habit of reminding you of your bag every time you were starting to move somewhere else. 

When traveling, you would force him to stop by a lake or stream once every day to let you clean up. 

You might have left the safety of your home to travel the world but you still wanted to look decent. You had grown up noble, looking your best every day. 

You hated being filthy. 

And you hated messes, too. 

You might have constantly been on the move, not staying in one place for too long, but because of the way you were brought up you still despised messes. 

You usually stayed in the same room whenever you would seek refuge in a town for the night, and always scolded him and forced him to clean up his shit if he threw it on the floor. 

When you got the time to stay a bit longer and didn’t have any danger hot on your trails, however, you took separate rooms so that he could occupy himself with a no-strings-attached shag. 

Every morning after, you would casually burst into his room and wake him up, not caring in the slightest that he was naked with a woman, sometimes several, in bed. 

“Suit up, whore. We’re leaving,” You would say, to which the whores would always gasp and exclaim something along the lines of: “I beg your pardon?” while trying to cover up their bare chests, and failing miserably. 

Geralt would only grumble, wave them off and push himself up in bed. 

“She’s talking to me.”

You constantly insulted each other and talked shit about the other behind their back. 

“Maybe if you weren’t such a troublesome fobbing, clay-brained hugger-mugger, we could get some things done.”

But the insults didn’t stop with him.

“No one asked for your opinion you abominable shit gobbling.”

“Get out of my way you sorry excuse for a mammering, tickle-brained lewdster.”

“I fail to understand how you’ve become such a reprehensible fuck waffle.”

Those were only few of many insults you threw around at strangers every day, and although Geralt was amused by your big, unladylike mouth, it was worrying. 

“You’re one insult away from starting a war.” “How fun.” “You say that now, but you can barely even hold your own in a weaponless brawl.” “Can too!”

But you couldn’t. So he taught you how to wield a sword.

Already during your first sparring session, he accidentally stabbed you in the side, and your automatic response to feeling the steel bury itself into your flesh was a mere “rude” before passing out on the spot form the pain. 

But after that, you caught on quickly. And you started growing up quicker, too, taking after him and his antics. 

Soon enough, you had gone from mocking his constant humming and grumbling, to humming in sync with him. 

You always helped each other with tasks if needed, whether it be saddling Roach, setting up camp or gathering your stuff around the tavern rooms you would stay in every once in a while. 

You just worked well together, and didn’t need words to do so. 

You grew out of your overly spastic nature, but you still lacked a filter every time you opened your mouth so even years after first meeting, you would get into trouble. 

And if someone chose to fight one of you, they chose to fight both of you. 

Geralt always tried to avoid conflict and battle, but if someone as much as looked at you the wrong way, they better run. 

He was obviously the more rational one, trying to keep you out of trouble, to which you always seem to have a talent of stirring shit up even more.

“I had a thought…” “No. Don’t make that face.”

But he always came along anyway, and it most often ended up with a stab wound or two because you talked back to the wrong person. 

And you never got away without a scolding. 

“Get off the horse so I can explain in painstaking detail how much of a dumbass you are.” “Do I have a choice?” “No.”

There was no shame or shyness between you. 

You did things in the other’s presence that might have been considered romantic or intimate in the eyes of a spectator, but it was completely platonic. 

When the time was scarce, you sometimes had to bathe together, back to back, to get it done as quick as possible. 

You would shave his face and he would wordlessly put your hair up whenever he noticed it annoying you. 

The habit had started when you had injured your arm and was unable to do so yourself and just stuck with him after that. 

He couldn’t braid for shit, but he did do a decent bun. 

You always tied your laces too loosely, so he often had to redo them to prevent you from tripping over your feet. 

You would wear his shirts whenever you waited for yours to dry after a wash. 

You would fall asleep with your head on his shoulder. 

You would share beds and food. Rub each other’s shoulders to rid of the soreness after a beating or a fight. 

You made fun of each other always, and you found it particularly fun whenever he lost or took major damage in battle. 

“Nice blackeye, Sunshine.” “Shut your mouth.”

But still, you would always be there in his time of need to patch him up, and try to talk him into being more careful - exactly like he had been forced to do your reckless ass all those years ago. 

“Look, I’m glad you’ve saved everyone and all that but it’s time someone told you to take care of you.” “I’m fine. “No, you’re not, and furthermore, if you don’t take care of yourself, think of all the people who need you in the future who won't have you. Think of Ciri.”

It was funny, how you had been the one to be driven by emotions to a start, unable to control your anger and putting yourself in harm’s way, and now it was usually the other way around. 

You took care of him when it came to patching him up, and he took care of you in every other way. 

“Why aren’t you eating?” “Take my cloak.” “I’ll get the firewood, sit down.” “You can have my half.” “Watch your step.”

Those were only a few of the ways he told you he cared for you, along with “I hate you.”

“I hate you” became your way to say “I love you”, and you said it several times throughout the day. 

Even this long into your friendship, and countless of poems and songs later, people still got shocked when seeing you walk side by side down the streets. 

Geralt was powerful, had a serious face. You did not want to get on his bad side, let’s just leave it there.

But you. You were cute, had a kind face and a contagious laugh. You were kind, despite your big mouth and usually vulgar attitude. 

Still, he always warned people to never hurt you or else, but everyone always assumes he said this as a warning of what he would do to them, even though he was, in reality, warning them about you. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” “Why? What’s she gonna do? Woo me to death?” “Underestimate her. That will be fun.” 

Then they would approach you and find out you’re actually badass as shit, getting beaten to a bloody pulp. 

And all Geralt would say as he stepped over their body on the floor was: “I warned you.”

Six years into your friendship, you were a lot more mature than you had been at twenty-four, now thirty. But you were still a little shit, enjoying your companion’s displeasure. 

While Geralt would always open doors for you, you would always purposely slam them shut in his face, just to give him that extra work. 

You would slap him on the chest and say “language” every time he said “fuck” and then proceed to call him a cunt only minutes later.

You were an annoying piece of shit, but he got his revenge every blue moon. 

Men who were attracted to you would usually approach him first and ask for his blessing and advice, knowing you were of noble blood and pretty much impossible to impress. 

He would always play along, urge them on, encouraging them and telling them everything you didn’t like, and then stand by and await the show.

You weren’t dumb, always saw them speaking and always spotted the amused smirk on your partner’s face as he sent the men your way. 

So you followed his example and played along, standing by and listening to their pathetic attempts silently, pretending to be interested. 

Always thinking they had you hooked, they would touch you inappropriately and smirk. 

“Shall we?”

And to this, you would simply smile, before headbutting them to the floor and stepping over them. 

“Not even in your dreams.”

Walking back over to a snickering Geralt, you simply passed him, glaring into empty space. 

“I hate you.” “I know you do.”

One day Geralt left for some monster-killing-business, while you stayed behind in the town you had been in the past few nights with a broken arm. 

It was the first time in years that you split up, but you weren’t very worried. 

More so than anything, you were annoyed, when he came back with a chatterbox bard trailing behind. 

“Where are you from?” “Here and there.” “What do you do?” “This and that.” “You ever…?” “Now and then.” “Boy, you are just full of information, aren’t you?” “Or maybe your questions are just too boring to be worth an answer.” “I have NEVER been so insulted!” “You don’t listen much, do you?”

Finally, after so many years of it being only the two of you, karma had caught up to you. 

You were now forced to experience first hand what it was like being followed by someone who couldn’t stop running their mouth. 

“Come here.” “Why?” “Just come here.” “No, you’re going to hit me.” “She probably will.” “You guys realize how incredibly codependent you are, right?” “I fail to see your point, measel.” “Do you ever run out of insults?” “Only time will tell.” “She’s just a female version of you, isn’t she?” “She used to be a female version of you.” “That’s seriously hard to believe.”

It wasn’t long after that that you met Yennefer of Vengerberg. 

You didn’t like her, at all. But you learned to tolerate her for the sake of Geralt, trusting his judgment. 

But that didn’t stop you from keeping a watchful eye on her. 

Jaskier teased you endlessly for it, claiming you were jealous and in love with him, yourself. But it was nothing like that. 

You didn’t want romance. You wanted meaning and purpose and adventure and you found it all in him – a soulmate in the form of a best friend. 

Legends and rumors claimed Witchers weren’t capable of feeling human emotions but after being on the move with him for so long, you knew there was absolutely no truth to those claims. 

And if she hurt him, you would kill her yourself.

[blue-and-dog]

The Beast in the Mountains (A Sengoku Basara One-Shot)

Note: This story is centered around my fanon that, post-Sekigahara, Mitsunari and his family fled into the mountains to live in hiding for several years before his death. A wife is mentioned, but for the sake of this story I keep her ambiguous so you readers who have an OC shipped with him can just slap her in there. :D Shiranui’s profile is here.

TW: BLOOD, ANIMAL ATTACK

[[MORE]]

“That’s a good size fire; try and keep it like that for now.”

The group of men sat around the small fire; four dirty, tired, ragged men on the run from proper society, obscured by the darkness of the mountain’s dense forest, barely illuminated by the small fire. Sadanobu continued.

“Any brighter and we risk attracting animals. I’m already worried about smoke flowin’ through the treetops.”

“With how thick these trees are?” Gaku chuckled, “I’m surprised the moonlight even gets through here. We’ll be fine. We just gotta make sure to put it out before we call it a night.”

“You sure no one’ll find us up here?” Naofumi asked, as usual fidgeting with his hands out of anxiety.

“Relax, I did some scoping out of the town not far from these mountains,” Matazaemon shook his head, “They’re superstitious folk. Somethin’ about an old legend saying there’s a guardian spirit that lives on this mountain. People who go too high up the mountain end up in its territory and meet a horrible fate or some shit like that. That’s why I wanted to set up the camp so high up.”

“Besides, we’re not staying long...” Sadanobu pulled out the thick sack from behind him, “We gotta get to my guy in Kyoto and pawn all this off.”

Another successful heist for the unlikely group of criminals; two army deserters, a farmer and a gambler, able to pool their strengths and successfully rob their way across the East. Traveling nobles, temples, inns—nothing was safe. The country was a mess—they were just taking the opportunity to help themselves.

“That last temple was hidin’ some good loot!” Gaku said excitedly, “I still can’t believe how lucky we got! Lemme see again!”

Sadanobu rolled his eyes, but smiled and passed the bag to Gaku, who excitedly opened it, tilting it toward the light of the fire to see the inside; the head of the gold Buddha glittered back at him. “We got enough goodies in here to eat like kings for weeks!”

“Man, I haven’t eaten a decent meal since the Toyotomi...” Sadanobu sighed and leaned back. “It’ll be nice...”

“Hey, yeah, you were a Toyotomi guy!” Matazaemon laughed, “I was Oda! I know your pain.”

“You’re kidding! You don’t strike me as an Oda guy.”

“And you don’t strike me as a Toyotomi!” he cackled back, as the two howled in laugher. Gaku and Naofumi chuckled along.

“You know, you two never talked about your army days,” Naofumi pointed out, “We got time—why not start now?”

“It’s really nothin’ much,” Matazaemon shook his head, digging through another bag to grab a rice ball and start distributing them amongst the group, “I joined up so my old man didn’t have to, wound up havin’ to do a lot of killing and burning and pillaging that I really never wanted to do. Watched all the major generals shining above everyone else, while the foot soldiers were trampled beneath them. Date, Takeda, Uesugi...they were the kind of guys that really made war seem like a fun time.”

“I know what you mean,” Gaku replied, “They made it look like something we should aspire to. I almost joined up with Date myself, but...when folks from the Date came around enlisting able-bodied men, I took off so my mom wouldn’t have to see her only son die for the sake of some egotist who just wanted more land for himself. I wonder how she’s doing...?”

“That’s the thing about these generals and daimyo,” Naofumi shrugged, “They shine brighter by standing on the backs of their soldiers.”

“Oda was a complete monster, though,” Matazaemon grumbled. “All of his inner circle were. Moment I got news Akechi killed him, I took the opportunity to turn tail while everyone was scrambling around. Never looked back.”

“Similar to my story,” Sadanobu nodded, “Hideyoshi was a creep...even standing near him put me on edge. And his supporters weren’t any better.” He leaned forward, looking down into the fire. “I remember one day, when I was training...apparently his general, Ishida, didn’t think I was making enough progress. By some mercy, he kept his sword sheathed, but he beat me with the sheathed weapon in some twisted attempt to strengthen me. All it did was strengthen my resolve to get the hell out of there soon as I could. Glad he’s dead.”

“Is he, though?” Naofumi raised an eyebrow. “I thought it wasn’t confirmed.”

“He and his family were in Osaka castle when some folks raided it after he lost Sekigahara. The whole place went up in flames; there’s no way an impulsive guy like that had any escape plan to get out of there undetected. There were so many burnt corpses in the castle afterward once the fire was under control; he had to be among them. He wouldn’t have run. He never ran.”

Naofumi closed his eyes in thought. “Maybe. There’s always a chance.”

“Don’t even start. I don’t wanna think about the possibility that that asshole’s still out there somewhere. And even if he is...he’d never willingly show his face again.”

The wind seemed to whisper above them. And a rumbling came from the woods around them.

“What was that?” Naofumi looked up, now apprehensive.

“Probably just an animal attracted to the light,” Gaku reached toward the fire, grabbing a burning hunk of wood from it as he stood up. “Wave this around a little bit and they’ll be gone. I’ll do it.”

Gaku turned from the group, heading through the brush, waving the burning wood around to light his path. Big, dramatic steps and stomps to intimidate whatever was near, his companions watching from afar.

Then, his head perked up, as if he spotted something. But before he could speak a word, he let out a choked-off cry, the flame dropping and going out.

“Gaku!” Matazaemon cried out as the group stood up, on high alert. Then, the loud thumps of quick but heavy footsteps, and a vicious bark and snarl, as a large, white blur lunged forward, biting Matazaemon by the arm; the force knocked him to the ground as he felt the arm pop out of place. He howled a mix of pain and fear.

Naofumi stared in shock and horror at the large wolf now viciously yanking Matazaemon to and fro like a rag doll, blood soaking its teeth and maw. But Matazaemon’s screams finally snapped him to attention as he pulled out his knife, plunging it toward the beast’s side in a panic.

He missed the stab, but the blade did slice the wolf’s side, as it let go of his friend and instantly turned on him; its jaw snapped open, going for his throat, and as he fell back, he looked to Sadanobu for help.

But Sadanobu had fled. Even as the wolf snarled and tore into him, Naofumi could hear footsteps approaching, and hear something slice into Matazaemon, silencing his howls of agony.

Sadanobu blindly pushed his way through the brush, his face a mix of fear, of terror, of snot and spit, while he tried to process that he was alone now, on this mountain, at night.

