hey you said something about north getting married after becoming a spirit

who did he get married to

yes! That headcanon is a reference to this:

specifically the little text of ‘I got married on may nineteenth, four thousand miles from here.’

I’m not really sure what the rotg team meant by that when they put that there, maybe a reference to Ms. Claus? We don’t ever see a wedding ring that North wears, which makes it interesting.

But, my personal headcanon was that he was married, shortly before he became a spirit. Who he got married to depends on if I want angst or not. Becoming an immortal means leaving behind your love but I am WEAK for the eggnog paring.

So, either a Ms. (Or Mr, we don't know) Claus or Bunny.

A few friends sent me some prompts last night because I’ve been stuck in a little bit of a rut, so here’s something short for my friend Zach who wanted some post-tw3 father/daughter softness.

I’ve never really written much about Ciri so I did my best, but I kinda like how it came out

——————

It had been a long time since she’d come home.

She’d only visited Corvo Bianco twice now, but the sweet scent that lingers on the fields and the house at the top of the hill welcome her, a comforting sight after a long ride. She came here once just after Geralt had retired— somewhat. He still tracks down the occasional ekimmara, maybe an endrega nest every now and then. He’d go mad if he didn’t, even with Yennefer here to keep him entertained. She knows that, in a way, he misses the hunt, the thrill that followed his silver sword from its scabbard. That sword now rarely leaves its place on the wall, still sharp and raring to meet a monster’s neck once again.

It’s strange to consider the vineyard her home. Home has always been a difficult concept to her. Cintra, her birthplace, fell when she was young. She’s heard of the Nilfgaardians rebuilding there, but curiosity has not yet driven her to return and see for herself. Even rebuilt, she fears that memories will still flood those streets and overwhelm her. Then Kaer Morhen became a battleground. The abandoned keep haunts her. She avoids going too far north, lest she spots the mountain where she knows the castle lies and is reminded of what is left behind. Yet again, she was left without a place to call home. She wasn’t sure when it finally struck her that her home wasn’t a place at all.

Geralt was her home. Wherever he went, she went too. And she was home.

As Ciri slides from the saddle, she spots him sitting on the porch, hunched over— he always did have terrible posture— and reading as the sun hangs low before him and casts shadows across the vineyard. She knows better than to think he isn’t fully aware of her presence, but it’s far too much fun to mess with him.

“Has retirement stripped you of your senses, old man?” she quips as she scales the steps leading to the house.

Geralt smirks and turns the page, his eyes never straying from the paper.

“I heard you coming,” he says. “I’m old, not decrepit.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Smelled you a mile away. You’re as bad as Yen, except you smell… smokier. Smoke and… pine needles. That’s what it is.”

“And you didn’t even bother to put down your book?” she asks, her hands on her hips as a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “Rude.”

“Only because I like to rile you up,” he chuckles, setting aside his book and looking up at her with a warm smile. Green and gold meet at last. His yellow eyes are as sharp as ever and filled with a warmth a father reserves only for his daughter. He stands and without a second thought they fall into a much needed hug. Ciri tucks her head under his chin just as she did when she was a child. She’s home.

Geralt holds her at an arm's length and scowls playfully.

“Are you getting taller? Didn’t I tell you to stop doing that?” he says.

“You’ve been telling me that since I was fifteen,” Ciri laughs. “And no, I just have new boots.”

Geralt cocks his head to the side and asks, “What happened to your old ones? I got those for you.”

“They were falling apart, wolf, I needed new ones or else I’d be running around the swamps barefoot.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. You used to hate wearing your boots, do you remember? Lambert couldn’t be bothered to make you put them on so he took you down the mountain barefoot—”

“I remember. Spare me the embarrassing stories,” Ciri groans, lifting herself onto the wooden banister and leaning back on her hands. Geralt chuckles as he resumes his place on the bench.

“But there’s so many to tell. You were such a ridiculous child. Still are,” he teases. All their quips and witticisms are shared with a knowing smile and a laugh. They can’t help but tease, they each give the other too many opportunities— and, well, she was raised under the same roof as Lambert. It was inevitable.

“Go get your sword, I’ll show you ridiculous, old man.”

“You think you could best me?”

“Could do it with my eyes closed.”

