#coën of poviss
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I'm playing TW1 again and I have thoughts about this tiny little sequence in the Chapter 2 quest "Memories of a Blade", which amounts to the only mention of Coën in the game.
When undertaking this quest, Geralt is investigating the origin of the silver sword he was given to slay a cockatrice; he mistakenly believes that it might be Berengar's sword since he knows the other witcher to have been in the area. A conversation with Thaler, from whom the sword was confiscated by the guard, will lead him eventually to speak to the Gardener outside St. Lebioda's hospital in Vizima. This man used to be a mercenary under Pretty Kitty, but has since retired and works as a gardener, and had lost the silver sword at dice poker. When interacted with, he will begin any conversation with "Look how they grow!", referring to the plants in his garden. The player can then initiate the quest dialogue with option one, "I'm more interested in silver swords".
GERALT: I'm more interested in silver swords.
GARDENER: I knew one of you would come by eventually.
GERALT: You lost it playing dice?
GARDENER: I was sure I'd win. Beware, the sharp one plays well.
GERALT: Where did you get this sword?
GARDENER: Five years ago, there was a battle near Brenna. When the dust had settled, our men had beaten the Nilfgaardians. We ceased to call ourselves an imperial province that day.
GERALT: You captured the sword during the battle?
GARDENER: Yes, it was witcher Cöen's [sic]. A strapping fellow and a rare breed. Not very talkative, mind you.
GERALT: Like most of us.
GARDENER: I gave my word the sword would find another witcher. As he lay dying, he mumbled about teeth and destiny. Then he laughed -- at his own death.
GERALT: Yet you lost it gambling?
GARDENER: I kept it hidden for five years. I lost hope I'd ever run into another witcher. Miss Shani knew Cöen [sic]. She works at the hospital.
GERALT: Thanks.
GARDENER: Good luck on the path!
The quest will lead you to speak with Shani, then Zoltan, but neither will provide further information on Coën, aside from Shani mentioning that he died on her operating table -- Shani's dialogue is to provide her backstory as a medic at Brenna and to mention Rusty, and Zoltan simply assesses the quality of the blade to ensure that it is a witcher blade of good workmanship. It has no further significance to Geralt, who, without his memory, has no idea who Coën is and has more pressing matters to deal with than to look into the past of a man who died five years ago (according to the somewhat off-kilter game timeline, anyway). But it's the only mention of Coën in the games, and I find that it's a very interesting way to manifest his presence.
I think it is reasonable to tie Coën quite closely to his sword on a symbolic level, if one considers his appearance in the novels where he not only trains with Ciri, but his prowess with a sword is unrivaled even by the other witchers to the point where she believes that he may be the best swordsman in the world. Additionally, the fact that he fought at Brenna at all means that he offered his sword in the service of the Northern Kingdoms, and when he dies, he is identified by his peers as a "master swordsman" rather than as a witcher, despite the fact that they know of his nature. As such, Coën's sword is a very important possession for him to leave behind.
And from there, there is a connection to Lambert, left unsaid. To go beyond the simple fact that Coën was Lambert's friend, someone dearly loved who was close enough with Lambert and his family to get on with the other wolves and stay a winter at Kaer Morhen, the importance lies with the sword. As with any witcher, Coën wouldn't have much in the way of worldly possessions to bequeath onto someone else in the event of his prophecied death. But he does have his swords, which are established as symbolically important to him. A steel sword could be taken up by any warrior capable enough to use it, but a silver sword belongs in the hands of a witcher, and that is what Coën asked for on his deathbed, for his silver sword to be given to another witcher. While it's very possible that this is meant in a general way, that he just wanted any other witcher to take it up, to avoid the sword being wasted, broken, or dismantled for its composite parts, it also strikes me as possible that he could have intended it for a specific witcher.
Lambert is one of the instructors for Ciri when she's first learning the swordplay and acrobatics associated with being a witcher. Lambert is the one in the first game to provide the instructional descriptions of the Fighting Styles for Geralt to regain his swordplay competencies after losing his memories. And there is another bit of dialogue in TW3 that really emphasises both Lambert's connection to Vesemir, the swordmaster of Kaer Morhen, and the idea of swords as inheritance, as a manifestation of closeness:
LAMBERT: Knew the old man couldn't live forever. Huh, even told Eskel that when it came time, I'd get his sword. Fits my hand perfectly, you know.
Which is a heartbreaking notion in and of itself upon which I could expostulate, the symbolism there in the fraught relationship between Lambert and his father figure reduced to something as simple as a hilt that fits two hands perfectly. But if this is the inheritance that Lambert wants, it makes it all the more pertinent that Coën desperately wanted his silver sword to make it into the hands of another witcher. Lambert, the son of a swordmaster, wants to take on a sword as a memento of someone he has lost, and Coën, the master swordsman, left his sword behind. Even if Lambert were not the specific intended target of the sword, he would have possibly or even likely known Coën well enough to fulfill his wishes, whatever they might be.
And yet Coën's sword never makes it home or into the hands of someone who would value it, like Lambert would, this last memory of his dear friend. Geralt makes use of the sword during his time in Vizima, and then it is lost, replaced by the gifted Aerondight. And so Coën is lost with it, never mentioned again.
#rambles#the witcher#the witcher games#lambert#coën of poviss#shoutout to the dog that wandered through some of these screenshots what a good boy#anyway i am back on my tw1 bullshit#coën my beloved#it makes me so sad that he's never mentioned again#especially with the creation of aiden in tw3#like#lambert has already done this#he has already found a good man that he considers a dear friend#and then lost him brutally#and yet they don't mention coën at all in 'following the thread'???#wack#like geralt knows this about lambert#he knew coën too#and yet there is not even the slightest reference#i mean in tw1 it makes sense for geralt to not lend much significance to the name of a dead witcher#he has no memory of coën#but by tw3???#he has his memory back he must remember#and to join lambert on his revenge quest for aiden#where lambert has again lost someone very dear to him and does not have anything by which to remember him#there is no reference at all to the fact that two years ago geralt literally owned coën's sword#i mean i get that they might not want to be so specific because like seven people total have played tw1#but at least mention my boy coën#come on#as an aside i do think it is nice that even though coën is barely mentioned he is remembered fondly
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Happy 29th birthday, Meg!
All our ships (minus findaryen) featuring Anathema's Untouchable Part. 1. We've been on board for so long, captain! Love you with all my heart, my dearest. ♥
#[ eddie munson ]#[ jean kirstein ]#[ coën of poviss ]#[ arthur nevermore ]#[ francesca findabair ]#[ historia reiss ]#[ nikolai luzhin ]#[ barty crouch ]#[ ben solo ]#[ rhys winterborne ]#re; eren y.#re; jeyne s.#re; alice k.#re; jamie k.#re; petra r.#re; meg c.#re; anathema v.#re; iden v.
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I have question i was wondering about Witcher names! I don't think there's an actual answer, but since you've read so much of the books i thought i could ask your opinion from a worldbuilding standpoint.
We know that Geralt CHOSE 'Of Rivia' (instead of his hilarious garry-stu name XD, thanks Ves), and i guess it implies all other Witchers do name themselves similarly. We known that last names are a privilege for those with politically important families so witchers are unlikely to have them, so i'm left I'm sitting here wondering about witchers like Vesemir and Lambert and Eskel.
If you don't have the luck of having your own personal bard and 2 or three monikers, how do they identify you?
How do you even hire or put a hit on someone without knowing how to distinguish them? 'Reward for Witcher Geralt, dead or alive'? I know there's few witchers left but still. That seems very ineffective.
(I mena, Geralt is kinda unique looking, but can you imagine setting a reward on someone like game!Lambert? "Witcher, dark hair, yellow eyes, facial scars" thanks, you just described how many other witchers?)
I initially thought something like "Vesemir from Kaer Morhen" or "from the wolf school", but i think it's implied knowledge of schools and how to distinguish them short of getting close and seeing the medallion ... so what do you think? dod they have names and they never come up? do they not have them? do they identify themselves any special ways?
Witchers and names is really fun to think about. I’m endlessly fascinated by their origins. When I was writing a fic where they were all announced at a ball I was like…oh shit they don’t have last names that I know of or even “of” any place. So I just added “of Poviss” and “of the Blue Mountains” to Coën and Eskel and moved along. I wasn’t especially creative.
But I’d be interested in seeing what other people do with it.
Also, they must have a ton of in-group vocabulary and nicknames that refer to shared experiences. Like when you are young, you do one dumb thing and catch a nickname for it that sticks around your whole life. That would be fun to think about to.
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“after the kiss, person a looks away, flustered, while person b laughs and kisses them more” for Lambert/Coën would be excellent if you feel so inclined!
Coёn/Lambert, 500 words, General Audiences
On Ao3
The fire crackled and sparked as a log broke in the hearth and Coёn stretched. Kaer Morhen was quiet, hardly even a mouse skittered through the darkened corridors but he couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t been able to sleep for a while. Months really. There was something about loneliness that made retreating to the darkness so much harder than it should have been. There were potions he could have taken but they weren’t an option on the path and he could not afford to be dependent on them. He would survive.
Something scared the mouse scavenging in the corner and he raised his head to find Lambert leaned in the entryway, arms crossed and brow slightly furrowed. It was his worried look, lips pouted and shoulders hunched.
“Want some company?” The words were soft, softer even than the blanket that Lambert carried on his arm. Coёn nodded. Lambert’s company was never a hardship.
“You know,” Lambert draped the blanket half around Coën and then himself, huddled close “there are more comfortable places to sit in this place.” Coën wasn’t sure how to explain that the floor was a comfort to him so he shrugged, let his head roll back and looked at Lambert from the corner of his eye. The Wolf was nearly his opposite: pale skinned, sharp featured, and lithe when compared against his own dark skin and broad shoulders. He’d let his hair down earlier in the evening and he wondered if he laid his head on the Wolf’s shoulder or lap if he would play with it. He had before, in the woods outside of Poviss where they had found each other just before the weather turned. He had slept deeply then; dreamlessly.
“I know it’s not home but you don’t need to prove you belong here Co. I- we want you here.”
He turned his head and, in a fit of madness, kissed the other Witcher. Lambert’s lips were a little rough and dry but they tasted of sweet tabac and rum. Breaking apart felt like a free fall and he turned away quickly, prepared to run as Lambert laughed. Laughed.
But rather than let him go and lick his wounds Lambert caught his wrist and held him firm.
Their second kiss was no less chaste than the first and the third followed quickly with another laugh bubbling from Lambert’s lips. The fourth and fifth are in quick succession, the six sees Lambert crawling in Coёn’s lap with a soft ‘fucking finally’. The next kiss is slower and Coёn opens up to let Lambert lick into his mouth, tilting his head back and surrendering. Hands slid into his hair, holding him still. Holding him close.
“Come to bed.” Lambert breathed against his lips. “Or we can stay here, I just… we can be anywhere.” Another kiss. “Just stay with me.”
He slid his hands beneath the hem of Lambert’s shirt and thrilled at the warm skin against his fingertips. Home.
“Where else would I want to be?”
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a family portrait
#Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon#Geralt of Rivia#The Witcher#Lambert#Eskel#Coën#Vesemir#coën of poviss#fanart#digital art#Bitter Content#i really did a speedrun with this one huh#i had to draw so much armor oh my god#also i had to learn how to draw receding hairlines lol#can i get an f for eskel im sorry you dont get to look cute in this one#im incredibly happy with how lambert turned out i really nailed his shit hair#and coën!! i like coen :)#big happy wolf family + griffin
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How Netflix production is probably going rn—
#the witcher#witcher#incorrect witcher#incorrect witcher quotes#witcher lambert#lambert#witcher eskel#eskel#Witcher Coën#Coën of poviss#Coën#chaos boys#that’s what they are#video
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Chapters: 13/?
