#sir eyck

[famouslybitchy]

[diioonysus]

art aesthetics: dark acadmia

[boselliart]

[false-guinevere]

The Quest For the Holy Grail

Vulgate Cycle Edited by Norris J. Lacy / Vulgate illustration / Lancelot du Lac (1974) / The Empyrean by Gustave Doré / Revelation 20:12-15 / Vulgate Cycle / Adoration of the Mystic Lamb by Jan van Eyck / Consecration (2023) / Nemesis by H.P. Lovecraft / The Beatus of Facundus (1047) / Sir Galahad by Veronica Whall / Vulgate Cycle / Lancelot du Lac / The Golden Tree by Edwin Austin Abbey / Vulgate Cycle / Art by @/existentialterror / The Apparition of the Grail to Percival by Pinckney Marcius-Simons / Vulgate Cycle

[leighsartworks216]

The Viper: Rewritten

Chapter Five

Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 6 - Ch 7

Jaskier x gn!Witcher!reader

AO3 - I recommend reading it there

Warnings: canon-typical violence (blood, gore, disturbing ways of killing people), angst, grief mention, swearing

Word Count: 2799

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“Viper!”

You shot up, dagger held out, ready to defend yourself. You were met with wide, blue eyes. Once your mind caught up, you sighed and dropped it back into your lap.

“Hurry up,” he breathed out urgently. “Eyck is missing and Hendrick, he’s… well…”

“He’s what, Jaskier?” You rubbed sleep from your eyes. Where the hell were you? Oh, yeah, that’s right. Jaskier slept in your bed last night and you slept sitting on the floor. No wonder your arse hurt like hell.

The bard sighed. “Someone killed him.”

Your eyes snapped up to meet his. There were no lies to be found in the sympathetic look he held. You pushed yourself up, rushing past him and out of your tent, to see for yourself what had become of your employer.

You burst through the tent flap, eyes wide and wild. Geralt was already there, kneeling by the Temerian man who lay dead in his cot, neck sliced open. The body was hours old - blood no longer poured from his neck, already cooled into a thick, dark ooze. The Wolf’s eyes found yours. They held just as much sympathy as Jaskier’s.

“Oh, fuck.” Yarpen came up by your side, keeping his distance from the pool of blood. It soaked through the soles of your boots. You didn’t care.

“Was bound to happen eventually.” You didn’t have to turn to know it was a Reaver talking. What was their ringleader’s name? Broheni? Bolbolm? Something Redanian, you knew that much. He stood just at the tent opening, peering inside with a forced grimace. His dark gaze turned from the corpse to you. “A Nilfgaardian guiding a Temerian?” He scoffed. “Like a rat fucking a hag.”

You ignored just how Yarpen stepped away from you, as though you were going to slit his throat open next.

-

“Our people used to mine these mountains. We know a shortcut that will take half a day off our journey.” The Reavers were far ahead by now. The rest left behind slowed down to listen to Yarpen. “Let the Reavers take the long way around. We’ll nab the treasure before they even set foot in the cave. We’ll watch each other’s backs until we reach the next peak, then every man for himself.”

Two bodies were found that morning. Yennefer’s escort, Sir Eyck of Denesle, and your employer’s, Hendrick of Temeria. Nobody else suspected Yennefer of killing Eyck. You, on the other hand…

All morning, you had trudged along far behind everyone else. Still, they glanced and peered over their shoulders to make sure you weren’t about to make a move against them. The only few who trusted you - Borch and his guards, Jaskier, and Geralt - could not sway the minds of the Reavers and Dwarves. Yennefer, you suspected, did not trust you for your title as a Nilfgaardian alone.

“What say ye?”

“Let’s go!” Borch answered.

“Only thing: that murderer can’t come,” Yarpen spat, glaring at you as he spoke to Geralt.

The White Wolf’s lips curled into an offended snarl, brow furrowed and eyes burning with a fire reserved only for monsters. But before he could say anything, your hand was on his shoulder, turning him away from the Dwarf to face you. The flaming eyes of the Witcher met with your own, gleaming with the warmth and comfort of an amber mead after a long day.

“I’ll meet you at the top.”

You both just stared at each other, as if speaking with your eyes. You were deadlocked once again, only this time it was not with blades.

If Geralt tried to insist you come along, he could be left behind, as well. It was pertinent to reach the top before the Reavers, who would not think twice about slaying the dragon. But doing nothing left you at a disadvantage. You would be forced to follow the Reavers.

The scowl faded from his lips.

“Fine.” The word was grit out between clenched teeth. Even as the group began moving, he lingered for a moment longer, searching your eyes to make sure this was alright. They gave nothing away.

The Dwarves led the way down a side route, Borch and his guards following close behind. You stood at the crossroads. Your path was to follow the Reavers, the group of arsehole dragon-killers who framed you for murder; there was nothing you could now do to prevent it. If you were lucky, you would be able to sneak ahead while they slept.

Jaskier stopped to stand by your side, watching as Geralt chased after Yennefer to bring her along on the shortcut. He sighed.

“Guess I’ll see you at the top, then? You don’t really have to come now that… Well…”

You scoffed softly. “I wouldn’t wish to pass up the opportunity of seeing a dragon.” You turned to look at him, nodding down the side path. “You best catch up before they leave you behind.”

He glanced over the hill the Reavers crested moments ago. “So should you.”

You lifted your hood. The dark cloth ghosted your face with shadows, hiding your eyes and making you appear more intimidating. The easy, almost playful, grin on your lips ruined the illusion. “Stay safe, Jaskier. I would hate to hear what treachery you encounter without me.”

He chuckled, calling after you as you began the trek down the main road. “I won’t leave anything out!”

“I hold you to that!”

And in moments, you disappeared over the hill, and Geralt returned with the Witch in tow.

-

The dragon was dead when you arrived. Long, slender neck and powerful body curled around her still unborn child. It made your soul ache. To see a creature so magical, so formidable, being protective over a life so small…

When you neared, Téa and Véa appeared from the shadows, weapons armed and prepared to cut you down. You could not even spare them a glance, far too entranced in the ‘monster’ behind them. You mindlessly removed your blades and tossed them to their feet as you whispered a promise not to touch the egg or they could kill you where you stood.

They watched, prepared to do just that, as you carefully rounded the egg and sat by her head. Her scales tingled with magic as you brushed her snout, but she was cold; she had been for a while now. The stench of rot tainted the air around her. You wished you did not know the smell as well as you did.

