#young!eskel

[fimloly]

The wolf pups sneaking from their chambers to eat some kołaczki (filled cookies).

Eskel wasn’t quick enough to hide like Geralt and Lambert were, and he’ll never let them forget the fact they let him take the full fall for it (Vesemir, of course, knows they’re all there)

[thedemonofcat]

Due to jurisdictional reasons, the Pankratz family owned part of Blue Mountain, which included Kear Morhen. Although the family allowed the witchers to use the area, they charged a small annual fee.

When Julian Alfred Pankratz, the young Viscount who had just begun to go by Jaskier, was twelve, his father took him along to Kear Morhen on one of his trips.

There, Jaskier met a young witcher trainee named Geralt. It was evident to anyone who observed them that Jaskier and Geralt were fond of each other. As one of the other witcher trainees put it, "Geralt is trying to impress the little lordling."

As a result, Geralt’s fellow trainees made it their mission to try and embarrass him in front of Jaskier as much as possible.

[notsofriendlyfriendlyreminder]

young witchers

Vesemir: And that concludes today's lesson. Any questions?

Eskel: When are we gonna eat?

Vesemir: Questions about learning.

Lambert: Why are we learning this?

Vesemir: Questions about howlers!

Geralt: How much do we get payed for one?

Vesemir: I might quit.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

(Eskel & Geralt, Eskel/Geralt if you squint; young wolves, first time with potions, Eskel's Canonical Strength with Signs; an interpretation. Rated: T)

His skull felt tight. Like it was closing in around his mind, a vice crushing his thoughts, his consciousness. The thundering rush in his ears made him feel dizzy and the heat under his skin made him feel skittish. His heart beat an erratic rhythm against his rib cage, and Eskel felt like he was spinning, but stuck. Rooted to the spot as the world crashed in around him, control slipping through his fingers, torn away by some unseen force.

Yet, beneath it all—beneath the terror, the burning—there was a rush. Something gleeful writhed around in his chest, desperate to get free even though he tried to press it down. Something wanted to burst out of him, break through his grip, burst forth into the world and—

They had said Thunderbolt was different from the others. It lets the monster out good and proper, Varin had slurred around the chipped rim of his mug the previous night. Some hate it, most deal with it, and then some sick fucks enjoy it a little too much. At that, Varin glanced at the large sword hanging over the fireplace. The one that Master Barmin used on those that weren’t safe to be let out on the Path.

The uneasiness had roiled in Eskel’s stomach for the rest of the evening until it had erupted in the bowl under his bed and Gweld had thrown a pillow at him in disgust—learn to hold yer liquor, Skel, fu-u-uck—before shoving his head under the remaining one.

Was Eskel a sick fuck? Was he one of those that they’d put down before letting the rest of his cohort onto the Path? Was that feeling—? Was it—?

“—he’s grunting like an animal—“

“Give him time. Thunderbolt’s always the hardest. Lad’s doing fine.”

There were others in the room; Master Vesemir, as Eskel belonged to his crop of trainees, and more than one mage. They were scared of what Thunderbolt would do to him. Eskel could smell their fear on the air even now, along with the fetid shit from the lavvies, the cooking meat in the kitchens, all of it made his stomach roil once more. The acidic, bitter taste hit the back of his throat, and every muscle pulled taut. Their muttering grew louder, bouncing around his head until it was an unintelligible crescendo.

“He’s losing control…”

“Easy, easy, let him go, let him try.” 

The second voice sounded less certain. The chattering grew louder, louder. The voices crushed in on him, pressing down, tightening the grip around his head. Heat. Pressure. Burning. 

The fire flooded down from his head, from his chest, swept down his arms, and swirled around his palms. Flames lapped his flesh, singed the hairs on the back of his arms; molten dragon fire poured from his palms.

“He’s—that’s—this needs to stop—“

“No, no, wait. Wait!”

A familiar voice. The first that didn’t feel like a lash against his mind, but a familiar caress. A voice that had drawn him out of the stupor following the Trial of Dreams. A voice that had rescued him from every nightmare, every fear, every uncertainty, since Eskel had first stumbled through the tall gates of the keep, bare foot and wide-eyed, clutching his only possession to his chest; a moth-eaten bedroll. 