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Coën & Jaskier | Dandelion
Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Coën (The Witcher), Ferrant de Lettenhove, Erland of Larvik, Keldar (The Witcher)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), bc of course they do even canon agrees, extreme annoyance is still a feeling Geralt!!!, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Tags to be added as work updates as I do not wish to inflict disappointment upon any readers, Gen Fic, i swear by my creed of no romo, Witcher Trials, Minor Character Death, Erland of Larvik - Freeform, apparently he’s too irrelevant to have a character tag lol rip, Kaer Seren, School of the Griffin, you can pry the Jaskier-Coën friendship from my cold dead hands, non-linear timeline, because if canon’s doing.... that.... then i can damn well do whatever this is, accidental lute acquisition, Jaskier speaks elder because fuck yeah bilingual characters, Gore, Torture, kind of, Monsters, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier may have abandoned his past but his past sure as hell hasn’t abandoned him, There’s a random Ferrant in the character tags don’t mind him, i haven’t gotten round to actually doing his arc yet but he is present, Unreliable Narrator, Asshole sorcerers, P L O T it’s official we have plot, Cliffhangers, some people get murdered on-screen, Witcher Lore I Just Made Up, gratuitous foolishness, No Romance, Moral Ambiguity: How Much Is “Ambiguity” And How Much Is Straight-Up Being A Dick?, Erland finally has a character tag lol
Summary:
Jaskier had quickly abandoned the Path once he was out in the world. He’d chosen a name, and pursued what he truly wanted in life - and it was music, not fighting monsters, because of course it was - and he’d only deigned to act as a witcher until he gathered the not insignificant amount of coin needed to buy himself not only a glamour but the discretion of its creator, which had cost almost as much as the damn thing itself.
If anyone who’d ever known him could see him now, he doubted they’d be too surprised.
Jaskier is a witcher by nature, a bard by choice, and a general nuisance by sheer force of personality.
GUYS!! @stars-in-my-damn-eyes UPDATED IT IT IS UPDATEDDDDD
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Book Coën
Apparently preferring to write Coën as not-a-wolf-witcher is racist.
You know, the wolf witchers who raped sex workers.
The wolf witchers who feed their dead to wolves.
Yeah, uh. No.
I can and will always prefer Book Coën. I am not against Yasen Atour, his sweet smile was adorable. The potential for disability rep is there, but ignored by Netflix. (See my previous post on his heterochromia.)
But I'm seeing discussion that there's... "nothing" in the books about Coën.
Coën had to have been known to the wolves, because Geralt doesn't say "Who?" When told Coën is wintering with them, even though we're told this is the first time. Has a short, black beard, pox scars, sickly eyes. Same age as Lambert. He comes from the north, from Poviss. He defends Ciri's skill, that she's praticed for 6 months. He encourages her:
He's upset over not realizing Ciri can't train on her period, but tbh, I read this as him making fun of Triss here. As afterwards when Vesemir says that Ciri in a dress means no training, Coën looks at him "entirely devoid of respect". Damn straight, Coën. Most people can exercise on their period just fine. He does school his face when talking to Triss later, which is notable- it means his disrespectful glare at Vesemir was a pointed choice.
Coën is patient, playing slappy hands, which we've all pretty much enjoyed. Netflix uses "snaps", which, I'm not sure what that's supposed to be. Slappy hands is a game I grew up with too, and it does teach you to be quick with your hands. Something very useful for Ciri to learn. He also lets her win, which is cute. He carries her around piggyback.
Coën is the first witcher Triss ever heard laugh.
Note at this point: Triss had known Geralt long enough to be... jealous of him and Yennefer. She has known Vesemir for a long time, referred to him as grandfather. Sapko is pointing out, very deliberately, Coën being different than the other witchers. This is also the moment you find out about his prophesized death.
And moving on:
Book Coën doesn't just train Ciri, but explains how and why. He tells her what he could do, what she could do, and why her hesitation puts her in danger. We saw none of this in Netflix, he just. Stood there. Tells her plaintively she's done. He does smile at a joke, later- I suppose this could lend a tiny nod to them being friendly enough to joke, but it's... no where near his dedication to helping train and raise her in the books.
Ciri asked him who the best fencers in the world were, and he doesn't know. But he knows where they are.
In Cemetaries.
It's a flippant joke, but an important one. He's teaching her to fight to stay alive, not to fight for reknown. Fighting will take you one place. Something book Coën knows. (Woe, Brenna.)
It's eminently practical of him, and he's later bored and yawning at Triss telling them all the continent's gossip. He's young as Lambert, and following the 'neutrality' of witchers, are really only thinking about following behind the war to clean up the monsters left behind by the war. To them? The world is always falling into ruin, because they're the ones left cleaning up the mess.
In fact, Eskel asks Triss about the continent south of the Yaruga, asking if it was worth them daring to go that far south. Lambert declares he'll go "to the far south", to clear up these monsters post-war. Far south! That's only at the tip of the Nilfgaardian empire. There's something to be said that Geralt dies in Rivia, Coën dies in Brenna... all far south- implied farther than they usually ever go.
And then- Ciri has a vision of him, dying in Brenna.
She loves Coën. Like an uncle, of sorts- these men were her family, they loved and trained and supported her. She was devastated by this vision. Her memories of Kaer Morhen were of her family, of love, and safety and care. Coën was part of this.
Coën volunteered in a war, in a land not his own, defending people not his own. Noble, kind, friendly, gentle.
But yeah, sure. Netflix is the only character building information we have.
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Who The Fuck is Coën - A Primer
If you’ve been following this blog lately, you might be noticing that I have answered some fun asks about Coën here and here.
And for all the fans out there who are wondering: who the fuck is this guy? I have put together a little explanation for you under the cut.
Coën is another Witcher from Poviss. He spent his first winter at Kaer Morhen the same year Triss comes to visit and train Ciri.
Here’s how he is described in BoE:
“He was young, apparently the same age as Lambert, and wore a short, black beard which did not hide the severe disfigurement left behind by smallpox. This was unusual; witchers were generally highly immune to infectious diseases.
...
The young witcher bowed. He had unusually pale, yellow-green irises and the whites of his eyes, riddled with red threads, indicated difficult and troublesome processes during his mutation.”
As for his personality Coën is described as probably the most light-hearted of the Witchers. He is very friendly and close to Ciri, treating her like an actual child and playing games with her while the others discuss more serious matters. Here are some instances that really showcase his personality a lot.
“Ciri was bored. She roamed the castle sleepily and finally, for lack of any other amusement, joined Coën who was cleaning the stable, grooming the horses and repairing a harness.”
...
“Triss glanced at Ciri, who was shrilly accusing Coën of cheating. Coën put his arms around her and burst out laughing. The magician suddenly realised that she had never, up until now, heard any of the witchers laugh.”
...
“Coën approached the table carrying the girl piggy-back.
“Wish everybody goodnight, Ciri,” he said. “Say goodnight to those night owls. We’re going to sleep. It’s nearly midnight. In a minute it’ll be the end of Midinváerne. As of tomorrow, every day brings spring closer!”
Actually, there’s a fair amount of comparisons to Lambert and Coën and also situations where they are grouped together in BoE. I assume this is due to them being similar ages and also paralleling each other personality wise. Lambert is seen as more volatile and sarcastic while Coën is more fun-loving and genuine:
“Who’s wintering here, Eskel? Apart from Vesemir?”
“Lambert and Coën.”
...
“ She knew a great deal about the secrets of Kaer Morhen; there was no doubt she had visited the Keep. She knew Vesemir and Eskel. Although not Lambert and Coën.”
...
“Nor I, my child.” Vesemir raised his head. “What do you mean? Are you thinking about the widows and children? Lambert and Coën speak frivolously, as youngsters do, but it is not the words that are important. After all, they—”
...
“Bloody hell, so am I. And today’s Lambert’s turn and he can’t cook anything other than noodles… If he could only cook those properly…”
“Coën?”
...
“In the evenings, consistently and determinedly, Triss guided the long conversations held in the dark hall, lit only by the bursts of flames in the great hearth, towards politics. The witchers’ reactions were always the same. Geralt, a hand on his forehead, did not say a word. Vesemir nodded, from time to time throwing in comments which amounted to little more than that “in his day” everything had been better, more logical, more honest and healthier. Eskel pretended to be polite, and neither smiled nor made eye contact, and even managed, very occasionally, to be interested in some issue or question of little importance. Coën yawned openly and looked at the ceiling, and Lambert did nothing to hide his disdain.”
I actually love this last paragraph a lot because it gives great characterizations for all the characters in the scene
Coën was also one of Ciri’s sword trainers, and I really love again, how kind he is to her. This again parallels Lambert who is specifically called out by Triss for being too mean with Ciri during sword practice.
Lambert Training Ciri:
“She looked at Ciri again. The girl, agilely stepping along the balance beam, executed a half-turn, cut lightly, and immediately leaped away. The dummy, struck, swayed on its rope.
“Well, at last!” shouted Lambert. “You’ve finally got it! Go back and do it again. I want to make sure it wasn’t a fluke!”
“The sword,” Triss turned to the witchers, “looks sharp. The beam looks slippery and unstable. And Lambert looks like an idiot, demoralising the girl with all his shouting. Aren’t you afraid of an unfortunate accident? Or maybe you’re relying on destiny to protect the child against it?”
Coën training Ciri:
“Once more, Ciri. We’ll go through it slowly so that you can master each move. Now, I’m attacking you with tierce, taking the position as if to thrust… Why are you retreating?”
“Because I know it’s a feint! You can move into a wide sinistra or strike with upper quarte. And I’ll retreat and parry with a counterfeint!”
“Is that so? And if I do this?”
“Auuu! It was supposed to be slow! What did I do wrong, Coën?”
“Nothing. I’m just taller and stronger than you are.”
“That’s not fair!”
“There’s no such thing as a fair fight. You have to make use of every advantage and every opportunity that you get. By retreating you gave me the opportunity to put more force into the strike. Instead of retreating you should have executed a half-pirouette to the left and tried to cut at me from below, with quarte dextra, under the chin, in the cheek or throat.”
Lambert is short and sharp, he tells Ciri what to do but not how to do it. Coën on the other hand takes time to answer her every question and explain things out. It’s important to understand and Lambert and Coën act as foils and parallels for each other in Blood of Elves. You see two Witchers of the same age but with very different temperaments.
Yasen Atour’s casting for Coën in season 2 was announced back in February of 2020, read about if here (although Eskel has since been recast).
Overall, Coën is likely going to be one of the key Witchers we will be meeting in Season 2 and for all you folks who want to know more about Coën before the season drops, here’s a bunch of info for you!
If you can’t tell, I love Coën a lot as a character and I can’t wait to see how Yasen Atour portrays him!
