#the witcher missing scene

[tielmamon]

Everytime this gifset has blessed my dash, I have cried

Your pain matters, Jaskier. Don’t ever feel like you have to hide it from me. This happened because of me. And I might not deserve your forgiveness, but I would still like to have it. I’d… like to try and do better, if you’d let me. 

[perseruna]

i’m crying at them recreating geralt scenes from s3 and s2 they said “um ACTUALLY we can do one better let’s redo that ☝️🤓↩️”

[arcaneviolence]

Burn care

deleted scene from s2 real not fake

if you see this twice thats cause I'm silly and accidentally deleted it wopsie

comms are open tee hee

[seance]

This is for the ones who stand For the ones who try again For the ones who need a hand For the ones who think they can

[astaldis]

Definitely "Time to take a bath"! (read on Ao3)

"What are you doing here? And what fresh hell did you just crawl out of?" "A sewer."

THE WITCHER 2.4 Redanian Intelligence

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Missing scene from Blood of Elves. Coën argues with Lambert about responsibility, nobility and their fate.

“I believe that. But I’m not gallant enough. Nor valiant enough. I’m not suited to be a soldier or a hero. And having an acute fear of pain, mutilation and death is not the only reason. You can’t stop a soldier from being frightened but you can give him motivation to help him overcome that fear. I have no such motivation. I can’t have. I’m a witcher: an artificially created mutant. I kill monsters for money. I defend children when their parents pay me to. If a Nilfgaardian parent pays me, I’ll defend Nilfgaardian children. And even if the world lies in ruin—which does not seem likely to me—I’ll carry on killing monsters in the ruins of this world until some monster kills me. That is my fate, my reason, my life and my attitude to the world. And it it not what I chose. It was chosen for me.” —Geralt of Rivia in the Blood of Elves.

Coën drew in a deep breath through his nose. The smell of pine filled his chest, mixed with the subtle fishy odour of the lake, and the sprawling bryonia clinging to the rocky outcrops at his back. The mountains around Kaer Morhen were peaceful and familiar in a way that made his chest tight and his eyes prickle; it reminded him of home. He didn’t resent the ache, but cherished it, for it was one of the few things he had left. A tenuous link to something he could never get back.

His head lolled back between his shoulders and he held that breath deep in torso for as long as he could, expelling it through pursed lips only when the ache became a tight pain. Splashing at the lake edge drew his attention and he watched through slitted eyes as his companion stumbled ungracefully through the shallows.

When Lambert had invited Coën to winter with him, Coën had accepted without hesitation, and had been most bewildered by the relieved grin on Lambert’s face at the time. It had been many years since Coën had wintered with other witchers, and Kaer Morhen’s hospitality had not disappointed. Lambert seemed to be bending over backwards to make sure Coën was included in every part of the wolf’s life here, and for that Coën was grateful.

“Ahh, just as bollock-shrinking cold as always!” Lambert crowed, before swearing as he stubbed his toe on a pebble buried deep in the silt and sand. It was an uncharacteristically warm day, but the mountains could be like that. When the skies cleared and the snows had cleared a little, it could almost feel like early summer, when the cool spring breezes stirred the first buds of wakening meadows but your cuirass became itchy and close.

Lambert flopped down on the threadbare tablecloth they had pilfered from Vesemir’s kitchens as a makeshift picnic blanket—Lambert’s words, said with a wry smirk as they had tiptoed out of the larder like errant trainees. He ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it out to dry. Not for the first time, Coën was struck by just how good-looking his companion was when the lines of anger and frustration had smoothed out, the shadows in his yellow eyes chased away by good sleep and good food. “Urf, fuck,” Lambert lifted his hips and pulled the damp cloth of his trews away from his crotch.

“Dunno why you didn’t take ‘em off,” Coën said lightly, tilting his head back again to bask in the warmth of the sun some more.

