#verse﹕WITCHER ► the dead they speak so ﾟ* LOUD

[griimreaping]

@utternocries​ ━━━━━   s.c

Adjusting  the  bag  of  groceries  on  her  hip  while  pushing  the  cabin's  door  open,  Jean  can't  help  the  snort  of  a  laugh  as  Geralt  so  eloquently  calls  one  of  the  local  men  a  mud-caked  pig.  Setting  the  canvas  bag  down  on  a  sagging  table  occupying  the  larger  majority  of  her  kitchen  Jean  pulls  her  hair  back  into  a  loose  bun  as  her  eyes  scan  the  space.

❛  Do  you  have  to  be  anywhere  for  maybe  the  next  day?  I'd  enjoy  the  company  for  a  little  while  if  you're  not  too  terribly  busy.  ❛    A  small  warm  smile  colors  the  druid's  face  as  she  starts  to  sort  through  the  provisions  that  they'd  picked  up  at  the  market.  Not  to  mention  she'd  like  someone  to  be  a  taste  tester  for  the  newest  batch  of  meads  and  wine,  which  had  been  fermenting  away  in  the  cellar.  Who  better  than  the  local  witcher?

[griimreaping]

@utternocries

THE WITCHER (2019– ) I SHREK (2001)

[griimreaping]

@suresaint​ ━━━━━   s.c

Sky  alight  with  the  molten  gold  of  a  brilliantly  setting  sun,  Jean  drank  in  the  waning  warmth  and  light  as  the  pair  passed  another  small  hamlet  squatting  on  the  coattails  of  Novigrad.  The  apothecary  had  herbs  to  sell,  and  it  had  turned  out  the  witcher  is  heading  in  the  same  direction.  One  small  omitted  fact  on  Jean's  part  is  that  the  carnival  is  in  the  city  center.  

Men  swallowing  swords  of  fire,  vendors  hawking  stones  that  would  supposedly  keep  wraiths  away,  all  sorts  of  color  and  sound  and  festivities  to  had.  Suddenly  it  became  clear  that  Jean  had  wanted  a  companion  to  drag  into  the  cacophony  of  revelry.  That  is,  before  the  town's  guard  would  put  an  end  to  it  for  one  vague  reason  or  another,  Jean  knew  she  would  need  a  companion  for  when  that  time  came  as  well.

❛  Ah,  the  healer  I  sell  my  herbs  too  is  just  past  the  skull  jugglers.  They  say  if  you  listen  or  shout  questions,  the  skulls  will  answer  while  midair.  ❛  Jean  looked  positively  delighted  with  such  a  macabre  description,  gesturing  toward  a  pair  of  women  tossing  up  alabaster-white  skulls  aloft  with  such  grace.  

[griimreaping]

@utternocries​ - one word fic prompts

Lower ( part 1 )

The tolling of the church bells was genuinely ominous. An impending sense of dread dominating the grey morning fog, which blanketed Novigrad. Those silvery sounding clangs ringing out through the mist to call forward its faithful masses from the gloom. Pulling the traveling cloak tighter around her shoulders, if only to stave off the nerves rather than the general chill that harkened the coming of autumn, Jean flinches when Geralt's shoulder lightly brushes hers. Nerves had been high in the woman's chest as they neared the city, the last time she'd stepped foot in those walls being the night before her family died. Now with the cold solid stone rising around them, Jean couldn't help be reminded of a tomb.

This must have shown on her face from the flicker of a frown that graced the Witcher's mouth. He'd been summoned on a contract put forth by one of the wealthy governors that had come to occupy a mansion in the northern district of Novigrad. Since he'd taken up residence there, it's caused the man nothing but grief. Deaths in the family, along with some more insidious spectral activity that made even the most persistent of tenants shy away from even renting the place. Which only added to the misfortunes befalling an otherwise uninteresting and mundane man of wealth. With such wealth, he enlisted Geralt's help, and by some lucky stroke, Jean as well. Who had insisted she come along since the governor had mentioned something about black vines overtaking most of the house. 

"What plant has black vines?" Had been the first question Geralt had asked when done skimming the frantic letter that had been sent forward to Downwarren. The Witcher had to stop spending so much time in her little hut, now even people outside of the village were beginning to notice. Plucking the letter from his hands and chewing on the inside of her cheek as she read, Jean's mind crunched over all the various odd species that thrived in this environment.

