#Little Skellig

[iasconius]

:)

#alt caption: me when they finally let me move to the little hermitage on the skelligs

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Due to his school being a little more diverse in the contracts it accepts (assassination, theft, etc), you can bet Aiden's going be a pretty passable actor, or at least have some decent improv skills when the occasion calls for it. Jaskier is a bard and a spy - enough said.

So, picture the two of them engaging in a friendly one upmanship of situations they've had to bullshit their way out of while Lambert and Geralt just sit listening in mute horror and strongly considering child harnesses for their SO's because 'fucking hell, how are these two actually still alive??!!?'

Geralt: I'm never letting you out of my sight again.

Jaskier: I know Love. Finish your porridge.

Lambert: Wait, that was when....where the fuck was I during all this?

Aiden: I snuck out when you were occupied at the Inn. We weren't even fucking at that point and you looked like you were getting somewhere with that Skellige bloke, I didn't want to interrupt. Besides, it should have been just a quick in and out.

Jaskier: Is that what Lambert said to the Skellige bloke?

*Lambert starts spluttering and choking around his mouthful of small ale while Aiden just about falls out of his seat he's laughing so hard.*

#the witcher #the witcher headcanon #geraskier #witcher jaskier #jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt x jaskier #witcher geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt/jaskier #Geralt #aiden/lambert #aiden x lambert #lambden #lambert/aiden #lambert x aiden #witcher aiden #witcher lambert #lambert

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon (Modern Au) - Error 404 Brain Not Found: Bonus Scene - Part 14

Geralt and Jaskier shuffled through the back door, arms loaded with bags of sodas. They headed straight for the kitchen and began unpacking.

It was D&D night, so Yennefer might not have thought twice about the large quantity of drinks they were hauling in. But there were two little details that set warning bells off in her head.

1. Geralt had already gone out two days earlier and bought drinks and snacks for their weekly game night. 2. Every single soda in the bags was Sprite. Both Geralt and Jaskier favored colas, and Eskel was the only one of the Witchers that preferred Sprite. What where they doing with all that Sprite?

Something asinine this way comes. Yennefer thought to herself as she eyed the men suspiciously from the kitchen doorway. Jaskier was openly smiling at her, eyes glowing merrily. Geralt was avoiding looking at her all together.

Dumbf**kery was definitely afoot.

"You want to play with us?" Jaskier asked excitedly, "We're going to do The Sprite Challenge!"

"The what--?" Before Yennefer could finish asking her question, Jaskier opened a bottle of soda and downed the whole thing in one go, pausing only to breathe and give the carbonation burn time to fade. Then he stood there expectantly.

Mentally trying to regain her footing, Yennefer glanced at Geralt. The Witcher was watching Jaskier excitedly.

The seconds ticked by.

Feeling as if she was supposed to give some sort of commentary, Yennefer said, "Er, congratulations? You drank an entire bottle of Sprite all--!"

The rest of what Yennefer said was drowned out by the almighty belch that erupted from Jaskier. It was long, loud, and carried the faint scent of lemon-lime. Geralt and Jaskier laughing ecstatically, gave each other a celebratory high-five.

What the h*ll, a girl had to have fun sometimes. Yennefer gave up trying to be the mature one, and joined her two idiots, cheering them on and recording the proceedings.

"Your turn, big guy!" Jaskier announced. Geralt nodded, twisted the top off a Sprite, and chugged it. The liquid swirled in a little tornado as it disapeared down Geralt's throat. There was a moment of silence, before Geralt made a noise like a Skellige fog horn.

Guffaws erupted, and the process was repeated, with time in between for stomachs and bladders to empty. While they waited for the next round, Jaskier and Geralt took turns trying to belch their names and various obscenities.

Geralt and Jaskier: * chug Sprite*

Jaskier: *bear with a bellyache*

Geralt: *Semi truck engine braking*

Jaskier: *sound like someone ripping a***

Geralt: *goose honk*

Jaskier: *sound like a toilet unclogging*

Yennefer decided to give it a try herself. Jaskier and Geralt cheered her on as she downed her soda. Seconds later, she opened her mouth and out came a string of garbled noises that sounded like the syllables of the blackest magic spell ever spoken.

"Holy f**k!" Jaskier laughed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Did you just curse someone?" Geralt chortled.

"Was it just me, or did you see snakes come out of her boots and a black cloud swirl around her?"

"Oh, f**k you both!" Yennefer grumbled.

"I'd rather *garbled burp* a nekker!" Jaskier retorted.

"That's not much of an insult, considering you'd f**k anything with a hole in it!"

Jaskier: *affronted gasp*

"Scr*bber!"

"B*llend!"

"M*ngebag!"

"A*semonger!"

Geralt decided to intervene before the tit-for-tat escalated. The Witcher chugged a Sprite, tossed the bottle aside, and assumed the belching position. The distraction worked, and Yennefer and Jaskier forgot about their bantering and waited with bated breath.

Geralt grimaced, and then *dying humpback whale noises*

The three of them immediately lost their sh*t. They howled maniacally, holding their sides and leaning on whatever surface was close by.

Laughing on a belly full of carbonated liquid turned out to be risky business.

Geralt and Jaskier both laughed so hard they spewed.

One minute Yennefer was laughing at the ridiculous noise Geralt had made, and the next, her laughter turned to exclamations of surprised disgust. Puke fountained onto the floor as Geralt and Jaskier chucked whiteys. It rolled and splattered, and Yennefer was just doing her best to get the h*ll out of the way.

The vomiting petered out, turning to dry heaves before stopping. Yennefer helped them to the living room, settling them on the couches, then went back to the kitchen to clean up the mess.

She was not one to use magic for mundane things that she could do herself, but this time, she made an exception. She was not going to clean up this mess by hand. She spelled the kitchen clean with a wave of her hand, then returned to the living room and her two dumba**es.

She knew their stomachs were probably feeling a bit queasy, so she cheerfully offered them something to help.

"Here, have some Sprite, it will settle your stomachs!"

*Symphony of groans*

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #twn #the witcher headcanon #the witcher modern au #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #geraskier #geraskefer #geraskifer #yenralt #yennskier #yenskier #yennaskier #yenneskier #error 404 brain not found headcanon #error 404 headcanon #brain not found headcanon

[endiness]

(the following contains book and show spoilers.)

i have to say, i think the main reason why radovid was aged up beyond the romance with jaskier was to provide redania with the stability it lacked in the books after vizimir was assassinated in order for the show to have a central pov for the north. because the show almost has that with philippa and dijkstra, but the one area that's really lacking — if the show stuck exactly to the books — is the war itself as redania was not in a place where it could fight until the end of the series. but aging radovid up old enough to be king should fix that issue by virtue of redania actually having a leader and therefore not falling into chaos. and even with that change, the show could still feature later issues redania runs into with the war just by having them run out of money by the end of the series and needing more and/or facing so many losses in their army that they need to hire more soldiers.

and within that whole idea, i can see the show using radovid as a substitute for other northern nobility and royalty. like, given the little that is known about radovid in the books and what philippa's plans in them are, the show could easily use radovid in tankred's role as both characters were almost betrothed to ciri in the books. (and i say this fully as a radskier shipper in radskier shipping mode, but i am still ✨ manifesting ✨ radovid being used as a daniel etcheverry replacement.) (also, like, insert speculation about radovid being jaskier's anna henrietta here.)

all of which is to say that i think it makes sense that the show would do something like that — having a central pov for the north and condensing things a bit — because it is a tv show, and one with only 8 episodes per season at that, and as such there's a limited amount of time to work with. the show's focus just with next season alone will already be split enough as it is between geralt, jaskier, and the hansa; ciri and the rats (and bonhart); yennefer and the lodge; francesca and the elves and the scoia'tael; and nilfgaard with emhyr (plus wherever vilgefortz may fall into.) philippa, dijkstra, and king!radovid round out a northern pov — the one pov that's missing — without having to split the focus even more if the rest of the northern nations were really featured. (just to say: i don't think that means the show will erase the rest of the nations, i just think that when it comes to having a central one to focus on, it'll likely be redania.)

