#now called the silver river inn

[leon-swedfinqs]

So last night my partner and I were sharing ideas back and forth and they gave me a prompt of what Aziraphale and Crowley’s first meeting together was like, so I ended up writing a short little snippet about them getting their first job. It cuts off short because I ran out of steam, but it’s a great example of the early days of their relationship!

I have decided to start calling this AU the Serpent and the Serpent Bearer (if I end up writing anything in full this would be the title), as an aside. You’re welcome to request writing blurbs for this story/au so don’t be afraid to say something!

Story blurb under the cut!!

The Serpent and the Serpent Bearer Writing Blurb #1

“So how much is the pay again?” The tiefling sneered.

“That is the third time you’ve asked that in the past ten minutes,” the human huffed.

“Well I just wanted to find out if it’s really worth it to put up with this charade.”

“Excuse me-“

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” The dwarf standing at the other side of the table said firmly. “I have already stated, completing this delivery and return will reward you both with 20 gold pieces. But you will only get the money if you deliver and return the goods *together*, I want multiple bodies to protect it. Do you understand?”

When answering the job posting for a simple delivery and return job for 20 gold, Crowley was quick to jump on it. He was desperate for money at the moment — he was low on food supplies and could barely afford to keep staying in inns, so he needed to start saving up for a tent. The last thing he wanted was to sit in a village square and beg for money and help, it brought too much attention. But now he was stuck with this religious dunce who made his eyes hurt — quite literally, he had these stupid rings around his head that were just bright enough to bother him when he had his sunglasses off.

Aziraphale sighed to himself as he shifted his bag over to his other shoulder. He really needed the money — he was running low on food and he needed to start saving up for a tent or something similar if he was going to continue like this. It’s been getting harder and harder to find an inn that doesn’t immediately turn him away the farther out into the country he goes, and it’s becoming to be a bit frustrating. He saw this job posting in the village square and couldn’t believe his luck — well, it was clear he should’ve held his tongue, as he was stuck with this brute rogue that had a sharp tongue.

“I’m sure we can make things work,” Aziraphale said with a curt nod.

“Perfect!” The dwarf, whos name was Steven, smiled. Crowley groaned and rolled his eyes as Steven ducked under the table and pulled out a map.

“Now, it’s should be about a 3 day trip one way. Once you reach Ravenspoint, the delivery exchange will happen on the night of the waning moon, which may be a day or two wait depending on your timing. Once the exchange is complete, come straight back here and I will give you both your full pay. This is the path you must take,” he said as his finger trailed along the map, following the river. “Understood?”

“Understood!” Aziraphale smiled. “Is it alright if we borrowed the map for the journey?”

~

“Shouldn’t you have a horse or a carriage or something?” Crowley asked with a huff as the two sat in the village square, taking stock of their current supplies.

“Wh-huh? Excuse me? Of course not! Why would I?” Aziraphale sputtered in surprise.

“Well, I mean…cleric, fancy top, silver sword, the jewelry, it’s all sorta…” Crowley trailed off as he waved his hand back and forth. “You know?”

Aziraphale chewed the inside of his cheek as he rustled through his bag to count up his potions. “Now listen, uh-“

“Crowley.”

“Crowley. Just because I am a cleric doesn’t automatically mean I have the money to spend on a horse.”

“Suuuure it doesn’t,” Crowley said with a roll of his eyes.

Now, from an outsider looking in, the two forced teammates seemed to nearly be at each others throats, with the way they kept snipping at each other, the tiefling occasionally hissing. It was as if working with a partner was one of the worst things in the world to have happened to both of them. The tiefling looked liked he’d rather just grab the delivery item and run off to get the job over with, while the human was still being careful in his preparations.

However, just below the thing facade, both were exactly the same. They were afraid. Beings on the run, hiding for their lives — being in a group just brought more attention to them, practically acting as a beacon to their current location.

A rogue, Aziraphale thought, would be useful in combat. Someone skilled with knives and sneak attacks, able to actually land any substantial hits on a creature who got in their way. As he’s been trying to keep his focus on learning magic and healing, Aziraphale has essentially side-lined the use of his sword. If he wanted to get better at his spells, then he had to use them. Trying to look on the bright side of things, Aziraphale had willed himself to relax about the situation knowing that he now had proper back up on this team.

Crowley was trying to be optimistic, working with a cleric meant that, by default, he was going to have a healer. If he somehow fucks up in battle (which has been happening a lot recently), he has the safety of knowing that he has a form of back up to protect him. Learning the tricks of working with small knives and generally being a “rogue” has been proven to be a bit difficult for Crowley — he still needs to develop the coordination for proper throws, and he isn’t exactly the most…sneaky person there is. He was an optimist, deep down — he can make this work in his favor.

Not long after the two looked over what supplies they currently had, and stocking up on what was missing, they awkwardly walked down the long road to their destination, keeping an awkward 5 feet of space between each other.

#good omens d&d au #good omens d&d #good omens au #the serpent and the serpent bearer #good omens writing #good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #crowley good omens #Aziraphale good omens #writing #Mari rambles #mari writes #good omens 2 #good omens season 2

[petitmonde]

Roura + human creature hybrids

I think this could technically fit into the universe where Sasha and Anetra go to the real world. A little visit to the forest, so to speak.

"Damn it," Robin grunted as yet another attempt to untangle her antlers from the tree failed.

Stupid things, she's hated them from the moment they sprouted from her scalp. The faint glow from them ruined her hunt, and with a family with plenty of hungry mouths to feed, that meant she had to work twice as hard to provide.

Every single full moon they grew, inch by painful inch of horn rising towards the sky in their eternal growth. Now, a year in, the antlers had sprouted flowerbuds from the root to the tips.

No matter how much she tried, the only thing she managed to achieve was a bigger dent in the ground as Robin bucked to get free.

"Is this really how I'm going to die?" Robin whined to herself. It was no use. She'd have to wait until someone found her by daylight.

A rustle caught Robin's attention, and if she had to guess, whatever made that noise was closing in on her.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Just fucking great, she was about to be eaten if she didn't get out. Hell, with the energy she's already spent, whatever it was would catch up to her in no time.

With one final push, Robin broke the branches and ran. Ran in any direction her feet would carry her. Faster than she had ever run in her life, with no other direction but away from the thing that was still chasing her.

The landscape flew under her legs as the forest opened up its arms to her. No tree, bush, or stone hindered her escape from the beast that was closing in on her with rapid steps. One stumble, and it would all be over.

She couldn't afford that. She wouldn't allow that. Every stride she took, Robin was reminded of another face from the village. She couldn't disappoint them, she absolutely could not.

Miss Isabelle's kids who proudly showed her the salamander they had caught. Little Poppy, who had grown so big she couldn't fit her hand me downs that she had to resew them every couple months. The hero her mum had nursed back to health after she had saved them from the ever encroaching demon army. Salina's never-ending chatter with whoever came to the inn.

Everyone that had ever meant something to Robin, even the ones she hadn't met herself.

Screeching to a halt, Robin lost her footing as she narrowly avoided crashing into the river that cut off her escape room. Without time to reorient herself to change direction, a pair of sharp teeth greeted her throat. She was trapped below a silver white wolf with its business end front and center.

Death would come at any moment now, except it didn't.

The creature backed off, leaving Robin disoriented, as well as confused.

The muzzle of the humanoid wolf flattened, revealing a soft but still very human face. It stood on its hind legs like any regular old person would do as it shifted forms. Most of the fur on its chest blended into skin, with only the arms still covered in fur.

With the immediate danger over, Robin couldn't even sigh in relief as the wolf regarded her with its piercing gaze.

Finally, it spoke.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to harm fae folk. I only wanted to help, but then you ran away."

"Huh?"

Robin had gone straight to the afterlife, or she was dreaming. In what world did wolves talk or become humans? Monsters didn't speak. That was what made them beasts. And they certainly didn't spare prey that had at their mercy.

And they most definitely didn't look like sorry excuses for themselves, tail tucked between their legs as they repeated their apologies for being brutes.

"I am the Lady of the Moon, but you can call me Aura. I am sorry I startled you. Can you stand?"

#roura #rpdr fanfiction #fic prompt

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

When I heard FlashShifter say in an interview that there would be a tavern/inn called "Silver Unicorn" in Castle Village, I can't get my head around the unusual, weird, yet quite delicious and mouth-watering dishes that can be served there. Having read various recipes for Skyrim, Oblivion, DND cooking etc., now I only can imagine in that very famous tavern they maybe serve snake soup, stew from local river weird fish, grilled eel, monster fruit pies and sweets, ales, beer, wine! Everything that can be imagined on the table of a fantasy medieval world!

Note to myself: I need to stop writing posts like this on an empty stomach 🤤

#stardew valley #sdv #stardew valley expanded #sve #i'm so hyped #and also hungry

[aiyexayen]

For the WIP ask game, "chengxing I guess"; "Jiang Cheng / Wen Xu"; & "wei wuxian / ye baiyi Soup" 👀

:chinhands: i have snippets for all these!

"chengxing i guess" is thus titled because this ship came for me while i was minding my business and i was put out that i had to start an entire new wip about it:

Wen Kexing has heard about Lianhua Wu--Yunmeng youths are not shy about what they like, and what they like are the disciples of Yunmeng Jiang Shi. Strong, principled, determined, free-spirited, charming, playful, etc. Nothing more than banal hero worship of course, although playful does sound promising. Occasionally a sighing, swooning voice will wax poetic about their favourite pretty face. Things like easygoing and warm as a lake on a summer afternoon or untamable and flexible as the river winding through the hills; or impulsive as the rain. And Wen Kexing acknowledges that there's been an attempt. It's merely an attempt that he finds abysmal. Nothing, therefore, could prepare him for the absolute storm of a man who thunders his way through the market, jawline sharper than his sword and eyes even sharper than that. A man with hard-won command in every wire-taut line of his body, deep violet robes flaring out from a waist cinched tight under black leather, and shoulder blades...oh, shoulder blades so distinct. The face of a true beauty, wreathed in venom. Touch, it promises, and you'll definitely get bitten. "Who is that?"  A-Xiang's voice does nothing to pull Wen Kexing's gaze away but he does lean back further in his seat and finish bringing his cup up for a drink, lips lingering on the cool silver as he watches the man cut through the crowd like an arrow. "Silly girl," Wen Kexing says, because if she was paying attention she would have already heard the answer in the conversations around them on the patio, "he's Jiang Wanyin, zongzhu of Yunmeng Jiang Shi. Master of Lianhua Wu."

"Jiang Cheng/Wen Xu" is still in very early stages of sussing out but have a smol glimpse:

Jiang Wanyin knows what it is to be a failure in a father's eyes, upstaged by a brother, found unremarkable by the world. The similarities don't outweigh the differences, but behind the waterfalls of Cloud Recesses, hands buried in lotus-perfumed hair, Wen Xu thinks it's enough.

and of course, "wei wuxian/ye baiyi Soup" which i was prompted ages and ages ago and then just kind of fell off on writing. finished fic WHEN, i lament in the mirror while i honk my own clown nose:

These days Wei Ying hasn't had much reason to cook at all, either a guest at some sect or another or eating at local restaurants and inns or, occasionally, trying not to set whatever he's roasting on fire while he gets lost staring at the stars above his campsite. In fact, Wei Ying hasn't made soup even once since he came back to the world. Huh. That's what makes it particularly notable that he's now sitting here in this questionably-called 'house,' slowly stirring a pot full of water, scrounged vegetation from what might be an attempt at a garden, and hastily hunted game. Nothing fancy, but Wei Ying doesn't think he's gotten rusty. It's hard to get rusty about soup. So he thinks this will eventually become a pretty great meal. Even if it's not his best it will be nourishing and that's actually the most important thing about soup, no matter what anyone else says. Nourishment. Wei Ying mutters the word to himself distractedly as he smudges a line on the talisman keeping his hearth at the right temperature. Few people need a good, nourishing soup right now as much as a guy sitting in a little hut in the chill of mid-autumn watching over a beautiful, barely conscious stranger.

wip ask game

#wip ask game #ask game #the untamed #my fic #excerpts from my fic #my writing

[cyn-write]

Chapter 1: Down the Rabbit Hole

Synopsis: No two Yuu's are alike. Some are male, some are not. Some are Sweet and others are not. This one is certainly like none before, with a darker soul than any before. Will she change the way things have been and bring the darkness back to Ramshackles inn?

Trigger Warning for part 1: Panic/Anxiety Attack Described (this is based on my own experience with PTSD and Sever Anxiety Disorder)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All she could do was close her eyes. Cyn felt the wind pressing against her back as she fell into the blackness. When she finally hit the ground, she opened her eyes and saw a mirror framed in bronze. In the center of this mirror was a hand, beckoning her to reach out and take it. She hesitated for a second, but the voice inside her head whispered, "take it, they need you, you must save them... from themselves." She reached out and resumed the fall.