The Beast of the Mountain was real! That was no ordinary wolf! That thing...that thing was a monster! So fast, so strong! He had to leave its territory.

He had to get down the mountain.

He tripped in his panic, falling and rolling a ways, before finally sliding to a stop, staring up at the break in the treetops to see the moon. He began to sit up, but froze.

Footsteps. Two feet.

He began to hyperventilate, wondering if the beast had changed form, to come after *him.*

But the moon began to make his pursuer visible. And he could see those thin, angry eyes glaring down at him.

Those thin, angry eyes from all those years ago.

And he began to wail.

“IT’S YOU—“

SPLURCH!

That one slice caused his insides to burst out of him, as he fell back, gurgling his final sounds, the world around him becoming black.

....

And Ishida Mitsunari flicked the blood off his old sword before sheathing it again. His intuition had been correct; the noise and dim light he saw from his home wasn’t just his imagination playing tricks on him; someone had the audacity, once again, to venture that high up the mountain. And they needed to be dealt with swiftly, before he risked them finding him.

Grabbing the body by the leg, he began to drag it back with him toward the campfire. As he did, he whistled a short whistle, as the snarls and barks from before were replaced by panting; he found the wolfdog standing by the other two bodies, his curled tail twitching in satisfaction. Dropping the first body’s leg, Mitsunari knelt down.

“Come here. Let me see.”

The dog padded forward, allowing Mitsunari to get a closer look. Removing his right glove (revealing a hand scarred from burns), he ran a hand along the wound in the dog’s side; the dog let out a small whimper, but didn’t panic.

“...it’ll scar, but it’s nothing serious,” he muttered, “We’ll treat it when we get back home. Good work, Shiranui.”

His children had named the dog when he brought the pup back to their home two years prior, having found the pup attempting to steal one of the pheasants he had hunted. Now fully grown, it was clear the dog took mostly wolf traits...but, at his core, Shiranui had always been a loyal dog...especially to his master.

Once certain the wound wasn’t serious, Mitsunari turned his attention to the bodies. Retrieving the last one from a ways away, he wasted no time rifling through their pockets and satchels for supplies. Medicine, food, tools...anything usable, he gathered into the largest bag. As he came across the sack containing their ill-gotten gains, he pondered the contents for a bit...before shaking his head. He had no need for any of this. Gold and the like wouldn’t keep them alive. Wouldn’t keep them safe.

One by one, he dragged each body a ways up to the cliffs, before rolling each body over the edge with one smooth motion, watching them get swallowed by the darkness below as he listened to the impact of them striking the cliff side, the stones, the tree branches....and lastly, he tossed the sack of treasures, too. Good fortune to whomever finds them, he supposed. It didn’t matter to him either way. Either way, the Beast of the Mountain had maintained its status as something to be feared.

Returning to the camp and snuffing out the fire, he let his eyes readjust to the darkness, before looking to Shiranui’s bloodied face.

“Let’s wash your face before we go back.” His wife hated when the dog came back from its hunts and meals looking like that.

After stopping by the stream to clean off the dog’s face and wash the wound a bit, they began their quiet trek back home, their loot in hand. Nearly three years of this life...and sometimes, it was still wildly unfamiliar to him.

He should have died at Sekigahara. He should have taken his life when he failed to avenge his lord.

He should have.

But he didn’t.

Now he was a spent match; the fire of battle had long left him, and now he was smoke, drifting about his new life, though sometimes, that little fire would come back. Sometimes, he would remember why he lived.

Off the beaten path, past the troublesome terrain, there stood a small house. His house. It was no Sawayama, it was no Osaka Castle, but it was home. And it was here that he quietly slid open the door, only to flinch slightly, startled by the shape of his wife’s feet in the moonlight shining through the door. In her arms, the smallest of his children, his only daughter, little Tatsuhime, fast asleep and undisturbed.

“...how close were they?” his wife asked in the softest of voices.

“Close enough to be a problem,” he replied. She could tell he was willfully omitting details. Details that would distress or upset her. He clearly didn’t want to elaborate further. Other than, “Shiranui’s hurt. I’ll stay with him tonight.”

She gave a quiet nod, quietly vanishing into the tiny hallway, as she, too, was swallowed by darkness.

Mitsunari retrieved a cloth, taking a seat against the wall and beckoning the dog over; Shiranui obeyed, laying down as Mitsunari pressed the cloth against the wound. The dog rested his head on his master’s lap, while Mitsunari rested his own head against the wall.

He could faintly hear the rustling of his wife setting Tatsuhime down to sleep; undoubtedly between her two older brothers. His wife was then rustling into bed as well.

He didn’t know when he’d sleep.

But until then, he’d remember why he lived.

[therealcalicali]

Of Bards and Bastards

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Warnings: None

Type: Drabble

Wordcount: 1,638

This is for @rosepetals-flyingbirds​  Writing Challenge.

Prompts: Dogs are better than People/You’re a bastard

Geralt had no desire to reside at your family’s quant Inn with adjacent Tavern. However, he was a man that disliked having his ear talked off. So after many days of being pestered by Jaskier, he gave in. And it was a good thing too. Because not only had the two men been sleeping rough for weeks, but the weather had turned.

So needless to say, they were lucky to happen upon your township.

“Welcome to The Laughing Archer.” Your Aunt quipped with a pleasant smile. “I’m Ausalái and the wee thing behind the counter is my niece, Y/N. How can we be of help this evening?”

As she spoke, her ample cleavage caught Jaskier’s attention. Though to be fair, he did his best to not make it obvious. Because despite her being rather slender, your Aunt was buxom. Not that your Uncle ever complained.

“It is nice to meet you both. I’m Jaskier and this--------”

The larger man elbowed him in the ribs.

After warning the Bard numerous times to desist being sociable, it was obvious that he had learned nothing. Thus, Geralt decided it was best to take over.

“We require two rooms.” He said, his voice more of a low rumble than anything.

“Two?” Jaskier repeated, his eyes twinkling with surprise. “Geralt, either you have been lying for weeks, or we are flushed in coin. I figured it was all spent since we’ve been sleeping upon grass like farm animals.”

Ignoring the jest, the large man opened handed five pieces of silver to your Aunt. Enough for food and drink for four days.

“Are you a Knight, Ser?” You asked as you stepped forward. “I myself have never taken up sword as of yet. However, everyone says I’m a marvel with the bow and arrow. My Uncle trains me every----------.”

“The rooms.” Geralt gruffly interrupted, utterly ignoring every word that had come from your lips.

And you thought him rude for it, he was a patron. Thus, you simply nodded and bid them to follow.

After showing the men their lodgings, you went in search of fresh linens. But as you were descending the stairs, Jaskier asked if he could trouble you for honeyed milk. To which Geralt promptly rolled his eyes. But you had always been hospitable.

So despite it being rather late, you promised to bring a surprise to go with his desired beverage.

“I will have you know that aside from my Archery skills, I’m also known to be handy in the kitchens. But you shall see for yourself.” You added.

“Thank you kindly, Y/N. I can hardly wait.” Jaskier replied, clasping his hand in anticipation.

As soon as you were out of earshot, he went to Geralt’s door, which was located directly across from his own. He then knocked for some time before his burly companion finally appeared.

“What?”

“Is that a nice way to greet someone?”

Geralt promptly shut the door in Jaskier’s face. But he didn’t do so out of hatred. In fact, he had grown capable of tolerating the Bard’s peculiar temperament. However, after his recent skirmish with a Wayth Raider, he was in no mood for childish banter.

Still, Jaskier never could take a hint. So instead of returning to his own chamber, he entered uninvited.

“Why must you be.................you?” Jaskier asked. “First, you’re absolutely rude to that poor girl. And now, you direct your anger towards me.”

“Get out so I can rest.”

“See?”

Without replying, Geralt took a seat upon the bed. He then set his weapon aside and began unlacing his boots. Undeterred by the silence, Jaskier regaled him with his thoughts about the Inn. Declaring your Aunt a fetching woman, and you, a rare beauty.

“She just has that certain something one cannot explain.” The Bard added, his hands making random gestures. “Though pretty, she’s quite unaware of it. Which, in my eyes, makes her even more attractive.”

“Hmm.” Geralt scoffed as he threw a boot aside. He then started on the other, shaking his head in annoyance. “You pestered me for a proper resting place only to ogle women.”

“Do you ever stop grunting long enough to enjoy life?”

After clarifying that he never ogled, Jaskier declared that he only admired the fairer sex. And personally, he saw nothing wrong with it. But as expected, Geralt ignored his words.

“You behave as if you do not want companionship.” The Bard noted. “Even those of sour disposition want another person at their side.”

“Dogs are better than people.”

With a sigh, Jaskier agreed that humans could be treacherous. However, that did not mean one should resign themselves to a life of solitude. He then returned to discussing you once more. Declaring that you had the most cheerful disposition he had encountered in some time.

In fact, he planned to ask for Archery lessons in order to become better acquainted. Though Geralt chuckled inwardly at the notion, he remained silent.

“Lord Jaskier” You sang from the doorway. In your hand you held a platter of sweet cakes, sour loaf, and the requested honeyed milk. “As promised, I have come bearing morsels to fill your belly.”

“Y/N, you are an absolute sweetheart. Is all that for me?”

Your cheeks burned hot as you reminded him that they had paid for room and board. Thus, you were obligated to feed him well. Your eyes then went to the one called Geralt. And despite him being curt since their arrival, you asked if he too would like something from the kitchens.

“No.”

“Ignore my friend. He’s rather tired, so let us leave him to his sleep.” Jaskier said as he followed you out the door. “Besides, I wish to hear about life in this quant township. It seems rather lively from what I have seen thus far.”

The following morning, you woke early to assist with chores.

And as always, your Aunt and Uncle chastised you, insisting that you return to bed. Because despite not being your true parents, they had not taken you in to make you a servant. Nevertheless, you enjoyed helping the family business flourish. So, you kept to assisting the workers.

After helping the women clean the adjacent Tavern, you went to the kitchens. Indeed, you were thrilled about impressing the new lodgers. Thus, you set to work, gathering all manner of fresh ingredients. Even going so far as to enter the chicken coop that you typically avoided. Because despite eggs being a staple in most dishes, the chickens fought like hell to keep them.

“Y/N, you have the women cooking up a feast this morning.” Your Uncle exclaimed before stealing a piece of fried trout. “Just try not to overdo things.”

“I have told you before, I’m quite capable of running the kitchens.” You replied with a great smile. “Just make sure you return with adequate game for Suppertime.”

As he departed with his companions for a hunt, you checked to make sure the workers had things under control. When satisfied, you took the first dishes to the Inn’s dining area.

Since they had been residing longer, you first served the large party of Merchants before going to Jaskier and Geralt.

“I hope you slept well, Y/N. ” The Bard exclaimed, eager to delve into the first meal of the day. He then surveyed all you were setting before them. “Everything smells delightful. Ooh, what is the red delicacy there?”

“Pomegranate rolls filled with custard with strawberry molasses. It is a creation of my own doing.”

As you further explained the other dishes, Jaskier bit into a roll. Instantly, his eyes fluttered as if someone had rubbed his back. He then excitedly looked at Geralt.

“I know you dislike sweets. But you simply must try one of these” The Bard urged before taking another bite. “The girl’s hands are pure magic.”

“I’ll pass.” Geralt replied with brow raised.

He then lifted his mug of spiced ale and looked about the Inn. Naturally, you were somewhat hurt by his refusal. But you held your tongue and returned to the kitchens. After retrieving the second course, you served everyone with the same enthusiasm as before.

“Y/N, I hope this is not forward of me…” Jaskier began with some anxiety.

As he wavered, Geralt eyed him. From traveling together, he knew very well that the Bard was no competitor. So why he wished to trouble you, made little sense. Nevertheless, he decided to say nothing.

“Would you be keen to show me the basics of Archery? I mean, if you are not too busy with other things. Or people.”

“Of course, Lord Jaskier. It would be an honor to teach you.”

“Lord?” Geralt repeated.

Indeed, he realized that you truly believed his companion was of noble birth. So despite his usually stoic demeanor, he could not keep from chuckling.

“And what is so funny, Ser?” You asked.

“You.” Geralt replied as his intense gaze meeting yours. “Why assume him a Lord?”

“Because, he carries himself with dignity and kindness.” You replied with some irritation. “Besides, who’s to say that a Lord could not decide to become a Bard?”

“Quite the stupid assumption.”

“As you please, Ser. But I shall perceive your friend as I see fit. Would you like to know how I have come to perceive you?”

“Not particularly.”

There was a long silence, your ire festering as if time had stood still for ages. But eventually, you glared at the handsome boarder, refusing to let him have the last word.

“You’re a bastard!”

You then hastened to the kitchens; leaving Geralt perplexed and Jaskier laughing so hard, the other boarders began to stare.

[thelastspeecher]

D&D AU - Elf Kid Adventures, Pt. 2

Electric Boogaloo

I actually have two more scenes planned to tie up this little story arc in my D&D AU where Stan is half-orc and half-elf.  I originally was going to include those scenes in this post, but then these two scenes on their own were much longer than I expected.  So, uh, here’s some awkward stuff, some angst, some “aww” moments, and most importantly, a whole mess of Stan being head over heels for Angie.

Enjoy.

——————————————————————————————

              Stan couldn’t decide whether the expectation he did chores was the worst part or the best part of staying at the McGucket farmstead. On the one hand, he had to get up when Ole Tinbeak – the earliest rising rooster – crowed.  On the other hand, the praise from Mr. McGucket never seemed to end.

              “Excellent!” Mr. McGucket said cheerfully, watching Stan lug a bale of hay twice his size.  “I must say, Stanaximus, yer the strongest elf I’ve ever seen, and yer only a child right now!”  Stan grinned despite the straws of hay poking his face.  “Would ya consider employment as a farmhand?”

              “Thanks,” Stan said, slipping into the manners that Mrs. McGucket had insisted on drilling into him.  “But I like being a ranger with Angie and Lute.”

              “Fair enough,” Mr. McGucket said.  Stan set down the bale of hay.  His vision now unobscured, he spotted Lute standing a few feet away.  Lute had never seemed that intimidating to Stan before, and his new age (and matching immature wardrobe with many pairs of shorts) only served to hinder his continued attempts.  He was in his thirties, according to Mrs. McGucket, which made him like a human five-year-old.

              “He’s only bein’ nice to you ‘cause yer a guest,” Lute hissed.  Stan snorted.

              “If you could see through all that hair, you’d know that’s not true,” he replied.  Lute lifted the dark bangs that covered his eyes to glare at Stan.

              “I can see just fine,” Lute snapped.  Stan grinned.