“We’ll see about that— tomorrow. I’ll let you get a good night’s rest first. Wouldn’t want you to be at more of a disadvantage.”

As the sun sets over the vineyard, they exchange more empty insults and stories of their time apart. To her father’s dismay, an old friend seems to have passed on his libidinous tendencies as she recounts several tales of being chased from towns by scorned spouses and taking her leave hastily through windows and tumbling into rose bushes. Once upon a time, he was no better than her or Dandelion, but that doesn’t mean she should be as bad. Geralt requests that the next time she visits, she brings more books, he’s running out and he needs something to stop him from tearing apart the whole house and rebuilding it himself. Ciri laughs and reassures him that she will. She supposes it’s the least she can do for her old man to keep him sane.

“You should invite Dandelion down here more often,” Ciri says. “He’s getting awfully bored of giving lectures and playing the same old songs every night.”

Geralt perks up at the mention of his old friend.

“You’ve seen him?”

“I have. Thought I’d stop by on my way from Troy, give him some new stories to write about. He misses you, you know.”

“I know, I miss him, too. I miss his singing. I’ll write to him, but he better not drink all my wine like he did last time.”

“Are you two going to come inside or not?” a third voice asks.

Yennefer stands by the door, her arms folded in contrast to the affectionate smile on her face. The smell that follows her out the door is divine, but Ciri’s excitement far outweighs her hunger. She finds herself grinning as she slips from her perch and runs to Yennefer with her arms outstretched. The sorceress laughs and takes her into her arms, hugging her tightly and stroking her ashen hair.

“Welcome home, Ciri.”

Entry #25

It’s gotta be getting on a month right?

 Twenty five of these, generally I do them every night. Sometimes two in a day, but other times I forget to do them at all. Things got confusing in the halls, and I’m not good at math. I can’t even judge time by facial hair now that I’m cleaning up.

 It has to be about a month at this time. Shouldn’t I have seen something from my parents? An email asking how I am, or a Facebook post about a reward for finding me? Fuck, a news article that they died in a plane crashing coming to get me but something.

 Who am I kidding? We both know why Mom and Dad wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway. This extended vacation of mine is probably a relief to them, the longer the better. Who gives a shit?

This isn’t like me, I used to be the chill one. Voice of reason, very type B. Ending conflicts, mediating things. Not starting shit and passing judgment. Now I’m finding shit to be mad at, and I can’t tell you why. I’m just so irritable all the time.

 I don’t know what it is. Maybe this is just who Hobbs is when he stops getting his way. I like to think I’m not that type, but the evidence is stacking up against me. I don’t know how many more confrontations Weylinn and I have, before I finally break his nose. After that, I can’t be the good guy either. I’m just a bully who broke the Mage’s face because he’s too stupid to talk through a dispute.

 I could use “the excuse”. The same line every abusive parent, angry drunk and shitty boyfriend feeds to their loved ones. “No, it can’t be me. It’s not my fault. I’m a good guy, it’s just this shitty world.”

  I’m working really hard to be above “the excuse”.

 This is what I was ruminating on for most of the day. We made money giving the hammer to the blacksmith, and I spent my share getting my sword a bigger handle. It’s odd how mundane that sentence is, I almost forgot that I’m a fucking swordsman. People train years to do the shit I do, and I can see why, it’s really fun.

After getting it back, and practicing it’s not too much different. It takes a little more muscle to move around, but it hurts more. I’ll feel better if I can just make the bad guys hurt more.

In addition, Weylinn had time to tell us about what he wanted to do next. Stuart had time to practice intimidating the shellers. His choice of time wasting was more fun.

 Weylinn was trying very carefully to choose his words in such a way to get us to agree with something we obviously wouldn’t want to. He was talking about a “Lead” he had, where they would meet “Someone” in the direction of “Somewhere north”. Any attempt to get him to elaborate was met with very hostile demands of “What, do you have a better idea?”

The guy fancies himself a dark horse, but he’s a fucking idiot. You realize if you just told us “I want to go meet with someone shady in the desert, you want to come?” we probably would have agreed. We’re all for helping him do mage stuff, it keeps us alive. It’s like he’s going through extra effort to get us paranoid.

