#the Witcher fan fiction

[timetraveladdict]

I have all this great Geraskier fic ideas in my head (at least 50) but I am not able to write them down. So they still stay there… in my head 🥲

[ladynearthelake]

Big ups to @poemsingreenink who suggested a Ravinia meet cute while I was ranting at her about these two.

For the three people out there who give a shit about this pairing. Love you, Radskier Nation.

[patroclusdefencesquad]

jaskier + rience trauma

[welikeimagines-andfandoms]

💖 Masterlist 💖

💋 Kinktober 2023 💋

✨ Writing Prompts: 1 2 ✨

💞 Characters I Write For 💞

⭐️ Be Added To A Tag List ⭐️

⚡️Harry Potter⚡️

💥Marvel💥

💖Misc💖

🚀Star Trek (TOS)🚀

🪐Star Wars🪐

🎸 Stranger Things 🎸

😇Supernatural😇

🔫The Boys🔫

🍃Tolkien🍃

🩸Twilight🩸

🗡️Vikings🗡️

🔮Witcher🔮

[thedemonofcat]

How to Write Fanfiction

1. Develop an idea for a fanfic based on a fandom you enjoy.

2. Choose your writing method: computer, tablet, phone, or pen and paper (for a more whimsical touch, consider sending drafts via carrier pigeon).

3. Begin writing your story.

4. Come up with a new idea.

5. Return to step three and start writing your new idea.

6. Continue alternating between steps three and four.

7. Repeat this process until you have accumulated over a hundred works-in-progress (WIPs).

8. Postpone finishing any of them until much later.

[itendswithakiss]

I need a really long Geraskier fic to read please

[sillyrabbit81]

Love Sick

Prompt: Slow & Romantic, Medical Play from @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden (x) Thank you!

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Female Reader

Word Count: Approx. 2.9k

Warnings: Smut, hand job, oral sex (m receiving), mentions of body fluids, made up medical treatments.

Authors Note: As always I need to thank my amazing mates and readers @nashibirne , @amberangel112 and @henryobsessed your thoughtful and honest comments (and special knowledge 🤣) are always appreciated.

I found this prompt particularly tricky as medical play isn't a kink I'm overly familiar with, but in the end I'm pretty happy with how it turned out and I hope you enjoy it.

I'm sorry, but I barely had time to read over it, it was edited by me, on the fly there will be errors

Dividers by me.

Masterlist

Celebration Masterlist

There is a knock on the door to your small hut. Your hands are busy pouring a heavy pot of freshly prepared Eucalyptus oil through a cheesecloth strainer, so you call out to the visitor.

“Come in.”

You hope it's a customer, you could do with the money, but immediately curse yourself. You love being a healer, but you hate that you often have to rely on the misfortune of others. Maybe it will be a young woman, happy to be pregnant and they’ll ask you for assistance to deliver the baby when the time comes. 

You hear the door open and close. Still pouring the freshy made oil, you glance at the door and very nearly lose the preparation that took you over six hours to make.

“Geralt,” you whisper.

His brows raise slightly in surprise as he greets you by name in a low rumble that you hadn’t heard in nearly two years.

You’re frozen by the shock of seeing the Witcher again and by the uncertainty of how to react to his unexpected appearance at your door. You stare at each other, he seems as unable to decide what to do as you are.

Geralt's brows raise higher and he says your name again, this time with urgency and while taking long strides to your side.

You turn back to your work and curse. In your bewilderment, you haven’t stopped pouring and oil is leaking over the sides of the cheese cloth and onto your table and apron.

Geralt takes the pot out of your hands and you start to mop up the spill. It doesn’t look like you lost too much and you sigh with relief. When you’ve wiped up as much as you can, you  try to take your apron off, but your fingers are oily and make gripping the tie difficult.

“Let me,” Geralt says. You jump, you didn’t realise he was standing so close behind you.

His fingers brush across the bare skin of your neck as he pulls at the strings of your apron and his touch makes your spine tighten and lock. His body presses against your back as he reaches around your waist and unties the long doubled over strings tied your front. He doesn’t move when the apron loosens and you pull it off, instead he rests his hands on your hips while you wipe your oily fingers on the roughened cotton.

