#just a woman who loves one (1) bard and also one (1) himbo

[dee-lirious]

yours, and I will tell you mine (geralt/jaskier, pg-13, 2778 words) There are mornings when Geralt doesn’t get up right away.

He’ll think, I’ll get up now, and then linger on some lumpy, unevenly filled inn’s mattress while the minutes tick by.

It doesn’t happen often, because he has careful routines and obligations, unwritten lists that force him standing. He has to get up, to get dressed, to check over his armor, to sharpen his swords, to look after Roach, to find or finish a job, to retrieve his coin, to procure food and oats, to gather ingredients, to brew his potions, to find a place to sleep, to do it all over again tomorrow.

Underlying Geralt's tasks and responsibilities is the fear that he could just lay down—in a borrowed bed, or his bedroll, or simply the dirt of the earth—and he wouldn’t get up again. The fear that he’d prefer that, actually. No one would bother him, and no one would wonder after him, and he could let his mind fall peacefully quiet, maybe forever.

He doesn’t, though. Obviously. (Read on AO3)

—

He’s having a bad morning, after a hellish hunt after a nest of bruxae that kept the adrenaline and Cat both racing through his veins until nearly dawn. He manages a rough, light sleep for a few hours, but then he just...lays there on his stomach, eyes closed, thinking idly about the repairs to his armor to be made, and the fact that he’s running low on potions in an area where it’ll be difficult to find several of the herbs he’ll need. It’s almost enough to force him up when he remembers that he’d done a poor job of settling Roach in the stables last night, and that she’ll need a proper brushing today.

Geralt is imagining all the steps he needs to take: sit up, clean up the lingering blood and ichor from his face and arms, find a clean shirt, put on his boots, and on and on until he can get out the door. He’s picturing stepping into the stables, and petting Roach’s soft nose in apology, when someone gives the door a perfunctory, soft knock before it opens.

“Geralt? Are you awake?”

It’s Jaskier, obviously, and Geralt forces his shoulders to unwind. “Hm,” he grunts in reply, and forces his eyes open a crack.

Jaskier closes the door behind him with his foot, balancing a tray with several crude-looking hand-carved bowls and a stack of misshapen bread loaves on it. He’s got one of Geralt’s bags slung across his chest—the one that carries most of his potions, which is mildly worrying.

He also starts talking immediately, of course. “I brought breakfast—or rather, lunch, I suppose, since it’s nearly midday. The cook’s quite lovely, Hanna’s her name. Bread’s a bit doughy, but she makes a mean venison stew.”

Jaskier sets the heavy tray on the small table, followed by Geralt’s potions bag, which he opens and starts rummaging through, pulling out glass vials and little cloth-wrapped bundles of wild herbs.

“I found honeysuckle and verbena growing in the field just outside town, but I had a hard time tracking down any fresh hellebore. I went to talk to the local alchemist—an absolute prick, he tried to sell me some knock-off weeds, if you can believe it! Made me wish I’d brought along your sword as back-up. Oh, I looked in on Roach, tipped the stablehand to give her a brush down before we leave.”

Jaskier fishes out a larger bundle—looks like a dark grey linen parcel, which he unfolds to reveal as a plain but sturdy-looking tunic. It’s stiff enough to be virgin fabric, not yet worn in. It’s got a row of little buttons at the neck, just off-center enough to be a little fashionable, without being gaudy or attention-catching, and some subtle embroidery at the cuffs in matching thread.

“Geralt, look, I got a bargain from the tailor—he said it’s out of season. You can now have three whole black shirts; a wardrobe fit for a king!” Jaskier explains, proudly flapping the tunic’s sleeves in Geralt’s direction.

Geralt’s closed his eyes again, and thinks he should say something. A normal person would have some kind of reaction, now. He’s just—overwhelmed, a bit.

“...Geralt, are you alright? Your wounds look closed, are they still hurting?”

One thing at a time.

“You brought food,” Geralt says, blinking slowly and allowing his pupils to adjust to the light coming in through the thin curtain. It really is noontime, which is much later than he’d meant to lie in.