 "Devil's bramble is the first that comes to mind, but it's more of a shrub than vines. Could also be just a mistaken color?" Placing the letter back down and folding arms across her chest, the Druid casts an uneasy glance out of the dewy glass in her kitchen to the misty bog. She hadn't been to Novigrad in nearly fifteen years. The harsh smell of a house fire coming back in a wave so sudden it took a considerable amount of will not to choke on the air stuck in her lungs. Hugging herself tighter, Jean forces the words out of her lips in an attempt to cast away unwanted memories. To drown the screams.

"You'll probably need an expert on plants and herbs," a glance is cut at the Witcher to gauge how the words are received. "I won't ask for any of your payment, I'm just genuinely curious now and could do with a bit of adventure away from the bog and corpses." Geralt grumbled a few words about how things were dangerous, and Jean's rebuttal of how she could handle a sword along with magic seemed to lessen the worries only marginally. Or at least enough that he put them to bed. Now walking among the cramped sewage reek which clung to the southern district like a diseased lover, Jean begins to miss her bog. Roaches hoof beats echo in the dull mist as they weave through cobblestone streets going north. A beggar approaches before seeing the Witcher and thinking better of his choices, slinking back into a darkened patch of fog that yawned into an alleyway. The struggling morning sun had yet to touch these streets, sleepy shop windows gazing out onto quiet abandoned boulevards. A liminal moment in time before the meager warmth of an autumn day shone through the slate clouds above.

 That invisible line between districts isn't so invisible in Novigrad. A stark change between cramped tenant buildings that had begun to go crooked like a thieves smile, to the gaudy colors in the markets almost hurt the Druid's eyes. Even at such an early hour, a merchant in puffy gold pants tried valiantly to hawk some bruised peaches to her, claiming they were the city's sweetest. More polite "no thank yous" than Jean figured were necessary, and he'd given up his venture only to flag down another tired traveler bustling away. They did not make it out of the markets without expending a small amount of coin, which Jean put out to receive a small set of glass bottles in return, which now clinked softly in her bag. Geralt eyed the merchant selling her the glass wear with a critical eye, waiting to see if he was going to swindle her or not. This intense cat-eyed stare is more than likely what got jean a reduced price just to make them go away.

"I think I have a new idea about what the vines are." The Druid pipped up as another jarring change in scenery happened from the markets to the northern district. Now polished iron gates bore their teeth at them from the mouths of massive walkways up to ostentatious villas. No longer is the lower districts' corpse stench lingering; instead, a delicate waft of mountain roses and lemon trees walk in step with the Witcher and the Druid. Jean felt dirty here like she shouldn't be permitted to touch anything for fear of sullying it beyond rescue.

"There's a rare type of flower which only grows on the site of immeasurable evil. I've only ever read about it, though; the drawing seemed close enough to the description he gave." Rummaging around in the folds of her cloak, Jean produces a very worn and overly bookmarked tome. Roughly the size of her palm, the books brown and yellow pages had the look of something that had been steeped in bog water and perhaps blood at one point. Leafing through to the proper page, the pages crackle with age under the woman's touch.

"Here, Dagon's breath. Black vines with leaves about the size of a supper plate, able to produce flowers but only on full moons. Dried flowers turned into a powder can produce some of the most potent madness-inducing potions known to the world. Since this is such a rare specimen, there are speculations that even the scent of the flower can cause severe hallucinations." Reading this passage aloud, the Druid could feel a cold hand drag down her spine. If this was what they were dealing with, then whatever cast the curse even to make it grow had to be obscenely powerful.

The Dagon is old magic. Older than what most perceived as life it's self, coming from the chaos before time. From all that Jean could find in the books in her home, it was a god born of entropy and discord but required strict worshippers to ensure that it would have a proper host to inhabit when the void took back over. Mages and fanatics alike that dabbled in the Old Gods were ones that put their minds in the hands of babbling madness willingly, hoping to be rewarded with some form of forbidden insight to the world. The thought made the Druid shudder. She'd tasted the sharp edges of madness once before, those dark whispers in a language lost still snaked into the blackest of nightmares that she couldn't wake herself from. They'd always promised such alluringly unfathomable things to her.