“Told you, not the type of tackle I tend to fish with. If you’d seen the teeth on some of the fish I get from here, you’d understand why.” Lambert shuffled some more and flipped to his front to grab one of the unopened bottoms of ale tucked in the shade of a large boulder. “No drowner spawn that I could find in the usual places. No idea about the far banks though, that’ll have to wait ‘til—,” Lambert waved vaguely towards the derelict old boat he had been working on half-arsed for the majority of the morning.

“Mmhm, and when’s that then?”

“Fuck knows. Between Geralt’s princess and Vesemir bellyaching about the west wing falling down on his head, dunno when I’ll get back down here.”

Coën opened his eyes, squinting into the great expanse of unclouded blue above. Cirilla. Sweet child, mischievous and bright, despite all the trials and loss she had faced. And yet, the shadow of destiny loomed over her, ever present and threatening. Coën had hoped that, with Triss’ arrival, they might have felt slightly more sure of her path forward, but the magess’ presence seemed to have brought new tensions to the fort. The wolf witchers had invited her in, and yet not a single one seemed to trust her intentions, except old Vesemir, who seemed relieved to have someone take a little responsibility from his shoulders; the girl was beyond even the old wolf’s knowledge.

Geralt appeared somewhat exhausted by her and Coën sensed by her advances that there was a history there that Geralt did not wish to revisit, Lambert was confrontational and ice cold, even more so than usual, and Eskel was the most peculiar of all. He was beyond polite, magnanimous, quick to take the knee and open doors for the magess, scurrying around the castle at her beck and call; if Lambert hadn’t told Coën which way Eskel’s appetites leaned, Coën would have assumed it to be flirtation. Yet, it had been Eskel that had gazed at Triss with distrust and apprehension when they had discussed her whisking Ciri away to her Chapter as in days of old.

They had called Triss out of desperation, but not a single one of the wolves were willing to let her take Ciri from them. They were guarded, protective, Lambert perhaps most of all. He treated Merigold with open disdain, dismissing all pleas from his brothers and master to remain civil. Coën surmised it might be more than a distrust of mages in general, but he hadn’t found the opportunity to probe further.

“None of you trust, Triss Merigold. That much is obvious. But Ciri’s peculiarity worries you. Would it not be best for Triss to take on the burden? To let her take the child with her to Aretuza or wherever destination she has in mind?” Coën asked.

Lambert didn’t answer immediately. They had spoken some of the school’s previous experience with such a girl, but the conversation had been stilted and tight, like it was a source of pain and shame. Coën found out little of the girl’s fate, only that she had left her mark on one of Lambert’s kin. Lambert sighed. “N’aw, she’s just another lost kid. Nothin’ new, nothin’ special.” He didn’t look up as he said it, focusing instead on a blade of grass. “As I said, we’ll teach her the sword, let her grow big and strong, and she’ll be like any other warrioress out there.” He flicked the blade of grass away and drew a swig of ale.

“You don’t believe that. I know you too well, Lambert of Kaer Morhen, you may lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to me. You care for the girl, I’ve seen it. You wouldn’t drive her so hard if you didn't, and you would not see her whisked away by the magess. And yet you know there is more to her—”

Lambert rolled his eyes, settling them upon Coën’s face with one eyebrow quirked towards his scruff of dark hair. “It doesn’t make a difference either way. What can we do? Train her to be one of us, but without the poisons. This—that—“ Lambert waved over his shoulder vaguely southward, towards the majority of the Continent, “is so far beyond us, so fuckin’ bigger, we’re just witchers. We fight monsters, that’s it. We don’t get involved, no matter what Merigold might want. No matter the moralistic fuckin’ rants she wants to have over our own fuckin’ mead in our own fuckin’ keep. Arrogant bitch.”

Coën winced and fell silent, giving Lambert’s anger time to settle to an even ebb again. Such was the way with Lambert; whereas the older witchers of the keep seemed to have suppressed their emotions to the point of ambivalence, Lambert’s raged all the fiercer as if out of spite. It was one of the things that Coën admired so ardently about him; the way he took on the world unapologetically and refused to succumb to its darkness. When Coën sensed the turbulent waters had settled, he continued. “You agree with Geralt, then. That there is no side for us to take in this conflict in the South, no greater good for us to fight for.”