#if you want to know more info#feel free to ask!!#I love talking about Witcher meta or information in general#I have good knowledge of the show books and games so ask me anything#I love talking about these characters so much!!#I would love to see more Coën#the witcher#character description#Coën#Coen#kaer morhen#the witcher netflix#the witcher books#blood of elves#andrzej sapkowski#myposts#wtf series
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world building cause twn doesn't pt. 1: the northern realms
okay i'm making this because 1 witcher netflix is the most convoluted and confusing thing i've ever seen and does literally no world building and 2 special interest make autism brain go brr.
basic info
this is gonna be a multi part series about the witcher universe but this is all about the northern realms!
ciri's timeline in twn encompasses the entirety of the first northern war, beginning with the attack on cintra and ending with the battle at sodden
this is just covering the human portions of the north. i'll talk about vergen, brokilon, and dol blathanna later
colour code cause i fucking love colour codes - already happened/introduced, probably s2, important background info, stuff that might be in the prequel, extras
general
so the entire witcher takes place on the continent
it's divided into multiple kingdoms, vassal states, and territories
now borders change a lot but this is the general idea before the first northern war (started 1263 with the invasion of cintra but we'll get more into that later)
also important to note that the show ends in 1264 with geralt meeting ciri in sodden
i'm sorry, i don't have quite enough spoons for an image discription for that map, but if someone wants to take over i'll link it here!
maps not mine, reddit link here
the continent is mainly divided between south and north, with nilfgaard and its dependencies and vassal states (including toussaint, mettina, vicovaro, nazair) in the south and the northern realms (redania, temeria, kaedwen, aedirn, lyria and rivia, cidaris, kovir and poviss, and creyden) in the north
aedirn
this is where yennefer is from! more specifically, it's capital vengerberg. as of twn, its king is virfuril. he's briefly name dropped in blood of elves and assassins of kings, you might remember him dancing with yennefer in the ball.
[I.D: picture of white man with a light brown beard and moustache. he is wearing a gold shirt and a gold crown. he is smiling slightly and has blue eyes. end I.D.]
that's him right there. for some extra trivia he's the 15th king of aedirn, his son is demavend III and his grandson is stennis
aedirn is mainly manufacturing. in the north (upper aedirn), dwarves control the continent's best mines. the south produces more finished goods like textiles, weapons, and dyes
for some notable aedirnians we have yennefer, saskia/saesenthessis (borch three jackdaws/villentretenmirth's daughter), letho, aplegatt, and seltkirk
aedirnian cities include vengerberg, gulet, and hagge
next up - redania!
as of the first northern war, redania's king was vizimir II. i don't think we saw him in twn, but i could be wrong. redania is known for having the best intelligence network on the continent, along with control of the best farmland
redania is a super important kingdom, and we've already met quite a few important redanians and will probably meet a lot more.
dandelion/jaskier, chireadan, shani, philippa eilhart, sigi dijkstra are all redanian
redanian cities - novigrad, oxenfurt (home of oxenfurt academy, dandelion's alma mater), tretogor (the capital), blaviken, and rinde
for temeria!
we briefly visited temeria in the episode with the striga (adda the white). as of the first northern war, the king is foltest. he lives in the capital vizima (controlled by nilfgaard in wild hunt). that's him right there
[I.D: photo of an older, overweight white man. he is wearing gold armour and a gold crown. he has a grey beard and is scowling. end I.D]
temeria (especially foltest) is notoriously xenophobic and racist. but, it is one of the best places for sorceresses as its home to thanedd isle and aretuza.
temeria controls the mahakaman mountains, and therefore some of the most prosperous mines in the continent. these mines, along with highly developed agricultural and trade systems, make temeria mad rich
a lot of my favourites are temerian we have keira metz, vernon roche, thaler, *barf* triss merigold, codringher and fenn, jan natalis, and ves
temeria has a lot of important cities like gors velen, vizima (also spelled wyzim or wyzima), and maribor. there's also some territories/provinces like brugge, ellander, maribor, sodden, and velen
kaedwen
kaedwen is in the far north west, and is where the witcher fortress of kaer morhen is located. kaedwen is always feuding with aedirn over control of the pontar valley, a profitable area on the kaedweni-aedirnian border. as of the first northern war, kaedwen is ruled by king henselt, who might have been name dropped once or twice in twn i dont really remember.
kaedwen is very cold, a large portion of it is the blue, kestrel, and fiery mountains. it's also home to ban aard, which is basically the aretuza for boys and where stregobor taught istredd
the only really notable kaedwenis are sabrina glevissig (that's her in twn) and cregennan of lod
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some kaedweni cities are ban aard, ard carraigh, lod, and ban gleán
kaedwen, temeria, aedirn, and redania make up the four kingdoms, a group of human-majority states that nilfgaard really likes attacking. the northern wars are pretty much all nilfgaard vs the northern kingdoms, since most smaller realms are usually absorbed into either the north or south, but that doesn't mean they're not important!
cintra
twn gave us a solid introduction to cintra, which as you know was ruled by queen calanthe. her suicide after the nilfgaardian invasion was basically the first major casualty of the first northern war. cintra then became a nilfgaardian dependency, ruled by emperor emhyr var emreis
notable cintrians - princesses cirilla fiona elen rhiannon and pavetta fiona elen, angoulême, and the house of attre
cintra isn't very big, but does have the provence attre and cities like erlenwald and cintra (the capital)
cidaris
ruled by king ethain, one of the many people calanthe betrothed to ciri and then was like lol nevermind. also includes the province bremervoord, which is ruled by duke agloval and supported by the harvesting and trade of pearls
notable cidarians - dorregary, valdo marx, and vilgefortz (thats him there)
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cidarian cities include vole, roggeveen, and cidaris (the capital)
hengfors league
a group of 4 city states (caingorn, malleore, barefield, and cinfrid) that are ruled by king niedamir from the capital hengfors
notable residents include queen hedwig, boholt and the reavers, and deidre ademeyn
from what i've found all the city states have a capital of the same name
lyria and rivia
these are a little complicated, but basically lyria and rivia are the two main kingdoms of the confederation of realms in the dol angra valley. as of twn, queen meve of lyria and king reginald of rivia are married, therefore uniting the two realms
in the summer, the capital is lyria and in the winter it's rivia. lyria is also primarily agricultural while rivia is more industrial
queen meve is really the only important one here
kovir and poviss
kingdom in the far north that is responsible for the most exporting of minerals on the continent. as of the first northern war it is ruled by esterad thyssen
notable residents include stregobor, renfri, sheala de tancarville, coën, and istredd
important cities - creyden, tancarville, lan exeter, aedd gynvael, and thwyth
skellige
skellige is different from the other northern kingdoms in a few ways. one, it's not really a kingdom but a collection of 7 clans each led by a specific jarl. a clan is based on kinship, and the jarl rules them. what's confusing here is that there's also a jarl of skellige, who is in charge of the entire archipelago's armed forces. the king or queen of skellige is chosen by all of the jarls to help unify the clans against nilfgaard
skellige is also the only island kingdom. its an archipelago to the west of cintra, but is almost always allied to the north
the clans are brokvar, an craite, dimun, drummond, heymaey, tordarroch, and tuirseach, and they generally each occupy a specific island
the main islands are ard skellig (an craite and drummond), an skellig (tuirseach), faroe (dimun), hindarsfjall (heymaey), spikeroog (brokvar), and undvik (tordarroch)
some skelligers - crach an craite, eist tuirseach (that's him there), mousesack/ermion, draig bon-dhu, cerys and hjalmar an craite, and birna bran
[ID: photo of a middle-aged white man with dark brown hair and light stubble. he is wearing a gold doublet and has some sweat on his forehead. he appears slightly drunk. end ID]
tldr: as of the first northern war, the main northern kingdoms are virfuril's aedirn, vizimir's redania, foltest's temeria, and henselt's kaedwen
thank you so much for reading this! i'm definitely gonna make more parts and will link them here when i do!
#the witcher#twn#the witcher netflix#jaskier#geralt#geralt of rivia#geralt x jaskier#aedirn#redania#kaedwen#geraskier#geraskefer#temeria#yennefer of vengerberg#geralt x yennefer#yennefer x jaskier#idk what tags i should use#mine#gen tag#lore tag#haven't got a fucking queue
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Griffin Witchers
Cat | Bear | Viper
I’m hyperfixating on witcher lore this month,.,.,. gimme the happy hormones mhmmmhmmn
Kaer Seren
Kaer Seren’s literary collection was its greatest treasure and the envy of a group of overzealous mages. In their attempt to seize it for themselves, they destroyed the very thing they desired most.
Located at the sea end of a mountain range in Kovir and Poviss.
Reaching Kaer Seren by land proved too daunting a task for most. The locale also provided the residents of Kaer Seren access to seafaring traders, ensuring they were always well-supplied. Armed with crossbows, a secured position, and a reliable source of provisions, the Griffins remained ready and capable to repel any assault.
Nevertheless, not a single soldier was prepared to fight an avalanche unleashed by the Council of Mages.
Founder
Erland of Larvik
Erland founded the School of the Griffin, and hoped his emphasis on knightly values would help elevate the reputation of witchers among the common folk. Alas, his efforts would go in vain.
Erland stood as an example for the new witchers, training them to have honor in their practice and conviction in their hearts. Together, with the head sorcerer of the school, a new discipline was crafted, focusing on magic, preparedness, and flexibility.
Training
At Kaer Seren, students are afforded the luxury of choice when it comes to their final Trial. They either locate and retrieve a griffin’s egg, or recite the entirety of Liber Tenebrarum verbatim. To Old Keldar’s dismay, no one has ever chosen the latter.
Throughout the ages, the other schools respected the Griffins for their study of magic and fighting style that emphasized multiple opponents
They are unparalleled masters in the art of tracking and hunting, even amid the most inhospitable of environments. No matter the trail, they won’t rest until their prey is captured, or killed.
Most Griffins can split an apple in two from a hundred paces. Just make sure you don’t move.
Witcher Mentor
Knowledge will keep you alive far longer than might, dear boy.
Keldar was in charge of monster knowledge tutoring.
He had memorized the whole Liber Tenebrarum and was easily infuriated when his students provided stupid or no answer, mocking that they would likely go to hunt vampires covered with garlic and armed with Lebioda figurines.
When Kaer Seren was destroyed, he was the sole survivor of those at the fortress. He still guards the ruined fortress of his beloved school.
Some Lore from Gwent
Despite his many successful hunts and the renown and respect the School of the Griffin enjoyed, the tide eventually turned against the witchers. They had been too successful and by the late 1160s many monsters had been eradicated.
Suddenly rulers became suspicious and wary of the independent schools of hardened killers and as witchers were less useful, the churches saw a new opportunity to spread more anti-witcher propaganda.
Seizing on this moment, jealous sorcerers in turn caused an avalanche that buried Kaer Seren.
Erland was not at the keep when it happened, he was close enough to see the culprits and, not knowing how many of his brothers had survived, he decided to leave and found a cave in the mountains. Here, he wrote down all the knowledge he possessed into journals so that, when the last witcher had fallen and the monsters grew in numbers once again, humanity would know how to fight back.
What happened to Erland after this is unknown.
Armor
Griffin School equipment is of medium weight and amplifies the intensity of the wearer's Signs; as such, it is heavily implied that the school and its disciples may have specialized in the use of magic.
Three More Witchers
Coën
Coën spent his first winter at Kaer Morhen when Ciri was in the keep. He trained Ciri in sword combat.
'Coen?'
‘Aha?'
'I'm still not fast enough—'
'You're very fast.'
'Will I ever be as fast as you?'
'I doubt it.'
'Hmm . . . And are you—? Who's the best fencer in the world?'
'I've no idea.'
'You've never known one?'
'I've known many who believed themselves to be the best.'
'Oh! What were they? What were their names? What could they do?'
'Hold on, hold on, girl. I haven't got an answer to those questions. Is it all that important?'
'Of course it's important! I'd like to know who these fencers are. And where they are.'
'Where they are? I know that.'
'Ah! So where?'
'In cemeteries.'
- Ciri and Coën
His features are described as unusual for a witcher, as he retained scars from early childhood diseases, like chicken pox, which he covers with a beard, while most witchers were immunized before contracting such illnesses. This would suggest that he either contracted the disease unusually early in life, or that his witcher training began later than most.
