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blackberrywars · 2 years

Note

I'm super curious about FUCK OFF and Ring Bear!! 👀👀

Hi!!! Thank you for the ask my dear! FUCK OFF has already been answered here. Moving on......

Ring Bear: Ivo and Junod get married. They have a ring bear. (That's it that's the joke that's what's in the google docs summary. and i still haven't even written that part)

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Arnaghad’s hands fall heavy on Ivo’s shoulders like they always do, attempting to rest there and achieving something similar to the effect of a ship’s anchor on a raft. Dragging him into the cool stone floor. Of course the oversized asshole never learned to control his strength. Five centuries walking the Continent, and not one day of them was spent learning that he was fucking heavy. Eight feet tall, broad as an Aediern shithouse, and too fucking heavy to be pressing down on people like this. Not even Erland had beat it into him, somehow.

“Don’t have to be such a little bitch just ‘cause you’ve got nerves about this.”

“Fuck off.”

Even though he can barely see them, Ivo can feel Arnaghad rolling his eyes from all the way down here. The massive bear’s head, perched from its place in Arnaghad’s shoulder cloak, rolls its stone eyes too. He turns his face away from it. His borrowed clothes fit too tightly, stretching over his body in unfamiliar overlapping stripes. A seam nearly rips in his armpit. He takes quiet solace in the fact that he still has his armor, uncomfortable and familiar. Even though someone overpolished the silver studs on his pauldrons, and the shine distracts him to madness. It tracks his eyes to Gerd, smiling and standing against the wall. Jovial bastard. Which reminds him.

“This is your fucking fault.”

“Technically speaking, it was Torgeir’s idea.”

“You encouraged him! And told him about it in the first place!”

Sometimes it’s hard to tell when the other Bears smile, given most (except Bruno, the green bastard) of their facial grooming ranges from “minimal” to “what grooming?” Not so with Gerd. Not so this second, when Ivo wants to take the grin on his face and mimic it just a bit lower, with an ax —make the wound just as wide and just as deep and just as infuriating. The bastard has the nerve to shrug and smile wider.

“Maybe. He does get so excited about feasts. I’ve never met a man who liked throwing parties more than he liked attending them. And he likes that very much indeed. Wine is so very steal-able when you have a cloak like his.”

“This is no damned party!” Ivo growls, ignoring the squeeze of Arnaghad’s paws. “It’s a wedding! One I didn’t fucking well ask for from your little jarl.”

“Oh, he’s not little.”

“Shut the fuck up. Both of you.”

Such a dispute-solver, their Grandmaster. One of the First Witchers, the Great Bear, and the best he can come up with is shut the fuck up.

“Gerd, no one wants to hear about your little jarl. And Ivo, you can stop bitching. Not like it’ll change anything, and you’re not going to lose our most lucrative contractor over a pompous handfasting, no matter how stupid the idea is.”

“He’s not our most lucrative-”

“He is, and by a wider margin than I’d like when he has all of Ain Skellig in his palm. And in bedding the bastard, Gerd’s managed to be useful for us all. Sometimes.”

From his wall, Gerd preens a bit. He hadn’t done it for them, certainly not when they were just barely a school again. From what he’d told them on one of those freezing nights in their restored hall, when there was nothing to do but drink and talk shit, the jarl had simply been handsome and willing and there. A fierce warrior. A strong drinker. A good fuck. Not that his intentions mattered much to the rest of them, when the contracts started coming in greater volume than any of them had seen since Hearn Caduch’s fall. Ivo could appreciate the coin, at least. Not that it would stop him from making his opinion known about the current situation.

“And? Why the fuck do I have to be involved? Neither Junod nor I wanted this.”

They really hadn’t, and more fool them for thinking things wouldn’t spiral out of hand the second Torgeir had gotten that terrible shine in his eye.

“Besides, if it’s a wedding he wants, why doesn’t he just marry Gerd? They’re attached at the dick anyways.”

Gerd smirks, running his tongue over his top lip.

“He’s already married. Myrna’s happy with our arrangement as it is, and she’s a better jarlia than I could ever be. I’m sure I’d look stunning in one of her slit dresses though —it’s almost a shame I’m not the bride today, you’re not half as handsome.”