(also just to add: i think radovid being aged up old enough to be king likely has to do with philippa, too, and her storyline — or lack thereof. because yennefer has largely taken her role in the lodge, so she kind of needs another storyline to focus on. at least initially, anyway, as i suspect yennefer will eventually leave the lodge to go to skellige and try to find ciri. but in the meantime, philippa still needs a plot and puppeting king radovid makes sense given everything that happened last season.)

but just to bring it back around to the radskier of it all... i think these reasons are why it does make sense that the show would make them love interests. jaskier is already connected to redania by virtue of being the sandpiper, so they have completely feasible reasons to know of each other, meet each other, and fall for each other — and all without taking up time introducing someone that would never have the same political impact and ramifications to the plot that radovid does by being older. (which i do still largely think was the point of aging him up.)

and then there's how their relationship will affect everything in the future — and we know per lauren that their relationship is going to have ripple effects in the future. i know there's been some speculation that losing jaskier on top of everything else will turn radovid ~evil, but i think that's speculation largely based off of the games — which the show has nothing to do with. i think what will happen is actually the opposite and that radovid will try and do his best to remain a good person and a good king — which imo also makes the most narrative sense, too, given that the place we last left off with them was radovid basically vowing to jaskier that he would prove himself to him. he can't exactly do that in person anymore, but he can still try to prove himself to jaskier even if he’s not with him.

plus i still think that the show hasn't based radovid solely off the stern, either, and that he'll end up being more of an amalgamation of all of the king radovids throughout redania's history. and as far as i know, no one on the show has ever confirmed which radovid he's supposed to be based off of and the only thing we do know is that lauren said he's a character that "continues to show up in the books." but that's a description that fits the stern, the bold, and the great. so i think it's entirely possible that through having met jaskier and falling for him, radovid will end up as the great rather than the stern. (also something something radovid, like the bold, going to kovir.)

and just as far as jaskier's side of things go... obviously there's speculation about radovid being jaskier's anna henrietta. which imo does have merit given radovid's status in society and how what we saw of their relationship in s3 fits the picture (and even the timeline, if only vaguely) of jaskier and anna henrietta's romance prior to the books. i don't know how the logistics of it would work exactly, but i think it's completely possible that when jaskier and geralt (+hansa) separate that jaskier somehow stays with radovid. because jaskier really does need to be put on a busTM to escape the fate of the rest of the hansa, and radovid fulfils the same role of jaskier's love interest that anna henrietta did.

and just for one last thing. but it includes season 4 spoilers. like, for real writer's room spoilers. so, y'know, beware of the following if you're trying to avoid those.

imo the leak that happened already kind of proves at least some of my speculation and theories, specifically about radovid and redania being used as a central pov for the north. because they say radovid will lead the troops out into battle when geralt and jaskier escape the northern army camp. but in the books, the forces at the northern army camp were from cintra and temeria. but in the show, the only forces we know for sure are there are from redania as radovid is the one leading them. so either redania has replaced both forces (i don’t see this as likely as the show could’ve just said ‘redanian army camp’ if it were only them, but it’s referred to as ‘the northern army camp’ which implies multiple northern forces), they're there in addition to both forces, or they've replaced one of the forces — likely temeria. either way, it probably means that radovid will either be there as a daniel etcheverry replacement or a vissegerd replacement.

#radskier #radovid #jaskier #the witcher #!txt: the witcher #the witcher spoilers #spoilers for the books and s4 #...

[thedreamlessnights]

Accismus - pt. 2

{previous chapter} || {next chapter}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: On the journey to Novigrad, you and Geralt discover the limitations of the djinn’s wish - while also getting to know each other.

Warnings: Sexual innuendos and references but nothing particularly explicit. Mentions of death, murder, robbing, and corpses. Graphic descriptions of a mild injury, and some self-deprecative thoughts.

Word Count: 6.9k

A/N: Thank you all so much for the love on chapter one - comments are very, very appreciated! This was a very fun one to write and I’m so excited for the rest of the story ❤️

The air near Crow’s Perch smells of death. 

There’s no color. No longing, no burning passion, no life at all. It smells of a graveyard, a field after battle. Rotting skin and rotting souls. Breathe it in and your bones seem to grind the wrong way. Breathe it in, and if you have any hint of humanity left in you, you itch to leave.

Perhaps it hadn’t always been that way. Perhaps the Bloody Baron brought life to this place, once. Now, the land is desolate and people’s eyes are dull and empty. Crow’s Perch feels like the memories that haunt you every night. 

 Anyone would be a fool to ride for Novigrad without supplies - this had simply been the closest stop. You’d had half a mind to protest when Geralt suggested it, but kept silent. Your tongue had been stilled only in remembrance of your mistakes - Geralt would not be trapped here if not for you.

You do need supplies, after all, that’s without question. At the moment, you have nothing but the clothes on your back and a pouch filled with more coin than you’ve ever owned. It’s a strange contradiction. You have nothing, and yet… to some, it would seem you have everything.

If Geralt wasn’t here, you’d be wary of traveling with anything near this many crowns. Stories have haunted the roads lately, tales of bandits and corrupted knights, theft and murder and worse. But what knight or bandit would be fool enough to attack a witcher?

Geralt doesn’t have much more on him than you do, considering he’d been ripped out of Skellige without warning. You shadow him through the village, past the leering gaze of soldiers.

They spit at his feet. He doesn’t even flinch. He tells you to buy your supplies quickly, and your stomach twists as you pick some out. When you hand over the coin, blood pools onto your tongue from where you’ve chewed the inside of your cheek.

To your relief, Geralt seems to hate this place as much as you do. He moves tensely, the way one moves when paranoid - looking over his shoulder every now and again. Every second here makes the itch to leave stronger. 

He stops at an armorer, shifting from one foot to the other as he speaks, quickly and quietly. You linger a few steps away, pretending not to listen. The stare of the soldiers burns through the back of your neck. You move a little closer.

The repairs he purchases are predictable, at least. His armor. His swords. You have enough hope left in you to pray he won’t have to use those when you’re around.

It mercifully doesn’t take long before the newly-sharpened blades are strapped to his back, and he’s looking at you.

“Need anything else?” he asks pointedly. “It’ll be a while before we stop again.”

“No. I’m ready.”

He nods, striding down through the town. The mud squelches under your boots, a sickly sound. You keep feeling like you’re being watched. Even when you get to your horses, you can’t shake the feeling.

When you dare to look over your shoulder, a group of soldiers have started trailing the two of you on the bridge down - strolling leisurely behind, maybe twenty feet away. 

Geralt tucks his things into his horse’s saddle, rolling his shoulders like he’s preparing for a fight. That, more than anything else, frightens you. You have a pretty good idea of who would win - and it’s not those guards - but seeing more bloodshed is the last thing you need right now.

You shove your wares into the saddle as fast as you can, hands shaking, and when you’ve turned around again, Geralt’s already mounted. You’re quick to follow.

“Stay close,” he instructs, eyes fixed toward the guards, voice low and intense. “Ride fast.” 

“Right behind you,” you confirm.

He gives you a nod. “C’mon, Roach,” he says, presumably to his horse, hitting the reins and pulling into a straight gallop.

You follow behind him without a moment’s hesitation.

Roach. A strange name for a horse, especially a mare. Must be some reason for it.

Only when Crow’s Perch has long faded into the distance does Geralt slow down, steadily pulling at the reins until Roach has come to a stop.

You follow his lead, slowly halting next to him. Your heart is still pounding.

“Hate that place,” he mutters. “You alright?” 

“I don’t think those guards liked me very much,” you say.

He just shakes his head. “They were after me, not you. Killed a few of their men last time I was here.”

“You - ? Killed?” you stammer. “Why?”

The question escapes you before you can stop it. A strange intensity comes into his eyes, and his hands tighten on the reins.

“They were robbing the villagers. Murdering them if they didn't have enough. Couldn’t just let it happen.”

There’s a long beat where venom seeps into your chest, fiery anger that threatens to consume you. His tale is one you’ve seen too many times. Your voice is bitter when the words tumble out of you.

“Then you did the right thing.” 

Surprise flickers over his features at your response - a raised brow, piercing eyes scanning your face. It hadn’t been what he’d expected you to say. He looks like he wants to  question you, but thankfully doesn’t press any further on the subject. You swallow your anger down.

“Better get going,” he says. 

“Alright.”

He slowly coaxes Roach forward, and soon, the two of you are off. 

The ride is hellish. 

The sun is blistering. Wind whips into your face as you ride, but the air is hot and stagnant, and it doesn’t stop you from feeling like you’re being broiled. Clouds shift over the sky, but never directly block the sun, leaving you doused in both sweat and a growing amount of frustration.

Not long after you’ve left, your hands begin to feel like they’re being pasted to the reins, cramping in their position and blistering up from the friction of riding. No changes in your hold seem to make any difference to it - it flays the skin away, little by little, all the same.

Your gloves only make it worse, but something tells you that without them, it wouldn’t be any better. You resist the urge to ask Geralt for a break - you’ve wasted enough of his time as it is.

At times, riding seems intolerable. Hours pass in aches and unnerving, unrelenting pain, where sweat soaks your shirt and the fabric clings to your skin. Your legs and hands throb and sting, fingers burn as you hold the reins. Your mouth feels like it’s full of sand. You bite your tongue so you don’t beg to stop.

Eventually, the agony fades into a sort of dulled blur, and it’s easier to ride and let your mind wander endlessly. Movement becomes second nature, automatic. It’s remarkable, really, the way the mind adapts to discomfort over time.

When the two of you finally come across a stream, Geralt comes to a stop - pulling at his reins and skidding through a stretch of dirt.

Lost in your thoughts, you notice a moment too late and wind up nearly crashing into him. The tug of your reins is so sudden and sharp that your horse rears up and you have to scramble to stay on, leaning forward and desperately reaching for her neck

For a terrible moment, you think you’re going to fall off - make a fool of yourself even more. You wait to hit the dirt, wait for the rib-jarring impact. It doesn’t come. She levels out, calming, and your heart rate slowly returns to normal. 

Reaching forward to pat behind her ears, you rub soothing motions into her fur.

“Sorry, girl,” you murmur hoarsely. Your mouth is dry as the Abyss. “Didn’t mean to give you a fright.”

When she’s settled down, you find yourself locking eyes with Geralt.

“You alright?” he asks, scanning you over. The look on his face seems to be genuine concern, which surprises you.

“I’m fine. What happened? Why’d we stop?”

“Horses need a break,” he says. “We should rest here a while.”

You give him a nod. With unsteady legs, you hop off your horse, immediately grabbing some water from the saddle. It’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted. Fresh, clean, refreshing - it seems to have come straight from the gods themselves. You should slow down, but you can’t seem to stop. 

