#yes i'm using TWN backstory and also stealing Mousesack bc why the fuck not

[bard-llama]

WiP Wednesday: Hedgehog Man in Wine Country

Yes, that is my working title and no, I’m not taking suggestions. XD Today’s been kinda shitty, but I got a bit of work done on this fic, and it’s been a fun one to work on lately. The premise is that Emhyr gets re-cursed post-W3 B&W and Ciri brings him to Corvo Bianco to hide out, not knowing that Geralt invited literally everyone he knows to come live with him. Fortunately, the House Rules are very emphatic about no fighting outside of the practice area and absolutely no assassination attempts. Unfortunately, Emhyr is still stuck living in a house with all twenty-two of Geralt’s house guests. They also do not know that he is cursed and are very, very curious why the Emperor of Nilfgaard is skulking around wearing knight’s armor and a helmet.

I started writing this mostly because it sounded funny, but since it’s already a cracky premise, I have let myself go down so many rabbit holes lmao. One of them is the gospel fact now that Emhyr likes 4x games - and that Nilfgaard in general does. After all, what suits their culture better than an empire-building game focused on exploring, expanding, exploiting, and exterminating?

On that note - yes, I know I’m spelling Catan wrong. It’s on purpose, leave me alone. The described game is also a lot more like Civilization than Catan. Sue me. I have 550 hours in Civ and maybe 7 in Catan, but I like the name.

After Ciri’s visit, Geralt did try to make a point to include Emhyr more often. The problem was, Emhyr didn’t particularly seem to want to be included, not when it meant wearing full armor and helm to hide his curse. Which led Geralt to the bright idea to invite Emhyr to hang out with everyone after midnight, when he wouldn’t have to do any of that. He would still be Emhyr, which was a point against him, but Ciri wanted him to get along with everyone, so Geralt would try.

That was how Geralt came to be knocking on Emhyr’s door about ten minutes after the midnight bell had rung. “Emhyr?” he called.

There was a groan from inside and then the door opened. Whatever Geralt was expecting, it was not for the disheveled and shirtless human form of Emperor Emhyr to lean heavily against the door frame.

“What?” Emhyr asked, eyes hazy, and the room stank of fresh blood.

Geralt frowned. “You okay?”

Emhyr’s look was weary. “I am fine, witcher. What is it? Has Cirilla returned?”

“No,” Geralt shook his head. “I, uh – Ciri was hoping you’d get to know everyone more. So uh… game night?”

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Emhyr asked, “what kind of games?”

“Uh… normal ones?” Geralt shrugged in bemusement. “You know, gwent, dice, poker, board games, that kinda stuff. Why? You have a favorite?”

Emhyr didn’t answer and the air of suspicion around him did not dissipate. But he must have known that Ciri was hoping for him to at least be friendly with the others, because he nodded tiredly.

“Give me a moment to dress,” he muttered and closed the door in Geralt’s face.

Grumbling to himself, Geralt leaned against the wall to wait and wondered exactly how the rest of the group was going to react to the Emperor of Nilfgaard joining in.

When Emhyr stepped out, Geralt wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t the relatively casually dressed man before him. Instead of heavy formal robes, Emhyr wore a simple tunic and trousers with a decorative outer robe on top, golden sun embroidery along the hems. 

“Is there a problem, witcher?” Emhyr asked, startling him and making him realize he’d been staring. Only sheer willpower kept the blood from rushing to his face.

“I have a name, you know,” he deflected. 

“As do I,” Emhyr shrugged and when Geralt failed to guide them towards the entrance to the main house, he took the lead instead. 

Geralt cleared his throat, quickening his stride to keep pace with Emhyr. “I thought it was a capital offense to call you by name. Your chamberlain certainly seemed to think so.”

Emhyr actually snorted, and Geralt stared as though he’d never seen the man before. Before he could really recover, they arrived at the main house. Across the foyer, Lambert, Aiden, Dandelion, and Zoltan were all carrying armfuls of snacks into the game room, Keira following behind while holding a single glass of wine, twenty others and a full bottle floating in the air beside her.