“You fucker-”

They’re the last words that leave his mouth before Arnaghad hauls him back from strangling Gerd with his own intestines and draping his corpse over the wall. Usually, this is Junod’s job. To pull him back, preferably onto his lap, and away from testing the strength of the Bear School’s new peace treaty with his rage, mistrust, and sheer frustration with the other members. But just this second, he’s getting ready elsewhere, far out of Ivo’s sight in the Skelligers keep, probably in some equally high-ceilinged, decorated room, with too-soft cushions and too-large windows. For tradition, apparently. Like they ever gave two fucks about that.

Ivo has looked at Junod’s broad, scarred face every day they’ve spent together, and neither of them have any virtue left to protect from anyone, let alone each other. Keeping them apart for a day doesn’t change the fact that they fucked their brains out three nights before. Blood sears him inside out, pumping hotter through his veins until it makes his skull ache. From behind him, Oso pipes up, crossing his arm under the space where his other used to be. Hunfrith is absent beside him, but somehow Oso still molds himself around the shape where his partner would be if he were there.

“Calm down, Ivo. What’s one party to celebrate the pair of you bastards —it’s more than Hunfrith and I’ll ever have. Just get the ceremony done with and enjoy the mead once it's over.”

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My forever thanks to @tumbleweedtech and @on-a-lucky-tide for the use of their names for Oso and Hunfrith, as well as them as a ship, bc it’s gr8

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #fanfic writing #fanfiction writer #ivo #junod #ivo x junod #bear^2 #arnaghad #gerd #oso #hunfrith #school of the bear #berry's fics #berry's games

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pinkatron · 2 years

Link

The witchers say good bye to one another as they begin their journeys in separate groups.

Geralt nodded and turned to mount Roach. Regis nodded to Emhyr, who was icily staring at the portal gate. Seems there were problems in paradise, beyond what Geralt had discovered today. However, he had to let them deal with it. His usual instinct was to intervene, but he couldn’t help them if they didn’t figure it out on their own. Emhyr finally glanced to Geralt and he saw sadness in his eyes.

“Keep us updated, on everything.” Geralt said suddenly and Emhyr’s eyes widened. “Not the state secret shit, but the important things. I want to know how you are doing, truly. And I look forward to seeing you again Emhyr.”

“Likewise, Geralt.” He said awkwardly. “Do not be a stranger.”

#witcher #the witcher #fanfic #fanfiction #Geralt #geralt of rivia #Geralt x Regis #Emiel Regis #regis #Vampire #Witchers #yennefer #Eskel #Letho #Gerd #Rukus #Lambert #Barnabas-Basil #Emhyr

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dukeofdogs · 5 months

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Gwent: The Witcher Card Game | The cards that could’ve been 64/?

Sven (GreenBreen), Nithing (Loukodil), Eyving (Luc Samori)

Folan (Korin(a) Hunjak), Vigi the Unfearing (Canh Nguyen), Gerd (Eleonora "Noura" Abdrakhamanova)

#gwent #gwent: unreleased content #gwent: contest

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faetxlity · 3 years

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Here’s A Health To The Company

@save-a-witcher-bingo Prompt: At Sea Characters: Witcher Gerd, Togeir the Red, Jerome Moreau

Torgeir was looking up at the ruins of what had once been his home. What was his home. Is. The flames were spreading quickly, Fort Tuirseach was all but destroyed. Like the Jarl who had filled its halls with laughter and mead- ruined.

At his side, stained in blood, sat the Witcher Gerd. His jaw was tight, his hands were fisted in the fabric of his own filthy shirt, but his eyes were clear. He did not watch the ruin of his adopted home, rather he watched the blood seep from the bandages that he had wrapped around Torgeir’s leg. Already they were in need of changing but they had no fabric with which to do so, his original job had been so hasty... Unless they ripped apart the sails there was nothing to be done. But to do such a thing as that was a death warrant.

The little ship they had taken was not meant to go much further than around the cape but they had set out for sea with no choice. They had with them five men and a woman, of whom only two were well enough to take up oar, not counting the Witcher who had rowed them the first half hour from shore nearly on his own with eyes blacker than coal.

The Witcher rested now though, so much as he could with his life burning on the shore.

