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fangirleaconmigo · 2 years

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Ok so I just finished reading the story of Blaviken in The Last Wish and I really enjoyed Geralt’s conversation with Stregobor. I felt like you could tell Geralt had little patience for sorcerers

G - But I’ll hear you out

S- without interrupting with spiteful comments?

G- that I can’t promise

I love this Geralt. Sassy. He even insults Stregobor’s skills.

The ending of the story intrigued me too. I know that the Netflix show is an adaptation and that means it will stray from the source material. But I think I preferred Stregobor not influencing the townsfolk to think Geralt slaughtered all those people essentially unprovoked. I preferred the alderman telling Geralt to leave and never come back. The world is messy. And The incident in Blaviken had more depth to it (imo) in the book.

Geralt and Stregobor.

Omg. Geralt and Stregobor’s scene in the book. It’s what I call Full Strength Geralt. The disgust and scorn Geralt heaps on him nonstop using his driest and most savage wit. He fucking hates him and it’s glorious.

Not only that but it establishes SO MANY INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT things about witchers and mages and Geralt and Stregobor in particular. It sets up their social dynamic and the marginalization of witchers. It sets up how Geralt feels about himself as an “other” and where he draws his lines morally. It’s just such a great passage.

I’m going to sort of paraphrase bits of this chapter. Then I’ll compare show/book.

Ok first we learn that Geralt is hesitant to even speak to a mage (he doesn’t know it’s Stregobor yet) because when alderman Caldemeyn (Geralt’s friend who he stays with and takes dinner with sometimes) tells him he should go see the mage, Geralt is like nah…

“Your Irion will only insult me, no doubt.”

Geralt is like….he’ll just be mean to me. And then Alderman Caldemeyn is like…I’ve never known him to be mean to anyone, and he might pay you. So Geralt is like…ok I guess. (Paraphrased)

I think that shows a hint of Geralt’s vulnerability. DON’T BE MEAN TO YOUR WITCHER, PEOPLE HE DOESN’T ENJOY IT.

Then they go up to the tower with a town guard called Carrypebble to help them strap the kikimora to a donkey. At the tower door, a magical fish head door knocker is like…go away. Master Irion doesn’t have time for you.

Then Geralt gets pissed off and does something that is so very Geralt. How great is his response??

“Master Irion is not receiving,” the knocker repeated metallically. “Go, my good-“

“I’m not a good person,” Geralt broke in loudly. “I’m a witcher. That thing on the donkey is a kikimora. I killed it not far from town. It is the duty of every resident wizard to look after the safety of the neighborhood. Master Irion does not have to honor me with conversation, does not have to receive me if that is his will. But let him examine the kikimora and draw his own conclusions. Carrypebble, instead the kikimora and throw it down by the door.”

“Geralt,” the alderman said quietly, “you’re going to leave but I’m going to have to—“

Here’s why that is so great.

Geralt fucking hates it when pretentious people dismiss him. He hates it when they bullshit him.

He often weaponizes self deprecation in a sarcastic way.

His sarcasm. The mage “does not have to honor” Geralt with conversation makes it pretty clear that Geralt would consider conversation with him anything but an honor.

He believes that it’s a mage’s goddamn duty to protect his people and he is willing to tell him to his face. I LOVE this difference between mages and witchers. Witchers are the working class who do a helpful productive service. Mages are ivory tower academics. And despite Geralt’s self deprecation about being a witcher, OFTEN states that he provides a concrete fucking service, unlike some other people he knows. 😆

He is willing to throw the rotting carcass of a kikimora at the tower door of a powerful man who could absolutely take him in a fight with his superior magic, JUST TO MAKE THESE POINTS

God I love this man.

Ok at that point, Master Irion hears Geralt’s voice via his knocker and recognizes him. Then he lets him in. He reveals his true identity and calls Geralt a friend. It is clear right away that the feeling is not mutual.

“You’ve not changed a bit, Stregobor.” Geralt grimaced. You’re talking nonsense while making wise and meaningful faces. Can’t you speak normally?”

(They used this line in the show for Geralt to refer to wizards in general)

So Stregobor sighs and says someone is going kill him tomorrow at the latest. Geralt is not impressed.

“Aha,” said the witcher dispassionately….

Dispassionately!!! Geralt saves peoples lives, ok? That is what he does! And suddenly, he cannot seem to care. Also, because in the books, Geralt has friends and is a warm person who shows affection, it stands out as pretty remarkable that he literally does not give a fuck about this man’s life. Stregobor remarks on this:

“My facing death doesn’t impress you much, does it?”

And Geralt is like…no it doesn’t, because I don’t fucking like you. Well. First Geralt obnoxiously waxes philosophical about the banality of death:

“Stregobor,” said Geralt, “that’s the way of the world. One sees all sorts of things when one travels. Two peasants kill each other over a field which, the following day, will be trampled flat by two counts and their retinues trying to kill each other off…”

Geralt goes on like that, listing all the ways in which people kill each other, being an asshole to a man who is terrified (good) and ending with:

“—so why should a death threat impress me, and one directed at you at that?”

So there we have it. He doesn’t like him. And he has a good reason. So when Streggy is like *clutches chest* and I thought we were friends…

“One directed at me at that,” Stregobor repeated with a sneer. “And I considered you a friend…”

And then we learn why Geralt doesn’t like him.

“Our last meeting,” said Geralt, “was in the court of King Idi of Kovir. I’d come to be paid for killing the amphisboena which had been terrorizing the neighborhood. You and your compatriot Zavist vied with each other to call me a charlatan, a thoughtless murdering machine and a scavenger. Consequently not only didn’t Idi pay me a penny, he gave me twelve hours to leave Kovir, and since his hourglass was broken, I barely made it…”

AND STREGOBOR IS CALLING HIM A FRIEND. THE FAKE BITCH.

So (ahem) this sets up nicely the respective social positions of witchers and mages. Mages created them, right? But the moment they are competition or inconvenient to them, they turn on them, leveraging existing bigotry against witchers and using their superior social position to run them off (at best).

Geralt probably struggled for a bit due to lack of pay for that job, and as it was he barely escaped unjust incarceration or some other legal punishment.

Geralt is essentially a migrant worker and doesn’t have any legal rights in the places he works. Maybe it’s because I’m Mexican American and I relate many things back to this, but the mage/witcher dynamic reminds me of corporations and big agribusiness who bringing migrant workers to do the hard and dirty work they don’t want to do, then when the job is done or unemployment is good, they call la migra on them.

But I digress.

Geralt mocks Streggy (“don’t get all puffed up like a frog, magician”)but then allows him to tell him what is going on. Stregs tells him about The Black Sun superstitions and the supposed eradication of the human race at the hands of cursed girls. And like in the show, Geralt mocks it. (“It doesn’t rhyme. All decent predictions rhyme.”)

Stregobor says no no it’s true. All of these girls are going to bring about destruction. And I know they were cursed because of their cruelty, aggression, and unbridled temperament. To which Geralt replies:

“You can say that about any woman…what are you driveling on about?”

Geralt amuses himself. He’s also not having any of it. Especially when Stregobor admits he experimented on the girls and killed them. (Just like was done to witchers) When he is judgmental about it, Stregobor throws in his face that witchers are killers of monsters and mutants already. Geralt goes on:

“You’re asking me how many mutants I’ve killed? Why aren’t you asking me how many I’ve extricated from spells, freed from curses? I, a witcher, despised by you? And what have you done, you mighty magician?”

You can hear a lot of things in that passage. Geralt is bridling at the suggestion that mutants are monsters that should be put down. Obviously!! Stregobor knows this. He knows he is talking to a mutant when he says that mutants are monsters. But I guess Geralt is one of the good ones when his services are needed.

Also, again, Geralt is like…at least I’m fucking useful to people. At least I try to help. What the fuck do you do that’s useful to literally anyone but yourself again??