“The only greater good for us is coin,” Lambert murmured. “Come spring, we should head south and we can clear up in the wake of the armies. Wade through the shit and the corpses to find the monsters. It’s what we’re built for.”

Coën huffed. “You sound like a cultist reciting a mantra you don’t even believe yours—“

“Where’s this goin’? Out with it. I’ve had enough of politics, euphemisms and bloody philosophising from Merigold this winter; I don’t need it from you too.”

Coën gazed over the lake to the far bank where a mist hung unnaturally among the trees. Foglets, no doubt. The recorded voices and shapes of hundreds of trainees that had perished in the mountains. Souls that were never given the opportunity to realise their potential, to breathe free air beyond the confines of the brotherhood. “I’ve been thinking more on those orphans Triss spoke of. How she works to prevent them from being orphans in the first place, whereas we’re just there after the fact to pick up the pieces.”

“You let her get into your head,” Lambert shook his, adjusting his trews once more, nose wrinkled in discomfort. “She was just trying to take a cheap shot. Get a knife in your ribs and twist.”

“What if she’s right? We may be mutants, but can’t we rise above? Become more? We are worth twenty Cintran soldiers. Having witchers fight on the side of the North, we—we could turn the tide of this war, we—“

“Delusions of grandeur.”

Coën’s blood ran hot with anger. While he admired Lambert’s sass and sarcasm when it was directed at others, he didn’t much enjoy being the target of it. Such dismissal bit at him, and he didn’t much want to examine why it hurt so very much. “So we stand by and watch the world burn so long as we line our purses, how very noble. We pick over the corpses of children like graveir, thugs and mercenaries with yellow eyes.”

“I never pretended to be otherwise,” Lambert snapped back. “You seem to think we owe this world something. We don’t. You think they’d care if us mutants fought at their side? You think they’ll give you a fuckin’ medal? Accept you back with open arms? Write stories and songs about you? Grow up. You’ve got yourself all wrapped up in those fairytales you read to Ciri.”

“And so what if they don’t? It’s not about that—it’s about doing the right thing, it’s—“

“There is no right thing. There is survival. There is getting through another pissin’ year and getting back here. Drinking with the people who actually give half a shit about whether you live or die. That’s it!”

Lambert was shouting now, his eyes furious, and Coën’s belly had tied itself in knots. Defensively, Coën raised his own voice, shoulders bunching. “For you, maybe. But I’m done with it. Maybe I want to become more! Rise above. Maybe I want to fight for something meaningful, defend the innocent, protect the—“

Lambert’s eyes narrowed, his fist tightening around his bottle, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “Throwing your life away won’t bring them back, Coën. Get your head out your arse. They’re dead, and you’re alive. Foolish sacrifice for those who don’t give a shit about you is just that, foolish. You’re a witcher, not a hero, stop trying to be more than you were made to be.”

Lambert’s words cut sharper than any knife. His lip lifted in a sneer of what looked like contempt, but there was an unnameable hurt in his eyes. Coën couldn’t parse it, he couldn’t even begin to, because his own anger and hurt was making his head ache. “Then perhaps I am a fool,” he snapped, rolling to his feet and snatching his shirt from the grass. “And as my foolishness seems to vex you so, I shall relieve you of my presence.”

“Fine! Why don’t you scurry off to Merigold? I’m sure she could tell you exactly the best way to piss your life away on her crusade.”

Coën stalked away and didn’t look back. He found Eskel weaving baskets with Ciri in one of the stillrooms and sat with them. The older witcher studied him closely, one of his large hands pawing at the scars on his face om thought, but he said nothing.

The rest of the winter passed much the same as before, but Lambert was no longer open and jovial in the evenings. He festered by the fire, muttering darkly about the cold and throwing an occasional scathing remark in Merigold’s direction, only to be chastised by Eskel, Vesemir or both. He drove Ciri just as hard—harder, when Triss wasn’t looking—and picked fault with everything she did.

Coën found her sitting by the fire one evening, picking dejectedly a the scabs on her hands, and staring into the flames. He brought her a blanket and hot mug of juice. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“Half an oren, and we’re talking!”