Your chest was tight with emotion. Not mourning, but a semblance of something like it. She did not just remind you of home, of Stuldweck protecting and caring for you as she did now for her egg, even in death. She reminded you of a home you once had. Of your own mother, and father, and that big old farm horse. Of the frogs, and the well, and stitching by the fire. Of that grand oak on the hill.

Through the haze of a long-lost life, you heard boots scuffing against loose dirt and hard stone. Rushing in, carrying all manner of mismatched weapons, were Reavers. They charged head first into battle. Geralt, the Zerrikanians, and the Witch, all defending the egg.

You could mourn later.

You carefully sidestepped the egg, keeping your eyes up on the fight as your hands reached down and grabbed your abandoned sheaths. Holding the hilts, you flicked your wrists, and the leather casings flew away, revealing curved blades laced with Basilisk venom.

Reavers charged for you, confident they could kill a Witcher trained for killing humans. They were wrong. You cut them down, one after the next. You almost didn’t think about it anymore. Your mind was solely focused on defending the egg and the dragon laying with it; you could not feel the tension against your arms as you plunged your weapons through flesh and muscle, nor their own weapons landing hits on you.

You were snapped back into the fight when a long blade from behind sliced through your armor and traced almost directly over an old scar. You had to grit your teeth to hold back the scream. You turned and caught the man in the temple. Your hilt touched his skull. Someone bodied you, forcing you to abandon the silver dagger in his head.

You stood from the blow, raising your dagger defensively. There, not even ten feet away, was the Reaver that taunted you. His deep, sunken eyes stared at you from within yellowed skin. Crooked teeth malformed into a crooked grin. In his hand was a heavy, two-handed war hammer.

He charged forward, closing the distance, and driving the spike of the hammer in an upward swing. You dodged back sharply. He struck again and again and again. A seemingly endless barrage of attacks.

He got in close, swinging for your chest. You couldn’t block it. The war hammer would shatter your wrists before ever slowing down. All you could do was dodge. He was counting on this.

He swung. The adrenaline in your veins clogged your judgement; you dodged the wrong way. The butt-end of the hammer slammed against your sternum, sending you careening toward the hard floor. You landed hard on your arm. Your ribs bent, a sharp prick shooting through your side. Lightning-hot fire shot up the cut in your back.

“It would be easier to lay down and die, wouldn’t it, Rat?”

You couldn’t stop. You only had a second to look up. His teeth grit together, flames alight in his dark irises. The war hammer was coming down on you, sharp end poised to puncture. You bit back a groan as you rolled out of the way, just in time for the spike to impale the floor instead.

“But you have to get up. You have to fight.”

He ripped the hammer out of the stone. You kicked his knee, forcing him to kneel as he grunted in pain. One handed, the other clutching his knee, he swung again.

“C’mon, Rat. Fight.”

A scream tore from your throat as you reached up to meet his hand with your dagger. It was your bad arm. White, searing hot shocks of pain ran all the way down your shoulder to your wrist. You gripped your dagger with enough force to break the skin of your knuckles as the blade connected with his wrist and sliced through it.

The hammer, still gripped in a disembodied fist, flew past your head and skidded across the cavern. He screamed. You took in a breath, preparing yourself, holding it in your chest. You forced yourself up and jabbed the steel into the hollow of his throat.

His whole body froze. Wide eyes reflected your disheveled state back at you. His tongue moved inside his gaped mouth, forming words without the oxygen to speak them. Blood soon flooded it, pouring from the corners of his down-turned lips and into your lap.

The blade crunched and squished as you pulled it from the hollow. His expression was frozen. His body collapsed toward you, unable to stay upright any longer, before you shoved it to the side.

Waves of agony washed over you as the adrenaline fully left your system. Your hands trembled as you forced yourself to your feet. Nausea settled in your gut as the tight pain in your chest reached the forefront of your mind.

You were covered in blood. Most of it was his, you knew that much. You could taste the distinct, mutated flavor of copper on your tongue. Every breath was agony. But you could breathe, and that was worth something.

You scanned the room. The floor was littered with corpses. One was burnt; the closest to the egg. The egg…

You whipped around, much too quickly. Blood rushed to your head, your vision spinning with your mind. Rough, but surprisingly gentle, hands grabbed you. Their face came into focus before you could slash at them.

“Calm down,” Borch advised. The slight scratchiness of his voice, undertoned with knowledge and age, clicked immediately. He held you upright by your shoulders, waiting patiently as you shut your eyes and let the world catch up to you. “You have fought valiantly.”

You looked at him again. His face no longer blurred or warped. He smiled.

“Thank you for protecting her.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but could find no words. He seemed to understand, though, as he let you go. He turned back to the green dragon. His shoulders hunched, as if a heavy weight rested on his shoulders. You did not stay to watch.

Jaskier was the first one to greet you outside.

“Well, you look like shit.” You forced your eyes to focus on him. He was dirty and unkempt, watching his every step as to not walk on any of the many bodies strewn about. He was a welcome sight. His grin at his little joke fell when you did not react. “What’s wrong? What happened?” His hands floundered around, hovering over your arms and shoulders as he tried to figure out whose blood was where.

“I’ll tell you later.” Your voice was so quiet. You blamed it on exhaustion, but the ache in your chest was not purely from the war hammer.

His brows knit together in concern, but he nodded nonetheless. He made a motion, gesturing as he tried to find the words. “Uh, uhm, potion- Swallow. Do you have any…?”

You nodded. You lifted your arm, drawing his attention to the line of bottles along your belt. Your sheaths and silver blade were still discarded inside. You loathed the thought of having to go back for them, but you would not be leaving without them.

You tried to reach for one of the vials, but he stopped you when you winced. “Here, let me.” He didn’t touch you - as much as he could avoid it, anyway. Nimble fingers slipped it out of its holder, uncorked it, and held it out to you. You tossed back the strange liquid without hesitation.

-

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

The words echoed through the mountain valleys. Jaskier’s fingers rubbed together, itching for anything to fiddle with as the insults sank into his chest. His throat felt tight. His eyes burned. Someone he had considered a friend - someone he could trust, depend on - only thought of him as a burden, wreaking havoc on his life.

“You fucking bastard.” Geralt’s piercing gaze shifted from glaring at Jaskier to where you sat up on the hill. You grunted as you forced yourself to your feet. The potion was working - it didn’t hurt as much to breathe, and you could use your arm again, but you hadn’t had time to clean and bandage the cut along your back. For now, the blood was slowed down enough you weren’t immediately concerned about it. Loose pebbles and rocks shifted under your boots as you shuffled down them until you stood protectively in front of the bard. “No one asked you to claim the Law of Surprise, or make that wish with the djinn. You only have yourself to blame.”