As one, they all stopped and gaped at Emhyr, who glared right back at them.

Geralt groaned, trying to figure out the best way to break the tension when Regis accomplished it effortlessly, gliding up to Emhyr with a smile. 

“I am pleased you are joining us,” he said simply.

Emhyr very obviously had no idea what to say in response, but Regis didn’t leave him hanging, instead asking if he’d had a chance to read the last book the vampire had lent him. 

It reminded Geralt that he really needed to talk to Regis about why he was making nice with Emhyr exactly, but for the moment, he was grateful. He didn’t want to babysit Emhyr all evening, he wanted to play some gwent!

There was a part of him, though, that was a little curious about the book Regis mentioned. Since when was Emhyr someone who would read A Treatise on The Use of Mercury in Alchemy?

At any rate, Regis managed to keep Emhyr occupied long enough for everyone to arrive – and have their own reactions to his presence. Honestly, it would have been funny if Geralt didn’t have to worry about the possible maiming of Ciri’s father.

Triss, at least, was mild, just sending Geralt a wide-eyed look. Letho, on the other hand, grinned broadly in a way that sent klaxons ringing in the back of Geralt’s head and prompted him to remind everyone of the House Rules again. 

Mousesack walked in as Geralt was finishing his spiel and the druid took one look around the room, then sighed heavily and poured himself a very full glass of wine. Given he was one of the de facto peacekeepers (Geralt and Regis were the other two, and Yenn occasionally deigned to bother with it, when she wasn’t in the midst of breaking the peace), Geralt really couldn’t blame him.

Most of the others didn’t pay overly much attention to Emhyr, though Iorveth and Isengrim, as former Vrihedd Brigade commanders, glared sullenly, but Geralt was really, really not looking forward to the arrival of the most patriotic folks in the bunch. Especially because there were certainly still bitter feeling about Emhyr’s victory in the Third Nilfgaardian War, even if they did ultimately negotiate the end of the war – and Temeria’s self-rule – with Emhyr. Or his representatives, anyway. Before now, had any of them actually met Emhyr directly?

From the expression on her face, Ves had not, though she definitely recognized him. Right behind her, Roche and Thaler looked like they were each about to have an aneurysm, and Dijkstra nearly ran directly into them before seeing what they had stopped to stare at.

“Fuck me,” the former Redanian intelligence officer said, “didn’t know Nilfgaardians knew how to dress down.”

“They also know how to arrive on time,” Emhyr said without looking away from his conversation with Regis, where Dettlaff had managed to join them at some point without Geralt noticing. 

Trying to pretend that it didn’t make him jumpy that any creature could do that, Geralt cleared his throat and cut in before they could decide to fight. “Who’s in the mood for gwent?”

“Not if you’re playing with a bleeding Nilfgaardian deck,” Thaler muttered, but he slouched into the room and settled next to Geralt – well across the room from Emhyr, but positioned to keep an eye on him, of course. 

Geralt rolled his eyes and pulled out his monsters deck. It was more fun to play with anyway.

“Is there a game you prefer?” Regis asked Emhyr, and Geralt couldn’t help but eavesdrop. He was far from the only one.

“Not of the ones here,” Emhyr dismissed, examining the painting of Beauclair’s palace that Geralt had hanging. “There are a handful you might find in any Nilfgaardian household – but this is hardly that.”

“And thank fuck for that,” more than one person swore, and several others toasted them with their wine glasses. Geralt sighed.

“It was once, though,” he pointed out, calling for BB. When the majordomo appeared, he gestured to Emhyr and asked, “would the previous owners have had any games or anything like that that might still be around?”

“Hmm,” BB hummed in thought. “Well, there’s Katan, of course.”

“Of course,” Emhyr echoed.

“And perhaps a few others,” BB continued, tapping his chin. 

“What’s Katan?”

Emhyr and BB both blinked like they couldn’t believe they were being asked such a question, and Geralt counted backwards from ten in his head. Wasn’t retirement supposed to be less stressful than his life before?