“Yeah, it’s just some bread and leftover stew from last night. Do you want something else? I think the cook might be making a proper meat pie for lunch, I could go and wheedle a portion for you.”

“And you got—potions. Ingredients?”

Jaskier glances over at the small pile on the table, and shrugs, “Yes? Not all the ones you need, I think, but you said yesterday you wanted more verbena as soon as possible. I’m still thinking of going back to give that two-bit alchemist a proper shakedown, you know. The nerve of him.”

“Roach,” Geralt interrupts.

“Roach is fine, the boy in the stables has no doubt given her a dozen apples by now,” Jaskier snaps, impatient. “Geralt, seriously, are you alright? You didn’t seem grumpier than usual when you got back last night, but you must tell me if you’ve been—you know, poisoned, or cursed or something; honestly, use your words—“

“Not poisoned,” Geralt grunts. “Or cursed.”

Jaskier stares at him for a moment, then softens. “Just tired, then.” Geralt manages to rumble a sound in assent.

The immediate understanding on Jaskier’s face is a bit too much to look at, so Geralt forces himself to sit upright as a distraction.

Jaskier hands him the new shirt, and retrieves his pants from where they’re folded over the back of a chair. Geralt remembers dropping them on the floor last night, and, upon closer inspection, notices that they’ve been washed and dried recently, smelling of the lightly-scented soap Jaskier favors for laundry.

For some reason, that’s the thing that overwhelms him—the neatly folded pants; the idea of Jaskier picking them off the ground at dawn, going downstairs to ask after a clean tub of water and washing them, probably in the hallway so as to not disturb Geralt’s tenuous sleep.

His ridiculous man knows him so well. It’s as terrifying a thought as it is precious. Geralt is afraid to examine it too closely.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” Geralt manages to say. Hopes that Jaskier understands that he means it for more than passing him his clothing. Simultaneously hopes Jaskier doesn’t acknowledge it at all.

Jaskier quirks that lopsided smile at him, guileless but warm, his blue eyes impossibly clear.

“You’re welcome, Geralt.”

Geralt could leave it there. Should leave it there, and would, ordinarily. There’s nothing extraordinary about this morning—indeed, Geralt realizes, Jaskier has done all of these little things and more, regularly and without comment from either of them, for years.

“You should drink some water,” Jaskier is saying. He’s turned back to the table to give Geralt some modicum of privacy to get dressed. He pulls out Geralt’s mortar and pestle from his bag, and carefully pours a small palmful of verbena petals into it.

Geralt swallows around some uncomfortable emotion—not dissimilar to being swept off his balance during a fight, the split-second before he reorients his vision. Softer, but no less urgent.

“Jaskier, stop,” he says, trying to grasp onto the feeling.

It clearly comes out sharper than he’d intended, because Jaskier flinches a bit, and drops the mortar. “I can do it!” he snaps back, defensive. “I watched you last time!”

“No, that’s not—” Geralt rubs a hand over his sleep-crusted eyes. He carefully sets his clothing aside as Jaskier moves closer, hovering at the side of the bed.

He’s not in the habit of introspection, at least not in the way Jaskier does it: putting flowery words to his every thought and experience. It’s always seemed exhausting, frankly, and Geralt is woefully under-equipped to match him.

But he can, and should, try.

“You need to tell me if something’s wrong,” Jaskier is saying. He’s fiddling with his hands a little, as if he wants to reach out but is restraining himself. Geralt, still sitting on the edge of the bed, has to tip his head back to look at him, and the difference in height; the vulnerable position it puts him in; his exposed neck—it doesn’t feel like a weakness, like he’d expect.

The center of Jaskier’s brow is furrowed a bit, and eyes are so, so clear.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Geralt manages, finally, and it’s not hard at all to let himself smile a little as he cards a hand through his tangled bedhead. Especially when the motion causes Jaskier to visibly relax.