The Wolf’s lips curled into a sneer. “If he hadn’t dragged me-”

You scoffed bitterly, stumbling the rest of the way down the hill to stand directly in front of Geralt. “No one forced you to go! Friend or not, you could have declined, you pompous git! You did this to yourself! No one else!” You stepped back. Despite your injuries, you stood with your shoulders squared, ready to fight. Your eyes burned into his own, daring him to test the waters. You would fight at a disadvantage to protect Jaskier, who he saved over and again just to throw away.

But Geralt’s shoulders fell. He averted his eyes, staring pointedly at the distant horizon. He would not be fighting you.

“Congratulations. Your blessing has been granted.” You stepped back, watching the Witcher to see if he would do anything. Instead of gearing up for an attack or trying to argue again, he just huffed and turned to gaze out at the view. The tension in your muscles faded, eyes losing the burning anger.

He was your last opportunity for a family. For brotherhood.

You turned your back to him and clambered back up the hill. Jaskier was speechless for once. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Geralt. You touched his shoulder, and blue eyes, wide and glossy, tore through you like a knife. You offered him a thin-lipped grin.

“C’mon, Jaskier.” You nudged him gently away from his old traveling companion. He glanced back once, before swallowing down his hurt and helping you climb. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be halfway down the mountain by nightfall.”

---

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@sleepyqueerenergy

@adozenforks

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[ask-de-writer]

WIND MEETS THE ROM : Part 13 of 27 :

MLP Fan Fiction

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WIND MEETS THE ROM

Part 13 of 27

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

Cover art by @wind-the-mama-cat

54212 words

© 2023 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Writing begun 06/01/18

All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story? Read from Part 1, here!

///////////////////////

Midnight stepped quietly up and gently nuzzled Wind. “That was well done, today. Chugg made trip hole traps in the foal play yard, last year. He was banned from all fairgrounds in Equestria for two years. He will get time on the Royal Roads for this violation.”

Around a mouthful of excellent stew, Wind commented, “You are lucky that nopony or horse was hurt.” Seeing the pain in Midnight's eyes, she added, “How bad was it?”

Hoof Dancer replied, “It was Candy Cane, filly of Blue Mane and Cresset. She broke her right cannon bone. Haymarket's doctor is a good pony but not the best surgeon. He was going to amputate at the break and fit her for a prosthesis.” She shuddered slightly. “Their prosthesis is ALMOST as good as a pony made wheel.”

Wind, having heard the derisive expression, as bad as a pony made wheel, shuddered at the thought.

With permission of her parents, Black Lotus and I took the case. We fused the bone solidly and repaired a torn ligament. She needed a walking cast for a week to help control swelling.”

The voice of a filly responded, “It worked real good too. May I enter your camp, please?”

Hanar, showing just how much attention she was paying, did not even look up as she replied, “Be welcome, Candy Cane.”

She trotted right up and said, “I got to be the one to present this!” She reached into a somewhat bulging saddlebag and pulled out a scroll. “This is the official thanks of the town for fixing my leg and for all the good that you Rom have done for our fairs over the last 800 years. They have offered not only you, but all Rom, the freedom of the town proper.

“I hear that you, Miss Black Lotus, make the best peach pies in Equestria. My mom's orchard is not the biggest but its peaches are the sweetest! I picked these special and dried them myself.” She pulled a substantial bag out of her saddlebag. Black Lotus's magic had it instantly! She went on, “I had to go all the way to Fall River to buy this for you too.” She laid out a smaller tightly sealed pouch.

Black Lotus's versatile magic lifted it to her nose. Her eyebrows rose in pleasure. “Cinnamon! Bless you, Candy Cane.”

She simply disappeared into Marchhare's caravan. Very quickly, smoke came from the small chimney of the caravan.

Hoof Dancer and Rose both offered at once, “Candy Cane, would you invite your family to dine with us this night?”

Practically skipping, she went out to the developing midway and returned with her parents.

They were only barely settled, eagerly watching the meal preparations when Greenforest approached the camp. He stopped at a respectful distance and asked, “Permission to speak to Hanar, Wind, Tia and Midnight?”

She noticed that Tia and Midnight were watching Hanar for their cue. Wind was about to ignore him when Hanar nuzzled her shoulder. “He is not trying to enter the camp as if he owned it. Let's go see what he has to say.”

They all left off their parts of the dinner preparations and stepped over in front of him. Hanar asked mildly, “What is it, Sir Greenforest?”

Scraping the grass with a forehoof, he hung his head in an abashed way. “I have been watching you all and doing a lot of thinking. This is real hard for me to say. I've been in the wrong and acted real foolish and downright improper.

“I think that the worst was when I barged in on your Laying the Stones feast. Trying to get that in perspective was hard. You didn't act like she was dead. It was like a, well, sort of a celebration. Got me to thinking though, how I would feel if anypony barged into any private celebration of my family.” He drew a deep breath. “Got to say, I am sorry for my behavior. I would have deserved being put in the trash.”

Hanar replied softly, “No, Sir Greenforest, you worked hard to earn a post that let you guard your Princesses. Until you got that post, you did not even know anything about Rom customs or why they would be important. You had to pass some rigorous testing on the Rom manual. Over thirty percent of Guard candidates wash out before they ever see us. More than half of the remaining ones fail the first time that the Princesses come to be among us.

“You are not trash. You are a good pony, trying his best to understand what is to you a very strange culture.”

He looked up, deeply puzzled. “I was really miffed when I saw you just take in that Waller Left Leg. Took a while to sort out why. I am kinda guessing here. He was friendly to you and had something for the pot, too. Not that many ponies are actually friendly to you. It got him what would have been a really expensive wagon fix.

“That I do know about. My barony is famous for our fine woodwork. The wood that you used would have cost at least forty or fifty gold bits by itself. You gave it to him along with a thorough repair, and never charged him a copper.”

He shook his head in wonder. “I hope that I have never been so wrong about something so important before in my whole life.”

He pointed to Wind and added, “I was so peeved at everything, that I misjudged you, too, Lady Wind Whisper. I called you a carnivore and a thing. Then I finally started to figure out how bad I was wrong about you when I saw you harness up and had to hold back to match the pulling power of a Rom horse.

