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limerental · 15 days ago

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ficletvember 2024 - day 9

ciri & ves & roche beach holiday shenanigans (theoretically takes place within the timeline of my ciri/everyone fic but is standalone)

After the Battle of Kaer Morhen, Ciri whisks the Temerians off for a much-deserved beach holiday.

The first world Ciri whisked them off to was meant to ease her sheltered companions into the realities of time-space travel. The trouble was that almost anywhere was out of the scope of comprehension for two low-born humans who'd rarely left their backwater kingdom on a Continent yet to fight its way out of the dark ages.

She soon realized she'd underestimated what they would need warning for.

A beach vacation would fix them, Ciri thought. Warm sand and the rhythmic crash of the waves. Overly sweet alcoholic drinks bought from boardwalk bars and indulgent foods like potato wedges drowning in melted cheese or corn dogs or ice cream.

“All these women are utterly naked,” said Ves, her face burning red. It was a delightfully amusing reaction from a girl with a neckline that plunged as low as hers.

Beside her, Roche was steadfastly squinting into the distance rather than look at the sun-bathing tourists around them. Or perhaps he needed sunglasses. The quality of the light in his precious Temeria tended towards dreary and dull.

“Only nearly naked,” said Ciri, taking on her best instructive voice, as though she were their well-informed time-space tour guide. “This is what's called tanning. No, no, not like the leather, though in time, it can certainly give one's skin a leathery appearance. Well and any of these women may someday be afflicted by a terrible disease caused this very afternoon. You see, this planet's sun has evil magic beams that–”

“On this world do they not grow hair ‘tween their legs? Or anywhere?” Ves asked loudly. “That fabric covers fuck all.”

Roche dropped his face into his hands, and laughing, Ciri swiftly whisked them off to dress more appropriately for the locale.

Ves took easily to scantily clad beachwear, choosing to wear board shorts and a pale blue string bikini top. Ciri liked her cheeky smile as she examined herself in the dressing room mirror. She liked Ves and owed her something for risking her life to save her from the Wild Hunt. Ciri liked the thought of providing her a small moment of contentment, something easy and pleasant.

Unfortunately, she also owed Vernon Roche. Ciri had brought him along on their adventure only because Ves had vouched for him and because she was curious whether it was possible for him to lose his pinched frown.

So far, no luck. He seemed more than a little shell-shocked by the size and scale of the superstore they'd entered, but the deeply-furrowed frown remained. When Ciri and Ves finished in the dressing room, they found him wandering in an aisle full of wall to wall packaged bread. Perplexed shoppers eyed the strangely-dressed man in his silly hat and heavy wool armor as he mumbled to himself in a foreign language and stroked the crinkling, colorful plastic of pre-sliced loaves.

Perhaps Ciri should have introduced mass market capitalism a bit more slowly. She could have popped into a nice seaside boutique rather than the local Wal-Mart.

She and Ves corralled the dazed man back to the dressing rooms, where they plied him with a mound of clothing and shoved him into a stall.

He emerged sometime later wearing far too many layers and hideous clogs. Ves laughed until she wheezed, and Ciri snatched his rumpled chaperon from his head and replaced it with a wide-brimmed beach hat and dark sunglasses.

“Don’t worry, you'll get all your kit back when I've dumped you back home again,” said Ciri, stuffing their clothing and gear into a small bag strapped at her waist. “It’s bigger on the inside, of course.”

Ciri imagined that the poor loss protection security guards watching the shop's cameras got quite a shock when three shoplifters in swimsuits disappeared in a flicker of light. She flipped off one of the cameras for good measure.

Most of the Continent’s beaches that she’d been to were a stinking slog of muck on the borders of swampy dunes, no comparison to the glittering sand and pale blue water that stretched out before them. The foaming surf felt as warm as a bath as it wet their ankles, and it was all perfectly quaint and fairly boring.

“You mentioned drinks?” Ves asked, and Ciri found them the gaudiest beachside bar around, Jimmy Buffet blaring over the sound system, and plopped them down on sun-warmed loungers with lurid colored drinks sipped from curly straws.

Within the hour, Ves had won several arm-wrestling matches with burly, tattooed locals, and Ciri looked on fondly at the girl surrounded by a crowd of admirers, her mouth stained with blue dye, her cheeks and shoulders flushed hot red from the afternoon sun and the drink.

Even Roche looked a little at ease. Or perhaps was just queasy with the sugary alcohol. He'd taken a liking to frozen margaritas, cradling a brimming glass of slush as he watched tropical fish cruise along in the barside aquarium as if they were the most confounding things he'd ever seen.

One of the men Ves soundly defeated turned out to run a tattoo shop down the boardwalk, and she lit up at the offer of ill-advised free ink.

The sunset burned over the water, and the tequila warmed their blood.

They coaxed a swaying Roche into the chair first, adding a little fish swimming amidst the wobbly lines of the mismatched tattooed mess of his left arm. Ciri and Ves opted for the same, fins rippling as they flexed their biceps, cackling.

“My first,” said Ves, pointing to a bulbous penis and balls on her upper shoulder. “Worst is, I was dead sober. I think was either Silas or Thirteen who did it. You remember Roche?”

“Nah,” said Roche, a distance in his voice. “Been too damn long.”

Ciri thought of the rose at her inner thigh, and wanted– well, she wanted more to drink. Or at the very least to run and keep running.

The three of them sat together on the edge of the pier, legs dangling, arms folded on the weathered railing. The last glow of evening faded out over the ocean.

The night was warm, the ocean waves swelled across the sand below, and it was all insufferably idyllic.

“How about somewhere less dull next,” said Ciri.

“This isn't dull,” Ves protested. “It’s just… well.”

“It's dull,” said Roche. He stared out at the vanishing horizon line with an inscrutable expression.

Deeming herself sufficiently sober, Ciri dragged them to a world more vibrant and loud, engines roaring along a neon megahighway. She knew a mechanic in this one who could help her indulge in the sort of adrenaline she needed.

“What on earth is that?” Ves asked, and Ciri leaned over the handlebars and revved the thing, grinning. She held out a helmet, lowering the dark face shield on her own.

“Hop on! You'll love it. It's better than the fastest horse you've ever ridden. And this planet doesn't have traffic rules. So we could certainly die in a fiery crash at any moment if we’re not careful.”

“Neat,” said Ves and slung herself behind Ciri, holding on tight.

“I hate horses,” grumbled Roche. “Am I meant to fit on the back of that as well?”

“Of course not,” she said. Ciri was suddenly having a very very good time. She had a handsome girl holding her tight, anywhere in the world to run to, and she was finding that she found pestering a long-suffering Roche deeply gratifying. He deserved it a little. The vacation and the pestering.

She gestured beside the bike, waggling her fingers.

“Sidecar.”

#i hope you all know this is deeply stupid lmao #put vernon roche in the local walmart to suffer #my fic

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croziers-compass · 5 months ago

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ciri/roche except everyone, fic

Geralt had assured her that Emhyr would not force her to follow his will, that he only wished to talk, but she’d heard all of that before. She could guess what his designs were for her. He had no heir but her, after all. If she was foolish enough to stay in Nilfgaard, she could expect to be married off within the year.

“Do you aim to court me, Vernon?” she asked, and he blinked at her in further surprise. His eyes were icy-brown, the dark kohl at his lids paling them further. “You’re asking an awful lot of irrelevant, personal questions. Isn’t the Emperor waiting?”

“Forgive me, my lady,” said Roche, ducking his head. “I’ve heard a great deal about you and only wished to know more. Your father speaks of you very highly.”

“My father died at sea when I was young,” Ciri said. “I hardly remember him. If he were to have fond memories of his daughter, he’d be remembering a little girl. Do I look like a little girl, Vernon?"

“No, my lady.”

“I’ve done some horrible, debauched things that would curl your Emperor's hair. I wonder if he’d speak so highly of me if he knew them? And you, Vernon, what if I answered you truthfully? Would you regret seeking to know me? I’d think so. No, I know so.”

Roche averted his gaze, his haughty excitement having wholly deflated. Ciri felt almost bad about it. He’d not been unpleasant to her.

Who are you and why have you randomly brought me fanfiction about the Witcher? What is this for? What is happening right now? What is going on? I want to go home.

#What is even happening right now?#I'm a Terror blog #I don't think I have ever even posted anything about the Witcher???

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viking-raider · 5 months ago

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ciri/roche except everyone, fic

“Forgive me, my lady,” said Roche, ducking his head. “I’ve heard a great deal about you and only wished to know more. Your father speaks of you very highly.”

“No, my lady.”

Roche averted his gaze, his haughty excitement having wholly deflated. Ciri felt almost bad about it. He’d not been unpleasant to her.

Respectfully, get wreckt.

#geralt of rivia #the witcher #witcher #Ciri #vernon roche #Emhyr var Emreis #Duny

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ladymarinamart · 5 months ago

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If you don't want to write about RocheCiri, then I will do it myself to spite you, so that you can see the ship you hate.

ciri/roche except everyone, fic

“Forgive me, my lady,” said Roche, ducking his head. “I’ve heard a great deal about you and only wished to know more. Your father speaks of you very highly.”