Two strong hands shoved against his chest, insistent, repeated. “Wait! Wait, don’t! I can get him back!” 

The shoves became harder. Eskel wanted to shout out, to tell the voice that it wasn’t safe, that something was tearing it out of him and it would consume them both. But whatever it was, whatever darkness, had secured its grip around his throat and the words faded before they had even been born. All he could do then was surrender.

But if he surrendered, the beast would get free. It would devour him and everyone in its Path. Like hellfire.

“Eskel, c’mon! C’mon, move, you big oaf! Move!”

Oaf. 

Two boys splashing in the lake, Eskel cannon-balling and creating a tidal wave, “ahh, you coulda drowned me!” said in jest, a light-hearted slap of water, “big oaf,” said with love, with warmth, with trust. Trust that Eskel would never hurt him. Could never. 

“C’mon, Eskel. Come back to me. Don’t you dare fuckin’--don’t you dare leave me, Eskel.”

A hand in his as they stared at a tall, foreboding door, their fates unknown. Those spindly fingers, callused from swords and chores, squeezed as firmly as they could. “Don’t you dare leave me,” whispered, desperate and fearful, and Eskel squeezed back, “I won’t.” 

A promise kept. 

Eskel went lax. He stumbled. His back hit a door which gave way behind him. The ground underfoot became slippery, like mineral grease on a steel blade.

A rush of cold flooded in, washing the brimstone away, water drops like pins against the searing heat of his skin. He fell. They fell. Because, just as the cold stone connected with Eskel’s rear, a heavy, warm weight fell on his front. 

The pin needles turned to rain drops.

It was raining.

Hot breath puffed over his lips, a solid pressure against his forehead, a brush against his nose.

Eskel opened his eyes. 

The faded grey light melted away, and two orbs of melted gold gazed into his. “There you are.”

Geralt.

“Don’t speak, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Eskel must have said it out loud. He leaned back and looked down. There was steam rising from his hands, hot where they rested against the slick flagstones of the courtyard. There were blurry figures standing in the doorway of the laboratory, the colours of their robes melded into one, anxious voices swimming in and out.

His body felt alien, detached. Like he was pulling it back on after someone else had worn it. “What… happened?” he managed to rasp, the words flowing from his throat like gravel.

Geralt took his face in wet fingers, tips tracing the trail of boyish stubble to the hinge of his jaw. “Nearly had a bigger storm than the mages predicted. It’s fine though. Thunder’s always followed by rain, right?” 

Geralt pressed his forehead to Eskel’s again, they shared the same deep breaths, grounded in each other, their hammering pulses slowing, quietening in the lull of comfort. 

Eskel knew then that Geralt had saved his life. If Eskel couldn’t control himself on Thunderbolt, he wouldn’t be leaving Kaer Morhen. It was too much of a risk. 

“You could have… I could have…” Eskel choked out, the vision of Geralt consumed in flames of his making flooding his mind.

“You could never,” Geralt replied, his voice a soft, the touch on Eskel’s face wandering, as if seeking reassurance that he was still intact. “Not you. Not ever.”

Eskel could see himself in Geralt’s wide eyes. Black hair plastered to his skull, the rain dripping from his wide brow and nose, his own eyes sunken with fear. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” “Nothin’, nothin’s wrong with you, you’re jus’ Eskel. We’ll get through this. You and me. Like always. We’ll try again, and… and you’ll get it. Then we’ll, we’ll walk out together on the Path, like we always planned, yeah?”

Eskel could hear the hope in Geralt’s voice, but he could see the fear in his eyes–fear of losing Eskel, fear of going it all alone, fear that he wouldn’t be strong enough to get them through–and Eskel knew he couldn’t fail.

“Yeah,” he whispered back, letting his eyes fall shut so he could bask in the chill of the rain and the gentle warmth of Geralt’s touch. “Together.”