“I had sort of dismissed the story that you were recovering from attacking a Manticore. Then I overheard the rest of it. Manticore wasn't alone. You were central to fighting off a demon king and lost both arm and sword to a dragon, yet here you are. Means that you and your side won the engagement. Demons, dragons and Manticores don't exactly take prisoners.”

If the Princesses will permit it, “I would lay my sword across between us, to say that if you need my help in battle or out, so long as it does not break my oath to my Princess, I will be by your side.”

It was both Tia and Midnight speaking together, their voices making a gentle harmony, who pronounced, “We, your Princesses, do permit and allow this generous offer from the heart of our good Guardspony.”

Before touching the blade laid in the grass between them, Wind asked, “The Healer told me that I was not permitted weapons like swords, knives or spears yet. What should I do here?”

Midnight quietly sent a tendril of her night and stars magic to envelope Wind. She brought it back and observed thoughtfully, “Black Lotus and Hoof Dancer presently have your case. I wish to share what I have found and get their opinion before you touch the sword.”

Black Lotus and her mother came up quickly. “What is it, Midnight? You are an expert surgeon. Did we miss something?”

“About Wind's physical condition, no. Our good Greenforest has offered Wind his sword. While we do permit it, she has brought up the issue that is keeping her here, though her battle wounds are now healed. Here is what I learned through a Bridge of Dream.”

Her soft magic touched the horns of both mother and daughter. “Our question is simple. Is it safe yet to allow her to pick up the sword and return it to him as ceremony calls for?”

The two held a whispered consultation. Black Lotus nodded, looking serious. “With one condition, it should be safe.

“Wind, will you allow me to place my magic in you ready to put you to sleep instantly, like for your surgery?”

Wind paused quietly for a few moments. “I trust you, certainly. Is it still that close to happening? I have not felt it for a while. I thought it to be dormant.”

Hoof Dancer chuckled, “Dormant like a volcano about to erupt! But yes, it is much better than when you arrived.”

Wind simply replied, “Do it then. I do not want to harm any of you. What is it that I am supposed to do?”

Hanar offered in excitement, “I have read about this in Days Of Fortress Canterlot! You pick up the sword by the handle, rest it on your hand or so that the handle is to him and give his weapon back. When he takes it, say that you will fight by his side if he is beset!”

Tia added, “Should you try and Black Lotus needs to stop it, we, as Princesses will declare your intent to accept and the ceremony completed.”

Wind felt the familiar safe touch of Black Lotus' magic and smiled. “I think that I can do this.” She bent down and picked up the sword. Shifting her grip, she laid it along her forearm, handle to Greenforest.

As he was taking the grip, she felt the world going gray. She woke up as the sun was setting. Her arm was carefully bandaged to her side. Hanar was resting quietly beside her. She had a plate and full mug of strong tea ready.

Grinning ruefully, she offered, “I guess that I wasn't quite as ready as I thought.”

Hanar asked gently, “Can we safely unbind you now? Do I need to feed you?”

Wind pretended to consider the question carefully. She temporized, “What do Midnight and Black Lotus say?”

Midnight stepped close and let her magic bridge the space between them. She winked quietly at Wind as she replied, “It was a near thing but we stopped it in time. You seem to be as well now as you were before you touched the blade. I shall set you free to enjoy your meal.”

Her magic gently lifted Wind and unwrapped the bandages.

Wind sat up and reached for her plate, gratitude in her voice, “Thanks for saving my dinner and watching over me, Hanar.”

She replied, “I was happy to do it, Wind. If you could wield a sword with the arm that the dragon took, it must have been a marvel of smith craft. In a way, it is lucky that it was that arm. You could have bled to death if it was your flesh arm.”

Wind swallowed a bite of her pastie before saying with sincerity, “It was a marvel. It was even stronger than my good right arm. I did not have to think about using it. It moved as simply as my right. Just reach and do. I heard Marchhare say that I will have it back in around a month.

“This pastie is really good! You put some of those vegetables that I like in it! It is like eating a stew that does not drip!”

Black Lotus wandered over and joined them. “Thank you, Wind. I have been watching how you sampled our vegetable and fruit pies and dishes. We have a nice blackberry pie that I think that you will enjoy.”

Wind looked up, brow furrowed in concentration. “I thought that we did not have any blackberries in our stores.”

She grinned. “We didn't. Sargent Greenforest was appalled when Midnight and I had to put you out like that. We had to reassure him that he had not done anything wrong. He went off to try spearing you a bunny to make up for it.

“No bunnies, but he found a fine wild canebrake full of blackberries, just ripe! We all descended on it like a horde of locusts! We gave two of the pies to the Guard.”

Wind nearly choked on her tea with giggles at the thought.

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[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 12

reynard/geralt, some background implied meve/reynard

Frustrated by the freshly-knighted Geralt's insubordination, Reynard challenges the witcher to a duel that ends much more pleasantly than expected.

content warning for an explicit handjob

Reynard didn't care at all for their latest recruits. 

The biggest layabout was the poet, who had claimed exemption from military service by some obscure byline of Rivian law and regularly proceeded to imbibe as much wine and ale as possible. 

Instinct said that the soldier and the barber-surgeon were unsavoury characters despite their apparent usefulness in the ranks and in the infirmary. Both frequently shirked their duties to visit their ailing cohort.

Reynard could not fault the girl for her troubles, though he was certain she could have been better served sent off to the nearest village healer rather than being carted about in wagons during the long march each day.

The worst of all was the witcher. 

Reynard had protested the bestowment of knighthood on some vagabond wanderer at length at the nightly briefing afterward until his Queen had been forced to raise her voice to admonish him, red blots of fresh blood appearing on the cloth she pressed to her wounded mouth. The queasy shame of that sight had only fueled Reynard's dislike.

What sort of character was this Sir Geralt of Rivia, who could earn Meve's respect so readily, who had awed every soldier on the bridge with his speed and prowess? What had possessed Meve to offer him a knighthood?

Sir Eyck was the only one among them who had agreed heartily with his poor assessment, claiming to any that would listen that all witchers to be despicable mutants befouling the very ground upon which they walked.

That seemed a trifle too far for Reynard. He had never had any trouble with the witchers he had been acquainted with. No more than any other tradesmen.

Though Sir Geralt's appearance was slightly ghoulish, he behaved the same as any other new recruit fresh from the fields or the smith or the mill. Which was to say he lacked discipline, was unfamiliar with military protocol, and often acted like he'd rather be elsewhere. He was arrogant and sulky and prone to bitter snark, and on top of that, he had poor posture and refused to dress as befitted a knight, wearing no armour but a tatty leather jacket and unwilling to remove his headband and tie back his hair in a regulation style.