Stregobor is like…well we tried to save them but they all died. And Geralt says:

“That speaks badly of you, not the girls.”

When Stregobor says he autopsied and vivisected the girls, Geralt says:

“And you sons of bitches have the nerve to criticize witchers! Oh, Stregobor, the day will come when people will learn, and get the better of you.”

Then Geralt says the part you mentioned, which is really funny.

“I don’t like the story, but I’ll hear you out.”

“Without interrupting with spiteful comments?”

“That I can’t promise.”

Geralt is just not letting his foot off of this man’s neck. So then Stregobor tells him about Renfri. He tells him about the trapper who raped her and who she killed digging a brooch into his brain through his ear. Geralt says:

“If you think I feel sorry for him,” muttered Geralt, “then you’re wrong.”

Stregobor ignores him and tells the rest of the story. Again, he looks into the face of a MUTANT and in trying to convince him to kill her, says

“She’s not human. She’s exactly a monster: a mutant, a cursed mutant.”

He compares her to a kikimora unfavorably, like he does in the show. There’s no wonder why Geralt often relates more to the monsters than the humans. Then Stregobor offers to pay him anything he wants to kill her.

Geralt refuses to help him for two reason. First, because Renfri has good reason to kill him. Second, because as a town mage, Stregobor is privileged and favored by the law.

“The girl has her reasons for settling her account with you, and I’m not going to get mixed up in it. Turn to the alderman or the town guards. You’re the town wizard. You’re protected by municipal law.”

*whispers* unlike Geralt.

Stregobor hates this.

“I spit in the law, the alderman, and his help!” exploded Stregobor. “I don’t need defense, I need you to kill her!…Am I to sit here, in this tower and wait for death?”

I could kiss Geralt for how he answers him.

“They did.”

You see, Stregobor can dish it out to defenseless little girls. But he can’t take it. God I hate him. I mean he is a GREAT villain. And I hate him.

Then Geralt insults his abilities (as you alluded to)

“Do you know what, magician? You should have left that hunt for the girls to other, more powerful wizards. You should have foreseen the consequences.”

“Please, Geralt.”

“No, Stregobor.”

Then Stregobor says the bit about the lesser evil. Geralt responds with his iconic lines, but interestingly it was changed in a small but I think very significant way for the show. Here is what he says in the book.

“Evil is evil, Stregobor,” said the witcher seriously as he got up. “Lesser, greater, middling, it’s all the same. Proportions are negotiated, boundaries blurred. I’m not a pious hermit, I haven’t only done good in my life. But if I’m to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer not to choose at all.”

In the show instead of “I’m not a pious hermit, I haven’t only done good in my life,” he says “I’m not judging you. I haven’t only done good in my life.”

In the book, Geralt refuses to kill him because he is “not a judge” but that very much means he isn’t a judge by profession and therefore isn’t going to sentence a man to death. In the sense of personal informal moral judgment, as you can see by the passages there, Geralt VERY VERY VERY much judges him, and is not afraid to tell him so.

Anywho I love that whole passage. I love Geralt of Rivia. And as for the ending, the show kept my favorite part, which was Geralt not allowing Stregobor to touch her body, thereby ending Stregobor’s abuse of these women. It is in a small way, and perhaps too late, given that she is dead. But it’s all he has. And it tells us a lot about him.

So yes. The show tried to follow the story fairly closely but framed it in a very different way. I didn’t actually understand it the first time I saw it. Like when Geralt referred to her later as a princess he couldn’t save I was so confused. He killed her! When did he try to save her? To be clear, she attacked him. He didn’t want to kill her. But I never thought of her as a princess he was trying to save. That story framing didn’t fit at all for me. But reading the story in the book helped me put the pieces together.

#asks #the witcher #geralt of rivia #renfri of creyden #thinking about the witcher books yet again #thinking about geralt of rivia yet again #thinking about witchers yet again

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cloaked-in-midnight-water · 9 months

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The lack of wlw pairings with Renfri in the Witcher fandom is such a waste of butch gf/knight gf fanart, gifs and fanfic. Renfri is a gold mine.

#renfri #renfri of creyden #yennefer x renfri #the witcher #the witcher netflix #netflix the witcher #twn #thewitcher #witcher #witcher netflix #yenfri #Renbrina #Renaia #emma appleton

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witcherladiesamirite · 9 months

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Witcher Ladies & Femslash Discord

Post season-three server promo!!

Come yell about Women with us.

We started as a femslash server but also we are just here to scream about the women. Share art of the women. Make all the women queer and sometimes trans and write them kissing. Send shitty femslash memes. Yall know how it goes

Invite here! https://discord.gg/BGPnWM6rZB

(It shouldn’t expire, dm this tumblr (our server blog, where we also yell about and promote all the Women) if it somehow does)

(Also, since ppl have asked in the past, no, you don’t have to be a woman to join! I’m transmasc and a mod so I would hope not lol)

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renfroodles · 4 months

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I needed a new avatar, and I’m physically unable to draw Renfri without drawing were!renfri (Woofri) so… here ya go.

#my art #original art #the Witcher books #Renfri #woofri #Renfri of Creyden #renfri vellga #the Witcher

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ithoughtitwaspronouncedgeralt · 2 years

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Every now and then out of the blue I remember that Renfri is also know as Shrike and it makes me incredibly happy

#legit it makes me so giddy #yes the origins of the name renfri as warrior of darkness is perfect for her and extremely fitting #but given that most characters seem to have some animal relation / counterpart shrike is ALSO PERFECT #it makes the fact that geralt is know as the butcher of blaviken ironic #like yes he did quite literally butcher a bunch of people but renfri was NAMED to be a butcher #... he butchered the butcher #she was the og butcher and i just love that fact #small but deadly even to larger predators i can't #anyway i love renfri more every day if that's even possible #renfri of creyden #renfri #the witcher #posted

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yaskefer · 2 years

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sons and seams and symphonies

read on ao3

This is my contribution to the Jaskier Mini Bang 2022 (@jaskierminibang) my first fandom event ever! Super excited to share this fic with you, along with the basolutely stunning decoupage art @nadik1 did for it that you can check out here.

summary: When Renfri escapes Stregobor’s men, she leaves behind a brother. Stregobor compensates. When Geralt enters the tower at Blaviken, he senses the presence of another being other than the mage and his illusions. The two things are connected.

Renfri had messed up her stitches again. They were uneven and did not look like flowers at all, and her fingers were sore from the dozen times she’d pricked them. She stuck her index finger in her mouth, sucking on it and scowling. She’d much rather be with Jaskier right now, playing knights and brigands, maybe. Or try to train Daisy with as many wrong commands as possible to annoy the stablemaster.

She blew out a noisy breath, setting down the ruined embroidery work, and stood up. Technically, she didn’t need to be doing needlework right now. But she needed to show Jaskier that she could do it. If he could make recognisable buttercups in straight rows across a long piece of ribbon, she could at least stitch one recognisable flower.

She reached back to touch said ribbon, currently tied around her hair, keeping it out of her eyes. It was a simple ponytail, something both Jaskier and their stepmother disliked. Jaskier wasn’t allowed to keep his hair long, so he always wanted to play with Renfri’s, who’d rather have it cut short halfway to her ear, but wasn’t allowed to.

Sometimes she wished she could swap places with Jaskier. She knew Jaskier would agree too.

The door to her room flew open, and Jaskier strode in. He paused when he saw her abandoned needlework, before leaning over to take a better look at it, brows furrowed.

"Judging by the colours, you were trying to draw flowers. But judging by the shape, maybe you were having a go at Lady Aridea's hair," he proclaimed finally.

Renfri let out a snort, and Jaskier snatched up the piece. He took up the needle and started undoing the stitches. Fixing them, properly.

Renfri cast a worried look at the door, "What if someone sees you?" she hissed at him, moving to shut the door before anyone could look in. Jaskier already got punished enough for not being 'manly' enough, whatever the fuck that meant. If someone saw him sewing, they'd both be in for it.