A little trickles from the canteen down your cheek and throat, but you’re too tired to care. It’s cooling a little of the heat that so determinedly wants to latch onto you. 

Your hands are so blistered that you can barely put the bottle back. You’d hadn’t noticed it when drinking; pain had come second to the thirst. Now, it’s quick to come rushing back in - like you’re holding hot coals, but can’t let go. It burns and burns and won’t let up. Removing your gloves makes it worse, and so does seeing the wounds. 

Oozing blisters. They weep and sear and sting. Some of them have popped, which only worsens the risk of infection. You’ll have to bandage them up later, clean them out and wrap them up. For now, your hands shake with pain, and your stomach twists with nausea.

You should eat. It’s been hours. Problem is, your appetite is non-existent. How long will it be until you stop again? How much time has passed since you left? The sun has crossed the sky, that’s for certain, but it doesn’t look anywhere near setting. Damn it all.

Casting a glance to Geralt, you find that he’s busy with his horse near the water’s edge, a few paces away. Well, his distraction gives you an opportunity to wash your hands in the stream, at least. 

As soon as you dip them in, you’re letting out a soft noise of relief - a quick, soft breath that you can only hope Geralt won’t question. The water both stings and soothes, cooling the fervid flesh, seeming to suck the pain out as if it were venom.

It’s only temporary, though - they burn again once they’re removed. The wounds feel a little better, anyway.

But, really, it’s just more denial. The pain is awful. You want to cry. Your stomach won’t stop churning. You want to lay down on the grass and sleep. You want - need - a drink. But complaining about any of that to Geralt sounds even worse than riding again. 

You weren’t the one ripped into the sky and dragged here, after all. Any negative results coming from this journey are directly tied to your doing. Whining about it won’t help one bit, and, besides - what would he be able to do about some blistered hands? He’s a witcher, not a healer.

You pull a sandwich from your bag and settle on a rock, trying to ignore the seeping agony of your hands as you eat. Your mind, of course, turns to the wish. It’s interesting to you that you’re able to be hurt, but you suppose that’s part of your mistake in word choice. 

Protection is an ambiguous word. At the time, you’d thought of not being able to be harmed at all. The djinn must have interpreted it as a means of ‘no one else hurting you.’ 

Really, you’re lucky to have anything to show for it. Or, well… not lucky. All you’ve gotten from that djinn is rotten luck. Your first two wishes have proved that enough. Still… could have been much worse than a witcher. This witcher, at least.

You can’t help sneaking a glance at him as you eat. He’s settled down on the grass, gaze focused out toward the water, distractedly eating away at something. Is he thinking about where you’ll find the djinn? His friend who owns the tavern? That sorceress from the stories? 

As if feeling your eyes on him, he stirs, looking back toward you. Your eyes flick down to your hands in a flash, but you know he must have seen you looking at him. Shit. You don’t dare meet his eyes again, but your thoughts won’t seem to stray from him. 

All those stories you’d heard about him, and you’d still never managed to picture him right. Geralt’s certainly not someone you’d want to purposely anger, but he’s no rabid brute, either. 

He’d asked you if you were alright when you’d stopped - both times. He’d negotiated a cheaper price for the horses, even when he hadn’t needed to. He’d killed those guards because they were tormenting the villagers. 

And, all throughout the mess of the wish, he hasn’t been any crueler to you than a brief flash of frustration. You wouldn’t react even half as well if you were put in his shoes, dragged away and stuck with a fool of a stranger.

When you’d heard about the Butcher of Blaviken - the White Wolf - you’d imagined wrong. Someone callous, someone cruel. You’d pictured his eyes too yellow, his voice too piercing, his words too harsh; his frame, too beastly, and his mannerisms, much too rude. 

People had whispered horrors of him on the street; the repulsive witcher of Rivia, face marred with a scar. But Geralt isn’t repulsive. He can be a bit intimidating, sometimes, but he’s also compelling, in a way. Your eyes don’t want to stray from his form, but can’t help but shy away from his gaze. 

He’s…

He’s handsome.

It dawns on you in a moment of keen awareness. You press your fingers to your cheeks and find them hot. 

Handsome. Of course he is. He’s got himself a beautiful sorceress after all, so why wouldn’t he be nice to look at?

Honey-gold eyes, hair white as snow, a deep, rumbly voice. A piercing intensity to his gaze. The wrinkles around his eyes. The sharpness of his nose and chin.

Geralt of Rivia is handsome.

Perhaps it should have been obvious from the moment you met, but it’s been a very, very long time since you’ve found anyone handsome - much less a witcher, bound to you by a foolish wish from a djinn. More rotten luck for you.

Fate, you think - but is this really fate? Is this some sort of strange destiny to be here and now and trapped with Geralt? Whatever it can be called, you wish it would have a little mercy on you. A handsome, taken witcher you can’t get away from.

Just as you’re thinking all of this to yourself, Geralt finally stands and moves toward you, leading Roach by the reins. Your cheeks grow even warmer, as if he can somehow read your thoughts by just standing next to you. You try not to look at him. 

“We should get going,” he says. “With any luck, we’ll reach the next village before dark.”

He doesn’t wait for a response this time, which you’re grateful for. You quickly get to your feet, dusting sandwich crumbs from your lap. The thought of riding again is dreadful, but every moment spent on your horse is a moment closer to stopping for the night. Despite the gloves worsening the friction, you decide it’s better for the rein not to have direct contact with your hands. 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you pull them back on. It feels like you’re flaying your skin. Then you mount again, and your stomach shifts in complaint.

You can only pray you won’t throw up.

As you watch Geralt pat Roach’s neck, you realize you haven’t given your horse a name. You’d follow in Geralt’s lead and name her after an animal, but you’re feeling too ill to think of anything, and nothing really seems to fit. Mead - that’d been your horse’s name as a child. You’d liked the sound of it. Mead will suit this one just fine.

“Ready?” Geralt asks.

“Ready.”

There’s a snap of Roach’s reins, and the two of you are off again.

It’s the same as it was before, for the most part. Blazing sun, burning hands, aching body. The pain dulls after a while, and the sun continues its course. The heat slowly disperses. The two of you canter throughout the country, and the world becomes nothing more than a blurred streak.

By the time Geralt’s pace finally slows again, you’ve forgotten how to walk. Dusk is settling into the sky, darkening the edges of the horizon and illuminating the glow of a nearby town. It’s cooled significantly, but you still feel like you’re burning.

“We should stop here for the night,” he says. “Start again tomorrow.”

You take his suggestion gratefully. Every inch of you hurts. Even with the break you’d taken, you can barely move when he comes to a full stop. You clumsily slide off your saddle and jolt your ankles in the process.

Your mouth aches with thirst. Your clothes are stiff with dried sweat. You’re filthy, hungrier than you’ve ever been, and, at this point, you’d give practically anything to sleep in a soft bed. 

Geralt, however, seems completely unphased by the ride. His eyes are bright and focused, his strides smooth and without pain, where yours are labored and rigid. As soon as you’re off your horse, he’s telling you to hold still. You don’t have any desire to argue. 

Then he starts testing the limits of the djinn’s wish, murmuring quietly to himself as he counts the steps. When he reaches the edge of the wish’s boundaries, your eyesight fuzzes. He doesn’t go far enough to invoke any of the less pleasant side effects.

Ten paces. That’s how much distance you and Geralt are allowed before the symptoms start. You’d figured as much, considering how close the two of you’d had to ride to avoid the dizziness. It’s starting to feel more like a curse - though, you can’t say it hasn’t served its purpose. You feel much safer with him around.

When he finally heads off to town, pulling Roach behind him, you blindly follow his tall, broad frame. Muscular shoulders, white hair. Not easy to lose him in this crowd, and a good thing, too. You’re dead on your feet, convinced you could fall asleep almost anywhere. 

You’re also covered in a layer of dirt that’d kicked up on the ride, and you smell so foul you’re surprised Geralt can tolerate being within five steps of you. 

Then again, the people weaving past you in the street aren’t much better. In fact, you realize, fighting off a gag, they might even be worse. The struggle not to pull your shirt up over your nose is a battle barely won. 

Distraction from the stench comes in the form of an inn, which Geralt seems directly headed to. Relief follows shortly after, a sweet, sinking relief that bleeds into you from head to toe. 

The Swift Oak is a large, wooden building; shoddy, most likely older than you are. Layers of faded paint peel from the sides. The slits of golden light through the wood tell you it’s drafty, and the rooms will almost certainly be freezing cold tonight. You’ve never been happier to see anything in your life. 

Even the pain seems to lessen, blisters on your hands temporarily forgotten, and you float your way through hitching your horse and following Geralt inside. Only when you reach the doorway do you come to your senses, reminding yourself to keep your head down as you step through. It’s better not to draw attention to yourself.

In the inn, the crowd is rowdy - rich with song, conversation, and argument alike. Drunken choruses of a drinking song mingle with idle chatter, overpowering the music being played but not the argument happening at a nearby table. Men yell, drink spills, and spittle flies, but you don’t see a bit of it.

In fact, you don’t notice anything but the smell of food, which is so utterly heavenly that you almost miss the way the crowd goes quiet at the sight of you and Geralt standing in the doorway. Everyone’s staring at you. Within seconds, it’s so still you can hear your own heart pounding like a drum under your ribs. A chair scrapes. A drink is slammed down on a table. People start whispering under their breath. 

You catch hints of it as you walk past.

Witcher. Mutant. Freak.

