#geraskelfer

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

30 Days With the Bard

After a year and a half, several scrapped drafts, and 30K words, the sequel to Hanging Out With the Right People is finally posted! You can find it here on AO3 or read the first few scenes below.

Rating: M

Warnings: none

Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier; Eskel/Geralt/Yennefer; pre-Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Summary: After saving Jaskier from execution, Geralt, Eskel, and Yennefer agree to let Jaskier travel with them for thirty days, with varying degrees of reluctance. But just as Geralt starts to develop a soft spot for the bard with the blue eyes and quick wit, they discover that there’s more to Jaskier than meets the eye—and the bard’s secrets might put all of them in jeopardy.

***

Before

"Would it kill the two of you to take me to a party someday where nobody is likely to get murdered?" Yennefer asks, checking her lipstick in the looking glass.

Eskel snorts. "Yenn, the last party you took us to, half the attendees died."

"And most of them deserved it."

Sitting back on the bed of the inn room the three of them are sharing, Geralt shakes his head at his lovers. "You two planning on murdering someone?" He directs the question mostly to Yenn. They aren't sure if the duchess whose third wedding Yennefer and Eskel are attending has really been sacrificing maidens in a bid for eternal life or if it's just a pernicious rumor. Knowing their history with noble weddings, it's sure to be a shitshow either way.

Yennefer meets his eyes in the looking glass, red lips curving into what someone who doesn't know her well would think is a sweet smile. "Only if they need to be murdered."

Eskel sighs, exasperation belied by the affectionate hand he brushes through Yennefer's hair. "You sure you don't want to come with us, Wolf? Keep the bloodshed to a minimum?"

"I'd love to," Geralt deadpans. "Unfortunately, there's a griffin in the woods that needs killing. Send the duchess my regrets."

"The griffin will still be there when we get back," Yennefer points out.

"And more than likely, at least one hunter won't be." Most lordlings at least have the sense not to send people into the territory of an angry griffin, but not the local baron. He's more concerned about getting fresh meat on his table than keeping his servants from becoming meat for a griffin. “Someone needs to take care of the problem before it makes its way into the village.”

“You going to need help?” Eskel looks hopeful.

“I think he can handle a griffin just fine.” Yennefer turns to Geralt with a raised brow. “We’ll be gone for no more than a week. Do you think you can stay out of trouble for that long?”

Geralt snorts. “Think I can manage that, Yenn.”

***

The griffin is no trouble. Neither are the ghouls that have taken over the local graveyard. The trouble comes back at the inn, where Geralt is fast asleep when three young men, all drunk and looking to prove a point, come bursting into his room with the intent to kill.

All that comes after is death and screaming.

***

Someone in the next cell is singing. He’s been singing for most of the two days since Geralt got tossed in the dungeon. His range varies. He sings odes to the rats he’s befriended and scalding ditties implying that the guard’s mother fucked a weasel—which, in Geralt’s opinion, is unfair to weasels. He’s singing the latter when Geralt hears the sound of something heavy ricocheting off the door. Probably a stool.

“Can’t wait to watch you swing tomorrow, you little shit! Hope it takes a long time for your fucking neck to break.”

The singing abruptly stops. Geralt hears the sound of heavy footsteps stomping past his cell. A moment later, he hears a stuttering inhale from the next cell, followed by a single ragged sob. It’s the first sound of despair Geralt has heard from his fellow prisoner in the past two days.

He thinks about calling out. He doesn’t know what he’d say; it’s not like he’s good at comforting people. That’s Eskel’s forte, not his. But it seems wrong to let the young man be alone on the last night of his life.

In a tremulous voice, the man begins to sing again. Geralt closes his eyes, leans his head back against the wall, and listens.

***

Day 0

Geralt knows he should walk away when the bespelled guard commands the executioner to free him from the gallows. The man reeks of lilac and gooseberries; the baron's change of heart and his guard's interference is clearly Yennefer's work. He knows if he walks away from the gallows, Yennefer and Eskel will be waiting for him, probably exasperated that Geralt managed to put himself in mortal danger yet again. He can take a bath to wash the scent of the dungeons off of him, have a decent meal, and lose himself in his lovers' arms. Maybe tomorrow, Yennefer will portal them to see Ciri. After thinking that he was never going to see her again, all he wants is to hug his daughter.

But he makes the mistake of turning around.

Jaskier can’t be older than his early-to-mid-twenties, wide-eyed and scared out of his fucking mind, though he's trying to keep a brave face. His mouth trembles as he tries to smile at Geralt. "Well, nice chatting with you, Geralt," he says. "I would say I'll see you around, but... well, you know."

The magistrate is reading out the charges against the bard: debauchery and disturbing the peace. Geralt isn't sure how refusing to fuck the baron is "disturbing the peace," but it doesn't matter. The fact that it's a bullshit charge won't make the kid any less dead if the baron gets his way. People die stupid, pointless deaths all the time, but this one seems especially so. Rejecting someone's advances doesn't warrant a death sentence, no matter how powerful that someone is.

Jaskier's heartbeat ratchets up to a silent scream as the magistrate finishes reading the list of charges. His enormous eyes are locked on Geralt's face. He isn’t pleading for his life, but he might as well be.

"Fuck," Geralt growls.

He knows it's a mistake, even as he steals the guard's sword and drives the hilt into the man's head, knocking him out. He knows it's a mistake as he cuts Jaskier free of the gallows and slings the bard over his shoulder. He knows it's a mistake as he turns to meet the incoming guards with his stolen sword raised.

But he'll get them out of this alive first and worry about the consequences later.

***

"I still don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do with a bard,” Yennefer grumbles.

The bard in question is sprawled out in front of the campfire, lying on his back with his limbs akimbo, snoring loudly. His chemise is hitched up a little, exposing the pale, hairy plane of his stomach. It’s a show of trust that no one with a sliver of common sense would show when sharing a campsite with two witchers and a sorceress.

“I couldn’t just let him swing for the crime of not sucking the baron’s dick.” Geralt can’t quite keep the edge from his voice. 

Her expression softens, just a little. “No, but we didn’t need to invite him along.”

“Think he invited himself,” Eskel says dryly from her other side.

“It’s only for a month, Yenn.” Geralt puts a hand on her knee, rubbing slow circles with his thumb. “Thirty days. He’ll be gone by the time we need to go get Ciri from the Temple of Melitele and head to Kaer Morhen for the winter.”

The bard snorts loudly in his sleep.

“Fine, but he’s your problem.” Yennefer jabs her finger at Geralt. “ Entirely your problem. I want nothing to do with this bullshit.”

Geralt nods, because he sees no point in arguing. Jaskier will only be with them for thirty days. That’s not enough time for him to cause any real havoc.

***

Day 1

“Hey.” Geralt nudges the still-snoring bard with the toe of his boot. Jaskier hasn’t stirred the entire time that Geralt, Eskel, and Yennefer have been packing up camp around him. They could probably leave him here and the kid wouldn’t notice. Geralt’s not sure how the fuck he’s survived as a traveling bard. “Time to get up.”

Jaskier’s eyes fly open and he gasps, flinching backwards. Geralt grimaces at the sour scent of terror flooding the air. He’s used to humans smelling afraid around him, but he hadn’t been expecting this human to be terrified of him, not after how insistent Jaskier had been the day before about wanting to travel with Geralt, Eskel, and Yennefer. On the other side of the clearing, Eskel’s head jerks up, posture going tense.

And then Jaskier’s bleary eyes focus on Geralt and his expression clears, a smile curling his lips. The terror scent fades as quickly as it had flared up. “Good morning, Geralt! That was the best night’s sleep I’ve gotten in weeks. Where are we off to this fine day?”

The day is gray and a little damp, with the chill of autumn cutting through the last vestiges of summer. It’s not what Geralt would ever think of as a “fine day.” “We need to put more distance between ourselves and Tridest. We’re going to head east to Flotsam. If we make good time, we’ll be there by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Excellent!” Jaskier says, which is the most enthusiasm Geralt has ever seen anyone show about going to Flotsam. “I spent several weeks in Flotsam last spring. Met the loveliest lady, Hilde, I think her name was, or maybe Heidi. No, definitely Hilde, I remember because—”

Yennefer, who doesn’t tolerate cheerfulness before midday, gives Geralt a look that very clearly says, “shut him up or I will.”  

“Here.” Geralt shoves a piece of hardtack at him. No one can jabber and eat hardtack at the same time, one of its few virtues. “Eat this. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

Jaskier takes the hardtack with a grateful smile, one that only dulls a little when he takes a bite. He tries to say something, but it’s incomprehensible around the hardtack, so Geralt just turns away from him and goes back to saddling up Roach.

***

“So, if you don’t mind me asking,” Jaskier says an hour or so later, walking between Roach and Scorpion.

“We do,” Yennefer deadpans from the back of her mare, Sabrina, named after a girl she went to school with. Geralt thought that they must have been good friends until Yennefer explained that it was supposed to be a slight against the other sorceress.

Jaskier continues on, heedless of her reply. “How does this work?” He gestures between the three of them.

Yennefer looks down her nose at him. “If no one has given you the birds and the bees talk, bardling, I suggest you go back to Oxenfurt and ask one of your old professors.”

“No, thank you.” Jaskier looks up at her with a brilliant smile. “They did a shit job of giving that talk the first time around. I was nearly twenty when I realized you could use your mouth to—”

“How does what work?” Eskel cuts him off, frowning at Yennefer.