              “Aw, is someone grumpy ‘cause he’s overdue for a nap?” Stan teased.  Lute blushed fiercely.  The McGucket parents had insisted Lute have at least one nap a day at this age.  Something about the extra rest being particularly important for growing elves.  “Maybe you should go sleep.”

              “You-” Lute started.  Mr. McGucket came over.  He took his youngest son’s hand.

              “He’s right, Lute.  Stan, think ya can finish the chores if Angie helps?”

              “Uh, sure.  But I don’t know where she is,” Stan said slowly.  Someone jumped down from the barn’s loft, landing lightly in front of Stan.  Angie beamed at him.  “…How long were you up there?”  Angie shrugged.

              “It’s startin’ to get a bit dark, so ya best check the fence fer breaks first, ‘fore night falls,” Mr. McGucket said, leading Lute out of the barn.  Stan and Angie nodded.  Once Mr. McGucket was gone, Stan turned to Angie.

              “We’re supposed to check the fence?” he asked.

              “Yep!  Follow me.” Angie walked out of the barn. Stan followed.  They went to the enclosed cattle pasture and began to follow the fencing.  “Luckily, breaks ‘re pretty easy to spot,” Angie said cheerfully.  “And easy to fix, too.  Just a quick Mending.”  Stan nodded silently, trying to ignore how the setting sun made her golden hair turn a fiery orange.  They continued to walk in silence for a few moments.  “Don’t let Lute get ya down,” Angie said in a low tone.

              “Huh?  Oh, I’m not.” Stan shrugged.  “I actually kinda like being a kid again.”

              “Really?”

              “Yeah.  I’m-” Stan rubbed the back of his neck and laughed awkwardly.  “I’m not in that big of a rush to get this curse removed, to be honest.”  Angie came to a stop, leaning against the fencing. Stan did the same.  His hands gripped the wooden slats.  Angie turned her head to face him.  A few long golden strands of hair loose from her braid bounced with the movement.  The sun cast her form in a brilliant halo.

              “Why’s that?” she asked.  Distracted by how she looked in the fading light, Stan didn’t hear her question.

              “Huh?” he mumbled.  Angie rolled her silver eyes.  As dusk encroached, they began to glow with a faint foxfire.

              “Why are ya not in a hurry to be back to normal?” she asked.  “I thought ya missed yer tusks.”  Stan sighed.

              “I mean, I do.”

              “Then what’s goin’ on?”

              “I…”  Stan trailed off.  Angie scooted closer to him.  Her hand rested next to his, their skin touching.  Stan’s heartrate picked up.  Unable to stop himself, he blurted out the truth.  “I forgot how much better people used to treat me.”  Angie’s eyes widened.

              “…Pardon?” she asked.

              Shit.  Way to go, Stan.  This is what you get for being so easily distracted by pretty girls.

              “I grew up in a mostly human settlement,” Stan said quietly.  “The only elf who lived in town was my mom.  Looking like her, I got attention.  But it was good attention, ‘cause a lotta humans are obsessed with elves. Even travelers passing through would sometimes stop and talk to me and my twin brother.  I think…”  Stan furrowed his brow.  “I think my mom said that, if we had grown up in a proper elf environment, we wouldn’t be allowed to interact with visitors.  I guess elf kids are considered really important, so they get kept away from outsiders.  At least, that’s how it was where my mom grew up.”

              “Ma says things were the same way where she came from,” Angie said.  “She ‘n Pa had some disagreements ‘bout it when we were little.  So it’s probably a high elf thing, not a specific place thing.”

              “Yeah.”  Stan took a breath.  “I liked getting all that positive attention.  But then my tusks started growing in, and my hair got darker, and I got bigger in a way that elves just aren’t.”  Stan looked down at the dirt.  He nudged a clump with the toe of his borrowed boot.  “I stopped looking like my mom and started looking like my pops. And I don’t have a lick of human in me, so I don’t look like a proper half-orc.  By the time I was sixteen, I looked full orc.”  Angie made a strangled sound.  Stan looked at her.

              “Sixteen?” she choked out, shocked.

              “Orcs don’t live that long.  Until I became an adult, I aged close to the same rate humans do. I think I was about twenty when my elf side kicked in to slow it down.”

              “Oh.  Right.” Angie nodded.  “You told me ‘fore that you were in yer sixties.”

              “Yep.  Haven’t aged a day in the last forty years, thanks to Mom.”

              “Yes.  Okay, continue yer story.”

              “Well, I dunno how much there is left to tell. I looked like an orc, and you know how people treat orcs.  Visitors stopped giving me treats and started putting their hands on their weapons when they saw me.  Since that’s how it’s been for the last few decades, I forgot that people didn’t always look at me like I was about to kill them.”

              “Even if you don’t get the curse reversed, you’ll start agin’ on yer own,” Angie pointed out.  Stan’s stomach twisted into a knot.  “Sooner rather than later, you’ll look like yer father again.”

              “Yeah.  I know.” Stan’s head drooped.  “It’s just-”

              “No need to explain.  I understand,” Angie said firmly.  She placed her hand over Stan’s.  Stan’s heart skipped a beat.  “It’s easier to be an elf than an orc.”  She quirked a half-grin.  “Though, just so’s ya know, I prefer yer orcish self to yer elvish self.”

              “R-really?” Stan stammered.  Angie nodded.

              “Tusks ‘n all.”

----- 

              Stan had just finished his breakfast when Mr. McGucket entered the kitchen.

              “Stanaximus?” he said.  Stan looked over.

              “Yeah?”              

              “Walk with me, son.”

              “Um.  Okay.” Stan deposited his plate in the sink and followed Mr. McGucket outside.  “Did you need me for something?”

              “I just need to have a lil chat with ya,” Mr. McGucket said airily.  “But I think you’d prefer the chat happen where there aren’t ears to listen.” Dread began to build in Stan’s gut. The two walked off the main, cleared area that constituted the farmstead, and into the surrounding woods.  Mr. McGucket moved through the trees like he was one with his surroundings, effortlessly silent and graceful.  It was actually almost difficult for Stan to keep track of the man, as he blended in so well.

              I mean, he is a wood elf.  Makes sense.

              “What did you wanna talk about?” Stan asked. Mr. McGucket smiled.

              “You courtin’ my youngest child,” he said simply. Stan stumbled over a root.  Mr. McGucket caught him.  “You all right?”

              “Yeah, I’m- I’m-”  Stan swallowed.  “What makes you think I wanna court Angie?”

              “I see the way ya look at her.  Like she’s the sun, moon, ‘n stars.  There’s no mistakin’ what that means.”  Mr. McGucket looked at Stan.  “You can deny all ya want after this conversation, but I want ya to be truthful durin’ it, okay?”

              “…Fine,” Stan mumbled.  He clenched his hands into fists and ground them into his eyes.  “I…I really like Angie, and being a kid again has made it a lot worse.”

              “Makes sense.  Children have lesser control over their emotions, after all.  Thank you fer bein’ willin’ to talk blunt with me.”

              “Yeah, whatever.”

              “Now, I encourage ya to court Angie, once you’ve all been returned to yer proper ages.  But I needed to warn ya that a courtship with her won’t go without difficulties.”

              “What- what do you mean?” Stan asked.  Mr. McGucket sighed.

              “Politics.  Yer a noble, and my wife, she…she was somethin’ sim’lar ‘fore she left her home to be with me.  I don’t know whether she still has her title or not, and our children certainly don’t have any titles, but they do technically belong to a very powerful sun elf house.  If you were a wood elf, or even just a reg’lar sun elf, I doubt it would be a problem. As it is, it might not be.  But it could be.  So I figured I’d warn ya.”

              “But I’m not noble,” Stan said.  Mr. McGucket frowned at him.  “You guys keep insisting I am, but I’m not!  Maybe my mom is, or was, but my pops, he was about as far from noble as you can get.”

              “Was?”

              “…Pops passed away a few decades ago,” Stan said quietly.

              “My condolences.”

              “I don’t need ‘em.  He was a kinda shit father.”

              “Hmm.”  At Mr. McGucket’s thoughtful, though noncommittal, sound, Stan looked up.  There was a troubled look on the man’s face.  “Would that be related to the scars on yer back and arms?”

              “How- how do you-”

              “Harper saw when he took ya to the lake to swim last week,” Mr. McGucket explained.  Stan stifled a curse.  The oldest McGucket son, Harper, had showed up unexpectedly with his adopted children, then insisted on them all doing activities during his visit.  Harper was an incredibly odd person, but Stan thought he was at least tolerable.

              At least, I used to think that.  Now that I know he’s a snitch?  Nah.

              “I want to revisit this at a later time,” Mr. McGucket said after a moment. “Right now, we need to talk about you courtin’ my daughter.”

              Do we?

              “There’s no doubt you have noble blood, Stan.  Just yer full name is one that’s indicative of high status.  Even if ya don’t have a noble title or upbringing, ya have it in yer heritage.”  Mr. McGucket cocked his head thoughtfully.  “Though not havin’ a title will prob’ly make it so Angie’s own royal blood ain’t a factor.”

              “Did you say ‘royal’?” Stan croaked.  A twinkle entered Mr. McGucket’s eye.

              “Yes.”  Stan’s jaw dropped.  “Now, I will say- wait.”

              “What?” Stan asked.  Mr. McGucket now looked at him with visible concern.

              “Open yer mouth, son.”  Before Stan could comply or refuse, Mr. McGucket carefully pried his jaws open, looking at his teeth like he was determining a horse’s age.  “Oh, no.  Are these…fangs?”  Instantly, Stan broke into a cold sweat.

              Fuck!  My tusks! They started coming in!  Mr. McGucket released his hold and took a step back, worry etched on his face.  Stan closed his mouth.

              “It’s okay,” Stan said quickly.

              “Son, you have two teeth what shouldn’t be there, and what look awful dif’rent from yer other teeth.”

              “It’s, um…”  Stan’s mind raced.  “My pops, he got cursed when he was younger, and it got passed down to me somehow.”

              “Really.”

              “Yeah.”  Stan rubbed the back of his neck.  “It’s not a problem.”

              “Maybe.  But when we get this main curse off ya, we’ll take a look at this one that made ya grow fangs.”

              “Maybe…”

              Gods, no, there’s no way in any of the planes that I’d let some elf take my tusks away.  Stan and Mr. McGucket entered a large clearing.  Stan blinked at the farmhouse before them.  Without him realizing, they’d walked back to the McGucket farmstead. Mr. McGucket put a hand on his shoulder.

              “Yer a very interestin’ young man,” he said.

              Damn, and he doesn’t even know I’m half-orc.

              “I’d like to have many more conversations with ya.  But since yer likely to woo my daughter, I have no doubt I’ll have plenty of opportunities to chat.”

              “I might not court her,” Stan said quietly.  The second he spoke, he knew it was a lie.  There was no chance he wouldn’t shoot his shot.

              “It’d be a shame if ya didn’t, since ya have not just my blessin’, but that of my wife, too.”  Mr. McGucket squeezed Stan’s shoulder.  “And not to mention, we wouldn’t push ya to court if we didn’t think it would go well.” Stan swallowed.  “All right, ya can go back to denyin’ now.  I have to go run a few errands, and you have some chores.”

              Recognizing the dismissal for what it was, Stan headed for the barn. As he approached, Angie emerged from it. She caught sight of him and waved. Stan’s heart did yet another backflip upon seeing her.  She came over to him.

              “Were ya in the woods with my pa?” she asked.

              “Yeah.  Don’t worry, he didn’t try to hunt me or anything.  He just wanted to talk.”

              “What were you talkin’ ‘bout?”

              “How you’re actually a long-lost elven princess,” Stan said casually. Angie gasped and punched his shoulder. “Nah, it was just weird stuff where he called me ‘son’ a lot and wanted to know about my family.”

              “He called ya ‘son’, huh?”

              “Yeah.”

              “Sounds to me like he was askin’ ‘bout yer fam’ly ‘cause he considers ya part of ours.”  Angie winked. “Good luck with that.”  Stan grinned confidently.

              “I think I can handle your family.  I mean, I handle you all right,” he said.  Angie threw her head back and laughed.

              “I’ll let ya continue to think that.”

[crowleyellestair]

Hello! * waves hand excitingly like a five years old* Could You please write somethig for Eskel? I love him so much and there are just a few drabbles about him. I was thinking something fluffly? Like he's courting reader (or something like the blurb you wrote)? He's such soft boi

 Sorry for the tardiness, but I’m officially done with the college semester, and can finally get to writing!

AN// He is a soft boi. Bashful boy, I call him. Much longer than I intended, but I hope you like it!!

 Aedd Gynvael was out of the way for any witcher, unless one was coming back to Kaer Morhen from the Dragon Mountains. There was really no reason Eskel had made his way up to the place the first time round. He hadn’t had any food for the trail, but he was also a week early, and could easily hunt. Maybe it was his distinct need for people. Despite being a witcher, he still enjoyed company. He loved his pack, but Lambert wasn’t the freshest flower to take all contact from. Gynvael wasn’t exactly the best place for large numbers, and proved perfect for small interactions. Maybe he had made his way up for one final contract. Usually, Eskel reveled in the relaxation and laidback training, but he felt something under his skin, aching to expel energy.

Maybe it was fate.

That’s what Dandelion had believed, at least. Eskel didn’t know how he found himself asking the bard for help either, but mindlessly walking to Gynvael had worked out so perfectly- the very thing that led him here now. Y/n was a bookshop owner that had moved there after her aunt passed. She had lived in the south, and had quite the enterprise, though she felt she had a duty to keep that store in her family. He hadn’t known there was a bookstore there, and it seemed quite old. Again, most witchers don’t happen upon Aedd Gynvael, but Eskel had connections. Every bookstore knew of every other official store, yet he had never heard of this one. It was luck that only a month before he had visited, Y/n took over the shop.

It was even more luck he had come upon for her to be a gentle soul, happily inviting him in. Y/n had taken one look at him and pointed him to a few books he had loved, somehow reading him just as easily as the books that surrounded them. Y/n had actually found some titles he hadn’t heard of, and he left after a great discussion on the validity of new Elven poetry with a handful of new books.

It wasn’t until he had made it back to the fortress that he found a small book under the pile. A short Dwarven love novella. Now, Eskel loved books, and he didn’t discriminate on what he read. He does have preferences though, and a guilty pleasure of his were those small love stories that wives read once they finished with their sewing circles. There was a long contemplation on whether or not she was a mage or had some form of magic, but he remembered not feeling anything. So, once winter had passed, he decided to place the books on his personal shelves, and take some important texts back to her that she lacked in her personal selection.