The words make you wince, and they aren’t even directed toward you. To his credit, if Geralt is bothered, he doesn’t let it show. His posture doesn’t budge. He doesn’t say a word. He couldn’t have missed the insults, could he? But, no, his hearing is miles better than yours; he must have heard it. 

“Friendly, aren’t they?” you murmur, not looking them in the eye. 

The words are low enough to hope that Geralt will hear and no one else - though, it’s more for you than it is for him - a small comfort in a silent room. You’re expecting him to ignore you, or simply nod, or maybe even shake his head in annoyance, but a smile flickers over the edge of his lips. It’s gone so quickly you can’t be sure whether or not you imagined it.

“Mhm,” he replies. “Clearly.”

Once the two of you have made your way up to the front, the conversations trickle back to life - but you don’t miss the way everyone continues to stare, eyes narrowed. You keep your eyes on Geralt’s boots - weathered and covered in dirt and mud and who knows what else. Blood, perhaps.

For some reason, that doesn’t even phase you. 

“Got any open rooms?” he asks the innkeeper. “Need somewhere to stay for the night.” 

Even she looks wary of him, eyes fixed on his swords as he speaks. Her gaze strays over to you for a moment, scanning you up and down, then returns to Geralt.

“I have. Will you be needing one room or two?”

The situation seems to dawn over both of you at the same time, and - well… booking two rooms would be a waste of money if you can’t even use them. You look intently at the ground, trying not to think about the connotations of a shared room. Geralt simply clears his throat, recovering much faster than you do.

“One,” he says. 

“Right, then,” comes the innkeeper's reply, seemingly blind to the awkwardness in the air. “Twenty crowns.”

Your hand goes for your money, but Geralt beats you to it - glancing over at you with a raised brow. The innkeeper pockets the coins and gives a sharp nod.

“You two will be wanting a bath, I’m sure. I’ll have some hot water set in the tub. In the meantime, can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

“Ale,” Geralt says. Both of them turn to you. 

You stammer out something about a bowl of stew. Alcohol on your empty stomach would make you blind drunk, and - though it’s tempting - you’ve made enough mistakes already. The woman nods. 

“Be up shortly.”

When the stew comes, it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. You swallow it down in practically a single mouthful. Geralt’s ale goes equally as quickly. 

This time, you beat him to payment. He shrugs, giving a huff. The innkeep clears your dishes, handing Geralt a key.

“Upstairs, third door on the left. Bath should be ready.”

Heading up those stairs with everyone’s eyes on your back feels like a walk of shame. It’s quickly forgotten when you open the room.

It’s much bigger than you’d expected, filled with the spiced aroma of something you can’t identify. A round bathtub sits in the corner, water still steaming, and there’s a large, pillowy bed in the center of the room. If you were alone, you’d collapse on it and sleep until midday, regardless of the dirt that veils you.

Or maybe, you’d settle into the bath - scour your skin until it’s clean, until the sweat and dirt and scum are rinsed away. Scrub the ache from your muscles. Then, fall into the cotton sheets, not a care in the world.

Instead, you do nothing at all, because Geralt is there. The collar of your sweat-stiffened shirt seems to cut into your neck, and the two of you stand motionless at the entryway. His gaze is analytical as he takes in the surroundings. Yours is almost certainly anxious. 

He isn’t nearly as dirty as you - he should bathe first, since the two of you are going to have to share the water. That gives you more time to clean without worrying about how long you’re taking or how cold the water is getting. 

That is, if the two of you are going to bathe at all. You dread the thought of riding tomorrow without washing up, but… if you’re to bathe, Geralt will have to sit ten steps away the entire time.

“You can take the tub first,” you offer.

Geralt seems surprised at that. His head tilts.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Better do it fast though, before I change my mind. I’m dirtier than you are.”

“Alright,” he says, taking a seat in a nearby chair and pulling off his gauntlets. “Suppose it makes sense. How’d you get that much dirt on you, anyway?”

“My second wish from the djinn. Let dirt follow me wherever I go.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his expression blank. You instantly regret the joke, and you’re fumbling around for what to say, because even you don’t know how you got so incredibly dirty. 

Then he smiles. It’s the fullest one yet - closed-mouth, still, but the one you’re most sure you’ve seen. It sparks a certain warmth in your chest that remains long after the action has faded.

“Huh. Certainly know how to milk a djinn for what it’s worth,” he tells you, focusing his attention on unlacing his boots.

At least he’s got a sense of humor.

“I’m very talented. Do you think the bath is ten steps away from the bed?”

“Maybe. Gonna dirty it up while I’m in there?”

“Naturally. Can’t let a witcher forget what it’s like to sleep on the ground, can I?”

That earns another small smile out of him, which makes a certain pride swell in your chest.

As it turns out, the bath is only six steps away from the bed - maybe seven or eight, when one of you are in it. It seems safe enough for you to grab a book from the nearby shelf and sit on the bed, turning yourself away from the direction of the tub. And, despite what you’d said earlier, you’re careful to not get the sheets dirty. 

With your eyes turned toward the book, your ears become your primary sense. At first, there’s only silence. You wonder if he’s hesitating, or thinking about something. Then, judging by the sounds, Geralt slowly begins to remove his armor. 

Soft clinks of steel, chainmail, and leather signify pieces rested against the wooden floor. The chair creaks as he pulls off what must be his boots, thudding one at a time against the ground. Then he stands from his seat, told by the noisy protest of the wood, and walks over to the tub.

There’s a soft splash as he enters. A long, deep sigh follows it. You’re regretting your choice to let him go first - that warm water must be nice. In any case, hearing him like this feels so incredibly intimate that you immediately turn your focus toward the book, which seems to be the most boring thing you could have grabbed: Care for Your Sword, Soldier. 

Your eyes scan over the words but don’t take in anything but random words, blocky and scrambled. Jerkin. Swamplands. Beeswax. 

You can’t stop picturing what Geralt looks like under all that armor. Guilt comes with it. He’s here trapped under what’s essentially a curse. That you made. You really shouldn’t be thinking things like that.

But… is his body scarred, like his face? He’s clearly muscular - the way his armor sits on him says enough. And you’ve heard stories of him, well… pleasing women in various towns. Or, as some had called it, ‘sating his vicious appetite.’ The tales are almost certainly as false as the accounts of his hideousness, but they won’t leave your mind.

Stop, you tell yourself. Your face is hot enough to start a fire, and your guilt is enough to weigh you down in a river until you sink to its murky depths.

You hear Geralt shift in the water, and some soft splashing follows. He must be cleaning himself, then. Which, again, you’re trying not to picture. It’s certainly not helping that this book is talking about giving a sword ‘a good rub down.’

You can’t help but wonder if this was the djinn’s plan all along - to torture you with your own mind, never able to escape. It wouldn’t surprise you at this point.

By the time Geralt steps out, marked by the sloshing of the water, you’ve nearly forgotten about how you look. That’s right, you’re still sitting in crusted layers of dried sweat. Still covered from head to toe in dirt. Still smelling absolutely disgusting.

You hear the shifting of fabric behind you - a towel against skin, perhaps? Then more shifting, more fabric. You keep your eyes staring blankly at the book, your mind firmly cemented in things that aren’t Geralt, and when he speaks, you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Bath’s all yours,” he says behind you. Your heart starts racing and you sit up, trying to calm your pulse. 

He’s dressed in a soft, cream-colored shirt and some trousers, looking much more comfortable than the armor he’d worn. When he takes a seat at the edge of the bed, the smell of him hits you - a sweet, herbal soap, most likely provided by the inn, and soft notes of the same spice that permeates the room. Perhaps the water had been scented. His damp hair falls into his eyes as he sifts through some notes, and he frustratedly pushes it away.

You force yourself to rip your eyes from his appearance before he catches you staring again and hurriedly grab some clean clothes, hair prickling on the back of your neck as you hesitate to strip down. Another glance at Geralt confirms he’s still completely turned away, focused on whatever he’s reading, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling extremely vulnerable. There couldn’t have been a privacy curtain? 

Well, there’s no point in delaying. You shed your clothes, nose wrinkling at the mess on them. The air is ice-cold on your skin, but slipping into the water feels like bliss.

Warm, still. Not very dirty. Scented, like you’d thought. You sink under the surface of it for a moment, letting the muffled world soothe you. No Geralt. No bed. No djinn. Only silky water and soft bubbling noises, melodic and gentle in your ears.

Of course, you have to surface sooner than later, and you’re careful not to hold your breath too long. The last thing you need is to come up gasping and let Geralt think you’re drowning. 

When you come back up, you’re keenly aware of two things: Geralt is still reading his notes, and your hands have started stinging to hell again. 

Everything becomes clumsy with blistered hands - grabbing the soap from the nearby stand, rinsing off sweat and dirt and anything else that’s on you. It slips to the bottom more than once, and you have to blindly retrieve it.

Then you quickly wash out your hair, grimacing as the water turns tepid and the soap smarts against the painful welts on your palms. The bath’s gone a nasty shade of grey-brown now, murky and much less appealing than when you’d gotten in. You’d been right to let Geralt go first.

When you finally get out, it’s a mess of trying not to touch anything directly against the blisters and fighting the urge to swear as you get dressed in the freezing cold air. Clothes are pulled on in a rush, and when you’re finally dried off and decent, you return to your things. 

