#the wench an the witcher

[fereldanwench]

the squid game hype came and went so fast when the first season was released i didn't even have time to process its existence let alone watch it

but husbando and i rectified that this past week, and yeah, we're fully on board the hype train

he usually doesn't like watching more than about 2 episodes of a show in one sitting, but we've been doing 3-4 in a night on his request

[astralnymphh]

hear me out. medieval!au. king!ellie x peasant!reader but soon to be queen. wedding night. experienced!ellie corrupting virgin!reader. with ellie impregnating the reader with a magic strap cuz this is the fantasy universe 😩

omg she'd be such a hot king.

let's just take a hot minute to visualize that. dark velvety cape of a crimson shade draped over her shoulders, an array of gold rings stacked upon her svelte fingers– clanking when she wiggles her digits around in gesture/thought, gripping down the hard leather of her pants (leather pants cause that's hot + my mind snapped to a witcher au tbh so fantasy medieval) which make a rough squeeze with each clamp, like when she's flustered or sumn. manspreads like.. always when situated upon her ornamented throne born of luxury oak, cushions, and jewels.

now, god.. for the reader. maybe like a peasant reader who advances to the class of a ladies maid? ladies in waiting? maybe for her wife and one day invites you to her bed chamber, queen unknowing, sits down in a big oaken chair and pats her lap like "indulge me, won't you?" n waits too patiently for you to ensconce yourself in that lap. her fingers would curl and urge your chin up with a nudge, breath of warmth gusting over your midface, whispering, "might you.. attend to me, my swan?" so sweet and gentle until she has you splayed like a village wench– if you like it rough– and pounding her thickset cock into you, glowing with a sunset orange sweat, every noise echoing through that bastardly large bedroom. omg puts her cape under you too? likes it when you scratch her back up terribly good cause no soul will see that. endlessly uttering how, "m'going to fuck my bloodline, deep– deep in you, crown you the new queen? what shall we do about your highness, hmm?" wait now that ive written this out it sound really REALY tempting GUYS HELP HELP AHHHHHH WAIT DO I WRITE THIS?? AHHHHH?? I LOVE IT??

ik it says wedding night soon to be queen but the idea of idk maybe an affair or decrowning the other queen.. kinda eats!

does this pose as a king constantly?? HELP?? (pic from ellies galaxy on pinterest)

[hanzajesthanza]

one of the best parts of regis' character is his unwavering role as a protector of women and girls in particular.

from when he's introduced, one of his roles is to immediately assist the refugee women and children of their party:

‘(...) a physician may come in handy. We have women and children in the party. Among the stinking medicaments I can smell about you, would you have a remedy for blisters?’ ‘I ought to have something,’ the barber-surgeon said softly. ‘Glad to be of assistance. (...)’

and only decides to join their company after he has examined them and ensured that they have been treated well by the company:

‘And we, although you don’t know us at all, look like people you could travel with safely. Was one glance enough for you?’ ‘Two,’ the barber-surgeon replied with a faint smile. ‘One at the women you’re looking after. And the other at their children.’

then we have the 'pet the dog' moment of the horseshoe, in which he steps in, unrequired, to save the girl:

‘One moment,’ Emiel Regis said, placing a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. ‘Please withhold your prayers.’ The barber-surgeon walked over to the fire, bowed to the priest and the audience, then stooped rapidly and put his hand into the hot coals. The crowd screamed as one, Zoltan cursed and Milva dug her fingers into Geralt’s arm. Regis straightened up, calmly looked down at the white-hot horseshoe he was holding, and walked unhurriedly over to the priest. The priest took a step back, bumping into the peasants standing behind him. ‘This was the idea, if I’m not mistaken, your reverence.’ Regis said, holding up the horseshoe. ‘Baptism of fire? If so, I believe the divine judgement is unambiguous. The girl is innocent. (...)’

an act which geralt reflects on as honorable:

‘(...) He didn’t hesitate to act during that girl’s trial at the camp by the Chotla. Although he knew it would unmask him.’

and later, treats this same girl's burns, with gentleness and the best skill, using his powers for good:

Nearby, a young woman with an arm wrapped in none too clean rags was playing with two children on the sand. As soon as she raised her misty, blank eyes to him the Witcher recognised her. ‘We untied her from the wagon, which was already in flames,’ the dwarf explained. ‘It almost finished the way that priest wanted. You know, the one who was after her blood. She passed through a baptism of fire, nonetheless. The flames were licking at her, scorching her to the raw flesh. We dressed her wounds as well as we could. We covered her in lard, but it’s a bit messy. Barber-surgeon, if you would…?’ ‘Right away.’ When Regis tried to peel off the dressing the girl whimpered, retreating and covering her face with her good hand. Geralt approached to hold her still, but the vampire gestured him to stop. He looked deeply into the girl’s vacant eyes, and she immediately calmed down and relaxed. Her head drooped gently on her chest. She didn’t even flinch when Regis carefully peeled off the dirty rag and smeared an intense and strange smelling ointment on her burnt arm.

he forms a great friendship with milva, and is quite respectful to her. even when he gets a little short with dandelion, cahir, or geralt, his speaking to milva is always very patient:

‘We can solve this amicably,’ Regis said in a kind voice. ‘If I understand rightly, Miss Milva is reluctant to hand over her horse to a stranger…’

especially when he's explaining something to her, aware of how she depreciates herself for being uneducated:

‘I don’t understand fuck all,’ Milva announced calmly, brushing the hair from her forehead with an arrow tip. ‘I hear you’re talking about fairy-tales, and even I know fairy-tales, though I’m a foolish wench from the forest. So it astonishes me that you aren’t afraid of the sun, Regis. In fairy-tales sunlight burns a vampire to ash. Should I lump it together with the other fairy-tales?’ ‘Of course you should,’ Regis confirmed. ‘(...) We, higher vampires, have also moved some way from our primeval crypts. We have appropriated the day. The analogy is complete. Does this explanation satisfy you, my dear Milva?’

he provides care for her when it comes to her pregnancy,

‘Wholesome, regular meals,’ Regis began to list. ‘No stress. Sufficient sleep. And soon the end of horseback riding.’