A year had passed, and when he went back, he found the woman still in the little shop. A small bundle of books was wrapped for his reappearance, despite her admitting she wasn’t sure he’d ever visit again. Eskel had spent a week in town, arriving two weeks earlier, so he could have time to spare.

Eskel wasn’t one to rush into things, unless he was following his fellow wolf. But he trusted them to have at least some semblance of a plan. With Y/n, however, he was ready to rush into anything headfirst. There were too many kind smiles or polite offerings that he would be a fool to even think of passing her by. When he heard Dandelion was visiting for the winter, he hadn’t thought of the repercussions of courting the woman, he simply asked how he could.

So, there they sat, the grand hall empty despite the two at the table. The witcher had snuck away from scaffolding to try and get the bard alone. There were brown locks being tucked under a bonnet despite there not being a need for the feathered hat. Eskel had started to regret asking, as the younger man seemed too excited to help.

“I’m just saying that it might help if I saw the lady.”

“I don’t need an audience, bard. I simply need ideas for courting.” His hand brushed his cheek, and his eyes casted to the table. “I haven’t been near any court in a while, and I don’t know what is considered acceptable.”

“Aedd Gynvael hasn’t seen a proper court in a while either.” Golden eyes shot up to the poet, and he sighed apologetically. “What have you done so far? Where do you want this to go? A simple romp or something a little more permanent?” While the witcher had started this, he certainly wasn’t ready to finish it. He doesn’t want any of the brothers to walk in, but an excuse to get him out of the mess he has created would be welcome.

“Don’t know yet. I gave her some old tomes for her personal collection, and I hung around town to just…talk.” And they had. Eskel had walked her to and from everywhere she went, and they spoke of everything. He didn’t know what it was, but she was able to coax stories out of him like syrup over hot pastries. The man had unburdened himself of so much over the week that was soaked up by a caring ear. It was a blessing and a curse, as it meant that Y/n didn’t speak too much of herself, thoroughly making courting much harder. Eskel didn’t know her favorite flower or poem. He wasn’t even sure if she truly loved music- all things that normal courtship has and expresses love.

Love

Maybe too early to say such a word, but the excitement of him being able to have it in the future when he thought he could never be on the receiving end has set everything on a faster timetable. But he doesn’t want to cheap out on her- Y/n deserves proper courting. Proper courting for a proper lady. It was clear that she was more of a lady than any in high courts or any daughter of a noble. Hell, she could be more of a man than most, as well. But maybe he shouldn’t bring that up to her. She might laugh at the thought, but even the slimmest chance of offending puts that off the table.

“Eskel, my friend, out of everyone here, I expected you to be the romantic. Yet here you are, giving me nothing to work with.” Julian’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, though the pressure to add more pushed them from his mind out into the open.

“She’s manly.”

“What?” Shock and confusion painted his face, and Eskel felt like his face would melt by the embarrassment.

“I mean… Y/n has a way about her. She’s more noble than most knights I know. Her time in the south hadn’t treated her right, but despite that, it was her home. She only moved up here because her aunt wanted the store to stay in the family.” Dandelion nodded in understanding before his hand went to cup his own chin in thought.

“She’s a bookstore owner, lives on her own, has gone through hard times in the south…hm. Write her your own poetry.” Eskel practically choked on the inhale of breath at his advice.

“My own? I don’t think that’s wise.” The poet’s brow raised, not believing that his advice isn’t being taken. Eskel started to internally scold himself now that he needs to write poetry. He’s read thousands of poems, but that didn’t mean he was qualified to write his own.

“Eskel, I’m trying to help you start. I know it seems farfetched, but what do you have in mind? You need something for her to remember you by. If you’re traipsing in the south for two thirds of the year, she needs something powerful and from the heart.” The witcher’s shoulders sagged an inch, conceding to his fate.

“When you put it like that, bard, it makes sense.” The two men stare at each other for a couple of moments, Dandelion letting the older man work through his thoughts. Bashfully, the witcher’s hand found his cheek again, feeling the heat under even the scarred skin. “How do I… start?”

 Winter came and went for the shopkeeper. Gynvael didn’t have much foot traffic, but Y/n had started to incorporate a library system within the shop, allowing people to borrow for a smaller fee. The change of weather from the south to the north had been drastic, and the first winter had been dreadful. This winter, however, was made much warmer due to the heat in her chest. Eskel hadn’t visited after the first winter, only giving her the books once he made his way back before this one. The thought of him carrying important tomes for half a year just for her had a way of lighting her world. Being a business owner herself often scared away suitors despite their interests in her. Court life was also difficult. In the south, she was either made fun of for reading too much, or she wasn’t encouraged to express opinions created by these books, even if they were historically accurate. The north had been a nice change. And despite the weather and longing, Y/n wouldn’t change her station after the witcher tried to sneak into her store as to not be seen by the rest of the public.

The large man had seemed swept off his feet by her, and she couldn’t believe it. A small bookstore owner lifting him up just through books and being kind? It made her yearn to know what he had gone through. She had gotten some stories, but she knew she’d sit and wait her whole life if she had to, just to hear more about him.

When the bell went off in her shop, she now only wished it to be that man. Winter was officially over, but Y/n understood her location in relation to the rest of the continent. It would be out of his way to travel to her, then travel south, but when she didn’t hear footsteps after the bell, her heart soared. As she suspected, the large man stood in the lobby of the shop, arms tight to himself, and eyes casting everywhere on high alert.

“Did I miss the year, or are you really here after winter?” A large smile spread on her face upon seeing the man. She would never admit to anyone that her smile grew upon seeing his red face match the color of his gambeson. Though, she was sure that he could hear how fast her heart was.

“I wanted to see you.” It slipped past his lips without running through his filter, and his heart also sped. “I mean, I have something for you.” Eskel was fine and excited to start something, but he didn’t want to seem like he was dragging her along due to his speed. He wanted to be by her side every step of the way. The brown parcel in his hand was burning, and he regretted how fast he jabbed the wrapped item towards her. The witcher was mesmerized as her smile never faltered. Y/n’s fingertips brushed gently along the back of his fingers as she took hold of it, and Eskel did everything in his power not to flinch. When his hand was emptied, he did everything in his power not to reach out. The woman nodded towards the seat behind the counter, and pulled the small footstool out from between some shelves. Even after he insisted heavily during his last visit, she always made sure he sat in the chair, rather than the stool or standing.

She sat, carefully unfolding the brown wrappings, as if that too was apart of something precious. Eskel’s hands started to fidget in his lap. Y/n sat in front of him, looking like a black pearl on shore. The smile faded to a gentle grin, but the joy of his return was ever present. A light dress was all she wore, seemingly used to the colder weather, and now it being spring, trying to reason with mother nature to bring warmer tides simply through fashion. Her hair was down, caringly cupping her face as a mother did a babe. Gentle eyes tried to catch glimpses of him, seemingly not capable of holding resentment for him. The more he thought about everything that was perfect about her, he started to try and predict what her reaction might be. He was lucky enough to travel down the trail with Geralt and Dandelion, who reassured him every step of the way. Now, he can’t bare what his mind has conjured. He finally made his mind up, moving to leave when he heard a small gasp.

The small book had been hard to make, but he was pretty proud with how it turned out in the end. There had been a witcher, long passed, that had been a poet, who had kept a book in their library. Vesemir had given it to him, somehow finding out his plan. The cover and spine were nice, but the pages had been falling out. There weren’t any extra pages either, but Vesemir had paper pulping supplies the younger witcher used. After finishing the paper, he rearranged everything, attaching it to the spine and adding some ironwork detailing at the edges. The first half was poetry and musing of the other witcher about life and witchering, but the second half was all Eskel’s poetry of the woman now holding the book.

Y/n gently carded through the pages, stopping on the little note he wrote for her at the start of his section. It was simple and quick, but lifechanging for her.

Remember me. I’ll always come back.

The witcher could hear- almost feel, her heart pounding. The grin had spread like a wildfire and she bolted from her small stool into his standing form. The arms around his waist were crushing, but he quickly folded himself around her as well.

‘Would you mind reading some to me?” she asked. Of course, he had agreed, and she closed the shop despite it being morning. He was brought to her home above the shop, and was in the common room were there wasn’t a couch, but a cushion area by the window. She sat, back to chest as he read to her. They both had seemed to fall asleep, waking the next day. Eskel had to leave, but he gave her the address of the postal in the south that he would visit twice while away if she ever had the inclination to send something. She told him that she would probably start writing even minutes after he would leave, as she would already miss him. Before he left, he noticed a shelf completely empty besides a handful of books. He knew the tomes he gave her were in her room, but when asked, it was apparently for him.

“I order things from other places, or sometimes I leave for Oxenfort showings, and I grab things I think you’ll like. I already have a new parcel, if you want to take some for the road. If not, you always have a shelf here.” Eskel agreed, and promised to write to her. It was a month into traveling, and he had already lost his small comb on the bottom of his bag.

As he rummaged through, he found another small book that he didn’t remember putting in there. He pulled it out, recognizing the quickly scrawled authors name. The inside of the cover had a small, fine writing made out to him.

I know the author of that Dwarvish novela, and asked if he’d write a second part after you said you’d enjoyed the first. It’s your own personal copy, as he isn’t going to ever publish it. Enjoy.

There’s another note under it, somewhat smudged due to the ink not drying in the time she wrote it and closed the book.

There’s no way I could ever forget you. I’ll always be waiting

(Check out my other Eskel Blurb : Reading)

[booknerdproblems]

Immortals

Hello! This is the first chapter of my new fic, Immortals. It is set in a world where Elena did her job and banished Erawan, and Aelin’s parents were cool and got her trained. I’ve been working on this fic for a while now, so I hope you like it. Likes are appreciated and reblogs and comments make my day! You can also read it on Ao3. My masterlist is here. More chapters to come!

TW: none

Rowan Whitethorn had a gods awful day. 

First, he had been awakened at a gods-awful hour by a tug on the blood-oath, Maeve wanting him to get to training early that day. Queen Maeve was throwing a ball for all the nobles in Doranelle, hosted in her palace in the City of Rivers, meaning he was on gods-damned guard duty for all the vendors and hired personnel for this event.

Now, the music was playing, the nobles chatting and mingling, and thus the ball had begun. 

The stuffiness of the combined perfumes and scents overwhelmed his Fae senses, and his green and silver tunic was much too restricting, in his opinion. He was required to be there, for what he didn’t know, since Fenrys and Gavriel were on guard duty, scanning the room beside Maeve’s stone throne, from where she sat inspecting the room.

All the high fae were there, along with some royalty travelled from faraway lands, all pure-blooded Fae, of course. The lavishness of these events made Rowan grind his teeth, he’d seen the struggling demi-fae and poorer aspects of this fucked-up world, but, after all, it wasn't his place to question Maeve. Not with the blood oaths constraints. It was beginning to seem like an honour less and less, with all he and his… companions were forced to do. Especially Fenrys, behind closed doors. The male grated on his nerves endlessly,  but he was loyal to those he loved to a fault, and he, under all his arrogance and swaggering, was a good male.

Rowan was hiding from Remelle, a female with whom he had a… past, as he had been for the last hour. 

He was nursing a glass of strong faerie wine, wishing he could drown himself in it. 

Nothing at this gods-forsaken ball was remotely interesting, and he found himself wondering whether he’d even enjoy training his cousin’s younglings rather than being in this gold-gilded hall.

-x-

Two painful hours later, just as true night had fallen, was when Rowan felt it. Power. An alluring tug in his blood at the sheer amount of it. He saw Fenrys perk up, and Maeve sit a little straighter, just as the tall stone doors at the end of the room opened with a flourish.

A female strode  in, flanked by two others. She was unfairly beautiful, flowing blonde hair and turquoise eyes, highlighted by black cosmetics around her eyes. She wore a floor-length, rich black velvet dress,  completely covering her arms and back, but the modesty of it undone by how tightly it hugged her generous assets, and the leg slit revealed just enough of a tanned thigh to push the boundaries of propriety. Tall, strappy silver heels were on her feet, and although no crown or tiara decorated her head, she radiated status and demanded respect. And she was completely blooded with power. It was like she oozed it, and as she took a swaggering step forward, sparks flashed at her feet. Embers rippled through her hair, revealing her pointed ears and flames flickered in the depths of her eyes. Nobody would ever mistake her for anything but regal.

Her companions, flanking her, one a human man armed to the teeth despite his finery, and one female, beautiful beyond measure, no weapons to be seen despite the feral look in her eyes. A strange, ever-changing scent reached him. A shifter then. Rare, formidable opponents, capable of slipping anywhere unseen, unequalled spies and assassins. 

The strange trio had reached Maeve, and although the shifter and the man bowed at the waist, the Fae female at the head of the company simply stared directly at Maeve, her gaze flicking over and Fenrys once, a cool, calculating glance, pausing slightly at Gavriel, before returning to the Fae Queen.

She gave Maeve a once over, a feline smirk curving her painted lips.

“Cute dress.” The newcomer’s voice was as smooth as silk, her voice revealing a foreign accent. It sent unexpected shivers down Rowan’s spine.

Maeve looked down from the dais, her expression telling Rowan that no, she was not expecting these guests. 

“Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, “ was all Maeve said, disregarding the female’s earlier comment.

Holy burning gods. Rowan’s shock hit him like a blow to the face. Aelin Galathynius, freshly crowned Queen of Terrasen, after the assassination of her parents, Rhoe and Evalin, just last year. Aelin of the Wildfire was rumoured to have unparalleled fire power, and be a formidable opponent in battle, after she helped defeat an Ironteeth uprising two years ago, at the side of Crochan Queen Manon Blackbeak. 

The nobles around them were tittering, on edge from this god-like presence. 

“Hello, Aunt.” Aelin replied smoothly, her honeyed voice sliding over Rowan’s skin.

“What a...lovely surprise.” Those words were a threat and a question. 

“Well,” Aelin snagged a glass of fizzing wine from a table nearby, not at all fazed by the eyes on her, “since I figured my invitation got lost in the mail,” another smirk and sip of her drink, “I thought I’d come see what my predecessors made such a fuss about.”

“And how long will you and your,” Maeve swept her gaze over the rounded ears of Aelin’s friends, “companions, be staying, exactly?”

“We merely wish to enjoy Doranelle, a nice little break from ruling, maybe set up a few trade contacts.”

Rowan didn’t believe that for one second, and from the twist of Maeve’s mouth, she didn’t think so either.

“Of course, my dear niece. And will you be needing accommodation in your… free spirited stay here.”

“Only for tonight, in the morning we will find more… casual accommodation.” Aelin looked faintly amused at the way this conversation was going, and took a sip of her drink, maintaining eye contact with Maeve all the while.