"Hush, it'll be fine. If someone comes in I'll just tell them I was making fun of you." He bit down on his lips, fingers moving effortlessly through the threads, doing and undoing them so fast that trying to keep track proved impossible. "It's not too bad," he said, "It's just…" he looked up at her, badly hiding a grin as he coughed very deliberately.

"Aren't you supposed to be learning accounts or something," Renfri shot back, annoyed.

Jaskier waved his hand dismissively, "I have to leave something good for you, don't I? Can't take all the spotlight."

Renfri aimed a swat at his head, which he deftly dodged. She could see some silly retort on his lips, but didn't let him speak it before throwing a pillow at him, which struck him right in the middle of his face.

Jaskier spluttered, Renfri laughed, and for a moment, she didn't have to worry about the black sun, or the creepy old mage, or the hate always colouring Lady Aridea's eyes.

---

Jaskier stared blankly at the wall in front of him, counting his breaths slowly. In for the count of three, hold for three, and out for three. It wasn’t really helping, but he could feel himself going numb.

These were the things he knew; the mage– Stregobor– was talking to his father and stepmother. Renfri was gone, and Renfri hated Stregobor.

Stregobor was here, and Renfri was gone.

She hadn’t said anything to him. He woke up that day to see her gone, which wasn’t unusual in itself, except she’d never come back to her room the night before. He’d gone to her room to show her his new piece, a handkerchief with the tiniest birds stitched along the sides, and she hadn’t been there. She hadn’t been there in the morning either.

And then there had been a lot of chaos, with Stregobor at the head of it.

When the door to the room opened, Jaskier didn’t look up, but he knew who it was. There was something about the man that seemed to suck all joy and life out of the room whenever he entered. Something about him that made you suffocate.

“Well, Julian,” he said, and finally, Jaskier looked up. Stregobor had the nastiest grin on his face, “Looks like you’re coming with me.”

Jaskier froze, staring at Stregobor, as icy cold fingers gripped his heart and squeezed. “No,” he said automatically.

Stregobor frowned, “Come now, Julian, don’t be difficult. You know what your sister did. Creyden doesn’t need a prince like you.”

“No one needs a sorcerer like you either.” Jaskier thrust up his chin. He’d leave, he’d leave that day, no one cared anyway. He’d leave and find Renfri. And they’d run away together. He didn’t know what Stregobor had done to her, but he’d find her and, knowing Renfri, make Stregobor pay.

He never wanted to be a prince anyway, so confirmation that even his father didn’t want him didn’t quite phase him.

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, don’t you?” Stregobor said idly, taking a step closer to him. Jaskier willed himself to stay still. “Just like your sister. It won’t serve you well.”

Jaskier stiffened, “Ren did nothing wrong.”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?”

Jaskier lurched to his feet and snarled at him, “Fuck you! Fuck you to hell and back.”

Stregobor just gave him a half smile, his quirked lips a cruel slash against an even crueller face.

---

It was a beautiful day, and the sun felt good on her face, warm and bright, colours visible even through her closed lids. Renfri could hear a stream running nearby, crouched down on the ground, barefoot with her toes curling against the soft, cool soil. Her hands were buried in it as well, her britches rolled halfway up her calves.

The britches had been made with Jaskier in mind, but it didn’t really matter. They often exchanged clothes, often enough that they practically had the same wardrobe.

It was late afternoon, almost evening, now. The sun hanging low, the sky just starting to turn into a beautiful shade of orange, lighting up her hair a brilliant crimson. She was waiting for Jaskier, they were supposed to hunt for frogs in the stream after his fencing lessons were done.

When she finally heard footsteps behind her, as familiar to her as her own heartbeat, she rose and turned with a smile.

The smile slipped off her face like water through cupped hands when she noted his red-rimmed eyes and the dark red mark on his cheek. It would definitely bruise later.

Jaskier gave her a watery smile, coming closer as he started rolling up his sleeves to go catch frogs. Like nothing had happened to derail their plans.

Oh no, so not happening. She grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him to a stop before he could step into the water. He hadn’t even rolled up his britches yet, Lady Aridea would be apocalyptic if they went back with muddied clothes.

She raised a hand to Jaskier’s cheek, her fingers leaving a muddy smear across pale skin. She gritted her teeth as his smile turned more genuine.

“I’m going to kill him,” she said, seething. How could their father allow it? How could he just… let others hurt his children? Did they not matter? Were they not his firstborn? And she could get it, she could, his disregard for her. She was a girl, a woman, more a bargaining chip than anything. But Jaskier? Why did no one care about him?

“I’d love to watch,” Jaskier grinned, showing teeth, this time. He grabbed her hand and tugged it down, “Let's go catch some frogs to put in Aridea’s bed now.”

---

The room he’d been given was cold. Goosebumps erupted across Jaskier’s skin, and his teeth would have chattered if it weren’t for the gag Stregobor had stuffed in his mouth; dry, rough, and foul-tasting. He shivered and shuddered, the lightest of movements making the too-tight ropes chaff against his already bruised wrist and ankles.

The ceiling was high enough to be intimidating, to make him feel small, cowed, almost. He couldn’t even lift his hands up to wipe the angry tears from his face.

Stregobor hadn’t done anything to him, not really. Just tied him up, gagged him when he started screaming profanities at the man, and put him in this cell. Stonewalled, windowless, and cold as fuck. He’d even stripped his shoes, socks, and doublet from him, leaving him only in his chemise and britches.

It would have been a cell, he supposed, if it weren’t for the perfectly ordinary wooden door instead of metal bars.

It didn’t really matter, though. Not the cold, not the gag, not the rope burns around his wrist and ankles, not the fact that he’d been essentially disowned, not the fact that he would never go home again.

What mattered was that he would never see Renfri again. He didn’t think he would. Stregobor had taken them far away from Creyden, the portal causing an instant change of temperature and making Jaskier lurch and retch until he couldn’t throw up anymore. Far far away from home.

He didn’t even know if Renfri was alive. He knew she’d run away, and she knew the woods, like Jaskier, like the back of her hand. But they were only 14, and one could only do so much with trained men after them.

He shuddered, more tears leaking out of his eyes. He didn’t want to cry, he didn’t, didn’t want to give Stregobor the satisfaction of seeing him cry if he were to burst into the room. But if he didn’t grieve for Renfri, no one would. If he didn’t cry for her, no one would.

He couldn’t just… let go of her like this.

So he cried, and shuddered, and sobbed until the tears ran dry. And then he cried some more.

---

“See?” Jaskier said, grinning at her, “It’s pretty. And deadly. Like you.”

Renfri laughed, her fingers running delicately over the ornate hilt of the dagger, “You’re just complimenting yourself, you know?”

Jaskier snorted, “I’m not deadly though. I can’t even fence properly. You’re the one who manages to copy Sir Frederick just from looking at us practice.”

Renfri shrugged, pleased at the praise but unwilling to admit it. And anyway, Jaskier was a lot better at her in the things she was supposed to be good at, so that made them even.

She couldn’t stop running her fingers over the knife, the hilt starting to warm with her constant touch. There was a beautiful, bright red ruby embedded in it, the colour of blood. Her favourite colour. She didn’t ask where Jaskier had gotten it. She just knew he had gotten it for her, and she knew he must have paid some sort of price for it, or he wouldn’t have given it to her as such a reverent gift. It was a beautiful thing, nearly as beautiful as her mother’s ornate brooch.

It wasn’t very long, the hilt and the blade making up roughly the length of her forearm. It was double-bladed, sharp, clean, and gleaming. One side of it was silver, the other steel.

She could feel a lump in her throat, tears starting to gather in her eyes.

Jaskier noticed, because of course he did, and beamed at her, “C’mon then, are you going to show me how to skin rabbits with it now?”

Renfri laughed wetly and shoved him backward.