“No, my lady.”

Roche averted his gaze, his haughty excitement having wholly deflated. Ciri felt almost bad about it. He’d not been unpleasant to her.

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It must be nice when everyone thinks your cirvran is a wonderful ship and writes fan fiction about it, right? No one blocks, ignores, or considers Cirvran to be trash, unlike RoсheCiri, hated by everyone

#the witcher 3 #cirilla #cirilla fiona elen riannon #witcher ciri #vernonciri #screenshot #vernon roche #the witcher #ciri #tw3 #Anti cirvran #the fanfiction version with RocheCiri is much better than stupid Ciri and Cahir

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notsofriendlyfriendlyreminder · 5 months ago

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ciri/roche except everyone, fic

“Forgive me, my lady,” said Roche, ducking his head. “I’ve heard a great deal about you and only wished to know more. Your father speaks of you very highly.”

“No, my lady.”

Roche averted his gaze, his haughty excitement having wholly deflated. Ciri felt almost bad about it. He’d not been unpleasant to her.

why the hell was i sent a roche x ciri fanfiction help??

#AND WHY DID I READ IT #AJHFLKJASHDFLKJASHFLDK #witcher 3 #the witcher

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dodorimo · 5 months ago

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ciri/roche except everyone, fic

“Forgive me, my lady,” said Roche, ducking his head. “I’ve heard a great deal about you and only wished to know more. Your father speaks of you very highly.”

“No, my lady.”

Roche averted his gaze, his haughty excitement having wholly deflated. Ciri felt almost bad about it. He’d not been unpleasant to her.

anon you can't just post fic and not share the link

#cool anons #ask

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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 1 year ago

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Iorveth, Vernon Roche, his bald spot and Emhyr

Yes, this must sound utterly strange. Yesterday, @fandomwarehouse posted their hc about Iorveth seeking revenge on Emhyr because Vernon Roche is going bald in this post. Then, @she-who-drank-vodka-with-cats fueled my sudden interest in writing a story about this with even more hilarious ideas. Anyway, I know I said I have no time and I asked @valandhirwriter to write something, and she did, but so did I. Meaning here's two (very different) stories about Iorveth's assassination attempts on Emhyr – all because Vernon Roche is going bald. This was fun! It's not going on AO3 so ... do your magic, Tumblr!

Sine Qua Non (by @valandhirwriter)

Belletyne had never quite been Emhyr’s favourite celebration, at least not during his tenure in Nilfgaard. It had always reminded him of what he had lost, of things done and gone. Even now, that Belletyne had become the much happier occasion as the Crown Princess’s birthday, Emhyr was tense as he watched the guests mill about the wide areal of the royal gardens. Cirilla moved among them with ease, smiling and exchanging polite words. She was here and there charming her way through the assembled nobility, breaking a few hearts while she was at it. It allowed Emhyr to watch, observe and keep his distance from the general merrymaking.

Now and then he cast a glance across the flower rondel to where he could see Geralt. Sir Geralt of Rivia, Chevallier de Corvo Bianco made a better figure on these events than one might expect from a former Witcher. The Duchess of Toussaint had done Emhyr an indirect favour by bestowing estate and title on the man - as it allowed for him to be called to court without arousing suspicion. With Emhyr’s… fondness of the man, that was a boon indeed.

And it was why he watched so nervously. Cirilla had insisted that besides inviting her foster father, she also would invite her foster Uncle, another Witcher by the name of Eskel. Emhyr had of course been aware of the man’s existence. He had extensive files on each and every member of the school of the wolf, that had still been living around the time that Cirilla had come into their care. And the man in question had fought in Undvik. Otherwise, he was of no consequence, except that it seemed his daughter remembered him fondly.

Or Emhyr wished that this was the only consequence there was, if his daughter had a Witcher on hand, who could occasionally take missions from her or act as a body-guard, he’d not deny her, Emhyr had availed himself of Geralt’s help often enough, after all. But there was another reason Eskel was here. Cirilla had decided that she had it and wanted her Uncle and her foster father to stop avoiding each other. And with that, she had thrown a stone into a hornet’s nest. Emhyr knew that Eskel was highly critical of Geralt’s relationship with Emhyr, or of his acceptance of a noble title in the south. And while Geralt rarely cared what others thought of him, and did as he pleased, this was not just some stranger but a kind of older brother.

Emhyr peered over nervously, how easy could it be that some stern words of the dark Witcher could make Geralt break it off with Emhyr? Decide that it was dishonourable for his kind to be in an… affair with a ruler? The thought made Emhyr’s stomach churn. The two witchers stood in the shadow of a huge dove tree and the conversation appeared tense. Geralt stood leaning back on his heels, arms crossed in front of his chest, and his brother mirrored that posture, both were ready to argue or fight. From the distance it struck Emhyr how similar those two were - of sure, the colouring was different, Geralt was pale, with white hair, and Eskel was dark, bronze tanned and had dark hair, but otherwise, they were similar, body language, the same cat-like movements, even the same over-sharp reactions to their surroundings.

He wished he could listen in, hear how the conversation went. And yet, he did not want to know. He could imagine how that would go. He is the Emperor of Nilfgaard, the man who had you almost executed, a conqueror with more blood on his hands than any other before him, a coward, a liar, an overall cruel man. He is not worthy of you, Geralt. That’s what his older brother would say, before reminding Geralt of his duties to the school of the wolf and the world as a whole.

A loud gong announced noon - the hour of the sun - and Cirilla approached Emhyr, casting her foster father a sharp glance. Geralt dutifully left his place and followed her over, Eskel in tow. There as a short gaggle of servants to prepare the goblets for the semi-private blessing of the reborn child - in this case, Cirilla, before the servant approached with a tray of glasses. Emhyr was handed his glass, of course, before the tray was presented to the others.

“Kaer Morhen toast, dearest Crown Princess?” Eskel suddenly asked, he had a deep, hard voice. “To celebrate your twenty-fifth year and your ascension?”

Emhyr was startled, Ascension was not a concept of Nilfgaard, but familiar. Why was he bringing it up? To his surprise Cirilla beamed at Eskel, taking a glass, and gesturing the two witchers to follow suit. “Trade with me first, Eskel?” She asked, extending the hand with the glass.

Now Emhyr was confused, as he saw his daughter and the foreign Witcher reach around one another’s hand and exchange the glasses. Then Cirilla beamed at Emhyr. “Come, father, it is an old tradition and brings luck,” She said extending her hand.

Emhyr wanted to tell her that an Emperor did not trade glasses, but gave in, what was the harm? They traded glasses, and Cirilla turned to Geralt, while Eskel turned to Emhyr and the ritual was completed before Geralt offered the same trade to Emhyr, and then another time. Emhyr shook his head when the round ended with laughter. “Am I allowed to drink now?” he asked Cirilla a bit tersely.

She smiled at him. “Of course, father. May the sun illuminate your path.” They all drank. It was a Toussaint Pearl Wine, La Chaire de diable, a very intense vintage. Emhyr frowned, that should not have been served. Why had the cellarer brought this up?

He saw Geralt throw his head back, like in shock, and when he looked at him again, Geralt’s eyes were bleeding black, the same as Eskel’s. The two Witchers did not waste time, moving past Emhyr. At the same moment, a young man in a velvet doublet panicked and raced towards the next exit from the area, only to be caught by one of the soldiers stationed there, grabbing his neck, and quickly restraining him.

The full sequence of events hit Emhyr, the Witchers - and maybe Cirilla - must have detected the poison in the wine, and their inane glass exchanging had made sure the wine ended with the Witchers who were immune against most poisons. His heart skipped. Most poisons. Not all. What if Geralt had imbibed something even more dangerous for a Witcher? “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, his own worry covered by the additional harshness of the voice.

Cirilla looked to Eskel. “You spotted him,” she said softly.

Eskel pointed to the man in velvet and to another fat noble. “Fat one passed the vial to velvet, velvet dipped the contents into the crystal pitcher from which your Highness and her Imperial father are served,” he said firmly. “By the taste, it is a mix of Ashbloom, foxglove, winter lily, and snow-root. An old elven recipe.”

And slow acting, Emhyr added in his mind. Very slow acting. It would have meant a tortuous death for him and Cirilla. He cast a worried glance at Geralt, but his lover stood there, watchful, strong, with no signs of discomfort. “Eskel, can you get the name of their employer from them? My Axii never was that strong,” Geralt rasped.