“You’re being peculiar this morning,” Jaskier says, sounding simultaneously fond and accusing. He’s still observing Geralt curiously. “I thought you’d be in a poor mood, considering you’re still covered in vampire blood. Should’ve known you’d find it refreshing and not at all macabre.”

“I was. In a poor mood, I mean.” Jaskier stills at the admission, genuinely surprised, and Geralt pushes past the reflex to look away, to deflect, to change the subject. “Didn’t want to get up and deal with all the—”

He gestures vaguely at the rest of the room: the food and potions on the table; their neatly packed bags; his armor and boots piled in the corner, looking as if they, too, have been cleaned. The large and small chores which he’d been dreading, and which Jaskier has already done.

Jaskier, who looks a bit uncomfortable himself, now. “It, I just—It’s not a big deal,” he sputters, starting to look attractively flustered. “You were out all night being bitten by sexy lady monsters!”

“I suppose I should be glad you still haven’t seen a bruxa close up,” Geralt deadpans, which earns him an indignant glare.

“No thanks to you! You wouldn’t know a descriptive word if it kicked you in the face! All you’ve said is they look like women but they’re actually big, mad bats—and I dare you to write a song out of that,” Jaskier puffs, and throws his arms wide, “And! Don’t think I did all your errands like I’m your steward, or whatever—”

“No, I wouldn’t— Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, and carefully grips both of Jaskier’s flailing forearms and lowers them. “Calm down. I’m not...accusing you, or whatever it is you think I’m doing.”

Jaskier’s gone still again, and chews on his bottom lips for a moment, which Geralt valiantly does not get distracted by. “I… I don’t do your chores because I feel obligated to,” he finally says, firmly.

Geralt, who had never considered the idea, is nonetheless relieved to hear it. “That’s good, I wouldn’t want you to. You’re not my steward.” Even if he could afford it, the idea of a witcher with a travelling butler is extremely ludicrous. “Though I am grateful.”

Jaskier’s still frowning, though, and doesn’t look any less agitated. Geralt sighs. “Why are you upset?”

“I think… Geralt, I think you’re trying to thank me for being kind to you,” Jaskier says, reprovingly.

Geralt finds his offended huff endearing, which: oh. He’s helpless against the smile on his face, and also against the way the blush on Jaskier’s face spreads down his neck in response.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmurs, quiet and low, and tracks the movement of Jaskier swaying a little closer, those blue eyes drifting down to Geralt’s mouth.

Geralt swallows, and forces himself not to lean in, yet.

“Witchers aren’t supposed to be comfortable,” he tries to explain, “and the Path isn’t supposed to be easy.” Geralt runs a soothing hand up and then down Jaskier’s arm, when he feels bard ready to puff up indignantly again on his behalf, to tread the well-worn beats of this argument: That’s not fair, Geralt, and You’re a person, Geralt, and You weren’t made just to suffer; I won’t let you, Geralt.

He could turn away, now, probably, and get dressed. Jaskier would allow this whole conversation to be forgotten.

(Jaskier allows a lot, in deference to the things Geralt needs, and that’s motivation enough.)

Instead, Geralt holds on to the warm feeling that’s been buzzing in his chest since Jaskier walked in the room.

“You make my life easier. More comfortable.” Jaskier’s breathing hitches. Geralt can hear the way his heartbeat accelerates in anticipation, and for once it feels easy to say: “You’re important to me, Jaskier.” He breathes that warmth out, into the stale air of this rented room, letting it linger in the midday light amongst the dust and the smell of verbena and laundry soap, only to find that it’s still there inside him afterwards.

The feeling isn’t finite. He hasn’t used it all up by speaking it aloud.

There’s more, of course: No one’s ever cared about me the way you do. I don’t know how you do it. I want to learn. And, fearfully: Someday you won’t be here, and it’ll be like how it was, except I’ll still remember what this feels like, and possibly I won’t be able to live with the knowledge.

Geralt might’ve considered saying some of those things, but he’s interrupted by Jaskier’s mouth on his, pressing a desperate, atonal grunt against the seam of his lips. It’s the least musical sound he’s ever heard his bard make, and he’s determined to hear it again, as soon as possible.