“The three of you,” Jaskier says. “Do you travel together all the time? How did you meet? How long have you three been together?”

Yennefer arches an eyebrow. “What makes you think we’re together?”

“I’m a bard.” Jaskier’s voice takes on a lofty tone. “I know love when I see it and the three of you are clearly in love.”

Eskel turns to Geralt with a look of wide-eyed incredulity. “You’re in love with Yennefer too?”

“Don’t worry, darling.” Yennefer’s lips curl into a little smirk. “There’s plenty of room in my bed for the both of you. Unless you’d rather duel about it.”

Jaskier looks between the three of them with the enormous eyes of someone just realizing they’ve stepped in it. ”I, er…”

“They’re fucking with you,” Geralt tells him flatly. 

Yennefer sighs. “You’re no fun, Geralt. Thank the gods I have Eskel.”

Eskel looks very smug.

“Ah, I see how it is.” Jaskier barks a laugh. “It isn’t kind to torment your new friend, you know.”

“We’ll keep that in mind when we make a friend,” Yennefer says.

Geralt talks over Jaskier’s offended gasp. “It’s been the three of us for ten years now. We don’t travel together all the time. Most towns will chase out two witchers with stones as soon as we step foot in them and Yennefer has her own life, away from the Path.”

“Oh?” Jaskier turns to Yennefer, eyes bright with curiosity.

“No,” she says flatly and his shoulders sag a little.

Geralt doesn’t know how he ended up being the one doing all the talking, but Yennefer seems uninterested in answering Jaskier’s questions, Eskel is still faintly bewildered by the bard, and he has a feeling that Jaskier will keep asking until he gets the information he wants. “Eskel and I have known each other since we were boys. Yennefer and I met fifteen years ago in Aedirn.”

“He was hired to kill me.” Yennefer’s lips quirk.

Instead of looking horrified, Jaskier looks delighted. “Oh ho, I can tell there’s a story there.”

“Not really.” Geralt shrugs. “I didn’t kill her.”

“Well, I would hope not. That would have been an inopportune start to a romance.”

“There wasn’t much of a romance at the beginning,” Geralt says dryly. “She tried to kill me the first time we met.”

Yennefer makes no attempt to look remorseful. “That’s what you get when you barge into someone’s hiding place with a fucking sword.”

“Why were you hired to kill her?” Jaskier frowns. “I thought witchers killed monsters, not men. Or in this case, mages.”

“I was accused of assassinating the Queen of Lyria and her daughter,” Yennefer says. “Geralt had the misfortune to be traveling through Lyria at the time.”

Geralt hums. “The King of Lyria didn’t give a shit that I only kill monsters. It was either my head or hers.”

“But you saved her instead.” Jaskier looks downright starry-eyed.

Geralt snorts. “She saved herself.”

“You helped.” Yennefer reaches over to pat his arm.

“And then how did it become the three of you?” Jaskier looks between Yennefer and Eskel.

Geralt exchanges glances with his lovers. The story of how the three of them got together is inextricably entwined with the story of how Geralt claimed Ciri via Law of Surprise. And Geralt doesn’t need to discuss it with Eskel and Yennefer to know that there’s no way in hell that they’re going to tell Jaskier about Ciri. What keeps their daughter safe is that everyone thinks Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon was lost at sea with her parents eight years before. No one would think to connect the lost princess to nine-year-old Ciri, the feisty, spirited student at the Temple of Melitele who gives her teachers endless gray hairs.

“I needed a witcher’s assistance and Geralt was unavailable,” Yennefer says, which isn’t entirely a lie. “Once Eskel and I got to know each other, it didn’t take long for us to realize what Geralt saw in the other one.”

“But how—”

“What about you?” Eskel asks. “How did a noble become a traveling bard?”

Jaskier strikes Geralt as the type to love talking about himself, so he’s surprised when the bard almost looks flustered. “Well, my parents sent me to Oxenfurt when I was twelve, like every noble son in Redania. We’re expected to study all seven liberal arts, but much to my parents’ dismay, I was far too interested in the art part of the liberal arts, particularly music. When I graduated from Oxenfurt, they thought I would return to Lettenhove and take my place as my father’s heir. Instead, I just… walked in the opposite direction of Lettenhove. That was seven years ago. I haven’t been home since.”

Geralt hums, remembering that Jaskier’s father apparently told the Baron de Tridest to go ahead and have his son executed. From the lost look on Jaskier’s face, he’s thinking the same thing. Taking pity on him, Geralt decides to change the subject. “Want to hear about the time Eskel nearly burned down the keep where we grew up?”

Eskel shoots him a betrayed look. “That was an accident.”

“Wouldn’t have made the keep any less burned down if there hadn’t been a mage nearby.”

“Come on, Wolf.”

“I would be delighted, Geralt.” Jaskier grins up at him, blue eyes sparkling with relief at the distraction.

Geralt has never been much of a storyteller, but he can try his best if it keeps Jaskier from getting that lost look on his face again.

***

Read the rest on AO3!

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskelfer #eskel x geralt x jaskier x yennefer #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #eskel #ghost's writing #ghost's fic #hanging out with the right people verse

[brothebro]

Just sayin that Leshkel deserves a Leshy boyfriend

(so why not make it Jaskel? )

#the witcher #jaskier #bro arts #jaskel #leshkel #leshkier #eskel #leshen au #leshen #the witcher netflix spoilers #the witcher netflix #the witcher season two #creature!jaskier #jaskier x eskel #this au came to me two days ago or so? or was it yesterday? #no matter it's an au with ot4 geraskelfer #and leshy jask and esk #also fem Geralt and masc Yen

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Tag Game. Ot4 4 and heat bombard please 💞

I talked about Heat Bombard a little here.

OT4 4 is the sequel to Hanging Out With the Right People and 30 Days With the Bard. It's pre-Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer with a Jaskel focus and background Geraskier and Eskel/Geralt/Yennefer.

There isn't much of it yet, just an outline and a few short snippets, but here's the beginning:

For the third morning in a row, Eskel is awoken by a noise that could easily pass for the mating call of a royal archgriffin. “Melitele, Geralt, oh gods, your mouth—” “For fuck’s sake,” Yennefer grumbles, voice muffled. Eskel rolls over onto his back, glancing over to see his lover poking her head out from beneath her pile of blankets, looking adorably disgruntled. “In his defense, Geralt does have a damn good mouth.” In the next room, Jaskier lets out another cry. He might be good to take on a griffin hunt sometime. Yennefer rolls her eyes. “No one’s mouth is that good.” “Hey,” Eskel says mildly. “I didn’t do half-bad last night.” That earns him another eye roll, which he probably deserves. “If he gets any louder, the keep is going to fall down around our ears.” “Kaer Morhen’s survived several thousand years, a Conjunction, at least two sieges. I think it can handle a bard.” “Can it?” Yennefer slips her head back under the covers. “If the noise keeps up, I may need you to stab him.” “Stab him yourself.”

WIP Ask Game

#the witcher #geraskelfer #jaskel #ghost's writing #hanging out with the right people verse #eskel x geralt x jaskier x yennefer #I think I may be one of like 3 people who wants this ot4 to be a thing but I'm determined

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

👀💖

From the sequel to Hanging Out With the Right People, which has also spun wildly out of my control:

Yennefer arches an eyebrow. “What makes you think we’re together?”

“I’m a bard.” Jaskier’s voice takes on a lofty tone. “I know love when I see it and the three of you are clearly in love.”

Eskel turns to Geralt with a look of wide-eyed incredulity. “You’re in love with Yennefer too?”

“Don’t worry, darling.” Yennefer’s lips curl into a little smirk. “There’s plenty of room in my bed for the both of you. Unless you’d rather duel about it.”

Jaskier looks between the three of them with the enormous eyes of someone just realizing they’ve stepped in it. ”I, er…”

“They’re fucking with you,” Geralt tells him flatly. 

Yennefer sighs. “You’re no fun, Geralt. Thank the gods I have Eskel.”

Eskel looks very smug.

“Ah, I see how it is.” Jaskier barks a laugh. “It isn’t kind to torment your new friend, you know.”

“We’ll keep that in mind when we make a friend,” Yennefer says.

Send me a 👀 and I'll give you a snippet of a WIP

#geraskelfer my beloved #2023 will be the year I make this ot4 a thing #hanging out with the right people

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Hanging Out With the Right People

Prompt: MCD or near-death experience

Relationship: Geralt & Jaskier; Eskel/Geralt/Yennefer; pre-Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Rating: M

Warnings: depictions of hanging

Summary: Moments away from being publicly executed, Jaskier can’t help but strike up a conversation with the handsome, white-haired witcher standing on the scaffold next to him. After all, what better way to spend the end of his life than flirting with a good-looking stranger?

But when said good-looking stranger’s two lovers come to their rescue, Jaskier decides to turn his almost-execution into the opportunity of a lifetime.

This is my last whump prompt for @whataboutthebard. All wreck and wuv from here on out! You can read it below or find it here on AO3.

***

“So,” Jaskier asks the attractive stranger standing on the scaffold next to him. “What are you in for?”