She loved Jaskier so much that sometimes it hurt. She loved him to the point of destruction, and she knew without a doubt that there was very little she wouldn’t do for him. The thought didn’t scare her, as it perhaps should have. He deserved it, he deserved someone who would be willing to go to the ends of the world for him.

Why would it scare her?

She was already a monster, why not be a monster for a worthy cause?

The ribbon he’d embroidered for her was warm around her wrist, a constant reminder of his love for her as well, and now this.

She’d have to get a sheath made for it, and maybe a belt she can attach it to, or some sort of pockets in her skirts or britches she could put it in. She’d watch the knights and soldiers training more carefully, better, not just the idiot teaching Jaskier fencing. She had a dagger now, she’d best learn how to use it as well.

Worthy causes.

---

There was a girl. There were the woods. And there was a girl running through the woods.

Renfri’s breaths dragged out of her in painful, panting sobs as she ran, and ran, and ran. Her legs ached and cramped horribly, her fingers white-knuckled around the dagger Jaskier had given her, a stitch in her side that made breathing harder with every pounding step she took.

By Lilith’s name, she will fucking kill Stregobor, she will murder him, she’ll murder him with the same knife Jaskier had given her, she’ll shove it up that fucker’s arse, she’ll–

Renfri tripped over another tree root, her third in however many minutes she’d been running for. She landed on her hands and knees, her dagger flying from her hands and landing a few feet away. Her knees and palms scraped against the forest floor, stinging harshly.

She let out a choked sob, bent almost in double, before taking in a deep breath and straightening up. She crawled over to where her dagger had fallen, wiped her hands on her skirt and picked it back up.

Then she climbed to her feet, took another few deep breaths, and looked around to see if anyone was still pursuing her. She couldn’t hear anything other than the usual forest sounds, but she knew that didn’t mean much.

Her body shook with tremors, and her knees threatened to buckle even as she stood still. The slippers covering her feet were impractical and made her soles hurt. Her dress was thin, it itched in places where the embroidery was done badly along with the frills that had been added in awful places, and there was a long rip running right up to the middle of her thighs.

She turned her head up, letting the sunlight filtering through the tree canopy fall on her face.

Then she resumed running.

---

“We should run away together,” Jaskier said quietly.

They were sitting in Renfri’s bed, pressed against each other. The large window was open, letting in the cool night air and making the little wind chime hanging in her room tinkle pleasantly. A single large blanket was wrapped around both of them, lush and soft and warm. Jaskier was warm as well, and Renfri was happy.

“That’s a nice dream,” Renfri whispered, closing her eyes and letting the cool air rustle through her open hair. She hated braids, the maids always did them up too tight and they pulled at her head and gave her headaches. Taking out the clips and hair ties always led to several yanked-out hairs as well, and her hair was long enough that sometimes it made her head feel heavy.

Jaskier had a hand on her head, and was scratching gently at her irritated and sore scalp. She sighed, and melted a little against him. She could remember their mother doing this for her, very vaguely, more feeling than real memory. But she could remember it.

“I’m serious,” Jaskier said, a small laugh huffing out of him before he turned serious. “It’s not like there’s anything for us here, no one’s gonna miss us.”

“You’re the heir to the throne, why’d you want to run away?” Although she already knew the answer. It wasn’t the first time they were having this conversation. Their life was a bleak one, with rules and confines and helplessness. Running away fantasies were a staple.

“I–” Jaskier turned suddenly, jolting Renfri so she had to straighten up and face Jaskier as well. She missed the calm of his hand on her head, but she paid attention, “This isn’t just a fantasy anymore, Ren. We both know that I’m the heir only in name, we both know Father’s just waiting for Aridea’s son to come of age before he names him heir. And that’s the best case scenario, the one where I remain the second in line and you the third. Worst case would be an accident, to get rid of me, to avoid the scandal of changing the heir. And you? God knows who he’ll just… marry you off to.”

Ice slid down her spine as she stared at Jaskier’s face. He looked scared, more so than she’d seen him before. And he was right, wasn’t he? They were rapidly growing older, nearer to the age when they’d become true threats. When they’d need to be dealt with.

Renfri had already had her first blood, which meant that any moment her father and stepmother might start looking for good marriage alliances for her. To sell her off to the highest bidder.

She couldn't imagine staying away from Jaskier. She couldn’t imagine marrying someone. She couldn’t… she didn’t want to imagine it.

To her mortification, her eyes started stinging with tears, Jaskier’s eyes widening at the sight.

“Ren, I wasn’t trying to– fuck–”

“I know,” she interrupted him, “I know. I just… you’re right. We should. We should run away. But how? You know we’re guarded all the time, right? Most of the time. It’s not like old times anymore, when we were still young enough to get ‘lost’ in the woods and die.”

Which was the only reason they hadn’t been monitored so closely before. The reason they could traverse the woods and play in the mud and try and catch frogs. Because everyone always kept hoping they would fall into a ditch somewhere and die.

But now they were too old to leave alone.

“We’ll find some way, okay? You and I,” Jaskier whispered, leaning his head against Renfri’s forehead, his breath warm on her face.

A wolf howled in the distance, low and mournful.

---

The woman’s screams rang through his ears, making Jaskier wince and writhe on the stone table he had been tied to. His head hurt, pounding in tandem with her shrieks, and he was sure his ears would start bleeding any second.

The screams abruptly cut off, replaced with a low, pained, keening noise, watery and heart-wrenching. Jaskier went limp on the table, furious and terrified. He stared up at the ceiling, a scowl etched on his face as his fingers clenched and unclenched.

Footsteps sounded, and he refused to turn his head to look up as Stregobor’s passive voice spoke, “Well, she isn’t dead yet. So that’s some progress. Your blood does some really strange things, Julian. It’s fascinating.”

Jaskier didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak, what with the bit that the mage had forced into his mouth in response to Jaskier’s threat of biting his tongue off and depriving him of his favourite test subject.

A cold hand rested on his head, and he bucked hard, trying to dislodge the hand. It didn’t budge, only stroking lightly at his sweat-soaked hair.

“You don’t have to work yourself up into such a frenzy, Julian. Why do you care so much about some nameless woman? She won’t be missed. You haven’t even seen her.” He sighed, and removed his hand.

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut as he felt tears pricking at them. He would have struggled more, but it wouldn't have made a difference. Stregobor always restrained him too well, quite aware that if Jaskier got free then his magic would be useless against him. One could even say he overcompensated, especially against a skinny, malnourished teenager who was probably anaemic with the amount of blood Stregobor drew every day.

It had vindicated Jaskier at first, just how overcautious the bastard was, but now it only meant heavy chains, too little food, and more pain.

“Now,” Stregobor said, his voice grating and self-assured, “Stay still so I can take some more of your blood. I’m sure you can spare a few more vials before we are done for today.”

Jaskier tensed up, bracing himself for more pain. It still never really prepared him for the icy sting of a dagger cutting into the crook of his arm, the smooth, cold press of the vial pressing against the place as blood trickled into it. There was a row of several such neat cuts all across his arm. It wouldn't be long before Stregobor started on the next one.

When he had taken three vials of blood– not that Jaskier could be sure, lost in the haze of pain and fury as he was– Stregobor gave him a sickly smile, “I’ve been studying some things, Julian, and I think I might have made a breakthrough.”

He must have seen something on Jaskier’s face, because his smile widened, “Don’t you worry yourself about any of it, you just have to lay there, and try not to die.”

---

The Court of Creyden didn't have a full-time court mage.

They did have a consultant, someone who came when called and was paid on a case-to-case basis. The mage was always well dressed in expensive, revealing clothes, expertly applied dark make up, her hair open and falling below her waist.

Her clothes were even finer than Lady Aridea's, and looking at her was the only times when Renfri ever felt like dressing up. Because she didn't look like she hurt with every movement, she didn't look meek or stuffy. The mage's movements were fluid, graceful, dangerous. Something Renfri hadn't thought possible to do in as elaborate a dress as the ones she wore.