Jaskier pulls away quickly, before Geralt can properly kiss him back, his eyes and mouth both rounded in surprise. “Geralt—”

Geralt crashes forward into him, chasing his lips. Jaskier’s going to ask whether Geralt wants this, and kissing him back is the fastest way to confirm, yes, they’re both here. On the same page, Geralt thinks, which is a turn of phrase well-suited to a poet, if not a witcher.

He abruptly realizes he’s wearing nothing aside from his smallclothes when Jaskier’s lute calluses grip against his shoulder blades, followed immediately by a lap-full of bard when Jaskier scoots forward on his knees to straddle Geralt’s thighs on the mattress. Geralt’s own hands are pawing underneath Jaskier’s doublet, scrabbling to untuck his chemise as his mouth drags down the length of Jaskier’s throat.

“Hang on, hang on,” Jaskier pants. Geralt can’t stop the whine when he leans away, just enough to meet his eyes. “Geralt, hang on.”

The seriousness on Jaskier’s face is enough to focus him. “What, what’s wrong—”

Jaskier’s palms are warm on the back of Geralt’s neck, buried in his surely spectacularly-tangled hair. He’s breathing hard, his pupils dilated. His smile is tremulous and full of some intense emotion when he barks a relieved laugh and says, “Nothing’s wrong—gods, you’re gorgeous, it’s fucking distracting—”

Geralt tightens his arms across Jaskier’s back, where his clothes are heavily rumpled, and can’t help matching Jaskier’s grin. His head feels light, and all his senses are focused on the warm body in his lap. “Let me distract you, then.”

Jaskier wriggles a little, gleeful with adrenaline that Geralt can smell, this close to his neck. “In a moment, dear,” he cups Geralt’s face in his hands, letting his arms bracket Geralt’s head and neck, like a set of warm, enticing blinders, and rests their foreheads together. “Let me say this first.”

Geralt hums, low in his chest, and stares into Jaskier’s eyes and doesn’t blink.

“You keep spare lute strings in your saddlebags,” he says in a near-whisper. His voice is suddenly shaky, and Geralt’s stomach swoops as if he’s just dived down a hill. “The good kind, the kind I prefer. And you bought me new boots last spring, when you saw mine were beyond repair, when I hadn’t even complained about it yet. And, fuck, you mended my favorite shirt last week, before I’d even noticed.”

Those are small things, Geralt thinks. The lute strings are light, and Jaskier tends to forget he needs them until he’s run out. The boots were practical. He’d been mending his own pants at the same time. Small things, not worthy of thanks. But then, he supposes, that’s the point.

Geralt can’t help himself from reaching up to touch Jaskier’s face, brushing his thumb against the point of his mouth.

“You’re important to me, too, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier breathes, and it sounds like the other thing, the thing Geralt isn’t quite ready to say, but knows, now.

Geralt leans in, and tastes the shape of Jaskier’s smile.

#the witcher #my fic #geraskier #i Can't Believe I've Done This #Who Am I? #just a woman who loves one (1) bard and also one (1) himbo

[darkverrmin]

Do You Like It?

a/n: this was inspired by a male friend who likes to wear makeup. he occasionally gets shit from people because of that, who are probably just jealous of him looking gorgeous. seriously, mind your own business. and wear whatever makes you feel good ♥️

tags: jaskier experimenting with makeup, fluff, geralt is a himbo with feelings. enjoy!

(this is part one, if you'll be interested in reading the rest, i'll post the second part)

Calling the party boring would be an understatement. It was terrible. Geralt sat alone at a table, drinking his ale. He regretted listening to Yennefer and Jaskier, who convinced him that he could use a night of rest, after weeks of traveling and training with Ciri. This wasn't Geralt's idea of resting.

Ciri and Dara were back at the inn with Eskel. Lambert fell asleep as soon as they arrived here, earlier in the afternoon. Yennefer and Jaskier, both dragged Geralt to this harvest festival and left him sitting alone at a table.