When her feet touched solid ground, she braced for the impact. Then looked up to see a sea of people in black embroidered robes and a boy with blue hair and striking green eyes standing in front of her. She stepped back and held up her hands in defense.

"Are you okay?" the boy said in a startled tone.

"W-who are you?" She asked and looked around in fright. "Where am I?"

A hooded figure came up to her from the crowd, a black and pink-haired man. He had a fatherly atmosphere around him, despite his youthful appearance. "Dear, this Night Raven College... what's your name?"

For some reason, his aura soothed her. "Cynthia... I think... Cynthia Widow." She relaxed a bit.

"Hello Cynthia, I'm Lilia," He said, gesturing to himself as he waved the blue-haired boy back, "You fell out of the mirror. Can you tell us where you're from?"

Cyn tried to think, but she drew a blank, nothing came to her mind. "No... No, I- I can't. I-I can't remember anything. Why am I here?"

"Poor dear," Lilia said, as another man came closer to the mirror. His dress was differnt from the rest and the crow mask hid his feature.

"This is a college for mages. I am Dean Crowley, the headmaster of this esteemed 'all-boys' college," the crow-man said, "Until now... It seems the Mirror has graced us with the first female student! Let's see what dorm you're in so we can move on!"

"WAIT! SHE TOOK MY SPOT! I AM SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!" a loud voice called. Then a gray cat with flaming blue ears ran in... straight towards her. She felt an overwhelming sense of fear that she could not explain. This feeling flooded her body like a river being released from a dam.

As the cat came closer, Cyn moved back as suddenly a booming voice called out behind her. She spun around and saw a giant mirror with a face in the center... speaking. The mirror was speaking with the same voice that lured her into this place. "Cynthia Widow, the nature of your soul is... uncertain.... one I have not seen in centuries... The Curiosity of the Pumpkin King, Ramshackle!"

The crow was visibly shocked at this proclamation, and the students started to stir, "Ramshackle, we haven't had someone placed there since..."

"Move it spot, hogger!" The cat came closer and pushed her out of his way. She stumbled and fell off the platform.

"What is that cat doing here again? I thought I threw you out." The crow called, and Cyn crawled to her feet as her body started to feel light, as if it was prepared to run. "Dorm Heads! Catch the cat!"

"I'm not a Cat! I am Grim the Great! Greatest Mage in all the World!" The flame cat said, shooting blue flames from his paws. Cyn felt her legs wobble as the flames drew closer.

"T-the mirror... talked... the cat.. talked... fire... burning." Cyn felt her left arm tingle.

A red-haired boy and a silver-haired boy with glasses worked to catch the cat who was spewing fire, causing the tingling to get stronger and the feeling of pure terror to shoot through her blood-stream. Fear paralyzed her.

Lilia came over and blocked some shots that came too close. She felt her legs shake and crumble under her weight. A strong pair of arms caught her, and she looked up to see piercing green eyes appraising her.

"Mon Cheri, is it a pity we had to meet this way, but why don't I escort you to a seat?" The green-eyed man said.

All Cyn could say was, "...yes, please..."

The man took her to the second row of seats, where another group of students divided their attention between the flaming cat and the girl. He gently put her in a chair as he spoke calming words. "Mon Cheri, could you take a deep breath for me, please?" Cyn nodded and tried to settle her racing breath. "Good, now look into my eyes, ignore everyone else, and focus on me. Everything will be okay. The cat will not hurt you."

Cyn did as he instructed and tried to focus on her breath and the man's eyes. They were such a bright green, like emeralds shining in sunlight. "Roi Des Roses and Roi D'Effort just caught the fire cat. They handled the situation. Do you need some water? Or the nurse?"

Cyn nodded, and the emerald-eyed man went to go speak with a different group of boys in robes. Before he left, he had a green-haired guy take his place beside her.

"Hello Cynthia, I'm Trey, everything is okay. Rook is going to get the nurse and we are going to help you, okay?" Trey said, to ease her anxiety. Cyn nodded and looked around.

"I-I have no clue what's going on..." Cyn said softly. "I can't remember anything. The cat talked, the mirror talked, and I don't know what's going on... my head feels... fuzzy."

Trey immediately crouched before her so he was at eye level with her. "Hey, hey calm down. You're just having a panic attack, but it will pass. Everything will be okay."

The group came over and the conversation shifted to Cyn.

"You are not considering dumping her there. The poor thing is shivering!" Lilia said.

A Blond man stepped forward and waved for a blonde boy, Rook, to follow him. "We'll take her. Out of the Dorms, we are the safest for the girl-"

"What do you mean by that, Vil?" a lion-eared boy growled.

"Hold on," A Silver haired boy with glasses spoke up. "I think the dorm of Benevolence is the best place for her-"

"Why not let Cynthia decide," Lilia offered, crouching at the girl's level with Tray. "Dear, where would you like to go?"

"I- uhh..." Cyn felt her body start to shake intensely as she tried to understand what was going on. She could barely follow the conversation as is, but now she had to choose.

"She's clearly too shaken to decide," Vil said. "Now come with me. I'll have Rook take you to the infirmary and-"

"No, we will take her to the infirmary-"

"Boys! She is not a toy to be fought over. Now, why don't I take her to the infirmary and discuss this later?" Lilia intervened. Cyn barely understood any of the conversations. She focused on the floor. "Come dear, can you stand?" Lilia offered a hand to the shivering girl.

"I-it..." Everything went black as she passed out yet again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To say the infirmary was crowded was an understatement. After the girl passed out, Crowley had Lilia take her up and told the rest they would discuss this after the Ceremony. The dorm leaders begrudgingly agreed, and after the mirror sorted the last student, three dorm leaders and a Vice came to join Nurse Pinklee, Crowley, and the still-asleep Cynthia in the cramped nurses' quarters. Pinklee was performing some routine check-ups while Crowley tried to calm the bickering students.

"We have plenty of room for her in Diasmonia-"

"Your boys would give her no space. She would be better off in Pomefiore-"

"Our boys would protect her for those brutes in Savana-"

"She is better off with us. We won't take advantage of her-"

"What are you implying, Riddle? You have no room for the girl-"

"Calm down, boys. I'm sure she will be fine in Rameshackle-"

"You are going to let that dump collapse on top of her?"

"That place is about to cave in-"

"WILL YOU SHUT UP!! I AM TRYING TO WORK HERE!" Pinklee finally had enough with the group. The lanky, green-haired man was about to blow a fuse. Even his husband couldn't get him this mad, this quickly. Everyone froze when they heard the usually motherly nurse yell at them. "If you are going to keep arguing, then do it in the hall! I will let you know when she wakes up, but after the day she has had, she won't be going anywhere until tomorrow."

Crowley took advantage of this opportunity "You heard Pinklee, we'll discuss this tomorrow. We have a meeting scheduled, anyway. So go back to your dorms, take care of your freshman, and I will keep you posted on her condition."

The four students left as begrudged as they entered, and finally, there was peace in the infirmary. Crowley shook his head and turned to his colleague. "How is she?"

Pinklee turned back to his sleeping patient. "She's recovering. She had a severe panic attack and but after a good night's rest, she'll be fine." Pinklee then looked up at Crowley. "You're seriously thinking about putting her in that dump? You know it's called 'Ramschakle' for a reason, right?"

"It should be liveable, besides the dust and ghost, it's a fine building." Crowley shrugged.

"As her doctor, I forbid her from living there until it's cleaned. Thoroughly Cleaned." Pinklee crossed his arms and glared at his boss. He knew Crowley was a cheapskate in every sense of the word, but he never thought he could throw someone in that dump. "So you have two choices: either get the dorm cleaned and fixed tonight, or have her stay in one of the other dorms until it's fixed, which means making decisions and dealing with complaints."

Pinklee knew how to get what he wanted out of Crowley. That's why he stayed at this testosterone-filled institution. "Fine. I'll clean it... keep me posted on her condition." Crowley left in a huff, leaving Pinklee and the sleeping girl to the peace of the night.

Pinklee sighed and resumed his check-up. He was trying to pinpoint any features that could indicate her heritage before his husband sent him the results of her blood test. It was a fun game the two had since college. Between her skin that was white as death and light-red hair, he guessed she was from the Island of Woe, but the slight point to her ears suggested Briar Valley. She could have some fay ancestry since Lilia seemed to flock to her, and he always adopts the lost fey. The most curious thing was the necklace she wore, a silver spider amulet with an ametrine gem as the thorax. It gleamed in the moonlight and Pinklee wanted to get a closer look at the gem to see if there was an inscription or engraving he could look up; but the moment he set a finger on the gem, the girl's eyes shot open and a hand gripped his wrist. Her eyes seemed to glow bright gold, and he felt a twinge of fear run down his spine.

"What do you think you're doing transvestite?" Cynthia said in a dark voice, "Mommy would turn in her grave if you stole something from a girl."

Pinklee reeled back, falling out of his chair and crawling back as the girl slowly sat up, turning her head to the side. "What's wrong William, or would you prefer to be called Wendy??" The dark voice rumbled the room and Pinklee felt the wall press against his back.

"H-how do you know that!? No one knows that!? W-Who the hell are you?" Pinklee called and put a chair in front of him.

The girl let out a deep, terrifying laugh. "Why, I am the shadow of the moon at night. I fill your dreams to the brim... with fright!" She cackled, then fell straight back, shaking as she laughed.

Pinklee hid in the corner and covered his head... until the laughing stopped. He slowly got up and approached the girl with cation, she was asleep, sleeping as if nothing happened. That is when the computer beeped.

Pinklee squealed and turned to see his glowing screen with a video call invite coming in from Hamsterviel University, his husband's work.

He quickly accepted and his large, wild-haired, idiot husband wasn't even looking at the screen. "Pinklee, the sample you sent me was fascinating! I have never seen anything like this! There is no- Pushka what happened. You look like you saw my ex-mother-in-law."

"Jub... I-I think I summoned the devil!" Pinklee kept his tone hushed. "S-she knows everything. She knows Wendy!"

"Are you sure it isn't my ex-mother-in-law?" Jub joked, and Pinklee shook his head violently.

"No. I'm serious! I-I went to grab her necklace, and I laid one finger on it. One Finger!! and it was like out of a horror movie. She called me Wendy, she knows about my cross-dressing, sheknowsaboutmymother!!!!!" Pinklee was frantic.

Jub's eyes went wide. "Let me see! Put her on the phone! I want to See!" Pinklee was this close to killing him remotely.

"Yes. I'm fine, thanks for asking." Pinklee said before taking his laptop over to the girl, half using it as a shield in case she wakes up again.

Jub was confused. "Are you sure she is alive? She looks dead to me."

Pinklee rolled his eyes. "Oh, I'm sure of it. She scared me to death!"

Jub went quiet and muttered to himself. "Interesting... so delicate looking, yet her DNA suggests she is something... otherworldly. I ran her DNA through the database and she has no blood relations in the system." Jub smiled and got excited. "This is exciting! She may be the next evolutionary step. Pinklee, I need more samples! I will be on the first plane to Sage Island. Keep her there!"

"Jub!" Pinklee exclaimed and turned the computer screen back to him, "You can't experiment on MY students! Even if she needs an exorcist, I have a responsibility to keep her safe. Not to make her your next science experiment!"

"But Pushka! Think of the science!"

"Think of my JOB!" Pinklee shook his head in disbelief. "Look, if you want to come and help me treat her, you are more than welcome. According to Crowley, she has amnesia, but I am going to run some more tests and try to contact her family. If she does have amnesia, I will need your help to find the cause. If not, then you're not allowed to test her. Okay?"

Jub huffed and rolled his eyes. "Fine."

Pinklee smiled at his husband. "I am excited to see you though, either way."

"Yaya, you too." Jub said and waved him off, "Just don't get possessed till I get there, ya?"

"Don't even joke about that. Or else me and your Ex-wife will haunt you." Pinklee hissed, "Love ya, Jubs."

"Love ya too. Bye." Jub said before signing off. Leaving him alone again with the girl.

He was scared to be in the same room with the girl, but she was his patient, and she would have to be scary to survive in this school.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He laughed. His laugh caused his chair to shake as he watched the mirror. He knew this story would be interesting, but he was even surprised at her actions. He sat and looked down his hall of mirrors as millions of versions of the same events play out; all at different stages in their tale, some years past and others years before. He watched as some stories ended in blue flames with death surrounding all, others end in sadness as the Yuu goes home, and some ended happily... sort of. But this story interested him greatly, as this yuu was not from the world he usually pulled from. No... she was from a darker place, a place of emotion and magic that differs greatly from this place.

He turns in his chair as his white mask gleams in the firelight, "This will be so much fun."

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If you made it this far, Thank you!!

Please Like and reblog and I hope to have chapter 2 out soon!