“I have to wash my hands,” you say, proud of the fact that your voice is calm and strong. “Take a seat.”

You slip out of Geralt’s reach and over to your fireplace. You take the kettle from its spot on your stove and pour some heated water into your wash bowl and quickly lather your hands in soap. You take the time to compose yourself. There are so many questions running through your mind you aren’t sure where to start.

“How did you find me?” you ask while you dry your hands.

“I didn’t,” Geralt says. “I’m as surprised to find you here as you are.”

You nod and keep rubbing your dry hands against the towel.

“It wasn’t for a lack of trying,” he mutters under his breath.

Your brows furrow. Geralt had tried to find you? You found that odd considering the events that led to your parting of ways.

“So I shouldn’t have to move again? Did I cover my tracks?” you ask, dreading the answer.

“If I couldn’t find you, it’s unlikely those fools could.”

You let out a breath you weren’t even aware you had been holding, then fold the towel and place it next to the basin. Although Geralt’s answers are a relief, they do raise more questions.

“So what brings you here then?”

Geralt shifts in the chair. “I was passing through.”

“No, I mean why are you seeking a healer? Are you hurt?”

“No,” he says.

“Then what do you need a healer for?”

“Nevermind. It can wait until I get back to Kaer Morhen.”

“But that's several weeks' journey from here.”

“Vesemir will know what to do.”

“Geralt, please? Just tell me.”

He hums, his lips thinning as he thinks. Then he takes a deep breath and says quickly, “I think I’m unwell, or maybe poisoned by something I am unfamiliar with.”

You frown. He sounds uneasy, that isn’t like him. Immediately your clinical detachment overrides any other emotions you have about Geralt’s unexpected appearance and you begin your examination.

“What are the symptoms?”

“I can’t sleep. There’s an ache in my chest; it’s as if I can’t breathe sometimes. I get headaches, and my heart races sometimes. I can’t concentrate and I’m slow to react.” He relays the information in a tone that tries to make him appear unbothered, as if any one of those symptoms aren’t serious enough on their own, let alone altogether.

“And how long has this been going on?”

“Months,” he says.

Mentally you start checking off symptoms and ask clarifying questions, but each answer he gives only adds to your confusion.

Eventually you shake your head and begin to gather supplies and motion towards the bed. “I’ll need to do a physical examination. Please remove your clothes and lay on the bed. You can cover yourself with the sheet.”

Geralt doesn’t move and for a moment you think he is going to refuse. Then he stands slowly, and begins to pull his loose black shirt from his leather pants.

Although you are a healer and are used to seeing men in all sorts of compromising positions, your face burns while you watch him undress out of the corner of your eye. The last time you saw him partially naked… You shake your head as if that will stop the memories of the night he helped you escape from your old village’s Alderman and his cronies.

When Geralt is settled on the bed, you begin by finding his pulse in his neck. His skin is so warm, almost hot, but not quite feverish. You don’t know a lot about Witchers and how their mutations affect their anatomy and function, but you know enough that Geralt’s heart is beating far faster than it should be. 

Your hands move over his chest and down to his belly. He jumps slightly as you dig your fingers into his skin. For a moment your detachment slips and you bite your lip as you look down at your hands resting on Geralt’s stomach. Your fingers brush over his smooth skin in a motion that's much too much like a caress to be professional.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I should have warned you. I get in my head sometimes and forget that the patient doesn’t know what I’m doing. I’m trying to feel your organs to make sure none are painful or swollen.”

He nods and you inhale deeply, trying to regain your clinical attitude. 

You prod at his stomach, searching for his liver. You have to press hard, pushing against muscle much firmer than even that of the strong farmers you’ve treated over the years.

Quickly you become lost in the work and your hands move gently over his muscles, checking his stomach and guts, and his bladder. You’re so caught up in your examination that you don’t notice the growing hardness that lays over his abdomen until your palm accidentally brushes against it.

You pull your hands away as if they had been burnt. You look at Geralt and your lock onto his deep amber eyes. He’s blushing.

Geralt is blushing.

But he does not look away and neither do you.

“When was the last time you were with a woman?” you ask.