It’s just his luck that he would meet the most handsome man he’s ever laid eyes on when he only has minutes left to live. He thinks he could write a thousand odes to the man’s snowy white hair, the chiseled cut of his jaw, his broad shoulders. He already has a tune in his head, but he’s finding it difficult to come up with lyrics that do it justice when there’s a noose around his neck, an executioner at his back, and a crowd baying for his blood.

The white-haired man doesn’t look at him. He looks remarkably bored for someone who’s only minutes from being hung. “Triple homicide.”

“Oh.” Jaskier blinks. “Did they deserve it?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

Well, that’s cryptic. “I’m here for debauchery.”

The stranger snorts. “Fuck the baron’s daughter or something?”

"Ha, if only! Just my luck, to be hung for debauchery the one time I haven't actually debauched anyone." Jaskier laughs, sounding a bit hysterical. “No, it’s who I didn’t fuck that was the problem. The baron wasn’t best pleased when I turned him down and next thing I knew, I was being clapped in irons."

"Hm," the other man says.

Jaskier laughs again, even though nothing is funny. He feels oddly calm after two weeks of utter, mind-numbing terror while he sat in a dungeon, awaiting the letter from his father that he hoped would convince the baron to spare his life. Instead, when the letter arrived, the Earl de Lettenhove stated that he had no son named Julian and that the man in the Baron de Tridest’s custody was an impostor that the baron could do with as he pleased. The way Jaskier sees it, he could spend his last moments weeping and babbling prayers, like three of the five men standing on the scaffold, or he could spend them making conversation with an interesting stranger.

Music starts up and Jaskier twists around to see a wiry, scruffy bard in a hideous hat striking up one of those vicious public execution songs that he’s always hated. And to add insult to injury…

“That’s my lute!” Jaskier jerks at the bonds around his wrists, leaning forward as far as he can without plunging off the scaffold and hanging himself ahead of schedule. It only took him twenty-five years, but he’s finally learned how to wait his turn. “Son of a whore, they stole my lute!”

The white-haired man still isn’t looking at him. “You’re a bard?”

“Julian Alfred Pankratx, Vis—” Jaskier’s voice breaks. He’s no longer the Viscount de Lettenhove; his father has washed his hands of him. “Also known as Jaskier the Bard. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Probably not.”

“And who might you be?”

“Nobody important.”

“Ah, I must disagree. As you’re the last person on this mortal plane I’m ever going to make conversation with, your name is quite important to me.” There’s a plea in Jaskier’s voice, much to his embarrassment. They’re reading out the list of charges against the first man— horse theft and poaching.

The white-haired stranger says nothing. There’s the sound of a wooden platform being slid away and then the hideous crunch of a neck breaking, audible even over the horrible song the bard is playing on Jaskier’s lute. Jaskier can’t quite contain his shudder.

“Geralt of Rivia,” the man says quietly.

Jaskier’s eyes go wide and he twists around to look at the man. “Oh, I’ve heard of you! You’re a witcher!”

“Hm.”

“The Butcher of—” At Geralt’s wince, Jaskier chooses a different tactic. “You know, years ago, I was in Posada and I heard word you’d just been passing through, dealing with a grain-stealing devil. I tried to track you down, but I must have just missed you.”

They’re reading out charges against the second man— assault and theft.

Geralt is still facing forward, but looks at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. “And why would you be trying to track me down?”

“Because I’m a traveling bard and I’m always on the lookout for a new muse.”

“Hm.”

“I suppose I caught up with you too late for storytelling.”

Another slide of wood, a crack. Cheers from the crowd. Jaskier can feel sweat prickling on his palms and forehead.

“Not much of a storyteller anyway,” Geralt says. “You’d like my… uh, Eskel. He’s the storyteller of the two of us.”

“Ah, well maybe I’ll have better luck next time.”

That gets another snort out of Geralt, though there’s no humor in it. “It’s not that bad, you know.”

“What isn’t?”

“Dying. My heart’s stopped a few times. There’s nothing after this. Whatever the Eternal Fire spews about hellfire and demons, it’s all bullshit. It will be like going to sleep. You won’t suffer.”

Jaskier has never believed in hellfire or demons, but he can’t deny that his dreams have been plagued by thoughts of both ever since he learned he was sentenced to death. He lets out a shuddering breath as the third man on the scaffold meets his end. Jaskier didn't even hear the charges against him being read. “Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt nods, turning to look at Jaskier for the first time. His slit-pupiled eyes are a lovely golden color.

“Geralt of Rivia,” the magistrate says. “For the brutal and senseless murders of three young men, you have hereby been sentenced to hang from the neck until you are dead. I would say may the gods have mercy on your soul, but you’re a witcher. You have no soul.”

Geralt faces forward again, nostrils flaring, as the crowd roars their approval. Jaskier is suddenly seized by the terror he’s been suppressing all day. He doesn’t want to die but he also doesn’t want to watch this man with his golden eyes and enigmatic little smile lose his life. He barely knows Geralt, but something tells him that this man has more soul than all the jackasses braying for his blood combined.

Jaskier opens his mouth. He’s not sure what he’s going to say, but he has to say something in Geralt’s defense.

“Stop!” A man’s voice booms across the crowd.

Jaskier’s head jerks up, heart leaping into his throat. A guardsman wearing the livery of the Baron of Tridest comes galloping through the crowd on horseback, parting the mob. For an instant, Jaskier feels the first swell of hope he’s felt in weeks. His father has changed his mind. He’s written to the baron to ask for his oldest son to be spared. Jaskier is going to live.

“By the order of his lordship the baron, all charges against Geralt of Rivia are hereby dropped,” the guard announces. “He’s to be released immediately.”

A swell of conflicting emotions rises within Jaskier— joy that Geralt gets to live and a kind of numb dread as the hopelessness of his own situation settles in. There’s no last minute rescue coming for him. Jaskier is going to die.

The executioner slips the noose from around Geralt’s neck and unties his wrists and ankles. The guard leaps down from horseback to take Geralt by the arm, as if afraid that Geralt is going to protest his stay of execution. For his part, Geralt’s expression is as bored as it was when there was a noose around his neck, like this is all a mild inconvenience.

“Well, nice chatting with you, Geralt.” Jaskier hates how his voice quavers. “I would say I’d see you around but, well, you know.”

Geralt turns to him, a furrow forming in his brow. Jaskier focuses on those golden eyes. They're a far finer last thing to see than the three corpses hanging from the scaffold, the braying crowd, or the leering bard with his lute.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz,” the magistrate says, recovering himself. “For the crimes of debauchery and disturbing the peace—”

“Fuck,” Geralt growls and seizes the sword from the guard’s belt. Before the man can react, he drives the hilt right into the guard’s temple. As the guard crumples, the executioner shouts and starts forward. Geralt makes a complicated little gesture with his hand and the executioner is blasted backwards into another guard that’s come to assist. Geralt swings his stolen sword, severing the rope around Jaskier’s neck from the scaffold. Then without so much as a moment’s hesitation, he picks Jaskier up, slings him over the shoulder, and leaps down to the ground.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shrieks as spectators begin rushing forward to stop the escape.

“I know!” Geralt says over the clash of steel against steel.

From his position dangling over Geralt’s shoulder like a well-dressed sack of potatoes, Jaskier can’t see much, save for his close-up view of a remarkably lovely, leather-clad bottom. He cranes his head to see Geralt doing his best to fend off the bystanders who are trying to prevent their escape, seemingly doing everything in his power not to kill the civilians rushing at him with pitchforks and clubs. It occurs to Jaskier that the witcher would have a much easier time of it if he were to drop the bard slung over his shoulder, but Geralt seems unwilling to let him be trampled.

Geralt is engaged in combat with what sounds like at least two or three attackers when another man comes rushing at him from behind, pitchfork aimed right at the back of Geralt’s head.

“Geralt, behind you!” Jaskier shouts.

Geralt’s only response is a curse.

Just when Jaskier is convinced that either he or the witcher is going to be impaled on a pitchfork, a broad-shouldered, cloaked figure steps between the charging villager and his quarry. The villager takes one look at the hooded figure’s face and turns tail to run, letting his pitchfork clatter to the ground. The cloaked figure raises their hand and sends a stream of flames at two of the baron’s guards, sending them running after the villager, shrieking in terror.

The newcomer turns and Jaskier’s eyes widen at the sight of a handsome, brown-haired man with the same slit-pupiled eyes as Geralt. “What the fuck, Wolf?” he demands.

“Where’s Yenn?” is Geralt’s only reply.

“Back at the camp. We didn’t think she needed to be here, since you were supposed to just walk away when the baron pardoned your life.”

“Couldn’t let them hang him. Here, catch.”

Jaskier has no warning before he’s sailing through the air, letting out a single, manly shriek of surprise. The newcomer catches him with one arm. Luckily, he doesn’t sling Jaskier over his shoulder, since his armor is spiked, but instead holds Jaskier in some kind of one-armed bridal carry that’s hideously uncomfortable.

“Why, hello,” Jaskier says, because he’s never let an awkward situation stop him from chatting up handsome men. “I’m Jaskier.”

The newcomer arches an eyebrow. “Eskel.”

“Oh, you’re Eskel. I’ve heard so much about you!”

“Have you.”

“Well, there wasn’t time for an in-depth conversation, but Geralt did tell me that you’re quite the storyteller.”

“Huh.” Eskel sends another burst of flame at a group of approaching villagers, sending them scattering. With perfect ease, he tosses Jaskier from one arm to the other and draws his sword.