It's lost in these troubling murky visions that cause the woman to bump into Geralt when he stops at one of the ornate gates. Placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her, the Witcher's disquiet shows fully. He'd had many half-hearted qualms about bringing her along on this, and now that she was becoming so distracted, it only furthered his worry about her being a liability.

"You should go wait back at the inn. Now that I have a better idea of what this plant is, it shouldn't be a problem." I don't want you to get hurt; goes unvoiced, but his cat-like eyes' narrowing conveys the sentiment. Jean's face flares pink around the ears at her embarrassment, but she doesn't allow the dialogue of the inn to go any further. Making a vague gesture at the nameplate affixed to the gate, the woman lets out an irritated breath, the frustrations more directed at herself.

"We're already here; it wouldn't make sense just to send me away now. Plus, I don't remember which roads we took to get here through the fog. Come on, Geralt, just let me continue, and I'll keep my head on straight, okay? No more distractions." A half-hearted smile that she hopes will cement the words into place only has Geralt absently rolling his eyes. Producing the key that had been sent along with the letter they'd received, the gate is unlocked. A horse post just inside the iron portal is where they part with Roach, who busies themselves with munching on the fresh hay that had been left out.

Path flanked on either side by overgrown flower beds containing every flavor of poisonous plant known to the region. Even a few that look notably exotic had a tight knot of anxiety forming in the woman's chest. A breeze sighing up the path causes the nefarious blooms and grasses to seethe in a green ocean around them, their ghostly voices curling in Jean's ears. Reaching out to place a holding hand on Geralt's arm, Jean freezes in her tracks when the house looms into view from the dismal fog, which had turned into a light misting rain.

When the governor had stated the vines were growing along the house, she had expected a few sparse fingers grasping greedily at the spaces between the bricks. Instead, what they were greeted with was a building that seemed to move with a life of its own. Thick coal-black leaves nearly the size of Geralt's head shiver in the breeze giving a sinister shivering quality to the house from foundation to rain gutters. Interspersed with wine-red flowers sporting elegantly curved petals and long golden yellow pistils that reminded Jean of a great blood-sucking insect searching for its next meal.

Then the whispers.

"Geralt, we shouldn't go in there." We're the words Jean heard herself saying, startled by how her voice sounded so terrified. While the Druid can listen to most of the passive voices of the plant life around her, these held that same nebulous darkness that only spoke to her in deepest nightmares. They carried the same voice as the madness. Their saccharine-sweet smell only there to lure you in closer with beckoning leaves and candy red petals.

Before responding to such a statement, a loud voice calls to them excitedly from the house. A gaunt man in a midnight black traveling cloak hurries toward them, waving his arms and wearing an almost crazed smile that shows far too much of his gums, which are far too pale to be healthy.

"Witcher! And... company. So good of you to finally arrive, and when I fear I am at my wits end!" The man nearly shouts at them, reaching out to vigorously shake Geralt's then Jean's hand with both of his clammy skeletal paws clasped around theirs. When his fingers leave the Witcher's, he notices fresh raw wounds on the man's forearms peeking out from his dark robes' confines. They looked almost like symbols carved into his skin, but such a quick glance hadn't been enough time. Deep-set eyes that once would have struck a woman dead with a glance now flit in their sockets nervously, the striking ocean blue ringed with bloodshot scleras and the deep shadows of exhaustion. The man looked to be hand in hand with death, yet the cold grip that clutches Jean's own spoke of fierce hidden strength that still dwelled like an angry spirit inside him.

"You must come inside! He has told me so much about you. I am looking forward to speaking with you before we get to such dark and dismal affairs. Come come." Voice and grip offering no rebuttal, the governor loops his arm with Jean's, nearly dragging the woman toward the house of dark whispers. Following close behind, Geralt notices the low humming of his medallion as they approach the building. There was nothing good contained within, the corrupted magic oozing out and tainting the air around them.

[griimreaping]

@fechmistrz​  ━━━━━  s.c

Tongue  carefully  easing  along  her  bloody  lower  lip  until  she  finds  the  split  Jean  nearly  bites  her  tongue  from  the  flinch.  That  would  likely  scar,  adding  one  more  to  the  many  she  would  receive  from  today.  A  radiating  throb  of  bright  pain  originating  from  the  Druid's  right  side  ribs  told  her  something  is  fractured  from  the  kick  the  larger  of  the  six  men  had  given  her.  All  things  considered,  Jean  had  definitely  had  better  days  than  this  one.  Especially  given  the  fact  that  this  musty  basement  smelled  horrifically  of  blood  and  shit.  