There is a subtle change in his face, a slight tightening of the jaw before he finally averts his eyes. 

“Months.”

So you can’t rule out some kind of sex disease. Your ears and cheeks feel aflame, but you have to ask. 

“When was the last time you touched your…”

Geralt's jaw still twitches beneath the rough growth on his cheek. “I can’t remember.”

“Days, weeks, months?”

“Months.”

“Why haven’t you?”

Geralt drags his gaze back to you and those amber eyes of his are bright, almost glowing in the firelight. It's the kind of look that would once have had your knees shaking, but you put your hands on your hips and look back just as steely eyed.

“I need to know if it still works, Geralt. Can you still maintain—”

“Yes.”

“Can you reach—”

“I don’t know,” he says harshly. Then his voice softens and he says quietly, “I haven’t tried.”

“Why not? Lack of motivation or interest?”

“No.”

“Then why? Lack of available women? I find that hard to believe.”

“It's not hard to believe when the one you want isn’t available,” Geralt mutters so quietly you almost don’t catch it.

“Oh,” you say softly.

You’re beginning to realise what might be wrong with him, but first you have to rule a couple of things out. Your mouth is dry as you clear your throat and lift the sheet and trail your fingers up his inner thigh.

“I have to check… here.”

Geralt closes his eyes, his jaw clenches, and his whole body goes tight as you enclose his sack with your hand. Gently, you roll them with your fingers, searching for lumps or signs of abnormalities. But you find nothing except a perfect example of male vitality, even if he was unable to father children.

Your fingers itch to move higher, to feel his throbbing cock in your hand. He looks so big and thick beneath the thin sheet. You bite your lip as you withdraw your hand, but your eyes never leave the growing wet patch that turns the cloth translucent enough to see the dark and angry reddish, purple skin of the tip of his cock.

Geralt's hand wraps around your wrist stopping you from making your retreat. He says your name in a voice thick with lust.

“Don’t stop,” he says, guiding your hand back beneath the sheet. “Please, I need…” his voice trails off as the tip of your fingers grazes the silky smooth skin of his cock.

“I can help,” you say. “I can give you relief, but it won’t be enough.”

Geralt looks stricken. “Why not?”

“I think you ache. Your body, your mind, your heart… But most of all here…”

You wrap your hand around him. God, he feels so hot and hard, you’re barely able to suppress a moan. Geralt doesn’t hold back, he groans as his hips give a huge jerk and raises himself up and leans on elbows. He throws off the sheet and groans again at the sight of how small your hand looks wrapped around him.

“She must be beautiful,” you say.

“Who?” he says, his eyes fixed on your hand.

“The one who you’re in love with. The one who is making you unwell.”

Geralt tilts his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

You stroke him, moving your hand softly, while you try and fail to keep yourself detached from what you are doing. 

“You’re nothing more than lovesick,” you tell him, “I can give you some relief but if you want to be free of this pain, then you must have her.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his lips part and his chest works hard as he keeps staring at your hand. No, not your hand, now he’s staring at you.

“She is,” he says sincerely, “She’s very beautiful.”

“She’s very lucky,” you say.

Geralt shakes his head. “I would be the one that's lucky to have her.”

A spike of jealousy pierces your heart and completely shatters your carefully compartmentalised rational objectivity and releases a surge of erotic desire. You pause, staring into Geralt’s scorching eyes and wonder what on earth you are doing.

You take a deep breath and turn away from him, desperately grasping for a way to remain aloof.

“Lay back and close your eyes,” you tell him.

“It’s better for me if I watch,” he says in a voice that reverberates from deep within his chest.

“Oh,” you breathe.

“Keep going,” he says, “I need this.”

So you keep going. You start lazily, stroking, working him, trying not to notice the pulses of the thick veins, the silkiness of his skin as it slides over him, or the fluid that gathers at the tip that your thumb collects with each sweep over the head.

Harder to ignore are the sounds he makes; the moans that start as gentle rumbles, almost purr like in his throat and quickly become guttural groans.

His hand moves down his belly, slipping beneath your pumping arm and his fingers graze his balls before pulling gently on the skin. 