‘(...) Milva’s condition, which is neither an illness nor a disability. The girl must, of course, take care of herself, but she is utterly healthy and physically fit. I would even say more than fit. The hormones—’ ‘Drop the patronising, superior tone,’ Geralt interrupted, ‘because it’s getting on my nerves.’

it is on his demand that geralt consoles her and lets her know she has a choice in the matter. ("total unanimity" = ensuring that milva is sure about her decision of abortion, and does not feel coerced by their rough circumstances)

‘What’s this all about then? Unanimity? Total agreement? Is that what you’re expecting?’ ‘You know very well what it’s about,’ the vampire answered. ‘You sense perfectly what ought to be done. But since you ask, I shall tell you. Yes, Geralt, that’s precisely what it’s about. Yes, that’s precisely what ought to be done. And no, it’s not me that’s expecting it.’

and in the end, saves her life when she miscarries.

‘You lugged me from that ferry and that bridge on your back,’ Milva began softly, ‘when infirmity robbed me of my legs. If there’d been a coward there, instead of you, he’d have left me and fled. There was no coward, though. Only you, Regis.’

he constantly stands up for her and looks out for her interests:

‘It turned out that Milva was well,’ said the Witcher pensively, ‘although she still had a bandage around her ribs. She remained in her chamber, though, and refused to leave, not wanting at any cost to put on the dress she’d been presented with. It looked as though there would be a protocolary scandal, but the omniscient Regis pacified the situation. After quoting a good dozen precedents he made the chamberlain bring a male outfit to the archer.’

and past her, he also gives respect to angouleme, respect that perhaps the little criminal snot doesn't deserve, even when she is disrespecting him, but he grants her respect anyhow.

he's familiar and amiable with them, coaxing them as his friends out of arguments:

‘Shut it, you brat! And don’t call me aunty!’ ‘Come, come,’ Regis interjected placatingly. ‘Girls, take it easy. Milva, Angoulême. Let there be concord. United we stand, divided we fall. (...)’

but nimue, you're saying, this is all just in broader service to humanity. and it's not a very high bar to cross, it's simply good deeds and friendship. what does it matter that these are women? that he's trustworthy and upstanding?

because the myth of the vampire involves a predatory aspect to women and children. something which he actually discusses and expertly dissects:

‘I left this myth until the end,’ Regis said, looking him up and down. ‘I would have tactfully passed over it, but since Geralt has challenged me, I won’t spare you. Humans are most powerfully influenced by fears with a sexual origin. The virgin fainting in the embrace of a vampire who drinks her blood. The young man falling prey to the vile practices of a female vampire running her lips over his body. That’s how you imagine it. Oral rape. Vampires paralyse their victims with fear and force them to have oral sex. (...) You have turned it into a baleful myth. You unconsciously dream of something like it, but shy away from offering it to your lovers. So it’s done for you by the mythological vampire, who as a result swells to become a fascinating symbol of evil.’

because we see 'the vampire that lives in this burial ground' get blamed for the slaughter of a woman and child, which he did not fucking do:

‘Who saw the vampire?’ Geralt asked, hushing his companions with a telling glance. ‘Why do you think you should be looking for him here?’ The peasants whispered among themselves. ‘No one saw him,’ the peasant in the felt cap finally admitted. ‘Or heard him. How can you see him when he flies at night, in the dark? How can you hear him when he flies on bat’s wings, without a sound?’ ‘We didn’t see the vampire,’ added another, ‘but there are signs of his ghastly practices. Ever since the moon’s been full, the fiend’s murdered one of our number every night. He’s already torn two people apart, ripped them to shreds. A woman and a stripling. Horrors and terrors! The vampire tore the poor wretches to ribbons and drank all their blood! What are we to do? Stand idly by for a third night?’

just another way he entirely, satisfyingly turns his trope upside-down, by being the very antithesis of predatory.

[polk-polovnikov]

A gift for the person in charge of Geralt from The Witcher Ask.

The inscriptions on the art:

– Where is Ciri?

– Well, well, gray-haired, calm down

There she is

She fell to the floor, fluttered out of her pocket (just like from under your nose, hahaha!)

Aren't you celebrating today?

Take it, I give it to you!

(You go even more to the gwent tournaments, so you'll find your wench faster, of course.)

[astaldis]

Issue No. 34 - Medieval

@whumpers-monthly

Fandom: The Witcher

Whumpee: Cahir

Whumper: Leo Bonhart

Something Moving In The Shadows

Published: 2024-08-01; Completed: 2024-10-13; Words: 63,159; Chapters: 51/51

Mature, Graphic depictions of violence

Excerpt from Chapter 45: Prepare for death!

Warning: Spoilers for The Lady of the Lake

Cahir looks Bonhart in the eye. Pale and cold and dead, like fish eyes. A chill runs down his spine. This man is a ruthless killing machine, exactly such a one people believe Witchers to be, although they are not. He will be lucky to get out of this alive.

"Last chance to take to your heels," Bonhart says. "I want this wench. I don't bear a grudge against you. If you're not a Witcher, you'll be a corpse before you manage to blink. And if you are, it'll just take a little longer for you to bite the dust. Run. It'd be the wise thing to do."

"You talk big," Cahir says calmly, twirling his blade. "Let's see if your bite's worse than your bark."

"You asked for it, then." Bonhart squints his fishy eyes and moves forward, whirling his sword. "Prepare for death!" 

"Asked for it?" Cahir repeats. "No. It's what destiny wants!"

They leap at each other, their swords clashing with such force, sparks fly from the blades. Cahir attacks, hacking at his opponent with swift and powerful swings, but Bonhart parries every single one of them, the clang of metal against metal resounding throughout the room, making the marble statue tremble.

In the distance, another explosion reverberates through the castle walls.

Then Bonhart takes the offensive. They surround each other with a frantic kaleidoscope of blades, their swords swishing and whirling through the air. Cahir's sword grazes the bounty hunter's leg and droplets of bright red blood sprinkle the tiled floor. Bonhart curses and takes a step back.