“It’s most people’s – Nilfgaardians, that is – first 4x game,” Emhyr said simply. “Yes, that should do well, assuming there is any interest.”

“What’s a 4x game?” Roche asked suspiciously.

Emhyr’s lips thinned and BB coughed. “Perhaps I might explain? It is a specific genre of gaming focused on strategy and empire building. The four x’s are explore, expand, exploit, and exterminate.”

“Of course they are,” Keira said, face sour. 

“Nilfgaard excels in exploiting and exterminating,” Ves spat.

“Actually, extermination victories are considered the easiest and suitable mostly for beginners,” Emhyr said flatly. 

That was… actually kind of interesting. Not that Geralt would abandon gwent ever, but… “How do you play?”

BB smiled approvingly at Geralt and it was both heartwarming and kind of sad how that made his chest puff up in pride. “I shall go fetch the game, if you would like to answer that, sir?”

BB bowed to Emhyr the precise amount that he would bow to any other guest and for a second, Geralt half-thought Emhyr might take offense, but he hardly seemed to even notice.

“It is a tabletop game with a map that you must explore,” Emhyr began. “The purpose, as Barnabas-Basil said, is to build an empire. You begin by settling cities – there are many criteria for the best location, most of them the same as in reality, though Katan isn’t as detailed as some games – and choose how to expand your empire by allocating and investing resources. There is a great deal of freedom in how you choose to pursue victory and what you choose to focus on, such as trade or culture or science and technology. Victory is determined by complete dominance over the other players in military conquest, religious prominence, resource dependency, cultural influence, or scientific development.”

“Sounds logical enough,” Philippa said primly.

“Sounds like a lot for a board game,” Eskel pointed out. “Ciri wasn’t kidding about Nilfgaardian games taking an hour to set up, was she?”

Emhyr’s lips twitched and if he were anyone else, Geralt might almost think he smiled. “A slight exaggeration. With enough practice, it might only take fifty-nine minutes.”

…was that a joke!?

Eskel snorted and Dettlaff openly chuckled, but most everyone else looked just as gobsmacked as Geralt felt. 

A slightly awkward silence settled over the group for a moment – long enough for Geralt to see the way Emhyr tensed, and it was only when he did that Geralt realized how much he must have relaxed previously. Fortunately, before the quiet could linger too long, BB returned with the game in question.

“Okay,” Geralt said loudly, “so how many players is this game? If we’re gonna spend a fucking hour setting it up, it’d better be worth it.” It was only after he spoke that he realized he’d just surrendered his spot playing gwent. 

“Depending on the edition, it can be up to twelve players,” Emhyr shrugged. “But you also may wish to do teams.”

“Oooh, yes!” Dandelion cheered. “Geralt, we should be a team!”

Geralt groaned, and half the room laughed at him.

“Aye, don’t worry, laddie, I’ll keep him from getting too carried away,” Zoltan promised with a grin.

“Oh sure,” Priscilla snorted. “But if you don’t mind, Geralt, it sounds interesting, but I don’t think I’d want to play on my own.”

“Of course,” Geralt grunted. He’d been resigned to his fate from the moment Dandelion had spoken. 

Now if he could just keep Dandelion from getting distracted and composing a ballad while they were playing. The last thing he needed was another exaggerated tale about the White Wolf’s new foray into imperialism. Somehow there were always people who believed every word Dandelion sang as gospel, even when it was so clearly utter horse shit.

“All right,” Regis said, accepting the box from BB and passing it over to Emhyr. “How do we get set up, then?”

As Emhyr dove into explaining and unpacking the game pieces, Geralt turned to BB. “Care to join us?”

BB smiled slightly. “Kind of you to ask, sir, but there are some breaches to decorum that go a step too far.”

Geralt tilted his head, brow furrowing.

“His Imperial Majesty has requested to be treated as any other guest, and so I shall endeavor to do so,” BB explained, “but you must understand, he is still my Emperor and some things just are not proper.”

“Yeah,” Geralt nodded. He could understand that. “Guess it’s kind of strange for you when Ciri visits, too.”