[jay-arts-t]

Do y'all think the witchers would have huskies? I wanna say they'd be more likely to have Malamutes or even Norwegian Elkhounds or a mixture of all three. But I cannot get the image of Lambert riling up the huskies into a howling frenzy. Little shit 16 year old Lambert directly after Kaer Morhen falls and Vesemir is like "yeah sure let's get dogs to make sure the boys don't become emotionally detached from themselves too much", carousing the little pack of 2 huskies and a malamute into screaming their heads off in the middle of the woods. Geralt is laying with his head in Eskel's lap glaring at Lambert because 1) yes it's funny but 2) he's trying to sleep for once dammit. Eskel is thinking "man we should get Great Pyrenees like my family used to have" (he does for the safety of the goats and chickens they eventually get). Vesemir is regretting all of his choices as his headache gets worse. But if it makes Lambert happy the three of them are willing to suffer.

[gilsart]

Had this one in the drafts for a while. Young Geralt and Eskel :3

[blooms-in-april]

"Here."

Jaskier looks up from his lute to see Eskel holding the reins of a horse so beautiful it looks like a pearlescent moon.

"She's for you." Eskel says.

Jaskier moves as if in a dream, taking the reins of the albino mare. Eskel continues, the words flowing.

"She was a steal, blemished. Someone cut her deep in the head and sides. But I thought you'd find that romantic, you know. Make a wounded unicorn out of her marks. And you need a horse and you like pretty things. It made sense to me."

The chords of his throat knot, cut short. Jaskier draws his fingers through the white mare's mane, lute callouses catching on hair white as snow. He picks at a stuck burr and his heart clenches with the familiarity of the movement .

"Why couldn't it have been you?" He says.

Eskel stops abruptly. There is something wild and despairing in the bards voice, a reclamation of destiny.

"Why couldn't it have been you I met in Posada all those years ago?" Jaskier says. "Where were you twenty years ago? Where were you ten? Where were you when I was young and green and full of music?Of course I meet you now,"

He laughs, and there is no melody in it.

"Of course I meet you now, when I am full and sick of loving. You would have been- kind, when you finally sent me away. You would have killed it quickly, killed the dream quiet and fast, in my sleep, like a horse with a broken leg too weak to stand."

[artistsfuneral]

Late at night, exhausted to his bones, werewolf au Geralt drives his beat up truck on a dark, empty road through a forest, dangerously close to the scent marks of another pack's territory. He checks his mirror, sees Eskel's truck right behind him, sees Lambert asleep on the passenger seat, just like Vesemir who is sleeping next to Geralt. Ciri is curled up in the back.

All they have and all they need stuffed into two cars. On the road for months. Driving from one motel to another, looking for a place to call their own again. Geralt is reaching his limit. He needs a break. In the distance he sees the flickering sign of a 24/7 roadside diner. Geralt signals for Eskel to stop and together.

Quietly they divvy up the money between them. Eskel stays with their sleeping family and Geralt heads into the diner. The pack's scent is strong inside and for a moment he hesitates. But the hunger and need for coffee are stronger than the fear of running into other werewolves.

The diner is mostly empty. Two truckers are sharing a booth in the far back. One has fallen asleep next to his coffee, the other also doesn't look much more awake.

A woman in her mid thirties is sitting at the counter, flipping through magazines with a distant look in her eyes. Someone is singing in the kitchen. Geralt leans against the counter, eyes drifting over the menu on the wall, silently calculating how much money they'll have left after this. Maybe if he only takes a small coffee for himself....

A young man comes out of the kitchen, apron tied around his hips, plate in hand, happily singing along to whatever song is playing on the radio. Geralt's eyes widen as he smells the familiar scent of werewolf alpha.

He walked straight into the pack leader.

[catscraftsandcommentary]

I'm rereading Must Brave The Thorns after @inexplicifics published her new fic in that AU'verse, and I had a thought -

What if the peace treaty between Redania and the Wolfblood had required a wolfblood bride marrying a Redanian nobleman?

I know this wouldn't work for MULTIPLE plot reasons, shhh, let me have my silly idea for a moment...

And which Redanian nobleman can be counted upon to ALWAYS need another wife?

Fucking DUKE VELEN.