“We will die out here.” The Jarl said, voice was devoid of emotion. Gerd looked to his friend’s face then, to his lover’s eyes. The anger, the grief , all the emotions he had expected were nowhere to be found.

“No.” Gerd replied, “we will live. We will see them pay for this and you will see it rebuilt.” He received no answer, no acknowledgement as the jarl’s hand did not return the gentle pressure that he put upon it. Gerd looked at the island they were sailing from, the land they may never get to set foot on again.

They would live; he would accept no other outcome.

~seven days~

For seven days the ship rocked, sailing for some imagined safe haven on the mainland but without hope or half a crew. One man had succumbed to his wounds on the first dawn and another had followed two evenings after. Torgeir had said nary a word since his ominous assertion of their fate, his leg had steadily grown worse over the days and it left him with little ability to do more than lay down and sleep. When awake he stared across the sea as if expecting death to appear to him with an outstretched hand.

Gerd had taken over easily enough, tucked Torgeir into the captain's quarters and spent both days and nights looking for either a miracle or their end.

On the seventh day it came to them in the form of a ship thrice their size. No man aboard their own was fit to fight but still Gerd drew his steel and braced himself. The dark hull of the incoming vessel felt like an omen and he was flanked by Andrea and Koll, the only two who remained in good health- though weak from hunger they would die on their feet. Of that they were sure.

A figure leaned over the edge of the ship above, their back was to the sun and so Gerd could not discern any features. “Are you in need of assistance?” The voice was, clearly, not Nilfgardian and that alone was enough for the man on Gerd’s left to sag. Andrea looked to the Witcher, her eyes wide and hopeful.

Please, let this be a mercy.

“Yes!” He called up. “We are!”

The ship called itself a merchant’s vessel though a pirate’s den is what it looked. They had been pulled aboard with canvas and rope, the men of the ship quick to provide them with fresh water and food while their medic checked each refugee for wounds. If the crew were upset to have a witcher in their midst they did not voice it. Their captain was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh dear.” The medic said, in his hands were the bandages that Gerd had re-applied to Torgeir’s leg on the third day of their voyage, made from scraps of a shirt found in the captain’s chest.. The odor once they were removed turned even the Witcher’s stomach. “I need a knife.” Gerd tensed but produced his own blade, edging closer to see what was going on.

Torgeir was sweating, his skin deathly pale and feverish as he had been for the last day. In that moment though the jarl’s eyes were wide open- “Where’s Gerd?” It was slow and slurred but clear enough.

“I’m here, Torgeir.” He sank to his knees and took one scarred hand in his own. With his other hand he brushed the tangled mess of the jarl’s hair back from his forehead. The infection was nasty, but it hadn’t spread far. He smiled though surely it was more of a grimace, “Just here.” It took all his strength not to snatch the medic by his throat when the knife began to cut away flesh. It took nothing at all to blame himself for the state of the wound. He was a witcher, he should have known better.

You had nothing on hand to help. You did what you could. He reminded himself. It could have been much worse, the beam that had splintered and slashed the jarl’s thigh had nearly taken his head instead.

Green eyes rolled back and the man’s labored breathing evened. “Witcher?” The medic hedged, “I’ve patched what I can but he will need someone to keep an eye on the wound. We’re still some ways away from the next port but we’ll find a proper healer there.”

“I’ll look after him. Thank you…” he pushed himself to his feet. “Where is your captain?” The men pointed him across the deck to where a slight man was coiling rope, seemingly unconcerned with the new arrivals. He was dressed in a loose fitting shirt and a pair of garish calico pants.

“Cap’n.”

The supposed captain turned and Gerd’s first impression of the man was ‘pretty’. He had light brown hair and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He was handsome in a plain sort of way, surely a charmer in any tavern he wished. The bear’s second impression was Witcher. Which couldn’t have been right.

There was no such thing as a blue eyed Witcher.

“Jerome Moreau.” The man-maybe witcher introduced himself as he passed the rope off to a deckhand. At the silence he continued, “Maybe we should speak somewhere private.” Gerd followed him across deck, listening to the slow beat of his heart. The captain’s quarters were decently large and Gerd had the ability to put space between himself and ‘Jerome’ once the door was closed and the lantern lit.