Emhyr wanted to remind him that a confession under mind control was not a confession at all, but Eskel shrugged. “There are better ways,” he said, taking a glass of wine from a shell-shocked servant and adding something - where he got it, Emhyr could not say - to it. The wine became greenish, and after a finger gesture of Eskel, glittered with strange sparks. He went over to the man in velvet, opening his mouth with a hard grip around the jaw and forced the glass’s contents down his throat. He struggled, screamed and then slumped on a bench. Eskel - his eyes still black as the night - looked at him. “They tell you all the time about Witchers and how we breed us little monsters,” he said gravely, “now, there is a taste. You can feel it burn in your already, do you? The pain along the spine, and in your bones. They will start to grow first… to transform you…”

The man gasped. “You cannot do this. I… I am a baron…”

Eskel shrugged. “Barons, Beggars the substance knows no difference, you are meat and meat changes…”

The man’s hands were shaking, and there were swellings forming at his knuckles. “It begins,” Eskel said softly. “The pain is only moderate now, when the bone spikes break through your flesh, it will be agony… and you will not be able to pass out. More will come out of your spine… your shoulders…” He reached for his side, tossing a small vial up in the air. “It is reversible… but only before the first spike breaks through. You know what can save your life.”

Emhyr watched in a sick fascination, as the man’s fingers swelled further, and his eyes went from fear to anger… to capitulation. “I was hired by an elf…” he rambled, “a former Scoia’tel, Esthelin, he had a compromising letter, that would have incriminated me… I had no choice. He… he waits, for confirmation of the Emperor’s death… at the Three Coroner’s Tavern in the city…” He raised his swollen hands pleadingly. “Now… please�� don’t make me a monster.”

Eskel took the vial and dumped it down the man’s throat, he passed out immediately and the guards took him away. They also had cleared out the shocked guests, to ask further questions to all of them, de Rideaux had taken over there.

“What did you do to him?” Emhyr asked sharply. “I will not have a baron, not even a guilty one, changed into a monster,” he remembered the quills all too well.

The dark Witcher scoffed. “I added some of your flowering elf-root seeds to the wine, it creates a strong allergic reaction, which leads to swelling and bulges at the joints. Uncomfortable, but essentially harmless. The rest was a sign, a useless one that produces nothing but sparkles.”

The entire threatening house of cards collapsed as Emhyr realised it had been a trick. A menacing trick, underlined by poison-black eyes and legends about the monsters from the North. And the Baron had spilt it all. Emhyr had already gestured to several guards. “Have de Rideaux apprehend the elf immediately.”

With the celebration cut short, Emhyr returned inside and used the short span in between to speak to Geralt. His eyes were slowly fading back to the familiar gold, and he was tense. “We need to find out what is behind this,” Geralt growled, “that dose could have killed you thrice over,” He stepped closer and touched Emhyr’s shoulders. “This was too close.”

While Emhyr agreed with the principle, he was more worried about Geralt. “What about you? You took the entire dose meant for me?” He wanted to fuss about his Witcher, just a little, to make sure he was alright.

“There never was danger for me, Ashbloom, foxglove, winter lily, and snow-root are all plants Witchers will use for food.”

Relief, sweet, painful relief exploded in Emhyr’s chest. Of course, that was why Eskel had recognized the taste, he was used to eating these plants. Eating poisonous plants. Without thinking he reached for Geralt, pulling him close into a chaste, but warm, kiss. “You will refrain from shocking me like that,” he added, trying to not show how relieved he was.

Geralt arched an eyebrow at him quizzically, maybe the strongest way it showed he was worried about the assassination attempt. They were disrupted by the news that the elf in question had been caught and brought to the palace dungeons. “Any hope the same trick will work on him?” Emhyr asked.

His lover shook his head. “No one beats an elf at botany. I need a word with Eskel… Vesemir taught him some mean trick, and I say: mean as in brutal, on how to get the truth from an elf. Takes a lot of control in sign magic,”

Emhyr chose to accompany Geralt, much as he did not fancy getting told he was not worthy of a certain white-haired witcher, he wanted to stay close to Geralt. Eskel listened to what Geralt had to say and shrugged. “I can do it - be warned while bloodless it is cruel. Very cruel. I can try words to soften him up before going all in, but if he is committed it will mean breaking him down.”

“And still bloodless?” Emhyr asked, he had seen enough interrogations to know how it looked, and where it led.

“Bloodless, there won’t be a mark on him,” Eskel cast him a sharp glance. And the glance said that he was doing this for Geralt, not for Emhyr.

The elf had been secured in the dungeon, tied to an iron bar. He had been stripped of weapons and armour and spat at them when they came in. Emhyr remained in the shadows, just willing to watch. “I’d usually be merciful with you,” he drawled, “put a few pins under fingernails and get the truth. Even the mages swear that five pins inserted under the nails break the strongest compulsion to keep silent. Works directly into the subconscious or something… would be much less messy.” He seemingly cleaned his hand with a rag.

“But as you committed a crime against his majesty, someone wants to do this the hard way.” He walked up to the elf, fingers lightly touching the ear tips.

Emhyr could see the elf freeze, the touch was so light, it could barely be felt, but suddenly there was fear in the elf’s eyes. “Awww,” Eskel mockingly cooed. “Now you see… all it takes is your anatomy. Even a human, knowing how your eartips work, could do some things to you, but a witcher, controlling the vibrations of aard… there is no limit.”

He did not move, Emhyr could not even see something, there was no visible touch, but the elf began to spasm, winding in a fierce wave of… lust? His body convulsing. Eskel held him there for less than a minute before removing his fingers. “Just a light one, for starters…” he said, “pain, pleasure, happiness… there is no feeling that cannot be stimulated in those ears of yours, even love. Where shall I take you? So much pain, that you curse your own mother for ever giving your father that first kiss? Or maybe lust? Make you want until you beg all the guards in this hellhole to take you? Love maybe… make you overwhelmingly set on this dungeon’s chief interrogator. He is even good looking for a d’hoine….”

The elf panted and spat on the ground. “You can kill me, like your master is killing Ivoreth’s d’hoine. Go on, Witcher…”

Emhyr cast a confused glance at Geralt. “Which lover?” he asked softly.

Eskel must have picked up on it. “Whom is my master killing?” he asked, almost caressing the elf’s ear tips. Emhyr saw the elf shudder in fear. How much control could be gained over an elf via this method? How much had they to fear being manipulated through their own anatomy? He had never heard of the secret before, but the demonstration had been clear.

“Ivoreth’s d’hoine… Vernon. Your Emperor had him poisoned with some sickness.” The elf growled. “Just like him, use the man first and then dispose of him when he finds a little happiness.”

“Being happy is never advisable in Nilfgaard,” Eskel replied, and Emhyr saw the elf’s shudder, not knowing what feeling Eskel had just incited him. “But what sickness is this… what is happening to Roche?”

“He… he is sick. His hair falls out, it changes colour…”

Eskel let go of the elf and walked around him. “Changes like this?” he pulled a few pale streaks from his own hair.

The elf nodded. “But it falls out, it gets thinner and thinner and…”

“He is getting grey and losing his hair?” Eskel shook his head. “And because of that, you wanted to assassinate the Emperor of Nilfgaard? Why?”

“This is his doing, and if he kills Ivoreth’s love, then he will not live to either.”

Eskel ran his hand through his dark hair. “In the kingdom of fools, you squirrels are all Emperors,” he growled, leaving the cell.

Outside the dungeon, Geralt looked at Emhyr. “You didn’t poison Roche, did you?”

“Why would I?” Emhyer was still slightly shaken by the revelation. “It would be damaging and put Temeria into needless unrest. Though why Ivoreth would overreact like that…”

“Sine qua non,” Eskel said. “That without not - the one thing we cannot be without. And Ivoreth now comes face to face with the pain of loving a human. He will watch him grow old and die, while he lives on almost unchanged. When he realises what happens it will get worse.”

Geralt had gone pale, the words might hit closer to home than he liked. “But… there is no need to kill the elves for this. Give them the information and maybe something to restore Roche’s hair a little…”

Eskel scoffed. “And the next time Roche shows frailty, the same will happen again. Humans are frail and short-lived. Ivoreth never considered that, much like you, brother. Wailia’s tears might be a solution, though Vesemir would turn in his grave if we resurrected that knowledge.”

Emhyr cast the witcher a sharp glare. “I should prefer you not take up the snake oil trade, Wailia’s tears are as much a myth, as Amritsar or the golden Elixir of dreams.”

“They exist,” Eskel and Geralt exchanged a glance. “They need some unusual ingredients - drowner spit, dragon teeth, piss of a royal gryphon - the good stuff. We might not even have to tell Ivoreth, brew it up, send it to him with his elf here as a “cure”, with a warning. The Empire retains its nasty image, Roche will be around a while longer, and all is well that ends well.”

Emhyr was about to answer when Geralt left his side and walked up to his brother. “What about the blood? You are just so beyond the line…”

Eskel shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, I know where to find someone who still is strong enough, brother,” he replied. “But that’s not what you want to ask, is it? You want me to make more.”