HERE - If you want to know what happend to him. (minor SPOILER for books)
Jerome Moreau
Gonna give that old bastard a piece of my mind! - Jerome about his father
From Gwent
In 1087, after saving professor Tomas Moreau, a witcher demanded that which the scholar already had, but did not know of. From this day forward, Jerome, son of Tomas, became one of the children bound by the Law of Surprise.
A few years later, the witcher came for young Jerome to take him to Kaer Seren, the home of the School of the Griffin. The boy was subjected to the usual physical training and mutations necessary to forge a witcher. Yet the process seemed mild to him as if he was particularly well suited for it.
As a result, he mostly resembled an ordinary man, leaving only his silver sword and Griffin medallion to prove the contrary. Strangers and friends alike treated him better than the average witcher, with many failing to realize the fact that a mutant stood before them.
Unfortunately, extraordinary resistance was to become Jerome's undoing. For professor Moreau did not forget about his lost son, keeping him under constant observation. His normalcy led to his father's belief that the mutations could still be reversed.
When his father, professor Moreau, lured him to Toussaint with a contract, he decided to put an end to this charade. Jerome confronted professor Moreau in 1121. After imprisoning the witcher using a paralyzing spell, he proceeded with mad and reckless experiments to free his son from the witcher's mutations. Utterly ignoring his son's contrary pleas for mercy. This process was not mild. Not at all. Brought to the brink of death on many occasions, he rose every time faster and stronger than before. And more... mutated. As a result of old Moreau's experiments and in spite of his determination, Jerome became less and less human. Until the eighth day of autumn in 1122, the professor finally gave up. He collected his notes and closed his laboratory. As for the remains of his failed subject... He just burnt them, unwilling to face what he had done ever again.
It is possible, that Jerome is still alive, because there was no body/skeleton in the cell.
Adela
In The Hexer, a polish movie. there is a school of witchers described as being "beyond the mountains", to which Adela attended. At the time, only the Cat, the Griffin, and the Wolf Schools existed in the franchise, and as she didn't attend the Cat nor the Wolf, it's possible she went to the Griffin School.
This is however only a speculation.
#the witcher#witcher#witcher lore#school of the griffin#griffin witchers#griffin witcher#female witcher#witcher schools#gwent: the witcher card game#witcher adela#Coen#Coën#Jerome Moreau#Erland of Larvik#keldar#witcher reference
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Lapis Lazuli - Geraskier [G]
[gif isn’t mine]
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 4,538
Originally posted to my AO3
Geralt suddenly realises how much time he and Jaskier have spent together, and all the places they've travelled around the Continent. He decides that it's time to give the bard something to show how much he appreciates all of it.
His bird flies to Oxenfurt for the winter. The Academy still likes to keep him around for the busier autumn semesters because students will actually listen to someone like Jaskier, and Jaskier likes going back because it’s paid accommodation to weather out the harsh winters in. And Oxenfurt is familiar.
Not that he hasn’t thought of going to wherever it is Geralt goes. And Geralt hasn’t not thought of extending an invitation. Vesemir has made it abundantly clear; if their guests can behave themselves throughout the winter, and won’t mind being put to work for the essential jobs, then his pups can invite whoever they like to Kaer Morhen. Lambert has brought people before; notably a Cat from the Dyn Marv Caravan wandering around the Continent. A Griffin has roosted within their keep before too. Both Aiden and Coën defer to Vesemir, acknowledging that they’re guests and he’s the head of the keep, as is the order of things, and the winters go by without anyone killing each other. And that’s all the elder wolf can hope for, it seems.
The invitation sits on his tongue every year. He knows Jaskier knows of the keep. He’s asked about it before, when his lute is propped on his knee and he looks at Geralt with loud wonderment at all of the things he can lure out of the Witcher about his kind and his guild. He can’t blame the little bird. If he was given the choice of a warm academy apartment, with set banquet meals throughout the day, and a steady pay to tide him by, or a crumbling keep perched on top of the northern mountains, still haunted by the ghosts of everything that’s happened before, he knows what he would pick. But Kaer Morhen is home, and he can see past every horrid thing that happened within those walls, because what’s left behind is his family, and he’ll go wherever they are.
They’re only ever parted for a winter. Even the winters that make themselves longer than they need to be, stretching into spring and keeping the frosts around, it’s only one season. It’s strange that he goes the rest of the three without him.
And this seems to be much worse. It’s quiet on the road; with only his own thoughts and Roach’s chuffs and nickers keeping him company. It used to be the way of things in a world before. Before Geralt found himself a songbird and it perched on his shoulder, following him around from village to town to city and never knowing when to go away.
Gods forbid if Jaskier knew that Geralt secretly misses his voice. He spent so much time of their first year knowing each other trying to get Jaskier to shut up. But it became a gentle hum in the background of their travels. Jaskier would ramble on about something or other while he strolled next to Roach, occasionally brushing his hand along the mare’s neck. And the mare learned to not kick out at Jaskier’s shins or turn and nip his fingers. Her master seemed to like him enough to keep him mostly intact. That, and a few secret sugar cubes and apples snuck into her feed from the bard seemed to win her over.
Spring means his songbird will fly back to him, and autumn means that he’ll fly away again. A secure income and a warm place to hunker down throughout a potentially harsh winter, Geralt can’t blame the lark at all for going to roost.
It’s just the familiar groan of loneliness left behind is awful, and he hates how it makes itself known at night, when he’s slipping into an inn’s bed and the empty space on the other side seem to stretch on for leagues. It’s cold and Geralt always wakes with his arm stretched across, reaching out for someone who isn’t there. And that’s when his chest tightens and he wishes he could cross the Continent within a matter of strides, just to get his little lark back with him.
A courier comes one morning. Nothing more than a lad barely into his adulthood, with spots still speckled on his face and a mop of thick curly hair almost shielding his eyes, who somehow manages to find him in a merchant town’s tavern. Geralt glances up from his breakfast, regarding the lad for a moment as he fumbles through a knapsack of letters and parcels. “Geralt of Rivia,” he says primly, holding out a letter. As soon as the letter is in his hand, the lad scurries away, and that seems to be the end of that.
Geralt thins his lips. Contracts very rarely come to him. His name may start to be travelling further and further into the Continent, but notices are usually left on boards within the village or town itself. Contacting him directly isn’t how it works. He’s never in one place for too long.
But the envelope in his hand is crisp, freshly printed card, and a maroon ink seal at the back tells him all he needs to know. Oxenfurt’s emblem is printed into the wax, and the card smells vaguely of old books and ink.
He thumbs the letter open, running his eyes over the elegant scrawl inside.
Meet me at the Three Crowns Inn for Beltane. Can’t wait to see you again. – Songbird
Geralt’s chest clenches. He can’t stand from his table and run out of the inn fast enough.
-----------
He doesn’t know when he started calling Jaskier his little bird, but the bard certainly had no problems with it. If anything, he greatly encouraged it. Having someone as grumpy as Geralt dote on him seemed to be one of Jaskier’s favourite things. It’s a side of the Witcher that only he sees; when they’re curled in a bed together, or gathered around a campfire, and it’s just the two of them.
Jaskier has a pretty voice, and his songs are beautiful. Not that Geralt would ever tell him that. A preening smug Jaskier is borderline intolerable. He didn’t know why it tumbled out of his lips one night, when Jaskier dozed beside him and Geralt threaded his fingers through the man’s soft and freshly washed hair. But songbird and lark all seemed to fit. And Jaskier revelled in them.
Jaskier is also a magpie in some regards. A mischievous little thing that has a certain penchant for anything shiny and grand. He plucks vials of oils and lotions and soap bars from merchant stands and revels in how they smell, uncaring that the cost of them alone makes Geralt’s eyes water. He adorns his fingers in rings that catch the summer sunlight and glisten, and Geralt likes running his thumb over the gems and engravings in them when Jaskier links their fingers together. He likes gold and silver and gems and fragrant oils, and any time he lingers for a moment outside of a merchant’s stall, nose wrinkled in thought of whether or not he could spare the gold earned from playing in taverns on something, Geralt watches.
He buys rings because he can wear them, and any oils and lotions and soaps that somehow end up in his bag are brushed off as ways he can make his Witcher finally relax for once after a particularly taxing hunt. And the gems he leaves behind. Even though he’ll pick them up, watching how they glint in the midday sun, he’ll set them back and part the merchant with a small grateful smile.
A few of those gems have ended up in Geralt’s pocket. He doesn’t know what he would do with them, or how he would use them or even gift them to Jaskier, but his songbird liked them and didn’t seem keen to part with them. So they take up a permanent residence in one of the smaller pockets of Geralt’s saddlebag. They come from all sorts of places; Nazair and Toussaint, to Aedirn and Poviss. Anywhere he and Jaskier have wandered together, he takes them as small reminders. And in the seasons he goes without his bird, he has something to remind him of him at least.
-----------
Getting to the Three Crowns will take him through a few kingdoms. If he keeps to the main roads, not lingering in any towns for longer than he needs to, he’ll make it to the inn before Jaskier. And he doesn’t think he could cope with having to sit in a tavern’s hall and wait for his little bird to fly to him.
Smaller merchant towns are kinder to him than the bigger cities. He bundles his cloak tighter around himself when he rides through the cities, keeping his eyes on the road ahead and not the badly hidden curious looks from passing people on the streets. The whispers soon follow, and inevitably, the word butcher will dust the shell of his ear. So he sets his heels against Roach’s side and continues on.
But the smaller towns are kinder. They’re quiet and people lap through them like gentle waves, flowing quicker in the day, but dissipating by night. Roach plods along, with Geralt slackening her reins and letting her stretch her neck out. It’s a quiet and still walk in through the town’s main street, and most of the shops are already beginning to board up their windows and draw their stands in for the night. An inn’s sigil hangs at the far end of the street, and Geralt aims Roach towards it.
Before he can let his shoulders slacken, his eyes fall on to a shop next to the inn. It looks like every other building surrounding it – red brick and ornately carved, with worn-paint signs hanging outside. The windows are still clear and its door is open, so he can presume that the merchant is still inside trading wears.
He blinks at the first recognisable word he manages to spot on the worn wooden sign.
Jewellers.
Geralt slows Roach to a stop. The mare huffs, pulling at her bit slightly. The inn and its stables are literally right there. He sets a gloved hand to her neck, scratching into her winter fur beginning to fluff her out. “Wait here,” he rumbles, hopping down from her and on to the cobbles below. He hitches her reins to a small post outside and starts to rustle through his saddlebags. Empty vials of potions he’ll need to brew again, purses of gold that he keeps away from his person just in case of brigands. He fishes out the gems. They’re tiny things, just enough to gather in the palm of his hand.
He pats Roach’s neck one last time. “I’ll only be a second.”
Roach huffs, but waits.
-----------
He doesn’t know what it is, but all merchants tend to look the same. Regardless of whether they’re travelling the roads with him, they all have this glint in their eyes and glasses perched on the end of their nose, with finely kept clothes that reflect the wealth of their trade. And this merchant doesn’t look that much different.
The man inside blinks as soon as Geralt steps inside. “Witcher,” is the first word to bumble out of his mouth. A brief flash of panic blinks across his face before he tries to fight his way back to say something better than a profession as a greeting.
Geralt lifts his hand. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, looking around the shop. It’s unlike the kinds of stores Jaskier likes to drift in to. Wooden shelves along the walls stacked with all types of ornaments and glasswork. The storefront is a mixture of dark cherry wood and glass, showing off the expertly crafted necklaces and rings and bracelets he’s sure are worth every golden coin used to make them. The shop smells faintly of varnished and broiled glass and paint. It wrinkles his nose, but he steps closer to the counter.