You’ll have to see if there’s any place to wash your clothes around here. They’re so disgusting you barely want to touch them. When you stuff them in your bag, you find your fingers brushing against your coin purse, and you suddenly remember that Geralt had paid for the room.

It’s not sitting right with you that he’d done that. Not when you, for once, have the money to supply to him. You grab the money, and try to think of what to say. The coins are cool in your hands, but they still bring you the memory of ash and smoke, so you instead tuck them into a loose coin pouch and sneak in a little extra money. Better for Geralt to have it. Better to be rid of it.

“You didn’t have to pay for the room, you know,” you tell him, rising to your feet. “It’s my fault you’re here in the first place.”

He looks up from his notes and focuses his attention on you, brows furrowing. His gaze is hot on your face. You force yourself to meet it.

“Would have needed a room in Skellige, too,” he says.

“Velen prices are higher. Let me repay you. Please.”

“Alright. Not going to argue with that.”

Relieved, you hold out the pouch to him, wincing as leather brushes raw skin when he takes it. Geralt, who immediately notices (of course), freezes in the middle of his acceptance - his gaze locked on your fingers. It’s as if a string has been wound up his spine and pulled tight - every inch of him goes stiff.

“Your hands,” he says softly, setting the pouch down next to him. 

Your gut instinct is to jerk them away, which is of course what you try to do, but he’s much, much faster than you are. In a flash, he’s caught your right wrist, tilting the palm up so he can fully see the wound. 

He stares at it for a long, silent moment. Then he quickly pushes the notes off his lap and reaches for your other hand, revealing the matching blisters on that one, too.

“Didn’t tell me you were hurt,” he grumbles.

“You’re a witcher, not a healer,” you joke weakly, echoing your thoughts from earlier. “They’re only blisters.”

But as he gently pulls them forward to examine them, you can’t help wincing again. You turn your face away so he doesn’t see your grimace of pain.

“They’re hurting you.” He frowns a little, studying the wounds. “Don’t have to be a healer to help with that. Would have given you more breaks, too.” 

“And make you stay in Velen longer?”

He finally releases your hands. You immediately slump in relief and take an unsteady step back. The warmth of his grasp - you swear you can still feel it on your skin. Burning, but not painful. 

“Not making me do anything,” he says. “That djinn is. Pretty sure this wasn’t what you wanted when you made that wish.” 

He’s right. But would he hate you if he knew the truth? You only regret the wish because you know you’ll have to undo it - not because it’d brought you a witcher. You regret it because Geralt hadn’t chosen this, and it’s not fair on him to be stuck with you.

No matter what he says, the safety you feel in his presence will make you feel responsible for his being here.

“No,” you reply, voice wavering a little, “but it’s still my fault that you’re here. If I’d been smarter about what I’d wished for, you’d still be in Skellige. I’m wasting your time and your money.”

His eyes linger on your face for so long that it feels like it’s caught on fire. Then he stands without a word, walks over to the table, and calmly pulls two chairs over by the fire. “Sit. Need to bandage those up.”

This time, you don’t argue with him. Trying to bandage your hands yourself would be a disaster. You settle on a chair, watching him go through his things, gathering some herbs and bandages.

When he returns, he has a small, circular tin in his hand - some kind of herbal salve, if you’re guessing correctly - along with cotton bandages, the kind that will let you have a little movement. He takes a seat in the chair next to you, stares at you pointedly, and you immediately hold out your right hand.

His hands  - callused, warm, and deft -  start by splaying your fingers apart for him to see, applying the cooling, analgesic salve to your blisters with a surprising amount of care. His touch is delicate and gentle and makes your heart leap around in your chest, thumping the way a horse gallops. 

When the smell of the ointment hits your nose, you can’t help but be surprised.

“Celandine?” you ask. Celandine isn’t much help with healing - it dulls pain. Knowing this makes your guilt so much worse.

Geralt’s gaze stays fixed on your hands. “Yeah,” he says. “Celandine. Know your herbs, huh?”

“I used to study medicine at Oxenfurt,” you tell him. “Learning different herbs and their uses was part of the curriculum.”

He’s quiet for a moment, taking the cotton bandage and carefully wrapping it around your right palm. He gives you an apologetic look when you wince, but the pain is nothing compared to what it was before.

“Used to?” he asks. “Radovid responsible for that?”

The memory is bitter and slimy as it crawls up your throat. 

“No. Just couldn’t afford it anymore.”

There’s a long beat where he starts applying salve to the other hand before he looks up at you, brow raised. Waiting for you to go on. You do so with hesitance.

“We were dirt poor, but my parents wanted me to get a good education,” you continue, averting your gaze from his hands to your boots. “They saved up for years, took side jobs, anything they could. Even with all of that, when I attended, I still worked two jobs just trying to pay for tuition. Went hungry. Never let them know, though. It’d have crushed them. Told myself all I needed to do was graduate, and… then it’d be over. I could repay my parents. Get a good job.”

You let out a long breath, trying to push back the stinging of your eyes.

“Halfway through my degree, their money stopped coming in.” Your throat is thick now, betraying you. “Knew they were gone before I even got the letter. Plague. Couldn’t pay tuition anymore, so…”

You stop there, afraid that if you talk any more, you’ll cry. 

Geralt is silent, and you suddenly realize you’ve said far too much. Of course he hadn’t wanted to know the tragic details of your life. He’d just been trying to make friendly conversation, not hear a sob story. It’ll do you better to keep your mouth shut from now on. Your chest heaves and you turn your face to the side, staring emptily at the bath. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is laced with pity, and for some reason, it just makes you angry. You shake your head in response, not trusting yourself to speak.

He finishes bandaging your left hand and releases it. You numbly rest it on your knee. 

“The coin you gave me…” Geralt starts hesitantly, clearly not wanting to push too far. “I’ve heard rumors that Oxenfurt will be opening its doors again.”

You stand, crossing your arms as you pace back and forth across the room.

“Keep it. I don’t have any plans on going back.”

“Not fond of the classes?”

You had been. You’d loved medicine more than almost anything. You still do, even if you don’t want to.

“Something like that,” you say distantly.

Geralt hums softly, then mercifully changes the subject. 

“Those blisters are from friction. Soften your hands when riding, let your horse have more room - that’ll help. Town ought to have a tailor, too. We can find you some gloves tomorrow.”

“Already have some. They just made it worse.”

“Better ones, then.”

He doesn’t seem phased at all by the sharpness of your tone, which deflates the anger out of you. You’re left feeling guilty and exhausted.

“Alright.” 

Geralt gets up from his seat, calmly moving the chairs back to their original positions. 

Maybe that’s part of being a witcher - being collected in any situation, even a stranger’s hysterics. Your hands feel so much better that, if the bandages weren’t there to restrict movement, you’d think that the blisters had never happened.

You want to tell him you’re sorry, but you have the feeling he’ll ask for what and you won’t be able to answer. 

For being a fool. For bringing him here. Saddling him with your sob story. Snapping at him. For everything.

“You should get some rest,” Geralt says. “Long day tomorrow. Got a preference for a side of the bed?” 

You do. Without a word, you head over to the left side - the side furthest from the door - and climb under the sheets.

Geralt settles in on the other side, but doesn’t rest, doesn’t lay down. He sits and pulls out his notes again, sifting through them as though hoping to see something he hadn’t seen earlier.

You fall asleep to the sound of shifting notes and his soft, rhythmic breathing.

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #game!geralt #geralt x you #geralt/reader #geralt of rivia x you #mywriting

[merlot-and-chardonnay]

A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 20

Chapter 19

"Jaskier!" you exclaim, tears in your eyes as you rush to embrace the man, everyone else looking upon the two of you stunned.

"Little sister," Jaskier exclaims in laughter, "it has been so long. Way too long." "I thought I'd never see you again," you say, trying to keep from crying.

The last time you saw your brother had been under less then ideal circumstances. You left with the hopes that he and the witchers would be spared the wrath of dragon fire.

The king and his family were still stunned by this reunion, but Otto stepped in to interrupt this moment, "Forgive this intrusion, but just who are you exactly?" "Well, I thought I was quite clear on who I was," Jaskier sasses, "I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount-" "Yes, you made that clear," Otto rudely cuts in, "it does not answer my question."

"Ah yes," Jaskier nods, "Well then, my lord, you are a lord correct? I'm only assuming by your stuffy demeanor, allow me to elucidate," Otto gave Jaskier the biggest glare from that remark. Daemon made a small smirk at that comment (reluctant as he may be) as Jaskier continued, "As I was saying before being of so rudely interrupted, I am the Viscount de Lettenhove, but for the sake of simplicity I go by my stage name Jaskier. Bard extraordinaire, well renown throughout the Continent, known for many a ballad, and for many a broken heart. And of course brother to this sweet, caring woman right here. Will those credentials be more than enough to suffice my lord?"      

"You're Lady (y/n)'s brother?" Rhaenyra speaks up, approaching, "I don't quite see the resemblance." "He's my half-brother, princess," you explain, "after his mother passed, our father married my mother sometime after." "Ah, so this is the princess," Jaskier says, "the Realm's Delight I am told. Truly a beauty unlike no other I have seen so far in this realm."

Rhaenyra smiled, "You flatter me. It seems to run in the family. That lute of yours looks quite sophisticately crafted." "Ah, do you like it?" Jaskier taps on his instrument, "this was handmade by the elves. It was a gift by their king actually. I've composed many a ballad on this instrument. Would you like to hear one?"

"That will have to wait another time," Viserys steps in, "that is until you answer the question as to why you are here in the first place."