It was a strange dynamic between them, a mix of disapproval and worry, and a mix of misunderstanding and care. Emhyr could not truly translate it. “Sine qua non,” Geralt said softly. “I never understood what Vesemir or you meant by that… now I do. And…”

“You don’t want to lose him,” Eskel ran his hand through his dark hair. “Alright, you give me a week, and you make sure that Emperor survives all other elven heroics. And there will be more. Then we talk.” He stepped past his brother and cast a sharp glance at Emhyr. “I’ll say it only once - you hurt my little brother, you harm him, and it’s my blades that you need to worry about.”

It was a strange moment, usually, Emhyr would have rebuked such bluntness, but suddenly he felt elated. Because whatever else it may mean, it also meant acceptance for what he and Geralt were and might become. It was a chance and one he would grasp with both hands.

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The Thing About Iorveth, Vernon Roche and Emhyr (by me, @do-androids-dream-ao3acc, yes I have no title for this)

Geralt became suspicious at the second assassination attempt, Emhyr only at the third. As far as that was concerned, Vizima turned out to be a real viper's nest – no pun intended, because witchers, especially vipers, had nothing to do with it. Geralt quipped, however, that they also had a reason for such attacks. Emhyr did not find that funny.

This whole situation was quite surreal. Geralt came to Vizima more often; Emhyr had not yet left the north, as if he still had to mend fences, including with his own daughter. The latter had agreed to take up her inheritance, but she had set a peculiar condition: until the emperor would retreat to Nilfgaard, Geralt was to act as her advisor. It was a rather absurd proposal, which Geralt flatly rejected, saying that his dislike of politics was common knowledge. Whereupon Emhyr, of all people, had reminded him of his involvement in the death of Radovid.

In general, Emhyr. Where was this strict guy, who had once demanded that Geralt be bathed and dressed in black clothes before he had forbidden him to speak, yet now… Now he was still impatient, bossy, and quite demanding, but there was Ciri, and for some reason he had nothing, absolutely nothing to counter her with. Ciri was a force of nature, and Geralt found it quite appropriate that Emhyr was quite helpless in the face of it.

So Geralt was now somehow a member of Vizima’s court, feeling like an exotic exhibit in the showcase of an auction house. At least until the assassination attempts occured. The first one was almost ridiculous, a small explosive box smuggled among the cargo – whoever had placed it there only revealed they had no idea Emhyr did not even get to see such things. Emhyr claimed assassination attempts occurred almost daily in Nilfgaard, and that this one neither surprised him nor did he think it was original. Geralt thought he sounded almost proud. Perhaps the man had to keep convincing himself of his worth by withstanding attacks on his life, what did he know.

The second time was about a delivery to the kitchen. This time it was more sophisticated – Geralt later learned that the local supplier had taken a bribe. In this way, poisonous plants had found their way into the kitchen. Something must have gone wrong here, because the cook had recognized them immediately. Geralt found the composition strange: psilocybe mushroom, banewart and a branch of bohun upas, a tree with poisonous sap. All these plants resembled non-poisonous ones, but were easy to recognize for the trained eye. Incidentally, they grew in dense forests, which Geralt also told Emhyr, who did not care much.

"I leave the art of botany to those who know more about it," he had said, and he had not even let Ciri interfere, who had already reacted to the first assassination attempt with concern.

The third time, however, Emhyr's cool facade crumbled, as Geralt noticed, not without satisfaction. Emhyr had introduced a (in Geralt's eyes superfluous, insecure and somehow silly) gesture in Vizima, which consisted of him and Ciri conducting public negotiations, weather permitting, in the palace's spacious courtyard. Much later, Geralt learned that this had come about mainly because Emhyr found the palace ugly, dark and kind of creepy, which in turn was somehow cute. Ciri seemed to prefer being outdoors anyway, and so did he, of course. So there Geralt stood, one step behind the old and the new ruler, always trying to stifle a yawn and at the same time keeping an eye out for danger.

On that particular day, an arrow made it very close to Emhyr, an arrow from a bow that was later discovered near the outer wall. However, no trace of the archer was found. Emhyr had the bow shown to him, and he remarked, "This looks familiar."

Geralt was surprised, but also somehow pleased. He had now had many weeks of forced study with Emhyr, and had learned much in the process. Emhyr was extremely well-informed on certain subjects (though mostly politics, military matters, and espionage), and on some things he was a walking encyclopedia. He could quote Ciri's origin up to Lara Dorren by heart, had peculiar knowledge about the viper-witchers and knew very well about magic, despite an understandable aversion to it.

Somehow, Geralt liked that. Apart from insane rulers like Radovid, he had known those who were downright stupid, those who farted half the day into their throne’s pillow and seemed to have more straw in their heads than the farmers on the fields those king’s and queens owned. Emhyr was indeed literate, and interesting beyond that, which admittedly made Geralt a little uncomfortable. He found that bad deeds were not to be outweighed by aristocratic features, a mysterious nature, and a pleasant smell.

And yet he liked it, which of course he kept to himself. He also liked that Emhyr had been able to identify the carvings on the bow – it was clearly an elven weapon.

"Maybe even Scoia'tael," he thoughtfully added, whereupon Emhyr became pensive.

The fourth attack plunged the court into great chaos. A perfectly normal and hitherto quiet (i.e. boring) day of audiences was nearing its end, when a great roar sounded and finally the doors to the throne room were pushed open with force. Something – one could not describe it otherwise because of the confusion and its speed – flitted through the room, a tangle from which arrows occasionally escaped. In the end, it turned out to be a band of elves, Scoia'tael in fact, who made a lot of noise, but were basically only five men.

Emhyr's soldiers easily put down the small uprising, and yet one managed to get within a hair's breadth of Emhyr. Had it not been for Geralt, who had kept track in all the chaos and noticed that one man of this group had broken away. However, he was not the only one: the equally striving and attentive Impera captain had almost caught the elf when Geralt hastily shouted, "Stop! Let him live!"

After a bit of a scuffle, they actually managed to pin the elf down, and Geralt and Emhyr both shouted at the same time, "Iorveth?"

Indeed. They had captured the famous elf leader, whom neither Emhyr nor Geralt had ever believed they would see again – albeit for different reasons and with different feelings. The mess had somehow ruffled Emhyr’s hair; a curl had stolen from what was actually a well coiffed, severe hairstyle and hung down into his forehead. Geralt found this very inappropriate, because it reminded him of earlier times and caused a feeling in his stomach as if he had just drunk a good liquor – only without the intoxication, and that was somehow strange. In any case, Emhyr claimed that he needed to recover from this mess, although Geralt believed that the man was meeting with his intelligence chief in the background to exchange information. Some time later, Emhyr – again, quite odd – came to Geralt personally and asked him to be present at Iorveth's interrogation.

"You have a history together," he said. "Maybe he'll be more likely to tell you what this is all about than my torturers."

"I would think that’s clear even without torture," Geralt returned, "he's obviously not well disposed towards you, after all, you took advantage of him and then tried to have him executed."

"No man can undo his past," Emhyr replied cryptically, "and what was logical at an earlier time will seem cruel in many a history book. Be that as it may, it doesn't explain why he shows up years later to exact his revenge."

That was true, though. Admittedly, the Scoia'tael had not benefited much from peacetime so far. Emhyr had abolished all reprisals against otherlings in the North, but the execution of his orders still left much to be desired. It might be that Iorveth simply wanted to finally act out his deep resentment against Emhyr. However, it turned out that Geralt was quite wrong with this thought. After they had exchanged some typical rudeness, which in the case of Iorveth had been combined with much shouting, clamoring and fidgeting, Geralt demanded to know what the problem was.

"Emhyr is the problem, isn't that obvious?" spat the elf.

"Well," Geralt returned calmly, "I'm the last one who wants to play the diplomat here, but why are you coming up with this now? The war is over, and while conditions are certainly not ideal..."

"What?" Iorveth interrupted him, confused, "Who said it was about that?"

"It isn’t? Well, why then, if not out of a grudge against Emhyr?"

"Oh, you bet your ass I have a grudge," Iorveth scoffed. "Are you familiar with the concept of blood ties, Geralt?"

Geralt nodded, and then – maybe for old times' sake, or maybe because he finally had to get this off his chest, Iorveth told him everything.

Later, Geralt met with Emhyr, who had insisted on a private parley, without Ciri, without his curious valet, and without his soldiers. He was really acting strangely lately.

"We need a sorceress," Geralt said, "or a Ban Ard mage for all I care, if you have one handy."

"As it happens, I don't," Emhyr grumbled, uncomfortable with the thought of magic. "Why? Did the elves get involved with magic? Do they possess an artifact that could harm me or Cirilla? Do they have a mage at their service?"

"Nothing like that," Geralt said, and then he started laughing.

For a while he enjoyed Emhyr's wry look. Somehow the man had really changed. In the past, he would have had him thrown out right away; after all, laughter was not a pastime that was particularly popular at this court. Emhyr had become more patient, even with Geralt.

"If you would have the kindness to explain this to me?"

"We need a strong hair restorer, and it must work quickly, preferably immediately. An ordinary one could be prepared by any alchemist, of course, but I have told Iorveth that only magic can help here. He believed it."

"A... hair restorer."