Now, there are only a few female wolfblood, and even fewer who aren't already partnered (RIP Serrit gutting Velen the first time he grabs her ass, you were SUCH a lovely daydream)...but Dragonfly is single. And a close friend of Lambert's, which means Geralt and Eskel are probably fond of her.

So Dragonfly gets to court, dealing with everyone being rude and dishonest with her, but keeping her temper because the Wolf (who is Lambert's brother, fuck, poor Lambert...) asked her to.

But then...the king and her new so-called husband are acting very suspiciously about her being a Cat. So she asks who else they've met, and they LIE. Blatantly, to her face, lie.

Clearly they don't know about her truth-scenting. Maybe she'll keep that to herself.

She does a little snooping, as any Cat would, and discovers that the king - and Duke Velen, the slimy asshole - often visit the queen's dowry house. (Queen Adelina is actually quite pleasant. Very quiet and not very happy, but a pleasant person.)

Luckily for Dragonfly, they have a visit planned soon - a mockery of a honeymoon. (Who goes on honeymoon with their NEPHEW the KING?!? Duke of fucking Velen, apparently.) So she'll have a chance to snoop.

Needless to say, once she reaches the basement, her plans to snoop quietly go RIGHT OUT THE FUCKING WINDOW, YOU TORTURING BASTARDS.

She steals a carriage for Aiden, and after a moment's thought, loads up the newly-widowed queen and her favorite lady-in-waiting. She's not going to let the backstabbing assholes of the Redanian court kill the only two decent ladies in the whole damn country.

(Aiden is VERY glad to see his sister again, is very confused by the elegant ex-queen, and rather charmed by the young...he thinks she's named Milena? Very gentle hands, at least.)

Then they reach Kaer Morhen and all hell breaks loose.

[thedemonofcat]

A noble couple hires Eskel to find their missing son, Julian Alfred Pankratz.

Eskel is initially led to believe that Julian is a young child, recently abducted by some kind of monster. So, it comes as quite a surprise when Eskel finally tracks him down — not only is Julian a fully grown man, but he also goes by the name Jaskier and happens to be Geralt’s bard.

At this point, it becomes clear that the so-called "monster" who supposedly kidnapped Jaskier is probably none other than Geralt himself.

[cosmos-coma]

Midwinter Morning

A/N: Happy Midwinter, now please enjoy your regularly scheduled Young Ciri!

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia X Reader

Words: 726

Full Witcher Masterlist | AO3

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_______

A thick pile of furs lined the skinny hay-filled bed, the pile moving up and down rhythmically with soft snores. Your head laid peacefully over your scarred Witcher’s chest as you slept, rocked into peace by the movements of his breath. Everything was warm and cozy and perfect here in your little sanctuary within the keep. 

It was midwinter morning, a day where thankfully Vesemir let the boys be a little more lax with their training than usual. 

Geralt’s hand rubbed idly over your back, half asleep with his eyes closed as he languished in the rare morning off.

“Mmmph…” he grunted from above you, his eyes peeking open to the morning light. The room seemed quiet and still, exactly as it had been last night- down to the small fire still smoldering in the tiny fireplace. 

“I think I hear Ciri coming…” He warned through a sleep-roughened voice, though he made no move to get up.

Still not quite awake, you grunted in response, whether you had meant to form actual words though you would never know.

“Mmmm, I definitely hear her coming…” he hummed, bringing his other hand behind her head as he listened to her tiny racing feet. ‘It’s midwinter morning! It’s midwinter morning..!’ Her childish voice rang out, no doubt waking up everyone else in the keep. Geralt grinned as he heard his daughter getting closer. He could wake you up and warn you…. Or he could just have fun watching you get body-slammed by a seven-year-old….. he chose the latter.

He kept one eye peeled open as the door flung open and a flash of white ran into the room, Running and jumping in an arc as she yelled “IT’S MIDWINTER MORNING!!”

Her little body slammed down onto the pair of you, knocking the breath from your body and instantly waking you up. “I’m up! I’m up..!!!” You yelped as you woke.

“It’s midwinter morning, wake up…! I wanna open PRESENTS!” Ciri shouted through a giggle as she rolled around on your back. 