The Fae of Doranelle were watching this exchange like a sporting match, never daring to re-start the music, less they find themselves at the end of Maeve's wrath. Or, Rowan supposed, the wrath of this new queen, daring to address Maeve without her proper title or respect that came with being Queen of the Fae. Aelin Light-Bringer was a female, perhaps, of equal power and standing, maybe the only one in a thousand years to rival Maeve. And that made her a threat. One of the biggest threats Rowan had ever faced, despite his admiration for this bold female. 

Indeed, Fenrys was staring at her with poorly disguised reverence, as well as running his eyes over her lithe body repeatedly. Gavriel was watching with interest, maybe a hint of fear and confusion  and Lorcan, who Rowan saw entered at the waves of power, was glaring at the young Queen of Terrasen with violent promises in his eyes. 

Maeve was watching her with caution, and almost a gleam of hunger in her eyes. Hunger for this female’s power, youth, spirit. 

Yet despite the unspoken threats and power that rippled in the room, the Heir of Fire just seemed endlessly amused, as if she had just made a move in the game of realms. Aelin simply downed her glass of wine and stepped onto the dancing floor as  Maeve nodded to the entertainment, the music starting up again and the Fae hesitantly murmuring among each other.

Yes, it seemed Aelin Ashryver Galathynius had made quite the impression on Doranelle, and didn’t seem likely to stop any time soon.

[queensdivas]

Peonies Chapter 1

soOkay so for those of you who didn’t know what the heck just happened. Tumblr decided to screw with the first chapter and not post it properly. Rude I know! 

So I jumped on my work computer and going to quickly post it so I don’t get in trouble. Teehee. 

Y’all ready for this though! I’m so excited for this one! The vocabulary that I’ve had to use is quite nice and fits the times perfectly! 

Next Chapter

masterlist

HERE WE GO!

Peonies a a charming lady 

She doesn’t like a spot too shady 

Likes to live out in the light 

Dressed in red or pink or white 

To Bloom brighter than the earth 

And to defeat all others

What is it like to be a Duchess who will be Governing a vast amount of Northern Italy? I’m not quite sure yet due to the fact mio padre is still ruling over the land and I’m being tutored in the fine games of politics. Oh do not get me wrong I would rather acquire all of the information of learning to rule rather than taking the responsibility too prematurely. 

Handing my reins to the stable boy as I began walking inside the Monastery to meet with Mother Superior Ani. I speak to her for council when it comes to somewhat major decisions in my life. This major decision is traveling to Russia and supporting Catherine in her new life. From what she has told me and what I’ve heard from padre. Russia is an absolute catastrophe. 

Something is relaxing about walking through the monastery when the sound of the nuns are singing. The beautiful art of the story of Christ, the only sound besides their songs are the winds blowing and birds chirping. Quite beautiful. Standing in the middle of the courtyard as I waited for Mother Ani to greet me for our chat. 

“Good afternoon Lady Chiara.” I was greeted by Sister Calderón along with Sister Grazia. The only set of twin nuns I’ve ever witnessed in my life. 

“Good afternoon Sister Calderón. Sister Grazia. I’m assuming that Mother Ani is finishing her afternoon confessions?” Asking them as they both nodded. 

“How are we feeling today?” They smiled as they approached me. 

“We’re going on a mission trip to Africa very soon!”  Sister Calderón cheered as Sister Grazia jumped a little. 

“We’re finally leaving!” Sister Grazia exclaimed as I smiled and clapped for them. 

“Congratulations you two!”

“I’m assuming they told you about their mission trip?” Mother Ani approached us as they collected themselves in front of her. Nodding and they scurrying off back into the chapel.

“They’re very excited. Mother Ani. I promise not to take much of your time today as I know dinner is soon.” 

“It’s quite alright. Shall we stroll in the gardens?” She asked as I nodded. As I mentioned before I go to her for counseling as she is the wisest person I’ve ever met in my entire life. Her wisdom comes from true experience unlike most men in the Catholic Church. We began walking towards the gardens so that we may talk in absolute privacy. I need her advice on my thoughts of going to Russia. 

“Mother Ani. What have you heard about Russia?” Halting at my question as I expected her reaction. Shocked and in confusion. 

“Why are you asking?” Sighing at her question as we entered the archway into the garden. 

“My cousin Catherine has married the Emperor of Russia and I’m quite concerned for her. She’s written some horrific things that have happened to her after only being married to him these past few weeks. He has punched her, killed her bear that he gifted her for their wedding, and even has multiple lovers. I know that’s very normal but that’s not exactly the way Catherine and I were raised. I think I would like to go to Russia and support her as she becomes accustomed to her new life.” 

“I say that is a very gracious thing to do for your cousin. But are you prepared to deal with the insanity of the monarch and Russian court?” I’ve heard some very bizarre things about them and I get this feeling Catherine should have some sort of noble ally. 

“I have been taught how to deal with any form of court and spoiled Monarchs. And being next in line to Govern these lands, they would not dare to lay a finger on me.They’re too busy with Sweden and if they were to kill me, Italy would align with the Swedish in order to defeat the Russians. So that’s not my concern. My only one being is to keep myself sane. Will you pray for me Mother Ani for a safe return?” We stopped as we faced each other. 

“Of course my child. When do you leave?” 

“In a few days. Mio Padre is sending me with a brand new horse and arms for self defense. Just in case he says. Needs me to stay alive if I’m to do my duty as a Grand Duchess soon.” 

“May God protect you on your journey and your aid in Russia. To think when you were baptized at Basilica di San Francesco. You would become this fair and wise over the years. You will make a beautiful Duchess of Italy.” Her words are always ones of great fulfillment. Always positive and never false. A little overconfident but there’s nothing wrong with having a little confidence in yourself. As long as you can control it without coming off as conceited. 

~~

The best gift to bring when arriving at a palace that you're staying for a few weeks is a vast variety of different wines. As a gift I’ve brought wine that has been sitting and aging beautiful for almost sixty years. Both sweet and bitter red wines that as I’ve said, have aged beautifully. 

I decided to ride up to the Royal Palace on horseback in order to make an impression on the Emperor when he greets me. Besides if I sit in that carriage another minute my legs and bottom will hate me for the rest of my life. 

Leading my carriage (which had my maid Fernanda inside) to see that the front yard of the palace was empty. They must be hunting or in the palace working on running the Empire. Pulling the reigns of my horse as we entered the entryway of the palace into the courtyard. Catherine was standing at the entrance as she looked radiant but yet somewhat good. We were practically sisters till I began my schooling of politics. 

Climbing down off my horse as she walked towards me as we both bowed to each other. Which left us giggling at each other to then give each other a hug. I have missed my dear cousin/sister and oldest friend in my life! 

“My dear Catherine, it is lovely to see you before me. And an Empress! Last time I saw you we were reading Shakesphere on our boat around Sardinia!” I cheered as we linked arms for us to walk inside the palace. 

“I’m glad you have arrived at my new home. Sadly..it is not a home sweet home. Not yet at least.” She commented as I nodded. 

“I’ve read in your latest letter and from a few reliable sources. I’m not quite sure how the hell you are managing all of this.” I’m finally able to show my true colors in front of Catherine as I must be proper in front of the family, advisers, and so on and so forth. But with Catherine. It is nothing but honesty and true colors. 

“The women of court?” Asking her I could feel her cringe. 

“Simple minded with their heads filled with emptiness.” We began walking up the stairs as my servant and others carried my things up the stairs. 

“Most of the women in court are filled with only air in their heads. Mother always said that entertaining the women of the court is next to impossible. But don’t worry. I am here and those women don’t know what I will be bringing these next few weeks.” We made it to the top of the stairs as a woman approached us. 

“Marial. This is my dear cousin Duchess Chiara! She will be placed in the room next to me and I will be telling her all our plans!” Catherine winked as she had a cheeky smile. Tell me what plans? What has she got up her sleeve? 

My room was not as big of course as I am a guest. It was a light blue room that had white flowers painted all over. The bed was very tall and extremely spacious with blue and white bedding. I think in England they would call this the Blue Room. A grand fireplace was lit that was also baby blue with gold trim. Come to think of it there was a lot of gold trim in this room which is sort of weird. 

Fernanda and those who were bringing my trucks came into my room as she took around my guest room. I took off my riding hat to throw on the bed as Fernanda sat down on one of the guest chairs. 

“It’s very modern. But I miss our home.” I nodded as I began unbuttoning my riding coat. 

“So do I already. We remembered to pack Padres guns right?” Asking her as she looked over from the chair. 

“Yes. I believe they’re bringing them up now.” She pointed towards the door as the rest of my servant brought in my trunks of different forms of weaponry. My fencing sword, regular sword, muskets, rifles, and pistols. I’m going to hunt some sort of wild beast that lives in this mad land and bring it home as a trinket. A Siberian Tiger would be a very nice trinket to bring home for la famiglia. 

Catherine came into the room with her maid in a very powerful march. As if she had something extremely important to tell me. AS in a life or death situation that couldn’t wait to be told.  

“We have much to discuss before dinner tonight.” Looking at Fernanda who excused herself. I’ll catch her up on the gossip later.  

“Now. I’m glad you decided to come and visit me. I have exciting news that I could use your help desperately with.” She pulled me over to the chairs as her servant stood next to her.

“I’m staging a coup d'état and in dire need of your help.” Not what I was expecting to hear in honesty. A coup? To think last year she was so excited to come to Italy and watch La Serva Padrona. And now a coup? 

“I umm..mamma mia a coup? Are you quite sure about this Catherine? I’d rather not see you dead. We have too much fun together.” 

“Which is why I have you. You’ve been studying how to rule a land and how to take the necessary steps..

“Catherine. I’ve been raised and tutored in Governing a land to be a Duchess not an Empress.” They’re very different in a weird way..wait why am I making excuses! But I should meet the Emperor to see why she’s forming a Coup and if he’s not as bad as I thought, maybe talk her out of it. Gossip from the court isn’t always trustworthy, obviously. 

“Let me experience at least one night with your husband..not sexually of course because that’s disgusting. I sadly can’t be seen helping stage a completely different country's coup. Might make a bad reputation for me.  But if it is as bad as everyone is saying. I’m in.” She nodded in my response as a small boy came into our room. 

“The Emperor requested your presence.” He told Catherine as she rolled her eyes. 