Geralt found Yennefer sitting at the bar, flirting with another woman. At least someone here is having fun, he thought to himself.

But his mind was actually focused on the bard, whom he hadn't seen since the beginning of the evening. He could only guess that Jaskier went off earlier in the night, with some pretty girl in his arms. The thought only worsened Geralt's mood. Having feelings he couldn't quite understand towards Jaskier didn't make his life any easier. Knowing for sure that Jaskier didn't return those feelings made it almost unbearable.

Geralt frowned, taking another gulp of his ale. A familiar voice startled him out of his thoughts. A warm body pressed itself against Geralt's side.

"Hi! Sorry for disappearing earlier, I saw an old friend of mine here. You look like you're definitely enjoying yourself".

"I'm going back to the inn now" Geralt muttered into his cup, avoiding looking directly at Jaskier. He found himself doing that more than often during their recent conversations.

Jaskier hummed in thought, still staring at him. "Yeah, I get it. Usually I'd make a joke about you being dressed and looking like we're attending a funeral, but this party is indeed horrible. I'll come with you".

Geralt raised an eyebrow. "Thought you wanted to come here. You even managed to drag me with you".

"And no regrets about that, my friend. You could use a night out. Unfortunately, this isn't a very successful one". Jaskier searched for Yennefer with his eyes, gasping when he found her. "Oh. Woah. At least someone here is having fun". Geralt lifted his head just in time to see Yennefer pulling away from a kiss with the girl by the bar. The Witcher felt satisfied with himself that it didn't make him feel a thing.

Yennefer turned her head to look at them. Jaskier waved at her, smiling and pointing at the door. Yennefer smiled back, nodding and resumed kissing the girl.

"I think Yen's gonna be alright. So, shall we?" Jaskier took away Geralt's empty cup from his hand, fingers accidentally brushing against Geralt's. Geralt felt his heart stirring in his chest. "Drinking like a pig ain't gonna solve your problems, Witcher. You okay? Wanna talk?". Jaskier sitting so close and talking to him like that didn't make Geralt feel any better about himself. He turned to glare at Jaskier.

"I would be okay if I wasn't dragged to this stup-" Geralt paused, blinking. "Are you… Is that makeup on your face?"

Jaskier knitted his eyebrows, before raising them and chuckling. "Oh, yeah. Forgot about this. Yennefer did this a couple of hours ago. Y'know, for the party. I'm actually pretty fond of it". Jaskier titled his head to the side, batting his eyelashes and smiling brightly. "Do you like it?"

Geralt couldn't stop staring at him. Jaskier looked ridiculously hot like this. The black eyeliner brought out the blue color of his eyes. The green, sparkling eyeshadow was a nice touch, too. Geralt never thought of Jaskier wearing eyeliner, but now he definitely knew that he loved it. It looked so good on him, it was almost unfair.

Geralt hesitated with his answer. Jaskier's unbuttoned shirt, revealing a lot of pale skin and chest hair, didn't contribute to his thoughts. "It looks…" Good. Gorgeous. Hot. Irresistible. You're irresistible. You're beauti- "new on you".

Jaskier stared at him for a moment before snorting and shaking his head. "I'll take that as a compliment".

You should Geralt thought, but remained silent. "So you like it?"

"Yeah. Actually, I do. Oh, I also had red lipstick on earlier, but it wore off quickly. You should have seen how it looked". Geralt really wished he could. Jaskier continued speaking. "Got a lot of stares during the evening, but most of them were accompanied by flirting and compliments". Jaskier paused, snorting again. "From both men and women".

Geralt tried to decipher his tone at the last sentence, but with no success. "So why aren't you out there fucking some farmer's wife? Or maybe the farmer himself". Fuck, he really didn't mean to say that.

Jaskier pouted at him and Geralt couldn't stop staring at his mouth, imagining kissing off red lipstick from it. "Funny today, aren't we? For your information, I'm just not in the mood. But maybe you could use someone to warm you up and kiss that frown off your stupid face".