Disclaimer: My work is my work, so please don't steal it. I do not own any of the TWST characters except my OCs (Cynthia Widow, Nurse Pinklee, and Dr. Jubba). I promise I will get better at writing disclaimers.

#twisted wonderland #twst #azul ashengrotto #twst mc #twst oc #lilia vanrouge #rook hunt #trey twst #riddle twisted wonderland #vil schoenheit #riddle rosehearts #trey clover #deuce spade #grim twisted wonderland #twst fanfic #twst crowley #disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst rook #twst lilia #twst azul

[jawanaka]

💬💬💬👀

Show me the Witcher quotes!!!!

Hehehe, as you asked, three quotes from three different witcher fics:

First up, Ciri and Adda from The Swallow of Novigrad

"They already do" Ciri interrupted, nodding towards the parchment lying on the table between them. "They always will and once your son comes of age they will do the same to him. It’s a wound they cannot stop probing, a knife they will not stop twisting. They will not stop because you ask them nicely or meekly roll over." Ciri sent the parchment sliding across the table. "They want to call you a Striga? Fine. Be the Striga. Go for their throats."

The room fell silent once more. The rain was now beating on the glass windows of the tower as the queen stared down at her painted reflection.

"Do you know what human blood tastes like?" Adda asked suddenly. "Not the little drops you get when you prick your finger on a needle, real blood still being pumped by the beating heart of your victim? The way they move when you sink your fangs and claws into them." She clenched her fist, painted nails digging into the palm of her hand. "I do, I remember. Not all of it mind you, not as coherent memory but flashes, shards of events that surface at the oddest time." She slowly unclenched her fist. "And they think I'm a danger to them. When I first held my newborn son and the only thing I could think of was that I knew, knew, what he would taste like. I almost throw myself from the tower. And the church laughs and use my pain against me." The queen breathed out and then seemingly steeled herself.

"Fine then." She said at last "Let's be the Striga."

From Where Paths Lead

He passes quickly through the forested hills and into the valley duchy proper. The pines and firs, woodcutters cottages and summer huts used by the shepherds give way to deciduous forest whose last colors are draining away, small villages with brightly painted houses and terracotta rooftiles. The landscape opens up and soon the gentle hills are covered with empty fields, with sprawling estates and small castles. And vines, everywhere vines. Covering the plains and climbing up on terraced hillsides, attended by farmers who carefully prepare them for winter. The red and white lifeblood of Toussaint he thinks and surprises himself with the poetic twist of his thoughts. Is it age or the coming change of season that has led him down this road?

Eskel has never been one to wax poetic. He supposes it something in the water.

Soon he reaches the Sansretour, winding as it does through the landscape, watering the hills and fields of the duchy. The bridge crossing it is constructed from pale and weathered stone and from the inn cleverly built into it an aroma of fried river fish and shallots wafts onto the passersby, beckoning them inside. Eskel can hear the songs and raucous laughter from the common room, the odd sing-song cadence of Toussaintese inflated common tongue. With the twilight quickly approaching, he is sorely tempted to stay on for the night. But he presses on, purposefully, determined yet careful to let his horse pick its steps so that it doesn't fall. Far ahead the bells of Beauclair are singing, silver notes ringing out into the night sky as the sun sets behind the Amell mountains.

It is most definitely something in the water.

And lastly, from The Sins of Fathers

"Did he say why me?"

"Yes madam, Ro-the captain-general" a ghost of as smile touched Ves face as she recited, "’was hoping that your close proximity to the empress coupled together with a residual loyalty to the Temerian royal house would entice you to look favorably upon his request.’"

Triss raised an eyebrow, "Is that really what he said captain?"

Ves didn’t move a single facial muscle "No madam. His exact words were 'Merigold is the only one in that lot I know we can count on, she's a slippery cunt but she always looked out for Foltest and his kin when she could, even when she didn't have to'.

Triss chuckled. "Now that sounds like the Vernon Roche I know." She nodded to the other woman who stood. "Thank you for bringing me this captain. I will make sure to forward the information to the empress. Try and get some rest, the castle is a safe as we could make it" Ves nodded and turned about in place. Triss watched her leave and again lifted her teacup to her lips. It had grown cold. She softly blew on the cup, steam starting to rise as it reheated. As she sipped her now warm tea she read the letter for a third time, before folding it up and putting it into the embroidered purse attached to her belt. She pushed herself up from the chair by the armrests and left the balcony, carrying peace and war in her purse as her tea again grew cold behind her.

#asks #my writing #eskel #triss merigold #adda the white

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Whatever It Takes [Chapter One] The Valley of Plums [Zenitsu Agatsuma]

A/n: this is a canon divergent story with aged up characters.

The scent of death permeated around her as Yukino sauntered down into Tani no Ume village in the Oudake mountains; the silver bell connected to the handle of her katana rang with every sashay of her hips. It was early spring in the region; the plum trees spread out near the river were bearing fruit and the weather was cool – evenings typically were.

As she crossed the stone bridge into the village, Yukino curled her lips into a sad smile. She was home. It had been too long since she had last seen the A-frame houses and the roaring waterfall in the backdrop. It was as though she had stepped back into the past, into a better time.

When she departed from the village at seventeen to begin her demon slayer training, there was hardly a home left. The residence had done a quick job at repairing the damages, however. She was proud and a bit homesick. But her visit wasn’t coincidental, she was fated to return.

The snake demon was back. But why?

Taking an uneasy breath to quieten her anger, she clutched the hilt of her sword as tears stung her eyes. It wouldn’t be long now; the confrontation she had trained for was on the horizon. Yukino could sense it; the demon who tore her life asunder; who took her beloved sisters away from her. She and it had a long history.

Further in, Yukino saw a familiar face outside the inn, sweeping the footway. She stopped to wave. Miss Tsuru widened her hazy green eyes.

“Yukino?! You’ve come home,” Miss Tsuru uttered in disbelief. She looked her over and smiled. “And you’ve become a Demon Slayer.”

“As I promised,” Yukino added.

Miss Tsuru frowned.

“Then I imagine you’ve heard the news. The demon is back again.”

Yukino knew. She was in the region when her crow delivered the mission. Any member of the Corps could have taken it, but she was quick on the draw. The demon was hers alone.

Taking a brief look around, she noted that the streets were nearly bare.

“How many has it taken?”

“Fourteen in less than a month,” Miss Tsuru answered.

How disgusting. The demon wasn’t killing for food; it was calling her back. Was it desperate? Had something unexpected happened? Her stomach was in knots thinking about it.

“I never thought it would return here, after what happened,” Miss Tsuru brought up. “It left for such a long time.”

She was aware. Yukino took an uneasy breath.

“I’ll do whatever it––”

“Please, dear. You’ve traveled a long way,” Miss Tsuru interrupted. “Come inside and have a warm meal first.”

Yukino could not decline; she was famished.

Following the woman into the inn, Yukino sat on her knees in front of a chabudai table and slid her katana from the white belt around her waist, laying it on the floor beside her. She waited in silence until Miss Tsuru returned, then thanked her as she sat down with a bowl of miso soup and rice. Yukino picked up her chopsticks and began to eat.

“You’ve grown since last I saw you,” Miss Tsuru mentioned.

Had she? Yukino cleared her throat.

“It has only been three years.”

Sure, her wavy white hair was much longer, fading to ice blue, but she didn’t look much different.

“You just seem much older,” Miss Tsuru pointed out. “Perhaps it is the look in your eyes. You remind me of Hisae, rest her soul.”

Yukino took an uneasy breath. Hisae was her older sister. She was born kind but having to take care of her and Shouko after their parents passed with no help from the villagers, her outlook on life was clouded by fear and anger.

Was Miss Tsuru right? Did Yukino now have the same look?

She looked death in the face every time she took on a demon. And sometimes the demons were far stronger. So many aspiring demon slayers were eaten during the Final Selection. Out of twenty, only three survived the full seven days on the infested mountain of Fujikasane. Her training and resolve kept her alive, but in her heart, Yukino knew that she didn’t deserve it.

Even so, slaying was her life now, even if her goal was bent on revenge. The moment she put on the uniform – a black buttoned shirt and matching tattsuke-hakama pants – her life was one big gamble. Which reminded her.

She sat down her chopsticks and retrieved her sword, securing it to her side. The suspense was too much.

“Thank you for the food.”

Miss Tsuru frowned.

“Please be careful out there. The demon is much stronger now than it was three years ago.”

Yukino knew.

“May I request something of you?” She asked.

“Anything,” Miss Tsuru agreed.

Yukino stood and stretched her arms.

“I would like a guide through the mountains. Someone who knows the whereabouts of the demon.”

Miss Tsuru hummed. She only knew of one.

“Mr. Masanobu was hunting in the mountains when he found the remains of one of the village men. He can take you to the area.”

“Please retrieve him for me,” Yukino ordered.

Miss Tsuru bowed her head and raced out of the inn as Yukino instructed. In the meantime, the said woman waited. When at last Miss Tsuru returned, she brought with her Mr. Masanobu, a sturdy man wearing the pelt of a deer on his shoulders.

“We’re going hunting for the demon. I only ask that you take me as far as the area you found the remains in,” Yukino mentioned.

“It’s not far, a little past the waterfall, but I can show you,” Mr. Masanobu said.

Yukino leaned down and took a black coated knife from her blue snow patterned Kyahan and handed it to him.

“If we are attacked, this knife should injure the demon. It’s coated in a poison made from Wisteria. Aside from the Nichirin blades that we Demon Slayers use, Wisteria is the only way to harm them,” she explained. “But then, I’d advise you to run.”

He understood. Mr. Masanobu gestured for her to follow and led her back outside. The sun was starting to set. Yukino frowned. As soon as the sun went down, the demon would have the advantage. No matter, her eyes were sharp even in the dark.

She walked with Mr. Masanobu through the village, past the empty lot that her house once stood in – it was strange to her that the residence was never rebuilt there – following the river in the center to the waterfall in the distance. It reminded her of so many fond memories. Her sisters and she used to play at the base, or rather she and Shouko used to; Hisae would scold them for acting so immature. But that was a better time.

Yukino ignored her thoughts, keeping the tears and anger bottle inside, and hiked up the mountain into the pine forest that bordered Tani no Ume. It was immense, a fraction smaller than the Wisteria forest of Mount Fujikasane, and filled with nothing but trees and wild animals; except for an abandoned shrine to the northeast.   

The large trees shadowed most of the forest as they continued. By the time they reached the area Mr. Masanobu claimed he found the remains in, darkness had fallen. Yukino was on high alert, clutching the hilt of her sword. Her stomach was in knots.

“It’s over there,” Mr. Masanobu uttered, pointing to a patch on the ground that looked disturbed.  

“Something was here recently,” Yukino mentioned.

She leaned down to examine the spot, using her enhanced eyesight to see the dried blood in the dirt. The demon must have come back for the remains because they were no longer there. But why did it leave them for a human to find? Her eyes widened. Was it leaving her a trail? How clever. She saw footprints heading further into the forest towards the shrine and stood.

Of course, it chose that spot to return to. The trees were not enough to protect it from the light of day. And the shrine was important to it. It’s where Yukino first encountered the demon.

“We must keep––”

“How wonderful to see you again, Yuki. My invitation did not go unanswered it seems,” a low voice suddenly spoke.

Yukino gasped. It came to her. Goosebumps erupted on her skin.

She turned her wide eyes up to the branches of a large pine tree and saw the demon resting against the trunk, staring at her with yellow slitted eyes that held years of anger. And she was alone.

It took the form of a woman with pale skin and scale-like demon crests on her face. Seeing her brought so much pain. Yukino could barely contain her tears.

“Don’t waste them on me. I don’t care for tears,” the snake demon stated.

How could she be so cruel?

“Where is Shouko?” Yukino asked, cutting to the chase. “Is she still alive? Let me see her.”

The demon grinned.

“Come now, child. Stop your hiding.”

From behind the tree, a thirteen-year-old girl came running out. Her short white hair was matted with filth and her blue eyes were pouring with tears.

Yukino was relieved. She felt faint.

“Big sister,” Shouko uttered, running into her open arms.

Mr. Masanobu was bewildered. What was going on? He turned his eyes up into the trees to see the demon staring at him in hunger.

“He’s meatier than the last,” she uttered.

Her arm extended down and with nails as sharp as her fangs, she latched onto him, yanking the large man into the air. Mr. Masanobu struck at the demon with the knife Yukino gave him, but it immediately broke, doing no harm to her hard scales. Coiling her body around him, the man began to panic.

“Help me!” Mr. Masanobu shouted in fear.

Yukino ignored his pleas and took an uneasy breath; it froze the air in front of her face. She covered Shouko’s ears and watched in sorrow as the demon preceded to unlatch her jaw to an inhuman length and swallow him whole.

Yes, Yukino knew the demon was stronger. She knew because she was the one who had no choice but to feed her. For Shouko, she’d do whatever it took to keep her safe.