That  slow  cold  coil  of  her  mortality  tightens  around  the  woman's  chest  as  the  tallest  of  the  captors  thumps  heavily  down  the  rotting  wooden  stairs.  Glaring  him  the  best  she  could  with  the  nasty  black  eye  which  had  swollen  Jean's  left  eye  completely  shut,  the  Druid  squares  her  shoulders.  

Kneeling  there  on  the  dirt  deck  looking  beaten  half  to  death  and  arms  wrenched  hard  behind  her  to  be  chained  to  the  floor  with  heavy  iron,  she  wasn't  exactly  intimidating.  Though  the  singular  bright  thought  of  Lambert  somehow  knowing  to  come  here  and  get  her  kept  that  harsh  bite  in  Jean's  voice  as  she  speaks.  

❛  You  bring  me  all  the  way  here  for  a  house  call?  Know  a  letter  would  have  also  sufficed.  ❛    The  image  of  her  ransacked  home  and  the  men  that  had  stayed  there  to  pick  over  her  things  shoves  to  the  forefront  of  her  mind  galvanizing  her  anger.  If  these  men  were  looking  to  kill  her,  they  could  have  done  that  at  the  cabin.  No,  they  wanted  something.

[griimreaping]

@suresaint ⟶ a short starter

Fingers sinking into the dark loamy soil up to her wrists, Jean can feel the immediate spark radiate through every bone. A visceral connection cultivated personally for years and kept as such a guarded secret that most people thought of her as the alchemist in the woods and nothing more. None needed to know of the magic that would only bring the shadow of soldiers across her threshold. Now is not the time to dwell on dark thoughts; however, with an important task at hand, the Druid needs her thoughts.

A deep breath filling her lungs and driving away any stray thoughts; Jean perceives the gnarled woody tree roots in the dirt she grasps in. Gingerly flattening her palms against the wood; the woman feels her heart stutter in anxiety; this had failed nearly every time previous to this. There's still the very tangible possibility that it will again. Or, more distressingly, it will backfire and fracture some deep fragile thing within her mind and cast the Druid into whirling madness, which is the fate of the vast majority of the craft. Vines that had been cannily creeping up the woman's arm falter in their trek as her doubts build, causing the foliage to shrink away.

Frowning at this, Jean closes her eyes and asserts focus anew, trying to reach into the oak's slow primordial pulse, trying to weave herself in between the beats. This simple weaving would allow the woman to see through the plant's eyes in a sense later on after much practice. It would become a tool of immeasurable value, only if it doesn't break the Druid's mind completely.

Breathing becomes even and slow, matching the wind's whisper in the leaves high above. Jean feels that space between the pulses. When her consciousness drifts higher and higher up the towering trunk, the woman can truly sense that she's at least partially achieved her task. Only then does the tree murmur a warning, a danger that's approaching closer by the second.  Panic rips her hands from the dirt, causing her head to reel. To have your soul slammed back into your body with the force of a battering ram wasn't something to make a habit out of.

Squeezing eyes shut against the throbbing headache that split her head open, Jean makes a small farce of making it seem like she had dropped something in the dirt and was now searching for it as whoever approached. Of course, it would not explain the wispy vines that were still clinging to her like spider webs.

❛ Damn thing, you would think when you tie something to your belt, it would stay there. ❛             Playing up the performance, Jean continues to rummage in the dirt and brush, hoping that the stranger would simply continue. Though anyone sensitive to magic may ask a few questions, excuses already stumbling drunkenly through the Druid's aching mind.

[griimreaping]

@createdmutant​  –   ❤’d for a starter

KEEPING AN EYE ON the sun as it began the descent below the horizon, Jean’s hands ached as they wound into the soldier’s uniform to flip the corpse over. Wrong one again, damn this crumpled up drawing that she’d been given. Damn most of these corpses for looking the same in death ( or at least those that still had any type of facial features ), the greater majority had already become victim to some kind of necrophage.