Geralt tried to suppress a smile. "I'll pass".

Jaskier gazed at him for another moment before speaking. "Well, too bad". He got up from the table and went towards the door. Geralt was left sitting at the table with wide eyes.

"Geralt! You're coming or what?"

Geralt got up and followed the bard silently out of the tavern. Jaskier yawned. "Ugh, I could so use a warm bed now and an eight hour nap".

"Eight hours isn't a nap".

"If that's really your opinion, then I pity you". Geralt's shoulders shook with silent laughter and he noticed Jaskier glancing at him with a smile.

(to be continued!)

Update: Link to part 2-

#geraskier #geralt x dandelion #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #gerald #jaskier #geralt the witcher #witcher #the witcher #witcher netflix #witcher geralt #witcher yennefer #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt #julian alfred pankratz #dandilion #dandellion #dandelion

[utilitycaster]

Your fav character from each class in all the actual plays you’ve watched?

THE BEST QUESTION (if hard). I’m only counting regular PCs here; see the end for some guest/NPC/one-shot mentions. As you can see I love basically all characters but I do have my favorites.

Barbarian: there is a high potential, now that Ashley is back for good, that Yasha will win this next year but for now Gorgug and his sweet awkwardness and confused attempts to find his dad wins. (some other good barbarians: Grog, Beryl from Relics and Rarities who was a. kind of a stoner and b. an absolute delight and c. a cool depiction of path of the ancestral guardian, and Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt, sweet crepe loving failure)

Bard: I love Fig, but I have to go Scanlan. You know that art piece of the Vecna battle that’s overlaid with the All Work No Play “what would the worst character be” line? Yeah. From “I’m snoring after having sex” to “I was saving it for Vax”. You just can’t beat that. (some other good bards: Annabella from Relics and Rarities, Misty from Dimension 20)

Cleric: this is probably the hardest category (shout out to a lot of clerics. Jester, Kingston, and Kristen are tied for second place) but I think I have to go with Caduceus. I love how much he sees of everyone else and how little we know of him. I love how not-so-secretly judgemental he is. I love his bone flute. I love that he’s quietly trying to save his dying home, and perhaps find family that might be dead. Someone hug him for me. (I would like to recognize Pike and Merle of course, as well as Efink Murderdeath here, and while I’m only 7 episodes in I think Zolf is already my favorite of RQG. )

Druid: Keyleth. I feel like TAZ is at a disadvantage because they’re so early on in Graduation, but also I love the Firbolg but I am not sure a druid will ever surpass Keyleth, with all her messy awkwardness and genuine desire to do good at any cost. (shout out to Ricky Huckster for being a really unique take on the druid, Lillith from Escape from the Bloodkeep for being a great wine mom, and to Kugrash who is currently ripping my heart out)

Fighter: I’m surprising myself here but the recent developments with Fabian Seacaster have put him in the forefront, I think because his story is still ongoing and because I’m a sucker for an arrogant jock suddenly confronting mortality and failure. I do still love Percival De Rolo a lot though. (shout out to Magnus Burnsides who is good at everything, and Veros the O.G. Himbo from Relics and Rarities)

Monk: Beau. This is another case of like, I love Sofia Bicicleta too, but Marisha Ray has some kind of genius for playing female characters that really tap into like, things that many women I think feel but don’t know how to express (at least, I, a woman, feel these things and don’t know how to express them). Beau is such a complicated abrasive character who feels things deeply, and who has genuinely tried and succeeded in changing. She’s so dynamic and wonderful and I love her to bits.