No matter that he had unmatched skill with a blade and with his body. That he moved soundless and quick and sure. That he could prove to be immeasurably useful in the war.

Reynard's list of complaints only grew. Meve's favour had clearly been displaced.

Discovering Sir Geralt locked in a card game with several rowdy dwarves while meant to be on night watch was the last straw. 

“Sir Geralt,” Reynard called as he approached. “My instructions were clear, were they not? Stand watch at the north gate until you’re relieved. Did you find those orders too difficult? Think yourself too good for them?”

“General Odo,” the witcher acknowledged, though infuriatingly, he did not look up from his hand of cards. The dwarves had forgotten the game to titter amongst themselves, clearly hoping for the spectacle of a skirmish. “I promise you, it's not difficult at all for me to follow those orders. I would know the second anything out there tried to approach. You're better off with me on watch, even playing cards or blind-drunk, than any ordinary soldier in this army.”

“You arrogant fuckin’--”

Reynard's hand leapt to his sword. His temper flared hot. Heightened witcher senses be damned, he couldn't have a high-ranking soldier appearing to slack on duty and then mouth off to his superior.

“Think this through, General,” said the witcher, strange eyes dropping to Reynard's sword hand. He set down his cards very slowly.

“Draw your sword,” Reynard demanded.

“Too dark for a proper duel,” Geralt said, which he would have relented to, allowing the issue to lie until morning, had that statement not been followed up with, “and I'd have the clear advantage. Barely a contest.”

Reynard's sword hissed from its sheath.

The dwarves let out a chorus of excited jeers and slapped Geralt on the shoulders. Reynard had long given up on admonishing their lot for improper decorum, but he glared sternly at them anyhow. The witcher did not rise, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

“Stand up,” he ordered. Geralt stood slowly, and Reynard squared his stiff shoulders in defiance of the witcher's relaxed slouch.

“Might be best to do this without an audience,” said the witcher to loud complaints from the dwarves. Fortunately, they hastened off without much fuss

Which left Reynard to realize how eerily alone they were. 

It was well past midnight. Reynard had been driven by his usual sleeplessness to patrol the limits of camp. Sparse torchlight glowed at intervals along the palisade perimeter, but otherwise, the darkness of the wilderness loomed and the huddled tents lay as quiet as an army camp ever did.

There was not a soul in sight to bear witness to Reynard's challenge. A sworn knight would be duty-bound to answer his call to a duel, but Geralt shied from that duty as easily as he did the rest and would not draw his sword.

“If you're that insistent on a fight,” said the witcher, voice infuriatingly casual, “let's settle for hand to hand. No sense dulling our blades.”

Had Reynard been in full armour, he would have refused the foolish request, but the late hour found him stripped down to his gambeson and largely unencumbered. With a gruff nod, he set aside his sword and undid the clasp of his cape, anticipating its long trail hindering him in close combat with an opponent so swift and unpredictable.

“To first pin,” he announced with all the formal sternness he could muster, as if this were an officiated tournament duel and not a midnight scrap.

Reynard knew at once as they circled one another on the packed earth beyond the perimeter fence that he had erred in challenging such a man.

The witcher's eyes glinted with an animal shine as he circled, and each movement was fluid and precise. He resembled, in every sense, a predator waiting to strike.

A shiver went down Reynard's spine.

As expected, the fight was over almost as soon as it had begun. He had some inkling that for the sake of his pride Geralt allowed a single punch of his to land, and then, the witcher pivoted his hips, easily shifting his weight, and drove Reynard back with a series of swift blows that found him thoroughly pinned against the log palisade.

Up close, the witcher's eyes were no less animal, slitted pupils narrowing as he loomed into Reynard's space, the taut muscle of his pinning arms as unyielding as iron. He smelled of leather and the earthy must of the stables, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the cool night. 

Reynard's heartbeat thundered with lingering adrenaline, and Geralt tipped his head as though to listen, taking a slow, deep breath.

The slit pupils dilated.

With a startling, cocky boldness that, if he were armed, would have seen an ordinary man's hand severed from its wrist, Geralt dropped a hand to palm between Reynard's legs.

He had not recognized his own arousal until the deternined press of the touch brought it to dizzying awareness. His back arched against the rough wood, mouth falling open with the intensity of the feeling.

The involuntary groan as the palm shifted to encompass him more firmly inspired Geralt to shush him, one hand curving around the back of Reynard's skull and the other making quick work of his laces

“This too improper for you, General Odo?” The cheeky fucking bastard asked in a rumble of sound as his clever fingers encircled his erection and stroked, thumb teasing with expert pressure at the slit of his cockhead.

The witcher had far more talents than simple swordplay. Perhaps that was why his fellows showed him such unerring devotion. 

Perhaps Meve had wanted– Had already–

“Get on with it,” Reynard grunted, wavering voice lending far less authority than usual to the demand.

“That an order?”

Reynard had little chance to respond to the insolent remark, the focused touches that resumed in earnest forcing him to clench his jaw tight to quiet his resulting groans.

It had been a very long time.

Not one for brothels or casual tumbles, he had been celibate for years now. For nearly two decades.

He had not even thought to seek such a distraction, ever having stuck too close to Meve's side– but no, he refused to besmirch his queen's virtue by even thinking her name in the midst of such a crass act.

Geralt's thumb stroked along the nape of his neck, strange gaze bright with intensity as they locked eyes, and for a moment, Reynard was certain he was about to be kissed.

Instead the witcher's mouth dropped to his throat, breathing deep as though scenting him, and Reynard was struck by the thought of how easily the sharp of those strange canines could tear his throat wide open.

He could not bring himself to regret his foolish challenge. Not as the witcher's hand sped its pace and his mouth sucked a bruise below his collar.

It was over near as quickly as their brawl had been.

Had he been a younger man, the sight of the witcher tasting the spend that coated his long fingers, expression smug, could have inspired a second round.

As it was, Geralt nodded to him and slunk back to his post, leaning with crossed arms against the palisade. Reynard could feel his eyes on him as he retrieved his discarded cape and sword and strode quickly away into the camp.

Even when Gascon wolf-whistled over the sight of the mark in the command tent the next morning, Reynard could feel little regret. Especially when Meve's eyes could not seem to stop lingering on the dark smear of the bruise.

The regret came several days later when news came of the desertion of the strange company.

It was some vindication that he had been right about the witcher's true nature, having begun to hope that he was wrong.