“Get yourself ready for dinner Chiara and make sure you take a drink of something. You’ll definitely need it.” Alcohol? Should’ve brought a few barrels of wine just in case. I’ve never had vodka and I know these Russians drink alcohol as if it was coming from their mothers tit. 

~~~

I’ve decided to pull out the big dress tonight as to make an impression on her entire court. The Duchess is here and she’s not meant to be tampered with! My brand new bright red dress that had white trills and designs all across it. I wore the royal sash that was given to me by King Ivrea Spoleto which was pearl white. My hair was of course up (even though it hurts my head a little bit) with pearls wrapping around my mountain of hairstyles. I truly don’t approve of it due to the fact that it takes too long to put up. 

“Do I look ready to impress an entire court of Russians.” Looking into the mirror one last time as my chocolate hair looked delectable. 

“From what I’ve seen going up and down the stairs of this place. You look absolutely stunning.” Fernanda commented as I smiled at her. 

“Oh! You need your knife!” Fernanda commented as I placed my right leg up on the end of my bed as she got into the bottom of my trunk. My grandfather's hunting knife that was given to him by the Queen of Chad when he first took reign. It was a beautiful sycamore that swirled at the base, the blade was a beautiful silver that shines everytime you display it. Even after all these years it looks stunning and deadly. Fernanda allowed me to put on the knife holster around my thigh then placed the knife in its holder. 

“Wish me luck for dinner. And I wish you the best of luck with chatting with the servants tonight for dinner. I’ll sneak you some desserts if we have anything that’s a pastry.” Winking at her as she nodded. 

Walking out of my room as I opened my fan as I waited for Catherine to come out of her room. I think Fernanda tied my corset a little too tight but not the first time this has happened. Though I’d rather be wearing pants and my button ups. Which will be what I wear when I’m running around the palace. Catherine came out of her room in a beautiful white, pink, and red dress that really made her pure white skin shine. Not to mention her blonde hair shined brightly. 

“Are you ready for the show?” She asked as we began walking down the stairs. 

“Not quite. But I did sneak a glass of wine into my room so my body is not as tense.” We made it down the bottom of the stairs. 

“So who is the biggest ass kisser of the Emperor? There’s always one.” 

“His name is Grigor Dymov. He kisses the Emperor's ass so much that he allows his own wife to be his whore.” 

“The second hand man married to the Emperors would be whore. If we are to do this I’m assuming we’re going after his right hand man? No. A much more subtle approach will be safer. Not that I’ve made my decision on whether to help, but I'd like to at least like to know your plan of action.”

“We’re first going after Count Orlov who has an understanding of the state of Russia. He’s a modern man who reads all of the famous authors in Europe.”

“I’m assuming he’s in the inner circle then?” Walking down the long hallway then stopping in front of the double doorway. 

“Yes. We're here. Just put on a fake smile and we’ll be just fine.” 

The doors opened and a wave of heat hit my skin. A mixture of alcohol and what smells like fish hit my nose as I wanted to just go back to my room. But I have to do this and need the impression in order to make my decision.

My fan helped me cool down tremendously as I was looking around at The Emperor's Court. To my right there were some women watching butterflies flying around her in a complete state of awe! They’re butterflies! Oh my goodness it is a show! There of course was dancing in the middle of the room that looked a little unfamiliar. I have to remind myself that I’m not at home and in a completely different country. 

Catherine handed me a glass of the clear liquid which is what I’m assuming is Vodka. Lifting my head back as It burned down my entire throat as I shook my head. 

“Heavens Catherine!” I laughed as she giggled. 

“Definitely helps.” She commented as we began walking further into the room then approaching the women with the butterflies. 

“Wow.” Catherine put on this extreme different face and even attitude before me which impressed me. 

“I am training them.” The women told us as she began coughing and gagging right in front of us. Holding her hand out to cough out two butterflies! What! 

“They do not all make the journey to a new land. Oh and who is this lovely woman.” She asked Catherine as I tried to not scream in horror. 

“This is my cousin Duchess Chiara of Italy. This is Aunt Elizbeth of Russia.” We bowed at each other as we sat down on one of the couches that was facing the fireplace. Which of course was absolutely grande with a large elk head hanging above it. 

“Let us talk of how you are.” She even had a butterfly drawn on her face! Talk about obsessions. 

“I’m quite well. Note my smiling face! My cousin has come to visit me for these next few weeks and I couldn’t be happier.” Smiling as I began looking around the room. Now where is this fat old man that she married and killed her bear! And who also punched her in the stomach. 

“I do! Has Emperor Peter also had something to do with this?” 

“He has been sweet.” 

“Oh. At heart, that is him. You know, as a young boy, Peter would run to his mother, holding aloft a picture he’d drawn or a boat fashioned from leaves, his eyes and words begging for approbation for love. And she would level a gaze at him and hold him in it, and he would fall silent and go so still. And then tears would run from his eyes, and his whole body would begin shaking uncontrollably, and urine would pool at his feet...it was a curious phenomenon.” Catherine and I shared the same facial expression as Elizabeth finished her story to us about Peter. So obviously he wasn’t an old man as I thought and was just a grown child who can’t stand the thought of someone not loving him. Have I made the correct character judgment through his own Aunt? Yes. 

“Why would she do that?” Catherine asked as I was also intrigued. 

“Everyone has their thing. Hers was cruelty. So I’m asking for some forgiveness, some empathy, from one I can tell is filled with both.” So he’s just a messed up King with mamma and papa issues. Quite ordinary in the monarchs. We began watching Elizabeth playing with her butterflies as a servant offered me a tray of tiny glasses of vodka. Taking one, drinking it then placing it back on the tray. A snap came from Elizabeth as I noticed a butterfly then landed on her finger.

“That is incredible.” I commented as she looked at me. 

“Indeed.” Elizabeth went into her own world as Catherine moved herself towards me. 

“Ready to meet him?” She asked as I shook my head. 

“Non..Non Catherine.” Grabbing my hand for us to start walking towards him. Pushing past all the dancers as I stood a few inches behind her. 

“Good evening husband!” Her husband was with another man as I looked down to see he’s in a skirt? They both turned towards her as he had no interest in speaking to us. 

“Empress.” He took a sip of his wine as his eyes drifted away from us. Why is he wearing a skirt? 

“You look marvelous! And your skirt, it is very pretty.” Why is Catherine kissing her own husband's ass? What woman needs to kiss her own husband's ass! He turned towards us as he flashed himself. Luckily it was all covered. 

“Thanks. It also allows one’s cock to swing free in the air. It’s marvelous. Old Madam Bolzoi whipped it up.” 

“It’s genius. I apologize if I have been sour face lately. I had my blood in, and you know how that goes..Rrrr.” An excuse that is older than time itself. But usually works because men think they're always being over dramatic during our blood. When in reality they are just horrid creatures. 

“Oh, right. I see. Well that explains much.” 

“But I feel much restored.” I haven’t seen this much ass kissing since Peter was kissing Jesus’ ass. 

“Who the hell are you?” His eyes drifted towards me as I took a step forward. 

“My dear husband is my cousin Duchess Chiara of Italy.” 

“Emperor.” Bowing in front of him as I then held up myself strong and ready to take on this madman.

“It is truly an honor to be invited here to stay in your breath taking palace. I bring gifts from my home being a beautiful batch of sweet and bitter red wines. In gratitude for letting me stay in your home.” Turning towards the door as about six barrels of wine entered the room as everyone began cheering. 

“I hope you enjoy them as a sign of peace from Italy.” Smiling as I knew Catherine would enjoy that little show. Have to make sure the Emperor doesn’t see me as a threat and the goal was achieved. 

“God you are stunning. Grigor doesn’t she make your cock hard?” My eyes widened at his statement as all I could do was just stand there. 

“Extremely.” He shook his head as I wanted to shoot him. Back home if I was to be talked to like this, the men would be beating the life out of him. I promise you that’s exactly how that happens. My sister was once insulted by an Austrian diplomat..and let’s just say he ended up floating in the Adriatic sea the next morning. 

“Tell me, great Emperor. What is the nature of this lively banquet? I've yet to catch up with the issues of Russia.” Everytime I open my mouth up to him, I can feel my skin twisting in regret and my tongue wanting to stop waggling. 

“We are honoring some of our wounded who finally won a battle for us against Sweden. Poor fucking guys.” Catherine and I turned our heads to see them in the corner of the room. 

“No eyes that one. To never see a naked women or a deer in full fucking fight again. Still, he may fuck ugly women and be happy now.” I’ve never wanted to slap someone so hard in the face! 

“Huzzah!” Catherine cheered as she looked completely uncomftorable. 

“Let us dance!” Swinging Catherine onto the dance floor as I took a few steps back into the crowd. Grigor I believe his name stood closely beside me as I noticed he was looking at me. 

“My apologies Duchess. I did not mean anything by what I said towards you.” Stopping the waving of my fan to face him. 

“The right hand man of the Emperor yes?” Asking him as we faced each other. 

“Grigor Dymov at your service.” He bowed as I turned off my fake smile. 

“I have no service for someone like you. The Emperor's right hand man who kisses his ass so much that shit must be stuck in your ears. I would pity you but being married to the Emporers would be whore. Now that is just..sad. Excuse me.” Walking away from him as I turned my head slightly to see that he was in utter shock.

We walked into the dinning room after the so called dance that her dellusionaly husband made her do as if they were drunk. Catherine and I entered the dining room as The Emperor kicked some sort of General out of his chair as he then moved Elizabeth out of her seat down one more. 

“The fat ass gladly gave up his seat. As no Duchess shall be seating with the court members. Greedy fucks.” Peter laughed as I smiled at him. What a rude bastard. But not completely wrong about the people of court. 

“Thank you Emperor.” Sitting down as one of the servants pushed my chair in. There were three glasses that sat in front of me at the table. One was filled with wine, another water, then finally a massive one filled with vodka. 

A dish appeared at me that looked like some sort of dumpling dish with a side of red..pasty soup? Grabbing my spoon as I poked it as it was meat? Beets? Both? Dipping my spoon into the soup as it tasted..well. The beets were very spiced with a hint of vinegar. The meat was especially spiced but has a sweet after taste. Interesting. 

From what I gathered about the Emporer. He’s literally a child that requires all the attention and love from every interaction he has with a person. Which doesn’t come as a surprise due to the fact that the Duke in Sardinia acted just like him, but he ended up jumping into the sea as he learned no one truly loved him. So once Peter realizes that no one truly loves him, maybe he’ll jump into the mouth of a Tiger. 

“Tell me Dear. I hope you’re here to bring Catherine happiness. And not here to start trouble between the both of them.” Her Aunt Elizabeth asked me as I took a sip of my water. 

“Well. When I received her letter about what happened between them..the bear and the punching. I care about her as if she was my own sister. All I’m here for is her happiness.” A butterfly landed on my nose which made her giggle. 

“They see a good soul in you and love it. I hope that you feel welcomed to our home, and it was a good idea bringing wine as a gift. Peter loves his alcohol.” She giggled as I looked down to my nose so watch the butterfly crawl around the tip of it. 

“Bring in those Swedish heads!” What? Is that code for a dessert? A servant took away my plate of food that I didn’t even finish yet as I noticed a tray was coming in that had hair on it? 

“We will eat dessert under their beady gaze!” Peter giggled as a tray was placed in front of me that..had a Swedish head on it..

God please forgive me.

My stomach turned into knots as I felt the little dinner I had was making its way back up through my throat. Catherine and I looked at each other in disgust as I wanted to run from the room, get on my horse and ride home. Now I see..A coup sounds like a wonderful idea. 

The pudding or whatever it was looked delicious but..I can’t..The vomit went into my mouth but I swallowed it back down then drinking my entire glass of water. Just breath Chiara and it will be almost over. 

“You rude fucker!” Peter yelled as he lifted his head up to look at his face. Standing up as he began digging his finger into the head. 

“Everyone! Poke their fucking eyes out!” He looked so proud of himself! Everyone excluding Catherine and I just sat there as the sound of squishing and eyeballs falling onto the trays filled my heads. 

“If you don’t he’ll kill you.” She whispered standing up with the man's head. Doing the sign of the cross as I stood up to lift his head. 

“Mi Dispiace. Possa Dio avere pietà della tua anima.” Catherine turned her head as I felt my eyes watering. A single tear fell as I dug my fingers into the first eye. The squishing, blood beginning to drip down my arm as the first eye popped out. 

“HUZZAH! DEATH TO THE SWEDISH!” Peter yelled as everyone cheered, drinking their vodka and smashing the glasses onto the floor. Dropping the head onto the tray as everyone began leaving the dining room. My right hand was covered in blood as my toes curled up in my heels from the sight. 

The dry blood on my hands was something I couldn’t stop looking at. It’s not that I’ve never seen blood before in my life..but when it comes from..a soldier who probably didn’t even want to fight..I hope that God is merciful to them. They needed to be buried and given a chance to enter the gates of Heaven. 

I couldn’t move for..I’m not quite sure how long at this point. Long enough that the servants came into the dinning room to start cleaning up. A woman with a large sack began dropping them into a burlap sack. 

“What will you do with them?” Asking the women as she looked up at me. 

“Burn them.” No..no. They do not deserve to be burned. Catherine came into the room as I stood up and wanted to scream. 

“I’m a Catholic...you’re an Orthodox..we both know their souls can not be saved..but they deserve some sort of burial. Is there a priest in this wretched palace?” She looked upon the dining room then walked over to the servant and then over to me. 

“Let them gather the heads and we’ll go speak to the Bishop.” The servant handed us the sack of heads as we began carrying them down the hall as she led me to the Bishops room. It was much heavier than I thought it would be. Never thought I would be thinking a bag of decapitated heads would be heavy! Knocking on the door as he flung it open in annoyance of being distrubed. 

“We need you to give these a Christian burial.” SHe ordered as I opened the bag so he could see the horrors of war. 

“I can only do a whole body.” He was about to shut the door but I believe the faces that were displayed on Catherines and my face weren't going to take no as an answer. I will send a rider to the Vatican if I have to in order for them to have some sort of entering the gates of heaven. 

“I could bless them.” The Bishop told us as I nodded in acceptance of the deal. 

A pound of thunder rang out as the heads were gently placed into the hole in the ground. Hard cold rain poured down upon us for Catherine and I to hold hands. We watched as the dirt was beginning to pile on top of their heads. I grabbed my rosary that I wore around my neck for my fingers to hold my cross. The Bishop went on reading from the bible as I softly spoke my own prayer. 

“Il Signore ti benedica e ti mantenga, mostrarti la sua faccia e abbi pietà di te. Volse lo sguardo verso di te e ti dava pace. Il Signore ti benedica…..Amen.” Finishing my prayer for the Bishop finished his prayer as he left Catherine and I out in the rain. 

“I want to rip the crown off his head myself.” Blurting out as Catherine turned her heads towards me. 

“A Coup d'état..sounds like a magnificent plan..”

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[lunarthedragon]

Bards are Knives and Arrows, Not Sunshine and Daisies

Written mostly from excitable inspiration from a previous post of mine here. Wrote this mostly in my free time at school so bound to have mistakes.

Read on Ao3: here

Oxenfurt University was a school of prestige. Only the best of the best went there to study; which really just meant rich kids or the exceptionally, exceptionally talented. It was a haughty establishment, encouraging space-minded men to keep their minds in space, asking questions no one actually cared to ask in the real world.

That was its reputation, anyway. What the common man or woman might say when asked what they thought of the establishment.

To a degree… they weren’t wrong. The main classes did contain quite a few children of wealth, but that was only the surface. Every old, near ancient, organization is bound to have bones in its closet, and Jaskier was intimately associated with those very bones in Oxenfurt University.

He attends classes, studying the seven liberal arts, bettering his craft, but somewhere along the way he had been noticed. He isn’t sure what it was that drew the Chancellor’s eye to him. He likes to think it was his angelic voice, but he suspects it was his innate talent of talking himself out of trouble. It was a very impressive skill, and it had gotten him an invitation to the “Society of Foxes.”

Jaskier had no idea what a Society of Foxes was supposed to be, but he had assumed it was an elite club. Oxenfurt University had quite a few of them, but Jaskier had never been invited until then.

He’d gone without hesitation, meeting the head of the Society, Anatol, far after the sun had set.