“Do I weigh anything to you?” Jaskier asks more out of curiosity than anything.

“Not really,” Eskel says. “Angle’s a bit awkward, though.”

“Apologies. Had Geralt taken a second to cut the ropes around my ankles, I could at least stand on my own without getting trampled underfoot. Not that I’m criticizing his rescue efforts, mind you. They were quite heroic.”

“Sure he’ll welcome the feedback.”

There’s a whoosh of air and a portal opens up in front of them. A dark-haired woman wearing an elegant black dress steps through. Looking around at the chaos, she demands, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Hey, Yennefer,” Eskel says.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she asks again. “I bespelled the baron and his guards! All Geralt had to do was walk away.”

“Yeah, he’s not good at that.” Eskel shoves Jaskier at her. “Take him.”

Jaskier goes tumbling face-first into the woman, barely managing to avoid ending up with his face in her cleavage. “Apologies, my lady, I—”

“Who the fuck are you?” she demands.

“Julian Alfred—”

With a muttered expletive, she tosses him through the portal. Jaskier lands on his back with a surprised "oomph" and lies there, staring up at the blue sky. Nearby, three horses are tied to trees, grazing placidly. One, a chestnut mare, looks up and flicks her ears when she sees Jaskier sprawled across the ground, but doesn’t otherwise react. The clearing is silent and peaceful, save for the sounds of shouting and swords clashing coming from the other side of the portal.

And then Geralt, Eskel, and Yennefer come striding through the portal. Well, Yennefer comes striding through, dragging the two witchers with her. “The whole idea of this was to not make it obvious you were escaping,” she tells Geralt, acid dripping from her tone. “The baron would have gone to his grave thinking it was his decision to spare you. There wasn't supposed to be a brawl.”

“Things got complicated.”

“Don’t they always?”

For the first time, Jaskier notices that Geralt is holding his lute. He cries out in delight. “Thank you! I didn’t think I’d ever see her again. She deserves so much better than that idiot of a minstrel who dared lay a hand on her. Now, could someone please untie me so I can be reunited with her properly?”

Still looking faintly bemused, Eskel bends to cut through the ropes around Jaskier wrists and ankles. Jaskier bounces to his feet to take his lute from Geralt’s hands, checking it over for scratches. To his relief, it's unharmed. The idiot minstrel must have at least known how to take care of a lute, if not how to play one.

“What happened?” Jaskier hears Yennefer ask Geralt in a low voice. “We were only gone for three days and we came back to find you sentenced to death.”

“There was a contract to clean out a ghoul’s nest,” Geralt says, sounding tired. “It was easy work and there was a room at the inn included in the pay, so I took it. But I woke up that night to find three men breaking into my room with knives and pitchforks.”

Yennefer sighs. “And you defended yourself.”

Geralt nods. “One of them was the son of the baron's cousin.”

Jaskier grimaces. It seems the baron's family is full of charming characters.

Eskel goes to put one hand on Geralt’s shoulder and the other on the small of Yennefer’s back. “That’s what Yenn and I get for thinking we can leave you alone for more than an hour or two, Wolf,” he says softly, leaning his forehead against Geralt’s.

Clutching his lute to his chest, Jaskier looks between the three of them, interest peaked. The fact that three of the most beautiful people he’s ever met in his life all appear to be lovers is… intriguing. It’s certainly a more appealing thing to dwell on than the thought of what would have happened to him if Geralt hadn’t taken pity on him.

Yennefer notices him watching and frowns. “And who the fuck is this?”

“I already tried to tell you,” Jaskier says. “My name is—”

“He’s a bard.” Geralt shrugs. “He was about to be hung for a bullshit charge. Couldn’t just let him die. He didn’t deserve it.”

Jaskier swallows. “Thank you for that, by the way. I was quite thoroughly fucked before you came to my aid. And not even in the fun way.”

“What are we supposed to do with a bard?” Yennefer demands.

Jaskier offers what he knows for a fact is a beguiling smile. “If I could offer a suggestion—”

“Figured we can find someplace to leave him,” Geralt says. “Wherever it is that bards go.”

Eskel frowns. “We can’t just leave him somewhere. All he has is his lute and the clothes on his back.”

“Yes, thank you, Eskel,” Jaskier says. “You’re already my favorite.”

Eskel’s cheeks turn a fetching shade of pink. Oh, that’s delightful. “You’re Jaskier, right?” he asks. “The poet?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen and he bounces to his feet, delighted. “Oh, so you’ve heard of me? My poetry has not been as popular as my ballads, but I do have two books of poetry to my name, as well as several pieces published in anthologies—”

Yennefer shoots Geralt an exasperated look. “You couldn’t have saved the horse thief? I thought you would have some fellow feeling for that one.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but he looks more fond than angry.

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth, torn between amusement and outrage. “My lady, I assure you, I am far more handy to have around than a horse thief. The songs that I’ll sing of your heroism today will be known Continent-wide.”

Eskel chuckles and slaps Geralt on the back. “Excellent. That’s the best way to thank Geralt. Write a song about him.”

Geralt sighs loudly. “Where can we bring you, Jaskier? Do you have family or friends you could stay with?”

“Well, my father, the Earl de Lettenhove, wrote to the baron to tell him to go ahead and hang me, since he doesn’t have a son named Julian,” Jaskier says, using cheer to cover up the fact that that still stings. “I do have friends, but they’re all traveling bards. I’d hate to saddle them with me. Like Eskel said, I have nothing but my lute and the clothes on my back. You could bring me to Oxenfurt, I suppose, but in the middle of the term, there won’t be a position for me. So I’m afraid I’m quite out of options right now. My coin and most of my belongings are back at the baron’s estate and I’d rather not risk his wrath by going back there.”

The two witchers and the sorceress exchange looks.

Jaskier steps forward, trying to look wide-eyed and not even a little bit annoying. “If you don’t mind me saying, the reputation of witchers is not… particularly flattering, is it?”

Eskel grimaces, turning his scarred cheek away, like he thinks it will frighten Jaskier. “We won’t harm you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Well, of course you won’t.” Jaskier chuckles at the very idea. “You saved me. Poor villains you make, snatching hapless bards from the jaws of death.”

Yennefer snorts. From the look on her face, she knows exactly what he’s angling for.

“The right song can change the public’s opinion drastically,” Jaskier continues. “There’s a reason kings keep bards in their courts to sing of their exploits in battle. I owe the three of you my life. Let me repay you by traveling with you for a bit. I can write a song that will make the people of the Continent see witchers as heroes, not monsters. Perhaps several songs.”

“And what about me?” Yennefer crosses her arms over her chest and arches one eyebrow. “What songs will you sing of me, bardling?”

Most bard would probably say her beauty: those violet eyes, those raven tresses, that flawless skin and perfect face. Most bards are idiots. “You seem like a woman who has a story to tell,” he says carefully. “I would be honored to hear it and sing of it, if you’d let me.”

It must be the right thing to say, because she lets her arms drop to her sides and shrugs. “We may as well bring him along for a bit. He could be amusing. And Geralt did ruin my perfectly good rescue plan for him. We shouldn’t let that be in vain by leaving the bard in the middle of nowhere.”

Geralt shoots her a wry look. “Next time you have to save my ass, Yenn, I won’t fuck up your plans.”

“Bold of you to assume there will be a next time.” But her words are belied by the fond curl of her lips. Oh, Jaskier needs to know everything about how the three of them ended up together and how their relationship works. They seem like such an odd threesome—two rugged witchers and one elegant sorceress—but he can see the easy affection between them that speaks of years, if not decades, together.

Only Eskel is still looking at Jaskier. “Life on the Path isn’t easy.”

“Neither is life as a traveling bard,” Jaskier says. “Hence the three death sentences.”

“Three?” Geralt asks.

“The other two aren’t important.” Jaskier waves a dismissive hand. “The point is, I’m always up for a new adventure, and an adventure that involves two witchers and a mage seems much safer than traveling on my own. So, what’s the verdict?”

Geralt, Eskel, and Yennefer exchange glances. Some silent communication seems to pass between them, because Geralt says, “Okay. You can travel with us for a bit.”

“A year?” Jaskier offers.

Yennefer makes a disdainful noise. “A week.”

“A month,” Eskel says.

Jaskier nods before Yennefer can argue with that. He has faith that once the month is up, they’ll want him to stay longer. Jaskier is a delight, if he says so himself. “A month I can do. That’s plenty of time for me to write a song of your heroics. Trust me, my friends, I’ll make this more than worth your while.”

“We’ll see about that, bardling,” Yennefer says, already turning away from him.

Jaskier beams at the back of her head, unable to let even her skepticism dull his eagerness. After seven years as a traveling bard, he’s finally going to have a real adventure, one filled with monsters and magic and excitement.

And maybe, if he’s really lucky, just a touch of debauchery.

***

#the witcher #geraskelfer #still determined to make this oT4 a thing #eskel x geralt x jaskier x yennefer #eskel/geralt/jaskier/yennefer #eskel #witcher eskel #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #whump the bard #what about the bard

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

The short, fluffy epilogue of look me in the eye, tell me what you see, my OT4 fic for @brothebro featuring witcher-turned-bard Jaskier, witcher Yennefer, mage Eskel, and druid Geralt is up! You can find 3K words of pure domestic fluff here on AO3.

Summary: Six months after defeating the Culler, Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer, and Eskel get ready to spend a winter together.