And having hoped of another chance encounter, unlikely to forget anytime soon the alluring weight of the witchers gaze nor the sure touch of his hands.

[astaldis]

A most unusual plant

(Picture from The Official Witcher Wiki)

“Geralt, do you hear this?”

“A cow. You have heard cows moo before, haven’t you, Jaskier?” Geralt asks.

“I know it’s a cow. But it sounds scared. It might need help!”

“And how is that our problem? Since when do I look like a farmer to you?”

“Geralt, the poor animal might be in mortal danger! We cannot just ride past it and leave it to a most horrible fate. All kinds of monsters are lurking in the nearby swamps, you said so yourself just yesterday!”

“Hm. I might have exaggerated a bit,” Geralt admits. “Just to make sure you stay on the track and don’t run off flower picking or looking for berries. Remember the hirikka you thought was so cute? During the dragon hunt?”

“Before you left me alone on top of that mountain, you mean?” Jaskier asks, although he, of course, knows exactly what Geralt is talking about. “And the hirikka was cute - until Sir Eyck cut its head off, poor thing. Now, what about the cow? Are you going to rescue it, Witcher, or do I have to do it all by myself?”

Summary: Jaskier saves a cow! With a little help from Geralt 😉 (Set during the events of Baptism of Fire, more exactly after the Fish Soup and before the Battle on the Bridge. You don't need to have read the books though to enjoy the story.)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences, No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Relationship: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & The Hansa | Geralt's Company Members

Characters: Geralt of Rivia, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Maria Barring | Milva, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Jaskier | Dandelion

Words: 1759

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46668610

@witchermonstermayhem​

[leanstooneside]

Powerbomb shiranui combination

- DREW

- EZEKIEL

- AGNES

- SIR

- DA

- PEASANT

- ROMAN

- SHIP

- PERUGINO

- CHRISTIAN

- FLORENCE

- DELLA

- LEONARDO

- ANGELICO

- TROY

- VICTOR

- EYCK

- JUSTINIAN

- AUGUSTUS

- VENUS

- PAINTER

- YOUNG

- MEIER

- TITIAN

- MADONNA

- GRACE

- THEODORA

- VIRGIN

- MICHAEL

- HOMER

- JEREMIAH

- AGAMEMNON

- AN

- JOSHUA

- J

- WOMEN

- RAPHAEL

- DUOMO

- CECILIA

- DUC

- CATHOLIC

- BEATRICE

- FRA

- LISTENING

- EMPEROR

- DEL

- HENRY

- PHILIP

- OFFICER

- KING

- LIVIA

- NOVELLA

- ULYSSES

- ANGELO

- TURNER

- HALS

- MARIA

- MONA

- ROGERS'S

- DAVID

- WEYDEN

- BERRI

- CLAY

- DER

- QUERCIOLA

- LISA

- MAY

- DEMETRIUS

- THE

- GUIDO

- FATHER

- DOMENICHINO

- ART

- DENIS

- SISTINE

- ANGEL

- JEROME

- VELASQUEZ

- HOLBEIN

- LAVINIA

- ANADYOMENE

- CENCI

[interspersus]

Major Sir William Newenham Montague Orpen, KBE, RA, RHA (27 November 1878 – 29 September 1931), was an Irish artist who worked mainly in London. Orpen was a fine draughtsman and a popular, commercially successful, painter of portraits for the well-to-do in Edwardian society, though many of his most striking paintings are self-portraits. During World War I, he was the most prolific of the official artists sent by Britain to the Western Front. There he produced drawings and paintings of ordinary soldiers, dead men, and German prisoners of war, as well as portraits of generals and politicians. Most of these works, 138 in all, he donated to the British government and they are now in the collection of the Imperial War Museum. His connections to the senior ranks of the British Army allowed him to stay in France longer than any of the other official war artists, and although he was made a Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire in the 1918 King's birthday honours list, and also elected a member of the Royal Academy of Arts, his determination to serve as a war artist cost him both his health and his social standing in Britain. After his early death, a number of critics, including other artists, were loudly dismissive of his work and for many years his paintings were rarely exhibited, a situation that only began to change in the 1980s. Born in Stillorgan, County Dublin, William Orpen was the fourth and youngest son of Arthur Herbert Orpen (1830–1926), a solicitor, and his wife, Anne Caulfield (1834–1912), the eldest daughter of the Right Rev. Charles Caulfield (1804–1862), the Bishop of Nassau. Both his parents were amateur painters, and his eldest brother, Richard Caulfield Orpen, became a notable architect. The historian Goddard Henry Orpen was his second cousin. The family lived at Oriel, a large house with extensive grounds containing stables and a tennis court. Orpen appears to have had a happy childhood there. Orpen was a naturally talented painter and was enrolled, six weeks before his thirteenth birthday, at the Dublin Metropolitan School of Art. During his six years at the college, Orpen won every major prize there plus the British Isles gold medal for life drawing before leaving to study at the Slade School of Art between 1897 and 1899. At the Slade Orpen mastered oil painting and began to experiment with different painting techniques and effects. He would include mirrors in his pictures to create images within images, add false frames and collages around his subjects and often make pictorial references to works by other artists in his own paintings. His two metre wide painting, The Play Scene from Hamlet won the Slade composition prize in 1899. Orpen's teachers at the Slade included Henry Tonks, Philip Wilson Steer and Frederick Brown, all of whom were members of the New English Art Club; they ensured he exhibited there in 1899, and that he became a member in 1900. Orpen's The Mirror, shown at the NEAC in 1900, references both Jan van Eyck's Arnolfini Portrait of 1434 and also elements of seventeenth-century Dutch interiors, such as muted tones and deep shadows. Orpen depicted the 'Arnolfini' convex glass in several other paintings, including A Mere Fracture in 1901, during this period. Also in 1901, Orpen held a solo exhibition at the Carfax Gallery in central London.

William Orpen (British, ) • The Studio • c. 1910 • Leeds Art Gallery, West Yorkshire, UK

[dudedidujust]

Sir Eyck in the books: absolutely manic. Gives a whole new meaning to the word fanatic. His eyes are constantly described as ‘feverish’. So strong that his reputation precedes him. Geralt doesn’t like him but he respects his strength. Kills monsters to ‘protect’. The very definition of Noble™. Extremely prejudiced against everyone he’s deemed other. Makes an entire speech about how dwarves, sorcerers and witchers are unnatural beings and filth right after he risked his life to pull Geralt and Yennefer from a cliffs edge. Outright states that he would never refuse anybody in need of help. Accepts a Dragons challenge to a duel and ends up being taken out after getting in a hit. A complex character.