He thumped her lightly on the shoulder as he sat at her side, and she heaved a sigh. He pressed gently. “Come, a burden shared is a burden halved. Talk to me.”

“I think Lambert hates me, thinks I’m weak.”

“No,” Coën said quickly. “He loves you. Very much.”

Ciri blinked at him in surprise. “But he berates me every day. I disappoint him with everything I do. I need to get it right, I need—“

“Princess, Lambert is harshest to those he loves the most.”

“Well, he must absolutely worship Triss…”

Coën winced. “Ah, yes, no, perhaps there are exceptions, but…”

Ciri sniffled and turned her head away, one of her small, broken hands lifting to her face. He placed an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Come, there’s no need to hide your tears.”

“He’s right, I am weak…”

“No.” Coën lifted her chin so that their eyes met. “When I lost Kaer Seren, I cried for many days, and when I thought there could not possibly be a single tear left, they kept coming. Do you think me weak?”

“No, you’re so strong. You can shoot an apple from the air at a billion miles away! You make Lambert sweat in fencing and you can do ten backflips in a row, and—”

Coën smiled crookedly. “Your emotions aren’t something to be overcome, they are part of you. They make you stronger.”

“I need to get this right, I need to get strong, I need to kill him. I need to avenge them all. I need to—“

“And you will,” Coën said. “But Cintra was not built in a day, and its lioness is still a cub with a lot of growing to do. You must give yourself time. Strength is something that is forged through hardship, through failure. It will come.”

She gave him a watery smile and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “I will get strong, Coën. I’ll listen to everything he teaches me, everything you teach me, Geralt, Eskel… I’ll get strong enough that I can protect people. Save people, you know, just like you do.”

“Yes,” Coën said, smiling. “You will be the greatest of us. Now, drink your juice. It’s past bedtime and Lambert wants me to teach you the crossbow tomorrow.”

“He does?”

“I found him stuffing targets only an hour ago.”

She squealed with excitement and downed her juice. He carried her to bed shortly after, tucking the heavy furs around her narrow frame. But that night sleep wouldn’t reach him; he listened to the others snore as he stared at the ceiling, thinking of orphans, monsters and war.

Come spring, he would head to the front, Coën decided. He could not stand by. He would rise above. He would become more.

[grinchwrapsupreme]

there's this thing in theatre called "cue-to-cue" where you go through the play with minimal to no actual acting or lines, just the actors moving to the spots they will be in when certain lighting and sound effect happen, in order to line things up tech-wise, so watching it has the feel of watching the play with none of the content or meaning and the whole thing is supposed to be done very quickly. Certain parts of Netflix's The Witcher felt like watching a cue-to-cue in that it felt like the characters were just arriving at a place they were supposed to be in, muttering out parts of the scene, and then quickly moving to the next spot they're supposed to be in, like the writers of the show were cue-to-cuing the books, knowing where the characters were "supposed to be" without actually displaying why to a useful degree

the one that particularly stood out to me was the confrontation between Ciri and Cahir where, first of all, Ciri finding Geralt and Yennifer after leaving Jaskier was already very abrupt and lacking reaction, but then running into Cahir and him begging Ciri to kill him? That bit bothered me. Specifically because it all felt very quick and surface level, like the writers knew where the characters were supposed to be and what they were meant to be doing without really giving it space to be examined, so we get that tension between Ciri and Cahir as she holds the sword to his throat and then, just as abruptly, the people on horseback are approaching and Cahir just gets up and goes to fight them off without really any acknowledgment of his desire to be killed literal seconds ago beyond i guess the implication that he's willing to die here, and then he's face to face with these 5 horseback riders, brandishing his sword, and it's so obvious there's nothing he can really do to fight them off, there's literally 5 of them and they already look like they're just gonna brush right past, like Cahir is hitting invisible cues without the substance behind it

and I do think this feeling was worse in the third season than in the first two, but it did bother me enough that i sort of immediately lost interest in Cahir, because the quickness of that scene removed the intensity of it for me, and there were many scenes like it (Jaskier and Radovid's scenes for example) that gave the feeling that what should have been a whole play was reduced to a quick 15 minute run through where the cast are just moving from one spot to the next and it's okay because we'll do the whole thing at the dress rehearsal later

[magnificentposting-fabrizioart]

Episode 17 being entertaining, annoying, and infuriating.