“Alright, Ciri… Alright, I think you made your point,” Geralt laughed as he pulled her up on his chest opposite you, giving you the chance to pull her in under the mound of furs.

Her little laughs bounced around the room as you kissed all over her face, torturing her with affection as she tried to wriggle away., “No…! No, stooppp…!” She cried through the laughs, trying to push your face away, “stooooop, we’re wasting precious present time..!”

Even the White wolf had to laugh, sneaking in a kiss to Ciri’s head when she was busy fending you off, “Alright, kid. You’ve made your wake-up call… why don’t you go and make sure all your uncles are up, and we’ll start getting ready for presents, okay? We’ll meet you in the Great Hall.”  Geralt negotiated as you tried to continue your onslaught, to little avail.

“And then we eat and open gifts??” She questioned as she looked up at her father, her hands smooshed across your face. 

“And then we eat and open gifts… now go on lest someone gets the idea to tickle you..” 

With lightning-fast speed she wriggled out of the bed, crawling across the two of you until she finally popped out on the other end. “Eskel…! Lambert…! It’s time to get up…!!” She yelled as she ran out to face the rest of the cold stone hallways.

Laughing, you sighed and leaned back into Geralt’s chest, “Oh, I love her….” 

With a bright smile, he nodded, “I’m glad…  and I’m glad she has you too…” he mumbled as he continued to rub your back, “I’m glad she has a chance to be a normal kind with you around…”

Your heart melted at his little confession. There was never a doubt in anyone’s mind how much Geralt loved Ciri, it was obvious to even a stranger on the street. But that didn’t stop it from warming your heart every time you heard it.

“I’m glad I can give her a little normalcy too… but I couldn’t do it without you, you know that, right?”

A warm smile grew across his normally stoic expression as his fingers moved to caress your cheek, “I love you, little fox…”

You grinned, your lips pressing a warm kiss into his palm, “I love you too, my big bad Wolf..”

_______

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[inexplicifics]

so im rereading tenderness and the bit with eskels axii made me think of smth. sasha says that if he didnt already know better, he would think axii was just a truth spell. i was thinking abt flung and how morvran and cahir rly only see axii used to get truthful information and nothing else, and when the trainees go over the restrictions with cahir i dont think they actually say anything that contradicts that it could just be a truth spell. do morvran and cahir realize what axii actually is, or do they go back home assuming witchers can compel honesty but not like. other mind control stuff theoretically? does anyone in nilfgaard remember anything abt witchers from before ard carraigh?

I don't think Witchers pre-Warlord really told anyone what Axii could do, because it's not the sort of thing one wants to spread around. People were wary enough of Witchers without the possibility of mind control, and also it's the sort of weapon that works best when not expected. So anyone who met Witchers pre-Warlord would probably not know they could cast Axii, or what it could do.

Cahir knows a little more, but the young Witchers weren't actually explicit about Axii being mind-control, just that its use was carefully regulated. As far as he and Morvran know for certain, it's a truth spell.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Witcher trainees who passed the grasses still had to undergo a lot of training.

One of the first lessons they were taught upon recovery featured a training dummy. The trainees were each given their own dummy and told to destroy it. However they want. Eskel burned his with igni. Lambert used his bare hands to rip his to pieces. Geralt just remembers swinging his sword until there was a pile of sticks and scraps.

Then, the trainer told the young witchers to put their dummies back together.

The sinking feeling they had while looking at their at the destruction they had wrought—the hours Geralt and Lambert spent with a needle and thread as Eskel was forced to stare at his pile of ashes—was the true lesson.

It is far easier to destroy than to fix, to hurt than to heal. Because they were stronger, they had to be that much more careful.

The metaphor of his training dummy stuck with Geralt.

Years later, he invited Jaskier to Kaer Morhen.

Because Jaskier wanted to be accepted by all of the other witchers, he kept looking for ways to be helpful.

That’s why Geralt stumbled upon him sewing old practice dummies back together.

I loveee thisss ;w;

[on-a-lucky-tide]

A young, horny Lambert sets his sights on an older hunk of Witcher beef. CW: age gap, flirtation.

"I'm going for it."

"Lambert, don't be a fucking idiot. They'll laugh at you."