Renfri liked her. But they weren't really allowed to interact with her.

The only mage she and Jaskier had contact with was Stregobor. The mage who had delivered them both during the eclipse.

He was the worst person she knew. Looking at him made her want to take the dagger Jaskier had given her and jam it into his eyes. It wasn’t like he could do anything to stop her.

It had been a recurring topic, the twins' immunity to magic. Renfri thought she had seen something very, very similar to fear reflecting in Stregobor's eyes. It was subtle, it was quiet, there and gone in a flash. But it was there, and not just once, often.

Whenever she moved too fast, whenever she flashed her dagger, whenever she smiled at him with too much teeth.

It was all too clear in the way he had them stripped down to the barest slip of clothes whenever he came to see them. As if afraid of whatever they could be hiding beneath their clothes.

What a pathetic man, she thought, so very dependent on his magic that he can't contend with two little kids. No one else in the castle was afraid of them. They had contempt for them, yes, plenty of the palace inhabitants had contempt for her and Jaskier, but not fear.

In a way, Stregobor was the weakest man she knew. And she loathed him.

He poked, and he prodded, and spoke like he knew something she didn't. He never saw both Jaskier and Renfri at once. Always only taking one of them with them to the room.

Sometimes he would make them drink fowl little things from shiny little vials, and most of those times they would spend the rest of the day throwing their guts up, while he looked on with a furrowed brow and took notes. Like they were some specimen, some particularly exotic species he was trying to study.

She knew they were, at least for him. Nothing more than anomalies, interesting little creations that shouldn't exist, but did. Freaks of nature. But at least she knew she wasn’t alone. That there were other girls born like her. But there hadn’t been any boys, none except Jaskier.

Which made him quite interesting to Stregobor, and she hated the way he looked at her brother. With hungry eyes, like he couldn’t wait to get his hands on him, like he would love to cut him open and see everything inside.

She grit her teeth, she’d cut off his hands first. She would.

---

Renfri was lost.

She didn’t quite recognise the woods around her, but she didn’t feel like she’d been running for that long either. She’d seen some roads, she’d seen some travellers, but the people varied.

Some, undoubtedly, did belong to Creyden, their accents unmistakable. But there were several others as well, dark skinned and light skinned and men, and women, children, and players, merchants, and farmers, and on one occasion, a really pretty bard in a feathered hat who played the harp.

Their accents were from all over the world, and Renfri only recognised very few of them. Their clothes ranged a variety of different styles, and Renfri saw such exquisite yet practical hairstyles on some people they made her almost regret her decision to hack off her hair up to her ears.

Not like she’d had any choice, after her hair had gotten snagged into some tangled up branches and given her a spectacular cut on the brow. She could never handle her hair before, and she certainly couldn’t now.

It had become exceedingly clear that she couldn’t handle anything at all, really. Her dress hung in tatters around her, filthy and smelling and barely leaving anything up to the imagination. She didn’t think she’d eaten anything in days, but her memory was getting a little hazy, and the ground shook beneath her whenever she walked for longer than a few minutes at a time.

She’d thrown up horribly the last time she’d eaten. Some berries, brightly coloured and distinctly edible from what she knew. They mustn’t have been poison at least, considering she was alive and breathing. Her mouth felt like something had died in there, and her feet were covered in horrible blisters, some broken and bleeding, every step agony.

The sun had dipped low around the horizon, the sky a pretty blend of crimsons and inky purples, and she was starting to shiver. Her gaze was fixed on a little camp made by a lonely traveller. He had a mule, from what she could see, and a nice, cosy little fire going.

It was a well travelled road from what she’d seen. No need to have protection with yourself, no need to be overly cautious. Nothing much dangerous passed through these roads.

The man had food.

She could smell it, even several feet away. Something warm, and salty, maybe. Maybe some bread, or maybe he would even have dried fruits. He looked like the kind of person who carried dried fruits with himself.

He was setting up his bedroll now. Another luxury Renfri missed, with several days of pointy, dirty ground and ticks and bugs crawling all over her. Her back ached constantly and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d not felt tired. She couldn’t remember what it felt like to not be tired.

She swallowed around her dry throat, and tightened her fingers around the knife.

Needs must.

---

Every single day was worse than the last, and somewhere along the way, Jaskier had lost track.

Days and nights tend to blend together when you’re in pain and locked up in a dark and damp windowless room.

He knew they’d moved a few times, being shoved through a portal conscious for some, and waking up in a different room with a completely different temperature during others. Of course, the temperature thing could just be a trick Stregobor was playing on him, but he didn’t think the mage would waste his time on mind games like that.

Physical experimentation was much more fun, after all. Jaskier thought like a human, and Stregobor had no shortage of those.

He had absolutely no idea where he was, and no one else did either. Other than Stregobor, that is. He doubted the other victims Stregobor brought in had any more idea of where they were than Jaskier. He could be rotting away in the bowels of his own father’s castle and no one would be any wiser.

He’d grown weak enough that even the ever paranoid mage didn’t bother chaining him hand and foot, usually only leaving him with a short chain around his leg. He couldn’t really move around the place.

Jaskier lay shaking and shuddering on the floor, every single limb cramping and aching, both cold and hot. He couldn't feel his fingers. They’d burned at first, like he’d dipped them in liquid fire, but after a while the pain had given way to blissful numbness. He’d managed to drag himself a little away from the puddle of vomit, but that had sapped any remaining bits of energy from him.

Stregobor did this often. It wasn’t anything new, he’d done this when they’d been at Creyden’s court as well. But then he’d been a little restrained, by virtue of both him and Renfri being a prince and princess, curse notwithstanding.

Now? Now Stregobor had free reign to try out his more experimental potions. Some left him just unconscious. He didn’t know how long, but he’d just wake up feeling exhausted, missing time he had no way of measuring. Some would do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Some would have him throwing up for hours. Some had bruises sprouting all over his body, turning his limbs black and blue.

On a memorable occasion, one had taken away his sight for… for a really long while. Stregobor had hemmed and hawed and sounded awfully curious, prodding and poking at his face, his mouth and his eyes, drawing enough blood to leave him dizzy and nauseous.

He’d talked about maybe taking an eye out and studying it, but then discarded the idea because magic didn’t work on Jaskier– which involved healing magic as well– and he didn’t want to permanently maim the boy. Not yet, at least.

He’d shuddered and sobbed that day.

He’d also begged for the first time that day.

Jaskier hated thinking about it, the sheer helplessness of not being able to see, of not knowing whether it was permanent or not. It had been worse than being strapped down and force fed potions, worse than listening to people scream as Stregobor forced magic and concoctions into them, experimenting with his blood, worse than the potion currently running through him like hellfire.

The tears had taken hours to stop when he’d woken up to see. See. It hadn’t been permanent.

Stregobor hadn’t been surprised. Which meant he’d known his sight would return. Jaskier didn’t know why he’d expected the mage to tell him that. He was a cruel man with absolutely no regard for Jaskier beyond his value as a test subject, as a peculiarity and abomination. But he’d been unable to help the bitter feeling of betrayal run through him either.

Jaskier lurched up, bile rising in his throat again, burning and vile, making tears stream down his face. He wished Renfri were here. Most of the time, he was glad that she wasn’t. He couldn’t bear to see her suffer the way he was, couldn’t bear to think of everything Stregobor could have been doing to her if they had caught her.

Better dead than this. Better dead than suffering with no end in sight, better dead than treated worse than animal, better dead than having your humanity stripped away. And for what?

To satisfy the curiosity of one human? A human more monster than anything Jaskier had encountered before.

He didn’t move when the door to his cell creaked open, he didn’t move when he heard Stregobor’s footsteps, and he didn’t move when the mage dumped a thin, unconscious man near him.