If she was at all able, considering who the demon was.

#demon slayer #zenitsu agatsuma #aged up characters #canon divergent au #demon slayer fanfic #zenitsu x oc

[deadnightcoffeetime]

The Monster Of Willow Creek (Tales Of Horror Segment 2) (COPY RIGHT) Page 32

In the monster’s black and white vision, it continues to follow Alyana’s trail of foot prints through the forest. Moments later, it arrives at the end of the foot prints trail, notices there aren’t anymore foot prints. It looks side to side, animality roaring , and breathing heavy. The monster proceeds to walk as Alyana stood behind the tree, nervously shaking, and trying not to make any sounds. As son the monster leaves, Alyana slowly peeks out from behind the tree. She doesn’t see the monster on sight. The monster has completely vanished without a trace,

17 minutes later, Zahn arrives at the Six Rivers National Forrest Inn and parks in front of the registration cabin. From inside the car, he sees Eric’s truck with its doors opened and abandoned, and the cabin door opened. As he exits out the car, he calls out for his daughter. “ALYANA!!” No response. “ALYANA!! I’M HERE!!”, said Zahn. Still no response. He pulls out his gun for protection, heading to Eric’s truck first. Approaching the truck, he sees the tires are slashed, and the keys still inside. After inspecting the truck, he then heads to the cabin. Going up the stairs, and enters. While looking around, he notices a stench of decay. “Hello! Anyone here? Alyana?”, said Zahn. Getting close to the counter, he sees the corpse of the inn keeper. “Oh, Jesus!”, said Zahn. Knowing no one’s here accept for the corpse, he exits the cabin. Out of the blue, a car arrives, parking behind Zahn s car. Sarah and John exits out the car. “Sarah, John, what are you roo doing here? I told you, I’m going to finish our daughter.”, said Zahn. “I know, but you know me. When something happens to our girl, you know I want to help out too. I don’t want to sit at home, all day worrying.”, said Sarah. “Is she in there?”, said John. “No, she’s not. In there, it’s a cadaver that been eaten.”, said Zahn. “Well, why are we just standing here? Let’s go look for her, and probably kill that bastard.”, said Sarah. “Alright! Let me call for back up.”, said Zahn. Zahn goes to his car and calls for backup from his P25 Two-way Radios. “This is sheriff Zahn, do you copy?”, said Zahn. No response. “This is sheriff Zahn, do you read me?”, said Zahn. “No one answered?”, said Sarah. “No. I don’t think there’s a signal here.”, said Zahn. “So what, we’re on our own?”, said John. “For now yes. We’re just going to find Aly, and her friends, and get out of here. If there’s any fallen victims along the way, I’ll notify the police about it.”, said Zahn. Zahn goes to the trunk, ge opens it up and gives Sarah and John guns. “Why are you giving us these?”, said John. “To protect yourself and kill that fucking beast.”, said Zahn. “You can’t kill a wendigo with ordinary bullets.”, said Sarah. “It’s true.”, said John. “Then how are we supposed to kill it?”, said Zahn. “There are only two ways. One is only pure silver bullets, or something sharp and silver to the heart, or two is completely burning it up.”, said Sarah. “Great!”, said Zahn. “Do you have any flare guns, or something like that?””, said John. Zahn replies, as he digs through the trunk. “Yeah, I do.”. He finds the flares. “I only have two. So, we better make this killing count.”, said Zahn. He gives a flare to John. “Remind, only use it if you have a good spot to hit. If not, then it’s a waste.”, said Zahn. “Yeah, I got it.”, said John. “Okay, now let’s go.”, said Zahn. They all go inside to their own cars and drives off to look for Alyana.

Leon and Michelle arrives at the creek. “Well, we’re at the creek, and there weren’t any signs.”, said Leon. Both are looking around the area. As the fog slowly dissipates, Michelle then sees a cave from a distance, on the right side. “Hey, there’s a cave down there.”, said Michelle. “I don’t think we should go any further, nor enter it.”, said Leon. “Do you think it lives in there?”, said Michelle. “Maybe…But, it’s still not a good idea to go in.”, said Leon. “So, what should we do?, said Michelle. “Let’s go find Aly, and tell her about this.”, said Leon. Both goes on to find Alyana.

Zahn s and Sarah’s cars arrives at a familiar scene.. Zahn sees a body on the ground, on the side of the road. He stops, as so did the others. Zahn exits out the car, as John roll down the window. “Hey, what’s going on?”, said John. “There’s a body here! You two stay in the car!”, said Zahn. He walks to the body, and sees Eric’s stomach torn open with innards being exposed. His attention is then caught by the abnormal foot prints, he follows the prints. Sarah and John are watching Zahn through the window, feeling nervous, hoping nothing will happen to him. Zahn then sees another set of foot prints, running towards the trees, along with the abnormal foot prints. He then goes on to Sarah’s car. “Listen, there’s a set of foot prints heading into the woods. I’m going to check what I can find. You two stay here! I’ll be right back!”, said Zahn. “Be careful, please!”, said Sarah. “Don’t worry, honey. I will.”, said Zahn. Before heading the woods, he goes to his car to grab his flare and pointing it in his pocket, just in case. After grabbing the flare, he also gets his gun ready, then goes in the woods, following the foot prints. The foot prints only led to one straight line, no zigzags, nor turns. Sarah and John watches Zahn going in the woods. Walking in the woods in a straight line for a couple of minutes, he stumbled into another body, it’s Becky’s deceased body. “Oh, Jesus! Another one..”, said Zahn. Becky’s injuries are still the same, slashed on her neck and stomach. Straight ahead, he sees an exit out of the woods, heading to another dirt road. Walking towards the exit, he leaves Becky’s body behind. Now exiting out the woods, he looks around for more foot prints. As he looks around for more foot prints, Leon and Michelle running through the fog, bumping into Zahn. “Mr. Denton? Oh, am I glad to see you!”, said Michelle. “Michelle! Where’s Aly?”, said Zahn. “She wanted to split up, to look for our friend, Isaac.”, said Leon. “I’m sorry, who are you?”, said Zahn. “Oh, I’m Leon. I’m a close friend of your Daugherty.”, said Leon. “So, she’s out here alone, huh? That puts more worries on me. Come with me, we’re going to look for her!”, said Zahn. Right before heading back to his car, Zahn speaks out. “Oh, do any of you know a young lady with burgundy hair, and young man with black glasses?”. “Yes, we do. Becky and Eric, why?”, said Michelle. “They’re…They’re dead. Her body is in the woods, just a few feet away from us, and his body is next to my car. I’m sorry.”, said Zahn. Michelle cries, as Leon walks back and forth, in distraught. “Come with me to my car, and find Aly, and your other friend.”, said Zahn. As they’re about to hear back, something catches Zahn’s attention. He see something on the dirt road and walks to see what it is. It’s more of the abnormal foot prints along with not her set of foot prints, running straight down the road. “None of you guys noticed these prints?”, said Zahn. “No? W just go o this area.”, said Leon. “One on, let’s head back to m car and follow these prints.”, said Zahn. They all head back to the car.

[bend-or-near-me]

Bend, Oregon – Pros Of Living Here

Living in Bend, Oregon, offers many pros. It's an outdoor lover's paradise because mountains, an extinct volcano in a city limit, the Deschutes River, and more surround it. Bend is one of the top cities in the United States for walking, hiking, and biking trails. You can also enjoy fishing, kayaking, skiing, snowshoeing, and more. Bend, Oregon, is big enough to offer plenty of diversity in terms of outdoor pursuits. But it feels small enough because of the 10-minute drive travel to reach this destination. Then, once you're in the city, you'll experience fantastic weather throughout the year. 

Locksmith in Bend, Oregon

24/7 Locksmith Co. is the No.1 locksmith in Bend, Oregon. The expert Bend Locksmith is fast, affordable, and available 24/7. The mission of this locksmith is to offer a dependable and trustworthy mobile locksmith service to the community. They are licensed professionals, and you can rely on them in an emergency. So whether you find yourself locked out of your home, business, or vehicle, reach out to the 24/7 Locksmith to help you get back to where you need to be. This Locksmith strives for excellence in everything they do. They are trained professionals to properly replace your locks and duplicate keys and even break through a lock, when necessary, without causing any damage to your doorway. For inquiries, call [phone]. 

Car Key Copying in Bend, Oregon

If you need a car key copying in Bend, Oregon, or an automotive Key Locksmith Service, 24/7 Locksmith Co. is the No.1 company you can call. It's an expert locksmith that provides key duplication in a process in which an expert locksmith will make an exact copy of your key through the use of the state-of-the-art machine and provide you with a replica of your original key that fit your lock the way it should. Key copying or key duplication service is very helpful, especially if you lose your original key or when it gets broken. So worry no more; call [phone].

Drake Park in Bend, Oregon

Drake Park in Bend, Oregon, is one of the most beautiful places to visit. It's a popular downtown community gathering that hosts many events in whatever seasons, whether spring, fall, summer, or autumn. Drake Park features a half mile of riverfront, an outdoor stage, an acre of open lawn, restrooms, small picnic tables, and more. The major renovation project for this park was completed in the year 2003. I like the restrooms' upgrades, the park's pathways, and the pavers replacements that made the walkway wider. New irrigation and lighting systems have also already been installed, same with bike racks. There are also added seating and viewing area added to the Pond and High Wheel. Drake Park is now more beautiful than ever. 

A newly renovated Homeless Shelter will add 28 beds to Bend.

I read from Bend Bulletin that a newly renovated homeless shelter will add 28 beds to the total stock of Bend. So the city will cross the 400 mark of available homeless shelter beds by February when the Neighbor Impact reopens an old motel to guests after months of renovations. The Bend Value Inn was purchased initially with state funding because of the need for changes or renovations. This includes filling holes in the walls, making them accessible, and modifying the sewer, the water, and the electrical systems. The Steppingstone Shelter is meant to stabilize the option for people who are experiencing homelessness. I hope the situation will improve. Read more. 

Link to maps

Drake Park 777 NW Riverside Blvd, Bend, OR 97701, United States Take NW Franklin Ave to US-97 S 4 min (0.8 mi) Continue on US-97 S to SW Silver Lake Blvd 3 min (1.5 mi) Continue on SW Silver Lake Blvd. Drive to SW Garfield Ave 1 min (0.4 mi) 24/7 Locksmith Co 399 SW Garfield Ave #100, Bend, OR 97702, USA

[niftybucklesblog]

Ghosts of Glanmore House

OCTOBER has now arrived ushering, in long shadows, chillier nights, dazzling, colored leaves, and a parade of flame-orange Cinderella pumpkins.

This time of year reminds me of the quaint old city of Belleville Ontario, Canada embraced by the Moira River and the Bay of Quinte.

The city originated from an old limestone building called Meyers Mills located on Station Street. Belleville was called Meyers Creek back in 1777.

Belleville’s Origins:

John Walden Meyers was the founder of Belleville.

It was first named Meyers Creek.

Meyers was also involved with running a mill, a distillery, shipping, and owning an Inn.

Meyers served as a Justice of the Peace from 1788 – 1812. He was also a Captain of the Hastings County militia, from 1798-1812.

In 1816, Meyers Creek’s name was changed after Lady Arabella Gore, wife of Sir Francis Gore

Hidden in the Old sleepy East Hill of Belleville, Glanmore House rests among charming Victorian-era homes which are framed with scarlet Maples, golden Oaks, and orange leaves along with some old Elm trees.

Glanmore House:

Built in 1882-1883 by wealthy banker J.P.C Phillips and his wife Harriet Phillips the house is now a famous historical landmark.

The home was passed down through four generations before being turned into a museum. Its architectural style is Second Empire.

An artist who was born in Glanmore House named Phillipa Burrows Faulkner allegedly observed paranormal activities and ghosts while growing up there.

Glanmore became a busy place for certain ghosts. Phillipa, watched the drawing-room piano play on its own, and doors that sprung open also slammed shut with no visible person nearby.

In 1962 Phillipa contacted a Roman Catholic Priest to enter Glanmore and exorcise the rambunctious ghosts who haunted the fine old mansion. Some of the supernatural activities abated for a short period then started up again.

Some of the family members claim to have seen a soldier wearing a British red coat who may have well been another one of their relatives dwelling inside of Glanmore. Even their spectral Grandmother once told her granddaughter to “clean the silver.”

Glanmore is now a National Historic Site of Canada.

There have been reports regarding a male and a female child, who can be heard giggling, as well as running down the halls. Cold spots can be felt throughout the mansion and the feeling of being watched while you navigate the house may make you feel vexed.

A Gray Lady sighting at Glanmore:

Tea parties were held at Glanmore over the decades amongst the original owners and once the city of Belleville took it over as a historic site.

One particular visitor named Ellen gives her own experience at Glanmore when she was a girl.