Sparse comments

1) The Leo thing is moving at a snaaaaaail's pace.

I know this is gonna go on for long, so I'm just making peace with it.

2) What a fking random way to start Nigarbrahim. (Talking to the garden scene where she is randomly the one accompanying Hatice)

I know that Stockholm Syndrome is the name of the game in this show but damn this is honestly offensive.

3) Leo and Matrakçi should co-found a Get Over Her support group.

4) Mocenigo returns, this time convinced there's no way Süleyman will be able to turn the gift of a clock into not-so-veiled egomaniacal threat.

Of course, Süleyman relishes the challenge and does exactly that.

5) The janissaries being upset for Ibrahim's success is freaking hilarious given they are recruited the same way he was.

6) Gülsah and Gülnihal are honestly baffling in how much they're willing to be stepped over.

Even more for Gülsah given she even VOLUNTEERED to another murder attempt, as if Mahidevran did not literally throw her under the galley the first time.

7) Everyone is STILL ignoring the murderer still at large

8) WHAT THE F**K WAS THAT TIMESKIP WHAT YEAR IS IT WHO PUT MUSTAFA IN AN AGING CAPSULE-

[thedeadthree]

HEHEHEHE 🥀💌☺️🥴

[thelostgirl21]

Jaskier's inner dialogue during that scene...

[astaldis]

Chapters: 2/3 Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence  Characters: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Geralt of Rivia Additional Tags: Spoilers, Major spoilers for season 3 episode 6, Angst, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach Has a Bad Time, Cahir POV, Thanedd Coup (The Witcher), Major Character Injury, blood and gore, Scoia'tael  Summary: After being sent to search for Princess Cirilla outside the burning Aretuza, Cahir meets the destiny from his dreams. Scene from S3 E6 told from Cahir's POV + Cahir's fight against the Scoia'tael 

Excerpt from chapter 2:

"What the hell are you doing? Out of the way, Nilfgaardian!" cries the Scoia'tael closest to him, reining in his horse. The animal whinnies and rears, almost throwing the rider. The other scouts steady their mounts, clearly irritated. Why would the Nilfgaardian general block their way? This does not make any sense. They are allies, meant to cooperate, to finally catch the girl, the promised savior of elvenkind - together.

"You cannot have her!" Cahir says firmly, standing his ground with raised sword. "I'm sorry."

"Traitorous human!" the elf spits in his face. "I knew it was a bad idea to believe you'd not betray us in the end. You always do!"

Warning: Graphic depictions of violence below the cut

He spurs his horse, intending to run Cahir over. However, Cahir leaps to the side and, with one swing of his sword, slices the elf open under the ribs as the horse speeds past him. The elf cries out in agony. Blood spills from the ugly wound. He wobbles, tilts to the side. Cahir swiftly grabs him and pulls the severely injured man off his horse. It happens so fast that, before the other Scoia'tael can react, he is already in the saddle, swinging his blade at the surprised elf to his right. The Scoia'tael has not even had the time to draw his sword. A split second later, copious amounts of red blood gush onto the white steed from the elf's severed neck, the lifeless head landing in the grass with a wet thud. Two down, three to go ...

Continue reading on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48876478/chapters/123424018

[doyelikehaggis]

The way that Yennskier are all I can think about.

[winters-mistress]

Sleep, sweet girl.

"Geralt." Ciri's voice jolts him out of his thoughts. He inhales deeply, the cold air that makes his lungs ache in the way that reminded him of his home. His nose is numb, his cheeks too, but it doesn't bother him in the way it does his companions.