The man’s face was covered in grime, making it hard to make out any finer features, and set in a peaceful expression that signified a forced magical sleep Jaskier had seen on several of Stregobor’s victims before. The rags he wore were filthy as well, ripped and mended in several places.

Typical, really. Jaskier wasn’t even surprised anymore. Stregobor always chose his victims well, the people no one would think to look for. It was so horribly cliche that on some of the worse days Jaskier could almost laugh about it.

Currently, the pain made it impossible to do much more than hack out coughs that splattered the floor in front of him with blood in tiny droplets, stark crimson against the grey stone floor.

“I have made some advances with regards to you,” Stregobor said mildly. Jaskier ignored him, knowing he would continue regardless of his answer.

Jaskier glared at him as he crouched down delicately, vanishing the mess at his feet with a wave of his hand. He held up two clear glass vials filled with blood.

“Now,” Stregobor said, going in his ‘lecture’ mode, where he would explain the torture he was about to inflict in very fine detail. Only when it suited him, of course. Like it did now. “This is your blood, just a little… modified. I am fairly certain it will not kill you. I have a theory, you see.”

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, curling up tighter, trying to block out the mage’s self assured voice, grating on his nerves like nails on board.

“Of course, you’re resistant to magic, and a lot of magical potions as well. Nearly all magical potions, although they affect you a lot more than direct magic does. They’ve never once had the desired effect on you, and your body seems to reject them in increasingly— gruesome, perhaps, certainly messy ways.”

Jaskier peeled his eyes open to see a brief expression of disgust pass over Stregobor’s face, before it settled back into gleeful curiosity. Eager.

“Now, I was thinking, perhaps… Your body is unlikely to reject your own blood, especially if I pour it directly into your veins. Magically altered, the slightest bit. That might give me something more conclusive, won’t it?”

Despite the burning pain consuming Jaskier, his stomach turned to ice, cold fear washing over him as he weakly tried to get away. It wouldn’t matter, of course. He couldn’t get away, his body just refused to accept it.

Stregobor paid no attention to his useless scrambling, “This man right here,” he jerked his head towards the still unconscious person lying a few feet away, limbs askew, “Is also going to receive a vial of the same enchantment, although of his own blood. A comparison, you see? I think I might finally yield some concrete results with regards to you as a naturally mutated human.”

More tears leaked down Jaskier’s face as he tried to snarl at Stregobor in anger, shaking and shuddering. Stregobor looked at him with something akin to pity, mouth twisting a little before settling in a condescending smile, “I know it hurts, Julian. But you have to realise, it’s for your own good, and for humanity’s good. Who knows where we would be now if all the Black Sun princesses had been allowed to run free? And you, Julian, you are my most prized possession, the key to unlocking this mystery, the key to answering so many questions and perhaps even saving the world. Isn’t it better to just resign yourself to it rather than fight every way? I could make it hurt less.”

Jaskier spat out a thick mouthful of blood right onto Stregobor’s pristine robes.

---

The sword is an extension of her arm, and moves as swiftly and easily as her dagger does.

Renfri almost likes it more than the dagger. Almost. But not quite. Nothing will ever exceed her love for her dagger, no weapon so sharp, so dear, as her love for her brother. No fire as cold and eternal as the fire of vengeance that burns within her, whispering into her ears every single day that Stregobor lives.

The first time she had heard of Jaskier’s death, she had… stopped.

Everything had stopped. The world had gone very, very still around her, and not even the wind blew.

She did not know what she had expected. For Jaskier to come after her? For nothing to happen? For Creyden to move on like nothing had happened? For them to mourn the ‘death’ of Princess Renfri and then continue their merry way, perhaps happier than before, about having one cursed child out of the way?

They probably did do that. They just decided to get rid of the second cursed child as well. They killed Jaskier.

There was no ‘tragic’ accident that took the life of Prince Julian and Princess Renfri, no unfortunate event. It had been all carefully calculated by Stregobor, a convenient and pleasing turn of events.

And then the wind blew again, stoking a fire that refused to die now.

Renfri was going to kill Stregobor with the same dagger Jaskier gifted her, and she was going to make it hurt.

So she trained, and trained and trained and trained. Practising by copying, practising with Jaskier, never quite came close to the real thing. This was the real thing. This was the thing that Stregobor created, and this was the thing that would kill him.

And so she became the sword and the dagger and the Shrike. The Butcherbird on a bloody path, eyes set on a single, beaconing prey she would rent apart.

there's going to be a chapter two that i'll post in two weeks time, if you're interested you can either subscribe on ao3, or ask to be on the taglist.

#jaskier minibang #the witcher #my fic #witcher fic #jaskier dandelion #renfri of creyden #geralt of rivia

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jaskierswolf · 2 years

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A Surprise Guest

A Jaskier/Reader fic!

Modern AU. Reader meets Jaskier at a party with their mutual friend Renfri.

AO3

A house warming party. The last thing you wanted to go to was the bloody housewarming party that Renfri was throwing. She’d been your best friend since childhood, but unlike you, she’d actually had a great time at University and had come back from Oxenfurt with a bunch of new friends, leaving you feeling a little left out and lonely. But she was still your best friend and you wanted to support her, even if it felt like she was leaving you behind. All you knew was that her ex and few other friends from Uni would be there, as well as a handful of your school friends. The ratio of people you knew to people you didn’t know was going to be rough, and you already had plans of escaping as early as you could. Introverts and parties simply didn’t mix.

What you really wanted was a night in with your blanket, a good cup of tea and your favourite music playing on the radio. Jaskier had just released a new album, another addition to the School of Wolf saga that had dominated the charts for the last five years. You were completely obsessed. The music was stunning, and… well… so was Jaskier. Ever since his first few shitty videos on YouTube, you'd always had a bit of a crush on him, but in your defence he was very pretty in his tight jeans, waistcoats and shirts that were never quite done up properly. Your friends loved to tease you about it, but it was just a celebrity crush... right?

But alas… you had a party to go to, so Jaskier and his new album would have to wait for a few hours whilst you were tortured by socialisation.

The walk to Renfri’s wasn’t very long but you’d probably get an Uber back after having a few drinks. You needed the walk there to clear your head and go through all the funny stories you could tell in case your usual trick of hiding in the kitchen with Renfri’s dog failed you. As you knocked on the door you felt like your heart was in your throat, ready to escape at any moment. Thankfully it was Renfri that answered the door. Her hair was shorter than you remembered, with an undercut on one side, and it was gelled messily to emphasise the streaks of red against the blonde.

She was unfairly attractive and it always made you feel inferior, but then again, your anxiety was a bitch and it didn’t take much to have your brain spiralling.

A few hours. Stroke the dog, have a drink, chat with Renfri a little bit and then home. It was manageable. There was no way you would let a party beat you. It would all be fine. Absolutely fine.

Fine.

“Renfri!! Who is it?” A familiar voice called from inside the house and you felt your eyes go wide.

That was a voice that you could recognise in the busiest of crowds. You’d spent hours upon hours listening to music and interviews and podcasts…

Jaskier.

Holy fucking shit.

“Renfri…” you said slowly, not quite believing your own ears. “Is that… Is that Jaskier?”

To answer your question, Jaskier danced into the hallway behind her. His face was flushed and his blue eyes were twinkling as he laughed, spilling his drink onto the floor.

“Surprise?” Renfri giggled with a shrug.

Oh, she was so dead.

It turned out that one Geralt Rivia was Renfri’s ex from university. The same Geralt Rivia that was Jaskier’s best friend and muse and inspiration for the School of Wolf. You knew that the relationship had ended… badly, but they were staying friends for the sake of their friendship group. It was funny now you thought about it, how many of Jaskier’s songs you recognised just from the details Renfri had told you about her ex. The fights, the arguments… the love. It had all been there in Jaskier’s music but he’d changed Renfri’s name for the sake of her privacy and you’d never even considered joining the dots. After all, love and break ups happened all over the world and Renfri’s was nothing special. Loads of people related to Jaskier’s music.