You can’t stop yourself and you glance at him, his eyes are waiting there for yours. He growls, sweat breaks over his brow and makes the hair on his chest glisten in the firelight. He’s beautiful; the quintessential picture of maleness, and full of animal sexual lust. 

And he can’t take his eyes off you.

The hand between his legs is suddenly wrapped around your waist as he sits up. His mouth is so close, all of him is so close, and somehow just being held by him is far more intimate than having your hand wrapped around his cock.

His hand is on your cheek, his nose rubs against yours and he whispers, “Why did you leave?”

Your brows furrow with confusion. “I… Because I got away. You said you’d help me get away and that was it, we’d go our separate ways.”

“I said I’d take you somewhere safe. That I’d keep you safe.”

“Same thing,” you say.

“No,” he says so softly, it's barely more than a rough breath. “No it’s not.”

His thumb runs over your lips, his fingers caress your neck. 

“I searched for you,” he says. “For so long. Then, I mourned you. I still mourn you.”

“I’m right here, Geralt,” you tell him. “I’m alright.”

“But I’m not. You made me love sick.”

You gasp. Your body starts to tremble, as you try to make sense of what he said. 

“Geralt—”

His fingers cover your lips to hush you and he whispers, “Don’t stop, let me have this just once and I’ll be gone if you want me to.”

You nod and he sighs with relief. You look down at your hand still firmly wrapped around his cock. Keeping your eyes on Geralt’s, you bend at the waist, licking your lips. His eyes grow dark as he watches your tongue peek sweep across the soft verges of your mouth.

“Fuck, what are you doing?” Geralt asks, in a voice that hints at panic but also deep longing.

You keep lowering your head until your lips brush over the silky skin of his cock and your lips part, taking him into your mouth. Geralt shudders and with a long moan, falls back onto the bed.

“Fuck.”

His hands cradle your head, stroking your hair, caressing your neck, touching you as much as he can while he arches up into your mouth. You fall into a rhythm, your hand moves over him while your mouth follows, sucking softly and massaging with your tongue. 

It’s not long until his breath starts to catch in his throat and starting at his thighs and belly, tremors seem to work through his muscles until his whole body is trembling.

He’s close, and part of you wants to draw back because you don’t want this to end so soon. But he lifts his head and you see the look on his face, see the need burning in his eyes and the unspoken desperate plea in his parted lips.

You move faster, sucking harder and taking him deeper into your mouth. He needs this and you want to ease him of the suffering he’s had all these months. He bends his leg, his heel digs deep into the hard mattress as he calls your name while his body surges. He holds your head in place while he begins to release thick and heavy jets into your mouth.

A little shaken, you release him from your mouth and raise your head. You let him go, allowing your fingers to trail over his thigh while his muscles twitch as he catches his breath. His eyes are closed and a smile breaks across his face.

While your heart soars to see him enjoying his post orgasm euphoria, there is a heaviness in your chest.

Geralt loves you.

And you don’t know what to do about it.

While he’s distracted and to hopefully give you time to think, you fall back onto what you know. You pour fresh water into your wash bowl and bring it over to the bed, carefully wring out the cloth and begin to wash him. Falling into an almost meditative state, you start to wash his hand, watching with satisfaction as the road dust and dirt wipes away.

You work your way up his arm, then his shoulders, then you lean over the broad expanse of his chest to clean his face. His eyes are open now, watching you expectantly.

He lets you wipe his brow, then down his nose and sweep across his cheeks. Before you get to his lips, you lower your head and press your lips against his.

As his arms encircle your waist and he kisses you back, you decide you will never let him become love sick again.

[some-froggish-lad]

I love that in most other fandoms if in a modern au fanfic authors justify a character's strange features, or shift them so they can be possible as a normal human, but lots of modern witcher aus just leave Geralt be. Like, yeah, he's just a 30 year old man with bright white hair and yellow eyes. Yeah he's a normal human, why?

[jaedia]

Got lots of plot written up for my first Witcher fic, and also started on a scene I had an idea for a couple nights ago yesterday and got lots written. So so proud of myself. Wanna hear what it's about?