Jasker is shivering loudly, bundled up in gawdy reds and purples and furs, his human shape gone. He looks like a lump with how much he's bundled up, and if it were under any other circumstances, Geralt may have been amused by the bard's appearance. Not this one however, for the witcher only checks that the human is still breathing and the brown pony is still taking the weight of the wolly bard and his multitude of bags without struggle.

Yennefer is silent upon her sleek black mare she'd taken from a recent winter market they'd passed by, claiming Jaskier's perfume irritated her. Her black curls are hidden by the purple cloak, white skirts a stark contrast between the two colours. She sits tall and proud, chin high as it always was. He takes a few moments to harden his resolve against her, remembering what had happened in mid winter.

He looks down at his little girl, who sits in front of him on Not-Roach. Instead of facing the snow covered mountains, she faces his chest, big green eyes shining as she looks up at him.

Their position is a trick of his he had found when the two of them went on the first few hunting expeditions together. After Yennefer's mess, Geralt had been eager to put distance between she and the girl, and with supplies destroyed and reserected-witcher mouths to feed, what better way to fix these issues than with hunting?

It had worked, they ate well, but Cirilla had been plagued with nightmares in the second and third nights they had been out. Knowing his girl was exhausted, he had suggested that Ciri's white stallion that Vesemir had gifted her take the carcasses while she hops on with him to rest her eyes for a moment. It had worked like a charm, his girl sleeping soundlessly from the mouth of the Noire Valley right til the gates of Kaer Morhen.

She's small enough, and his cloak is big enough, that if she pulls her legs up and shuffles a bit closer, that the girl seems to disappear into the bulk of the witcher. That suits him just fine, knowing that human -even one as powerful and mysterious and probably elven as she was- teenage girls were fragile and needed to be kept warm, and he ran warmest of all his kin. He could keep her warm, and keep her safe. That was his purpose in life.

Now, however, winter was over, for the most part, which meant that the witchers vacated their home, ready to hunt the beasts awakening in their lairs. Not him, though, his duty is to Cirilla, to take her further north where nobody can find her. Even if that means taking her to destitute lands where the only comfort is a ratty old blanket, than so be it.

He says nothing, just looks down at her.

"'M tired." She mumbles, resting her head against his chest and neck.

He smiles through one side of his mouth, perfectly aware of the two pairs of bright eyes staring at him.

"Then sleep, sweet girl." He mutters. "I'll keep you safe."

Ciri settles, her body growing heavy, and she slumps into sleep. They've been riding slowly all morning, the gate of the new horse soothing as much as it was a relief to the horse himself.

"Is she asleep?" Yennefer asks. Geralt tenses, the arm he was wrapping against the girl hidden in his cloak tightening. He will not ever forget what Yennefer had done to her, what she had taken from her, all in selfish pursuits of pleasure and entitlement.

"Yes." His voice is sharp. Yennefer blinks, licking her lips. "She needs to rest."

"So, where are we going, Papa bear?" Jaskier asks, popping his face out from his cocoon of warmth.

"North." At the bard's wine of protest, he continues on. "Colder, still, yes, but it'll be safe. Yarpen told me of a safe house when we were together, we'll take her there." He decides. "Train her, protect her, then see how the world has changed in its pursuit."

"You're good with her." Jaskier says quietly.

Geralt humms, looking down at the small lump that he wouldn't know he was looking for unless he knew to look for it.

Jaskier smiles, he knows what that grunt means. The old, crotchety dog was going soft, after all.

[alpaca-clouds]

Fluffcember Day 18: Cold Rain [The Witcher]

I didn't post the two links from yesterday, because I was too beat in the evening. So let me quickly share those stories. First we have my little Fluffcember story, which yesterday was for The Witcher (the books, mind you) with a little missing scene for Triss and Ciri set at the beginning of Blood of Elves. Prompt was Rainy Winter.

Cold Rain

Fandom: The Witcher (Book Series) Relationship: Triss & Ciri Genre: Fluff

Triss finds a bored Ciri in front of the fireplace.

You can find a complete overview over my December Challenges here.

[caernua]

i feel like my external drive breaking was god’s way of punishing me for playing 500h of valhalla

[irrlicht-writes]

I feel like I've made a grave mistake