"You aren't bad," he rasps when they come apart, both panting. "You aren't bad, my young blade. First blood. Hardly anybody has managed to do that. Maybe I was wrong and you are a Witcher." He narrows his eyes at Cahir, wiping sweat off his forehead. "But even if you are, it makes no difference. You're done for, and you know it."

"You talk big," Cahir says once more, trying hard to breathe deeply and calmly. But he knows Bonhart is not wrong. Their clash has convinced him that he has faint chance with the fish-eyed man. Although tall and slender himself, his opponent is taller, faster, has a wider reach with his almost abnormally long arms. Bonhart's sword is a lot better than his own, standard issue Nilfgaardian one, too. There are several kinks in the metal already from the clash of blades. Plus, when was his last real fight? More than half a year back, on that bridge across the Yarra, the river the Nordlings call Yaruga. Since then, he has spent most of his time sitting in a saddle, riding through snow and ice, blizzards and gales, but not sword fighting. In Toussaint he did spar a little with the knight errants once in a while, but they were not really a match for him and not eager to have their arses handed by a stranger. He is not at the top of his game, and it shows. His only chance is if Bonhart, impatient to get to Ciri, makes a mistake. But so far, his technique has been impeccable.

Again, Bonhart attacks. Again, the clanging of swords fills the chamber as they lunge, hack, swivel, duck and dodge. A deadly dance. Sweat is streaming down Cahir's brow, his shirt is drenched and sticky with it. A lot worse, though, is that his sword arm feels heavier with every blow, and he is slowing down, but his opponent is not. He has to end this, and soon, or Bonhart will end him. Putting all his remaining strength into it, Cahir parries another of the mercenaries blows, stoops, jumps, seizes his opponent by the belt, shoves him against the wall and knees him hard in the crotch. Any other man would be down on the ground, convulsing with pain, but the bounty hunter barely grimaces. He catches Cahir by the face in an iron grip, batters him powerfully on the side of his head with his sword pommel, once, twice, thrice. The third blow shoves Cahir back. He sees a flash of Bonhart's blade and parries instinctively. With a metallic clink, his inferior blade breaks off, leaving only a jagged stump in Cahir's hand. Shit! 

Another flash of the mercenary's sword.

He tries to dodge.

Too slowly.

[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

I want to tag you for Give me a character game: Eskel, Olgierd von Everec, Radovid, Cerys an Craite

Yay! Another one. Thankfully I'm playing TW3 again and have gotten re-acquainted with the characters while on a quest to become the imperial paparazzi to Emhyr. My replies will be longs, so check em out underneath the cut

How I feel about this character:

Eskel

I never find this guy hideous. In fact he is probably more popular that Geralt when it comes to TW3 game fandom. He's charming all around and cuddly!

Olgierd von Everec

I am torn between helping this poor sod or handing his smoldering skull to O'Dimm. Mr. Olgierd "David Beckham" von Everec is hands down the most well designed Redanian I've set my eyes on. He is desperation personified and how that drove him into signing his soul to the devil.

Radovid

...Mad Rad is a result of mistreatment. As much as I want to sympathize with the Redanian king, I'd rather relieve the North of him. He is so black and white in the game that I can't see the shades of gray.

Cerys an Craite

Cerys is an anomaly. She is that rare gem glittering under a pile of pebbles. Wise, patient, but feisty. The thinking Skelliger and it's just right to place her on the throne of the Isle than her impulsive brother.

All the people I ship romantically with this character:

Eskel

The guy has no interest in relationships imho (that means Im not sold on the Trisskel ship), but I've been meaning to launch a rarepair with the scarred wolf with an equally scarred lass: Cerys. Story is still rolling in my head but I dub the ship Cerskel!

Olgierd von Everec

The OG pairing Iris x Olgierd. The canon pair for me. But since that ship has sailed, Olgierd is the lone surviving von Everec, maybe Im up for a Shani x Olgierd. Im also down for Ciri x Olgierd since I saw a fanart of it and it piqued my interest.

Radovid

Honesty I wouldn't bother shipping him. But if I must, then his one and only Adda the White and no one else.

Cerys an Craite

As I mentioned above, I'll be launching the Cerskel (Cerys/Eskel) ship someday. Other than that, I ship her with Ciri as two powerful monarchs that finally, or at least, smoothen the animosity between their realms. Make love not war and all that. Apart from that, I paired her with Folan, if he didnt die in the Battle of Kaer Morhen.

My non-romantic OTP for this character:

Eskel

Wolf Brother Lambert. Eskel is the only guy who has the patience to put up with his prickliness. They share stories and frustrations over mugs of The Gauntlet or vodka.

Olgierd von Everec

As I am also open to a Shani x Olgierd, I am also shipping them in a non-romantic concept. Shani cheers a newly mortal Olgierd of the fun she had with Vlodmir and help him professionally with moving on. Kinda farfetch since Shani is a medic, not a therapist. But she is a kind and caring individual regardless of their colors.

Radovid

Radovid and Roche. If Radovid wins the war, Roche takes the role of mentor for his future queen Anais and an ambassador of her kingdom to Radovids' Redania. Roche will have to get used to trading his blue stripes with red.

Cerys an Craite

Yennefer and Cerys. The queen of the Isle sees Yennefer as one powerful woman who knows how to wrap a man, any man, around her little finger. heck, Yennefer even had a romantic history with Crach, so Yennefer acts as a good council when dealing with these menfolk who might see Cerys as a wet behind the ears wench. And having Yennefer in an advisorial capacity can be the bridge between Cerys kingdom and Ciri's empire.

My unpopular opinion about this character:

Eskel

He is clearly an expert in his own right, maybe even more than Geralt. Calling himself just a simple witcher is a disservice to his craft, and a wasted potential.

Olgierd von Everec

Now that I think about it, he should be handed over to O'Dimm for squandering his gifts and not treating Iris right.

Radovid

For a genius, he sure is dumb for not figuring out that Sigi Reuven is a name put together from his old enemy Sigismund Djikstra and Djikstra's loyal secretary(?) servant Ori Reuven.

Cerys an Craite

Instead of sending Svanringe to exile or death (as is the tradition of Skellige), she should've pardoned him because he played no part in Birna's schemes, even denounced her own mother: that shows character. As the heir of Bran Tuirsseach, Svanringe could be useful as an advisor or ally.