Excerpt: “Did you know you have a leshen living in the woods behind your house?” Yennefer demands by way of greeting.

Geralt doesn’t seem offended by the lack of hello. “You met Roach the last time you were here.”

Yennefer hardly remembers anything about the last time she was at Geralt’s cabin. She was injured in an ugly fight with a kikimore and Julian dragged her here to heal. When she wasn’t unconscious, she was woozy from the fuck ton of healing tonics her lovers plied her with. “You named the leshen Roach ?”

“Got a better name for her?”

“Dead.”

“Don’t kill Roach.” Geralt catches her wrist in his hand and pulls her into a kiss. And Yennefer should not be so easily distracted by kisses, but Geralt is a truly excellent kisser.

“We’re going to talk about this later,” she tells him.

She feels his smile curl against her lips. “I know.”

Her medallion vibrates as a portal opens up behind her. She turns, gripping the hilt of her knife where it’s sheathed at her waist, just in case, but it’s only Eskel and Julian that come stepping through, carrying what seems to be enough supplies to keep a small village clothed through the winter.

Yennefer makes a show of peering behind them. “Who else is with you? I didn’t know you were inviting at least a dozen others, Julek.”

“Oh, Yenna, it’s good to see you too.” Julian scoops her up into a hug, nearly lifting her off the ground. She allows it, because she missed the little shit.

“I’m surprised you can see anything over that pile of bags,” she says.

“Well, I am a great deal taller than you, my dear.”

She growls at him. From the spike of arousal in the air, it does nothing to dissuade him. Gods, she doesn’t know why she loves these idiots so much.

“Put me down, you oaf.” She elbows him in the gut.

He complies and turns to throw himself at Geralt while Yennefer greets Eskel. The mage’s embrace is much less obnoxious than Julian’s, but no less enthusiastic. Yennefer kisses him and looks around to see Julian spinning Geralt around like they’re star-crossed lovers reunited after decades apart. Geralt is trying to look long-suffering, though there’s a pleased little smile curling his lips. Eskel snorts in laughter and presses a gentle kiss to the crown of Yennefer’s head.

She sighs. “They’re ridiculous.”

“That they are.”

“We could portal somewhere warm and leshen-free and leave them to their own devices for the winter.”

“We’d miss them within a day,” Eskel says.

Yennefer really hates it when he’s right. “Are you two done?”

Julian pulls a face at her. “You’re just jealous that you can’t pick Geralt up.”

“Oh, can’t I?” Without missing a beat, Yennefer scoops Eskel up into a bridal carry and bears him towards the door.

“Now who’s being ridiculous, Yenn?” Eskel mutters.

Yennefer squeezes his ass in retaliation.

#the witcher #geraskelfer #eskel x geralt x jaskier x yennefer #eskel/geralt/jaskier/yennefer #eskel #witcher eskel #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #my fic #my writing

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Are you still doing the WIP ask game? 👀 if yes, may i beg for more crumbs from the wrap your roots remix?

I am always happy to yell about my WIPs! I talked about this one a little here, but here's the scene where Eskel meets Griffin witcher-disguised-as-a-bard, Jaskier:

“Can I help you?” Eskel asks cautiously.

The colorful young man flashes a warm smile. “Well, I certainly hope so. I’m looking for a friend of mine, a witcher. Big, white-haired, broody.”

Eskel hesitates. The young man looks friendly enough, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. The friendliness he shows a human might not extend to a witcher. But before he can decide what to do, a voice calls from inside, “In here, Jask.”

It’s only then that Eskel realizes that the man’s smile wasn’t entirely genuine, because the newcomer’s real smile is a radiant thing, taking up his entire face. It transforms him from a good-looking young man to a beauty that Eskel can hardly take his eyes off of. “Oh, thank fuck,” the young man says, hurrying past Eskel into the house. “Geralt of Rivia, you scared the absolute shit out of me.”

“Sorry.” Geralt sits up in bed, wincing.

“I waited and waited for you in Vizima!”

Geralt’s lips twitch. “We were only supposed to meet two days ago.”

“That was two days where anything could have been happening to you.” The young man drops to his knees at Geralt’s bedside, cupping his face in his hands, and a whole host of hopes that Eskel didn’t even realize he was entertaining shrivel up in his chest.

Of course Geralt has a lover. Dashing, beautiful, sweet witchers always have lovers.

“I’m fine,” Geralt murmurs, expression so soft that Eskel feels like he shouldn’t even be in the room. “Had a tough time with a griffin, but Eskel took good care of me.”

Only then does Geralt’s lover seem to remember the man whose house he just barged into. He leaps to his feet gracefully and pivots to face Eskel, extending his hand. “I apologize for my rudeness. You must be Eskel. I’m Jaskier. I must thank you for taking care of Geralt, because the gods only know, he wasn’t going to do it himself.”

Geralt sighs with the air of a man who has been lectured on this topic many times.

Ask me about my WIPs!

#the witcher #geraskelfer #eskel x geralt x jaskier x yennefer #my writing

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Okay okay I'm gonna send you two asks for the WIP title game because I'm greedy, but wrap your roots remix? 👀 I think wrap your roots is my favourite fic of yours so far (and the choice is HARD) 💖✨

Be as greedy as you want, my friend!

The Wrap your roots remix is a WIP that I really shouldn't be working on right now (I'm very bad at this hiatus thing) but the idea grabbed me earlier this week and wouldn't let go. It's an Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer version of the original fic where Eskel is a goat farmer, Jaskier is a Griffin witcher-turned-bard, and Yennefer is a Bear witcher. Eskel's farm becomes a frequent stop for all three witchers (who may or may not be sleeping together, neither Eskel nor I are sure) while he pines not-so-hopelessly.

“I’m here about the griffin.” The witcher’s voice is a low rumble. With his white hair, chiseled jawline, and honey-colored eyes, he could be a knight out of a storybook— if storybook knights wore black armor so tattered it looked like it was a swipe away from disintegrating and had dried blood clotted in their hair. The dried blood should be far more off-putting than it is, but the tightness of his breeches is very distracting.

Eskel doesn’t realize he’s been staring until the witcher holds up the notice that Eskel stuck to Ashling Grove’s massage board only two days before and adds, “You’re Eskel the goat farmer?”

Those are the words that Eskel apparently needs to get his head on straight. “That’s me,” he says. “Sorry, wasn’t expecting anyone to show up so soon.”

Especially not for so small a reward, he doesn’t add. A hundred crowns is a pathetic amount of money to offer for a creature like a griffin, but it’s what he has.

“Should I come back later?” The words are delivered with such dryness that Eskel genuinely can’t tell if he’s being mocked or if it’s an actual question.

Eskel is saved from having to come up with a reply that doesn’t make him like foolish by a bleat, followed by the snort of an annoyed horse. He looks beyond the witcher to see a handsome chestnut mare tied to the post outside his barn. Lil Bleater is dancing around her, apparently delighted to have found a new creature to hassle. The horse appears to be nearing the end of its patience, from its pinned back ears.

“Bleats!” Eskel calls, because Lil Bleater is a hellion, but he doesn’t actually want to see her skull caved in by a horse.

“Don’t worry.” The witcher’s lips twitch as he glances back at his horse. “Roach only kicks on command. Can’t promise she won’t bite, though.”

As if on cue, the horse snaps her teeth at Lil Bleater, who dodges out of the way easily.

Eskel sighs. Trying to keep Lil Bleater out of trouble is like trying to douse the sun with a bucket of water. “Come on in.”

The witcher’s expression doesn’t change at all, but Eskel thinks he detects a flicker of surprise in those slit-pupiled eyes. He supposes witchers don’t get invited inside a lot, not even in Velen. Just because the locals are used to witchers doesn’t mean they’re welcoming.

Ask me about my WIPs!

#the witcher #geraskelfer #geralt of rivia #eskel #my writing #ask games

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

look me in the eyes, tell me what you see

My entry for the last Quick Fic and my very belated birthday present to the marvelous @brothebro, featuring witcher!Jaskier, witcher!Yennefer, druid!Geralt, and mage!Eskel, with a murder mystery, some identity porn, and lots and lots of pining.

Rating: M

Word Count: 14K

Relationships: pre-Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer; established Geralt/Jaskier; past Eskel/Geralt and Jaskier/Yennefer

Summary: Julian gave up his life as a witcher to become Jaskier the bard ten years ago. He lives a peaceful life with his druid lover, Geralt, until a friend vanishes and he’s forced to take up witchering again to find him.

Geralt comes to Novigrad to find Jaskier, the man he loves, and has no choice but to seek out the help of Eskel, the mage who broke his heart decades ago.

It’s been forty-two years since Eskel lost Geralt, so when his former love walks into his shop and asks for help tracking down his current lover, Eskel has no choice but to agree, even if it breaks his heart.

Yennefer just came to Novigrad to take a contract on a zeugl. She has no interest in tracking down the killer kidnapping non-humans all over the city, not until she runs into Julian, the Bear witcher she once loved.

Now the four of them have to contend with a vicious killer and a terrified city— as well as their complicated feelings for each other.

You can read the first few scenes below the cut or find the whole thing here on AO3!

There was a time when Eskel was one of the most respected mages in the Brotherhood. He lived in a palace. He advised kings. He helped decide the fate of entire kingdoms. He doesn’t often miss that life, though he does sometimes think back fondly on the abundance of feather beds and enormous bathtubs. Unfortunately, the beds and bathtubs came with a heaping side of backstabbing, assassinations, and political bullshit.