So when Jaskier is kidnapped by Rience, the torture he undergoes lights a spark inside of him. After a series of unfortunate events, he finds himself infused with magic. Wild magic, at that. Yep, Wild Magic Sorcerer (á la D&D vibes), and he just cannot comprehend how magic works. In fact he might even be whatever the magic-inclined version of dyslexic is. It's super hard for him and even worse, the wild magic triggers at times and gets him into all sorts of trouble (and shenanigans). Some pieces will be semi-Netflix canon-adjacent (couple things from season 2 and 3) but mostly it's its own thing and I'm super excited to get this written, work out exactly where I want the story to go, and then get it published so you all can read along with me! Get excited, folks. My writing era begins now. ✨

Oh and er... yeah. We are running with queer Jaskier, lots of "but what if?", I'm a big fan of the games so characterisation may pull from there a bit (aside from Jaskier, he is forever Joey Batey in my heart), it will be dark and angsty, with moments of lightness of course... it's Jaskier, even traumatised he has to lighten the mood from time to time. Ciri too. 🥰

[letmelickyoureyeballs]

Hello to anyone who sees this! I am a beta reader looking for some more fics to help with. If you are interested please refer to this post first for some more in depth details about me and how I can help before dming me. I am fine with pretty much everything, though I would prefer fandom fics instead of original works and novels.

[stangalina]

"I am so, so sorry." Jaskier said the moment the door closed behind him.

Geralt didn't respond, taking a moment to subtly look around the room he'd just been brought into. It was a combination of an office and a bedroom, a room with bookshelves on every wall and a desk near the window, and a room with a reasonably large bed and several shelves and cupboards, separated by an open archway. The archway had a curtain that could be drawn across, but judging by the sun damage on the fabric tie holding it aside, it hadn't been drawn in years. Possibly ever.

The shelves were full of trinkets and and curiosities, some of which Geralt recognised as things Jaskier had collected while travelling by his side. There were so many that they displaced the books meant to be on the shelves, the books instead being left in neat piles on the floor. The cold wooden floorboards were covered up with a rug that would have been rather expensive when it was first bought, and the window in each section of the room had thick curtains that could be drawn to keep in warmth. Next to the bed, there was a reasonably sized fireplace that clearly hadn't been lit in a while, but it was clean and looked perfectly functional.

He was dimly aware that Jaskier was still apologising, but Jaskiers voice was classified as "pleasant background noise" by his brain, so listening to every word the bard said was not automatic. That, and his rambling apologies were completely unnecessary.

"-I understand if you are angry with me but I-"

"I'm not angry." He interrupted, looking away from the room and back to Jaskier.

"You... Aren't?"

Geralt shook his head.

"You successfully found us lodging for the winter. Like you said you would."

"By sacrificing your pride! Honestly, I spend my whole entire life trying to show the world that Witchers are people worthy of love, kindness and respect only to throw it all away in front of my peers without even thinking! And now you're going to have to be around their arrogant asses all god-forsaken winter, I'm so sorry Geralt." Jaskier rambled, sounding honestly distraught.

"No, I- hmm." Geralt tried to talk, but couldn't come up with the words to explain how he felt about what just happened. "I have been called significantly worse things in my lifetime."

"That doesn't make it better!"

Really, he had been called far worse. In comparison to butcher, beast, feral creature, mutant and monster; "dog" was exceedingly tame.

"I'm going to strangle that alcoholic fossil the next time I see him." Jaskier hissed.

"Don't. I'm not in the mood to help you hide a body."

"You won't need to. I know this place like the back of my hand. They won't find his body until it goes putrid and bursts."

The amount of distain Jaskier could pack into his words was a marvel to behold. Geralt had to calm him down, or Jaskier may actually follow through with that threat. It wouldn't be the first time he'd killed a man, but it would likely get him into some sort of trouble.

"You are not not murdering your colleagues, Jaskier." Geralt asserted, looking around the room for the best place to set down his bag.

Jaskier whimpered pathetically.

"You're right. If anyone deserves to die it's me right now. I'm a master of the seven liberal arts for Melitele's sake, why couldn't I come up with a better idea!?"

A better idea. Geralt pondered that for a minute. He tried to think of an alternate way they could have gotten out of that situation.