“As I said, I’m Jerome School of the Griffin.”

He wasn’t sure why he snapped. Perhaps it was the time at sea, trying to hold together men on the brink of death while the only one who he could have turned to for help laid on a cot in pain. Perhaps it was how long it had been since he’d seen another of his kind. Perhaps he simply needed to hit something to keep his meager sanity. Perhaps, it was because there were no witchers with blue eyes.

It was a laughably short fight. An embarrassingly short fight that Arnaghaf himself would have thrown Gerd from the highest mountain peak should he have witnessed it in his youth. Seven days at sea with limited water and only small bites of food to stop the hunger pains had done him no favors: against a man he would have been fine, perhaps even against two or three by sheer luck of size. But against a witcher? He hadn’t stood a chance. The Griffin-turned-pirate ducked his blow and tripped him backwards, before he could hit the floor a strong hand pushed against his chest and slammed him against the wall, pinned him there on the floor while the stranger watched him with those blue eyes. Jerome bared his teeth and Gerd found himself far too close to fangs unlike any he’d seen before, a feral snarl tore from the other’s chest like a beast. It was a sound that the bear could do without hearing ever again. But, just as quickly as the anger came, it left and the Griffin spoke softly,

“I am not your enemy. Do not bring such strife onto my ship or I will not hesitate to feed you to the first kraken that threatens us. You and your men have been through a lot; I can see that.” Jerome shifted back on his heels and eased the pressure on Gerd’s chest. “If I cared about having another Witcher on board I would have left you to die. We Griffins are not quite as fickle as your lot.” he smiled as if sharing a joke. “Well, you are here, so tell me your name.”

“Gerd.”

“And your friend is Torgeir the Red then.” The Griffin moved away so that they were both sitting on the floor, Jerome with crossed legs and Gerd with legs akimbo from his fall. “Don’t worry, your safety on this ship is assured so long as I’m alive. We’ll reach a port in a week’s time, you’re welcome to go ashore and we won’t expect any payment for our help; though we’ll discuss other options later. For now, I think it best if you have a meal and rest. You can answer my questions once things have settled.” It was a very one sided conversation but Gerd had both too many questions to begin with and not near enough energy to ask them. If most of them were about the captain himself? Well,

He was a strange thing, even for a witcher.

Gerd was given a water skin for himself and Torgeir and the captain put them in a private room that was used to store trade cargo. It was empty for the next weeks, as had been explained to him by a young lad, and therefore made for a good place to rest. An extra cot had been dragged within. Torgeir’s fever broke after some hours and in the darkness Gerd watched him crawl from his heavy slumber. He hadn’t allowed him to get a word out before pressing the water skin to his lips.

“Drink.” He urged and the skin was nearly empty by the time Torgeir pushed his hand away.

“Where are we?” The room was black as pitch once the sun went down. “A ship came through to help us. We’re a week from port. Your leg… we’ll get you medicine for it soon.” “What?” Torgeir asked. “Fucking thing got infected. They’ve got a decent healer on board though. Stitched it up fairly nice.”

“Fucking great-” the red head pushed himself up and Gerd was quick to move closer and support him. “The others?” “We lost Ragnar and Beorn. The others are having dinner and resting. No sign of Nilfgaard chasing us so far.” With his lover awake and clear eyed Gerd felt the weight of the last week and a half hit him in full force. His eyes drooped and he began to list to the side like a sinking ship.

Torgeir shifted and pressed their shoulders together more firmly. “Come on, y’ bastard. Lay down.” “Can’t.” “You said we’re as safe as we can get. When’s the last time you slept?” Torgeir’s hand squeezed his thigh, kitten weak compared to what it should have been. When Gerd didn’t have an answer for him the jarl sighed. “Tha’s what I thought.” Gerd let himself be poked and prodded until he was reclined against the hull of the ship with rags and old feed bags piled behind him as a comfort. One leg stretched out in front of his while the other hung over the side of the cot, Torgeir laid between them. It was a familiar enough position even if the environment around them was not. He had planned to meditate again, afraid that if he slept then he would not wake for quite some time, but the moment that he had Torgeir’s weight against his chest his eyes closed and sleep dragged him under.