Everything felt so fucking surreal.

Jaskier Pankratz looked unbelievably hotter in person than in the photoshoots, which simply wasn’t fair. He talked animatedly to both Geralt and Renfri from his seat next to you, of all people, and you couldn’t help but stare.

No one could blame you… and if anyone did then you could blame the alcohol you’d downed as soon as you’d made it to the kitchen. There was no way you could deal with the party and Jaskier whilst sober.

Because holy shit… Jaskier.

He wore a gorgeous teal blue waistcoat and trousers, his tie and jacket discarded somewhere already, and his hair was longer than you remember from the last photoshoot. And oh, his smile. He had the same cheeky smile, and he really did light up the room.

Or take out the oxygen.

Bloody hell you couldn’t breathe. Booze. You needed more booze. Two shots weren’t enough. Fucking Jaskier Pankratz. Renfri owed you big time for springing this on you. Real people did not meet their celebrity crushes. It was reserved only for daydreams and fanfiction.

“Excuse me!” You mumbled as you rushed to get up, trying not to touch Jaskier as you moved. If you were a bit smoother and better at flirting, maybe you would have brushed against his thigh or arm but you needed out.

Now.

Behind you, you could hear Jaskier’s chiming laugh as Geralt made a joke about his pup from hell, Roach. If only Geralt had brought her with him… then maybe you would have been alright. Still, at least Grumpy was still lingering in the kitchen as he always did, the old mutt. It was a familiarity that was a godsend. You pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge and slumped down onto the floor next to the dog, scratching behind his ear as you chugged straight from the bottle.

God, it was shit wine. You’d expected better from Renfri but beggars couldn’t be choosers so you grimaced and took another gulp, not noticing that you suddenly weren’t alone anymore.

"Are you alright?" Jaskier’s voice was soft and oh so gorgeous, quiet as he sat down next to you. That accent. Oh, the dreams you'd had about his voice and all the filthy things he could whisper in your ear.

“I-” You turned to face him and any words that you might have said disappeared into the void. Christ he was so fucking beautiful. “Umm…”

Love at first sight had never really been something you believed in, but then again, Jaskier had always been the exception for you. And he just looked so concerned… so human?

It was easy to forget celebrities were human when you only ever saw the photos and the interviews. Despite the amount of time Jaskier spent talking and interacting with fans on social media, you knew that you don't know him, not really.

Shit. He’d asked you a question.

"Umm.. yeah? Yeah. I'm fine. I just. This wine is pretty terrible, and I only really know Renfri and... fuck... I'm rambling," you muttered, running a hand through your hair, and desperately trying to avoid his gaze.

But Jaskier laughed, the sound making you smile in spite of everything, and reached up at the counter for a bottle of red wine; Fiorano, you noted as the bottle fell into his lap. As he moved, the scent of chamomile and lavender wafted around you. "Here, take some of mine."

With a shy smile, you nodded, emptying your glass before holding it out to him. You hoped that he would think your blush had more to do with the alcohol than the storm of emotions that were racing through you. Vodka and wine probably weren’t a good mix, especially with Jaskier in the room, but needs must.

Thankfully, Jaskier just poured you some wine. It still wasn’t your favourite, red never was, but it was more drinkable than the white shit Renfri had stashed away. Soon you felt yourself relax, the wine and vodka doing their job, and Jaskier was funny, always making you laugh. He seemed to really care about making you feel comfortable.

It didn't even occur to you that Renfri had definitely set you up after Jaskier mentioned you look pretty when he saw your picture in her phone.

But you spent the evening passing the wine bottle back and forth, getting happily tipsy, especially after Geralt shares some more of his vodka with you both as well. After coaxing you back into the living room, Jaskier had introduced you to Geralt and the other witchers, and slowly you forgot that you don't know anyone at all, because Jaskier was there, and it felt like you'd known him for forever already.

By some miracle, you ended up staying the whole evening, which just never happened at parties, but you were snuggled up to Jaskier, drunk and content. He kept playing with your hair as he hummed songs you didn’t recognise under his breath.

And you didn’t even notice when you started to drift off, feeling safe in his arms, and the press of lips against your temple had to be a dream right?

You woke up to a number tucked into your coat pocket, signed with a little doodle of a buttercup.

Jaskier had to leave for an interview, but... you knew your life would never quite be the same again.

#the witcher #jaskier pankratz #renfri of creyden #modern au #jaskier/reader #jaskier x reader #wolfie's witcher writing

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howdoistormspirit · 1 year

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Renfri/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Characters: Renfri (The Witcher), Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Additional Tags: Exhibitionism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Lingerie, Masturbation, Established Relationship, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot Series: Part 19 of Witcher Kinktober 2022 Summary:

Kinktober Day 19: Voyeurism

Renfri and Yennefer may be apart while Renfri goes on a trip, but that doesn’t stop Yennefer from driving her wild.

Day 19 Joke: There was a kidnapping at school yesterday. Don’t worry, though - he woke up!

#yenfri #yennefer of vengerberg #renfri of creyden #the witcher fic #the witcher fanfiction

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nellieofthevalley · 4 months

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Not quite killer frequency But I HAD TO DRAW RENFRI!

Shes my favorite character in the witcher, I hate how overlooked she is and Most of all I hate her book design. I definitely like her book representation the most, though so I wanted to kind of combine her show and Book looks!

Also most people draw her with VERY bright blue eyes when she’s described as having “ocean colored eyes”, and to me oceans are more of a dark blue or turquoise look- idk though maybe thats just me.

ANYWAY I wanna design yen next

Feel free to use in art with credit :))

#renfri #renfri vellga #renfri of creyden #the shrike #a lesser evil #the witcher #the witcher is so cool #renfri deserved better

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kensthjerte · 9 months

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she's evil, most definitely

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher 3 #renfri #renfri of creyden #emma appleton #thewitcheredit #thewitcherdaily

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free-use-renfri · 2 years

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Renfri of Creyden Playlist

Yellow Flicker Beat - Lorde In The Woods Somewhere - Hozier Shrike - Hozier Godhunter - Aviators Black Dresses - The Builders and The Butchers The Horror and The Wild - The Amazing Devil Devil's Resting Place - Laura Marling Tongues and Teeth - The Crane Wives Quiet As A Rat - Amigo The Devil Free Animal - Foreign Air

#renfri #the witcher #Renfri Vellga #Renfri of Creyden #Playlist #renfwi's content #proship #profiction

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fangirleaconmigo · 2 years

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Both Unwanted Daughters

Yennefer x Renfri. Rated mature for references to Renfri’s past.

Here is what I imagine would have happened if Yen came to Blaviken instead of Geralt.

—-

Yennefer pretends she does not sense the wild woman in the smoky tavern approaching her. But she does. She has no choice.

The woman’s chaos is like frenzied sparks broken free of a wildfire. The warmth skitters across Yennefer’s skin. She has to focus to prevent herself from visibly reacting to it.

When she raises her eyes and gets a real, proper look at the woman, she reacts anyways, with a sharp intake of breath.

Yennefer has grown inured to beauty. In her world, beauty is an object created for display. It is one tool among many, used to impress and manipulate people. After decades of attending lavish parties with caviar illusions, false white smiles, and finery created with the burnished skin of endangered species, she has forgotten what it feels like to be awestruck by beauty.

Actual beauty.

Beauty that does not exist to be observed. Beauty that roars to life, streaked with dirt and clad in audacity, and sinks its claws into your flesh.

The woman swaggers closer still, her scabbard slapping softly against her hips. The way she moves suggests that her slight, gently curvaceous body is far more powerful than it looks. The table full of craven thugs she has just left in the corner studiously avert their eyes.

“Madam Yennefer of Vengerberg.” Her eyes glitter with a mocking humor. She bows so low that her honey brown curls tumble forward, momentarily obscuring her face.

“What do you want?” Yennefer demands sharply, pretending to be very interested in her cup of wine.