Sir Eyck in the Netflix show: only there to escort Yennefer and to show how pathetic he is compared to Geralt. More Pompous Prat than Noble Knight. Kills a harmless monster and then eats it after ignoring the warning. Gets his throat slit while taking a shit. A complete fool.

[onionsandestiny]

Netflix’s The Witcher S1 + Onion Headlines pt2

(pt1) (pt3)

[artdecielle]

When Eyck comes back from one of his trips with three kittens he’s rescued from drowning, Jaskier admits defeat and moves himself, Eyck and the cats into the townhouse. It is fortunate that he chooses to do so, because his acolyte continues to rescue a number of animals whose owners decide to drown them in the river. 

...They now have six cats and four dogs who are taken prodigiously good care of by Eyck. People still puzzle the former knight, but animals are another thing entirely. They don’t care about his pretentious airs, so long as he feeds them and gives them belly rubs.

This is fanart of Eyck from ‘Kingdoms Come and Kingdoms Go, Rivers Run and Rivers Flow’ by @dancinglassie on AO3. It has absolutely captivated me; the plot, the characterization, the world-building! If you’re a fan of Geraskier, I highly recommend you go read it. (Basically Jaskier is a river god a la Rivers of London.)

I don’t think this is how acolytes actually work in this verse, but I’ve been so charmed by this neurodivergent man going up and down the river rescuing drowning, abandoned, abused animals. It’s definitely a better outcome for him than canon. I like to think of Eyck going around spreading the good word that there’s a home for all pets with his lord. 

Anyway, long story short, this story is very sweet with angst and action and drama and love of every kind. (note: there is no romance between Eyck and Jaskier, he’s just a very good boy, really, and I wanted to show some love for this amazing fic).

[imaginatorically]

Sir Eyck is a HILARIOUS depiction of toxic masculinity, isn't he?

Update: no he's just stupid, apparently.

[ask-de-writer]

WIND MEETS THE ROM : Part 12 of 27 :

MLP Fan Fiction

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WIND MEETS THE ROM

Part 12 of 27

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

Cover art by @wind-the-mama-cat

54212 words

© 2023 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Writing begun 06/01/18

All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story? Read from Part 1, here!

///////////////////////

Black Lotus was going over the harness with a light oil of some kind and making some small adjustments to it. Hoof Dancer was going over Wind, checking for chafing and wear points, which she treated with a lineament. She carefully checked Wind's hand and her feet as well.

Satisfied, they had the foals bring water around to all the horses, who were still in harness. In only a few minutes more, they were back on the road.

As she leaned into the harness, Wind was appreciating the cunning leather work. The harness not only gave her good leverage for Pulling, it also provided her with excellent support and assisted her in maintaining the best posture for the long lasting work of Pulling.

Wind was appreciating something else, too. Not merely the amazingly solid and smooth road underfoot, but the fact that the placement of the trees alongside, though seemingly natural, provided a fine balance of light and shade. She realized that the tone poem about the roads was exactly what this was all about.

Besides the Rom singing, she could hear the song of birds and smell the mix of vegetation alongside the road. Along with the songs, she fell almost into a trance, a meditation, breathing deeply and feeling as if she was one with the caravan and the caravan was one with the road.

She was actually surprised when they turned off into a Wayside to make their lunch.

Hanar nuzzled her back to alertness. “You have done amazingly well, Wind! Are you sore or stiff anywhere? Blisters on your feet, or anything?”

Wind gave an experimental stretch and pronounced, “Not really. I can feel where the harness bore on my shoulders and at my hips but it did a great job of spreading the load. I need to thank Black Lotus for it. She did a great job designing it.”

Wind's hearing picked up something totally unexpected from the guards. “I had my doubts, Hawkwing, Sir. That carnivore pitched right in and worked with the rest of them. I don't think that I could have pulled that load along side that filly. She is strong as a horse, and I mean that exactly.”

“So, Greenforest, you been watching and thinking like I suggested? What have you seen?”

Wind was helping to stow hitch parts as she listened.

“As part of security, I checked that Waller Left Leg's bill of lading after I saw that filly Hanar, the same that put me by the trash bin, lift the wagon up for the jacks. His load was SIX TONNES. She wasn't showing off or anything and not a one even noticed while she held it until the jacks were set. She had to lift at least THREE TONNES and hold it to do that! No pony except maybe Twilight Sparkle could manage that lift. Once I got over my butt hurt about that Waller being let into their camp and given meals, I saw that they did all that for him just because he wasn't rude and had something to offer for the cook pot. I was watching. They did not even charge him for the wood and glue that they used. I looked at that too. That was expensive, tight grain, knot free wood.”

“You are right, Greenforest. Here is something that you have not had time to find out. In seven years, I have never seen them buy any sort of lumber from anypony. It is like they have some magical source for the best woods in all of Equestria.”

Meal fires were lit and goodies baking. Wind was happily working up dough with her one hand. And watching Hanar dance while Tia played a tune for her on her new moro lyre.

Her attention was caught by the guard again. Thoughtfully, Greenforest pointed out, I used to think that the Rom were lazy, just sort of flitted about from fair to fair. This walking with them is opening my eyes. Those caravans, they call them, are heavy, even with those big wheels that they use to help them roll easy.

“Then there is here. They were pulling all morning. It puts all that dancing and music into a new light. I don't doubt that they are having fun. Thing is, they are practicing for their fair acts. That red roan mare is watching those pegassi that she took in. She is making more of those little boxes to sell too. The old donkey, over there, looks like he is working on more jewelry.

“Besides lunch, I see them packing away stacks of those Ka'chek pastries that they make into that big chest.”

Major Hawkwing's voice replied, “You are getting it, Sargent. And get this, so far, the only uncanny thing that we have seen is that Laying of the Stones thing. Most would not see anything too odd about it. But after you have seen it a few times, trust me, there is something strange going on.”

Wind's attention was pulled away by Tia pointing out, “I think that we have enough done, Wind. It is time for us to eat.” She casually took a large pot of the Rom black tea and poured it slowly into a machine that Black Lotus slowly cranked. Finely crushed dark colored ice poured out of a chute and into a collecting tub. Black Lotus's magic scooped up some and filled the bottom of a cone and then topped it with a ball of more tea made into ice.

She offered the first cone of tea ice to Wind. “You have been working so hard for us. Here, enjoy!” Wind did, sucking the cool tea ice and reveling in the sheer pleasure of it.