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in cannon:

Eskel

Decides to stay in Kaer Morhen after the end of the game.

Olgierd von Everec

Visits Vlodmir's grave for the last time and we get to see this before he sets out for parts unknown.

Radovid

All his men becomes aware that their king is dead so I don't have to pass by any of them proclaiming "Long Live Radovid".

Cerys an Craite

Diplomatic talks with Emhyr, or with Ciri in the empress ending.

Whew! Thanks for the tag @gauntermetaverse

[cannondisabledcharacters]

Accepted Characters 3/28/2023

Taina Miranda from the Marvel universe

Eddie McDonough (Hornet) from the Marvel universe

Hopper from Tooth and Tail

Yasmin from The Hunt for the Holy Pearl

Leslie Blair (Les) from (Un)Natural

Luis Fuerte in Safe Havens

Hibiki from Bubble

Ji-O Nam's father from My Reason to Die

Ruriko Daichi from Private Actress

Altair from Guraburu!

Ekwefi from Things Fall Apart

Unnamed figure in playmobil set 3363

Glyn Thomas from Craith

Jonathan Corall from @XXIII

Wenche Westgaard from the Kongsvik series

Dr Kevin Casey from Scrubs

Leon from Watermelon

Yongshin from Aza

Ayumi Takahara from The World God Only Knows

Takaaki Ayagai from Powerpuff Girls Z

Clarissa from Four Weeks, Five People

Walter Lovell from Late Night

Mrs Yun from Never-ending Darling

Eve Brown from Act Your Age, Eve Brown

Karl from Chibi-Robo

Yumin Kang from It's Mine

Luxuria from Otocadoll

Asa from Yomi No Tsugai

Konomi Yushiro from Private Actress

Shōei from Nura: Rise of the Y��kai Clan

Teddy Matson from the Marvel universe

Charlie Bartlett from Charlie Bartlett

Queen EarthWalker from Star Fox

Chitose from Diamond in the Rough

Carol from (Un)Natural

Richard Edgar Castle from Castle

Maggot from The Witcher

Evelyn Smythe from Doctor Who

Commander Ian Connor from Your Eternal Lies

Gau from Suikoden

Jackie Avalon from Jupiter-men

Mrs Kang from Whale Star: The Gyeong Seong Mermaid

Weldar from Banjo Kazooie

Azur from Phenomena

559 Requests Remain

[ijustthinkhesneat]

Imagine being a regular ass peasant in a fantasy world. Like imagine just being some guy in the Witcher universe. You just till your crops and mind your business not knowing that you are living in a world not your own because of the conjunction of spheres and also a giant ass bird creature or like the ghost of some bitch named Janice might manifest in your field at some random hour of the day and fucking kill you. Like you know there are monsters and magic people but like you are just Samuel the local wheat farmer and then this scary white haired man who is built like a brick shit house rides into your village demands to play cards with you then kills the creatures plaguing your village, harvest all your herbs and buys all your alcohol and just like leaves. Couldn’t be me.

Or like you live in Eorzea. Your just a humble tavern wench and then one night a giant dragon the size of your city starts shooting fireballs everywhere and you black out and that starts a chain of events leading to some guy you gave a drink to once going to space and killing the living embodiment of the big sad. And that hero brings two children, a man who only speaks in riddles, a blind woman, his number one fan, some guy with a pointy stick and another man who’s gun is also a sword. The spaceship is piloted by rabbits.

Or you are a regular ass human on Azeroth and you share a house with a sentient zombie and his hot elf boyfriend because the taxes in the eastern kingdoms have been sky high since the Banshee queen ripped a hole in the sky to another fucking dimension, you just wanna like grow carrots but sometimes the carrots become sentient demon creatures from hell that try to rip your face off resulting in you needing said hot elf and zombie to help you with menial tasks like growing food because sometimes the food tries to eat you and then you join their relationship and live in a happy homoerotic polycule.

[thequeendomhq]

NAME. Istar Sturluson AGE & BIRTH DATE. 31 & April 20th, 2993 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him NATIONALITY. Lysaran SPECIES. Witch FACTION. Tower of Olympia OCCUPATION. Warrior of Mars, Soldier FACE CLAIM. Alvise Rigo

biography

A man should only be happy drinking ale with his friends or sharing a bed with a good woman. Happiness in other moments was a sign of soft-headedness and weakness. They weren’t highborn, they weren’t wealthy, so raising their heads above their station to look out at Bjarnheim’s opulence was only setting themselves up for disappointment. Peasants needed to keep their heads down, get through the cold days, and stay out of trouble. The Jarl’s word was law, but witchers could come at any moment and Istar could always sense his father’s fear was inexplicably greater than everyone else’s.

Yet he couldn’t keep his head down like his father wanted. His eyes always drifted to the big city and the atmosphere of magic that persisted within it. There was a whole world out there bigger than the dull days of manual labor he was told were meant to be his everything. It caused Istar’s peers to bully him and his father to become angry with him. If he was a good kid, he wouldn’t ask so many questions or long for things he couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have been drawn to magic at all. Istar received many beatings for simply questioning why it was bad in the first place. He never understood, though he began to associate the concept with his father’s poisonous reprimands. To be compared to “that deceitful wench” for having a simple curiosity left scars on Istar’s heart to accompany the ones left on his flesh. 

Fear and confusion swirled around his childhood so much so that when his small fingers pulled at his first threads of magic he was so certain he had to hide what he was at all costs. For a while he did, but Istar was just a child and eventually let his burgeoning powers show to his dad. However, where he expected a beating he received a warm, desperate embrace. It was startling to say the least, but not nearly as much as his father actually crying in that moment. Everything happened so quickly after that. What few valuables they had were collected into a sack and they set out for Bjarnheim that very night. By morning they’d arrived and by sundown all the contents in the sack had been sold off. Istar was wobbly-kneed from the journey, yet was pushed aboard a merchant ship anyway with nothing but the clothes on his back and another surprisingly warm hug goodbye.