“Not at all,” BB shook his head. “I am accustomed to serving those of status. But a lord does not play a game with their staff.”

“I’m no lord.”

“No,” BB smiled, “and I am becoming accustomed to the changes. But you are also not the ruler of Nilfgaard. Simply, there is some distance that must be maintained.”

“Mm,” Geralt hummed. That did make sense, and he was glad that BB was willing to at least treat him more personally than as a lord. But if anything, what was most surprising was – “Emhyr asked to be treated like everyone else?”

“Indeed,” BB answered. “Is there anything else I might get you, sir?”

“Huh. Uh, no, I think we’re good, thank you.”

“Then I believe I shall call it a night. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, BB,” Geralt said distractedly, frowning at Emhyr. This was a man who literally had a chamberlain teach people how to bow to him before an audience. Why would he go out of his way to ask not to be treated as Emperor?

“If a game literally comes with scratch paper, that has to be a bad sign, doesn’t it?” Triss poked at the pile of scrap paper dubiously. “If it’s that complicated, how are you supposed to have fun?”

“Spell casting is complex, is it not?” Emhyr asked.

“Well, sure, but–”

“When first learning, complexity can detract from enjoyment, but once you gain familiarity, it is, typically, considered worth it.”

Geralt thought back to his first gwent game. “True enough. We just gotta trust that the game is worth the investment.”

“Precisely,” Emhyr said, and did not utter a single reassurance.

Lambert sniggered. “That’s what the team’s for. We all focus on different parts and consult on the rest.”

“I’m sorry, did Lambert just willingly suggest consulting with someone?” Eskel’s gasp was dramatically exaggerated.

“Oh fuck off,” Lambert stuck his middle finger up. 

“Lambert’s good at consultations,” Aiden said, a mischievous smile on his face. “As long as they go exactly the way he wants.”

Lambert scowled and kicked Aiden’s chair. Given Aiden had been leaning the chair back on two legs, this leg to the chair clattering to the ground and Aiden himself flipping up in the air with a handspring and a laugh.

“You’re just mad ‘cause I’m right.”

Ignoring him, Lambert addressed the room loudly, “all right, let’s do this.”

There was a scramble around the room as everyone settled into seats – Aiden choosing to sit on the back of Lambert’s chair rather than recovering his own – around the large game board. Their eight teams were wildly uneven, but Emhyr appeared unconcerned, so Geralt assumed they weren’t offending his sensibilities too terribly.

Because Geralt was on a team with Dandelion and Priscilla, he and Zoltan had known from the start that they’d be going for a cultural victory. Having that direction was helpful, because Geralt could see the way Regis and Dettlaff considered each decision carefully on their turn. Ultimately, Regis’ love of science appeared to be winning and whichever specific option intrigued him most was the one they picked.

Geralt was actually finding it really interesting to watch his friends debate and decide how to build an empire – and that was not something he ever figured he’d be thinking. But everyone’s approach was a little bit different and, of course, every single one of them thought their way was best, and it was bizarrely fun.

Team Temeria – Roche, Ves, and Thaler – were focusing on military might. They didn’t settle many new cities, but they stole other people’s and they were growing fairly steadily. Team Hot As Hell – Lambert had chosen the name on behalf of Aiden and Keira – had decided to try out a religious victory, but because it was them, the religion they were attempting to convert everyone to was for The Flying Spaghetti Monster. The Sorceresses – Philippa, Yenn, and Triss – were also pursuing faith, but they were trying to spread the supremacy of the Lodge of Sorceresses, which had made Emhyr scowl deeply at them. 

Dijkstra had insisted on being on a team by himself, and he was doing well in the sense that he had a handle on trade and had more money than any of them. But whatever he was supposed to do with trade to win, he was thoroughly distracted by fighting with Team Scoia’tael, which had started as Isengrim, Iorveth, Ciaran, and Eldain, but soon ended up mostly just being Isengrim. He appeared perfectly happy to fight right back against Dijkstra, and the rest of them more of less left them to it.