“My mother and I were part of a Ladies’ tea party at Glanmore House when I was a girl. It was a splendid place, very elegant and decorated with many wickedly, charming flowers.

I was sipping on some tea when I looked up and saw a teacup & saucer flote silently from one table over to the one beside it.

An eerie gray apparition shaped like a lady picked up the teacup and silently, began to sip her tea.

I heard Mrs. Harrington gasp and then dropped her Royal Albert, tea cup which smashed onto the ground.

She was staring at the gray lady who had quickly, vanished into thin air.

Mrs. Harrington. excused herself and promptly left the tea party.”

Note: Hattie was known to wear gray silk dresses.

Now that Autumn has arrived and rustling leaves are tossed by a crisp evening breeze, during the evening some folks enjoy strolling by Glanmore only to spot old lamps switch on and off and shadowy spirits lurk in windows at night, when no one else is around.

That concludes my podcast on Ghosts of Glanmore House.

As Halloween quickly draws nigh, remember the Ghosts of Glanmore

Glanmore House at night photo in the public domain Pinterest

#glanmore house #new blog #new podcast #ghost and hauntings #canada #nifty buckles #31daysofhalloween #gothtober #october #halloween #samhain #autumn leaves

[deadmotelsusa]

You can change the name and repaint the gate lodge as much as you want but the orange will always end up bleeding through. You can’t kill Howard Johnson. Howard Johnson kills you.

#silver springs #florida #howard johnsons #motor lodge #deadmotelsusa #now called the silver river inn #is this a poem

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ASOS: Jaime II (Chapter 11)

I'm on my bnf ish today.

At the end of the dock, a flaking shingle swung from an iron post, painted with the likeness of a king upon his knees, his hands pressed together in the gesture of fealty.

[...]

Ser Cleos answered. "This is the Inn of the Kneeling Man, my lady. It stands upon the very spot where the last King in the North knelt before Aegon the Conqueror to offer his submission. That's him on the sign, I suppose."

"Torrhen had brought his power south after the fall of the two kings on the Field of Fire," said Jaime, "but when he saw Aegon's dragon and the size of his host, he chose the path of wisdom and bent his frozen knees."

I'm confident I know exactly what will happen in this story, and it does not involve a Dothraki army travelling north in winter to fight an ice dragon on horseback.

+.+.+

"We were hoping for capon." Jaime heard his companions entering behind him. "The crossbow is a coward's weapon."

Hahaha.

"Silence, fool." Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. - Sansa III, ACOK

x

Tyrion's finger clenched. The crossbow whanged just as Lord Tywin started to rise. - Tyrion XI, ASOS

+.+.+

"Did you kill them?"

"Would I tell you if I did?" The man spat. "Likely it were wolves' work, or maybe lions, what's the difference?

Robb you are losing this war in more ways than one.

+.+.+

The clink of his chains accompanied his every movement. An irritating sound. Before this is done, I'll wrap these chains around the wench's throat, see how she likes them then.

Props to @fedonciadale for spotting this amazing Tyrion foreshadowing!

+.+.+

"Lord Beric, as it please you, ser. They call him that 'cause he strikes so sudden, like lightning from a clear sky. It's said he cannot die."

They all die when you shove a sword through them, Jaime thought.

No.

+.+.+

"If m'lady cares to wager her skin on that I won't stop her . . . but if I was you, I'd leave this here river, cut overland. If you stay off the main roads and shelter under the trees of a night, hidden as it were . . . well, I still wouldn't want to go with you, but you might stand a mummer's chance."

Get it? Do you get it? A mummer's chance. The Bloody Mummers capture them.

+.+.+

Hundreds of fat black flies swarmed amongst the straw, buzzing from stall to stall and crawling over the mounds of horse dung that lay everywhere, but there were only the three horses to be seen. They made an unlikely trio; a lumbering brown plow horse, an ancient white gelding blind in one eye, and a knight's palfrey, dapple grey and spirited.

There's a theory these three horses represent Hodor, Bloodraven, and Bran. We'll keep that in mind as we read.

+.+.+

The gelding come wandering up one night, and the boy caught the palfrey running free, still saddled and bridled. Here, I'll show you."

The saddle he showed them was decorated with silver inlay. The saddlecloth had originally been checkered pink and black, but now it was mostly brown. Jaime did not recognize the original colors, but he recognized bloodstains easily enough. "Well, her owner won't be coming to claim her anytime soon." He examined the palfrey's legs, counted the gelding's teeth. "Give him a gold piece for the grey, if he'll include the saddle," he advised Brienne. "A silver for the plow horse. He ought to pay us for taking the white off his hands."

[...]

She took the plow horse for herself and assigned the palfrey to Ser Cleos. As threatened, Jaime drew the one-eyed gelding, which put an end to any thoughts he might have had of giving his horse a kick and leaving the wench in his dust.

+.+.+

"Yes," said Jaime, "and the sooner the better. There's far too much horse shit about here for my taste. I would hate to step in it." He gave the wench a sharp look, wondering if she was bright enough to take his meaning.

Are you even a Lannister if you don't believe you're the smartest person in every room?

+.+.+

"He was no innkeep." She hunched gracelessly in the saddle, but seemed to have a sure seat nonetheless. "The man took too great an interest in our choice of route, and those woods . . . such places are notorious haunts of outlaws. He may have been urging us into a trap."

"Clever wench." Jaime smiled at his cousin.

Shades of Catelyn and Tyrion.

+.+.+

What a wretched creature this one is. She reminded him of Tyrion in some queer way, though at first blush two people could scarcely be any more dissimilar.

And here I thought comparing her to the Hound was as bad as it was going to get.

+.+.+

You would not like the truth. He had joined the Kingsguard for love, of course.

I wonder if Prince Aemon the Dragonknight did the same.

+.+.+

Aerys would want a young man to take his place, so why not a roaring lion in place of a sleepy one?

"Father will never consent," Jaime objected.

"The king won't ask him. And once it's done, Father can't object, not openly. Aerys had Ser Ilyn Payne's tongue torn out just for boasting that it was the Hand who truly ruled the Seven Kingdoms. The captain of the Hand's guard, and yet Father dared not try and stop it! He won't stop this, either."

"But," Jaime said, "there's Casterly Rock . . ."

"Is it a rock you want? Or me?"

[...]

He gave his consent, and Cersei promised to do the rest.

Cersei Lannister, plotting to destroy her father's empire from the jump. Lol

I wonder if she ever considered this would make Tyrion the heir to Casterly Rock. Probably not.

+.+.+

Instead of being together, Cersei and Jaime just changed places, and he found himself alone at court, guarding a mad king while four lesser men took their turns dancing on knives in his father's ill-fitting shoes. So swiftly did the Hands rise and fall that Jaime remembered their heraldry better than their faces. The horn-of-plenty Hand and the dancing griffins Hand had both been exiled, the mace-and-dagger Hand dipped in wildfire and burned alive. Lord Rossart had been the last. His sigil had been a burning torch; an unfortunate choice, given the fate of his predecessor, but the alchemist had been elevated largely because he shared the king's passion for fire. I ought to have drowned Rossart instead of gutting him.

Sounds like the alchemists have a debt to pay to a lion of Lannister!

+.+.+

"It is a rare and precious gift to be a knight," she said, "and even more so a knight of the Kingsguard. It is a gift given to few, a gift you scorned and soiled."

A gift you want desperately, wench, and can never have.

Hmmm.

+.+.+

"I earned my knighthood. Nothing was given to me. I won a tourney mêlée at thirteen, when I was yet a squire. At fifteen, I rode with Ser Arthur Dayne against the Kingswood Brotherhood, and he knighted me on the battlefield. It was that white cloak that soiled me, not the other way around.

I call horse shit on that one.

+.+.+

But when he closed his eyes, it was Aerys Targaryen he saw, pacing alone in his throne room, picking at his scabbed and bleeding hands. The fool was always cutting himself on the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. Jaime had slipped in through the king's door, clad in his golden armor, sword in hand. The golden armor, not the white, but no one ever remembers that. Would that I had taken off that damned cloak as well.

When Aerys saw the blood on his blade, he demanded to know if it was Lord Tywin's. "I want him dead, the traitor. I want his head, you'll bring me his head, or you'll burn with all the rest. All the traitors. Rossart says they are inside the walls! He's gone to make them a warm welcome. Whose blood? Whose?"

🚨🚨🚨

STOP EVERYTHING.

We're solving this ending right here and now.

This requires some backreading. Scroll down to Dark Daenerys Highlights & Laughs, where you'll see the author appearing to build on a theme of the throne "rejecting" (cutting, slicing) those not meant to sit on it.

In the previous chapter, Davos is gifted a dagger, which he plans to murder the fire lady with, after the slaughter in King's Landing. Sounds familiar, right?

We skip forward to this Kingslayer chapter where we're told Aerys liked to cut himself on the throne, there's traitors in the walls, and Jaime ended the king's life.

There's rats in the walls.

Dany could hear sounds within the walls, a faint scurrying and scrabbling that made her think of rats. Drogon heard them too. His head moved as he followed the sounds, and when they stopped he gave an angry scream. - Daenerys IV, ACOK

x

In the Red Keep a man did best to hold his tongue. There were rats in the walls, and little birds who talked too much, and spiders. - Tyrion I, ASOS

x

The hidden doors and secret tunnels that Maegor the Cruel had built were as familiar to the rat-catcher as to the rats he hunted. Using a forgotten passageway, Cheese led Blood into the heart of the castle, unseen by any guard. - The Princess and the Queen

x

Long windowless halls. Right, not left. Rats in the walls. What does this remind you of? The House of the Undying.

Arya in the secret passageways under the Red Keep:

"Dragons," she whispered. She slid Needle out from under her cloak. The slender blade seemed very small and the dragons very big, yet somehow Arya felt better with steel in her hand.

The long windowless hall beyond the door was as black as she remembered. She held Needle in her left hand, her sword hand, the candle in her right fist. Hot wax ran down across her knuckles. The entrance to the well had been to the left, so Arya went right. Part of her wanted to run, but she was afraid of snuffing out her candle. She heard the faint squeaking of rats and glimpsed a pair of tiny glowing eyes on the edge of the light, but rats did not scare her. - Arya V, AGOT

Arya, The Rat.

We already know Arya, the rat, will be underneath the Red Keep when Daenerys goes dracarys.

THE NEXT CHAPTER AFTER THIS ONE.

"You will bring Shae to me through the walls, hidden from all these eyes. As you have done before."

Varys wrung his hands. "Oh, my lord, nothing would please me more, but . . . King Maegor wanted no rats in his own walls, if you take my meaning. He did require a means of secret egress, should he ever be trapped by his enemies, but that door does not connect with any other passages. - Tyrion II, ASOS

King Maegor!

At the end of the war council, Maegor remained behind alone in the throne room to brood. He was found dead the next morning by Queen Elinor, seated on the Iron Throne with his robes covered in blood and his wrists slashed. A spike from one of the swords on the throne behind him was impaled through the back of his neck. How Maegor died was never discovered. Some say he had been killed by Queen Elinor, others that he had been killed by a knight of his own Kingsguard. Yet others say he had been killed by a builder who escaped the slaughter three years earlier and desired revenge, and many believe that Maegor had been killed by the throne itself. - A Wiki of Ice and Fire

x

"Have you ever seen the Iron Throne? The barbs along the back, the ribbons of twisted steel, the jagged ends of swords and knives all tangled up and melted? It is not a comfortable seat, ser. Aerys cut himself so often men took to calling him King Scab, and Maegor the Cruel was murdered in that chair. - Davos IV, ASOS

x

They say the Iron Throne can be perilous cruel to those who were not meant to sit it. - Sansa VIII, ACOK

Arya learned those passageways for a reason! She's the traitor rat in the walls. She'll appear, stab Daenerys with a dagger, vanish, and the smallfolk will say the throne rejected her.

Daenerys can't simply be killed by a Faceless Man, it has to have a unique humbling/hilarious/embarrassing component. The throne "killing her" is about as poetic as it gets.

WATCH.

Also, @agentrouka-blog reminded me of Varys and Kevan in the ADWD epilogue.

We start the chapter with another anecdote of Aerys often cutting himself on the throne. Amazing how that keeps popping up during these pivotal moments. Snow (ash) covers King's Landing.

Kevan goes beneath the rookery where he's greeted by Varys, who appears to have entered the room through a bookcase. He downs Kevan with a crossbow. While dying, Kevan remarks that he's cold as ice (Bwah!). Finally, a bunch of children show up with daggers and kill the man. They presumably leave through the same walls, ensuring Kevan's murderer is never identified.

WATCH.

+.+.+

Rossart says they are inside the walls! He's gone to make them a warm welcome. Whose blood? Whose?"

"Rossart's," answered Jaime.