Off the top of his head, all plausible alternatives ended in some form of subterfuge, separation, roughing it out in the snow, or getting arrested.

So, on the scale of bad ideas, this was one of the better ones. In fact it may be the best bad idea Jaskier has ever had.

Even if it meant getting Geralt into Oxenfurt under the "pet" clause in Jaskiers contract.

Turns out, to stay as a guest at Oxenfurt Academy, you need to give the institute prior warning so they can add you to the list of people on campus for that year. In other words, guests staying for more than a night or two need to book in over a year in advance.

So when Geralt's last job of the year ran dangerously long and an early thick snowfall rolled in from the south, snowing in the pass to Kear Morhen ahead of schedule and leaving Geralt with nowhere to spend the winter, leading to Jaskiers offer to winter with him in the halls of Oxenfurt Academy, he was unfortunately denied entry.

Jaskier did not take kindly to being told "no" and argued with the aging professor that had met them at the gate for over ten minutes about technicalities and semantics. The professor was as unmoved as a stone column throughout the whole ordeal, stubbornly sticking to the academy's rules. It soon became clear that Jaskier was not going to be able to convince him.

Just as Geralt was about to interject so Jaskier didn't get reprimanded for being mouthy, Jaskier stopped arguing and gained a strange glint to his eyes.

He told Geralt to stay put and walked the professor away from the gate and around a corner that would be out of range if Geralt had human hearing.

Geralt then listened intently as Jaskier smarmily explained to the professor that he saw Geralt as more of a well trained guard dog than a friend, and that since professors at Oxenfurt are allowed up to three pets, he should be able to bring him in. When the professor made a shaky objection, Jaskier took on an incredibly arrogant tone and explained that Witchers are not human, and thus should be classed as pets.

Surely. He asked. Surely a professor of his calibre did not think Witchers were human?

The professor had no choice but to agree.

And now, here they were. In Jaskiers room that they would share for the upcoming winter, in an academy full of people that, thanks to gossip, would soon all know that the White Wolf was brought into Oxenfurt as the loyal pet dog of Julian Alfred Pankratz viscount de Lettenhove.

"Jaskier." Geralt said after dropping his bag and stepping closer to his friend. "I already told you, I'm not angry."

"The fact that you're not angry at being called a dog upsets me greatly dear heart." Jaskier admitted in a tender tone, leaning bodily against the closed door at his back.

"Insults don't bother me Jaskier." Geralt said.

Jaskier glared at him, the look in his eyes accusing those words as a lie. Geralt continued to talk regardless.

"But you weren't insulting me. You were tricking a man into giving us bed and board. And I know you wouldn't have said it if you weren't sure it would work. Right?"

Jaskier opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. He couldn't refute Geralt's words.

"And now we both have winter safe and indoors, with food and fire. You have work to do, and they'll probably have some use for me in this place." Geralt took another step closer. "So stop fucking apologising."

Jaskier closed the distance between them, their chests met and Jaskiers forehead fell to rest on Geralt's shoulder. He sighed heavily.

"I suppose you're right. No point dwelling on what's already been done." Jaskier admitted heavily. "But!" He suddenly said, tone much more like his usual self. "I refuse to forgo giving you any kind of compensation for having to deal with that impotent old fuck! And whatever bullshit the nobles in this place are bound to pull before the snow melts in spring. Sooooo," He drew out the word, stepping back from Geralt. "How about I make you a bath? Scalding hot, perfect for your witchery constitution. Hmm?"

It was an obvious attempt to soothe his own guilt. But... Geralt was never one to say no to a bath. Especially not a bath made by Jaskier.

"Bathing your dog? What a good master." Geralt said, smiling a little at his own joke.

"Shut up you arse." Jaskier hissed as he left the room.

[messypeaches]

Wrote a thing!

[ladynearthelake]

More Radskier? More Radskier!