This was when he had been introduced to the dangerous, but invigorating life, of a Bard, and he never looked back.

+++

Jaskier was a marvelous minstrel. He loved to sing and dance and keep people entertained, but he was also observant. He could tell when a room began to shift and the mood of his songs needed adjusting. He knew who to focus on in a tavern or party if he wanted to get the most coin out of them.

“Your honest enjoyment in this work will make you a better Bard,” Anatol had assured Jaskier when he’d first joined their Society. Anatol was an unremarkable man. Not short or tall, not strong or skinny, not dark or light. He wore nice clothes, sure, but he wasn’t much of anything. He had sharp eyes, though, like he’d seen far more than a regular minstrel should ever have seen.

“I thought Bards were just a myth to keep the nobility entertained,” Jaskier says, suspicious and not entirely sure if he’s being hazed or not. “You know… they hire a bunch of performers and try to figure out who the Bard must be? Like a game?”

“To them, it is a game,” Anatol nods, his eyes hardening even further. “Until the actual Bard that has been spying on them for months slits their throat without anyone being the wiser.”

He’d been told he would be hired for some of the most dangerous parties, where the nobility made a point of keeping an eye on their performers and drunkenly trying to declare who the hidden spy must be. A performer might even get executed right on the spot, if a noble was certain, or drunk, enough.

Jaskier would have to ensure that performer wasn’t himself.

But there was training for that.

Jaskier continued with his courses at Oxenfurt University, but in the evenings and sometimes late into the night, Jaskier was in the belly of the school, slipping into hidden corridors and rooms, learning how to twist his words in just the perfect way to get the results he wanted.

Learning every poison imaginable and how to concoct them.

Learning how to wield, sharpen, maintain, and hide a seemingly infinite variety of knives.

Learning how to shoot an arrow near perfect every time.

Memorizing important nobles all over the Continent.

It was grueling, exhausting work, but through it all Jaskier thrived. He complained, sure, but he always managed to find time to write songs, to play his lute for his fellow Bards, to crack a joke and make his peers laugh off their nerves.

They called him the Laughing Fox, most of them got silly nicknames like that, but he was still proud of it. He felt like he was part of something bigger. Not a bigger cause, no. The Society of Foxes, and likely most Bard schools, weren’t associated with anyone. They did as they pleased and their Bards could go off and do whatever they wanted and would always be welcomed back.

They were a family, in a way, looking out for their own kind. They were competitive, sure, and they were literally taught how to murder people without detection… but every family had its quirks, right?

Well, Jaskier loved his quirky, murderous family very, very much. He doubts his blood parents would have ever approved, if they’d been alive, but he never really cared about any of that anyway.

He had a family and he was happy.

+++

Until he wasn’t.

Jaskier was a fidgety man, and eventually the walls of Oxenfurt University felt more imposing than they felt welcoming. He was suffocating within the stone, the horizon a tempting siren’s call.

It came as no surprise to anyone when Jaskier announced he wanted to travel the world. “You could never sit still for long,” Anatol nods, before giving Jaskier a warm farewell hug.

“Aw, Anatol,” Jaskier coos, hugging his mentor back, “You were always like the strange, senile uncle I never wanted.”

“Off with you, heathen,” Anatol responds, swatting at Jaskier as he laughs and flees.

Wojciecha, one of Jaskier’s fellow Bards who had trained alongside him and garnered the title Sharpened Fox during her time perfecting her capabilities with bladed chains, accompanies him to the edge of Oxenfurt territory. Jaskier knew for a fact that those very lethal chains of hers were hidden under her flowing, flashy sleeves, but that was only because he knew her so well. No one else would be the wiser.

Wojciecha, or just Sharp for short, was a tall, dark-skinned woman with severe eyes, long dreads, and not a musical bone in her body. She was a spectacular dancer, however, and often slipped through parties, gaining information, with ease, her flashy clothes and movements distracting any man or woman that suspected her.

She was also significantly taller than Jaskier, which he once felt was a strike to his masculinity. Nowadays, though, he just felt lucky to count her among his family.

“Careful of monsters,” Sharp says as they walk.

“I’ll stick an arrow in their eye and run, if needed,” Jaskier assures, waving off the woman’s concerns.

“I still don’t understand what you hope to gain from this little adventure of yours,” Sharp grumbles, rolling her eyes.

“Hopefully something more substantial than ‘little’,” Jaskier huffs, looking forward along the path.

“Is that what the men and women you sleep with say before you take off your pants?” Sharp smirks, her smile as cutting as her name, and Jaskier shoots her a displeased glare.

“I wish to see the world,” Jaskier answers Sharp’s original consideration, “And, if I really must have a more specific, beneficial goal to everything… I wish to increase my reputation across the Continent. More and more people of power will invite me to perform, Jaskier the Greatest Minstrel, and then I can rob them of all their secrets.”

“And maybe a few hearts?”

“I am not THAT promiscuous, you know.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Yeah, I am…”

They share a laugh and continue walking. Eventually Sharp stops and wishes him a proper good-bye before heading back to Oxenfurt University, leaving Jaskier alone to continue on his grand journey.

+++

Jaskier had not lied when he told Sharp and the rest of the Society of Foxes that he wanted to better his reputation as a minstrel to increase his success as a Bard, but that had not been the entire truth. There was a selfish part of him, the fantastical part of him that lived in his music, that wanted to make just as much coin as a minstrel that he did as a Bard.

A paying job for a Bard usually came from nobles or those with a lot of money to their name. Information wasn’t cheap on any day, and the nobility were willing to pay out their asses if they could get even a little dirt on their rivals.

Thus, a Bard could make a hefty amount of coin if they were consistent enough. A Bard couldn’t be too present, though, for threat of being found out, but still it was a very prolific, if seedy, business.

Jaskier wanted that kind of financial security to come from just his music alone. He wanted people to speak as highly of the Greatest Minstrel, Jaskier, as they did the frightening Laughing Fox.

It was an optimistic dream. It was a foolish dream. But Jaskier didn’t care. He was a great Bard, but he had always been called to his lute and his lyrics more than his knives and his bow.

This was a selfish journey he was embarking on, and he didn’t have enough shame in his body to feel guilty about it.

+++

Bards know monsters. Maybe not the monsters in fairy tales or nightmares, but rather the most terrifying, destructive monster of them all: Man.

Wild monsters, without souls or a care for anything but themselves, were born that way. They had no choice in the matter. Still dangerous, and needing to be eradicated at times, but blameless for their nature.

Man, though? Humans? They had souls, but some actively chose to ignore theirs. They were born with the capacity for greatness and love and compassion, but chose a darker, colder path instead.

Bards knew these monsters. Bards fought these monsters with their own, twisted games. Bards toyed with the remnants of these monsters’ souls to get them to do what they wanted.

Bards knew a few basic facts about wild monsters, too. Just enough if they were travelling on the road and needed to get away, but they were hardly experts. No, that was more of a Witcher’s expertise, not a Bard’s.

So, Jaskier stuck to what he knew. He performed every chance he got, but he knew his situation was going to be bleak for quite some time until he got his feet firmly on the ground. Knowing that, he kept his eyes and ears peeled, collecting secrets, and selling any information or service he could.

He had a mask for in-person meetings, of course, he wasn’t a fool.

It still wasn’t much. Without the direct contracts through the Society of Foxes, he had to begin building his own contacts out in the world. He was tempted to invest in business cards, honestly. Or a nice pamphlet.

Still, he made a decent amount of coin with the information he gathered, along with one or two assassinations here or there. Jaskier was never a fan of blood or murder, but he knew how to work with both when it was required of him.

He even helped a tiny village struggling with a bandit problem. He was rightly proud of that one.

He was complete rubbish in a proper fight. He could bob and weave, but he could hardly throw a punch or square off against a child, much less a fully grown attacker. He wasn’t ashamed to admit his short comings, because he was fully aware of his capabilities in stealth.

No one ever saw him coming.

“I wonder if there is a song to be written here,” Jaskier had wondered aloud, standing alone in the middle of the bandit camp, the bandit leader face down in his cot, an arrow through the back of his skull. Scattered all over the camp were corpses, painstakingly dispatched without a single person ever being made aware, until every, single bandit was dead.

Jaskier looks around the bandit leader’s room, searching for inspiration, but nothing comes. He always had trouble writing songs about himself that weren’t mournful, after all.

“They didn’t seeeee,” Jaskier attempts anyway, under his breath, digging around for some of the villagers’ possessions. “Didn’t see the fox cominggggg. Didn’t seeeee… Didn’t see their death risingggg.”

Jaskier cringes at the words and shakes his head. No, likely nothing worthy of performance would be coming of this.

He drops the stolen possessions he finds off at the village center in the dead of night, mask in place, then slips away to sing at their tavern and get completely boo’ed into silence.

+++

At most taverns Jaskier performs at he is boo’ed and heckled out of the building, or at least into a corner. At a few he is ignored. At far, far less he is applauded.

He knows how to read a ballroom, he realizes with more and more clarity the more he travels. People come to a noble’s gathering expecting music and finery, and often don’t even applaud the performances anyway. The musicians and entertainers are, for the most part, background noise. It is what makes it so easy for a Bard to work in secret.

Taverns, though… taverns have opinions. Sometimes they don’t want music at all, but more often than not they are just going to lay it out, very clearly, exactly what they think of your performances.

Jaskier has always been less successful performing in taverns, but that point is hammered home when taverns are the only venue that will currently take him. Nonetheless, he perseveres on, learning what works and what doesn’t. He gets better, has a few more cheers, but still people boo.

He tries to think of what he can do better. What he can adjust and perfect to assure more success. He has made changes to how he performs, but perhaps it is his subject matter he should be updating.

He has… no idea how to even begin to do that. But, he figures, inspiration will hit at precisely the right time it must.

+++

Bards don’t much believe in Destiny. It isn’t like Destiny wronged Bards in some way, it is more like Destiny ignores them and none of them have time to worry over it.

There weren’t many “Destinies” that took place with a bunch of spies.

“Destiny is a powerful mistress,” Anatol had said once, momentarily distracted from his class lecture when he’d been distracted by questions. “But… she may only garner power if we give it to her. What happens, happens. Do not put weight to it and you will live well.”

Anatol had always been a very straightforward man. Not rough, but he didn’t mince words, either.

Still, despite most Bards not putting much thought in Destiny and what she wanted, Jaskier found he quite liked the romantic element of it all. He’d written a few poems and songs about fate and Destiny before, but even he didn’t think it had much sway over his very life.

And then Geralt of Rivia had entered his life and he wasn’t so sure anymore.

+++

Bards had no reason to gather information on Witchers. Witchers had no human enemies for Bards to sell that information to, and Witchers had no major affiliations with anyone that might make them a target.

Also, they never showed up at parties, which could make things difficult for most Bards.

But, with Jaskier struggling to find new material for his songs, and still with that incessant itch to go out into the world and experience as much of it as he could, he had decided Geralt of Rivia was an exception.

It wasn’t like Jaskier wanted information on Witchers or Geralt specifically to hurt them. He mostly wanted information on monsters and the hunts themselves. He thought that was very reasonable!

But, clearly, Geralt did not share the same idea. He clearly didn’t want Jaskier following him around, that much was obvious. Jaskier wasn’t blind or stupid, he knew when he wasn’t wanted. But, he was also a very, VERY stubborn man.

He offered to be Geralt’s barker, even, to hopefully sweeten the deal. Better his name and reputation through these new songs.

Still Geralt wanted nothing to do with him.

So, Jaskier being such a very, very stubborn man, had followed the Witcher anyway.

The man in the tavern had claimed they were being terrorized by a devil of sorts and Jaskier was frightened, but mostly intrigued to see what such a monstrous beast must look like. Except Geralt claimed devils didn’t exist and suddenly was getting nailed in the head by a tiny cannonball.

A sylvan, Jaskier will later find out. The people are being threatened by a sylvan with a slingshot. Talk about anticlimactic. How was Jaskier meant to write a glorious ballad from that?

The Bard just narrowly dodges a tiny cannonball aimed at his own head. He had been being a bit more boisterous and louder than was necessary, but he thinks that the projectile was completely unnecessary, and he swiftly answers in kind.

A throwing knife is removed from its hiding place and let loose in one swift move, knocking the slingshot out of the sylvan’s hands where he hides in the bushes. The muffled, angry cursing Jaskier hears only makes him smile. Served the bastard right.

It doesn’t look like Geralt noticed Jaskier’s incredibly helpful move, however, as he prowls around the plants, looking for the best place to pull the sylvan from his hiding spot. “Get back, minstrel,” Geralt orders sharply, not looking back at him, and Jaskier pouts but does as he’s told.

“Very well, very well, but if anything happens—”

The sylvan charges at that moment, running at Geralt with a furious cry, and Jaskier instinctively pulls out another throwing knife. He need not worry, however, as Geralt swiftly pins his attacker down with only a minor tussle.

Jaskier watches at a distance as Geralt angrily interrogates the goat-man, but not before some… interesting banter. He tries not to outwardly cringe at what Geralt must assume is witty insults.

A dick with balls? Really?

He, unfortunately, does not notice the shadowy figure moving off to the side before a sharp pain erupts on the back of his head and the world goes black.

+++

Jaskier wakes up before Geralt does, the both of them sitting on the ground, back-to-back, with their hands bound together. They appear to be in a room built out of stone. Either that or a cave, but it seems a bit more charming than just a cave.

Ah, the story was getting more interesting! Jaskier would have to be more excited about that once he stopped being terrified for his life.

What had even happened?

Jaskier tried to get a look around, eyes frantically searching out a clue as to the current predicament. He spots his lute sitting atop a table on the other side of the room, along with Geralt’s swords. Beside them is Geralt’s belt of… potions? Jaskier doesn’t know what he keeps on there. Along with… a lot of knives. Just, a pile of knives. All likely taken off Jaskier’s person.

Oops. Maybe shouldn’t have thrown that first one at the sylvan. Tipped them off to the rest…

There isn’t much else to notice in the room, unfortunately, so Jaskier begins shifting around, feeling out his bonds. They are too tight to wriggle out of, but he could always break his thumb if absolutely necessary and slip out. It was a last-ditch effort, but Bards were taught plenty of ways to escape captivity, along with plenty of healing techniques for afterwards.

The thumb trick is Jaskier’s least favorite, however, because it leaves him unable to play his lute for a few days of recovery.

It doesn’t look to be necessary, however, as he realizes their captors didn’t take all of his knives. His rings are still in place and he easily clicks the side of one to snap out a tiny blade and begin sawing at the ropes.

When Geralt stirs, then awakens, Jaskier is about halfway through the ropes.

“Ah, lovely, you’re awake,” Jaskier hums in fake pleasantness, leaning back to nudge Geralt’s head when it sways too much. He can feel the Witcher’s hair smack the back of his head when he shakes his head out, clearing it.

“Where…?” Geralt begins, but doesn’t finish, likely realizing Jaskier can’t surely know where they are.

“No clue,” Jaskier answers anyway, “I am working on getting these ropes off of us, however, but if you have some Witchering magic you could use to speed things up, this would be the time to do that.”

“This is the time that they kill us!” Geralt snaps viciously, yanking at the binds and growling furiously when nothing happens. “How are YOU supposed to get these off?” Geralt demands after a few more attempts, sounding furious.

“Ah, quite simple, really,” Jaskier chirps, masking his fear with cheer, and taps Geralt’s fingers carefully with the small blade on his ring. Geralt makes a noise that sounds like it could be surprise but is mostly confused. “My mother was always very invested in my safety, you see,” he shrugs, then goes back to sawing the ropes.

It wasn’t a lie… His mother had always been a worry wart, and technically the ring was from her. The modifications, however…

He doesn’t get much more time to work on their escape, unfortunately, because right then an elf, of all things, comes charging in. They both get kicked quite a few times, Jaskier being reminded of just how much he hated fights, and his precious lute is shattered.

Dreadful adventure. Really. Worst in the world…

Jaskier tries not to cry at the sight of his ruined instrument.