Emhyr, of course, had the advantage of clearly knowing the game well. And it was even clear that he was attempting to go easy on them, to give them advantages and pointers on how to make their moves stronger. Even so, he had more territory than any of them, spanning nearly half the map – which also meant that he controlled a majority of the resources on the map.

Geralt’s team, which did not have iron, was very much suffering because of that. It was a good thing no one had decided to invade them yet, because their defense was absolutely abysmal. Taking pity on them, Emhyr offered an alliance – in exchange for military defense, he got a boost off of their culture building efforts. Which didn’t actually count for all that much.

“Culture victory is one of the hardest to achieve,” Emhyr told them, “you win when your empire has more visiting tourists than any other player’s domestic tourist population. It’s hard to get.”

“I still only sort of get how tourism is generated,” Priscilla muttered, scratching her head as she yawned. 

Outside, he could hear doves cooing and roosters calling, but he hardly thought to make note of it – not until Emhyr opened his mouth to explain to Priscilla and let out a pained gasp instead, curling in on himself.

“Emhyr?” Regis called, concern heavy in his voice.

Emhyr convulsed, collapsing sideways out of his chair, and Geralt jumped to his feet, sluggish brain finally realizing what was happening. But there was nothing he could really do, no way he could protect Emhyr’s secret, not when the entire table was staring at Emhyr in horror in concern, taking in the rictus of pain across his face before it changed, nose transforming into that of a rodent’s, eyes turning black and inhuman, skin leeching dark and grey, and hair converting to stiff spines before their eyes. Fabric tore as quills forced their way out of Emhyr’s back, blood tainting the air again, and even with all the control Geralt knew Emhyr had, the man was unable to hold back a piteous groan.

“What–?” someone began, and then it was over, and Emhyr pushed himself up on his hands with an irritated huff.

“Well,” Letho said eventually, “that’s a helluva curse.”

“A cruel one,” Regis put in, lips pressed so tightly together that they were turning white. The smell of blood must bother him so much more than it bothered Geralt, and Geralt hated it. Next to Regis, Dettlaff’s jaw was clenched so tightly that Geralt could probably break his fist against it. 

“I don’t suppose anyone is going to explain?” Priscilla asked hesitantly, eyes darting between Geralt and Emhyr.

Picking himself up with as much dignity as he could manage, Emhyr straightened his sleeves. Only one of them actually moved, the other caught on a handful of quills. “It’s fairly self-explanatory,” he said stiffly.

“It does explain the helmet,” Roche muttered. 

“Hmm,” Aiden frowned, tilting his head, “but you revert to your proper form at night?”

“What mage managed to curse the Emperor?” Philippa asked, arms crossed.

Emhyr’s mouth opened, then closed. After a moment, he spoke, “that is a complicated question. This time? We have no evidence to indicate any suspects.”

“This time,” Yenn repeated, glancing at Geralt. He winced. Had he failed to mention that? Shit.

A muscle in Emhyr’s jaw flexed and his spines puffed out. “The original curse was cast long ago. I burned its caster at the stake fifteen years ago.”

Geralt met several people’s gazes as they all looked around as if confirming that they were understanding. Exactly what was he supposed to share here? Why did it suddenly feel like sharing the first time he’d met Emhyr was like revealing some big secret?

“You were cursed until then?” Keira asked, something almost like compassion in her voice, which was weird enough even without considering who it was directed at.

“No,” Emhyr said shortly, not elaborating. “If you’ll excuse me.” Standing with all the grace of an Emperor, Emhyr edged out of the room, only turning to reveal his back at the last moment. Geralt understood why instantly. His outer robe was shredded, the remains of it hanging around blood-tipped quills that remained stiff and tense. It was very much not the back of a man, but that of a beast. 

“What the fuck?”  Ves broke the silence that fell after he left.

“Geralt,” Dandelion crossed his arms, face unusually serious. “Is that or is that not the same hedgehog curse as from Cintra?”

Geralt blinked at him. “Obviously? It’s not a common curse.”

“He’s the same man!?” Dandelion looked downright horrified, but Geralt just pinched the bridge of his nose.