"They might, but he won't. You miss all the chances you don't take, right?"

"Your funeral."

Lambert licked his lips and smoothed his hair back as he stood. He hadn't torn his eyes away from his mark for a single second since said man had swaggered into the hall a few hours before. This was the winter he'd do it. He was a man himself now, which meant he had every chance of bagging himself the hunk of good-lookin' he'd been coveting from the moment his dick had started getting hard at night and hair had appeared on his jaw.

Eskel.

It wasn't just that Eskel had two decades on Lambert or that he was becoming a seasoned witcher. No other Witcher in the keep compared. Sure, some tried. They might step toe to toe during drills or try to outflame Eskel's igni, but they never could. The only one that outmatched Eskel was his pale shadow, Geralt. They even looked a little similar. But cream puff was a fucking bean pole of a man, and that shitty headband...

N'aw, Lambert wanted big. He wanted heat, and honey eyes, and that thatch of dark hair he'd seen on Eskel's barrelled chest in the baths, and that huge fucking d--

"You lost, Lambert?"

Lambert blinked. Gweld, the ginger prick, was frowning at him, ale tankard halfway up to his mouth. The others had paused their card game; Clovis looked drunk, Geralt was slouched back trying to see Clovis' hand and Eskel was watching Lambert speculatively.

Watching, with those honey-coloured eyes that turned Lambert inside out. The words caught in Lambert's throat; shit, fuck, why was he so fuckin' stupid the moment Eskel looked at him?

He took a breath, conscious of Clovis elbowing Gweld with a chuckle, while Geralt looked over with a smirk.

Lambert found his words. He folded his arms, thrust his chest out, widened his stance and put on his best cocky smirk. "Was just wonderin' whether Eskel wanted some better company. You losers can't handle your beer at the best of times."

They laughed. Gweld elbowed Eskel who cocked a half smile, eyes rolling not at Lambert, but his friends, proving Lambert's point. Obviously.

"Is that right?" Geralt asked, amusement turning his narrow face bright with a toothy grin. Lambert had been told that as witchers matured they honed their sense of smell, could identify a man's emotions from his body language, the flush in his skin. Lambert knew Geralt had him sussed. "And what kinda company are you offering?"

"Geralt..." Eskel growled in warning, and it went straight to Lambert's groin. Fucking hells.

"Whatever he wants. I'm a man of many talents."

More laughter--"little man has game, shit; fuck, I'm chokin, too funny"--but Lambert wasn't put off. Eskel's eyes were on him, warming him like the sun. The lines around those eyes were wrinkled with mirth, and damn if that smile wasn't snatching the breath right out of Lambert's chest.

"Does your master know you're out?" Eskel asked, placing his cards face down. He leaned back in his chair and slung his elbow onto the back of it, knee turned out while a hand tapped at his drink.

Lambert tried to keep his eyes level and resist the urge to... look. Eskel's codpiece put on an absolutely fucking heroic effort, but it could only hide so much and that was when Eskel was soft. "What he don't know can't hurt him. No business of his who else is in my bed as long as I am."

Eskel pressed his lips together to smother his smile while the others guffawed. More was said but Lambert didn't really hear; he was too focused on keeping his heart from beating out his chest and appearing suave.

Eskel hummed. "Aren't you a little young to be lookin' for that kinda fun?"

"Worried you won't be able to keep up, old man?" Lambert felt momentum. He could do snark, he could meet Eskel on this well worn ground, toe to toe, and the way Eskel's head tilted to the side and his eyebrow rose. It wasn't a no, right? He looked interested. Amused, but he didn't dismiss Lambert outright.

Gweld slapped Eskel on the shoulder with a bark. "Eskel here's got stories that'd make your balls shrivel up into yer belly, lad. I don't think he's a good choice for yer first ride, best drop your ambitions."

"Fuck off, Gweld," Eskel said, but there was no heat to his words. Just wry amusement.

Geralt snorted into his drink and Clovis made a vulgar gesture with his hand, but before Lambert could respond a familiar voice barked through the hall and sucked all the building sexual tension into a vacuum. "Lambert, get your arse to bed, you missed roll call!"