Straightening with a huff of breath, the alchemist yanks the drawing from her belt again to critically glare at it. Somewhere in this mess of gore and mud, there was a young man that had on a crystal necklace that his family would like returned to let his soul rest. Thus far, Jean had combed over about a third of the battlefield with no luck and already hearing the snarling in the bushes as the sky darkens. That comforting weight at the her hip in the form of a very old and slightly chipped, but still wickedly sharp silver sword puts some ease in Jean’s mind.

A whisper ripples through the leaves. Danger close. Someone coming through the forest to the battlefield, someone strange. One of the finer details of druid magic was the subtle whispers and sensations that the plants offered you. A 24/7 alarm system. Drawing the sword and seeing the chips glint in the late sunlight Jean swallows the grimace taking a few steps back as whoever ( or whatever ) it was approached. 

[griimreaping]

@utternocries​ Lower chapter 2

Chapter 1

AO3 link

Once inside the cavernous walls of the manor, the persistent hum of Geralt's medallion changes pitch against his chest, and it has a rare reaction from The Witcher. It makes him slightly nervous. Their host still holds Jean with a vice-like grip against his side, strange bony fingers stroking her forearm. Watching this, Geralt wanted nothing more than to rip her away from that man and perhaps punch him for good measure. He can see the tension in her body; she'd said from the moment they walked up the front path that there was something off about this place.

Shivering shadows are cast through the meager lines of sunlight, which weakly shine through the thickets of vegetation covering all the windows. Faint tapping noises against the glass sound vaguely like a hoard of spirits trying to pour into the skeleton of the home. It chills Jean more than the pressing cold, which filled up the space around them like a presence. It breathes with her as they walk, and she wants nothing more than to look over her shoulder to try and see if Geralt is still there. Of course, the Witcher is still there, where else would he go? Yet that suggestion of going to wait back at the inn now seemed like an unobtainable hope, snuffed out by these dark stone halls. Who's to say that he too hadn't gotten swallowed up by the great maw of darkness that leered at them from every crevasse?

Turning a corner, the smell strikes both of them like a slap in the face. Geralt swallowing thickly, and Jean's chest shuddering momentarily for breath. If her arm weren't so tightly grasped in the governer's grip, then she would have clapped her hands to her mouth and nose to stifle the gag. For now, all she could do is put on as brave a face as the man behind her and hope that their host didn't think she is rude. For the way his eyes stared unblinkingly forward as he leads them through these dark and shuddering halls, Jean had a feeling that slight discrepancies could hold serious consequences.

A corpse. It reeked like a corpse had been left somewhere in these maze-like hallways and now festered behind a locked door. Perhaps the family's deaths that the letter had urgently spoken about were still left here, rotting for whatever beast roamed these halls. Or worse, left behind for the scraps picked off by the governor. Geralt clenches his molars together so hard his jaw creaks to try and focus on something other than that raw putrescence that forced its way into his lungs with every breath. Not even corpses in the battlefields and bogs smelled this bad. Then he noticed that the odor didn't seem to affect their host whatsoever. The man's vague smile still in place and those fingers clawing covetously against Jean's sleeve. He still hadn't blinked. The two chalk this up to the man possibly being used to his home's conditions at this point, maybe not even noticing the smell anymore. But that only raised more confusion about why he was subjecting himself to such abysmal circumstances willingly. With the amount that most political figures made in monthly allowances, he should be able to leave this place and take up residence at any inn or apartment in Novigrad at his leisure.

"Manners! My goodness, I've seemed to have misplaced mine. As you may know from the letter, I am Consulate August Clark and this is my immaculate abode. Of course, you are Witcher Geralt and Alchemist Jean, who are here to assist me with a matter of most urgent importance indeed. A matter of darkest dreams and malevolent specters." As August speaks, Jean has a very distinct feeling that the words are not coming from the man who guides them. Instead, his emancipated body was being used as some brand of meat puppet for the amusement of something far more sinister. Able to sneak a glance over her shoulder at where Geralt walked behind them, Jean knits her eyebrows together in worry, her expression conveying the foreboding that she knew he felt as well.

Startling when her attention turns back to their host, Jean finds those cold dead unblinking eyes boring into her from deep within August's sunken sockets. Thin skeletal fingers dig sharply into her arm as he leans in far too close, fetid breath wafting across his face as an insane little giggle bubbles up from the man's chest.