Only the night before had his father confirmed his mystery mother was a witch who beguiled him many years ago. He hated himself for falling for her and hated the instinct in Istar that drew him to the evil arcana he feared. Yet, when his son’s nature finally reared its head, he didn’t hesitate to give all he had to see his child freed in Eterna. Istar would remember his father not as a violent drunkard, but as the man willing to sacrifice for his sake. It helped him to hold Iskaldrik close to his heart as he landed in a new land with a new purpose. 

Witch was what he was, and in Eterna he didn’t need to hide that. Scrawny though he may have been, there was a power that dwelt inside of him that was beckoning to be let out. The Tower of Olympia went from rumored arcana-haven of legend spoken about at night by the passengers of the merchant ship he traveled on to his destination in Eterna. It was obvious that he was Iskaran and therefore no better than an ignorant savage uninformed and too scared of magic to cast properly. He was young with nowhere to go so the library became his second home of sorts. 

Despite his deficiencies, Istar had potential, so the Tower was willing to give him a basic education and provide him shelter nearby until he was ready to become a Novice. Learning to read opened his eyes to much, including hidden truths about his homeland. The Iskaldrik described in Taravellan histories during the Age of Enlightenment was something foreign considering the cold, harsh place he grew up in. The writings were brief and minimal, but Istar was captivated about the implications of forgotten histories. Was Iskaldrik really meant to be a magicless tundra? Istar began to think not, especially as he began to research more about the All Father. His father would speak of Odin sometimes when he got drunk, but only ever as an old god of war and wisdom. According to the Tower’s libraries, there was a time when Odin was once revered as the god of poetry and arcana as well, avenues that Istar knew would earn him beatings if he ever tried to pursue seriously back in Iskaldrik. It was then that Istar began his path to finding Odin’s truth for himself. Whether pre-cataclysm history fragments or his father’s ramblings held the most truth, now that he was free to learn Istar would discover the answers for himself. 

A sacrifice for oneself is sacrifice as oneself. 

This was a passage he translated from ancient runes he found under a depiction of Odin. Istar carried this phrase close to his heart as he finally became a Novice. He tried to remain true to who he was, sacrificing nights when he’d rather be sleeping to study or comfort during hot days to chop wood outside of Eterna. He studied what little there was on Odin to further improve his worship of the God, thinking the protection of the All Father might guide him on his path to becoming an Olympian. Istar trained his body and his mind. He sparred when someone was willing and enriched his soul with poetry. But as the time where it was appropriate for him to remain a Novice drew towards an end, Istar had to come to terms with the fact that he hadn’t progressed like he thought. He was no closer to enlightenment, mastery over arcana, or Odin than when he first arrived at the Tower. 

On the eve of his deadline to become Accepted, Istar realized he had to reconstruct his entire belief system and do something drastic to connect to the All Father to save his dreams of being an Olympian. He made a sacrifice, a real sacrifice, after imbibing a tonic he brewed and blessed himself. It was after this sacrifice and a night with an open mind that he awoke a more powerful witch than he thought possible. It was while under the influence of his worship ritual that Istar realized he had mistranslated the runic creed he decided to live by. 

A sacrifice for oneself is sacrifice as oneself. 

Sacrifice to oneself for oneself.

The All Father didn’t want him to become a feckless sheep. Odin’s path was one of darkness and madness. He was the warrior and the wandered, a constant perveyor of higher knowledge, wisdom, and power. He was a god who’d remain elusive and withholding, but his followers would be rewarded if they committed to bettering themselves for the sake of themselves and not him. If Istar was to continue down his path, then he would need to sacrifice even more than he had thus far not to gain Odin’s approval but to become the best. Through his years as an Accepted witch, Istar committed himself to the path of Mars. He concerned himself less with appeasing the All Father and dedicated himself to becoming the greatest Warrior the Tower ever produced even during the weeks he felt loss without a single sign from Odin. The results spoke for themselves. In three years, he had sprouted from a scrawny young man to an imposing threat. He mastered a way of fighting that was unlike how a Lysaran or a witch would engage a combatant, making him incredibly effective at besting opponents. Istar improved himself for no other reason than he wanted to be his best.

When it was time for his Trials, he completed them and drunk from the basin of dreams with such conviction that his spirit shined through clearly for the Sitters. The war with Astoria was just beginning and yet they felt it appropriate to send the newest Warrior to the front lines despite his youth and lack of experience. Seeing this as a reward from the All Father himself, Istar underwent his final sacrifice to reach the pinnacle of his magic before throwing himself into the war. Darkness and madness spiraled in his eyes after nine grueling days of a ritual in Odin’s name, but the payoff was even more potent than the boon he received after the first time. A fully realized Olympian witch and a man committed to being warrior and wanderer for the rest of his life, the battlefield reforged him into a champion for all that is just in the world. Istar knows what Odin expects and is content to sacrifice more and more of himself for his own self improvement. It is this conviction that keeps him going despite all that he’s seen in his many years of war. Istar will not stop fighting until he stands atop a mighty altar built with the bodies and blood of all who’d do harm to those with magic in their souls. 

personality

+ Cheery, Bold, Protective – Fanatical, Domineering, Militant

played by zen. est. He/him.

[lastwish]

REGARDING  ::  DIFFERENT  VERSIONS ,  CANONS ,  &  MEDIUMS

 stories  have  been  told  since  the  beginning  of  time  and  passed  down  for  centuries .  at  times ,  different  versions  of  certain  events  are  found  in  the  tangle  of  bard’s  tales ,  wives  tales ,  and  those  belong  to  brother’s  grimm .  when  tracing  these  stories  back ,  they  all  find  their  commonality  in  their  beginnings .  they  all  come  from  the  source  of  events  but  there’s  no  easy  way  to  determine  which  source  of  events  are  correct ,  true ,  and  exact .  in  fact ,  it  could  be  wagered  that  none  are  quite  the  truth .

   bards  are  known  to  exaggerate .  they’re  known  to  spin  tales  to  excite ,  entice ,  and  arouse .  if  the  subject  at  hand  does  none  of  these  then  it  must  be  changed .  the  truth  must  be  warped  until  the  bare  bones  exist  but  the  excitement  is  left  alive  for  those  who  wish  to  listen .  the  importance  of  events  remain  the  same  but  the  acts  and  words  surrounding  them  are  blurred  to  suit  the  needs  of  a  poetaster  singing  for  his  coin ,  praying  for  his  next  meal ,  seducing  his  next  wench .