Following their well established routines, the band had their lunch, cleaned up, and broke out the hitches. They had not been long on the road before Wind fell into that near trance like state, carefully balancing her pull to Hanar's to keep the stress and load even. Not only did She follow, but sang along too. That was part of the whole effect. At the same time that it was heavy, sustained work, it was very peaceful and soothing.

Only a few hours down the road, the whole caravan came to a brief stop while Marchhare showed a pony at a road gate their contract. The gatekeeper made his needful notes and lifted the gaily painted red and white road gate bar. They all entered the access road to the Haymarket fairgrounds.

Wind's ears caught some resentful muttering from the guards. “What did he mean, calling us a clown act?”

That was answered in Hawkwing's voice, “Better than coming out and telling everypony that their Highnesses are here. They wish to stay incognito.”

Wind snickered and shared what she had heard with Hanar, who was seized with a fit of giggles, though she never broke pace.

Wind quickly found that setting up for a fair was very different from the setup at a Wayside.

Their campsite was back behind the rows and spaces laid out for booths or tents. As soon as their hitches were stowed, Hanar opened a different locker beneath the deck of her caravan. Together, they pulled out long parts, poles, ropes, stakes and rolls of a brightly colored but durable looking fabric.

Hanar verified her booth location with old Marchhare, who had their fair contract with its space reserved for the Rom. Together, they moved her things to be handy while they set up the booth. Wind's eye was taken by the light but sturdy panels that made up the sales counter. That was set up first, because some of the basic poles to support the awning were attached to it.

The awning was unrolled and lifted over the ridge pole that spanned above the sales counter and dangling ties secured it. Poles to support it went into rings of rope with metal centers. Ropes strung from the poles to stakes were loosely set while the balance of the fabric sides were attached.

Hanar had Wind hold the corner or side opposite to where she was expertly tensioning the ropes to stabilize and tighten the structure. Unpacking cases in her caravan's snug interior, she trotted out with a folded measuring table and racks.

Her many bolts of fabrics in a wide array of colors and weaves were put out on the racks. They closed the awning front down to close the booth until it was time to begin sales.

Hanar promptly led Wind down the Midway a bit to where Rose was setting up her display of boxes of all sizes. Wind chuckled as she realized that Rose packed smaller boxes into larger boxes and carried them all in a few chests, which were also for sale!

Rose offered, “My setup is under control. Both Myest and the Sky Dancers can use some help.”

Wind went to lend her simple strength to assisting the Sky Dancers, who were struggling a bit with the poles and canvas for a musicians shelter and resting place between their strenuous sets. They already had a roped off area for take off and landing.

Wind spotted the cause of their difficulty at once. She sidled up to the orange unicorn who was watching them with amusement. His horn was lighting up with barely visible green magic, which matched his eyes. Each time that it did, some small thing went wrong for the Sky Dancers.

Her hand laid gently against his neck, under his chin. She flexed her claws out into his flesh. “Stop messing with those foals.”

“Ow! They is just Rom! Peggesis what abandoned being good ponies!”

Wind released his neck, shifting her grip faster than he could dodge. She wrapped his muzzle in her hand, securing her grip with extended claws. She dragged his face around, forcing him to stare into her enraged, narrow vertically slitted eyes. Predator's eyes, so unlike the horizontal pupils of ponies eyes.

Curling her lips away from her fangs, she declared in a flat voice, “I am Rom.”

They were interrupted by Marchhare's familiar bray, “Warrior Wind! There you are! The healers want to know if you remember anything of the battle after the Berserker Rage took you.”

Wind saw Black Lotus behind him give her a wink and slight head toss. Wind paused, still gripping the orange muzzle, she remembered that Marchhare sometimes did demon stomps, as he called them and pretended confusion, “It is all hazy. Something about a minor demon king, wasn't it?”

Agreeably, he asked, “Do you remember losing your sword and arm to the dragon?”

Realizing that, though said to sound like fierce battle, the question was literally true, Wind replied, “I know that I did, but don't remember anything until I woke up in the Healer's house.”

Black Lotus put in, “The healers said to tell you that they never want to try operating on the arm of a catter in a Berserk Rage again! They did say that they will have you a replacement arm ready for fitting in a month or so.”

Marchhare offered, “Do come with us, please, Warrior. Seeing you try some of our vegetables and fruits, we made bold to fix you a nice savory stew of mostly meat and some of our vegetables that you liked.”

Wind followed meekly but absently “forgot” to let go of the orange unicorn's muzzle. Feeling both her claws and the raw strength of her grip, he realized that he had two choices. Follow until she let go or be dragged along like a sack of oats. He followed.

Short of the camp, he suddenly began to struggle in Wind's grip. To no avail. A unicorn of the Royal Road Police, in his midnight blue uniform had him, capped his horn, hobbled him and snapped a lead to the straps holding the horn.

As orange was led off, Black Lotus commented, “You are a quick study, Wind.”

Wind, sitting in some nice shade, was balancing a stew bowl and her tea mug on a tray. “Thanks. You guys are pretty sharp too. You put me in a deadly battle without ever actually saying that I was in one. Why?”

Marchhare tapped his big ears and replied, “There were a lot of ponies watching Chugg mess with the Sky Dancers. I think that a couple might have interfered if it had gone on much longer. Point is, you got there first.

“Everypony there saw your sashes and harness and when you stopped him you declared that you were Rom. We just gave you a backstory that contained no lies, though I admit that the truth was a pretzel!”

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[thinking-about-jaskier]

The last one tho

They never technically explained who killed Sir Eyck so here’s a list of suggestions:

- the Reavers (obvious choice)

- Téa and Véa (realised he was clearly Not someone they wanted anywhere near the dragon egg so they killed him)

- The dwarves (one of em carried another on his shoulders)

- Jaskier (& then he stood there like who would do this? who would do something so terrible? not me that’s for sure!!!) (as for motive well he just found Sir Eyck that annoying)

- Geralt (to avenge the hirikka)

- the hirikka’s wife… who has a knife.

- the hirikka, who is now a zombie

- Yennefer (didn’t actually want him for the dragon hunt, just brought him out there so she could discreetly kill him)

- Yennefer, travelling back in time from a dark future where Sir Eyck’s actions post-dragon hunt led to the end of the world somehow

- Sir Eyck, same scenario as above but he murdered his own past self like JFK in that one Red Dwarf episode

- Geralt from an alternate timeline where he’s evil and wears an eye patch

- knife, possessed by a demon

- his neck just did that.