"Is that incorrect? Hm? Are you another set of imposters come here to my home only to bring pestilence and pain? There are no more nightmares you may give me specters I have already lived and endured them all at his behest. Now I only have the knowledge to give! This frail body grows weaker still as we dawdle here." Voice now high with madness as he babbles on Jean leans back away from the bruising grip trying to get free, before Geralt wraps a large hand around the governor's bicep and peels him off.

Tittering and giggling to himself as he takes a step back, August seems to be consumed with fits of laughter as if what he'd just done is a particularly good joke. Geralt smoothly pushes Jean behind him and out of the line of immediate fire as he eyes the man before them, a hand hovering over the hilt of his blade as he carefully responds,

"We are as we say, but you better state your actual intentions, or else we're leaving." Voice, even the underlying threat is still there, no more funny business. Even as she peers around Geralt's shoulder, Jean knows that whatever this madman had in store, it would probably be well worth the almost five thousand crowns he was paying them. That was more than a dozen contracts combined, but now it's the questions of what cost.

Witnessing a shudder go across August's face as if something is shifting uneasily beneath his skin, Geralt tries not to look disgusted. Features settling down into something akin to mild disappointment, the set in August's shoulders change. A sudden shift in personalities as whatever babbling creature that had possessed him a moment before dissipates.

"I was aware that Witcher's were testy but still. Amusing that you still think that leaving is an option with such a large sum on the table Witcher Geralt. Now come, I wish to have tea and discuss before we delve into dark matters." Tone crisp now, the former hysteria has vanished, leaving behind a cold governor who turns on his heel and begins to walk briskly away.

Placing a hand gently at the center of Geralt's back, Jean applies the smallest amount of pressure to get him to follow. Even feeling how nervous she was, he only hesitates for a heartbeat before following unless they would be left behind entirely in this dark labyrinth of hallways.

"There will be additional compensation for my behaviors. I realize now that I have not been the most gracious of hosts to you both, and for that, I sincerely apologize." August continues to speak, not even turning his head to look at the pair as they trail at a cautious distance. Staying behind Geralt, Jean can take in their surroundings without the clutching fingers of August prying at her arm like he was trying to peek back her skin.

Crypt-like coldness seeps into her bones, only exacerbated by the persistent whispers that still beckon her from outside the narrow windows. With so much plant life covering up every spare inch of space on the building, the interior is cast in an almost constant breathing darkness that's beaten back by weak candlelight from interspersed tables along the stone hall. Leering down at them from the walls, rows of massive canvases depicting tortured battle scenes, or the stern faces of what could only be August's relatives watch them pass. Jean could have sworn their heads turned to follow them down the hall. She didn't look at the paintings anymore

Turning left at a forked hallway, Jean had begun to lag behind the pair of men, who were forging through the darkness ahead. Glancing right at the fork, she spots a large iron door. It's studded surface like a slab of night cut into the silvery stone wall.

"Come home." The voice, almost blending in with the rest of the whispers, which were white noise to the Druid at this point, slices through into her consciousness like a blade. Her mother's voice rooting the woman to the spot, she stares aghast into the murky shadows. It's just a trick of the mind, too much plant life around the Druid rises to justify it to herself even as feet haul her closer to the door. A low ringing in her ears blots out everything else except for the loud rush of her pulse, muffling the retreat of August and Geralt's footsteps as they continue. August back to prattling on bits of madness while the Witcher listens, trying to pick out significant bits that would make some sense to them.

"Come home." Again? Once is a coincidence, twice... Jean's fingers land on the ice-cold doorknob, and a shuffling of something immensely heavy slides across the other side of the door.

"I can't." Responding in a whisper to the thing on the other side of the iron, Jean presses her cheek against the metal and feels it breathe. How many times had she told herself that there was no home to come back to? Only ashes and scorched land that now laid as a smudge next to that glassy black lake their house had crouched beside. The same one that her mother forbid her from going close to. She couldn't remember the explanations they'd given her as a child about the odd shadows that would bubble under the surface, or the hooded figures that gathered on the other shore and her father had to chase off. The same figures that were hiding in the back of the mob that came to-

"Come in." A clatter of metal and a dry sigh of musty mildewed air wafts across the Druid as the door swings silently inward. Before her, a long set of stairs descend into the void. Alabaster white stones, expertly carved going lower, lower, and lower still before disappearing. Calling the Druid down into the unfathomable depths with a voice so much like her mothers. Jean takes the first step and vanishes into the darkness.