   and  then  there  were  fairy  tales .  stories  woven  for  children  to  teach  or  frighten .  stories  that  changed  endings  depending  on  the  teller ,  the  child ,  and  the  parent .  they  could  not  all  be  the  same ,  there  couldn’t  be  just  one  version  for  too  many  stories  could  be  used  for  so  many  reasons  and  lessons .  still ,  those  stories  never  quite  matched  the  bard  but  maybe  they  were  the  truth ?  maybe  they  were  bent  just  enough  to  hold  onto  the  original  tales ?

   but  what  about  the  historians ?  surely  those  accounts  must  hold  the  most  truth .  they  certainly  have  to  be  telling  the  events  exactly  as  they  happen .  oh ,  but  wait …  history  is  only  told  from  the  perspective  of  those  that  win  wars  and  triumph  over  those  they  battle .  their  perspective  is  skewed  towards  whatever  suits  them  best .  could  there  really  be  a  full  truth  behind  their  tellings ?

   as  such …  numerous  versions  of  the  tale  of  the  witcher�� exist .  no  one  is  quite  sure  which  is  exact  but  none  dare  question  the  existence  of  the  events .

[morgansbond]

He could have run off. Spared Leander the upset that rattled him now. Yet, the experience had been shared. Morgan wasn't alone in the feeling of betrayal. Though he did take the apparent crime far more personally. Visions of torture, hangings, burnings and so much worse flickered behind the thief's eyelids. Made his pale skin crawl.

Matters of ethics that people here might consider injustices. The laws that protected mortals from magic in Iskaldrik. To toy with the very word was to put ones life at risk. Their families and communities too. The line was clear back on the farm, but traveling with Tobias illustrated how terribly endless both man and witcher cruelties could be.

He saw this bazaar overtaking the wench from her little shop in an instant. Tearing, cursing, chaining, bleeding. To make an example of her. Only, that didn't happen at all. Their surroundings remained peaceful as before. Even the commanding Prince spared her. An invisible, intangible, worthless threat in lieu of punishment.

So deep inside of himself, Morgan trudged forward with a troubled mind. His feet carried him wherever Leander still desired to lead them. Across a sturdy harbor, where most strangers backs were turned to face the tranquility only found at a watery edge. The less they looked the better. The more he could... reemerge. "You don't pretend..." Morgan still spoke gravely. "... I've seen so many killed for less. ... A mortal to toy with magic. I think of my brother's... 'yours. It's terribly insulting to me."

There was a cost. Those who did not earn it, but made fun should be shunned.

In the open air of the bazaar the night felt stale now, cured by the salt that lay over the exchange with the woman within. The reading had not gone the way that Leander had hoped and he could see how bothered Morgan was by the entire ordeal. Guilt settled over his chest but he didn't let it burden him, instead, he was consigned to finding something that the two of them could take to that had less room to turn foul. Without lingering, Leander set an unspoken course towards the harbor, headed towards the gate to put Mercury's Bazaar behind them.

"People will do anything to make a buck these days." Dirty tricks weren't appreciated,but he wouldn't begrudge someone trying to get a jab in at the prince. Leander only wished Morgan hadn't been a causality in what the prince was just chalking up to a practical joke. "My mother would turn her cheek, the threat of a repercussion is enough to make our point." Leander took a beat as he considered Morgan's disposition, he didn't play the Game, but he wouldn't leave his friend's mood to fester. "This looks like it cut deep."

[typicalopposite]

Well, hey there!

Welcome to my completely all over the place — that started out just as a Destiel but morphed into this multi fandom posting, self and others creations promoting, show/movie reacting, sometimes random personal life ranting — blog!

There’s a lot going on here.

Here you will find posts about my fandoms... which are as follows… going in order of how strong of a grip the hyper-fixation has on me at the moment.

The Untamed (WangXian of course, with a side of XiCheng)

Supernatural (Destiel… duh ☺️)

Heaven Official's Blessing/Tian Guan Ci Fu (Hualian... although I do enjoy FengQing and BeefLeaf as well)

Stranger Things (Steddie)

Shameless (Gallavich)

Our Flag Means Death (GentleBeard)

Good Omens (Ineffable Husbands)

The Musketeers (Portamis… or Flort if you’ve seen the reaction posts… and I’m also not opposed to Annamis or just platonic based fics of this show)

Starsky & Hutch (they don't have a fandom accepted ship name but I will call them Hutsky and (or) Starch anyway because they are canon names and I love them)]

The Witcher (Jeraskier. I have barely even watched this show and this ship has on my soul is unfair, unjust, and should really just be illegal)

Lucifer (Deckerstar... but I say this begrudgingly because Percifer -- as brief as it was in the show -- owns my heart)

Dark Angel (No ships really, but I'm also only a couple eps into the second season)

Other fandoms I'm less active in, or not active in at all but enjoy

Doctor Who (eventually I plan to kick this one back up into the actively active category)

Once Upon A Time

NCIS (McNozzo)

Psych (Shassie, but I like Shules...is it Shules... see not active)

Criminal Minds

etc etc etc... You see, like I said, there's a lot going on here!

Here you will also find links to my fics...

I'm on AO3 and FFNET

Here you will find a lot -- and I mean A LOT -- of posts about or in collaboration with @scripted-downfall aka Wench.

Here you will find reaction posts to shows, and if you are interested in that sort of thing we have a main blog for it right HERE

Here you will find selfish promo's for the discord I help run, and the one I created ( Raised for Perdition and the odd side of fandom) not saying you should totally join them but you should totally join them... cause they have been pretty dead lately...

Here you will find that sometimes life gets really annoying and I just need an outlet to vent about it and it has absolutely NOTHING to do with fandom at all.

Here you will find I am into many many manyyyy types of fics/art (almost all the things there is to be into) angst, fix its, mutul pining, abo, AU's, long chapter fics, short one shots, and mpreg are among the top.