"Ah yes," Jaskier says, tone turning more stern, which took Viserys by surprise, "I have a bone to pick with you. It wasn't enough to knock up my sister you had to steal her away from her family as well?"

Viserys only gave Jaskier a confused look, surprised this man had the audacity to address a king of all people in such a manner.

You roll your eyes a bit before whispering to Jaskier, "wrong royal, big brother," you nod towards Daemon, "that's the man who's bone you have to pick."

Jaskier turned his gaze to the prince, "oh I see, yeah, that makes more sense. In that case, my apologies your Grace," he makes a slight bow to Viserys and then turned to Daemon to confront the man.

"You. It wasn't enough to impregnate my sister with that little dragon of yours, you had to go and steal her and my niece and future heir from their family as well."

Daemon gave Jaskier a threatening look, "you are awfully bold to speak to me in such a way. Either that, or you have some kind of death wish."

"Oh yeah sure, go on, try and intimidate me with that menacing stare of yours, prince," Jaskier challenges, "you're not the first royal/noble to threaten me for things I may, or may not have done to their wives, sisters, and occasionally their mothers...and you're certainly not going to be the last. But I will not back down until I have what I came here for. I did not sit on some rickety ship and nearly get my head lopped off by Skellige pirates in a raid during a storm just to be cowarded into submission by some pretty boy with a pet dragon."

"Then what are you here for, Viscount?" Viserys asks. "Well, not that you may know, your Grace," Jaskier says, "but as it just so happens, my niece, my sister's daughter is third in line to my inheritance, seeing as I have no heirs of my own, not any legitimate ones at least," you smack your forehead at that statement, "my sister is next in line and by extension her daughter, and without them, I have no one else to pass my lands and titles to. By taking them away, you have deprived me of my future and my legacy. And I demand recompense for such grievances."

There was some awkward silence for a brief moment before Viserys speaks, "Well I am sorry for your loss, Viscount, truly. But I had nothing to do with this. I was informed that your sister was abducted against her will. Brought back to the Continent by a horde of mutant sell swords. Were you not aware of this?"

"Mutant sell swords?" Jaskier scoffs, "and vary odd way to describe-" you nudge your brother in the ribs before he could continue, "ow!" he protests.

"My brother was not made aware of this, your Grace," you say, giving Jaskier a certain look with hopes he'll keep his mouth shut for the time being, "and he was also not aware that Aemma was declared true born and is now addressed as Princess."

"Nor is he aware that my daughter is to wed the Prince Aegon when they both come of age," Daemon speaks up.

"...well then," Jaskier says with a calm tone, "We appear to be at an impasse. Tell me, your Grace, how do you plan to resolve this predicament I was placed in thanks to the father of my niece?"

"I hardly see a reason why this needs to be resolved," Otto retorts, "on what grounds should this burden fall on his Grace?"

"Alright then," Jaskier shrugs before stating his case, "if Lady (y/n) was indeed abducted by 'mutant' sell swords, she and her then illegitimate daughter should've been brought back to her family, being me. As Viscount with no heirs of my own, my sister holds the title Heir Apparent for my title, and Princess Aemma next in line. You know, now that I think about it, the real abduction of my sister and her daughter had actually occurred when THIS rogue," he points at Daemon, "swooped in on his giant lizard with wings and brought them here instead of the Pankratz estate where they truly belong."

Daemon gave Jaskier a very dangerous look, like he was already plotting the man's murder just for insulting his dragon. He probably would've if Alicent didn't pick this time to respond, "if this claim is indeed true, it may appear that this man has indeed been robbed of his legacy," she turns to Viserys, "surely a compromise can't be reached, provided time is given to negotiate."

Viserys thinks on it addressing Jaskier, "I suppose we could negotiate for such a compromise. As odd as you may be, you did come all this way in determination to see your sister again, which suggests a strong resolve. Very well, Jaskier is it? You'll be welcomed here as a guest. Accommodations will be provided as befitting your station."

"You truly honor me, your Grace," Jaskier nods, making a light bow, "now would you honor me further and allow me to see my niece, the princess?"

Right on cue, Aemma started walking on her tiny legs from the nurses and towards her mother. You go to pick her up and give her a kiss on the cheek, "Look Aemma," you say to her, "it's Uncle Jaskier, remember him?"

"Oh my goodness," Jaskier sports a wide grin on his face, "how have you grown, girl. You look so much like your mother, minus the hair and eyes that is."

Aemma gave Jaskier a rather confused look and hid her face into your neck. Daemon had a small smirk on his from the interaction, pleased that Aemma wasn't as willing to meet this man like she was with him.

"Aemma, it's alright," you whisper to her, "take a good look, maybe you might recognize him."

The young girl eventually looked up to her uncle again, who gave her another wide grin. She reached out for him. Jaskier took Aemma into his arms.

The other watched the interaction in fascination, except for Daemon, who at this point was coming with several different plots to get rid of the Bard. How said plots would be carried out would not make a difference, as long as they resulted in Jaskier's remains being fed to Caraxes.

You walk over to Viserys and address him, "if it is all the same to you, your Grace, I wish to take a walk with my brother and talk to him as I have not seen him for quite some time."

"...of course, Lady Lark," Viserys nods in understanding. The king then summoned one of the nursemaids to take Aemma back to play with Aegon.

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

"It is so good to see you again, Julian," you say once you and Jaskier were out in the gardens and further away from the prying eyes of the nobles staying in the Red Keep, and pulling him into a crushing hug, finally letting the tears slip forth, "you have no idea how much I've missed you and....him."

"Well I should hope so, given how you left of so suddenly," Jaskier says with slight sarcasm, "granted it was against your will, but still."

You laugh a little, sniffling some as well, "I've missed your sense of humor too." "And I've missed you as well, little sister," Jaskier nods, now struggling to breathe, "but maybe I'll miss you some more if you stop crushing me with your arms." 

"Sorry," you say stepping back to wipe your tears away, "it's just...you have no idea what I've gone through since I've been brought back to Westeros." "I can only imagine," Jaskier nods, "I don't imagine you've been allowed to even leave this place much if only to have that scoundrel rogue of prince watching your every move like a hawk."

"Well he just came back from fighting in the Stepstones so he hasn't had much time to watch me," you admit, "but that doesn't mean he didn't have soldiers or servants to do that for him. I did try to escape, Jaskier, once or twice, but both times the plans were thwarted. At least Ciri managed to make it out okay."

"Ciri escaped?" Jaskier's eyes widen, "so...she's not here...with you?" "She didn't go back to Ger- to our friend?" your eyes widen back just as shocked.

"No," Jaskier shakes his head, "neither of us have seen Ciri in years, we thought she was with you this whole time."

"I need to know what's been happening on the Continent," you tell him after taking a breather from the information you had received, "what happened to Ger...to him." "Why won't you say Geral-"

You place a hand on Jaskier's mouth before he could finish his question, "because Daemon has forbidden his name to ever be uttered within these walls," you mutter, "and even walls have ears."

When you took your hand away, Jaskier looked up, down, and every other direction. No one was in sight, but the Bard was smart enough to know that spies could be possibly be hiding anywhere in sight, "I see your point," he tells you, "well then, how to do go about this?" "You've been brushing up on your elven?" you ask. "Not as much?" he admits.

"What about your Toussaintian?" you suggest.

"You tell me, Mademoiselle," Jaskier says in said language.

"Excellent," you say back in the same language, briefly looking back and forth before you continue, "a special source came up to me some time yesterday when I was in the godswood. He said a white wolf was spotted in the North, wounded and making his way towards King's Landing. I think it might be the man we're both acquainted with."

"And how do you know this?" Jaskier raises an eyebrow, "who is this source?"

"He said the wolf had gold eyes and sported a silver medallion around his neck," you answer, "and...he sang the song I wrote for the wolf all those years ago? I've never sung it to anyone here before, yet he know the lyrics."

Jaskier seemed shocked, but nodded, "I was hoping the White Wolf would've gotten here before I had," he admits, "looks like he managed to reach Westeros, but in the wrong place."

"What happened Jaskier?" you ask in the Common Tongue before switching back to Toussaintian, "Why...why did it take so long? Why would the White Wolf be gravely injured in the state he is in?"

"It's a long story," Jaskier answers in Common Tongue, "A lot has happened since last you and Aemma were there. There...there was a meeting on Thanedd, you know that place right?" you nod before he continues, "Ger....uh, the Wolf was there and...it went so horribly wrong. He got hurt badly and Yennefer-" "Yennefer?" your eyes widen, "Yennefer was there?" She's alive?!" "Shockingly yes," Jaskier nods, "and apparently she knew where Ciri was seen last." "I thought you assumed Ciri was back here," you point out. "Yes well...you know I don't trust Yennefer all that well," Jaskier points back, "for all I knew she could've been lying."

You shake your head a bit; Jaskier may not care for Yennefer much, which was somewhat understandable given that debacle with the Djinn, but you and her had actually gotten along the few times you've seen her. Sure it did bother you at first that her destiny was tied to Geralt's due to that damned last wish, but you've never held it against her, and that was before you and Geralt had even coupled the first time.

You were actually sadden when you heard the news she had perished at the battle of Sodden. It was a relief now that she had actually survived.

"So what did Yennefer do?" you ask.