[griimreaping]

@wiezdmin​ ⟶ ✿ :3c ✿ for a playful turned possessive kiss

❛  You know there are other herbalists in Velen, right?❛            While the tone is playful, Jean can't deny the anticipatory electric tingle that jolted along her spine when she saw him again. Straightening from where the Druid had been tending to the extensive herb garden that occupied her home's front expanse, she smiles invitingly. Golden rays of a midday sun placing a halo around the short mop of curly midnight black hair that framed a charming face dusted with freckles. Brushing most of the dirt of her hands and onto the short canvas apron she wore, Jean moved forward to open the low garden gate for him to step through.

One of the few times that the woman so graciously allows people into her home is when the Witcher visited. With the vaster majority of those that darkened Jean's doorstep harking about a corpse or some kind of ailment that a few herbs definitely weren't going to be able to fix. Geralt's visits are those that actually make her happy to have company, even if he didn't talk too much. It's still rather lovely to have someone around to share bread and gossip about the latest peasant that she saw wading out into the bog.

Already ready to make a quip about how nicely the braid she'd put in his hair the last time he'd been here was holding up, Jean's words are stolen. Warm gloved hands come up to cup the woman's jaw, angling her face up as his mouth pressed against her own. A muffled sound escaping the apothecary as every thought collectively fizzles out—all but one, which comes out breathless between the spaces their lips make. Jean having just enough time to smirk against the kisses.

❛ Oh, so it's a house call, then? ❛         That got a short chuckle out of the Witcher as fingers are curled into the brown leather jerkin he wore, using it as leverage to pepper kisses along his whiskered jaw. Burying his face into the curve of Jean's neck and breathing deep, Geralt lightly tests his teeth on the sensitive skin there, relishing the little shiver he receives for the effort. Wrapping the braid she'd so meticulously placed in his white hair around the back of her fist, Jean tightens the grip just enough to sting, eliciting a low growl from the man as she draws Geralt's head back. A satisfied smile paints across the woman's face as she gazes at him, leaning forward just enough to nip the Witcher's lower lip as Jean takes the first step back toward the cottage.

❛ You'll have all the time you like to leave your marks inside.❛                the woman murmurs, lips brushing Geralt's teasingly, breath hot across his face as strong arms encircle the woman to keep them upright. Nothing broke a mood quite like tripping over their own feet and sprawling across the cobblestone path. Jean isn't allowed to tease him for long; however, the kiss resumed with new zeal.The heat of the Witcher's mouth made Jean's head reel, tongue sweeping across her own as he deepens the embrace. Trapped somewhere in her throat, a quiet whine voices when Geralt's form cages Jean against him as if he was coveting a treasure all to himself. Back hitting the door with a dull hollow sound, Jean fumbles with the door's latch before one of his hands' assists. Unceremoniously pushing the heavy oak open, the two stumble inside the cottage. 

[griimreaping]

@utternocries​ ⟶ let Jean cook for you

❛ Did you want honey in your tea? I promise the fact that it’s from bog flowers doesn’t effect the taste at all. It goes well with the bread. ❛          Setting out two chipped mugs Jean pours out the steaming water and watches as it blooms into a golden brown with the tea leaves. The hut already swam with the warm spicy smells of the pumpkin bread that she’d spent the better part of the day baby sitting so it didn’t burn in the pot bellied stove that took up the better part of the kitchen. 

[griimreaping]

「 @knightofaedirn​    ♥’d  for  a  lyric  starter 」

�� Admit that the waters around you have grown, and soon you’ll be drenched to the bone. You better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone.  ❝

[griimreaping]

@astorair -- 

SQUINTING up at the cold silver dollar sun that dodged between banks of heavy grey clouds that had been hanging drearily over the land for the last week Jean can’t help the frown that creases her mouth. Today’s hunt looks like it would be on the rainy side of the clouds picked up any, and nothing stunk more than an old wet battlefield. Sword a welcome and reassuring presence on her hip Jean retrieves the smudged sketch of the man she would be looking for, and hopefully find given the Ghouls haven’t fed too voraciously over the last day or two. Blowing a sigh out through her nose Jean tucks the drawing back into a fold of her jacket and silently prays that there aren’t a lot of monsters about this time. 