Those purple eyes grew huge then, and the royal mouth drooped open in shock. He lost control of his bowels, turned, and ran for the Iron Throne. Beneath the empty eyes of the skulls on the walls, Jaime hauled the last dragonking bodily off the steps, squealing like a pig and smelling like a privy. A single slash across his throat was all it took to end it. So easy, he remembered thinking. A king should die harder than this. Rossart at least had tried to make a fight of it, though if truth be told he fought like an alchemist. Queer that they never ask who killed Rossart . . . but of course, he was no one, lowborn, Hand for a fortnight, just another mad fancy of the Mad King.

Woah. Wait. Hang on a second here. I'm trapped in a POV.

You're telling me the alchemist Hand of the King, who planned to light the wildfire, was already dead by the time Jaime reached Aerys?

Uh.

Am I missing something here? That tells me murdering Aerys was not remotely necessary in that moment, and should not have been done by Jaime.

Your great deed was stopping Rossart, not killing Aerys, you schmuck. You did that because you wanted to.

+.+.+

Ser Elys Westerling and Lord Crakehall and others of his father's knights burst into the hall in time to see the last of it, so there was no way for Jaime to vanish and let some braggart steal the praise or blame.

Couple of things,

Westerling... father's knight. Ugh.

Jaime intended to vanish after the kill. 👀

+.+.+

He thought for a moment of the boy Viserys, fled to Dragonstone, and of Rhaegar's infant son Aegon, still in Maegor's with his mother. A new Targaryen king, and my father as Hand. How the wolves will howl, and the storm lord choke with rage. For a moment he was tempted, until he glanced down again at the body on the floor, in its spreading pool of blood. His blood is in both of them, he thought.

It's also in someone else.

+.+.+

"Proclaim who you bloody well like," he told Crakehall. Then he climbed the Iron Throne and seated himself with his sword across his knees, to see who would come to claim the kingdom. As it happened, it had been Eddard Stark.

You had no right to judge me either, Stark.

Straight out of Tyrion's playbook.

Why is Ned Stark so hostile towards me???

A lord with a bared sword across his knees is making a traditional sign that he is denying guest right. - A Wiki of Ice and Fire

+.+.+

In his dreams the dead came burning, gowned in swirling green flames. Jaime danced around them with a golden sword, but for every one he struck down two more arose to take his place.

Jaime Lannister has prophetic dreams!

Final thoughts:

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #asos #jaime ii

[jaskierswolf]

Would you be willing to write some competent Jaskier rescuing Geralt? Your nightingale fic inspired this, so maybe Geralt gets shrunk, or turned into a not-wolf animal? I love your writing!

I am soooo sorry. This totally took me 2 months to get to. (This is my nightingale fic for reference but this is not set in the same verse)

Geraskier - 974 words

Warnings: Umm? None? Geralt gets turned into a kitten. It’s pretty tame.

________

Jaskier wasn’t panicking. Why would he panic? There was no need to panic. Geralt had just gone to fight off some drowners; a contract he’d taken a dozen times since Jaskier had known him. Geralt could take down drowners in his sleep.

So why wasn’t he back yet?

The first night Jaskier had just assumed the drowner nest was further away than they’d been led to believe. The second night he’d stayed up until dawn when he’d passed out still seated at the table downstairs; still no Geralt. It was now the third night and Jaskier was… well he was maybe sort of panicking, but what could he do? He was just a bard.

He chewed his lip as he spotted his dagger lying on the dresser, sparkling in the light of the moon. He’d never used it, he could, but he didn’t. He’d been trained thoroughly as a young heir of Lettenhove, but he was a romantic, a musician, a poet… he didn’t want to fight.

But if Geralt was in danger then he couldn’t just sit here and mope. He had to help. He had to do something! He licked his lips as he swiped the dagger from the table, strapping the holster around his waist. He stormed out the inn under the cover of night, not caring about the odd looks he got from the innkeeper. He was off to find his witcher.

He wasn’t very good at tracking but he figured his best bet was to travel to the river, where the drowner nest had supposedly been. When he got there he cursed all the gods he knew. Geralt’s silver sword was lying on the ground along with his satchel of potions. There was no way Geralt would have left those behind willingly. There was no sign of his steel sword so Jaskier kept moving, praying that he was going in the right direction. He found Geralt’s steel sword in a herb garden outside a nearby cottage, the runes glowing in the dark.

He ran over to collect the second sword. His heart clenched in his chest. Something was very wrong, and he had no idea how to fix it. Gods, what was he going to do? It was usually Geralt saving him in these situations, not the other way round.

A small meow drew his attention. Jaskier looked down at his feet. A snowy white kitten was rubbing at his ankles, weaving between his legs. The kitten looked up at him was large yellow eyes and Jaskier had to cover his mouth to stop the manic giggle.

“Oh Geralt, what have you done?” He asked the little kitten, picking him up by the scruff of his neck, ignoring the hisses. Geralt tried to scratch at him but Jaskier cradled him in his arms, cooing at the cute little darling, until Geralt bit him. “Ow! Oi what was that for?”

Geralt meowed, flicking his tiny little tail angrily.

“Oh fine, be like that. Where’s your medallion? I have your swords and potions but I can’t see any clothes.”

Geralt nuzzled against his hand and meowed. Jaskier frowned and chewed on his lip. He was used to translating Geralt’s hums and grunts but this was new.

“Umm…right. Yeah, no, I am going to need more than that, my dear,” Jaskier sighed, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “Yes or no questions then, come on Jask. It’ll be like those games at Oxenfurt,” he stuck his tongue out as he concentrated, trying to get his thoughts in order long enough to fix this. “Did your medallion change with you?”

Geralt nodded.

“And clothes too?”

Geralt nodded again.

“Cursed?”

Geralt shook his head, glancing towards the little cottage.

Jaskier tucked Geralt into the front of his doublet. Geralt hissed but Jaskier just scratched the little kitten behind the ears until he managed to coax out a gentle purr. “There we go,” he breathed. “it’s easier to carry you like this. Stay put.”

Geralt half purred and half meowed but settled down, nuzzling against Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier smiled fondly down at his witcher before heading inside the cottage. Geralt hissed at him whenever he got further away from whatever had caused his predicament, or at least that was how Jaskier interpreted it, really he was just guessing. Eventually Jaskier’s fingers brushed over a dusty old velvet bag. Geralt meowed loudly and Jaskier picked the bag up, peering inside, but it was empty.

“What was in here? No shit, wait… was it a potion?” Geralt hissed, and kept hissing until Jaskier guessed some kind of magic dust. He frowned, kissing the kitten on the head without really realising. “Magic dust, really?”

Geralt meowed loudly.

“Soo….” Jaskier drawled “a trip to see Yennefer?”

Geralt nodded, wide yellow eyes blinking up at him. Jaskier booped Geralt’s tiny little kitten nose with a laugh, pulling away before Geralt could bite his finger. He gathered up Geralt’s belongings, the duel swords heavy on his back. Yennefer would love this, once she stopped being all haughty sorceress. She’d gotten far too used to the troubles Jaskier and Geralt found themselves in over the years. It had almost become routine. She’d roll her eyes, and ignore them for a few hours, muttering that she wasn’t at their beck and call, before helping them anyway just so she could tease them about it for the rest of the evening.

Jaskier chuckled, whilst he had his differences with Yennefer, he had to admit that she wasn’t all that bad. They were almost friends… almost. Geralt’s purring grew louder on his chest as they neared the inn. He glanced down at the bundle of white fur, squeaking as he noticed the witcher had fallen asleep. He almost wished Geralt could stay like this forever. He was just too cute!

________

Tag list (Geraskier - let me know if you want to be added/removed): @alwenarin @slythnerd @davidtennan-t @flippinfricks @innocentcinnamonpun @marvagon @elliestormfound @geraskier-trashh @panerato @moonysourenza @artistsfuneral @hailhailsatan @wherethewordsare @havenoffandoms @bitchy-witchy-post-mortem @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @geralt-of-riviass @00qtee @kittynannygaming @stinastar @scribblesonmapleleaves @thecomfortofoldstorries @fontegagrilledcheese @anythinggoesfandoms @veritasrose @trickstermoose67 @nonegenderleftpain @ohheytheremiss @kueble @love-more-today-than-yesterday @kozkaboi @llamasdumpsterfire @skai6

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #cat!geralt #competent!Jaskier #wolfie's witcher writing #Anonymous

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I didn't know that you still wrote adsom.. if you're willing to take prompts - and it's totally okay if you aren't - I think I saw an old ask about Holland trying on kell's coat?

Hey, Anon! Sorry, I went to sleep last night just as this ask came in, I think. I took some time to think it over today and here, I have a little something for you. I hope you see it! Sorry again about missing it when it came in.

-

Holland Vosijk was not a man driven by flights of fancy. He had been, just a little, before Talya and the violent loss of his vision of a world he could simply live in. Now, though, everything but unwilling, unwanted survival had been burned away.

He would have called himself forged by fire, but most things forged become stronger afterward, and Holland rarely felt that way.

He was not a man of whims - he was instead the hand and arm that acted out the whims of his monarchs, his masters, that obeyed the pulse of the curse carved into his chest.

So when he stepped into the inn and finds a very recognizable coat draped over a chair, the urge to pick it up surprised him.

He wasn't aware he could still have sudden thoughts like that.

The coat's owner was up at the bar itself, seemingly three ales deep and working on the fourth, his pretty brother at his side. Holland tried not to look at either of them, hoping he could go unnoticed.

If there was a bevy of whispers, well, perhaps the little princes would assume they were about them, not him.

He stepped slowly up to the table the two must have been sitting at, littered with the empty finished ale cups, half-eaten meals, and the damned coat.

It looked normal enough - luxe soft wool heavily treated, impossibly expensive, in the deep saturated red that all these Arnesian people seemed to take as 'their' color. It was hideously unflattering to the prince, with his pale skin turned too reddened by it, his red hair made to look dull when Holland knew damn well Kell's hair was shining and coppery and gleamed like coins in the sun when Holland very much wasn't looking at him in the slightest-

Stop it.

He had come here to drink himself to senselessness in a world where his monarchs could not trace him, could not pay some citizen to speak of his whereabouts, could not torture some innocent youth who merely saw him pass on the street.

And yet...

He allowed his fingertips to run, just for a moment, along the line of the chair's back through the coat. He felt over a hint of golden thread sewn in along the lapel. Red and gold, pointless sickening luxury in a world grown fat on the magic it stole from a dying one.

In a sudden fit of violence, he jerked the jacket off the chair into his hands. The chair, knocked off-balance, toppled backwards onto the floor with a loud CRACK.

The inn went briefly quiet, and Holland felt two dozen pairs of Arnesian eyes quite suddenly land entirely and only on him.

Including those of the princes.

"Holland?" It was Rhy who spoke first, and drunk or not, the Arnesian prince slipped into an immediate smiling brilliance. Difficult to resist.

Holland, though, had an inborn defense against idiot princes. He, after all, spent his days and nights tortured by an idiot king.

"Have you come by to grace us with your company?" Rhy smiled, tilting his head. His amber-yellow eyes sparkled with the drink coursing through his veins.

If Astrid drank his blood, Holland thought idly, she might get drunk on it.

"No," he said, shortly, and turned, walking outside as quickly as he could, before the faintest blush in his cheeks might become visible, before they could read embarrassment even in his faded skin, his washed-out color.

He made it out into the street before he realized he still had Kell Maresh's coat in his hand.

He couldn't very well go back in and give it back, now could he? Admitting to that embarrassment would be a crime far worse than simple theft.

Instead, he walked quickly, turning left into an alleyway just as he heard the door open behind him and Kell's voice ring out, "Hey! He's got my coat!" with a note of nervous trepidation that had Holland rolling his eyes.

Like Holland didn't already know Kell smuggled between worlds. He'd been tracking him at it for months. Years, even.

That nasty little habit would get the redheaded Arnesian prince in trouble one day.

He came to a stop in a spot of near-total darkness down by the docks, the gentle sound of the river lapping at the shore a soothing balm. The Isle glowed a brilliant red, the usual nighttime sky in London, stars only vaguely visible through its haze.

They had so much magic. How little of it they could have shared and saved Makt.

Holland very nearly threw the coat in the damn Isle to drown the way he sometimes wished he could drown the entire Arnesian royal family before... before that damn whim struck again.

He turned the coat inside out.

The red became white, a white that nearly blinded him, with black thread. He frowned.

"No," He said out loud in the Royal language of Arnes.

He turned the coat inside-out again.

This time it was a pale robins-egg blue, with embroidered birds along the lapel. He wrinkled his nose.

"Absolutely not."

He tried one more time.

The third time, indeed, was the charm - the coat this time was a deep black, so solid it seemed to soak up light entirely. The embroidered cuffs and lapel were white, a series of spirals that made him think of a time long, long ago, when the doors were open to all.

It reminded him of how they once dressed in a London now dead and gone, entirely overrun by magic it grew addicted to rather than tightly controlled.