"Well," Jaskier begins, "after what happened in Thanedd, after our friend was hurt and recovered somewhat thanks to some Dryads, the sorceress in question had created a portal to take him here. Looks like it didn't quite get him to the exact spot he was hoping. Yennefer did mention that could happen. Magic seems to work differently in this part of the world."

"So he is in the North," you realize, "and he's trying to reach this place. But if his wounds have not recovered...."

You were now beginning to wonder what kind of injuries Geralt could have received on Thanedd that he still had not recovered from them completely; witchers were known to recover from injuries faster then the average human being, and could survive wounds that most would've perished from easily.

If the man you loved really was gravely injured and not recovered, who's to say he would even survive the long trek he would have to make from the North to King's Landing.

You were now fearing for Geralt's life, and you were starting to contemplate the offer Larys Strong had given you the other day.

"You have that look on your face," Jaskier interrupts your thoughts. "What look?" "That, I think I might have an idea, but it might come back to bit us in the arse look," the Bard elaborates. "Wouldn't that imply I have ideas like that all the time?" you huff. "No of course not," Jaskier assures, but the look on his face said otherwise, "but I assume you do have such an idea now."

"...okay fine maybe I do," you relent,  discretely looking over Jaskier's shoulder to spot your idea in question.

You talk in Toussaintian, "a man with a cane and club foot is sitting on the bench in the distance behind you."

Jaskier turned to see, "hey be discrete!" you scold.

"Okay, I got a good peak," he says, "what about him?"

"His name is Larys Strong," you whisper, "the youngest son of Lord Lyonel Strong, who holds a seat on the small council. Larys is the one who told me about our Wolf friend."

Jaskier's eyes widen and he goes to look again, "Hey!" you scold again, "remember what mother said about staring." "She was your mother, not mine," Jaskier scoffs. "The rules still apply."

"Do you think this Lord Strong can help us with our friend's predicament?" Jaskier whispers his question.

"Maybe," you say, "he did offer to help me escape once but...I'm not entirely sure he can be trusted. He's...well I'm not entirely sure how to describe him, but apparently he's good at reading people. If what you've said about our friend is true, we may not have much of a choice."

"Well, maybe I can try talking to him," Jaskier suggests. "No," you shake your head, "you should let me." "(y/n)-" "You don't know these people like I do, Julian," you point out, "I know you're no stranger to scheming nobles yourself, but...these Westorosi lords are a different breed altogether, especially the Hand of the king."

"Yeah, he really didn't seem to like me all that much," Jaskier nods. "Not as much as Daemon dislikes you," you say, "if you didn't notice already he had been trying to burn holes into your head like he was an actual dragon."

Jaskier notice your facial expression was little more somber at the mention of the prince's name. He places a hand on your shoulder, "(y/n), can you be honest with me?" he asks, "Has...has he been hurting you? In any way? Will you please tell me?"

You look Jaskier in the eye, "he...he's kind to Aemma. He hasn't laid a finger on her. He even gifted her with a dragon's egg upon our arrival." "But he has touched you," Jaskier states.

You don't say anything for fear that someone might still be overhearing. Jaskier takes your silence and the look of fear on your face as an answer, "I'll make him pay for what he has done to you," he says with anger in his tone, "even if it costs me my own life, I'll take my lute and whack him upside the head if only to cause a good deal of damage against him."

"Good luck with that," you sarcastically scoff, "I'm sure he's plotting your own death even as we speak."

"Well then," Jaskier states, "he's going to have to try really hard at that. Lesser men have tried and failed rather spectacularly. Worry not for me, dear sister, for there are three things in this life I am good at. My songs, my ability to evade death, and most important, how to get enough people to like me that any plots to do away with me become nigh impossible."

You snort at that last one, "you and your dumb luck, brother."

After talking some more on trivial things, you and Jaskier return to the inside of the keep, where you brother could mingle with enough lords and ladies that they would grow fond of him and wonder where he would go to should he mysteriously disappear.

Chapter 20.5

Masterlist

#hotd #daemon #geralt of rivia #daemon targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #geralt #jaskier #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #otto hightower #viserys targaryen #larys strong

[northernolddragon]

Audience between Emperor and Vampire. (I don't even remember, when I did it. It got lost and found. xd)

Regis focused on the massive gold ring, listening to his thoughts. With Emhyr, they were not loud and colorful, like Dandelion's, or moderately restrained, grumbling, like Geralt's. Rather disciplined burdening, eruditely placed. Sharp as the rays of the golden sun on banners. He needed to focus on that particular stone, determining its significance, its scientific name, and the iridescence of incident light as the Emperor's fingers slid across the map. The audience moved into the category of joint negotiations on trade routes. "The land routes have been virtually smoothed over, despite problematic uprisings by rebellious minorities and attempts at plundering trade waters." "Your Imperial Majesty is really interested in my opinion on the political sphere?" "Speak up. I'm always interested in an opinion from the outside, outside the competence of my advisers on politically important issues." "Well, let me…" Emiel leans over the table, careful not to hit the pieces on it, not to knock them out of place. "I guess there will be no problems with Queen Cerys. She is more loyal and does not seek war. Given the right amount of time, you might be humane enough to build trade routes across the sea." "Yes, Cerys strives for neutrality and peace. My advisers offered to once again go to war on the territory of Ard Skellige, but I considered it reckless to touch neutral waters. When it came to Cirilla, I had no choice but to pay a visit to their domain." "No one likes having pirates in the sea, Your Majesty. I think you should form an alliance with her that will lead you both to the desired result. Trade points and an alliance will be a great resonance for the occupied territories and perhaps you can get along with them relationship." " You're for humanism, Regis. I understand and respect this. But you are well aware that my enemies have a much less positive opinion of me in matters of conquest and striving to overthrow the current position of my heritage. I always expect a stab in the back. And it is unlikely that an uncontrolled part or one standing on the threshold of my borders will be happy with peace with Nilfgaard." "I know, that humanism cannot be achieved in everything. But sometimes, people do not even try to go this way. It is for them impossibly complicated." "The fragility of this design must be supported by two opponents, as you know. Or several. In any case, you only confirmed what I doubted." "At your service, Your Majesty." "Have you thought about my offer?" "Becoming a court physician is quite generous of you." "There is one more thing - as a friend of Geralt - you could help Cirilla. She needs someone she knows, someone from the world that she knew before the legacy that came into force." “Do I still have time to think, Your Imperial Majesty?” " Very little. " "Then I will take it from you. Thank you for the audience."

#the witcher #the witcher 3 #tw3 #emiel regis #regis #emiel regis rohellec terzieff godefroy #emhyr var emreis #emhyr #emhyr x regis #nilfgaard #my game screenshots #my gameplay #my screenshots #virtual photography #old dragon #od: short stories

[inexplicifics]

About the other countries opinion on homosexuality, I for some reason very much agree with you on Skellige being cool with gay people. I know very little about canon as I mostly stick to fics (and almost exclusively your fics) but something tells me that people from Skellige are just generally very chill and down to earth, and that this is reflected in their opinion on lgbt+ people... honestly, I would love to see more of Skellige at some point, if you ever feel like it!

I'm not sure if I'd describe Skelligers as chill but I think they probably care less about what's between your legs and more about whether you can sail a boat or swing a weapon. Non-euphemistically, I mean.

We might see more of Skellige on the Progress; I'm not sure yet!

#questions answered #accidental warlord au

[nobodys-saviour]

NO, HE MENTIONED THAT THE DAY WAS NICE TODAY FOR ME TOO (it's been raining for a couple of days, and today it was actually nice out) It's a little scary when you don't expect it 😭 I thought maybe it was just a random message but now I'm not so sure

I always thought what they say is random but one time I was reading Skellig, a book with some angel imagery and had this quote about wings growing from shoulder blades and zayne suddenly went and said something along the lines of "if people had wings they won't be from the shoulders you know" and i have lived in fear ever since

#love and deepspace #evelien plays

[cosmos-coma]

Wisteria

A/N: hey-o, back at it again with a late valentines day piece because my brain loves possessive Yennefer.

Pairing: Yennefer of Vengeberg  x Reader

Words: ~750

Summary: Yennefer has planned a lovely evening for you two this Valentine's day, but Philippa seems bent on causing trouble for her possessive sister-in-arms.

________________________________

The stone hallways of the lodge echoed with your footsteps as you returned from dinner. A small smile lay gently on your lips as you made your way toward your room, to get ready. Most mages didn’t really care too much about the minor holidays, so many come to pass when you live for decades upon decades. But then again Yennefer wasn’t like most mages.

You and Yennefer had been together for just a decade now, a short time from a mage’s perspective, but still, every holiday feels like the first. The giddy rush of having someone by your side for the holiday of love coursed through you like adrenaline. 

You promised you’d meet her just as soon as you got into something more comfortable. You had just stepped out of your room, wrapped up in a delicate robe when you were interrupted. 

“My my… I haven't seen you dressed up like that around here before..” 

You sighed, something less weary and more annoyed, “hello, Philippa… I thought you'd be at the library,” you commented as you turned to her, looking into the ribbon that covered her eyes. “I also thought you couldn’t see” 

“A mage of everyone should know that eyes are only one way to see,” she commented, a sly smile on her lips and she reached out to touch the soft fabric. “Hmmm, what material… It feels like Skellige’s finest…” 

“Yen got it for me… she knows I miss the area,” you explained with pride, “just like I know that you’re only doing this to rile her up. What did she do this time?” you said with a half-heartedly amused smile.