The merchant adjusts his glasses. “What can I do for you, Master Witcher?”
Geralt holds out his hand, showing the gems gathered on his palm. “I was wondering if you could do anything with these?”
Even in the fading light of day, the orange strands of evening sunlight that stretch into the merchant’s shop, the gems glisten and gleam on his hand. The merchant gestures to them. May I? Plucking each of them up and examining the way the light catches them, the merchant adjusts his glasses again, moving them up and down his nose and squinting through the lens. “Ah, yes,” the merchant muses, “amethyst, amber, emerald, garnet. You must be very well travelled, Witcher. Some of these gems are hard to come by in these parts.”
Geralt hums. “I travel for work,” he explains simply. “I’ve been everywhere.”
The merchant sets the gems along his work surface, lining them up. Some are slightly bigger than others, but all polished and showing off their colours. The merchant muses, running his eyes over them. “What would you like me to do with them, Master Witcher?”
Geralt lifts a shoulder. “That’s up to you,” he says. “I don’t have any experience in jewellery or fineries.”
And he tries not to bristle at the way the merchant’s eyes drift over every part of him for a moment. Worn and scarred armour, dried blood flecking his skin. He doesn’t even seem like one of the merchant’s patrons.
The merchant’s lips thin. He hums and turns his eyes back on the gems. “I could make something beautiful of these gems, absolutely,” he considers. “But it would cost gold and time, Witcher. Do you have anywhere you need to be in the coming days?”
He’s already going to be early for his meeting. A few days of rest before doing the last trek towards the Three Crowns might do him some good. If he showed up to meet Jaskier like this, after so many seasons apart, he could imagine the bard instantly trying to shove him into a bath laden with oils and soaps. He can stomach to lose a few days to rest.
-----------
The Three Crowns is their usual meeting point. Winter looms over the Continent, peering over the mountains to the west and already hinting at its arrival with chilling and biting winds that tumble down from the hills. The snow and frost keep away, thankfully. The last thing he needs is frozen roads. But they are somewhat flooded. He keeps to the main roads, laden with merchants selling the last of their wares before they can head home from the winter. And if he had any more gold left, he would buy some fruit or bread from them. But the last of his gold dwindles, just enough for a tavern room – something he’s sure Jaskier has already procured and readied for him.
His bones warm at the thought of being with his bird again. If Roach walks a bit quicker, with a noticeable spring in her step, it absolutely has nothing to do with the fact that Jaskier spoils her with more treats than hay and grains. And even she can appreciate having the bard around; also because it makes her companion happy.
The Three Crowns is nestled in the heart of some town straddling a crossing of roads. It sees its fair share of passing traders and huntsmen drifting in from the road only to be swept off again. It reminds him of Posada, and he can understand why Jaskier always insists on it being their meeting up place. Roach chuffs at the sight of it in the distance, almost breaking out into a gallop just to read the town’s wooden barriers.
Stableboys linger around the yard and don’t even blink twice at him setting some gold into their palms. He hops down from Roach and takes his bags off of her before she’s led into the stables around the back of the inn, pawing insistently at the ground to get somewhere warm and full of oats and hay.
The tavern is as crowded as it always is. A hum of noise and the smell of roasting venison assault his senses the moment he steps into the tavern. It’s familiar. This meets him every time he comes to greet Jaskier and begin their wanderings together. But it’s been longer than usual and he’s missed everything about it.
He hauls his saddlebags over his shoulders, stalking further into the tavern. All the tables are already occupied, farmers and merchants and passing huntsmen bowed over their dinners and knocking back tankards of ale and mead. Geralt’s eyes scan the room, looking for the familiar spark of colour that usually stands out from the rest.
And his ears twitch when he hears hurried footsteps approaching from his side. Through the maze of tables and people sitting at them, Geralt watches Jaskier almost trip over his own feet as he hurries towards him, a bright smile and glistening eyes already settled on his face. Geralt has just enough time to let his saddlebags drop to the ground by his side before he’s tackled into a hug. His arms hover in the air for a moment. The closeness Jaskier insists on having with him isn’t something he was ever used to. But he’s warming to it.
As his arms slowly coil around and gather his bard to him, Geralt buries his nose into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. His lungs fill with the scent of the other man. Sea salt that he likes to scrub and soften his skin with, and the faint lilts of desert roses and vanilla coats the roof of his mouth and Geralt is loath to let the bard go. Jaskier seems to be in a similar position. His arms are curled around Geralt’s shoulders and neck, locked and unwilling to let him go just yet.
The rest of it fades away. The tavern, those gathered within it and all of their conversations melding into one lapping wave of noise. Geralt’s lungs can fill again as he breathes Jaskier in, and a deep rumble purrs out of his chest at the feeling of the bard’s hands settling on to his back, slowly rubbing at the plains of muscle there.
He isn’t sure how long he spends holding on to Jaskier, but eventually the bard tries to slip away. Geralt’s arms tighten. A light breathless laugh shakes through Jaskier. “Come on,” he murmurs, setting his hands on to Geralt’s elbows, “I’ve got us a room.”
He’s slow to let go of the little bird. Even then, he only allows a small sliver of space between them. Jaskier catches one of his hands, and even through the thin leather glove, he can feel the warmth of the bard’s skin blooming through his.
As soon as he has gathered his bags again, Jaskier leads him away, from the prying curious eyes of the other patrons nearby. He’s lured upstairs, until the conversations below become nothing more than a distant hum and Geralt feels like he can think again.
Just as he imagined, Jaskier already has the room ready. The hearth within the wall crackles and spits with a freshly fed fire and candles dotted around, perched on dressers and cabinets, offer a warm glow to the room. With fresh linen sheets and furs lining the foot of their bed, his bones ache at the thought of going to sleep.
A bath has already been brought up and filled, and the air is scented with the musk of desert rose and something sweet laced underneath it.
As soon as he pulls Geralt inside, Jaskier clicks the door shut behind them. He squeezes Geralt’s hand, but doesn’t move to pull away. “Now,” he says primly, “I’m sure you have stories to tell me, darling, but I insist on bathing you first. The road hasn’t been kind to you.”
Because you haven’t been on it with me. The words lodge in his throat and Geralt struggles to keep them behind a shut jaw.
With his saddlebags put to the side, Jaskier’s nimble fingers set on the many belts and buckles of his armour. It’s different; having someone else do it. He remembers the first time where he stood frozen, wondering why his newest travelling companion insisted on removing armour Geralt has been wearing for years. He can do it himself. But now he’s content to let Jaskier strip what he can off of him, leaving him in a worn linen shirt and breeches. He toes off his boots, leaving them alongside the pile of armour that gathers beside his bags. He’ll clean it in the morning, before they go, but as Jaskier drifts over to the bath, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, Geralt pauses.
Jaskier moves around the room so seamlessly, as he is with most things. He gathers what he needs to bathe Geralt; lotions and oils for his aching muscles, and a comb to try and wrangle his hair back into something tame.
The bard eventually catches his eye. “Are you going to stand there all night,” he laughs breathlessly, setting a hand on to his hip, “or are you coming over?”
Geralt blinks. His fingers flex by his side, not entirely sure what he should try and do now. He glances over to his saddlebags, piled up beside a nearby dresser. Geralt grunts, holding up his hand. Jaskier cocks his head, but watches the Witcher regardless.
He roots through his bag, looking for a soft felt bag kept in one of the more secure pockets inside. He fishes it out, making sure that the gift is still intact. He tried to keep it safe. He might have even lost hours of sleep because he worried about brigands and highwaymen storming him on the road and taking it.
But now, he somehow manages to force his feet to take him over to Jaskier. The bard looks at him puzzled, his gaze drifting down to the small bag caught in Geralt’s hand.
There’s a moment between them where nothing is said. And Jaskier tilts his head, eyes searching for Geralt’s as the Witcher tries to gather what to say. Because how does he even go about presenting something like this? Geralt clears his throat. Gods, words really aren’t his strong suit. He stretches out his hand, handing the bag over to Jaskier. When the bard looks to him again, lifting an eyebrow, Geralt rubs the back of his neck. “It’s, uh...It’s for you.”
Jaskier regards him for a moment, slowly letting his deft fingers unlace the drawstring and pull the ties apart. A lot of gold and time made what Jaskier is fishing out of the bag, and Geralt’s stomach churns. Gods alive, what if he doesn’t like it?
Jaskier blinks when he lifts his gift out. A necklace of gems, expertly melded together like petals of a flower. Each gem is its own petal, but together, they represent something more. Their journey together, the wanderings all over the Continent and the time spent together. The gems glint in Jaskier’s eyes, bright crystal colours joining the ocean blue Geralt likes losing himself in. The chain is something lithe and simple, small interlinking locks of silver that don’t distract from the flower hanging from it.
Jaskier rubs his thumb over each gem, and the thin and lithe metalwork that binds them all together. His lips part, something resting on the tip of his tongue, about to be spoken, but Jaskier all but gapes. “This...” he stammers, glancing over to Geralt. “Gods, Geralt, how much did this cost, I—it’s beautiful.”
Geralt can feel a flush warming his cheeks. “You, um,” he rasps, clearing his throat again. “You liked the jewels. In the markets we visited. But you never bought them, and I, I don’t know, I guessed that I would get them for you but, uh, I didn’t know how to present them.”
He nods to one of the gems. “The, uh, the lapis is from Toussaint,” he manages to get out, because if he talks about the gems and focuses on the gems and the gems alone, he won’t have to look at Jaskier staring at him. The lapis was the most expensive, but it’s the most beautiful. “The topaz is from that visiting spice market in Redania.” All things that caught Jaskier’s eye, but he had to leave behind. And now it’s here, for him, in a way that he could wear.
Geralt manages to tear his eyes away from the necklace, glancing up and catching the bard’s gaze. Jaskier stares at him, mouth and eyes wide, and for a terrifying moment, he doesn’t say anything. Geralt’s throat bobs. Maybe this is too much. Maybe he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t even mourn the loss of the gold spent on it, but the way he could potentially have soured things between them.
And then Jaskier’s moving. Geralt has just enough awareness to notice heat bloom on the side of his face before Jaskier leans forward, catching his lips in a soft and languid kiss. He stands stock-still for a moment before he melts into it, reaching up to brush the backs of his knuckles along Jaskier’s cheek. His own is nestled into the bard’s hand, his thumb brushing along his cheekbone in something so soft and undeserving of him and his life that he struggles not to shrug it away. Jaskier has always been so kind and soft to him, with gentle hands and lulling words.
Jaskier breaks their kiss when air thins, but he doesn’t go too far away. He sets their foreheads together; the ends of their noses brushing and a shared breath mingling between them. Geralt watches a bright and outrageously happy smile spread across the bard’s lips. “This,” he laughs breathlessly, “gods alive, Geralt, this is beautiful. Thank you. I, gods, how did you even think of something like this?”
He honestly doesn’t know. Jaskier is a worryingly big part of his life now and he needed it immortalised somehow. If, if, the bard didn’t come adventuring with him out on the road anymore, at least there is a reminder of all the places they did go together.
Jaskier lures him into another long and languid kiss. His lips are soft and it’s a struggle to break apart from them. Eventually, one of Jaskier’s hands settles on the centre of his chest. His smile hasn’t even budged. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
Geralt hums. It’s taxing, trying to muster words and make some effort to say them. And what could tumble out of his mouth may not be the way he wants them to come out. So he nudges his forehead into Jaskier’s, enough of a physical touch to widen the bard’s smile.