He woke when light spilled across his face, feeling only half as rested as he should have and mortified that he hadn’t been able to fight off the slumber.

Jerome was standing in the doorway, a white shirt half open across his chest and a look on his face that was far too soft. “Your crew demanded that I bring you something to break fast with. Andrea, I believe? She said that if you didn’t take it, I should send her in here in my place.” Again, that smile graced his lips. “I can leave it here and let you sleep.” It sounded good, to be able to close his eyes once more and sink into slumber. Perhaps to wake only when they were docked. He extended a hand instead.

“I’ll take it.” They were hunted men for all he knew. They would need their strength.

“Good,” as witchers they did not need to light an oil lantern and Jerome closed the door behind himself, some sunlight crept in from above. “While none here should voice any judgement, I would advise you to keep any overtly forward displays within this room or in my study should you need it. My men are good but they have loose lips in port, drunkards are not half as lovely.”

Gerd was handed bread and a bowl of thin porridge. It was meager for a man his size and even more so for two. But, they were a week from port and The Hawksea, as the Griffin’s ship was called, had not been prepared for five more bodies on board. Particularly not those of warriors and witchers.

“Thank you.” The words were rough.

“Don’t mention it. I’ll be putting you to work before long. Lots of things to do here that could use a witcher’s strength.” Jerome sat on a crate, one leg pulled up to his chest with his arm draped over it. “Can’t have any freeloading going on, might start talk of mutiny.” His eyes crinkled at the edges as if he’d spent a lifetime laughing rather than fighting monsters. Maybe he had, with a face like that.

“I thought you Griffins were supposed to be chivalrous bastards.” Gerd grunted.

“Chivalrous? Yes. Bastard? Most certainly.” Those fangs were flashed at him again. “I was under the impression you bears were the loner sorts.”

“We are.” Gerd didn’t miss the way Jerome’s eyes lingered on the redhead asleep on his chest. Caught even longer on the scarred arm wrapped around the human like a shield.

The Griffin hummed, “I see.”

The witcher left them alone with their breakfast and somewhere above them a man began to sing.

#witcher #witcher gerd #fic #my writing #sawb

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hungarianbee · 3 years

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First part of Bee’s “Overlooked Witchers” slide series

- Bear Edition

[part 2]

#overlooked witchers #the witcher #witcher lore #school of the bear #arnaghad #gerd #ivo of belhaven #junod of belhaven

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donovaneagle2098 · 2 months

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Getting back in the swing of writing with a series of snippets from a Locked Tomb and Witcher crossover! I would really love any feedback you could give!

#the locked tomb #gideon nav #harrowhark nonagesimus #aiglamene #the witcher #the bear school #bear witchers #gerd #arnaghad #ivo of belhaven #skellige

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witcher-lore-enjoyer · 3 years

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Bear Witchers

Cat | Griffin | Viper

Haern Caduch

Just where is the School of the Bear? Some say hidden amidst the Slopes. Others argue it's found farther south, beyond the Amell Mountains. In fact, no one truly knows. And it's no surprise that Bear witchers have kept their whereabouts a secret, for the slaughter of the Wolf and Cat schools was known far and wide...

Alas, angry mob later found and banished witchers from Haern Caduch.

Founder

Arnaghad

“A witcher’s job is to kill monesters and collect coin. No more, no less.” - Arnaghad

Arnaghad, some would say, was born stubborn. Insolent toward those in authority, he loathed anyone who tried to impose their will upon him, favouring autonomy above all else. This, in large, was the bedrock of why he went on to form his very own witcher school.

After he learned that another witcher had already taken his contract, Arnaghad's blood boiled. He found the witcher in the forest and cut him shoulder to waist, he only escaped after allerting the chort, which forced Arnaghad to fight it.

Training

To become a Bear Witcher, all students must pass the Trial of the Mountain. This requires venturing to the peak of Mount Gorgon to retrieve a special runestone as proof of ascent—an especially brutal challenge, as many boys freeze to death long before they find the summit.

Bear Witcher Mentor

If you’re unsure of the way, just keep a lookout for markers⁠—the frozen corpses of would-be witchers.