He sighed and undid the silver clasp for his half-cloak, pulling it off and carefully laying it over a short wrought-iron stair railing for a building next to him. The silver winked slightly in the red light of the Isle.

He slipped his arm into one sleeve and then the other, fully expecting them to be far too long - Kell was tall and lanky, after all, while Holland was far more compactly built, and short like the rest of Makt after a life spent working and fighting for every bite of food left.

The coat fit perfectly, as if tailored only for him.

He looked down at himself, and then up, finding a windowpane where he could see his own reflection.

He looked... Arnesian, almost.

Not quite - his hair was too faded, the deep black of his childhood gone charcoal-gray with the way the world had of leeching magic and life out of everyone. His skin was too pale, his Antari eye stood out like it did everywhere else.

And yet...

"Not bad," Kell Maresh said, and Holland's heart skipped a beat in surprise. It took all his willpower not to visibly flinch.

He instead turned smoothly, slowly, as if he had known the redhead was there all along. "I am glad you think so," He said in a dry voice devoid of sincerity. "It is unkind to follow a man at night, lile prins."

"Well, you ran off before I could talk to you," Kell pointed out, walking towards him. There was a high red spot in each cheek and a gleam to his blue eye that said he was still drunk.

"You could have as many coats as you wished, what is a few gold coins to a prince to replace it?"

"True. But that is my coat. It cannot be replaced."

"It could be my coat, if I wished it to be."

"It's not, though. Plus..." Kell's expression went into a kind of teasing look that made Holland uncomfortable and also oddly... interested in if this was what it looked like to see the Maresh prince flirt. It was awkward. It was endearing. "It is also unkind to steal a drunk man's clothing."

Holland hummed. "I am not a man known for kindness," He said, sliding the coat back off and folding it over his arm.

When Kell came closer - and he smelled of the flowery odd sort of beer they made and drank here, damn near wine. "And yet I think you have kindness in you that you will never express."

Holland stared at him, shocked. Kell Maresh often seemed to have little more sense than the gods gave a goat, and yet...

Perhaps the beer had loosened some kind of wisdom in him. There were stranger, less believable things in the worlds.

He held his hand out for the coat, and Holland, still too surprised to really think, simply handed it back. "Thank you," Kell said. He flipped the coat inside-out twice, until it was back to the color and style he liked, and slipped it on. "Why did you take it?"

"I don't know." It was, for once, a truly honest answer.

Kell considered, and then nodded, slowly. "I'll see you around," He said, stood there awkwardly waiting for Holland to reciprocate the farewell and receiving only silence in return, and then he turned and walked away, back towards the inn and his brother.

Holland watched him go, not quite sure what held him to the spot, but he found himself unwilling to move until the last sight of the other Antari's red hair shimmering with the light of the Isle was gone.

Holland inhaled, and the air smelled of roses, with a kind of steel underneath.

"For some reason," he murmured, "I genuinely don't want them to make me kill you."

Perhaps he could find some other way.

#adsom #adsom fanfiction #adsom fanfic #a darker shade of magic #kell maresh #holland vosijk #agos #acol #ve schwab #some light hinted at kelland here but mostly canon compliant #reluctantly so

[pillage-and-lute]

The Courting Ways of Wolves (Part 4)

Dumb Boys! I love them! 

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 (here) Part 5 Epilogue

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

Almost a month after the silver dawn they passed through a lively little river town. It wasn’t so big a city that Geralt’s senses were completely overwhelmed, but also large enough that Jaskier had good, hearty crowds every night. The nature of river towns like this meant that boats stopped through all the time, shipping goods up and down river, so sailors stopped in taverns and moved along. Every night was a fresh crowd.

Geralt decided that they’d stay in the town for a week. Rivers meant plenty of contracts too, drowners and such. There was also a decent shopping district what with all the merchants, and he wanted to tackle Number Five from his courting list.

Give Jaskier Gifts (non dead ones).

It was going to be easy.

Thirty minutes later, it was not easy. 

“Ooh I’ll come shopping too,” Jaskier said, rummaging through his bag in their room in the inn. “I need a new notebook.”

Geralt panicked a little bit. He wanted to get Jaskier a new notebook, and he didn’t have much idea for other gifts. Then an idea struck.

“Why don’t you and I look around, then after your performance tonight you’ll have more to spend.”

“Good idea Geralt, and who knows, if it goes well maybe I could get us a room with two beds instead of one.”

Damn.

Jaskier linked his arm with Geralt’s and swanned off down the stairs, leaving Geralt to either follow or have his arm dislocated at the shoulder. 

“Pardon me,” Jaskier waved down the grumpy looking innkeeper. She walked over scowling, small toddler on her hip. 

“Perhaps later, after I’ve performed in your fine establishment,” Jaskier asked. “We might discuss changing us to a room with two beds?” 

She looked at Jaskier. She looked at Geralt, who had paid for their current room with a grunted ‘that’s fine’ when she’d said it had one bed. She looked at their linked arms.

“Too many sailors coming in off the river this time ‘o year,” she said brusquely. “We can talk but ye’d be better off counting on the one you’ve got.”

Jaskier shrugged good naturedly. “Then keep it we shall, my dear lady.” She wasn’t listening, calling out instead to a child, about eight of indeterminate gender. 

“Toos, whatever’s in your mouth had better not be for guests.” The child, laughing maniacally around a mouthful of something raced out the back door of the inn, only to be scooped up by his father, a broad, heavy man with a jolly face.

They left the family to their domesticity and ventured out into the merchant district. There was more going on than Geralt preferred, his senses blurring as he tried to be on a swivel to protect against any potential dangers. None appeared though, and he allowed his senses to narrow to the warmth of Jaskier’s arm in his. 

Jaskier pulled them over to a potter’s shop. Tiny vases and bottles adorned shelves. There were bigger pieces too, some done in gorgeous colors and outrageous designs, but the little bottles captured Jaskier’s eye.

“Look Geralt, I could keep perfumes in these.”

“You have perfume bottles.”

“Oh I know, but the colors are pretty,” Jaskier said, smiling at the potter and pulling Geralt along. 

Leather goods. Very fine work, too, Geralt thought. It was next to a paper goods and bookbinding shop, and the two had obviously done some kind of trade. On a display table between the two stalls sat leather bound books of all sizes and kinds. Jaskier poured over them, exclaiming and running feather light fingers over textured leather bindings. Jaskier sighed longingly and went into the bookbinding stall to see the less expensive journal options. 

All of Jaskier’s past journals had been a sort of card cover. They didn’t last well, although Jaskier tore through them so quickly it didn’t matter. Geralt looked at the leather books here, his eye catching on a large, sturdy one in brown leather. It looked good for the road, with a braided leather tie to keep it shut.

He glanced up, but Jaskier was still admiring the paper goods.

What had really been caught by the centerpiece book. It was a mammoth thing, thick and beautifully made in a deep, wine red leather. There were little brass clasps on the side, buffed up to look like gold. In a fairy tale, it would be the master enchanter’s spellbook. A tome. 

Jaskier deserved a tome. He’d written so many songs and poems, and he’d mentioned once or twice that he ought to write it all down in one book. This should be the book. Geralt could just picture Jaskier in the library of Kaer Morhen, with the snow coming down outside and ink on his fingertips, carefully transcribing his work.

It was like with the silver dawn, Geralt could see it so clearly, his little family would all be in the library. Ciri and Geralt and Jaskier all together again. 

Next to the big red book was a little journal, made of the same color of leather. It had a little shiny brass lock with a tiny key tied on a string. A diary fit for a princess. 

He had a plan. 

He went into the leather stall and asked about their repair prices, haggled a little, then said he’d be back with his order that evening. Jaskier walked back into the leather goods stall and smiled up at him. Parts of Geralt’s chest went all tingly and golden. 

They browsed the other stalls, spending the most time at a metalsmith’s stall. Geralt was impressed with the weapon quality. Jaskier admired the jewelry, trying on various pretty, delicate rings and holding them up in the light.

Geralt watched the way he interacted with people.

When Jaskier had first joined him, he’d thought it was all an act, that Jaskier couldn’t possibly like so many people. He did though, and they loved him for it. From the outside it was clearer to Geralt why. Jaskier was polite of course, and complimentary of the workmanship, but instead of dealing in vauge descriptions, he complimented details. He found and complimented something extraordinary about each piece, drawing conversation from the stall owner’s wife, who apparently did the jewelry part of things. He complimented the delicate artistry of a slim ring, then the clever design of a bracelet catch, asking with truly genuine curiosity about each. 

Shopkeepers love curiosity, and anyone would love to have their skill complimented so honestly. Geralt felt himself smiling as he watched. 

“Good lad you’ve got there,” the weaponsmith said. “Husband?” Geralt turned to him.

“Not yet,” he said. Then his shoulders slumped a little. “Not even officially a sweetheart yet.”

The burly smith chuckled. “I know that story, you think it was easy for me to woo that goddess there?”

Geralt looked over at the jewelry maker, still locked in conversation with Jaskier. She was middle aged, but beauty doesn’t fade with age as quickly as mortals seemed to think. She was indeed a great beauty. To judge by the way she gestured avidly while speaking, she was also a passionate and firey one too.

“I’m not much for romance,” the smith said, drawing Geralt’s attention back. “But your lad there is yours, heart and soul, you just need the proper instruments to tell him you’re his as well.”

“How did you woo your lady?” Geralt asked.

The smith chuckled again. “I was a much younger man then, but I stood about without a shirt in my smithy and busily hammered and flexed every time she came by.”

Geralt brightened, showing off his muscles was something he could do. “Did it work?”

“Not even a little. She was completely unimpressed.”

Oh. And Jaskier had seen Geralt’s muscles before too. 

“So I went to her house one evening,” the smith continued, a glimmer of memory in his eye. “I’d worked for weeks to make her something as lovely as she was. Of course, I wasn’t so good a smith then either, but I’d tired. It was a braided metal band, to push back her hair, she’s wearing it now. Worn it almost every day since, including our wedding day.”

Geralt looked over. Silver and gold did indeed push back her curly hair. With her aquiline nose she looked like a woodcut of some goddess he’d seen once.

“And then I did the hard part,” said the smith. Geralt looked to him. “I talked to her, really spoke with her and told her how I admired her, not just for her beauty. Then she invited me in out of the rain and made me tea.”

Damn. Geralt wasn’t good at talking but he really would need to, it seemed. 

“More than fourty years of marriage now,” the smith said. 

“I can’t make him something as beautiful as he is,” Geralt said. A potion just wouldn’t work. 

“I think any gift to show you care would work,” the smith said. 

Geralt looked around at the weapons on display, and the smith went back to shining some of his work. There was a dagger on display. 

Jaskier had daggers, and he worked with them well, but this one was beautiful. 

“May I?” he said, and the smith gestured obligingly. 

It was obviously a piece of combined work between the smith and his wife. It was well made and balanced, but very slim, perfect for slipping up a sleeve or into a boot. It was also a piece of artwork, both the hilt and sheath inlaid with mother of pearl and a mirror-shiny black stone, with silver threads surrounding. The pearl wound about the hilt in a pattern of perfect vines, shining in the black. The sheath was a night sky, a curving crescent moon, fantasy thin, hung in a black sky, lit all around with tiny pearl stars inlaid with painstaking care. The tip of the sheath was sliverwork with more of the pearl, more vines. 

“The blade is silver,” Geralt noted.

“Yes,” the smith clearly approved of Geralt’s eye. “Moon silver, never tarnishes, never goes dull.”

Geralt was going to buy it for Jaskier. It was a cerainty. It was probably Destiny. She may be a bitch but maybe she’d decided to help him on this one. The price was extravagant, of course, and Geralt wouldn’t haggle a penny, not for artistry such as that. Moon silver was wildly difficult to work, too. Magic like that made for difficult smithing. 

Geralt locked eyes with the smith, who’s mustache-which even Vesemir would have been jealous of-twitched in the direction of Jaskier. He and the jewelry maker were coming over.

“I’ll wrap this shall I?” asked the smith in a whisper. 

Geralt gave a hint of a nod. “I’ll be back for it later,” he said, matching the volume.

“Geralt,” Jaskier exclaimed, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Let us trouble these good people no longer, at least until I return to clean out this fine lady’s entire stock, I can hear my audience call me.”

It was indeed almost supper time, and they bid their goodbyes to the couple. By the time they got back to the inn, the bar room on the first floor was full. The atmosphere was cheerful in the room, helped along by both the proprietors busily filling tankards of ale and bowls of hot stew. Jaskier ordered two of each for the pair of them.

Somehow he always got served first at a bar. Geralt wasn’t complaining, and the stew was hot and good, with chicken and potatoes and herbs. Geralt and Jaskier both slurped it down. Jaskier slammed his ale too, disappearing up the stairs to their room with a wink. 