 He also told Geheim not to tell us anything. I don’t know that for a fact, but thanks to Anna I know the face Jules makes when she’s dieing to tell you something, and can’t. So yeah, I’m not happy with him. Whatever he’s doing, he should be honest about it. We’re supposed to be a team. The only reason he has to not tell us is if he thinks we’d get upset with him.

 If he’s hiding things out of fear, that means I might be getting to him. He’s still doing cowardly, probably terrible shit. But he’s understanding that there are consequences to his actions. Doesn’t seem to be helping, and I’m not sure it’s what I want. This team isn’t going to work if we all fear and distrust each other. I don’t know what to do about it.

 We get our things, and leave the Jewel again. The same heat, the same sweat, the same canteen and the same sand in my mouth. Maybe I’ll get used to this. Deserts were always cool, Lawrence of Arabia was a great movie. It’s fucking hot, but I don’t mind a little sweat. Stuart seems fine out here. It’s nice.

 We were marching for quite some time, and the night came. Just as the starflowers go over the horizon, you get a few hours of dim light. You can see without squinting, it’s not too hot. I like it, if not for the shifting shadows of possible dust things. It was about this time, where we were setting up camp. I don’t remember who saw him first, but we found the depressed Devily.

 He was just staring at something, and it was too dark to see what he was looking at. I start rushing to catch up with him. Say hi and all, and Weylinn stops me. He wants to check the area for traps and deception. I let him do his magic tricks, and he reconfirms that there’s nothing to worry about.

So with his permission to do exactly what we wanted to do earlier, we approach the Devily. Who starts reciting poetry. A lonely little thing, about traveling the desert. The narrator meets a beast, who greets him as a friend. The beast is eating his heart, and is oddly complacent about it. That’s more or less the poem.

 I thought I recognized it at the time, but I read so much poetry in school it was hard to remember. A quick Google search “Heat, bitter, eating poem.” and it confirms I’d read it before. Stephen Crane, an American realist wrote it ages ago. I’ll save you the lit-crit, but it’s a touching little thing. Either about how God sees man abusing their free will, or how the rational part of your brain confronts the rest of you or whatever else you put into it. I don’t know how the Devily got his hands on a relatively low-key American poet, but I like having other people down here that care for arts.

 The reason he was out doing poetry night in the middle of the fucking desert, was shivering in front of him. A Devily had burned, and laid amongst the wreckage of a raided caravan.

There’s no way of knowing who it is, or why it happened. Maybe the caravan’s owner had been raided and left for dead. Maybe a raider was ashamed of what they did to the caravan owner. Maybe some Devily ran away from all their responsibilities, and almost starved to death. Either way, it left a shivering, naked wretch crouched alone in the sand. Which is I guess what prompted the Devily to remember the verse.

 We talked about it for a while, what it meant to burn and what to do from here. Some of the group began searching for bits of mitral armour or a bow, but I’m fairly sure it couldn’t be Alice. If Alice was going to be consumed with her sins, it would have happened with the Butchery, or sacrificing Caramel’s dad or even just carrying around Violence. We might find her, insane and sinful. But her greatest flaw was not her conscience.

  Sorry I’m having a hard time staying on topic today. I’ve got my brain all scrambled.

 The Devily is deadpanning, as normal. Says he had been standing there, for quite some time. Just thinking of what to do with “her”. Leave her in the desert, to starve. Take her to the nearest town, to waste. Maybe just try to put her out of her misery so he can die doing something technically noble. I don’t know what his plan was.

 Living like that, it can’t be fun. Like, clearly they’re in pain. They have half a head and energy bursting out of satanic symbols burned in their skin. They’re stuck halfway between being a mindless beast and a living gravestone; because every time they are seen, people start theorizing. Oh, I wonder who that was. I wonder what they did. I wonder what they feel like. I wonder what happened to make them burn.