Right now, he would much rather be dealing with the petty nonsense of court life than this.

“For the last time,” he says, his perfectly polite tone starting to strain. “Love potions don’t exist and I can’t sell you one.”

The Oxenfurt student on the other side of his counter, who can’t be more than sixteen, scowls at him.  “A friend of mine purchased a love potion just last week.”

“Not here.”

“No, but I was told this was the finest apothecary in the city.”

“And that it is.” Eskel gestures around the room. “Have a boil on your arse, a headache that just won’t go away, or a rotting tooth, and this is the place for you. But no love potions.”

“And whyever not?” The boy juts his chin out.

Eskel sighs. “Human attraction is too individualized. You can’t bottle it. And even if you could, I’m not going to trap some poor lass with you.”

“She would be lucky to have me. My father—”

Eskel doesn’t have the time for this. “Yeah, I’m sure your father is mighty important. Are you going to buy something, or are you going to go?”

Somehow, the boy’s chin juts out even further. That can’t be good for his neck, Eskel thinks. He’s going to have back problems by the time he’s thirty. “I came here for a love potion and I intend to leave with one.”

The front door of the shop opens, but Eskel doesn’t look to see who it is, too focused on the brat in front of him. For an instant, he feels himself teeter on the edge of losing his temper. He’s a big man and with his scarred face, he can be plenty intimidating when he wants to be. But as a mage in Novigrad, with the Eternal Fire gaining more power every day, his position is already tenuous enough. With his luck, this little asshole’s father is friends with the Hierarch. He opts for Plan B: getting the boy out of his shop by whatever means necessary.

“Fine,” he says. “You caught me. I keep my secret love potions in the back.”

He stalks away without waiting for the boy’s reply, grabs the first likely-looking bottle he can find, and returns with it. Shoving it into the boy’s hand, he says, “That’ll be five crowns. Take a sip of this and you’ll be irresistible to the first person you make eye contact with.”

“Doesn’t look like much.” The boy examines the bottle like one would examine a fine bottle of wine.

“I’m sorry, were you expecting a heart-shaped bottle?”

The boy sniffs. “I’ll give you three crowns.”

Eskel takes the bottle back.

“Fine!” With a huff, the boy fumbles for his coin purse and slaps five crowns onto the countertop. Lip curling, he adds, “I bet you’re not even a real mage. Aren’t they supposed to be beautiful?”

Eskel was never beautiful, not even before the scars. When he stepped into Giltine’s workspace, he told the man not to change a thing, because Geralt loved him the way he was, and when he was an eighteen year old idiot, that was all that mattered. He smiles, aware of how it will make his scars stretch hideously, and is gratified when the boy flinches. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

The lordling gives him one last suspicious look and turns to stalk out of the shop. As soon as the door closes behind him, a deep voice says, “Love potions don’t exist.”

Eskel freezes. He hasn’t heard that voice in forty-two years, three months, and seventeen days. He never thought he would hear it again. Slowly, he turns around and finds Geralt standing there next to a row of fertility charms, watching Eskel with those bottle green eyes that Eskel spent so many days staring into. Like Eskel, Geralt is untouched by time, though he’s grown his red hair long and keeps it tied back into a ponytail. But everything else is the same— the freckles, the chiseled jaw, the broad shoulders. He’s as beautiful as the day they first met when they were fourteen, the first time they kissed when they were sixteen, the day they broke each other’s hearts when they were twenty.

“Wasn’t a love potion,” Eskel says, without anything else to say. “If he takes a sip like I told him to, he’ll get a bit of a stomachache. If he drinks the whole thing like he’s probably going to, he’ll have uncontrollable shits for days.”

Geralt’s eyes crinkle and the corners of his lips twitch up, which is the same as belly laughter on anyone else. Gods, Eskel’s missed that smile. Reminding himself that Geralt is probably here for a reason and that reason most likely has nothing to do with rekindling what they had between them, he turns to the only man he’s ever loved. “What brings you to Novigrad? Don’t find a lot of druids in the city.”

Geralt winces. “Good reason for that. Don’t know how you stand it here.”

“Cities have their own kind of chaos,” Eskel says. “You get used to it, after a while.”

From the look on Geralt’s face, he has no desire to get used to it. “I didn’t know you’d left Kaedwen. Didn’t even know you’d be here until I heard your name while asking around about mages in the city.”

“I relocated here about twenty years ago now.” Eskel really hopes that Geralt won’t ask about the scars. He’s not ready to have that conversation. “How’s Visenna?”

“Same as ever.” Geralt glances down at the ground. “I’m looking for someone.”

And that someone probably isn’t Eskel. He feels the hope he was trying so hard not to nurture die in his chest. “Oh?”

“I’m worried about him,” Geralt says. “He came to Novigrad a month ago and I haven’t heard from him since. Not even a letter since he sent one saying he got here safe, which isn’t like him. Have you heard about the disappearances?”

Eskel nods grimly. Since Saovine, non-humans have been vanishing all over Novigrad— elves, dwarves, dopplers, succubi, vampires, and more. The Eternal Fire controlled city guard doesn’t give any more of a damn about non-humans than they would about someone killing rats. If anything, speculation has run rampant that the Culler, as the residents of Novigrad have taken to calling the killer, works for the Eternal Fire. “I’ve heard.”

Geralt nods. “He was just supposed to come here to play at the Belleteyn Festival, but he never returned.”

“And who is he?” Eskel really doesn’t want to know the answer, and then feels like an ass for feeling jealous of a man who might be missing or dead.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Eskel doesn’t have to inquire about the nature of their relationship, because Geralt says the name like it's something precious to him. It’s how he used to say Eskel’s name, back before Eskel ruined everything. “He’s a bard.”

“And he’s not human?”

“He says he is.” Geralt’s lips twitch, but his eyes are sad. “The glamour’s pretty good too. Just not enough.”

Of course not. Geralt’s a druid; they can sense these things. “What is he then?”

“My guess is fae, or maybe an elf. He’s never said, and I’ve never asked.”

“How long have you two known each other?” Eskel keeps his expression carefully neutral.

“Three years. Found the idiot about to wander into a leshen’s territory.” Geralt shakes his head in fond exasperation. “If I’d been two minutes later, he’d have been wolf food.”

“And you don’t think he could have just decided to stay in Novigrad?” Eskel asks as gently as he can. “It’s a good city for bards.”

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “He’d write to me, Esk. He wouldn’t just disappear. Jaskier isn’t like that.”

“Okay.” Eskel nods slowly. “But why come to me? If you’re looking for an in with the city guard, I’m not your man. Mages aren’t popular with the Eternal Fire.”

“You were the golden child of the Brotherhood. Thought if anyone could help me, it’d be you.”

“Not anymore.” Eskel gestures around. “I mostly sell tonic for gout these days.”

Geralt looks at him with worried eyes and Eskel knows that he’s not going to be able to deny the other man anything. “I don’t know where else to go. I can’t go home knowing Jaskier might be hurt.”

Eskel sighs. He has no business getting involved with this. He’s a shopkeeper; missing persons cases are not his forte. But Geralt clearly loves this Jaskier and Eskel can’t bear to see him hurting. Geralt has been through enough; he doesn’t need any more heartbreak. “Do you have something of his?”

Geralt reaches into his satchel and withdraws a doublet of shimmering green satin. “This is his favorite.”

Eskel takes it from him. He can smell the faintest traces of honeysuckle on it. “I’ll see what I can do. Flip the closed sign, will you?”

Geralt smiles at him then, a real smile, and Eskel feels his heart swoop in his chest. Forty-two years, three months, and seventeen days, and he will still do anything for that smile.

***

Julian isn’t used to moving through the world as a witcher. Quite literally; he keeps hitting his head when he walks through doorways and knocking people over with his shoulders. He forgot just how large he is without his glamour; it’s quite unwieldy. As Jaskier, he’s used to people smiling at him when he walks into a room. He’s used to admiring glances or people brightening at the sight of his lute. He’s not used to the stench of fear that follows him as he walks down the street of Novigrad, the looks of mingled disdain and horror thrown his way.

He ducks into an alleyway and slips the sapphire ring he keeps in his pocket onto the middle finger of his right hand. Immediately, he shrinks, his shoulders and hips narrowing, his fingers becoming long and delicate, his hair turning from white to brown and his eyes from yellow and slit-pupiled to blue. Jaskier turns his doublet inside out, replacing the black side with a more bard-appropriate bright red, then pats himself down to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, fingers lingering on his unscarred face.

“Hello, old friend,” he says and then knocks on the door in front of him three times.

“Who is it?” a nervous voice calls.

Jaskier sighs. “It’s Jaskier.”

“That’s exactly what a murderer would say.”

“No, a murderer would probably tell you they were Priscilla. You’re more likely to let her in.”

“Pris is already here.”

“And if I were a murderer, wouldn’t I already know that?”

On the other side of the door, Dudu is quiet.

“Just open the damn door, Dudu,” Jaskier says.

Dudu opens the door. Today, they’re in the guise of a nondescript, sandy-haired man with a long, thin nose. This morning, they were a statuesque redheaded woman. They have a tendency to change bodies frequently when they’re nervous, and they’ve had a lot to be nervous about lately.