“How else do you think he could be Ciri’s father?”

“...okay, that does make sense. But–”

“Would you please fill the rest of us in?” Triss demanded. “What on earth are you two talking about?”

“Years and years ago,” Dandelion started, “Geralt and I attended the Betrothal Banquet of Princess Pavetta of Cintra. Surely you’ve heard the story? I wrote a ballad or two–”

Geralt interrupted him before anyone could decide to get violent. “Emhyr went by a different name then, but he was a knight errant who claimed Pavetta’s hand under the Law of Surprise. Queen Calanthe was not at all enamored with the idea of a hedgehog in her court – or, likely, of someone she couldn’t control – and ordered her guards to attack. I saved his life, then Pavetta’s Elder Blood powers saved it again and almost killed all of us in the process.”

“I remember,” Mousesack grumbled, rubbing his elbow.

“Anyway, the threat of death by Elder Blood convinced Calanthe and they got married, which lifted the curse. And then he insisted on a reward and I claimed the Law of Surprise and we found out Pavetta was pregnant with Ciri.” Geralt shrugged, looking at Dandelion, “seriously, you didn’t realize that was Emhyr until now? He’s literally Ciri’s father!”

“Oh shut up,” Dandelion huffed and Zoltan snickered. 

“So he was cursed when you met him?” Eskel clarified.

“Yeah. I think he mighta said he was cursed pretty young? Don’t really remember.”

“It’s kind of romantic,” Priscilla sighed, clasping her hands together.

“I beg your pardon?” Yenn said blankly.

“Lives entwined by Destiny! The way that seeming pure chance will bring us to that which will change us forever. I mean, think of your story,” Priscilla hummed the opening chords to The Wolven Storm and Geralt winced. Yenn always had mixed feelings about the way Destiny had played them, though since they’d removed the djinn’s wish, she hadn’t mentioned it as much.

Instead of saying anything, Yennefer simply pursed her lips.

“Definitely weird to think of your life being entwined with Emperor Emhyr’s,” Dandelion said, making a face. 

Geralt tilted his head. “I mean, yeah, but also, his daughter is my daughter? So… not really? Also uh… if you think it’s weird being around Emperor Emhyr, I have bad news about Ciri’s upcoming coronation.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, actually,” Dandelion perked up. “Do you think Ciri needs entertainment? Because–”

Groaning, Geralt shook his head. “I have no idea. Ask her.”

“Definitely weird to think of the lass as Empress of Evil,” Zoltan hummed.

“Nilfgaard isn’t any more evil than the Northern Kingdoms,” Iorveth pointed out, gwent cards still laid out between him and Eldain. It made Geralt itch for his deck, but before he could think to challenge anyone, a yawn snuck up on him.

“Fuck, it’s past dawn. I’m going to bed,” he announced, and several people made agreeable sounds, covering yawns of their owns. Others – mostly the night owls like Dijkstra and Roche – just looked back down at the game board with a frown.

“Shame, really,” Isengrim put voice to the words on their minds. “I was winning.”

“Ha!” Dijkstra scoffed. “Like hell you were!”

“I think you mean we were winning,” Thaler corrected.

“Incorrect,” Philippa said simply, but because she was Philippa, there was a threat inherent in her voice. “The Sorceresses were obviously winning. Even with Keira attempting to play two teams.”

Keira winced, ducking behind Aiden’s back. Lambert stretched his arms above his head and didn’t bother to cover his wide yawn. “You’re just pissed she chose the better team.”

“Lambert!” Keira hissed and Aiden groaned, smacking a hand to his face as Philippa puffed up in outrage.

Shaking his head at all of them, Geralt turned and left, trudging up the stairs to his room. Idiots, all of them. 

Besides, it was very obvious that Emhyr had been the one winning. Either way, Geralt’s team was in last place, so he didn’t much care, and sleep beckoned.

After a long nap, he would probably need to try to contact Ciri and deal with the fall out of Emhyr’s curse getting revealed, but for now, all that concerned him was the distance of his head from his pillow.