He doesn’t want to pull away. He has Jaskier back now, and he’ll bundle the bard off to Kaer Morhen with him for the winter, and spend the following seasons after that traversing the path with him. And the thought of all of that settles into the core of his chest and blooms warmth through him; undoing all the stresses of the past seasons, unwinding tension better than any bath or sleep ever could.
#the witcher#geraskier#geralt x jaskier#geralt/jaskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#geralt#geralt of rivia x jaskier#geralt of rivia/jaskier#henry cavill#joey batey#the witcher netflix#yourqueenforayear#agoodgoddamnshot
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the three man job (witcher poly leverage au)
Geralt muted the family group chat years ago.
He didn’t need to see ten photos of Lil Bleater every hour nor did he need to see Lambert’s blurry attempts at burning down their shared kitchen.
He loved these men, he did. Which is why Geralt kept the chat on mute so he wouldn’t go insane and throw his phone against the wall with every vibration.
But it’s also why, after he didn’t answer a text from Vesemir after two hours, he got a phone call instead.
His mentor only said "Check your phone." before falling silent again.
Geralt hummed but put Vesemir on speaker. He squinted at the little mobile phone in front in his hand. Centuries of technology and somehow humans insisted on fake buttons instead of real buttons. What a travesty. Still he managed to get to the text messaging app. Ignoring his Eskel and Lambert's comments (long and in all caps, respectively), Geralt clicked on the link and an image loaded.
The painting looked familiar. Not in the sense that Geralt had stood in front of it at a museum or even seen it before but the landscape itself. He knew it. He'd spent a few winters there, when it was whole.
The ruins of the Kaer Seren stared at Geralt in a dreamy oil on canvas that represented itself from outside eyes. From the ship that had clearly gained access to the sanctuary that used to be in the inner lagoon to the beginnings of the Kovir and Poviss mountain range, just hinted at through the mists.
Geralt felt his hand tighten around the phone. They had made sure, he, Eskel, and Lambert had promised Coën that no record of Kaer Seren would be available to modern humans.
Before Coën had passed, he had not wanted the history of the Witcher School of the Griffins skewed by these new human scholars interpreting the history of mysterious Witchers as they saw fit.
The promise had been painful to make. And Vesemir hadn't agreed at first.
But then the humans and their technology finally gained access to the Blue Mountains and with it, Kaer Morhen.
Vesemir's adopted sons graciously looked away from their mentor, their crying father as Lambert set off the explosives in the deep of winter, setting off an avalanche that destroyed their once home.
An empty tomb, Lambert called it. Not where Vesemir could hear him, mind. But even the old man hadn't lived up there in centuries before the decision had been made.
Geralt looked at the painting again. The artist had painted it as such a discovery of humans, as oasis found in the mountains. Most of the lighting was focused on the ship itself. The ruins seemed like almost an afterthought. Geralt hadn't even noticed them at first. But now they were all he could see.
They had no paintings of Kaer Morhen left. Certainly no modern photographs. It was too dangerous. He knew what they had to do.
“Looks familiar," Geralt sighed. He thumbed back to the family group chat. Lambert and Eskel were already making plans. He wondered if Ciri could come down and watch the shop for a few weeks. Depending on her latest exploits, she might find some relief in the quiet antique and repair shop.
“Too familiar," Vesemir griped.
“Any idea who the artist is? We need to look into his other works.”
“I have a few guesses but I can’t prove anything. Not until I have the painting.”
The painting which, according to the website, hung in the newly refinished main gallery of the Novigrad Fine Art Museum.
“So we’ll see you for dinner then?” Geralt asked.
Instead of an answer, Geralt got the click of an ending phone call.
---------------------------
“He won’t come," Lambert grumbled, even as he set a fourth place at their table for Vesemir. He stopped complaining only to accept his hello kiss from Geralt.
Eskel got to Geralt before he could come over to the oven and ruin whatever the eldest was in the process of cooking. He kissed him quickly and then immediately headed back to the stove, only for Geralt to follow him. “You never know.”
Geralt brought up the photograph again, filled his phone screen with it and leaned it against the kitchen counter so they could all look at it. "It doesn’t belong in a museum. It’s ours."
"As if they'd believe us. Imagine if we just asked for it back like a repatriation request or something," Eskel laughed.
They'd never. Nearly humans thought Witchers were extinct. That the so-called mysterious ancient warriors of old had all died out.
Every once in a while there would be a scare of the old supernatural. A human finding a long lost skeleton of a creature that Geralt hadn't seen alive in years. Journals deemed fiction for the fantastical creatures they described. Rumors of half elves. Geralt hadn't seen a sorceress in decades but he knew they were still out there. Ciri talked to Yennefer at least once a year, he knew.
"If the old man wants it, he’s going to get it." They had all had their ups and downs with Vesemir. Lambert most of all. But there were so few Witchers left. And they were the only Wolves along with Ciri.
"We can’t let it get out that it’s an old Witcher stronghold. Then we’ll be the first people they look towards once it goes missing."
That’s what had happened with the Griffin medallion. Coën just had wanted to honor his Witcher school properly when he went to take back the medallion from a high-profile exhibition.
It turned into a Witcher hunt.
Geralt shook his head. He couldn't think about that. Not right now. They had to do right by Coën.
There were a few keen eyes in the art and antique world who realized that the Witcher artifacts once sketched in out-of-print books had all gone missing. Luckily, they were taken for fools. But the Witchers still had to be careful.
"It's not like it once was. It's already on the internet."
"Coën was beloved by many of us. If we get the word out that we're taking care of the painting, they can make the digital copies disappear, surely."
"We've got to check the artist first. Make sure he didn't have any other sketches or descriptions in any other collections."
"Gods I miss the days where we just tracked down books with shitty etched printings," Lambert grumbled. "People will notice if a whole painting disappears from the museum and the rest of the internet. Can't steal a digital painting from a website."
"Not with that attitude you can't."
“All right so, we’re stealing back the painting for the old man.”
---------------------------
It had been years since their last heist. It’s not that Geralt disliked them on principle but with technology in the modern world, it seemed like there were few places to hide and easier for more things to go wrong.
He liked their lives now. The three of them, one large bed, and only needing to move city every twenty years or so depending on Eskel and Lambert’s hair-dyeing abilities. They had it down to a science now.
They were careful, sure, but they weren’t hyper aware and exhausted from being alone on the path any longer.
“You’re supposed to be doing recon.”
“I am. Can’t you see?” Lambert groaned but got up off of Eskel. Smirking, Geralt quickly took his place, straddling Eskel’s thighs. “Not fair.”
“I don’t think you mind much.” Geralt didn't even bother looking at the youngest of their trio. Instead he just ran his fingers through Eskel's hair. They had only set up shop here five years now. Soon Eskel and Lambert would start slowly dyeing their hair.
Just a few grays at first, but then a salt-and-pepper that Geralt hummed just thinking about.
Lambert continued to grumble even as he put on pants. “It’s a museum job. Like taking expensive candy from a bunch of rich babies. The guards are contracted out. The cameras are a joke.”
“This isn’t the Getty,” Eskel admitted.
“I don’t want us to let our guard down is all. We get cocky or sloppy and then what?" Geralt scolded both of them. "You want to be the one to call Vesemir and have him bail us out like we’re petty thieves?”
“Ugh, I get it, all right. I’ll go spend a few hours in the museum.” Lambert held up a sketchbook. “Should I be an art student? Or do you think I should be a tourist?”
“Art student. Don’t forget—“
“To pay cash. I know, I know. This isn’t my first rodeo, White Wolf.”
---------------------------
"My "school assignment" will be over soon enough," Lambert told Geralt, holding up his fingers for air quotes. "The one thing I'm having trouble with is locking down the big group tours. They're only open late nights on Fridays but I heard someone mentioning an after-hours tour. It's not listed on their website though. And no one could give me information."
"Perhaps a members night?" Eskel suggested. He tossed Geralt a button-down shirt from their closet. "Those have become quite popular and it wouldn't be open to the general public. I didn't hear mention of it when I was there but the mornings were all rather empty."
"Yeah but you'd think they would use the members night as an excuse to talk me up to a membership, no?"
"You're playing a poor and scruffy art student," Geralt teased. "They probably just thought you couldn't afford it."
"Ass!" Lambert threw a shoe at the door but Geralt had already closed it behind him.
"I'll keep an eye out," he called through the wood.
Geralt hadn't set foot in the Novigrad Fine Art Museum since it had opened in the late 19th century. It certainly had changed quite a bit but in the end, it was like all museums. Ninety-five percent of their artifacts in storage to never see the light of day and the rest against cold white walls in galleries that used to have ample sunlight before they realized the danger of ultra-violet rays for the art.
And of course, label text, rarely more than 50 words, which never told the whole story.
Lambert and Eskel took care of most of the recon, leaving Geralt to sort out the rest of the plan. Creating an exact replica of the frame was easy enough. He used gesso and gold leaf and then a shellac to age it.
Then there was the painting. Lambert had brought back photographs and he had scanned it as well as they could so that Geralt could essentially do a paint-by-numbers over a the 3-D printed texture. But still. Nothing was like seeing the real thing to get a sense of the painting's atmosphere.
“Excuse me, sir! Are you here for the tour?” A guide asked him, distracting him from his goal of the main gallery.
“No.”
The guide, tall, brown hair, stood blocking Geralt's path into the gallery. He had a polo on with a logo that Geralt didn't recognize and pants so tight that Geralt tried not to look directly at them. Fair skin crinkled around bright blue eyes though, and Geralt knew he had been made, though thankfully not in any way that mattered.
“Would you like to be?” The guide winked at him but leaned against the doorway so Geralt could pass through if he worked for it.
“What?”
“I’m just saying. When label texts against white walls aren’t enough, I’m here to help bring the art to life!” He raised both hands in the hair and Geralt snorted.
“You don’t think it speaks for itself?” He countered.
The guide crooked his finger at Geralt who couldn't help but lean in closer. “Some people aren’t that adept at listening. Some people appreciate certain art more than others.” Then the man straightened up and slid behind Geralt, waiting for an executive with a museum badge on to pass them and head into the gallery.
Geralt moved as soon as he could, away from the guide, though he could still feel the man's hands on his shoulders. “Smooth. That your boss? Maybe you should stop harassing museum patrons and you wouldn't get into trouble nearly as much.”
“Boss? What? I don’t work here.” The guide huffed and some of his hair floated off of his forehead only to come back down into the exact same position.
“You’re a guide.”
He rolled his eyes and tapped the logo over his heart. “Yes but it’s like, you know, a thing. We go into art museums and give the tours that the museums won’t. Renegade style!”
“Sounds like a bunch of expensive bullshit," Geralt said honestly, before he could help himself.
“I didn’t say that I’d charge you.”
"Not interested." Geralt nodded at him. "Have a good one though. Good luck." He turned into the gallery but not before the guide gave him a parting wink. He forced himself not to turn around though he did put a little bit of a spring in his step, assuming the guide would be staying at his ass as he walked away.
---------------------------
“Hmm. No weird tours today," Eskel murmured. He had one last weekday morning recon of the museum to complete before they finally nailed down their best options for the heist. This time Lambert and Geralt were in his ear, both going over things they had noticed as they tried to pool their information for the best way to attack the job.
“What do you mean?”
“Every day I've come through so far, they've had those tours. You know, the group of hipsters trying to make museums cool for a younger generation.”
Oh, Geralt remembered. Or at least he remembered the one blue-eyed guide. “It’s an insult to the art."
“The one guy talked about the art though. He just wasn’t boring about it," Eskel argued. "It was rather interesting. And he didn't even go near our painting. Not once."
“I saw him too," Lambert chimed in. He was leaning against Geralt, one hand going through the blueprints on his phone and the other scratching at Geralt's stomach. "He was cute."