Emhyr's brows seemed to creep into his hairline. Geralt had never seen the man so confused. It was kind of touching.

"Yes. What I'm about to tell you absolutely has to stay between us, because if this thing is going to work, nobody can learn about this. Watch out. Iorveth thinks you're causing Vernon Roche undue stress and discomfort."

"Vernon Roche?"

Emhyr pushed his lower lip forward as if he were an offended child.

"The thought of me making this creep uncomfortable pleases me, frankly. I am surprised, however, that Iorveth does not feel the same way. If I remember correctly, the man pursued him mercilessly, and for a long time."

"That's right. But you see, sometimes old enemies can discover commonalities they weren't aware of before."

He looked at Emhyr, and somehow that warm feeling in his stomach was back. It felt like he had eaten something very good, or watched a particularly beautiful sunset. His own words echoed in him, and he thought, good heavens. Is this really true?

"You mean, people who previously rejected each other can see that their reasons no longer hold water?"

It was a strange formulation, Geralt thought. But he also thought that Emhyr was looking at him with great interest, at least if he interpreted the glint of those honey eyes correctly.

"Yes," Geralt replied slowly, as something inside of him tugged at his heartstrings, "or even a human and an elf. Anyway... I hardly dare say it, but apparently Vernon Roche and Iorveth have grown closer."

"Oh," went Emhyr. "Do you think that's bad?"

Geralt looked at him in surprise. The question was unusual. Did Emhyr really want to know his opinion on such a delicate question? Well, he had actually done his homework – as far as Geralt knew, same-sex relationships were not particularly uncommon in Nilfgaard and nowhere near as frowned upon as in the North.

"Well, I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that Vernon Roche and Iorveth, of all people.... But basically, no."

Their eyes met, and Geralt wondered if Emhyr had ever had the same feeling in his stomach that he had now. Whether he had ever given this feeling space or a name, like Vernon Roche and his Scoia’tael leader, who apparently were a thing now.

Emhyr cleared his throat noisily and continued, "All right, so the two are a pair. I’ve heard stranger things in my life. Now what do I have to do with that?"

"Well," Geralt said with relish, "you're obviously the cause of Vernon Roche's distress. I mean, of course Roche is not happy with the developments. His dream of Temeria – well, it was almost manic, and as for resentment, he probably has an even bigger one than Iorveth. In any case, Iorveth describes him as stressed. Because... the man loses hair. And the ones he has left would be white, Iorveth says."

Geralt grinned broadly, but Emhyr grimaced.

"Just the thought of that guy taking off his chaperon to show off his lice-ridden mane to anyone... wait. Let me do the math... That sounds like a natural progression."

"Exactly. Vernon Roche is in his prime, and apparently he's going bald. But you know what? Elves don't get bald heads. They never lose their hair, and it doesn't turn white until they're very, very old."

"Most Scoia'tael don't live that long," Emhyr followed, and Geralt nodded.

"Exactly. That means Iorveth doesn't know what this hair loss means for Roche. He thinks it's due to stress, he must have heard once that it can be a reason for all kinds of symptoms in humans. I've essentially confirmed it."

"But why?"

"Very simple. He wouldn't have believed the real explanation. The guy is obviously crazy about Vernon Roche, although I don't understand why, but to each his own. Furthermore, Iorveth now considers the man his blood brother, which is an important concept among the Scoia'tael – it means preserving the other's honor at all costs, protecting and caring for him. And one thing is clear: these assassinations will never stop, because in his opinion it's your fault, and there are still a lot of Scoia'tael out there who follow Iorveth. So I made him a peace offering."

"Which is?"

"Well, I've maintained that you can't officially make reparations to the Blue Stripes or the Scoia'tael, but would be quite willing, in order to keep the peace, to recognize past services."

"You did what?"

Emhyr's eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

"Emhyr, listen to me. This is an ingenious and simple solution. You've been siccing your advisors on me for weeks to teach me the basics of diplomacy. Can't you see I'm doing just that?"

Emhyr swallowed. Even his Adam's apple looked elegant. Was that what Vernon Roche saw in Iorveth, and vice versa? A person, not an enemy image? What a thought.

"What exactly did you promise him?" he asked cautiously.

"Nothing but a hair restorer," Geralt grinned. "I told him you were willing to invest considerable cost in an experienced sorceress or mage to restore Vernon Roche. In return, Iorveth agrees to refrain from further attacks."

"Surely Vernon Roche will see through this nonsense."

"He would. But we will, of course, instruct the sorceress or mage to keep it secretive – which also means that Iorveth will have to try to administer the stuff to Vernon in secret. Roche mustn't know about it, because otherwise it won't work, I've told him that."

"It's a devious plan," Emhyr admitted after a moment's thought.

"Love drives people to do strange things," Geralt replied, lowering his eyes.

"All right, I agree," Emhyr finally said. "I'll have a sorceress come and make a hair restorer for Vernon Roche. I can't believe I just said that."

"Of course," Geralt said slowly, "as long as you have Iorveth in your power, there could be more attacks, after all, the Scoia'tael will miss their leader."

"You're not seriously suggesting I release the man after half the court witnessed him pounce on me," Emhyr protested. "It will already seem like a strange act of mercy if I pardon him later, all without anyone knowing anything about a hair restorer."

"That's not what I'm saying at all. But... I should probably stay close to your side for the time being. I know the Impera are capable guys and all, but I’m a witcher, and I may know some more tricks… I mean, if it's all right with you."

Geralt felt like he was stammering. Emhyr, however, fixed his eyes on him, honey and amber and a hint of hazelnut, and he nodded.

"I think I would like that."

#writing #fanfiction #crack fic #Geralt/Emhyr #Emralt #Emhyralt #Vernon Roche/Iorveth #Iorveth/Roche #my fics

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stillness138 · 10 months ago

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for the character ask game: Vernon Roche

i gotta think about this! thank you

first impression: i actually remember this pretty well because witcher 2 was my first exposure to the franchise. i think i felt pretty much what i was supposed to feel though; "this guy imprisoned me but seems more sensible than the goons he employs". i liked his matter-of-fact but clearly proud and protective attitude towards Ves and his putting the key on the table and walking away like 'surely Geralt will manage'.

impression now: i still like him! surprisingly, cdpr writes original characters with really commendable nuance. of course, if Iorveth is to be believed word for word, Roche is responsible for carrying out hate crimes (he doesn't deny the accusations Iorveth makes, so i think that's just fact), and yet he shows time and time again that he really is more sensible than most. compare him to Rayla - also a special forces leader - and see the difference. Roche lacks the outright bloodthirst or really even the prejudice; it seems to me that he does his job and obeys Foltest without objection because he sees it as doing something worthwhile with his life, considering how he grew up. he and Iorveth contrast and parallel each other in fascinating ways.

favorite thing about him: his relationship towards Ves, because he clearly values her as an employee and as a person. his relative level-headedness. and the unpacked daddy issues that are most definitely there even if he won't talk about it. that part of him is sadly the most relatable to me. i also enjoy his humor, whether intentional or not. "emhyr var emreis, spice merchant" bursting into the elven baths while Triss is trying her hardest to seduce Geralt, fucking comedy gold.

least favorite thing about him: apart from the hate crimes? i think most of my issues that relate to him are metatextual - because the entire political landscape and plotline of witcher 3 sucks ass. maybe he could've held back the cops that beat Geralt though ngl.

favorite line/scene: "And we did. For three days. Then they smashed us into splinters." again, as much as i dislike the politics in witcher 3, this bit stands out to me. maybe also because it's punctuated by a reprise of the second game's main theme, in 3's instrumentation and a much more somber mood. good scene. that and the funny bits. "Some professional you are..."

favorite interaction he has with another character: it should be mainly credited to Letho's absolutely hilarious one-liner, but their little reunion at Kaer Morhen always gets a chuckle out of me. the entire interrogation at the beginning of witcher 2 is up there too.

a character that i wish he would interact with more: in the second game, elves in general. he mostly proves he's not completely shit-headed in context, but it would've been interesting to see him have a conversation with someone like Cedric. third game should've had Iorveth, we all know that.

another character from another fandom that reminds me of him: i know 5 things, but if i had to make a comparison... general Tullius from Skyrim? both are very capable and dedicated servants of a government despite its obvious failures and both show a noticeable sensibility or even calm you perhaps wouldn't expect. both have a badass lady as their right-hand person, too.

a headcanon about him: he hates the smell of cheap alcohol. childhood reminder. i also think he has a notable appreciation for architecture. can't remember if he actually comments on Loc Muinne in any way but somehow it feels like a thing he'd do. and i think it's pretty much canon that his hair color is towards light brown? or have i been living with fanon for far too long. either way, yeah, dirty blonde or warm light brown, super short on the sides.

a song that reminds of him: Shadowplay by Joy Division, in a way. first verse about beginning to serve Foltest, second verse about Foltest's and Temeria's fall. "but i could only stare in disbelief as the crowds all left" versus "and we did, for three days, then they smashed us into splinters".

an unpopular opinion about him: i famously dislike shipping him with Iorveth and i'm actually yet to see a good Roche ship. but the real hot take is that he doesn't need one. did i just say aroace Vernon Roche? maybe.

favorite picture: i'm sorry, but it's gotta be this one. on a more serious note, i always liked this piece of fanart a lot too. he gets to be cool.