Lambert clenched his teeth, shoulders lifting towards his ears. For fuck's sake...

Three of the witchers in front of him groaned in mock empathy. "Oof, tough break, Lambino. Cock blocked by Vesemir," Gweld said, shaking his head while Geralt and Clovis snickered. "Don't worry, we've all been there. Ain't that right, Gerbear?"

Geralt guffawed in protest and smacked Gweld on the shoulder. It quickly devolved into a wrestling match on the floor, one which Gweld was definitely going to lose. Eskel watched them briefly before he looked back at Lambert. "Another time perhaps," he said, toasting Lambert with his ale. "G'wan, before he decides the target dummies are a little light on straw."

Lambert grunted, frustrated, but stalked away. He'd made inroads, and the way Eskel's eyes had shone, and that crooked grin. Eskel hadn't outright rejected him, hells, he'd--well, that smile... Eskel didn't smile at everyone like that.

Lambert laid in bed with that smile behind his eyes and a hand under the sheets, determined that it would be Eskel's instead of his own by winter's end.

[dirtycombatboots]

I was writing a fanfic but something happened and now the file is damaged. I'm not sure I have it in me to start from scratch once again so I'll just pour this idea here, maybe someone will like to use it

One winter Eskel, injured, got stuck for winter in Lettenhove, small county of Kerak, taking full advantage of healer's hospitality. During winter he befriended a little boy who isn't afraid of a witcher and, in fact, is very interested in his stories. Eskel knows he shouldn't tell quite a lot of things, but some of them just slip out occasionally. Well, not like a child will remember any of those, so no harm. Winter end, Eskel goes back to his usual life. He doesn't come back to Lettenhove, path taking him to different parts of continent.

Little boy, however, has a very good memory and a newfound obsession with witchers. As he grows older and learns how to read, he tries to find anything about them in the books. His curiosity is somewhat satisfied when he is already a student at Oxenfurt and has access to Academy's library with a lot of ancient scrolls on history.

After graduation Jaskier, no-name young bard with nothing but his lute, is brooding in the corner of a small tavern in Posada. He is dead set on becoming the best bard, but he has nothing to write ballads about. No muse. Well, no problem, lets make one up. Since he was always obsessed with witchers, why not sing about them? Only needs a hero. A bit of searching for old memories plus everything he learned from archives, sketching what he thinks Eskel looked like (Jaskier was a child, he couldn't possibly remember Witcher's face in full detail), a bit of artistic choices to modify that face, a pinch of tragic backstory, sprinkle with personality that would do good for hero of ballads, and a suitable name as a cherry on top. Congratulations, you just created Geralt of Rivia.

While thinking about how to start working with this new character of his creation, Jaskier goes to take a look at the devil he heard local rumors of. He finds a cave with half-starved and incredibly intelligent Sylvan and a few dead elves. Creature turns out to be a surprisingly good conversationalist after Jaskier shares some of his bread with him. Jaskier promised to make up a story that will keep humans away from searching for the "devil" and receives an elven lute as gift, since otherwise it will just rot in this cave. That is how "Toss a coin" was made.

Toss a coin is more successful than Jaskier could predict in his most narcissistic fantasies. He writes a few more songs about Geralt and his career really takes off. At some point Jaskier realized that people actually think Geralt is a real person. Amused, he plays along, completely satisfied with his own genius. Especially when some people not only recognize him, but claim to have seen the White Wolf. They actually believe it.

Jaskier knows that Geralt is fictional but an artist needs emotions to make his art, so he intentionally falls in love with his character and intentionally makes Geralt in his mind harsher. Because Jaskier is dramatic bastard and unrequited love is perfect fuel for ballads.

After silently watching from sidelines the whole epic of Pavetta's bethrothal ball, Jaskier spins the story of how Geralt was involved a claimed the Law of Surprise. Jaskier gets invited back to play from time to time, watching Ciri grow, and realizes that somehow even Calanthe - a person directly involved in the whole thing, an eyewitness and active participant - believes in Jaskier's made-up story about Geralt's involvement. Jaskier knows it will bite him in the ass later, but this is too funny and he is just a bit insane so he indulged with pride.