“Tourist season is almost over. Maybe he’s in another museum.”
“Maybe they finally barred him entry.”
Geralt smiled at the memory and let out a chuckle, "He did try to hide behind me once when the floor manager came through."
“It’s gone.”
Eskel's cold voice froze Geralt. Lambert noticed the tension right away but only shifted to make himself more comfortable.
“What’s gone?” Lambert asked into Geralt’s stomach.
“The fucking painting.”
"Stolen?" Geralt asked quietly. He sat up and urged Lambert to do the same. The youngest Wolf was already pulling over his laptop to google the local news.
"It's not the same painting."
"What?"
"There's a painting here and it's meant to be ours but it's not. It's not the same painting. It's been swapped." There was some commotion as Eskel fumbled with his phone to take a photograph to send them.
Geralt had seen plenty of gorgeous forgeries in their line of work but this was exquisite.
They hadn't made the painting just to be a copy but they had altered the ruins.
Gone was the pointed arch that marked the grand entrance into the Griffins' school. The only distinct column that had been left had also been changed. The ruin now looked more along the lines of something out of Skellige as opposed to 10th Century Kovir and Poviss.
"It's not noticeable. Not to the untrained eye. Just barely."
"What the fuck?" Lambert's growl raised the hair on the back of Eskel and Geralt's necks as the photograph came in.
"What is it?"
"It's different on their collections site too." Lambert turned the website towards Geralt and sure enough, the same website image he had seen in the family group chat had been swapped to match.
"You're kidding me."
"They're all like that. Every website. Every news article about the opening. Not that it had much press to begin with."
"Was it published anywhere else?"
"We'll look into it. Eskel, get home," Geralt growled. "Now."
---------------------------
“Who else would even want the thing?”
“Secret Witcher enthusiasts? Rogue academics?” Lambert shuddered. He had been relegated to the backseat of the car during their drive over to Vesemir's house to give him the news. He hadn't taken his eyes off of the new image of the painting. He had been the last one to see Kaer Seren before setting the explosives himself. There wasn't a brick from the school still in tact. And looking at the new painting felt as though he was altering his own memories.
“The artist isn’t even known. It’s not like a private collector would find it a prized piece.”
"I only told Ciri about its connection to Witchers. I trust our girl not to tell anyone." Lambert and Eskel murmured, agreeing with Geralt's assumption.
Geralt parked the car and watched as Eskel took Lambert's hand, giving him unnecessary help out of the backseat, as he still was distracted by the images on the museum's website.
Just like they had before a battle, each Witcher steadied their shoulders and braced themselves before opening to the door to Vesemir's house.
Geralt toed off his shoes slowly, letting Lambert race off and find the old man, Eskel following at a meandering pace. Vesemir's house wasn't Kaer Morhen but it still smelled like home, like the four of them together.
Lambert would never admit that he found it calming but Geralt knew that--
“How the hell did you get that?” Lambert's growl sounded near feral and Geralt stumbled into the kitchen. He tried to parse what he was smelling from his family but before he could manage, he looked up and saw the painting hanging in Vesemir's kitchen.
The frame, the pointed arch, the last column.
It was all there.
The real painting that Geralt-- that they all had just seen in the museum not two days prior.
“Had a friend who owed me a favor and he had a friend who owed him an even bigger one. He knew Coën as well. Our Griffin was beloved by many. Some people appreciate certain art more than others.” Vesemir said with no small amount of pride. "Had you already started preparing for your heist?"
"You shithead! We were three weeks into the recon! Nearly all the way prepped!" Lambert's face twisted and Eskel couldn't help but laugh. He held onto Lambert's waist so he couldn't move closer towards their mentor or the painting. Geralt inhaled and covered his face with both hands.
"Well, perhaps if you had told me..."
Some people appreciate certain art more than others.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Geralt looked at Eskel and Lambert. "The fucking hipster."
“He's half elf, actually. His name is Jaskier. Only thing he asked for in exchange was all your numbers. I gave him the landline to the house.” Vesemir smacked Geralt upside the head. “I taught you better than that. A pretty face? Really?”
“We all flirted with the same fucking elf,” Eskel groaned. "And who did he get to do the magic? All the websites swapped out the images as well."
“He was cute," Lambert shrugged. "And he's got our number? I'm in."
“He got all of us.”
“Pegged us right away.”
"God I wish he would."
"Get out of my house," Vesemir growled at his children.
Geralt thought about the remaining Witcher artifacts. The few too public for them to take back. Two swords, a medallion that they managed to convinced a historian to label as Celtic, and a missing journal still in unknown private hands.
“Imagine what we could pull with him.”
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the child had always been like quicksilver, overactive, and bored if not entertained. it would be logical for a girl her age and size to be exhausted after a long day full of physical activity, but ciri seemed to have the energy for two. coën, the witcher responsible for her training that day, was in dire need of food and a place to rest. unfortunately, with the cintrian around, those goals seemed unattainable.
❝ coën, i'm bored, ❞ the statement blunt and devoid of tact. ❝ you promised me a story, and you actually don't suck at telling them, unlike lambert and geralt. tell me more about poviss, what it's like! grandmama only ever told me so much about it, there was never a chance to learn more either. please, coën? pretty please, with a cherry on top? ❞
@vvitez wanted a gremlin ciri
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Feainnewedd: Chapter 5
Summary: Ciri meets the witchers and starts her training at Kaer Morhen, Geralt struggles with his new role and unexpected troubles demand outside help.
Pairing: Geralt x Yennefer
Word Count: 3,7k
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: None
A/N: Sorry for the long wait! This chapter took me longer than I thought, with the change of setting in the fic and all the stuff happening in the world. I hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think! Cross posted to AO3. Special thanks to @mclintocks for her invaluable help.
“Ciri, stop right there!”
The girl brought her horse to a halt some fifty yards ahead of Geralt. “You’re such an old man!” She laughed. “Why do you hate fun?”
“I am an old man,” he said as he caught up with her. “But wait until you see Vesemir.”
Ciri spotted a half-smile on the witcher’s face as he overtook her.
“Well, if he raised you, he must be even more boring than you.”
Geralt chuckled. “When I ride into a new town, kids not much younger than you stare at me with their mouths open. The very bravest among them even dare ask me about my exciting life hunting monsters.”
“I have seen through you already. You’re just a boring old man hiding beneath that armor.”
“You’re really hurting my pride, Ciri. Don’t you have any mercy?”
“Not when you don’t even let me run a little. Come on, I’m hungry! Can’t we go faster to the next town?”
Ciri put on her saddest face—to little effect on the white-haired witcher.
“You have dried meat in your pouch.”
“But it’s awful! We’ve been eating this shit for weeks.”
“Language. You don’t want Vesemir hear you say that. And yeah, this meat gets tiring pretty quickly. But we can’t stop at every tavern and risk someone recognizing us. Or someone remembering us when certain people come later asking for a certain rebellious, ashen-haired, green-eyed princess. Maybe it wouldn’t be so obvious if we had cut your hair short.”
Ciri stabbed him with an unambiguous look.
“But I see that’s still not an option,” the witcher added quickly. “Anyway, don’t worry too much, the next town is the last one before Kaer Morhen. Then it’s a couple more days and—”
A rider appeared out of a gully that descended from the nearby hills. He hastened his horse in their direction, looking nervously towards the hilltops.
“Good morning,” Geralt said.
The man stopped before them.
“Another one of you? Are you coming to help?”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s a man-eater around here. I just guided one of your kind to the place where it attacked yesterday.”
“What, who—”
“I’m not staying here!” The man hurried his horse. “Go up the gully and you’ll find him. Or what’s left of him!”
“Fuck,” Geralt cursed as he dismounted Roach.
Ciri noticed then a shadow on the ground. At first, she thought it was just a cloud. But as it grew steadily, moving towards the rider, she felt something was off.
“Geralt…”
She raised her head and stared in disbelief. A beast that looked like it had jumped out of a tapestry crossed the sky, piercing the cold morning air with a horrifying shriek. Folding its monstrous, bat-like wings, the creature dived towards the rider, quickly closing the distance despite the man’s desperate efforts.
“Ciri, hold Roach!” Geralt said as he unsheathed his silver sword.
Ahead of them, rider and horse fell to the ground. The animal neighed when the monster plunged its claws deep into its belly. The man wheezed as the fangs pierced his throat mercilessly. The man-eater stood on top of them, raising its bloodied head with an almost royal look. The impression quickly vanished when Ciri noticed its hideous face crowned by two long horns. It was then that the girl saw a figure nimbly descending from the hillside, sword in hand.
Before it could get close, the monster lashed with its long scorpion tail in a semi-circle. Ciri looked at the man’s face as he stopped, wielding his sword before him. A long, ugly scar crossed half of his face. The beast must have been fixated on the man, too, since it did not notice Geralt approaching it from behind. With a quick pirouette, the witcher slashed its left wing. The man-eater roared and writhed. Instead of trying to dodge the tail coming at him, Geralt crossed his wrists, stopping the sting amidst an explosion of sparks and blood.
It must be one of his witcher tricks, Ciri thought as the two men circled around the beast, its wounded wing preventing it from taking off again. Suddenly, as if they were reading each other’s thoughts, the two men attacked at the same time. But the monster was still very much alive, fending off the men with a lash of its tail, a dodge and a counterattack.
From her vantage point, Ciri watched the fight with fascination. The girl had seen skilled warriors dueling in tournaments back in Cintra but this was completely different. Instead of the slow movements of plate-armored knights wielding heavy maces, the nimble jumps, spins and dodges of the two seamlessly coordinated men resembled more of a court dance. The man-eater started moving more slowly as the dark blood spilling from its left wing formed puddles on the ground. Noticing this, Geralt and the scarred man got closer to the beast.
The end of the fight was quick. In the blink of an eye, the scarred man bisected the monster’s tail and Geralt sliced off one of its legs. The other man then jumped on top of the beast and buried his sword up to the hilt, instantly killing the monster.
The man with the scar landed on the ground and sheathed his sword into the scabbard strapped to his back. The witchers wrapped their arms around each other in a quick, tight embrace.
“Still sharp, Wolf.”
“It’s either sharp or dead, Eskel.”
“As Vesemir always says. Are you going to winter in Kaer Morhen too?”
“Yes”—Geralt looked at Ciri—“We are.”
“You’re bringing a boy? It’s been a long time.”
“Not a boy,” Geralt said while Ciri approached them, pulling back her hood. “This is Ciri.”
“Oh. Forgive me, Ciri. Geralt, are you sure Kaer Morhen is the right place for her?”
“As long as your food is better than the dried shit we’ve been eating,” Ciri answered for him, “I’ll put up with you.”
***
“Again!”
Ciri wiped the sweat off her forehead with her wrist and looked at her feet, one in front of the other, standing on a narrow beam four feet off the ground. She held the wooden sword in front of her, keeping perfect balance.
“Now!”
The girl took two quick steps and swung the sword with all her might against the target—a leather sack roughly shaped as a person.
“Way too high. We’re aiming for the carotid artery. You remember where it is, right?”
“I’m not stupid, Coën.”
The young witcher smiled at her from below, his yellow-green eyes glinting playfully against his bronze skin. Both outsiders—Coën came from the School of the Griffin in Poviss—they had connected with each other from the start. Besides, Eskel was too calm for the energetic girl, Vesemir could be too protective and Lambert… Well, Lambert was insufferable.
“That’s what I thought,” Coën said. “Again, come on.”
Ciri returned to the starting position. She glanced from the corner of her eyes at the opposite side of Kaer Morhen’s courtyard. Geralt had said he would be sharpening swords but every time the girl looked at him, he was staring into the distance through a wide gap in the ruined wall. The girl focused back on the target and attacked.