#thanks again!#ask game #shut up elis #the witcher

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sassaffrassa · 10 months ago

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workin on the boys

#he got them birthing hips #amigurumi #crochet #my crafts #iorveth #vernon roche #iorveth’s eyelashes deserve their own tag #vernon roche's hair #you'll recognize him better once i finish his damn gambeson #wips #i maked this

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ladysunbite · 1 year ago

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@fallesto || x

"ENOUGH!" The wolf, the man stepped aside and the cursed ataman dropped a knife he was holding in his left hand (probably aimed for the werewolf's eye). The shriek hurt even the cursed beings, it seems. Uncomfortable, but better than to resort to tearing limbs.

Oh, she was getting too distant from society, in her rural pleasures. Not to notice a werewolf approaching! Was it a previous hangover of black magic that made her deaf or her own negligence? The beast did not intend harm to her, and the sun-eyed kept her ears for the sounds of lesser life, such as ghouls from a near-by battle-field, brigands, hostile local athumicas, mages... At least it was her wolf indeed. And he might give her answers that she was musing over with such a blinding abandonment. "Greetings, Vernon. Always a pleasure to see you," for a better measure she put herself between two cursed men, who clearly started on not such a friendly foot. "The warning bite is done..." oh, how her temerian grew! a few years ago the beast inside him would make a feast out of the charming ataman as soon as the blood filled his nostrils, sweet and metallic. "...please, refer from any future violence. The gentleman is here is my companion," both were staring daggers at each other, it made her bare skin shiver with the malicious promise. Suddenly, the hungry tension was gone. Her back was turned to Olgierd, but Roche seemed to...lower his eyes? "Ah, this. You did not expect me to ruin a dress? You humans also put a special cloth while riding on a hunt, for a swifter movement and a wider range. This is merely mine," the sun-eyed vampiress gave the werewolf a warm crescent of a smile. Bad news or good news, it was pleasant to see him again, a memento of a homeland. After a quick glance she concluded that the only thing hurt was his strange, northern sensibilities. Or maybe he was trying to quite the instinct as he averted the eyes from the fallen enemy behind her back?

"My apologies, Olgierd," the werewolf was hers and she intended to point the charming ataman's rage at herself, if there was any left, mixed with the pain of a wound. "Are you hurt?" she put an effort to sound and look perfectly human as she turned to the other man; there was no need to jagg anyone's nerves any further with her true voice, her claws, or a fleet and shift body, with ribs protruding underneath the skin like pearls. The sun-eyed looked like an alabaster statue came to life, her body is naked as a moon, a hair a curtain of red, red blood against the drowning darkness of the woods.

#// i don't envy anyone meeting them in those woods #// three annoyed monsters hehe #fallesto #lullaby of woe (ladysunbite rp answers)

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definitely-not-iorveth · 1 year ago

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first and last lines

Rules: go through your last 5 fics and share the first and last line. No context.

tagged by @loki-is-my-kink-awakening, thank you! 😘

because time's run out

Vernon is still asleep when Iorveth rouses, and he stays this way as the elf goes about his morning routine. Then he goes to dig the grave.

Sweet Song of Freedom

Vernon doesn’t want to be here. He finds that he doesn't mind as much as he should.

Embrace of the Night

The Blue Lily doesn't have a dress code, but the man who walks in still manages to stick out like a sore thumb with his combat boots, ripped jeans with two heavy chains at the hip, leather jacket and long black hair falling out from under a red bandanna that covers his right eye. He can make it that long.

juggle your heart

The route from the Dol Blathanna frontline to Novigrad inevitably leads through Pontar, so getting on a boat is the quickest, most efficient way to cross. Roche flips him off.

perennial

Ciri had scoffed in mock offence at the notion that she wouldn't be able to make the jump, and as Cerys watches her soar, she understands why. It’s Ciri who gets pneumonia a few days later.

i love how this tag game results in unhinged little stories all of their own, i laughed so hard at some of these.

tagging! @do-androids-dream-ao3acc @dapandapod @witch-and-her-witcher @justablobfish @goofgoofdildo @kiriele @between-thepages @swanfloatieknight @karolincki @gabetheunknown

#i'm wheezing 😂#rorveth #cirys #my writing #tag game #funniest tag game i ever did

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limerental · 11 days ago

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ficletvember 2024 - day 13

Geralt must keep Roche out of danger in Kaedweni army camp after he's magically transformed into a yappy little dog.

The little dog is maybe ten pounds wet with stubby legs and wiry hair, the sort kept on farms to sniff out rodents. The flicker of magical light has hardly faded before it begins to yap in alarm.

Geralt has a headache already.

“Was that really necessary?” he asks Dethmold, who looks far too pleased with himself.

“Oh, it will wear off in a few hours,” Henselt's wizard says, waving a perfumed hand. “It's not as if there's much of a difference anyhow. He’s an irritating little beast either way.”

“And I'm meant to do your king's errands while making sure a small dog doesn't run off a cliff?”

“If you like him enough,” says Dethmold with a shrug. “I'd kick him off the cliff myself, but then, I might scuff the leather on my boots.”

Without another word, the wizard saunters out of the tent off to do whatever wizards do all day. Be an inconvenience, mostly.

The little dog hasn't stopped yapping, the effort of its barking rhythmically lifting its front legs off the ground.

“Quiet, Roche,” says Geralt more harshly than he means, and the little dog obeys at once, tail tucked and ears slicked back. “Huh.”

If the commander of the Blue Stripes, presently transformed into a tiny mutt, can still comprehend orders in this form, then maybe he won't chase something off the first cliff he sees or bite anyone's ankles.

Geralt sighs and gathers up the small pile of discarded clothing and gear to stow in his pack, noting that at some point in the next few hours he'll likely have to deal with a very naked, very humiliated Vernon Roche. Hopefully all in one piece.

Feeling a little sorry for his earlier harshness, Geralt stoops to awkwardly pat the little dog on its head. Its fur is deceptively soft, especially between its unkempt ears.

“You in there, Vernon?” The animal’s head tips at the name, oversized brown eyes watering. While promising, that's not much confirmation that it understands him.

“Sit," he orders.

The dog stares at him.

“Lie down.”

Its little body begins to quiver.

“Right, I wouldn't be in the mood for tricks either in your state.” Geralt has a vague memory of having once been transformed into a cockerel, but like most of the things he remembers lately, the memory is hardly useful and the context evades him.

“We’ll head back to your camp, and I'll try to keep you from being eaten by a large bird. Or something. It'll be fine.”

Things promptly go to shit.

Geralt should have thought to fashion a lead for the little dog, just in case, but if he were suddenly a dog, he'd hope no one would leap right to collaring him.

At first, the dog trots beside him as they leave Henselt's camp behind, wandering onto the main thoroughfare of the Kaedweni army camp. Then, its body stiffens, scenting the air and the animal suddenly launches off at a run and almost immediately out of sight.

“Shit,” says Geralt, awkwardly burdened by the extra gear, and ignores the judgmental stares of dim-witted soldiers to hurry after the dog.

He follows the sound of harried barking rather than searching for tracks, and rounds a row of tents to find a cook threatening the little dog with a wooden spoon as it leaps at his legs, a serving girl cowering on the other side of the cooking fire.

“This your mutt, mutant?” the cook sneers. He’d threatened to spit in his food if the king let a Witcher stay in the army camp and probably had been interrupted leering at the poor girl. “Behaves just like you.”

After an unnecessary amount of insults directed his way, Geralt manages to coax the cook into giving the dog a scrap of meat to appease him. The dog growls as it gnaws the offered morsel, but before Geralt can snatch him up, Roche is off again.

“Sorry about your ankles,” he calls behind him to the swearing cook, not really sorry at all.

After failing to nab the dog as it rustles in a trash heap, the little creature finally stops to sniff at a spot on the outer wall. The dog turns in a circle and lifts its leg to mark the wall, and Geralt figures he should divert his eyes to give him privacy and so promptly loses his chance to snatch the dog up as he rushes of again.

For his part, Roche seems to be having an excellent time as a dog. He barks loudly into the wind, little ears flapping, stubby legs eating far more ground than should be possible.

Geralt loses sight of the dog once or twice but follows its high-pitched yap without much effort.

It's not the worst way to spend an afternoon. Better than the slogging about in crypts he'd been planning on. As long as no wayward harpy tries to swoop down to make a meal of the yappy creature, the curse may wear off just running circles around the camp.