“Where’s Pris?” Jaskier asks.

“She’s in the other room.” Dudu locks the door behind them and shoves a chair under the door handle. “Any news?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Spent all day in the sewers. Didn’t find anything but a zeugl and a couple of drowners.”

“No sign of Valdo?”

“No,” Jaskier says with a sigh. “No sign of Valdo. Though he is a siren, so I doubt he’d willingly go anywhere near water as filthy as what’s in the sewers.”

It’s been a month since he received the frantic missive from Valdo. Someone is following me, Julian, and I fear that I may be the Culler’s next victim. I wake up in the middle of the night, sure that there was just someone standing over me. I can feel eyes on the back of my neck while I play. There are footsteps that echo mine as I walk home at night. I may be losing my mind. I pray to all the gods that I’m losing my mind.

Valdo has always been the dramatic sort, as most bards are, so when Jaskier came to Novigrad to check up on him, he was half-convinced that he’d find nothing amiss. Instead, he found a trashed apartment, a bloody handprint on the wall, the smell of salty terror heavy in the air. The freshness of the blood and the fear was the worst part. If Jaskier was just a little bit faster, if he hadn’t lingered to give Geralt just one more kiss—

But he can’t think about Geralt right now, not when he’s moving through the world as Julian the witcher more and more.

Priscilla slips out of the bedroom, pale and drawn. She’s not wearing her own glamour and her hooves clomp hollowly on the wooden floor. The succubus’ eyes land on Jaskier, and then flicker past him and Dudu, as if looking for the person that should be there. When she doesn’t find Valdo, she seems to shrink on herself a bit. “No luck?” she asks, no trace of hope in her voice.

“Not today,” Jaskier tells her gently. “But there’s always tomorrow.”

Priscilla’s lips press together. It would be easier, Jaskier thinks, if she were weepy. There’s nothing he can do for this stony despair. “It’s been over a month, Julek. If he were coming home, he already would have.”

“I told you I would bring him home, Pris,” Jaskier says. “And I’m going to.”

Priscilla glances at Dudu, then at Jaskier. “Zoltan and his family are leaving Novigrad at the end of the month. He asked Dudu and I if we wanted to go with him. We’re going to do it.”

Jaskier looks between them. “But you’ve lived here for years.”

Priscilla shrugs. “I’m not like Dudu, I can’t change shapes. People were going to notice eventually that I look far too young for a woman my age. And between the Culler and the Eternal Fire, Novigrad isn’t safe for us anymore. Anyway, it doesn’t feel like a home without Valdo.”

She looks away and Jaskier’s heart aches at the tragedy of it— two people who have loved each other for decades, but never quite worked up the nerve to tell each other, and now it may be too late.

Jaskier tries not to think of Geralt, because it’s not too late for him and his druid. He should write, he knows, but what would it say? Dear Geralt, I know your life’s work is devoted to preserving life and it turns out that I’m secretly a creature whose very creed is devoted to snuffing it out, including that leshen you’ve befriended. By the way, I fell in love with you the instant I learned you were the kind of madman who befriends leshens.

Jaskier pushes Geralt firmly out of his mind. “If Valdo is out there, I’ll find him.”

“I know, Julek.” A small, sad smile flickers across her face. “The problem is, I don’t think he is out there.”

Jaskier leaves Priscilla and Dudu’s home with a melancholy cloud hanging over his head. He walks back to the inn where he’s staying as Jaskier— there are no rooms in this city for Julian of Lettenhove, but plenty for Jaskier the bard. There’s only one thing to do when he feels like this, so he grabs his lute and heads down to the tavern to play. He sits in the corner and plays upbeat drinking songs, trying to soak up the energy of the crowd.

He’s halfway through his third song when he hears a hiss of, “Witcher!” His head jerks up, expecting to find that something has gone wrong with his glamour and now it’s hulking, scarred Julian playing to the crowd. But instead, he sees a slender, cloaked figure slipping through the crowd. He catches a glimpse of black and silver armor, long raven hair, a cat’s head medallion glittering around her neck. His mouth goes dry as she reaches the bar. Even if there were an abundance of female witchers on the Continent, he would know that walk anywhere.

“There aren’t any rooms for the likes of you here, witcheress,” the barmaid snaps.

Yennefer of Vengerberg draws back her hood and glares at the barmaid with slit-pupiled violet eyes. “I wouldn’t stay at this dump if it were the last inn on the Continent. Just give me a fucking ale.”

***

“Tell me about Jaskier,” Eskel says as he moves around the one-room apartment above his shop. It’s still so odd to see Eskel in this modest space with its single window, when Geralt has been picturing him in the glittering Kaedweni court, surrounded by courtiers, for all these years.

Geralt runs his fingers over the silky material of Jaskier’s doublet. Even after a month, it still smells a little bit like him and he has to stop himself from burying his face in it and inhaling. “He’s from Lettenhove. Don’t think he gets along with his family, though, he never talks about them. Says he went to Oxenfurt.”

“Says?” Eskel looks up at him sharply. “You don’t believe him?”

Geralt shrugs. “He walks around with a glamour. It’s hard to say.”

Someday, he likes to think Jaskier would have trusted him with the story of his past, but now he may never know. Geralt holds the doublet a little tighter. “He’s loud. The loudest person you’ll ever meet. Never stops talking. It drove me crazy at first. But he’s funny. He’s kind. He tries to act the idiot, but he’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”

“Sounds like a good man,” Eskel says, voice perfectly neutral.

“One of the best I’ve ever met.”

Eskel approaches Geralt and kneels down in front of him. Geralt’s eyes flicker to his scars, then away. They’re vicious, traveling down the length of the right side of his face. One notches his lip up at the corner, exposing a glint of teeth. Geralt wonders who could have done such a thing to sweet, gentle Eskel, and then remembers that Eskel was a court mage. Sweetness and gentleness don’t last at court; Geralt learned that the hard way.

“He’s a mage,” his mother warned him a hundred times. “Nothing is real with them. It’s all magic and illusions.”

And Geralt didn’t listen to her, because he was sixteen and in love and nothing mattered to him but the way Eskel’s hazel eyes lit up when Geralt walked into a room or the way he laughed.

“We’re going to try one more thing,” Eskel says.

Geralt nods and goes to put the doublet into the circle in front of him. They’ve already tried three tracking spells and nothing has worked.

“No, hold onto it this time.” Eskel pushes it back into his hands. “I think the problem is that Jaskier might like this doublet, but his emotional attachment to it isn’t strong enough.”

“And you think me holding it will help?”

“Can’t hurt. Think of Jaskier.”

Geralt closes his eyes and thinks of blue eyes and a beaming smile. He thinks of quick, dexterous fingers and lips pressed gently against the hollow of his throat. He thinks of the way Jaskier’s hands move when he talks and the outraged little “oh” his lips form when Geralt makes a joke at his expense. He thinks of the lean, soft length of a body pressed up against his at night, the way Jaskier curls around him while they sleep, almost protectively. After things fell apart with Eskel, Geralt thought he would spend his life alone, and then Jaskier came waltzing in with his lute and his brightly-colored doublets and changed everything.

He can feel the chaos flowing across his skin and he allows his heart to lift with hope. Maybe this will be the spell that brings Jaskier back to him.

The chaos dies in the air and Eskel says, “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

Geralt lets the doublet slide to the ground, not opening his eyes. “Why isn’t it working?”

“It could be that it’s been too long since he wore this doublet. Could be that he’s somewhere warded against tracking spells. Or…” Eskel trails off.

“Or he could be dead.”

“Don’t think like that.”

“Hard not to. It’s been a month.” Geralt doesn’t want to contemplate a world without Jaskier’s laughter, his light, his effortless warmth.

Eskel is quiet for a minute. “Do you have somewhere to stay for the night?”

Gerald nods. “The Kingfisher.”

“Good. Go back and get some rest. Tomorrow, we can poke around, ask some questions.” Geralt is surprised by the familiar feel of Eskel’s hand gripping his, calloused fingertips stroking his palm. “We’re going to find your bard, Geralt.”

***

After a day spent traipsing through a sewer, unsuccessfully looking for a zeugl, all Yennefer wants is to drink her ale in peace. She finds a table in the corner with only one chair and settles down, ignoring the glares and mutterings of the other tavern patrons. It’s early enough in the evening that no one is likely to be drunk and stupid enough to start a fight with a witcher.

Yennefer has just taken her first sip of ale, which surprisingly doesn’t have any spit in it,  when someone drags up a second chair and plops down into it.

“Well, hello there,” the young man says. “While I hate to interrupt a good brooding session, I—”

“What part of me sitting alone at a table in a corner with only one chair made you think I wanted conversation, bard?” Yennefer flicks a dismissive glance over him— brown hair, big blue eyes, baby face, an offensively yellow doublet and breeches. She knows the type well, soft little lordlings who think they’re going to save her from the scary life of being a witcher. She has no time for it.

“Absolutely nothing,” the bard says cheerfully. “But I’ve never let that stop me. What brings you to Novigrad, Yennefer?”

Yennefer freezes with her tankard of ale halfway to her lips. “How do you know my name?”

“Well, there aren’t many female witchers out there, are there? And only one I’ve ever heard of with raven black hair and violet eyes. You’re Yennefer of Vengerberg.” When she doesn’t react, he adds, “My name is Jaskier the Bard, master of the seven—”

“I don’t care.”