One thing you wont find here is hate, or tolerance for hate. I can't promise there will never be fandom negativity, that feels almost impossible to try to avoid, and I am only human! I dislike plenty and want to talk about it. But just vile blatant unreasonable and unnecessary hate is not welcome here! Also Hurt/no comfort and MCD because... just why?!

[themaresnest-dumblr]

Am binge watching The Witcher now, again to see what the fuss is about, and note the following

1. Mr Lego Batman Voice Guy, who swears more than the Hound on ‘Game Of Thrones’, seems to spend an enormous amount of time having eye sex with every woman in the show, largely from blatant exploitation on their part.

‘Oh, Mr Lego Batman Voice Guy, hit me with your sexy husky voice again’

‘No I have a job to do ... [cue five minutes tortuous exposition, extended by another five minutes to each ten second supplementary question)’

[Knowing smirk from saucy wench who just got what she wanted in spades].

2. For a hunchbank, Yennifer has preposterously magnificent tits which the combined talents of Michelangelo, Rodin and Bernini couldn’t have sculptured if they’d lived for a century. There’s plastic surgeons who must have cried themselves to sleep at night after episode two or three (can’t remember which one it was).

Which makes her desire to become beautiful equally preposterous. Modern values in a medieval setting - meh!

This is a world where someone can marry a Half Man Half Hedgehog and everyone’s biggest worry is their minor noble status.

More to the point, this is meant to be an era where disfigurements due to illnesses, accidents and diseases are common as premature deaths. People are not gonna be that picky - especially in a much smaller population base.

She whirled Mr Handsome round her little finger whilst still humpty backed and squinty bottom lipped on account of her Awesome Boobage Of The New And Everlasting Covenant. She’d saw how looks did zero for her fellow students. So why would she fall for it and want to become Hawtimodo?

3. Mr Lego Batman Voice Guy and Hawtiemodo shagging each other’s brains out was beyond obvious, but for it to happen on their very first meeting in episode five was piss poor writing. They might at least have caused it to cause a nuclear explosion radiating out from themselves, rather than it being like a medieval version of ‘American Pie’.

Oh, and this bit ... come onnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!

4. The jumping backwards and forwards in time and leaving you to figure this out for yourself was annoying as **** in the film ‘Dunkirk’ and is ten times more annoying across a whole series.

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

and it’s easy done

the wench and the witcher

“and it’s easy done”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Geralt is gone hunting. Reader is frustrated. 

Warnings: NSFW/18+ - this is dirty, but to be fair, so is the song that prompted it. Masturbation, voyeurism, oral (f receiving), praise kink, sweet!dom Geralt/gratuitous use of the phrase “good girl”, welcome to the sin bin, fam. (And somehow, they still got all soft on me.)

A/N:  Title and lyrics after the cut from “Moment’s Silence (Common Tongue)” by Hozier. So, like. Hozier straight-up says this song is about oral sex. Full-stop. I didn’t believe it until I actually read the lyrics and went, “Oh damn, you right.” So, uh, here you go. There’s a part two coming - heh - because reciprocity is important. 

@coconutxraikage - @kingniazx - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @pantrashtic - @alwaysnatz​ - @agniavateira​

Like a heathen clung to the homily Let the reason come on the common tongue of your loving me

“Good girl.”

 Geralt’s voice is a growling rasp against your ribs. You feel it buzz through you, the vibration humming over your naked skin. His lips leave heat in their wake, licking tongues of fire that make you shudder and arch for him.

 He rumbles out a low chuckle, “That’s my good girl.”

 Teeth scrape over the tender skin of your thigh. You gasp. There’s a soft, sinister laugh before heat and wet presses over your throbbing center and you moan, chasing the pleasure that the Witcher is so generous to provide. You’re writhing, and crying, and you can feel the scorching knot in your belly twist itself tighter and tighter and tighter and –

And you snap awake, panting

Confused, and frustrated, and hot, dear gods, you stare at the dark ceiling above you, one hand pressed to your forehead. You can hear your own heartbeat thrumming behind your eardrums. Worst of all, you can feel it between your legs, so insistent that it hurts. With a ragged groan, you roll to your side, knees pressed tight together in a futile attempt to easy the wicked ache. The darkness behind your eyelids provides no comfort – your mind is hazy with flashes of Geralt’s lazy, seductive grin.

“Fuck,” you whine into your pillow.

It’s been almost two months. He didn’t tell you where he would be, and you didn’t ask, which is fine – it’s what works, it’s for the best you tell yourself. But it’s been the same brain-addling dream for three days straight and it’s starting to affect your fucking work. If your head isn’t off in the clouds, you find that you’re irritable – snappish and short. Your people aren’t idiots, either. The semi-significant glances you catch are enough; you know they can guess what’s eating you.

Or, well. Not eating you, to be direct.

You take in a slow breath, squirming against the prickling heat that refuses to be ignored before you swear at the ceiling. It’s a pity that the object of your torment isn’t present, but it’s not like you’ve never taken matters into your own hands before.

 Fuck it.

Shaking fingers pull at the cotton of your shift and ghost over your thighs. You hum – it’s enough to send gooseflesh skittering over your skin.  Your hands are smaller, more delicate than the strong, calloused ones you want but it’s something. As you find the syrupy, slick heat between your legs, you let yourself moan and roll onto your back once more. Your other hand creeps its way upward, skates up your ribs and over the smooth curve of your breast to find your nipple beaded and tender. You settle into the rhythm that you need, fingertips pressing at your clit, drawing wetness up from your soaking core to roll over the sensitive cluster of nerve endings.

Sweat sticks your curls to your forehead. You let your fingers dip, press in to where you ache – where you pulse. The shivering pleasure goes liquid, curls itself between your thighs and makes you arch from the mattress. Eyes shut tight, you conjure up the image of white hair, strong hands, and that devious fucking smile. The Witcher’s name is a breathy sigh over your lips.

“Now here’s a sight…”

A familiar rumbling voice throws you rudely out of your fantasy and headlong into horror – you curse with particular gusto as your eyes fly open. When you scramble up right, you find the object of that fantasy darkening your bedroom doorway and looking entirely too smug. Geralt watches you, and the pressure of his gaze feels like the warmth of a bonfire. You feel it trace over you from bed-wild hair to parted knees.