[patroclusdefencesquad]

still obsessed with that silly little man i guess

[nonbinarylesbianherb]

my brain trying to stop me from writing fanfics instead of studying

[hanzajesthanza]

it really does matter so much that fringilla vigo is nilfgaardian, beauclairoise, for many reasons, but let's start here:

her entire role is that of an illusionist; one which she would not be were it not for her family lineage, rooted in beauclair:

There was a corridor in Beauclair Palace, and at the end a chamber, the existence of which no one knew about. (...) The corridor and the chamber, disguised by a powerful illusion, were known only to the palace’s original elven builders. And later–when the elves had gone, and Toussaint became a duchy–to the small number of sorcerers linked to the ducal house. Including Artorius Vigo, a master of magical arcana and great specialist in illusions. And his young niece, Fringilla, who had a special talent for illusions.

and since her talent in illusions is well-defined in the series, as it is her who grants geralt the very silver-mounted chrysoprase amulet which saves his life in the final fight against vilgefortz:

Geralt clenched Fringilla’s medallion in his fist. The bar fell with a clang, striking the floor a foot from the Witcher’s head. Geralt rolled away and quickly got up on one knee. Vilgefortz leaped forward and struck. The bar missed the target again by a few inches. The sorcerer shook his head in disbelief and hesitated for a second. (...) ‘I didn’t know …’ Yennefer said at last, scrambling out of a pile of rubble. She looked terrible. The blood trickling from her nose had poured all over her chin and cleavage. ‘I didn’t know you could cast illusory spells,’ she repeated, seeing Geralt’s uncomprehending gaze, ‘capable even of deceiving Vilgefortz.’ ‘It’s my medallion.’ ‘Aha.’ She looked suspicious. ‘A curious thing...’

that talent is something which cannot, by far, be separated from her character. and returning back to her lineage, it is again her familial relations which place her in beauclair.

she was positioned there, ready to intercept geralt, as early as the autumnal equinox in september, by which time geralt had barely just left the town of riedbrune:

The world over, the autumn Equinox was a night of spectres, nightmares and apparitions, a night of sudden, suffocating awakenings, fraught with menace, among sweat-soaked and rumpled sheets. Neither did the most illustrious escape the apparitions and awakenings; (...) In the huge castle of Montecalvo the sorceress Philippa Eilhart leaped from damask sheets, without waking the Comte de Noailles’ wife. The dwarf Yarpen Zigrin in Mahakam, the old witcher Vesemir in the mountain stronghold of Kaer Morhen, the bank clerk Fabio Sachs in the city of Gors Velen and Yarl Crach an Craite on board the longboat Ringhorn all awoke more or less abruptly. The sorceress Fringilla Vigo came awake in Beauclair Castle*, as did the priestess Sigrdrifa of the temple of the goddess Freyja on the island of Hindarsfjall.

* Slight correction - As explained in Chapter 3 of Lady of the Lake, Beauclair is not a castle, but a palace.

and she's only invited to beauclair in such a capacity because she is a relative of the duchess:

‘I’m in Beauclair because the largest, best-stocked library in the known world is here. Apart from university libraries, naturally. But universities are jealous of giving access to their shelves, and here I’m a relation and good friend of Anarietta and can do as I wish.’

(whom, you may note, she stands by and jointly receives geralt with at their first meeting, and participates in the festival of the vat with)

and therefore, she was in a perfectly strategic position to delay geralt, keep him captive:

‘(...) Please at least tell us … has the Witcher calmed down now? Are you capable of keeping him in Toussaint at least until May?’ (…) ‘No,’ she answered at last. ‘Probably not until May. But I’ll do everything in my power to keep him here as long as possible.’

because fringilla is not just an illusionist literally, as in the magic she is naturally gifted at, but 'illusionist' is her entire identity as a character.

and as her family hails from beauclair, this specific identity is compounded with the fact that beauclair itself is the center of illusions, a dreamland, a fairytale:

‘There’s something bewitched about this place, this fucking Toussaint. Some kind of charm hangs over the whole valley. Especially over the palace (...) no two ways about it, there’s something bewitched about this bloody Toussaint.’

fringilla is an illusionist because she is beauclairoise. she not only hails from a long line of illusionists, but hails from, is related to the ruler of, the very city of illusions and dreams.

she is the illusionist not just in a literal sense, but in the entire narrative role of casting an illusion over our hero, because it is the illusion of love which keeps her and geralt in beauclair. (the tricky trick is that geralt, taking a page out of yennefer's playbook of seduction, cleverness, patience, was able to cast an illusion upon the mistress of illusions herself, free himself from the witch's spell, awake from a pleasant dream to face the harsh reality).