It isn’t true that Yennefer feels nothing in the face of beauty. Dangerous beauty. Ungovernable beauty.

She feels plenty. She feels irritated.

“Well.” The woman smirks and leans rakishly against the bar. “I love a girl who gets right to the point. My name is—“

“Princess Renfri of Creyden.”

Princess Renfri’s eyebrows shoot up. She is surprised, but pleased. “How did you know?”

“I know about every political intrigue that happens in the North.”

Bitterness briefly clouds Renfri’s face. “Is that what it is called in your world when a man rapes you and tries to kill you?” She aims a scornful glance at the sorceress. “Political intrigue?”

Yennefer cannot help it. She snorts. She is not given to snorting. But it is so childishly naive and stupid.

“Just barely.”

“What the shit is that supposed to mean?”

Yennefer shrugs. “You are not a proper heir. So, I would call it minor political intrigue.” She waves her hand casually. “And you only qualify as that much because in recent years, the exploits of Meve and Calanthe have convinced a few powerful men to pay more attention to disaffected little girls.”

Renfri does not like disaffected little girls and her eyes blaze. But Yennefer pretends not to notice.

“Your situation is worth, at most, a mention near the end of a meeting, just when things are wrapping up and people try to cram in the smaller matters that do not actually warrant conversation.”

Renfri’s face hardens. Her body bunches up and her anger is raw. It infects the flavor, there is no better way to describe it, of her chaos. It tastes exactly like the thing that she is—-an unwanted daughter with a weeping infected wound. It is too familiar. Yennefer feels it like a stab to her soft fleshy underbelly and she has to harden herself to mirror the anger she sees in the princess.

“And who the fuck are you to speak that way about me?” Renfri demands.

Yennefer spins on her stool and looks at her defiantly. “Even less. If you are minor political intrigue, then I am what minor political intrigue shits out. Unlike you, I have never had a throne to lose. Unlike you, I have nothing to reclaim. There is no greatness awaiting me with open arms. I was born into pig shit and thrown out with the refuse. How dare you ask me for anything?”

Yennefer can feel heat creeping into her voice, so she stops abruptly and turns back towards the bar again.

Renfri blinks, clearly taken aback. Clearly considering the twist the conversation has taken. Yennefer drinks her wine. She nods at the bartender to indicate that she is finished with her plate.

“I misjudged you.”

Yennefer ignores her. She is still trying to stifle the emotion that sent the heat into her voice.

Renfri stands and watches her in silence. It should feel awkward. Dishware clinks and men sit at tables telling foul jokes. And Renfri is silent.

Yet it isn’t awkward. Once Yen is calmer she feels a tinge of regret. Her anger is misplaced. Misdirected. Renfri hasn’t done anything wrong.

“Wait,” Renfri says, breaking the silence. She has just thought to ask something. “How did you know I was her? You’ve heard the stories. But how did you connect them to me?”

Yennefer glances over and looks her up and down. “Only a Princess would be so utterly, comically shit at tailoring the clothes she stole off an oversized thug.”

Renfri chuckles. Her shoulders have loosened now. She thinks they are on the same side. That is dangerous. They are not on the same side.

“You lie like a fox, Lady Yennefer. I look dashing.” She pulls down her vest and pats her hips as though to make sure everything is still there.

Despite her best efforts, Yennefer’s eyes follow the movement of her hands, lingering just a precious beat too long on her waist. On the spot where it swells elegantly into her hips. Renfri’s lips curl into a smug smile.

Yennefer yanks her eyes away but Renfri has smelled the blood in the water. She leans against the bar, sliding closer, until Yennefer is forced to look directly at her again.

“So that is how you knew I was a princess? I look like utter shit?” Her voice is sing song and mocking.

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “That and the squad of goons at the table who obviously defer to you. What other wild woman roams the countryside looking deranged and commanding an assortment of idiots with clubs and daggers?”

Renfri laughs again. It is throaty and self assured. There is nothing calculated about it. No wonder they fucking hated her at court.

“Now that you have confirmation that I am a princess, are you intrigued, Lady Yennefer?” Her eyes slide from Yennefer’s face down her neck. She wets her lower lip. “Tell me. Have you ever wanted to bed a princess? In your very long life?”

Yennefer purses her lips and ignores Renfri’s attempt to goad her about her age. “Just tell me what you want. I don’t have time for games.”

The smile does not leave Renfri’s lips but she grows serious. “Alright. I need your help.”

“That’s better. I prefer honesty.”

Renfri laughs. “I was being honest. I would kill to make those enchanting violet eyes flutter closed in ecstasy-“

Yennefer holds up her hand. “Stop. Just tell me what you want so I can tell you no, and so you can leave me in peace, disgraced, feral, exiled Princess Renfri of Creyden.”

Just as she did not respond to Renfri’s attempt to goad her, Renfri manages not to take the bait.

“Fine,” she responds. She lowers her voice and scoots closer still. Yennefer can no longer see her cup of wine because her entire view of the bar is blocked by Renfri. She turns the full force of her doe eyes on Yennefer. They are light honey brown like her hair, shot through with green.

“You are in town to meet with Stregobor. And I want to kill him.”

Yennefer blanches.

“That frightens you?”

Yen carefully returns her expression neutral. She thinks quickly.

She is there to meet Stregobor because after twenty years of clawing and scraping and scheming, she is finally on the precipice of being appointed to the Council. Stregobor, who has always disdained her, but who she has thoroughly outmaneuvered, is her final hurdle to being seated on the council.

It is a done deal. A formality. But Yennefer is wise enough to know that done deals can unravel at the last possible moment.

She cannot afford to go into this meeting ignorant of a crime Stregobor has committed. She must know what his vulnerabilities are. Who his enemies are.

Whatever the contemptible, awful little toad has done to Renfri, Yen can use that information to curry favor with him. Or to manipulate him. Or to blackmail him. She doesn’t know yet. But information is power. And the fact that she doesn’t know why Renfri of Creyden wants to kill him is an unacceptable, even shocking, lapse in information and power.

She must get the princess to share. To speak freely. She must make sure her appointment goes off without a hitch. So, Yen goads her again, but hopefully in a less obvious way this time.

“Not frightened. Just surprised. Stregobor is so respectable. So highly regarded. It simply surprises me that he could have done something to deserve death.”

“Liar.”

She speaks the word as though it is real. But she seems amused. Like Yen’s lie is a joke they are both in on.

“What did he do?” Yen repeats.

Renfri casts her eyes down, then looks up fetchingly.“I will tell you, but it will take some time.”

Yen leans forward as though she is telling her a secret. They are so close now that she can feel Renfri’s breath on her. “I have time. I don’t meet him until tomorrow.”

Renfri considers for a moment. “May I join you for dinner? In the private luxury suite you have no doubt rented for the week?”

It is both the worst and the best idea that Yennefer has heard in ages. It is a dangerous game being seen with a woman who wants to kill the man with final approval for her appointment to the council. But she can use any information she gains to her advantage.

Any desire, any deep burning want she feels for the princess is entirely incidental.

“Shall I change into court attire?” she teases. I have never had a private dinner with a princess.

Renfri smiles and drags a finger down a lock of Yennefer’s hair. She watches the soft, shiny lock slide between her fingers. “Actually, the less attire the better.”

She barely has to move. It is just a subtle lean.

And they are kissing.

——

I have been dreaming of writing this fic for probably the past year and a half. Then I heard The Calling, off of The Amazing Devil’s Ruin album. And I thought oh. This is Yen and Renfri. And I started writing.

I will probably work on it here and there until it is done. But since I know it is really almost exclusively for me (not many Yenfri readers) I will take my time. But I’m putting my whole heart into it.

#the witcher #yennefer of vengerberg #renfri of creyden #descarada writes #descarada writes yenfri #the amazing devil lyrics as fic titles #yenfri #the calling #the amazing devil #yennefer x renfri #Renfri

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