“Don’t stop on my account,” the Witcher rumbles. His voice is rough, a growl so low that it’s nearly subterranean. It makes your heart beat faster, sends a fresh shudder of heat through you.

He inhales, slow and deep, breathing out on a low hmm. You watch him step closer – as your eyes adjust to the dim, you’re able to see his face, meet honey-gold eyes that are nearly overtaken by the dark of his pupils. His battle-scarred hands pull at the buttons of his collar before pulling the fabric from his trousers. Your mouth goes bone-dry when he reveals the broad expanse of his chest. The shirt ends up on the floor somewhere.

“Take off your shift, sweetheart,” Geralt tells you.

For once, you don’t backtalk as you do what you’re told.  He chuckles darkly. “Lay back,” he says.

The mattress is wonderfully cool against your feverish skin. Your eyes stay locked on his face. Goosebumps prickle over your skin, makes you shiver as Geralt moves to light the single candle on your beside table. The amber-toned light throws shadows over his strong features and he is so fucking beautiful it makes your heart ache. His scars stand out, lines of pearl against his pale skin. With a slow, predatory grace, the Witcher settles himself on the edge of the bed at your feet before one strong hand grips your ankle; he pulls gently, until your leg drops off the side of the bed to leave you open and exposed to him.

Maybe you should be mortified, but you’ve never been more aroused in your life.  “Let me see, sweetheart,” he purrs. “Come on now.”

It’s hard to breathe. The air feels charged with electricity, thick and heavy – the moment before a lightning strike. Your fingers play slowly over your skin again as you pant softly, then moan when you pull at your nipple once more. Geralt traces his fingers up your leg, callouses rough, yet gentle as they drawl invisible sigils over the top of your calf, then along the inside of your knee. Once again, your hand finds its way to the aching slick between your legs. The first contact makes you suck in a low breath, almost shocked by the flood of wet that you’re greeted with; your eyes slip closed, but you don’t notice until you hear the Witcher purr down at you:

“Look at me.”

You groan as you pry your eyes open. Geralt’s gaze is has weight and heat, like a living thing – it’s enough to make your toes curl. “Good girl,” he breathes. “That’s my good girl.”

Gods. Those words send fire crackling through your bones - the heat scorches the air in your lungs as your voice catches on a whine. You writhe on the bed, gasp for breath, and somehow manage to keep your eyes locked on Geralt’s face. His soft mouth twists into a wicked smile.

“You missed me, didn’t you, sweet girl?” he asks you. His voice laps at your skin, warm like the ocean tide. “Missed me so much you had to try and make yourself come, is that it?”

“Yes,” you whimper. “I – fuck, Geralt – “

“Tell me what you were thinking about, sweetheart.”

He lowers his head. His lips are smooth and dry as he traces them up the quivering flesh of your thigh. You grit your teeth around a moan; the Witcher bites softly at your skin, lifts his eyes to meet your gaze. “Tell me,” he rumbles. “Tell me what makes you so fucking wet when I’m gone, hm? Be a good girl.”

“Geralt,” you whine. The fingers rolling over your clit press downwards, press into the desperate wet heat of your cunt until you cry out and start to babble. “I think about - about you, Geralt, I – I think about your – your hands, your fingers… fuck, I think about how you fuck me open with your tongue, about your cock – oh! Oh!”

The sharp bite of pain from his teeth on your hip sends you soaring. Stars collide behind your eyelids, rush through your veins with blinding heat; you press your hips into your own hand, chanting the Witcher’s name as you come. You’re left shaking, and as you find your breath, Geralt pulls your hand away from where it’s pressed to your sex.

When he presses his mouth there instead, you choke on a yell.

He devours you. Locks one arm over your hips to keep you still when you try to arch away as the pleasure edges toward pain. Your hand flies over your head, palm slapping against the solid wood of the headboard. The other finds the Witcher’s frost-colored hair, fingers gripping into a fist; you’re not sure if you want to shove him away or draw him closer, but you feel him snarl against your cunt, as if daring you to try the former. His tongue presses heavy and hot over your clit, lapping mercilessly while you strain against the pleasure.

The press of his fingers – one, then another, and then a third – into your pulsing heat drags a low gasp out of you. Geralt strokes the pads of his fingers into you in time to the rhythm of his tongue. Those clever fingers hook up, find the soft, sensitive spot deep inside you as he grazes his teeth lightly over your clit.

Everything goes white. You hear the high keen of your own voice as you come again, gushing over the Witcher’s tongue and fingers. His low moan hums against you, makes you shudder and sob.

“Good girl…”

His voice is sweet, soft, and filthy. Still gasping, you force your eyes open in time to watch Geralt wipe the shine of your slick from his chin. He makes his languid way up your body, chasing each shiver of your muscles with his lips until he’s settled over you, braced on his elbows. You arch up to kiss him, all desperate demanding, and taste yourself on his tongue as you swallow down his low, breathless groan. Despite their shaking, your fingers make quick work of his trousers with his help. There’s the sound of boots hitting the floor.

Geralt presses you onto your back, presses himself forward – you gasp, high and sharp as he blunt head of his cock splits you open. You feel him snarl against your mouth. He finds a slow, deep rhythm, one meant to be savored, and savor he does. The pair of you writhe together, coiled like adders in the glow of the candlelight.

“I missed you,” you gasp. “So much.”

Geralt snaps his hips forward, catching your moan on his tongue. “Missed you, too,” you hear him whisper. “I - gods - missed you, too.”  

The last orgasm startles you, a sharp jolt fizzing its way up your spine; you bow up and away from the mattress with a soft grunt when it happens and the Witcher gives a rasping chuckle against your shoulder that slides into a moan as he comes. He’s soft-focus in the candlelight when he lifts his head to look at you, and there’s a tenderness in his gaze that makes your breath catch short for a second. You bite your lip against a foolish smile.

“Hello,” you breathe.

The Witcher hmms at you. The smile on his face is lazy and satisfied; were he a cat, you’re certain he would be purring. “Hello,” he murmurs back.

[fereldanwench]

yennefer basically spitting fire into man's face is one of the greatest things I've ever seen 🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