(sighs) and even if you want to forget fringilla's beauclairoise identity and erase her entire positioning as the illusionist which poses a threat to our heroes, entices them to complacency, her role as nilfgaardian in the sense of her academic identity and imperial service also defines her.

because it is also fringilla, the illusionist who casts the wool over people's eyes... who blinded yennefer at sodden hill.

‘We’ve already met,’ Yennefer spoke again. ‘I don’t recall,’ Fringilla said without looking away. ‘I’m not surprised. But I have a good memory for faces and figures. I saw you from Sodden Hill.’ ‘In which case there can be no mistake,’ Fringilla Vigo said and raised her head proudly, sweeping her eyes over all those present. ‘I was at the Battle of Sodden.’ (...) ‘Occasionally one happens to see another person for only a split second, right before going blind, and one takes a dislike to them instantly.’ ‘Oh, enmity is considerably more complicated,’ Fringilla said, squinting. ‘Imagine someone you don’t know at all standing at the top of a hill, and ripping a friend of yours to shreds in front of your eyes. You neither saw them nor know them at all, but you still don’t like them.’ ‘So it goes,’ Yennefer said, shrugging. (...)

fringilla's (proud!) participation at the battle of sodden is a crux of the lodge, because she alongside her good friend, the scholarly assire, they are nilfgaardians who, owing to their nationality, find challenges meshing with the northern sorcereresses. the lodge brought together representatives of magic across nationalities in the midst of a raging, bloody war between them all.

and it's so integral to fringilla's character that she has imperial biases, that she approaches even the international lodge with an imperialist view.

with no factual basis, she initially exotifies and sexualizes the northern sorceresses, despite her own prior denial of these base stereotypes:

Fringilla Vigo was putting on a brave face, but she was anxious and stressed. She herself had often reprimanded young Nilfgaardian mages for uncritically yielding to stereotypical opinions and notions. She herself had regularly ridiculed the crude image painted by gossip and propaganda of the typical sorceress from the North: artificially beautiful, arrogant, vain and spoiled to the limits of perversion, and often beyond them. (...) Her untrammelled imagination offered up images of impossibly gorgeous women with diamond necklaces resting on naked breasts with rouged nipples, women with moist lips and eyes glistening from the effects of alcohol and narcotics. In her mind’s eye Fringilla could already see the gathering becoming a wild and depraved orgy accompanied by frenzied music, aphrodisiacs, and slaves of both sexes using exotic accessories.

she even has a difficult time understanding why the northern sorceresses are upset about the nilfgaardian invasion, believing it to be a boon to their society. only through their discussion does she just barely begin to grasp the meaning of "invasion" and why she wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it:

Some were clearly anxious about the close proximity of Nilfgaard. Fringilla had mixed feelings. She had assumed that such educated people would understand that the Empire was bringing culture, prosperity, order and political stability to the North. On the other hand, though, she didn’t know how she would have reacted herself, were foreign armies approaching her home.

all of this indoctrination into imperial beliefs, at the same time that she is an educated woman, and herself, as an imperial sorceress, known for being rebellious and an upstart within her own culture:

‘Stop staring,’ Assire said, touching her bouffant and glistening curls. ‘I decided to make a few changes. Why, I just took your lead.’ ‘I was always taken as an oddball and a rebel,’ Fringilla Vigo chuckled. ‘But when they see you in the academy or at court…’

this is such a chaotic rambling post, but all i want to say is that fringilla's character, like most of the minor characters in the witcher series, was not invented through random generation, a roll of the dice, a spin of the wheel. her specific traits - such as her nationality, lineage, talents - all relate back thematically. everything is relevant, specifically chosen to create a specific character.

if once changes her backstory (e.g., to place her at aretuza... though i don't know who would do such a thing for no reason) they would change her entire character, the series' commentary on imperialism, and because of her role she takes later on, even the entire ending of the story.