Geralt knew Jaskier’s pre-performance routine well, and stayed down at their table to give him room. A teen with a face full of pimples picked up the bowls and spoons, as well as Jaskier’s tankard. He looked skittish to Geralt, so he didn’t nod for fear of scaring the lad. Thus far everyone had been fairly kind, Geralt didn’t want to ruin that. 

He sat back and sipped his ale appreciatively. Bartending was an art in itself and not a well known one. Geralt had been in too many pubs where bartenders didn’t take proper care, but this one had. He probably put cloth over the barrells over night in this damp weather. 

Jaskier clattered down the stairs, lute strung and tuned, and Geralt stood. He’d stay for at least the first few songs, but there were more patrons pouring in and he’d move from the table to a seat at the bar to leave room.

A song and a half into Jaskier’s set he realized his mistake. Jaskier could see him, and often locked eyes on him while singing to send a wink or just a friendly glance. He didn’t have a chance to slip away. Of course, he could leave anyway, but it just felt wrong to have Jaskier watch him leave.

“Now I know,” said a sharp voice from the bar, “that our barstools don’t have splinters, so what’s gotten in to you.” It was the bartender’s wife, the one who tended the rooms upstairs. She was still glowering, but without the child on her hip this time.

“I’ve got errands to run,” Geralt muttered, not fond of sharing his business. 

“Pf.” She said. “Just like a man to leave all the errands to the last minute. And you want to sneak out without him noticing for a bit.” It wasn’t a question. Geralt nodded. 

“Your lad there’s pretty good, makin’ us money, so I’ll do you a favor,” she looked at him sharply. “When I say go you go, and I’ll thank you to tell your sweetheart you care for him before he goes and tries to buy two beds next time.” She sniffed. “Save you both trouble in the long run.” 

She cleaned a spilled spot on the bar and let out a short whistle. 

Geralt felt like he’d been hit over the head with a mallet. 

In response to the whistle, the child from that morning appeared, Toos, Geralt remembered. The innkeeper gave the kid a penny, “Go ask for that song you like, then hurry back now.” Toos gave a gap toothed grin and dissappeared as quickly as they’d come. 

Geralt watched the disturbance at about knee level through the crowd as Toos fought their way through. Jaskier, basking in the applause noticed them immediately and listened carefully to the request, smiling widely at the audience and biting the proffered penny as if it were a gold coin to huge laughter.

The innkeeper snapped her fingers under Geralt’s nose and pointed to the door. He took the cue. 

The market was less bustling, but still open, and Geralt took in a breath of cool, evening air. Then he assessed his plan.

He wanted to buy Jaskier lots of gifts over the course of this year, and he surely would, but they would be small things mostly. Quills and ink and lutepicks, that sort of thing. Those could be found in smaller towns and villages, but craft work like he found here was hard to find along the Path. He could buy either the red book or the dagger right now, and with the contracts he’d do this week he’d pay for the other. He’d buy the practical, brown leather book regardless, because right now Jaskier needed a journal and not a tome. 

He decided on the dagger first. The smith had shared good advice, and, if someone were to buy the leather tome from the display, there was at least a chance Geralt could find one like it elsewhere. Where but here could he find a moonsilver dagger for Jaskier?

The smith was not surprised to see Geralt, and his wife sent him a friendly wink. Geralt bought the dagger and thanked the smith, complimenting both he and his wife on the work. Then he carried his package, wrapped in two layers, cloth and paper, out into the street.

He dropped a bit of tack off at the leather worker’s shop for repair, to pick it up in two days. Then he took the sensible brown leather journal from the display stand. 

The bookbinder and paper merchant was a bent old man, sitting on a stool at the back of the shop, chewing tobacco. There was a greasy twist of it, black as tar, in waxed paper on the counter. 

“Excuse me,” Geralt said. The shopkeeper looked up, jaw still working. “We don’t like your kind here,” he said in a voice that cracked like the paper he worked. Well. There it was, there was always someone. 

“Please,” he said. “It’s a gift for a-a friend. It’s very important.” 

The old shop keeper eyed him and the book in his hand. Then he obviously decided that making a sale was worth serving Geralt. He growled out a price, and Geralt didn’t haggle. 

Geralt stood there, the old man staring him down while counting the coins. He figured it was worth a shot. 

“Could I ask a favor?”

“No.”

“Could you keep the journal on your display table, the large red one, back for me? And the little one in the same color beside it? Only for a few more days.”

“No.”

“Please,” Geralt said, losing hope. “It’s for a good cause.”

The man spat tobacco juice into a can with disgusting accuracy. “What cause do monsters have, comin’ in here and asking favors of me?”

Geralt caught the man’s watery eyes. “Love, true love, please, keep them back just a few days?”

“Didn’t think monsters could feel,” scoffed the man, but he tilted his head. “You mean that nice young man, what came in with you earlier?”

“That’s the one, I want to give him the perfect gift.” 

The man scoffed again, but it was less cruel. “I can tell people they’re for display. You’ve got three days.”

Geralt let out a relieved breath. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.” 

“Don’t thank me,” growled the man, cutting off another piece of tobacco with a knife. “And don’t darken my door until you have the money.”

Geralt left, feeling very light. He reentered the inn to a round of applause for Jaskier, but thankfully no one looking his way. He slipped up the stairs. 

The dagger wasn’t a gift for tonight, he decided. That was a grand gift, for sometime special. He put it in his potion bag, where Jaskier was forbidden to look, for fear he’d get into something deadly. The journal was laid on the bed, just where Jaskier would see it.

Then Geralt went back downstairs to catch the last of Jaskier’s set. 

Jaskier practically danced up to Geralt afterwards. He was full of that strange energy he always had after a good performance, like bubbles in champagne. Geralt could feel the muscles around his eyes soften. 

“I liked your last song,” he said. Number Three on The List, compliment him.

“Paddy Lay Back?” Jaskier said. “You’ve heard it before.”

“Yes,” Geralt said as they went upstairs. “I like it.” 

Jaskier beamed. 

He chattered about the performance all the way into their room, and managed to pull off his boots before noticing the journal on the bed. He stopped mid sentence.

He looked at the journal, then at Geralt, mouth still half open.

Geralt remembered the smith, talking about how he’d won his wife over, but his mouth felt stuffed with wool.

“It’s for you,” he managed. “For your songs. It’ll last longer than the card bound ones.”

Jaskier picked it up, rubbing his thumb across the smooth leather, then he turned to Geralt. His eyes were shining.

With a speed that even Geralt’s mutated reflexes couldn’t manage, he was enveloped in a hug. Jaskier had his arms around his neck, the journal still in hand. 

Geralt hesitated. 

Then he wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s chest and held him.

Later that night, in the same bed as a snoring bard, he still felt the heat of that hug. Jaskier’s elbow dug into his ribs and he barely felt it, but the hug was still there. He thought of the dagger in his potions bag. 

He’d talk to Jaskier then, giving that to him. For now, he’d have time to plan what to say. Before he could try, however, sleep claimed him.

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Gifts! Gifts for Jaskier! and a hint of things to come. I had fun with this. 

Taglist!

@llamasdumpsterfire @goblinwhoships

#the witcher #geraskier #courting #fluff #geralt #jaskier #courting gifts #geralt is a good dad #geralt x jaskier

[des8pudels8kern]

Geralt doesn’t manage to shake the bardling for weeks after their run-in with Filavandrel. A beating and the ugly truth about the stories humans tell each other to feel good about themselves barely seem to have scratched the surface of his romantic notion that Geralt is a misunderstood hero rather than a mercenary who specializes in killing monsters. Still, after almost two months of roughing it in the woods he declares that his songs will do Geralt no good if there is no audience to perform them for, and turns right, towards inns with soft beds and pubs with plenty of cheap ale and audiences too drunk to be disconcerting, while Geralt turns left, towards more of the ever-same shit.

He doesn’t expect to see him again.

*

“Geralt!” The call rings out across the street as Geralt steps out of the alderman’s office, and for a moment he cannot place it, not the voice nor the face of the caller. Then the man stops waving and moves to cross the street, and now Geralt sees the lute on his back. The bard from last year.

“I was making my way along the trade route South when I heard that the people here had sent for a witcher for their little basilisk problem, and thought to myself I should come and see if the witcher in question isn’t my friend, the White Wolf. And here you are! What a happy coincidence!”

The bard beams at Geralt. He tries to go in for a hug but changes his mind at the last minute, apparently not entirely void of self-preservation instincts.

Geralt grunts at the happy coincidence and regrets that he wasted time earlier washing off the worst of the blood in the river, otherwise he’d have been gone by now.

The bard stays at his side “collecting inspiration” until the siren call of some musical competition lures him away.

*

“Geralt!” It’s early summer, Geralt has lost his armor to a centipede’s acid, and he’s in town for the fair, hoping one of the trade stalls will offer suitable replacement when Jaskier pops up at his side.

“I knew I recognizes that silver hair! You look… like you need a bath, actually. Do you have a room yet? Well, with the fair in town you are probably too late now. Come, you can share with me. It’s time I get back and pick up my lute for my turn on stage anyway, and with your glower clearing the way we’ll be so much faster than I’d be on my own.”

They leave town together three days later.

*

“Ah, Geralt!” He’s just finished his third contract of the year when he returns from collecting his money to find Jaskier stood next to Roach’s stall.

”I’ve just left Haage, where I wintered at the court of the lovely Lady Lenor, tragically widowed and much appreciative of my company and talents, and was hoping I’d run into you if I went East.” Jaskier skips up to him and starts plucking sticks and scales out of his hair. “Didn’t we part around here somewhere last year?”

They travel together all through summer and into fall. Geralt leaves him in Ard Carraigh and heads North long after the first frost.

*

“Ger—ah, apologies. Wrong witcher. I didn’t miss Geralt, did I?”

Eskel blinks at the strange man before him, then shakes his head.

He’s never heard of someone requesting the services of a specific witcher. Then again, Geralt has that song about him going around; maybe it really did help his reputation. Either way, they are still on the main road from Kaer Morhen they all follow down before their Paths diverge for the year, and he left before Geralt.

“My gratitude, sir witcher,” the man chirps. He ducks back into the tavern, and when he comes back out, he carries a lute slung over his shoulder.

Huh.

The bard waves at him as he trots past, and Eskel, dumbfounded, waves back.

*

“Geralt!” Jaskier plops himself down on the bench beside him, close enough that their arms brush, and heaves a deep breath. “There you are. I was beginning to worry I’d gone the wrong way.”

He’s in one of the tiny settlements just barely out of the foothills of the Blue Mountains, getting Roach’s horseshoes seen to, and there is absolutely nothing there that would explain Jaskier being anywhere nearby. Jaskier’s inexplicable ability to have their paths cross year after year notwithstanding, the closest town that could have sustained the bard through winter is weeks away, and spring has broken so recently that Geralt himself only left Kaer Morhen days ago.

Jaskier pulls out two slightly pruney pears, and Geralt, who has only had dried fruit the entire winter, shrugs and accepts his company together with the pear.

*

“Geralt!” Jaskier sits on a rock at the entrance of the three houses that make up the very first village Geralt passes through, coming from Kaer Morhen. His lute lies in his lap, fingers moving over ths strings, his legs swing back and forth, and he seems not the least bit surprised to see him.

Lambert, riding at his side, throws Geralt a quizzical look.

“Did you leave your bard here all winter,” he whispers under his breath, too low for Jaskier to hear.

“The closest I ever left him was Ard Carraigh. He just kept showing up closer and closer each year,” he hisses back.

Lambert frowns. “He probably just asks around which direction we come from every year.”

Jaskier slips off his rock and stretches his back. “Shall we go, then?”

*

“Geralt!” They look up and stare as Eskel leads Jaskier into the hall.

“Horrid weather outside.” His face is red with cold and there is snow melting on his coat. The same snow that closed the pass weeks ago.

“I heard him knocking at the gate when I came back from the stables. Couldn’t just leave him outside, could I,” Eskel says with a helpless shrug.

With a tired sigh Jaskier drops down onto the bench next to Geralt. He wordlessly passes over his bowl of stew into Jaskier’s reaching hands.

Lambert hasn’t yet learned to be quite so resigned to his fate.

“You took the path up the mountain?”

Jaskier hums around his spoon.

“Is there more than one path up the mountain, Vesemir?”

“No, just the one.” The old witcher stares at Jaskier the way he would at a creature that fits not a single one of the entries in his bestiary.

“The one we used to send young witchers on, as a final test of their training?”

“Yes. That one.”

“Sorry, is there any more of that stew?”

Geralt grunts in affirmation and refills his bowl for him with a smug grin around the table.

That’s what they get for years of mocking Geralt that, surely, Jaskier couldn’t be that weird; Geralt probably just didn’t understand how humans worked.

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Day 11 of my 500 words challenge, 1163 words. Ah, I am so productive!

#the witcher #the witcher fic #geraskier #well depending on your shipper goggles i guess #500 words challenge #not!fic