“My lady wounds me.”

“I’m not your lady. Go away.”

“Bard!” someone shouts from across the room. “Are you going to keep playing, or hang around to get your balls torn off by that beast?”

Yennefer flashes her sweetest smile at the heckler, displaying her too-sharp teeth. The man is smart enough to go pale. To Jaskier, she says, “You should listen to that charming gentleman, bard. Go sing your little love songs.”

“Oh, Yenna, I know you wouldn’t tear my balls off. You’ve had plenty of chances, after all.”

Yennefer stares at him. There aren’t many people who call her Yenna, besides Aiden, Gaeten, and Dragonfly. Something about the tilt of the bard’s head and his cocky grin puts her in mind of someone else, someone she hasn’t seen in over a decade. The pieces click into place. “ Julian ?”

That smile widens. “Oh, good, I was hoping you’d recognize me.”

She leans across the table, peering into those blue eyes. The face shape is similar, as is the smile, but everything about the bard is smaller, more delicate. It must be a good glamour; her medallion isn’t even vibrating. “What the fuck?”

“I know this must be a shock—”

“You asshole,” she growls. “I thought you were dead. I looked for you after Lyria.”

“Well, in my defense, my dear Yenna, I never expected you to look for me.” His eyes hold little humor as he smiles at her. “You leaving me unconscious in a healer’s bed gave me the distinct impression that you wanted nothing to do with me. Not that I could blame you.”

“What happened with Queen Kalis wasn’t your fault,” Yennefer says.

He shrugs. “Agree to disagree.”

“I even hired a mage to track you.”

“I spent a small fortune on a ring to repel tracking spells.” He taps an emerald ring on his left index finger. “Worth every penny.”

“And probably another small fortune on that glamour too.”

“Oh no, that was a large fortune.”

“ Take it off.”

“I’m flattered, and I have so missed our time together, but my heart is spoken for these days, my dear.”

Yennefer ignores the pang in her chest. “Your glamour, you ass.”

“Ah.” Julian looks around with obvious trepidation. “I have a room upstairs, but I don’t think I’ll be able to keep said room if the proprietress learns that I’m anything but Jaskier the human bard.”

“Let’s go then.” Yennefer rises to her feet, ale forgotten.

Several people catcall as she trails Jaskier— or Julian — upstairs to his room. As soon as she closes the door behind them, he slips off the sapphire ring on his middle finger  and instantly morphs into the white-haired witcher she knew so well all the years ago, still as bright-eyed and baby-faced as anyone can be when they’re roughly the size of a small ox. Yennefer tries not to visibly wince at the scars left by the krallach’s acidic venom, which start right under his left ear and span down his jaw and the side of his neck.

“It’s a good glamour,” she says. “Works on your clothes too, I see.”

“I had to go back later and get that added on. I kept ripping all my best doublets when I went from Jaskier to Julian.”

“Can’t have that,” Yennefer says. “Why are you walking around dressed as a bard?”

Julian’s lips twitch. “You were the one who always said I was a poor excuse for a witcher. I’m a far better bard.”

“That’s not saying much.” They met Julian’s first year on the Path, when he was still an idiot Bear cub who could barely brew a decent batch of Swallow. Every Bear Yennefer had ever met before Julian had been a miserable, solitary bastard and bright, effusive Julian was nothing like his schoolmates. Sometimes, Yennefer wondered if that’s why his instructors had sent him out so woefully unprepared for the Path. Maybe they hadn’t wanted such an odd Bear to survive his first year. And he wouldn’t have, had he not attached himself to Yennefer.

“If I ever meet one of your instructors, I’m going to feed them to a grave hag,” she would tell him every time he showed a lack of knowledge that any first year trainee should know. Julian would always laugh delightedly. She doesn’t think he ever knew just how serious she was.

Yennefer loved the idiot, right up until she failed him miserably in Lyria. After that, she didn’t feel like she deserved his bright smiles and easy affection, so she walked away. She’s regretted it every since.

“Why are you in Novigrad?” Julian asks her. “You hate this place.”

“There was a contract for a zeugl, but I couldn’t find the ugly fucker,” Yennefer says with a shrug.

Julian sniffs. “Ah, that’s why you smell slightly less delightful than normal.”

“You might be the size of a house, but I can still kick your ass.”

He chuckles. “Can’t argue with that, Yenna. And I didn’t realize there was a contract for the zeugl. More’s the pity.”

“You’re the one who killed it?” She arches an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t look so surprised. I am a witcher, your opinion of my talents notwithstanding. I can bring you to the corpse tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“We’ll see.” Yennefer really doesn’t feel like going back into the sewers, especially not for only a hundred crowns. “Why are you in Novigrad? The Eternal Fire isn’t fond of bards any more than they’re fond of witchers.”

The amusement in Julian’s expression abruptly dies. “I fear my friend, Valdo, may have fallen prey to the Culler. He’s half-siren, you see. He sent me a letter expressing fears that he was being stalked. When I reached Novigrad, it was too late. I’m trying to find him.”

“If the Culler has him, he’s dead,” Yennefer says bluntly. “Whatever they’re doing to their victims, no one’s come back, dead or alive.”

“Either way, his loved ones deserve answers.”

“Hunting down serial killers isn’t typical witchers’ work.”

“Well, I’m not a typical witcher, like you enjoy reminding me.”

“I’ve heard rumors that the Culler is working for the Eternal Fire.” Yennefer takes a step towards him. “Trust me, Julek, that’s not a fight you’re going to win. Get out of Novigrad and find somewhere else to mourn your friend.”

“I can’t leave the city until I know what’s happened to him.”

Of course he can’t. Loyal to a fault, Yennefer’s idiot Bear cub. He should have been a Wolf. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Maybe, but I hope I’ll bring the Culler down with me.” He reaches out to take her wrist in his enormous hand, his grip painfully gentle. “I really could use some help here.”

“I’m a witcher. My job is to slay monsters, not hunt down killers.”

“What’s more monstrous than someone snatching dozens of innocent people from their homes? The halfling that vanished the other day is only fourteen. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of letting children die.”

“Don’t,” Yennefer growls, remembering a tiny, silk-wrapped figure dead in the sand.

“Sorry.” Julian grimaces. “I’ve just been at this for a month and haven’t found any hint of what’s going on. The non-humans don’t trust Jaskier because he’s too human and they don’t trust Julian because he’s too…” He gestures at himself.

“And you think I’ll be a reassuring presence for terrified elves and dopplers? You think I’ll set them at ease with my gentle, womanly nature?”

“Fuck, no. I just think you’re part elf. They’re more likely to trust you than me.”

That is a good point.

“I need help, Yenna,” he says and fuck. Yennefer tries to tell herself that Julian isn’t her responsibility. He isn’t one of her fellow Cats. They haven’t been friends or lovers in over a decade. But in the ten years they knew each other, Yennefer dragged him out of more bad situations than she can count. It would be a shame to let all that hard work go to waste.

And though she hates to admit it, she’s missed him.

“Fine,” she growls. “I’ll stay for a day or two, see if I can help you find anything. But if the Culler is Eternal Fire, you’re on your own. I’m not dealing with that shit.”

She already knows that she’s going to regret this.

***

Find the rest here on AO3!

#the witcher #geraskelfer #another ship tag i'm determined to make a thing #eskel x geralt x jaskier yennefer #eskel #witcher eskel #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #my fic #my writing

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

oooh ot4 please!!

OT4 is my attempt to merge my love of Geraskel and Geraskefer into one ship (Geraskelfer? Gereskierfer? Yenraltaskel? I’m open to suggestions here.) Mostly, it’s just a bare-bones plot right now and probably won’t get written for a while, since I have a lot of things I need to work on first

Geralt has been in relationships with Eskel, Jaskier, and Yennefer for years now, but none of his lovers really get along. Not because of jealousy or anything, they’re just three very different people with little in common

Geralt goes missing. Is Nilfgaard responsible? Stregobor? Some random villainous baron? I have no idea! But Jaskier, Eskel, and Yennefer have team up to get him back

A lot of bickering, bed sharing, and UST ensue

I know there will be at least one scene where Jaskier is seducing one of the people they think are responsible for Geralt’s disappearance and Yennefer and Eskel have to dance to keep an eye on him (snippet of dialogue below)

There will be another scene where Eskel tries to nobly sacrifice himself to the baddies only to arrive and find Yennefer and Jaskier waiting for him, neither of them amused.

By the time they find Geralt, the UST is no longer unresolved and the four of them live happily ever after until the inevitable sequel.

An excerpt from the dancing scene:

“You’re good at this,” Yennefer says.

Eskel keeps his eyes on Jaskier, who has snuggled up to their quarry, whispering in the man’s ear. “At what?”

“Dancing.”

“You seem surprised.”

“Dancing with Geralt is like dancing with a rock troll. I assumed it was a witcher thing.”

“Geralt is the White Wolf. He can be bad at dancing.”

“And you can’t?”

“No, because I haven’t had a bard following me for twenty years, telling people I’m a hero worthy of being paid. Shit like knowing how to dance and what fork to use helps the people who hire me see me as a human and not a mindless beast. And with this face, I need all the help I can get.”

Ask me about my WIPS!

#asks #i think i like geraskelfer as a ship name but i'm open to other suggestions #the witcher #yennefer of vengerberg #eskel