It certainly doesn’t get better when Filavandrel arrives and lays out, in no uncertain terms, the mistreatment that has been set upon his people. It makes Jaskier’s muscles go loose in shock, his eyes haunted as he listens.

He’d thought…

Well, he’d thought a lot of things, but he was here to learn truths of the world, wasn’t he? And what a way to start his journey.

Jaskier remains mostly quiet as Filavandrel and Geralt speak. He knows when it is crucial for him to stay quiet, and now is one of those times. It takes a lot not to say anything, however, when Geralt starts talking about his resolution in being killed. Thankfully, that doesn’t play out. But it’s a close call that leaves a pit in Jaskier’s stomach.

They’re freed, actually freed, by the elves, Filavandrel himself taking his knife to their binds. He releases the Witcher first, of course, then pauses as he sees Jaskier’s wrists. “It would appear we did not take all of your weapons,” the elven king says sardonically, then snaps off the remainder of the ropes on Jaskier’s wrists.

“My mother was always very invested in my safety,” he says to the room as a whole, rubbing his wrists as he stands and flicking the blade in his ring back into hiding. The elves all give him unimpressed glares while Geralt ignores him, going to fetch his gear instead.

Jaskier clears his throat and hops after the Witcher quickly, beginning to pick up knife after knife from the pile on the table, assessing them then slipping them back into their hiding places.

Geralt has long finished being ready to go, swords and gear back on his person, and he and the elves all stand in silence, watching as Jaskier keeps picking up blade after blade, the weapons disappearing swiftly on his person, and he only looks up after he’s almost done. He glances around at all of the stares, flushing in embarrassment.

“What? My mother—”

“Was very invested in your safety,” Geralt interrupts, arms crossed and irritable-looking. Jaskier only offers him a sheepish grin, then finishes hiding the last of his knives.

+++

With a new lute, gifted to him from the elves, Jaskier composes his greatest hit, “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.” Geralt won’t stop glaring at him, but Jaskier doesn’t much care. It isn’t ready for a performance by the time they get back to the tavern and Geralt is paid his coin, but Jaskier knows it will be a hit when he is finished.

The morning after they return, just before the sun has fully risen, Jaskier finds Geralt saddling up Roach, clearly getting ready to leave.

“So!” Jaskier says cheerfully as he steps towards him, his lute on his back and a bag on his shoulder. He’d left the bag in the tavern before, too rushed to catch up with Geralt to go up and get it, but he has no intention of forgetting it again. “Where to next?”

He’s looking at Geralt’s back and he sees the man’s shoulder sag with a deep, unhappy sigh. The Witcher takes a few seconds to probably question his life choices before he says, without looking back, “There is no next. Not for you.”

“Oh, come now, Geralt! You can’t possibly expect me to just back down now? After just one adventure? I’ve only had a taste, a singular glimpse, at the greatness that is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf!” Jaskier is grinning, not deterred at all, even when Geralt finally turns around and glares darkly at him.

“There is no greatness, minstrel,” Geralt gruffs and Jaskier thinks this is the most he’s heard him talk to the Bard before.

“I beg to differ,” Jaskier shrugs. In just one mission Jaskier had seen a side to Geralt of Rivia he doubted anyone else ever had. The man was gruff and intense, sure, but… “You are a good man, Geralt,” Jaskier says, his face and tone taking on a more serious feeling, and the other man watches him with a blank expression.

In all honesty, Jaskier is worried. In a way he probably shouldn’t be for a man he’s only just met.

Geralt is far too flippant about people’s general disdain towards Witchers. He acts like it doesn’t matter, doesn’t affect him, but there’s no way that can be true. No one can go through life completely unaffected by constant cruelty. No one. Not even a supposedly emotionless Witcher.

Especially a supposedly emotionless Witcher, who punches supposedly harmless minstrels when they so much as utter the word “Butcher.”

Geralt isn’t immune, and Jaskier knows it, but he hadn’t grown worried until their return trip from the elves.

He’d made a flippant comment, complimenting Geralt’s reverse psychology while dealing with the elves. Geralt’s “go ahead and kill me” schtick had seemed so convincing! Jaskier had been impressed by his acting capabilities and thought it necessary to let Geralt know that.

Except Geralt wasn’t responding to the compliments. He wasn’t looking at Jaskier at all.

Jaskier’s heart had very quickly jumped into his throat.

He still wanted information. He still wanted material for his songs. He still was in this for completely selfish reasons.

But now there was an extra layer. He’d offered to be the Witcher’s barker because he’d hoped it would win the man’s favor. He’d intended to write a song or two for him, it was no skin off his bones, and it would hopefully win him fame and fortune.

The boost to Geralt’s reputation would have just been a nice extra. Jaskier would have claimed it was all on purpose, then moved on to bigger and better things.

Now, though… Now Jaskier’s bleeding heart was demanding he do more. Demanding he not be only selfish.

Geralt really was a good man and he deserved more than the distrustful glares he got from everyone he ran across. He deserved to have people know all his good deeds, even if they had to be a tiny bit altered to be more thematically appropriate for a minstrel’s song.

“You won’t need to worry,” Jaskier continues, cheerfully, as he approaches Geralt when the man doesn’t respond. “I may be rubbish in a fight, but I can pull my weight on the road.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums and it sounds very suspicious.

“Yes, really,” Jaskier huffs then sets down his bag. It is filled with clothes and perfumes and oils, which he pushes aside as he pulls out a folded-up device. Geralt eyes it, still suspicious but edging on curious, and with a flick of Jaskier’s wrist the device snaps out and takes the rigged shape of a recurve bow.

Geralt’s brows have risen, watching as Jaskier next pulls out a modest, leather quiver with a few arrows rolling around in it. He holds up both – bow and quiver – and beams at Geralt proudly. “I can catch food, no problem,” he announces and Geralt’s brows lower, then one arches upwards.

“You? Preparing food?”

“Well… catch, definitely,” Jaskier mumbles, arms lowering and the quiver bumping against his leg. Geralt gives him a bland look. “What? Skinning them is disgusting!” He knew his limits. Was that so bad?

“Why do you have a bow in your bag, minstrel?” Geralt questions, sounding exhausted and resigned. He likely was beginning to realize he wouldn’t be losing Jaskier so easily.

“Because—”

“If you say it’s because of some protective mother I will drag you back into that tavern and leave you there,” Geralt snaps and Jaskier stiffens, eyes widening, before he clears his throat and glances down at the bow.

He couldn’t very well say he was a trained spy and assassin, now could he? He highly doubted the man who hardly trusted a minstrel would ever trust a Bard. Luckily, though, a good Bard always had plenty of stories at their disposal.

“I had to hunt for my family when I was younger,” Jaskier eventually sighs, glancing away like he’s wrapped up in a memory. “I caught, my father skinned, my mother cooked.”

“And the knives?”

Jaskier looks back at him, head tilting. “Now that one IS my mother,” he smiles, half-joking, and Geralt keeps staring at him. When the silence stretches on for too long Jaskier sighs dramatically. “Glare as much as you like. You aren’t getting rid of me. Your adventures are the best muse I’ve ever had!”

Geralt keeps staring for a long while, weighing his options, weighing Jaskier’s usefulness, weighing a lot in his head. Jaskier attempts to wait without squirming, but he still ends up tapping his fingers over his bow’s grip.

“You will do as I say,” Geralt suddenly says, making Jaskier straighten up. His voice is gruff with authority and warning. “If I say run, you run. If I say stay, you stay. If I say shut up, you shut up.”

Jaskier doesn’t think he’s going to be all that successful with those orders, but he can give it a shot. “Alright,” he nods, a smile pulling at his lips. Geralt narrows his golden eyes at him in disbelief, but Jaskier doesn’t let it deter him.

“Should we stop for breakfast first, though? You certainly got out of there quickly,” Jaskier continues, jabbing a finger back at the tavern and inn, but Geralt is already turning away and pulling himself up onto Roach.

The man grunts, noncommittal, and Jaskier pouts as he hefts his bag back onto his shoulder. He flicks the bow, clicking at a hidden button, and it folds back into itself so that Jaskier can hang it on his belt, the quiver hanging beside it.

Good fashioned Bard gadgets. It was amazing the doodads and contraptions the Society of Foxes had been able to get for Jaskier, and he treated his bow with such delicate care because of it. Even if it was dreadfully dull in design…

He follows after the Witcher as the man begins moving, chattering away about nothing, and giddily looking forward to his next adventure.

[mst3kproject]

She Freak

Oh, boy, this is going to be a fucking delight.  If the 1932 movie Freaks were Invasion of the Saucer Men, She Freak would be Attack of the The Eye Creatures.  Freaks is a very troubling movie, but it does go to great effort to present the denizens of the sideshow as human beings who can be loving, greedy, heartbroken, or naïve as much as anyone else, and who find family in each other when the rest of the world rejects them – and must be very careful who they let into that club.  The horror of the story is derived as much from their predicament as from the fate of Cleopatra.  She Freak is… not like that.

A woman named Jade Cochrane works at a little diner somewhere in the south, quietly (and sometimes not-so-quietly) enduring sexual harassment from both the customers and her married boss.  Wanting more out of life, she quits her job and goes looking for work at a passing carnival, which she figures will at least allow her to travel.  From there she sets her sights on marrying Steve St. John, the owner of the freak show and the richest man connected with this community. Unfortunately for everybody around her, even this very moderate form of power corrupts Jade to the core, and after too much of her mistreatment, the sideshow stars take a horrible revenge!

The opening sequence is a bunch of carnival footage in which everybody looks bored, worryingly reminiscent of both Carnival Magic and MUZ.  Even worse, quite a bit of it is shot by somebody sitting on a moving ferris wheel or other midway ride.  I’ve never been able to enjoy midway rides because I get motion sickness (I can’t see J. J. Abrams movies in theatres for the same reason), so this was not a fun experience for me, even on my tiny laptop screen.  It goes on way too long, and most of it doesn’t even have any credits over it.  Crow would have fled to go throw up in a corner.

The moment I knew She Freak belonged on MST3K, however, is this shot:

What the hell does that sign say?  YHJCY A+ FTJB?  What does it mean?  Is it an acronym?  A secret code?  An in-joke? A message to or from aliens?  That would have fascinated Mike and the ‘bots.  They’d have built a whole host sketch around that sign.

She Freak is tooth-rattlingly bad in many different ways.  I don’t know what any of the people in it think they’re doing but it sure isn’t acting.  It’s relentlessly padded, full of pointless footage of putting the midway up, taking the midway down, putting the midway back up again, and carnival-goers wandering around looking dazed.  At one point we have to watch a stripper do her act, to a chorus of background hooting and applause that sure isn’t coming from the bored-to-shit audience we see.  Most of the film feels like nothing is happening, and then what ought to have been the entire plot is crammed into the last fifteen minutes.

The one place where there is a glimmer of competence is in a couple of quite nice directing choices.  There’s a scene where Jade leaves her new husband with his buddies and sneaks off to bang the guy who runs the ferris wheel, Blackie (don’t worry, he’s white. She Freak has a little person called ‘Shorty’, but to my relief it wasn’t tasteless enough to cast a character named ‘Blackie’ as an African American) that makes a very good use of shadows to tell us what’s going on in two places at once.  Pity the film stock is so crappy it almost ruins it.  I also liked how Jade’s scenes with Blackie have proper dialogue, while Steve woos her in a series of montages.  Jade wants to spend time with Blackie, while her marriage to Steve is something she goes through the motions of and gets out of the way.

She Freak really has no right to tout itself as a remake of Freaks, for the simple reason that it isn’t even about the sideshow.  The older movie had characters like Hans the dwarf and Daisy and Violet the conjoined twins, who were people with relationships and roles in the plot.  In She Freak we never even see the sideshow that so upsets Jade in an early scene.  There’s Shorty, the little guy in a cowboy hat who works for the carnival, but when we see him he’s acting like he’s Steve’s friend and assistant rather than one of the exhibits.  An armless woman and a few people in funny makeup appear at the climax, but we’ve never seen them before and we have no idea who they are.  Where the hell is the ‘Alligator Girl’ the banners promised?

It’s probably all for the best.  If there had been any ‘unusual people’ with major roles in the movie it would doubtless have treated them in a disgusting and exploitative manner.  But what’s on screen shouldn’t even pretend to be a remake of Freaks.

As the owner of the sideshow, Steve insists that he cares about his employees and considers them ‘human beings, just like you and me’. He tells Jade that many of them came from abusive homes, and that in his show they’re able to earn a living and be around others who won’t judge them.  This is a reasonably noble sentiment, but what we are subsequently shown is somewhat at odds with it.  Steve says his employees are also his friends, but he hangs out and plays cards with the other carnies, not with them.  When Shorty tells him that Jade is cheating on him, Steve slaps him like he would a misbehaving child.  This is not how people treat friends and equals.

You may have guessed where this is heading: in one of my favourite running complaints, yep, we have nobody to root for in this movie.  We’re probably supposed to like Steve, but he’s bland and his actions don’t agree with his words insisting he’s a nice, compassionate guy. The character from whose point of view we see the events is of course Jade, but Jade is the villain of the movie and we’re watching it to see her hubris destroy her.  That means the protagonists ought to be the sideshow people themselves, but since we never actually meet them, their revenge is meaningless. In this context they are not human beings, they are not characters, they are merely what Jade has been calling them all along: monsters.

(Shorty, by the way, is played by Felix Silla, who is the closest thing this movie has to a star. He was Cousin Itt on the Addams Family TV show.)

She Freak presents us with several reasons why we ought to dislike Jade.  She’s introduced working at the greasy little diner, where she turns down a date first with a customer and then with her boss.  The customer accepts this gracefully but the boss does not.  The scene tries to show us Jade as an uppity bitch who thinks she’s too good for other people, but her boss is such a slimy toad that we have to take her side.  She tells us how her mother married too young and lost any chance at her own dreams, and while Claire Brennan is a terrible actress, the story is one that inspires sympathy.  When Jade seizes on the carnival as her chance for escape she becomes downright pathetic.  I mean, how awful is your life if a travelling midway and sideshow seems like a step up in the world?

Of course, as the movie continues we find that Jade really is just a snotty bitch whose idea of ‘getting more out of life’ is having a rich husband to carry her bags when she goes shopping. She sees others only as what they can provide to her – Steve for money, Blackie for sex.  This attitude blinds her to others’ true intentions.  She is entirely oblivious to the fact that Blackie is an abusive bastard or that Steve honestly loves her.  The lesson of the movie seems to be ‘beware of women who want more out of life.’  She should have known her place!

This is a pretty nasty attitude towards women but there are other female characters who are treated a bit better.  Pat the stripper tried marriage and domesticity and didn’t like it.  She seems to enjoy working at the carnival and is gregarious and kind-hearted.  We’re invited to leer at her performance but she’s presented as much less trashy than Jade, who considers herself above such things. Pat continues to try to be a friend to Jade for as long as she can, and keeps giving her second chances long after it should be obvious that Jade isn’t interested in reciprocating her kindness. There’s also Olga the fortune-teller, who needed to support herself after her husband died.  The three of them even manage to have conversations that pass the Bechdel test.  In a movie called She-Freak that’s almost impressive.

The ending of She Freak is the only place where it really even seems inspired by Freaks.  The sideshow employees take their revenge on Jade, and we see her on display in the sideshow, licking a snake and wearing some unconvincing Harvey Dent makeup.  This is supposed to feel like justice, in that she has become what she most hated, but it’s been so watered down by the movie’s refusal to humanize the sideshow, or even to show us Jade interacting with them at all, that it has no power to horrify.  It’s a big letdown after the opening scene that promised us a horrible freak that was once a human being.  Why does her burned side have an elf ear?

Invasion of the Saucer Men was not a good movie, at all, but it still deserved better than Attack of the The Eye Creatures.  It’s up for debate whether Freaks was technically ‘good’ but it was an ambitious film with much to say about how human beings treat one another and about the eugenics movement of the 1930s.  In fact, the US National Film Registry considers Freaks one of the most significant films ever made, and it currently boasts a 94% on Rotten Tomatoes.  The fact that writer David Friedman claimed She Freak was a remake of Freaks just proves that, like the audiences who booed that film in 1932, he never bothered to understand it.