Paladin: Vax. I wrote a whole piece about my experience of listening to CR campaign 1 episode 57 that I never published or posted. I think there’s something deeply profound and beautiful about sticking to an oath that you didn’t ever think you’d choose, and to a promise you fell into. (also, spoilers but Fjord’s going to be my choice for Warlock so I cover that there even though one of my favorite things about him is his switch to Paladin). (shout out, of course, to Ricky Matsui)

Ranger: Vex. Due to some valid and some invalid complaints about the ranger class few people play it, which is a shame because the revised ranger options are pretty great (Horizon Walker is amazing, I say as an admitted fan of weird planar shit) and because like, Aragorn was my favorite LOTR character. But yeah, everything I’ve said about Keyleth and Beau applies to Vex, the D&D character I think I relate most to despite my irl stats not matching hers at all (I do not have 17 Charisma). The imposter syndrome, the need to appear that everything is under control, the sibling loyalty, the stubbornness, the quiet leadership - it’s all so perfect and so unique and I love her very much. (Sokhbarr was a fun take though)

Rogue: put Vax as Paladin so I could nominate Riz as my favorite rogue (and again, I love Nott and enjoy what I’ve seen of Argo, and to be fair, Sasha seems very good as well) but I think the inquisitive subclass is so cool and Riz has such a wonderful arc. Also, goblin with gun is great but goblin high schooler with gun is straight up genius.

Sorcerer: a very rare class, tbh, with Pete getting it by default. He is indeed a fascinating character though, and tying his sorcery into the mythology of the world is a pretty brilliant DM move. (I also am very into Hamid thus far, not in the least because I love halflings)

Warlock: Fjord. I liked Fjord from the start, and even when he was being an ass during the pirate arc found him relatable. I think it might be my background as a bard player that makes me love this disaster who survived for years on just a high constitution and being really good at talking and playing roles; I also love someone who isn’t the greatest leader but falls into it, and someone with control issues working through it (see also: Vex, Percy) And finally, I don’t know if Travis was telling the truth about him being lawful good but he genuinely does want to make things better for people and he takes responsibility very seriously. (obviously, I also really liked Leland, and while I think of both Fig and Sofia as primarily of their main classes of bard and monk, they are cool as warlocks. I get why Emily Axford keeps gunning for Hexblade).

Wizard: Caleb. Given all the other sources of magic it’s always fascinating to see why someone becomes a wizard specifically, and I also like how complex Caleb is - not just the trauma, though that’s part, but the humor and the versatility. (Adaine was a close runner-up though, and Taako was my favorite of THB but is a little too goofy to be a favorite).

Artificer: I mean, obviously Tary.

NPCs and guests, with less commentary:

Barbarian: gonna go with Lionel the True Polymorphed Duck here.

Bard: Hazel Copperpot, she of the 1930s radio accent

Cleric: again very difficult, but then again, not so difficult. Lieve’tel was great.

Druid: Nila, the sweet and calming presence in our hour of need.

Fighter: oh god I don’t know if I can choose between Keg, bisexual dwarven disaster, and Brian David Gilbert’s Hargis, awkward goliath theater kid.

Monk: Ferriwen Breeze, who I do hope shows up again because she was my favorite Darrington Brigade character and I really love Genasi; also Expositor Dairon, natch.

Paladin: few people play paladins as guests which is weird. I do like Kerrek, and I do like Arkhan, but like, Kima, clearly.

Ranger: Sandralynn Faeth, hands down. A wonderful NPC.

Rogue:  I do love Cathilda, and I do love Twiggy, but I laughed about the Owlbear for the entire Darrington Brigade one shot.

Sorcerer: I mean...it has to be Gilmore, right? Calianna is great but no one can beat Gilmore.

Warlock: Zahra, who also, incidentally, is the only non-Hexblade Warlock who’s shown up. I mean hexblade is objectively amazing but Zahra is too.

Wizard: there have been many wizard NPCs across games and it was a very difficult choice but who else is graceful, unendingly kind and patient, and reliable in all situations? Allura Vyesoren is the wizard you wish your wizard could be. Yussa and Essek and Lup and Arthur Aguefort and Barry and Lyra and Ranier and far more wizard NPCs and guests are all wonderful in their own ways but like, did you think you could come for Matt Mercer’s self insert? you could not.

.

#d&d #critical role #relics and rarities #dimension 20 #TAZ #Anonymous