When Countess de Stael breaks up with him, Jaskier is drowning his sorrows in a bottle of gin on a riverbank. Oh, crap, he slipped and scratched his throat on something accidentally. He goes to the local healer to buy some ointment for scratches - bard with a scar on his throat would be absurd - and she is a lovely sarcastic young-looking elf with dark curls and just a bit of magic, named Jenny. Deciding that if he is suffering from a broken heart, Geralt should suffer too. Jaskier's drinking spree transforms into a story of fighting jinn, saving a mortality wounded bard and falling in love with a sexy dangerous witch. Welcome, new character, we will call you Yennefer. Thank you, Jenny, for inspiration. Jaskier is jealous and heartbroken, but he thrives on it and enjoys every second of his life misery very much, milking it for creative purposes.

Annual visit to Cintra, bad news. The whole family of three perished in sea waters. Lioness of Cintra is loosing her mind with grief. It really is a pity to see such a strong woman in such state, so to calm her Jaskier sings about Ciri as if she was still alive. Surprisingly, it helps.

Jaskier tags along on some idiotic, in his opinion, quest to hunt a dragon. It is a failure through and through, nothing interesting happening and no material for ballads. On top of that mountain Jaskier decides that he needs a break, perhaps a vacation somewhere nice. Maybe go to the coast. But he can never really get a break from his own imagination. Besides, a bit of a heartbreak seems like a perfect grand finale for this failed adventure. So, Geralt and Yennefer fight, than Geralt sends the bard away. Perfect. This way Jaskier will be able to suffer as much as he wants AND not be distracted by thinking about Geralt being present.

Unfortunately , no vacation for Jaskier. Cintra falls, and the bard finds out that, apparently, he gaslighted the entire continent into believing that not only Geralt exists, but Yenn as well, and that lion cub of Cintra is alive. Well, fuck, Jaskier really is a genius if he says so himself. If only Nilfgaard didn't have a bounty for his head, hoping to get information about the witcher. Really, the whole empire on a wild goose chase for a fictional witcher and a long dead princess, can you imagine. Jaskier knew it would bite him in the ass.

Being tortured by Rience is no fun, especially since Jaskier literally cannot give him any information, but firefucker doesn't believe Jaskier when the bard tries to explain that Ciri is dead and Geralt doesn't exist. He gets saved eventually and tries to lay low for some time. Jaskier may be a bit crazy, but he doesn't have a death wish.

The story ends with Jaskier meeting witchers of Kaer Morhen. To his utter disbelief, even they are affected by collective madness. They fully believe in Geralt's existence and have memories about shared life experiences with him. Even Eskel, which is another level of ridiculous. Because Geralt, at his core, IS Eskel, just with a whole lot of artistic liberties and a very successful PR manager of a bard.

There is no explanation given to why this happened. Maybe Jaskier just so convincing, maybe he is a bit magical, maybe it's his elven lute being magical. The only thing that gets explained during the story is why some people believe they actually saw Geralt with Jaskier. After visualizing his character for so long, Jaskier accidentally and unknowingly created a tulpa. Given magical nature of the world, sometimes its presence is noticed. But its not real, nothing more than a weak projection of bard's fantasies.

[mello-bee]

time to introduce you to...KELL SPADE

he's my interpretation of an EpelDeuce love-child!! a cauldron expy

"kell" is a shortened version of either thorkell (Thor's cauldron) or Eskel (divine cauldron), if twst wont let go off the ironic names then neither will i

he's a bit messy and dirties his uniform alot, whether it be with mud from playing on the field, cafeteria food, apple pie. uncle vil is in dismay 😔 someone keep the fact that Kell got into pormifore a secret or the poor man will have a heart attack

despite his messy habits, many students still somehow assume that he's a well-spoken elegant young gentleman; the genes are working overtime to save his reputation fr

the first time he came home with dyed hair, one of his dad's has a panic attack

deuce's assumptions were wrong, Kell just thought the green streaks looked cool. but deuce still ended up calling mama spade for parenting advice after that

his age in my future drawings will vary and depend on the setting but keep in mind: if i draw him in an nrc uniform, he's a first year!