Some Lore from Gwent

The School of the Bear... Little is known about it, yet one look at their custom armor reveals telling details of the witchers who wear it. A hardy quilted gambeson, heavy mail extending to the knees, plate armor spaulders to protect the shoulders...

A witcher equipped in such gear would not leap from raking claws, nor sidestep a beast's gnashing fangs. There is no need, for he can endure the blows... And ensure a short distance from which he can exact his revenge.

Unlike witchers from the Wolf School – who possess strong bonds of friendship and brotherhood – those from the Bear School prefer a solitary lifestyle, away from the company of other witchers. Should they encounter others on the path, however, rarely does it end without bloodshed.

Bear witchers often travel to the Skellige Isles – and this should come as no surprise. For the islands have no shortage of monsters and the witchers get along rather well with the similarly brash, bearded locals...

Armor

They wear heavier armor, favoring defense over agility.

Why try to sidestep the blow , when you can easily bear the brunt?

Three More Witchers

Junod of Belhaven

Rumour has it he was born of an unusual love between a lady giant and one VERY brave dwarf.

A witcher from the School of the Bear once ventured into Toussaint. Junod of Belhaven was his name – as big as a mountain, with a beard that would put a dwarf elder to shame. He accepted a contract to slay a monster that dwelled in the caverns beneath Marcescent Forest. Alas, he was never seen again...

Dammit, should never have taken this contract. Still not sure what sort of monster I'm up against. Worried I won't be able to prepare properly.

Stupid of me to bet the coin I set aside for armor. Elves just love squeezing folk of their last copper, and those skinflints at Tufo (vineyard) aren't any better. But no point feeling sorry for myself. And no point going back until I got a full set of gear.

Well, as long as you're sinking, might as well walk on the bottom.

I'll find a way, dammit. - Junod in his journal

Ivo of Belhaven

It's not reason I'm devoid of, just emotion.

Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia once encountered a witcher from the School of the Bear. His name was Ivo. His dark complexion suggested he originally hailed from the warm climate of the Continent's southern regions. Whereas, the bluntness with which he responded to the queen's questions suggested he rarely conversed with heads of state...

It is said that all the witchers from the Bear School are huge, broad-shouldered and bearded fellows. Ivo of Belhaven, however, did not quite fit this pattern. While he did have a beard, his posture and agility made him more fit to be a Cat or a Viper. Ironically, this made his character perfectly fit to his school...

Bears are loners, known for their aversion to the company of other witchers, and Ivo excelled in this field. This originated during his training in Haern Caduch. He did not like other students, to put it mildly. One could even say that it was hate at first sight. This cost Ivo... Many wounds, much pain, and a lot of lost blood. Stronger partners did not show him mercy during training. Yet the fight was always matched and Iwo would always pay them back in their own coin. Blood for blood.

He remained indifferent to the news about the fate of the others, and did not show any interest, even when the angry mob banished witchers from Haern Caduch. This had nothing to do with anger or animosity, the mutations successfully neutralized such pointless feelings in him. He just did not care how others did. What counted was that he would get by.

Of course, from time to time, Ivo would run into another witcher. One such encounter was quite memorable. He met a Bear he knew from the school. His name was Junod, and just like Ivo, he assumed the moniker 'of Belhaven'. However, unlike Ivo, he did not come from Belhaven. When asked, about the choice, he replied with refreshing candor, that he just liked the sound of the name – and, since he did not expect the smaller Bear to live very long, he did not have any qualms to steal his moniker. Ironically, a couple of years later Ivo heard about Junod's death. And he felt... Nothing, actually.

Gerd

He was contracted to slay a dragon, a siren, and a striga. He was also being pursued by a vengeful knight, bounty hunters, and bandits. Despite all this, he still found time for a round of Gwent.

Let it hereby be known that the witcher known as Gerd has committed foul crimes against the Ducal Tiara, namely: insulting Her Grace's majesty, resisting Her Grace's guards, collaborating with the usurper and other such deeds bringing harm to Ducal Tiara.

#the witcher #witcher #school of the bear #bear school #bear witchers #bear witcher #witcher school #witcher schools #witcher reference #gwent: the witcher card game #arnaghad #Junod of Belhaven #Ivo of Belhaven #Gerd #Gerd witcher

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