 They don’t have the sense to know they’re being treated like this. At least we think. They’re either reliving whatever made them burn, or just reacting on instinct. I dunno. Just looking at her makes me uncomfortable. Apparently, they do this when the sins of the world are just too much, and they can’t take it anymore. The Devily made it sound almost voluntary. Which makes him a bit of an oddity. If he’s depressed enough to kill himself, shouldn’t there be a similar thing? Maybe the reason he hasn’t killed himself is the same reason keeping him Devily. It’s hard to tell. Anyway, we just watched the thing for a while and the Devily asked us for our opinion. Immidiently fucking Anna turned the question around and asked him for his input. He did the sassing for me on that. We talked about the philosophy on it, and I gave the standard answer. “Life is always protected!” and all that. That’s what I’m supposed to say right? A Paladin—ex Paladin— who lost a loved one to suicide. I’m supposed to wage a war on the concept of depression or something.Star touring schools and talking about how therapy is the best. Fuck it. I don’t even know whose expectations I’m trying to live up anymore. I’m actually glad I’m keeping my own log, so I don’t have to rely on King telling my story. I am curious to what he’s saying. I wonder if I’m as much of a bitch in his story as I am in mine. I wonder if we’re going to see the Berry Golem, and I wonder what I can squeeze out of him in exchange for all the events that happen in his absence. He’s gonna want to see this. Anyway, eventually the Devily makes up his mind to guide the burnt one. He then asks to join us. Well of course he’s going to fucking join us. We’re down someone, we need the extra hands and we fucking owe it to this guy. You don’t get to have someone’s spouse killed and then deny them anything. Weylinn didn’t see it that way. He wasn’t sure if we could trust the Devily. The guy with nothing left to fight for, who cannot sin or deceive us. Weylinn thought he couldn’t trust him. Avram pointed out that he can’t be trusted because he looks like the devil, which is probably racist. Either way, Avram has a demon inside of him, so he’s not exactly in the best position to pass judgment. Anna agreed that we should take him on, and I’m glad I’m not the odd one out. I guilted Weylinn, because of the conversation we had earlier. Geheim promised to make sure he acts more nobly, so I dared him to go report to Geheim that he wanted to turn these two away. Over mistrust. Honestly, the only reason he has to slit our throats is pure spite for having his wife killed, and at that point we kind of deserve it. It’s decided he’d join us, myself and Anna taking the blame if he turns evil on us. He begins to order the burnt one around, and she followed them. I don’t know if all Devilys have this power, or just him. I do remember the Enforcer in the Daredevily settlement took care of burnt ones. They sit by the fire and had something to eat. I didn’t sit by the fire, I didn’t care to. I could see it from where I was sitting. I was happy on my dune, looking out over the sand. I’ve brought it up before, but I’m probably going to die here. I guess if I’m going to have a choice about it, I should get around to deciding how I want to go. Things would have been better, if I died a Paladin-in-training that everyone liked. Now if I die I’ll be a failed jerk, bulling everyone around and giving lectures. I don’t think I want to die fast, and I don’t think I was die easily. I wouldn’t mind dieing painfully if it meant doing something cool. So yeah, I cried a bit. I can claim sand got in my eye, or whatever. I just don’t understand what’s happening, or why any of it is happening. I’m being told on all sides what’s happening is out of my control and doesn’t matter. But then I get blamed personally for what happens, and the consequences are unbearable. I’m just trying to do good out here, but either I’m not a good person, or we’re all not good people. I have to double down on making everyone be better, but I have to do it without being a bully. I can’t stop the headache. I tried writing some songs down, but it didn’t help. This whole situation is pain. I gave up and started rummaging through my bag, and found the bunch of letters from Papa’s. They made me feel significantly better, and it’s hard to explain. Just comforting, you know? I miss him already. Stuart got too hungry to wait any longer, and got bored of intimidating the sun back over the horizon. So he came over to see me. He chirped, I chirped back and we chirped at each other until he got frustrated and tackled me. We both fell off the back of the dune, and tumbled into a pile on the other side. I tried to tickle him, he tried to slobber on me. My idiot bug and I have a great time. I hope I can go a while longer without seeing him bloodied. He’s too good for it. Edit: Addendum The night went absolutely horribly, by the way. A sandstorm moved in, and we had to bundle up very quickly. IN addition to normal sand problems, the sandstorm was full of dust ghosts, moaning and bumping into the caravan. Stuart and I bundled up in wool and sweat through the night, but we made it out. Nobody seemed to get infected, and now I’m even more pissed off about whatever Weylinn is bringing us out here for.

 In the morning, we didn’t speak much. Avram lost the fucking ring in the sandstorm, like an idiot. The Devily and the burnt one were kicking, and helped us set off. We move on.