She grinned as her fingers gently tugged on a curl of your hair, “She’s stolen a collection of my rare books. Only one set like it in the whole continent…” 

You shook your head and laughed a bit, “you two and your petty squabbles… you’re like sisters that steal each other's toys.”

“PHILIPPA!” You heard your beloved yell from down the hall, no doubt wondering what was taking so long. 

You felt little vines of Wisteria climb up your feet, wrapping possessively around your ankles as Yennefer drew closer. She looked absolutely enraged and her heels clacked menacingly against the tile floor. Her eyes glowed gently as magic welled up in her palms. 

“Hmm, I believe that’s my cue… I’ll be seeing you around, Y/n,” Philippa whispered to you with a grin and a kiss on the cheek before quickly fluttering off in her owl form. 

“That skeeving…” Yennefer grumbled under her breath until you caught her cheek in your hand. Anger instantly ebbed away as her violet eyes softened. 

“Calm down, my flower… you’ve scared her off for now,” you said with a chuckle. “You know she only does this to mess with you. This is why you can't keep taking her books…” 

“She knows you're off limits, she knows you’re MINE!” Yen yelled pointedly down the hall, being met with hooting laughter from down the hall. The thin vines around your ankles tightened snugly around you, responding to the sorceress's intense emotions. 

You only shook your head, leaning down to delicately unwind the plant, “Well I’m going to your room, you can either come with me or you can go smite your sister in arms…” You said, not even waiting for her answer as you continued making your way down the hall.

“I… “ Yen groaned momentarily, mourning the opportunity, as she followed quickly in your footsteps. “You’re the only one who can sway me like that…” 

You threw a smile back at her, shrugging your robe a little lower on your shoulders, “I know; I do my best not to abuse it.” you chuckled as you stopped at her doorway. 

She slid in front of you and took your hand as the door pushed open, revealing an utterly romantic sight. The books that used to cover the desk and floors were all neatly stacked on the bookshelves. Candles glowing with pink light floated about the room, casting a soft and loving glow over the large bed. 

You grinned as you stepped inside, poking the nearest candle and watching it bob and move around as if in water. “My flower,  this is amazing… I can’t imagine how much energy this took though.”  

“It's all worth it for you, my dear…” she said with a smile- one that quickly turned mischievous- “Now come and show me exactly what it is you changed into so I can get you out of it even quicker.”

________________________________

Taglist: @writingmysanity @open--till--midnight @madamemelancholysstuff @dark-academia-slut

Wanna be added/taken off certain taglists? Just DM to let me know!

#possessive yennefer #yennefer #witcher yennefer #Yennefer of Vengerberg #yennefer x reader #Yennefer x you #Yennefer x y/n #yennefer of vengerberg x reader #Yennefer of Vengerberg x you #Yennefer of Vengerberg x y/n #yennefer imagine #witcher self insert

[digitalbeachrave]

Tim Roth movies that are free on Youtube

Made in Britain (1982)

Meantime (1983)

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (1990)

Vincent and Theo (1990) in Spanish

Little Odessa (1994)

Captives (1994)

Deceiver (1997) - thank you to @resdogs-containment-unit for sending me this

Funny Games (2007)

Skellig The Owl Man (2009)

Added thanks again to @resdogs-containment-unit: 

Murder In The Heartland (1993) - Part 1, Part 2, another link

#this was originally gonna be a thursday night double feature post but i just kept finding more #tim roth #movie night

[geraltyen-of-corvobianco]

𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦...❄️🎁🎄🎅🏻

-

Ever since their retirement, the Witcher and his sorceress (and most often than not, their Witcheress daughter) would make it a point to travel around the continent to give away gifts to celebrate the Winter Solstice. This year was no different, as they made Skellige their first stop. Before making their way to the villages around the isles, they first stopped at Kaer Trolde to gather all the sacks of gifts Cerys and Hjalmar had helped to assemble from the various wishlists they had received.

.

.

"Uh, a little help here?" Geralt grumbled as he lifted the third sack of gifts over to the cart. Ciri, Yen...and even Roach, were waiting at the bottom of the bridge that leads to Kaer Trolde. Calmly, relaxingly. While he did all the work. He sighed. Even Roach, he grumbled again internally.

"Oh we'll make up for it, Witcher. Plus...you look so sexy flexing your muscles like that."

"How do you know if you're not even looking at me?"

"Shouldn't you already know she steals glances at you whenever you're looking somewhere else, old man?" Ciri said, trying not to roll her eyes.

"Fine fine...three women against one lonely man. How sad the world has become."

"Tsk tsk, you need us to take care of the cart and the many sacks of gifts, don't you? Now stop complaining, dear, it's a happy season! We'll do the hard work later and you can have all the rest you want."

"Hmph. I'll hold you to that. Will I get a kiss too?"

"Hmm. We'll see. Surprises aren't fun when they're spoiled..."

Yentarina smirked, Santa Witchmas grinned.

The witcheress groaned internally; and pretended that she was looking out for bandits hiding in the midst.

-

Featured Mods: Yennefer hair and outfit by @witcherscreenshotsdump , Geralt's Santa outfit by HalkHogan, Ciri Christmas Outfit , Ciri's loose hair by @bathsebah ✨

#my sister named Yen Yentarina last Christmas and now it is stuck forever #Yentarina #santa witchmas #the witcher 3 #the witcher #cirilla of cintra #cirilla of vengerberg #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt of rivia #geralt x yennefer #yennefer x geralt #witcher christmas #geraltyen of corvobianco #archive of the continent

[timetraveladdict]

The Witcher episode 3X08

Spoiler

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Jaskier holding Geralt’s hand again!!!

Poor Geralt though…

Yennefer in Skellige and Crach an Craite!

Tissaia still alive but with white hair?

Can’t stand Fringilla and Francesca….

Wtf is Vizimir doing?

Milva is funny, but how dare she say Jaskier isn’t Geralt’s friend?

Oh no, Tissaia is dead…

Why is Yennefer in Brokilon?

Look at that… Radovid again… are you going after Jaskier?

Fuck! Does that mean that Radovid becomes king now?

Yep! Long live king Radovid!

Wtf is Dara doing?

Jaskier, stop eating random stuff…

I hate the rats. Hated them in the books as well…

Nooo don’t tell me it ends like this… seriously I’m disappointed.

Last three episodes with Henry Cavill and we get what? 20 minutes of him? What a shame… I’m a little bit mad…

Netflix can’t help themselves can’t they? Always making stuff up…

Good luck with season 4, really. Hemsworth will never reach Cavill’s standards.

They were scheduled to begin filming on September 4th and guess what? Already postponed to 2024.

Said it is because of the strike but I believe there are other reasons.

#the witcher #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #the witcher netflix #joey batey #geralt of rivia #the witcher season 3 #henry cavill #cirilla fiona elen riannon #ciri #yennefer of vengerberg #anya chalotra #freya allan #goodbye Henry Cavill you will be greatly missed

[doodlesdreaming]

Here's another prompt for you, this one may be a little cute. I know I'm wondering about it.

Ava catching Death listening to various tunes and singing along to them. The following songs I could see him singing along to for damn sure.

Anything by Creed will do, but mainly his favorites are between Overcome, With Arms Wide Open, My Own Prison, & Weathered.

Disturbed is another where just about any song will do. In this case it's a pick your poison type of thing. Though you'd probably have an easier time catching him singing Darkness, Overburdened, or their cover of Sound of Silence. Maybe Land of Confusion on rare occasion. I could see Death enjoying good covers of older songs.

Loreena McKennitt is a world music singer and composer as she herself would likely put it. Mostly her main influences are between Celtic and Middle Eastern. Of her work, I could see him most easily being caught singing The Old Ways(my ult fave of hers), The Highwayman(basically just the poem slightly shortened down into a 10 min song), All Souls Night, or Skellig.

I'm a music nerd and honestly could go on for hours on what songs I think he'd openly sing. But I don't wanna make this too long now. Hell maybe you have an idea of what song or songs Ava could catch Death singing along to at times. Hell perhaps if he's using headphone at the time, she may only hear his voice in particular. What do you think of this one? Could see Death getting real embarrassed if he was overheard through a whole song and realized he was watched.

[I had the HARDEST time picking out a song for this prompt, but then I was introduced to the song, "Forsaken" by the lead singer of Disturbed, and all of THIS(☝️) just popped into my head.]

Short summary; Death went off for some reason or another. Ava followed him out of concern, caught him in a "Frozen-Like" moment, and snuck away before she was caught.

It's a memory she'll carry with her to the grave.

#i know its a song about vampires #but the visuals in my mind was so clear #i wasnt gonna pass it up #darksiders #darksiders death #headcanons #ocart #ocs #ava #comic sketch #color practice #ask stuff #my art #thanks for the ask!

[bardic-inspo]

favorite fictional locations!

Hey! :D Oooh, this is sort of tough! I'm gonna go with five I find interesting, would probably definitely not want to live or exist in any of these universes, eek.

In no particular order:

Bowerstone (Fable)

Skellige (Witcher 3)

That one specific spot in Skyrim if you have the house-building DLC/version that I think is technically in Hjaalmarch Hold (Dawnstar), but it's just on the edge so that you can see Whiterun/Dragonsreach from your little house. And it's situated right on where the snow blends into the more grassy areas around Whiterun. So pretty!

The Temple of Mythal (Dragon Age: Inquisition)

The Underdark (BG3)

[Put “top 5” anything in my ask and I will answer]

#ask games #about me #megh speaks