Boots crunching into a wide clearing there’s a moment of pause. Something is off. Air electric and making the hair on the back of the woman’s neck stand on end. Jean has just about enough magic to feel that there’s something powerful here. Sharply surveying the clearing she stepped into the woman hopes to hell this isn’t some kind of fae circle. The last thing she needs is a curse or hex on her for disturbing some mushrooms. Though that doesn’t feel like the right type of magic, this is more like that tingle in the air before a lightning strike. Scanning the clearing again hesitantly the hunter takes another cautious step forward into the shimmering space.

Then it struck.

Like a rip in the very air itself, the space at the center of the clearing seemed to burst open with a skin rending heat that lashed out like a whip knocking Jean back flat against the dew damp ground. Laying there blinking and winded for a heartbeat before hands are scrabbling in the dirt to pull her away from whatever the hell is coalescing in the clearing Jean grits her teeth. Just as soon as it had happened whatever pit of hell had opened its furnace-like maw snapped it shut and calm returned to the forest. Yet it still held it’s breath. Birds, bugs, wind, all silently waiting. 

It’s then Jean finds herself blinking dumbly at the smoking heap of a body lying where the portal had dumped them. Back pressed against the cold bark of a tree the woman had no inclinations on moving any closer to the body. Just staring at it, for now, would suffice as her brain attempts to catch up with the events that just occurred.

[griimreaping]

@wiezdmin 

Sunlight streams weakly through the rusted iron grating that's bolted into the prison cell's dripping ceiling. Moats of dust shift uneasily in a stale breeze that does nothing to dispel the oppressive stench of incarceration, their meandering paths weaving between the small bars that close off the single window in the cell's door. Sitting beneath this murky light oasis, a woman is hunched over her lap, strings of midnight black hair hanging like a greasy curtain hiding her face. From the light alone, dark bruises stand out on her upper arms – most of them looking very much like thick fingers.  However, the eye falls on the pair of heavy wrought iron mittens that encase her hands to mid-forearm. A thin link of chain connecting them at the wrists keeps both hands close together, not allowing any grand movements.

Mages are standard fare now in the belly of Novigrad's prison system. This simple fact meant that certain precautions needed to be taken to ensure that wayward gouts of fire or lightning roasted no guards. The solution? Wrought iron gloves inscribed with cruel runes designed to sap away the stamina and power from the mage to dispel it harmlessly into the air around them. Yet, this means that the more powerful the mage, the stronger this cloud of energy around them becomes, building to storm like intensities. Even entering the forcefield bound to make your hair stand on end.

Air shimmers around the hunched woman, and even breathing seems to demand all of her strength, shoulders shuddering with each breath. Even when the scream of rusted metal being forced to move echoes piercingly through the holding cells, she remains still.

❛ Here, this one. ❛                  A guards gruff tones float through the little portcullis in the heavy cell door, which finally pulls the mage's attention. Panic blooms white hot behind Jean's ribs. Had they finally come to execute her? Was the clock, at last, ran out and now her number had been called?

It's when the heavy door shrugs open, bringing a bone-chilling breath of air from the hallway that the druid forgets to laugh. Silhouetted against the flickering orange torchlight haunting the hall is Geralt. An imposing frame which should, by all means, terrify her wholly. Yet, memories ebb and flow over the shore of the woman's mind, only conjuring conflicted feelings.

Spell of the moment crudely shattered by the guard's sandpaper voice accompanying the Witcher sounds once again as he steps around the man and approaches Jean.

❛ You're lucky day witch; it's said that you know the southern bogs better than anyone, and the Governor's daughter has gone missing. Up! Before I have this spook here, lop your head off. I don't have the patience. ❛           A thick sausage fingered hand clasps around the short-chain between her wrists and hauled the woman to her feet. Still absorbed with staring at The Witcher, Jean can feel something in her ribs ache dully.

❛  So I'm a tour guide, then I get thrown back in here? Maybe The Witcher would do me the service by letting me die in my bog. ❛                Standing unsteadily now on her feet, Jean hadn't directed the question at the guard for confirmation. It's solely on the other silent party. Already resigned to this life, the druid knew that this might be the only chance afforded to her to take fate by the horns. Seven months already passed with little change. There had already been enough time to be angry, place blame, and then to forgive. Knowing that regardless of what the white-haired man had told the villagers about her, this would be the outcome. Now Jean only desired peace. And a bath for goodness sake.