Unfortunately, the dog soon makes a beeline for the front gate, and though Geralt gestures to the Kaedweni guard to block the door, the soldier soundly dislikes him. He opens the gate wide as the dog bites at the leg of his trousers, shaking its head viciously. Geralt may have been able to catch the dog as it ptoceeded to lift its leg once more on the guard's boot, but the soldier promptly tries to drive said boot into the little dog's abdomen, narrowly missing as it darts away and out of the camp.

Yes, if Roche is aware and awake in there, he's having a very good time indeed.

Once outside the main camp, the dog turns predictably toward where the Stripes had pitched their tents beyond the walls.

If Geralt knows Roche and his men, they'll never let him live this down, if they get wind of it. He’ll have to grab the dog before it reaches camp or risk Roche's surly wrath over the months of recurring dog jokes.

On open ground with less distractions, Geralt catches up quickly, but the mutt still evades him. Finally, he thinks to use a harsh command.

“Quit,” he all but growls. “Roche, quit.”

The dog cowers, whining, and Geralt scoops him into his arms with minimal effort.

“Should have done that right away, I guess,” he tells the dog as it licks at his palm, and he scratches absently behind its ears as it shivers miserably. He feels bad about the scolding, given how intensely the little dog reacts to his harsh commands. Geralt wonders if he would react the same to just anyone's barked orders. The dog whines low in its throat.

Will Roche remember all this when he turns back? Geralt hopes not.

Fashioning a lead out of spare leather, he secures the little animal and sneaks through the back of his tent to avoid detection. The Stripes are in the midst of cooking dinner, roughhousing and laughing together.

“Where's Roche?” asks Ves, as Geralt emerges for dinner some time later. “What’s with the dog?”

“Well. He'll be back soon. And the dog's lost. Looking for its master.”

Bearing two bowls of dinner, he returns to his tent and settles down to meditate for the evening. The dog laps the food up messily, then turns in several circles, digging in Geralt's blankets and flops down with a grunt curled against his legs. It lets out a long-suffering sigh from its whiskered snout.

“Long day, huh?” Geralt asks and the dog's tail thumps against the blankets.

They doze together peacefully that way, until there’s a sudden burst of light, and Roche is very human again, face pressed against Geralt's thigh.

“You're not going to lick me again, are you?”

“Oh fuck you, Witcher,” grunts Roche, voice hoarse from all the barking.

Days later, Geralt thinks maybe it couldn't have hurt to let Roche the dog run full tilt into the Blue Stripes’ camp, barking exuberantly. Would he have leapt at his fellows feet and wriggled with joy, just like any hound pleased to greet its family?

Watching Roche mourn his dead, empty and worn, Geralt wishes comfort could be as simple as it had been then. An easy pat on the head or a scratch behind the ears.

#my fic #oh this is very very silly

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merlot-and-chardonnay · 11 months ago

Text

A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 39.5

Chapter 39

Masterlist

---------Back in Flotsam-------------

Jaskier walked around trying to find out where Geralt had gone off to with a certain level of urgency; at this point, the Bard had meant to find the witcher with the intent of doing everything in his power to help find his niece. No more sitting around and waiting for things to get done.

But before that, when Jaskier had walked out of the tavern, after that short encounter with that strange trio, he had been thinking about how their accents sounded familiar and the conversation that followed,

"You look familiar have...have we met before?" he had inquired of the first individual. "...I don't recall," the man had told him, "someone such as yourself would be difficult to forget." "Hmmm," Jaskier had given him a good stare, "maybe we may not have met before...but that accent, it sounds familiar, I just can't quite pinpoint the region, it certainly doesn't sound like anything I've heard on the Continent before." "We have just arrived in town," the second man speaks, him with a headband adorned and looking younger then the first, but a little older than the young man who kept the hood of his clock up, the silent brooding one with the eye patch. "We need to speak to whomever is in charge of this place in order to receive some...information," the second man continued. Jaskier was a little confounded by this demand but answered nonetheless, "Well you would need to speak to the Commandant, Laredo, I suppose, but he's not a rather pleasant fellow to work with, especially right now with the tensions they way they are in this town. Laredo may be in charge, but I should inform you he may not be the best for information; that would the Commander of the Blue Stripes Vernon Roche. He and his men have taken up residence with the Commandant, he's the man you should speak to."

When walking away, Jaskier had accidentally bumped into the brooding young man, and he was almost certain he saw strands of the man's hair. And it wasn't until Jaskier was finally outside looking for Geralt, that he was slowly put two and two together: The strange accents, the strands of silver blonde hair...and the fact that man was someone Jaskier HAD met before a long time ago...in King's Landing...in the Red Keep.

He realized then this trio had come all this way...FOR AEMMA.

So this was the moment Jaskier realized he needed to find these people and stop them before they reach their destination. He turned and ran for the Commandant's headquarters.

--------------------

Once at the front door of said headquarters, and shoving his way through the guards in an act of utter stupidity, Jaskier ran inside and found Ser Criston Cole and company approaching the commander of the Blue Stripes.

"Don't tell them anything Roche!" the Bard shouts, causing the lot to stare at him in confusion and/or shock. Jaskier then rushed at Aemond and pulled his hood to reveal his blonde hair. "What the fuck?!" Roche shouts in surprise.

"I knew it!" Jaskier exclaims, "I knew it was only a matter of time before they came back again. YOU," he points an accusing finger at Criston, "It took a while but I was able to piece together those particular memories. You were one of those knights from the Red Keep, Ser Crisp...uh, Crish...Crishon- no wait, Crispin." "It's Ser Criston Cole," Criston crosses in arms with an impatient look.

Roche looked at Criston then Ivan, and then turned his gaze to Aemond now that his long hair was revealed, "Oh, fuck me," he mutters, "just what I needed to deal with right now, more inbred dragon lords." "You're princess Aemma's uncle," Aemond tries to reason, "the brother of the Lady of Larks." "I am," Jaskier confirms, eyes glaring at the prince, "and as her uncle, I'm not about to let you take her away from me...not again." Jaskier pulled out a dagger he had been carrying with him for the last few years since he became a Temerian spy. Instinctively, Ivan and Criston pulled out their swords to protect Aemond.

Roche pulled out his own sword and attempted to pull Aemond as a hostage, but the prince sensed the Blue Stripes commander behind him and pulled his own sword. A skirmish began in the room, with Roche doing most of the fighting between Ivan, Criston, and Aemond, with Jaskier doing some defending and getting behind Roche as he wasn't that skilled with a sword. Roche may have been outnumbered, but he had experience on his side as a result of years engaging in fights with the Scoia'tel; he could sense Criston was the more seasoned of the three. Ivan was quicker but less experience and while Aemond had honed his skills and depth perception as means to compensate for having one eye, it didn't change the fact he was still green around the gills when it came to real conflict. While parrying swords with Ivan, Roche had a feeling the way this young man fought felt familiar, he just couldn't put his finger on it. Nevertheless the man parried Ivan's blows and kicked him back; he then engaged one-on-one with Criston which took a little longer. Criston was getting the upper hand, so Roche pulled out his dagger, hoping to turn the tide. Jaskier hoped to end the fight by sneaking on Aemond with his own dagger, but Aemond sensed it and was about to turn and stab the Bard. Jaskier barely jumped in shock, and seeing this, Roche dodged around Criston and grabbed Aemond, wrapping an arm around the prince's neck and used the other to hold his sword close in a threatening manner.

"Drop your swords!" Roche demands.

Having gotten back on his feet, Ivan makes a grab for Jaskier and pulls him back, "you drop yours first!" he threatens. "Really? In the back?" Jaskier scoffs.

"I wouldn't do that," a female voice catches the trio by surprise as a certain blonde by the name of Ves points her crossbow at Ivan's back.

Criston was about to draw his sword on Ves, but the woman then pointed her crossbow at Aemond, letting the knight know she had multiple targets she could choose from should he try and charge her.

"You would be wise to release us," Aemond threatens, "if you know who we are, who I am, you know what I possess."

"Roche whatever they try, don't tell them anything," Jaskier insists, "they're here for-" "We're here for the Princess Aemma," Criston speaks up, "that is the only reason why we came to the Continent. We are not here for ill-will." "She is not here," Roche insists, "she was last seen at the La Valette castle, but she disappeared shortly thereafter. It was a waste to threaten the information out of me." "We didn't plan to! We know where she is," Ivan insists, "she's being held captive by the Scoia'tel." Roche's ears perked up at this information, "...how do you know this? What do you possibly know of the Scoia'tel?" "They sent us a ransom note shortly after our capture," Aemond slowly explains, "you'll find it in my pocket."

Roche nods for Ves to approach, which she does, still keeping the crossbow on hand should Ivan or Criston try anything. Ves reaches in and finds the scroll. She opens it and quickly skims it

"He speaks the truth, Roche," Ves confirms, "Look who signed it." Upon hearing those words, Roche pulls back and sheaths his sword, taking the letter from Ves. Ivan in return releases Jaskier and sheaths his own sword.

Roche skims the letter as well, being somewhat well versed in the Elven tongue and saw then and there who was behind this whole thing, both the abduction and the assassination. "That son of a whore," he mutters in hated contempt, beginning to pace to and fro, staring at the Westorosi trio "this complicates things, that much is certain."

"That's it then?" Jaskier huffs, "you're just...you're just going to let them walk?"

Before Roche could say anything else, soldiers, not part of the Blue Stripes, barge in and surround the group. A large, paunchy man approached, "what's all the commotion?" the man demands, "some of me men say some men not from around here barged in fixing to hold the legendary Vernon Roche hostage. Seems to me it's all under control now." "Well no, not quite, these three were-" Roche elbows Jaskier in the ribs before he could say anything, "apologies for the disturbance Commandant," Roche explains, "nothing more than a misunderstanding. These men are with me." "That so?" Commandant Laredo gives the trio a good stare, "don't look like Blue Stripes to me. Spies then?" "...more or less," Roche confirms. "Well then, carry on, I suppose. But I do ask you keep up to date on new arrivals. You may be a Temerian commander, Roche, but I am the law around these parts. You'd do well to remember."

"...of course," Roche nods in a low tone.

Once Laredo and the soldiers walked away, Aemond spoke up, having sensed the tension between the Commandant and the Blue Stripes commander, "you know exactly what we are dealing with." "I do," Roche confirms looking around the room, knowing that these walls especially have ears, "but I'd rather not discuss it here. Follow me."

---------outside the Commandant's headquarters, by the docks------------

Once outside, Roche read the ransom letter again, his facial expression becoming more obviously heated as he went through it in detail, especially when he saw who signed the letter.

By the end, Roche looked like he was ready to tear the letter into a million pieces.

"I always knew Iorveth was a deplorable whoreson," he finally says, "but I wouldn't have expected this from him of all people. If anything, I would've expected him to have slayed her there and be done with it." "The fact he took the princess as a hostage says a lot about his personal hatred for her father," Ves confirms.

"Wait let me see," Jaskier takes the letter from Roche and skims it. "That son of a bitch!" the bard tosses the letter, "oh the nerve, thinks he can just swoop in and take what belongs to him." "Rest at ease, bard," Roche assures, "we'll do everything we can to rescue the princess before Iorveth lays a finger on her." "I wasn't talking about Iorveth," Jaskier deadpans, "it's the other one mentioned in the letter. It wasn't enough for Prince Tall Blonde and Handsome to swoop in on his giant lizard and take my niece away, now he had to cause more damage and put her in more danger by needlessly sending a bunch of elves to the afterlife as collateral."

Criston, Ivan, and Aemond observe this conversation with a little confusion, "you seem to have a personal vendetta against this Iorveth," Criston states. "More then you probably realize," Roche admits, "I've many encounters with that whoreson over the years, lost many men to his bandits. On top of that, he aided the man who slew my king, so yes this is personal. It is a shock he would take a hostage at all, the Scoia'tel aren't known to do that. He must really loath this Prince Daemon...not that I blame him," he turns his gaze to Aemond, "what is your relation to the man?" "...he's my uncle," Aemond tells him, "Aemma is my cousin. We knew each other as children."

"Wait, that scoundrel is your uncle?" Jaskier's eyes widen a bit, "I was actually expecting you to be his son or something, you kinda look like him with that brooding demeanor and Rogue-ish aesthetic going on there. Wait a second you're the king's son..." Jaskier then leans forward to give Aemond a hard stare, "you're not the same little tot I saw when I first set foot in King's Landing all those years ago are you? What was the tyke's name...Aegon. Prince Aegon. The one who had been betrothed to my niece. You sure have sprouted, like a bean stalk. Your face though, it's a little more leaner then I would've expected." Aemond gave Jaskier a hard glare, having formed his own opinions of this man; talented a singer, as Aemma was, and foolishly brave but rather, oh what was the word the prince was looking for to describe this man...odd? Queer? That word seemed to be a little more accurate a description.

"Is the princess your intended?" Ves questions.

"She's not my intended," Aemond assures in a low tone before turning to Jaskier, "that was not me you saw, that was my older brother, and that betrothal was broken off six years ago. Last I heard, she was meant to be betrothed to someone here on the Continent." Ves, Roche, and Jaskier exchange looks, "do you know who?" Aemond shakes his head in response, "some nobleman from Nilfgaard, I think."

"For the dragons to fight in their wars, no doubt about that," Roche deduces, "the Redanians once hosted part of the Targaryen family years ago, likely to make a similar offer. But last I heard, such talks had never went anywhere."

Jaskier had a certain look on his face upon mention of Redanians, but no one seemed to notice; he shook it off, realizing the urgency of needing to rescue his niece before the Scoia'tel actually begin to hurt her, "This recap in recent history is great and all, but how about we get back to the present right now and devise a plan to rescue my niece before a certain Scoia'tel commander starts, you know, mutilating her for things her father had done!"

"Easier said than done," Roche points out, "these forests outside Flotsam are dense and monster ridden, and the Scoia'tel know them best, which gives them the greater advantage. Not to mention the Commandant's insistence on closing the docks and putting this village on lock-down. If we were to leave, he would be first to notice."

Ivan looked up to notice some of Laredo's men not so subtly inching their way closer likely to eavesdrop on this conversation, "I don't think it would be wise to formulate any plans right now." The half-elf nods in the direction the soldiers were at. "Fuck," Roche mutters, "seems Laredo is dead set on making sure he know every move we make. We better return to the village, we can discuss plans over there away from prying ears. The tavern would be best."

"A tavern?" Criston lightly scoffs, "where more ears can listen in?" "Ears filled to the brim with mead and vodka, people would be too pissed to hear us. Besides," Roche stands, "my men have worked hard, we could all use a proper drink. Before I don't think we have been properly introduced. Your name is Criston Cole, right?" "Ser Criston Cole," Criston confirms, "knight of the Kingsguard. Ser Vernon Roche?" "Just Vernon Roche, commander of the Blue Stripes," Roche says, shaking Criston's hand, "I'm no sir. I was never a knight, just a soldier. This is Ves, she's my second in command, and you have already met Jaskier, he signed on as a Temerian spy, and apparently uncle to a Targaryen princess." "You never asked," Jaskier huffs.

"This Ser Ivan of Aedirn," Criston introduces, "also a knight of the Kingsguard." "Aedirn," Ves says, "you're a Continental?" "Was," Ivan tells her, "Flotsam was once my home, but that was a long time ago, a lifetime I dare say."

"And this..." Criston nods towards Aemond, "is Prince Aemond Targaryen, the second born son of King Viserys."

Aemond gives a silent nod, now focused on developing his own opinions of Roche and Ves; Roche was something of an enigma in terms of honor but he seemed duty bound to his king and country if anything and Ves...well, Aemond wasn't sure what to think of her as he'd never seen a woman soldier before, it was almost unheard of in Westeros. Not to mention the way she was dressed with her shirt open and exposing her navel like she was a woman of the night on the Street of Silk rather than a soldier, it made him wonder what her real position was on the Blue Stripes.

With introductions out of the way, Roche gestures of the group to follow him into town.

On the way there, Jaskier felt his mind racing all over the place, wondering what he was going to do; he wouldn't mention this to Roche, but he didn't trust this lot. Based on the conversation, they didn't exactly hold Prince Daemon in high esteem, but that didn't mean they could be trusted, especially Aemond. He was part of the royal family after all, surely he would do anything to see to it that Aemma was brought back to her home where she supposedly belonged.

The bard wasn't sure if Geralt would still be in town by the time they get there, so he needed to nip this in the bud and make sure certain things were established.

Jaskier grabs Aemond by the arm, giving a hard stare, "we need to make some things clear," he states in a whisper so no one else could hear, "as soon as this is over, as soon as we know Aemma is safe and out of harm's way, whatever you plan to do next, drop it out of your mind right now. She stays here." Aemond almost gave an amused smile at this man's defiance, "she's my niece," Jaskier points out, "the only blood relations I have left in this world, and all that remains of my sweet sister. I won't have her taken from me...not again."

As serious as this was, Aemond actually had some idea of what Jaskier was feeling; despite how long it must've been, longer than anticipated given that this man hadn't seen Aemma since she was a tot, he was still protective and cared for his niece and probably cared and loved his sister. It was the same feeling Aemond had for the children of his sweet sister Helaena and he too would do anything to make sure her children were out of harm's way as well.

Still, Aemma was his family too, and his mother and grandsire had plans that required her to return to King's Landing, "and if she refused?" Aemond brings up, "if she were to choose to return to Westeros? With her family?"

Jaskier knew that would be a possibility, but he refused to show it, "if she does choose that, if that is indeed her desire...then I will not stop her."

Aemond nods in silent agreement and the two rush to catch up with the rest into the town.

When they walked into the tavern, Jaskier lagged behind slightly when he saw the strands of white hair that belonged to that of his best friend. He and Geralt made brief eye contact before Jaskier stepped into the tavern to begin this tense collaboration.

Chapter 40

#hotd #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #oc #vernon roche #ves #criston cole #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye

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