“No, no, this time you got too close. Shorter steps. If you get that close to a good swordsman, they’ll hack you to pieces before you swing.”
“Ugh.”
“Come on, you were begging all day for sword practice.”
“Because you have me all day practicing stances!”
“What’s so bad about it? It’s just like learning to dance. Didn’t they teach you in court?”
“Oh, they did,” Ciri scowled at him. “And I hated it.”
“Don’t look at me like that with a sword in your hand,” laughed Coën as he approached her. “Hold the sword in front of you. See, your grip is wrong. You have to hold it… like this. Try again.”
Ciri got into position, took a deep breath and tried again.
“Better!” Coën patted her shin. “Your steps were fine, the strike was alright. But you have to swing faster or your enemy will parry easily. Again!”
The girl took a moment. She re-tightened her ponytail, stretched her arms and looked at the leather sack. There was a wrinkle in its surface that seemed familiar, almost like a frown staring at her above a pair of sharp cheekbones. She saw a dark helmet, crowned by two feathered wings. Cold sweat trickled down her back. But Ciri tightened the grip on her sword and fire burnt through her.
“Great! You did it perfectly! You have to show that to Geralt. Hey, are you alright? Ciri!”
Ciri felt the sword leaving her hand. She looked at it, slowly falling towards the ground. But the ground was further and further, and the sword became so small it disappeared from her sight. A sudden gust of cold wind stung her face and darkness surrounded her. Somehow, the girl knew she was standing on the same spot of the witchers’ keep. She then saw lights at the other side of the courtyard where Geralt had been sitting just a moment ago—only this time the wall was no longer in ruins. The air grew warmer and she was relieved to hear distant voices. But as the voices grew nearer, she recognized something unpleasant among them.
The torches were close. The stench of smoke, sweat and blood inundated the courtyard. An endless tide of people marched towards her. Ciri saw their eyes and shivered. They all glimmered with hate. Hate and bloodlust.
“Good men of Kaedwen!”
She noticed the clubs, the axes, the pitchforks. Stained with blood.
“You have done the hardest part. You must finish the job now!”
She heard sobs beside her. A group of kids. Some cowering in fear, some standing defiantly with short swords in their hands.
“To exterminate the pack one must kill every wolf, even the pups!”
Only two wounded witchers stood between the mob and the boys.
“You want to end this plague of mutants and freaks?”
A roar answered. Geralt and Coën looked back at her.
“Then have no mercy.”
***
The old man was sitting at an austere table. Surrounded by piles of books and parchments, he pored over the pages of a leather-bound volume. With each page he turned, a small cloud of dust took off, barely illuminated by a dying candle. The man was so focused on the book he barely heard the light steps approaching.
“Across the Veil,” said the voice behind him. “By Sebille Tilly, if I’m not mistaken.”
“One of the most influential books on the arts of revelations, prophecies and dreams, or so they say. Although poor Sebille’s prose wasn’t the lightest, I was just about to go from theory to practice on this dreams chapter. How is she, Geralt?”
“She just woke up. Fine, just a bit agitated. The vision she had…”
“What?”
“You know she called out to Coën and me. What she described, Vesemir… It must be the Fall of Kaer Morhen.”
A tense silence followed, finally interrupted by a sigh from Vesemir.
“And you both were in the vision, I suppose.”
“Ciri saw us at the courtyard, trying to protect a group of kids from the mob.”
“That happened almost a century ago, how would you…? I was one of the first to arrive here after the Fall. We saw the bodies, what remained of them. And I’ll never forget it, there was a group of students there, lying on the courtyard. I don’t know a damned thing about these visions of the past and the future, I’m just a fencing instructor. But I can’t help but feel this is bigger than Kaer Morhen, bigger than us.”
“I know. And she should be here by now. If she can’t help her… I don’t know what to do. I didn’t even believe in destiny before finding her, what am I supposed to do with this? I don’t care about the meaning of the visions, I just want her to be safe. And I know enough about mediums and Sources to realize someone must teach her to control her power before she hurts herself or someone else.”
Vesemir stood up and put his hand on Geralt’s shoulder.
“You said you trust her. She’s helped you before. She’ll help us now.”
Geralt squeezed Vesemir’s hand and nodded. “When I was hurt in Sodden, I don’t know if it was a fever dream but… I saw my mother. Visenna. She didn’t answer my questions but the look in her eyes was enough. Her silences were enough. She abandoned me because her life wasn’t fit for a child. She must have tried, I know that, but in the end it wasn’t enough. Look at us, what are we supposed to do with her? You took me, you trained and raised me, and I’m grateful for that. I would be dead otherwise. But I don’t want this for her. The danger, the hate, the loneliness of the Path.”
“Geralt. When I took you in, the School of the Wolf was in shatters. We were a ragtag collection of the few witchers lucky enough to be running errands far from here when the Fall happened. I had been on the Path, sure, but most of my life was here. I’d have never imagined I’d have to raise you, Eskel and Lambert. I did my best. But you… You shared the table with kings. You took impossible choices and bore the consequences. You saved a cursed princess and you protected the oppressed. You have friends among the elves, the dwarves, the dryads and the sorceresses. You are so much more ready for this than I ever was. And most important of all, you saved this girl. Destiny has brought you together for a reason. And I see how you look at her. You’re not Visenna, Geralt. You’re not me. And you’re not alone.”
“I just… Every night I close my eyes and I see Yen. I wish she were here. Because Ciri and I wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for her. And I don’t even know if she’s alive… I must do this for Ciri—but also for her. Thank you, Vesemir. For everything.”
***
A few weeks passed since the incident in the courtyard. Ciri continued to train without experiencing more trances but her nights were becoming more and more restless. She usually woke up agitated in the middle of the night, covered in sweat. Strangely, she didn’t remember anything about her dreams after the incident, which did not make it any easier for her. And the lack of sleep was starting to affect her during the day.
“Ciri! Are you listening to me?”
“What?”
Geralt sighed. “Another bad night?”
Ciri yawned and nodded.
”Those damned nightmares,” Geralt said. “And this book is not helping. Too much dry theory. Let’s see… Do you see that shield over there, leaning on the wall? Well, this is the first Sign every witcher learns—Aard.”
Ciri saw the witcher’s fingers twisting and forming a strange gesture in front of him. An instant later, flames roared in a nearby hearth, an empty sack flew to the other side of the room and the shield fell with a heavy thud.
“Oh,” she gasped. “It’s like the trick you did with the manticore.”
“That was Heliotrop. Useful against a sudden attack. But it’s more advanced. Let’s focus on Aard, it’s the easiest Sign. You only need two things to do it. First of all, the gesture. Open your right hand. This finger… here. Bend this one… like that. And now extend these. Good. You can practice the full gesture now.”
“Aha! Not too hard. But why is it not working?”
“The second thing you need is concentration. You have to focus on what you want to achieve.”
“Alright. I want to knock that basket off that chair.”
“Good. You have to see in your mind how you’re going to do it. Close your eyes. Can you see it?”
“Mhm.”
“Then do the Sign.”
Ciri opened her eyes, arranged her hand forming the Sign of Aard and stretched the arm forward. But nothing happened. She tried again, with the same result. And again.
“It’s alright, Ciri. Sometimes it’s hard at the beginning. Remember, close your eyes. Focus. And… Don’t worry, I’ll do it again for you. Remember, you have to picture yourself doing it. Like this!”
The basket flew across the room.
“That’s what I’m doing! And I didn’t even moved it a bit. There’s no point, I’m blocked. I can’t do a simple Sign, I can’t control my visions and I can’t even sleep. It’s only getting worse. And I don’t see why this Sign is worth the effort, you only made an empty basket fly for a few yards and the people pursuing us are a bit heavier than that.”
“Hey, I know this is frustrating. But we’ll get through this, you’ll see. And Aard is very useful, I was just showing you how to do it. Besides, Signs can be intensified in some ways.”
“How?”
“Witchers have potions. Certain preparations can improve reflexes, build up stamina or accelerate healing processes. And strengthen the Signs too. But don’t get any ideas, a witcher potion would kill you on the spot. Only those who pass the Trial of the Grasses can bear the toxins and you know that’s not an option.”
“Then what’s the point of learning it?”
“There are other ways of intensifying Signs and magic in general. What you did that night in Cintra when you screamed… When you are pushed to your limits, your body and mind react differently.”
“So this will only be useful when I’m about to die?”
“Well, you can also provoke those reactions. In the end, what you need are heightened emotions. That stuff is not written in witcher books, I learned it from Yennefer. And I can tell you, it works.”
“Oh. Mmm. But how do you—”
The girl stopped when she saw the strange expression in Geralt’s face. The witcher cleared his throat. For an awkwardly long time.
“Anyways,” he continued. “We’ll get to that when you learn the Signs.”
The witcher was interrupted by hurried steps coming from the corridor. A smug face framed by rebellious red curls appeared from the doorway.
“Hey, you two! We have a visitor and I think you both know her. Come with me.”
Geralt and Ciri followed Lambert through the corridors of the eastern wing, making their way to the entrance hall of the old keep.
“Geralt, I knew you were fond of a certain sorceress. But I thought her hair was black. So tell me, does she enchant her hair when she gets bored or is this a different one?”
“Lambert.” Geralt looked at him with a stone face. “Stop.”
The witchers and the girl crossed the last doorway and arrived at the entrance hall. They almost bumped into Coën, coming from the stable laden with saddlebags. Behind him, among a sea of chestnut locks, a familiar face was nodding and smiling at something Eskel was saying.
“Welcome to Kaer Morhen, Triss,” Geralt said.
“Greetings, Geralt. You keep this castle of yours well hidden, I almost froze to death finding my way here.” She grabbed a wooden mug Vesemir brought to her and drank. “Now that’s better. Fiona! Glad to see you again, you look different. Come here, let me see you.”
“Fiona?” Lambert laughed. “I think you got the wrong girl, this here is Ciri.”
Triss looked at Lambert with a raised brow. Then at Geralt. She left the mug in Ciri’s hands and crossed her arms.
“We couldn’t take risks.” Geralt said. “There will be time to explain everything, but yes—her real name is Ciri.”
“You witchers are always full of surprises. Well, I have news for you too, Geralt.”
The sorceress noticed his suddenly blanching face and hesitated. Ciri saw him clenching his fists.
“Say it,” the witcher demanded.
“Yennefer is alive. We found her in Tor Lara, she portalled there from Sodden Hill somehow.”
Geralt closed his eyes and sighed deeply. The expression on his face was something Ciri had never seen before. She saw relief, regret and hope. Her throat dried up all of a sudden and she drank from the mug. For a moment, she did not even notice the strange taste. Not until Triss looked at her with her mouth open.
“Ciri, that’s not for—”
The girl felt a freezing wind stinging her face and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was floating close to the high ceiling of the hall. She saw Geralt, Triss, Vesemir, Eskel and Lambert below. Coën came back to the hall in that moment too. She saw the fear in their eyes. And she heard a metallic, unpleasant voice. It took a moment for her to realize her lips were moving and the voice came from within her.
“Verily I say unto you, the era of the Wolf’s Blizzard is nigh! The sword and the ax will flood the earth with hate and discord for it will be the Time of Madness and the Time of Contempt! Beware, you two, who will fall in this struggle as your kind fell here before. Two teeth will kill the Griffin! Three teeth will slay the Wolf! Past and future converge now, the serpent sinks its fangs in its own tail. The world will end amid the frost and begin anew from the seed of Hen Ichaer. Watered with the Elder and the Altered Blood, the seed will not sprout but burst into flame! Watch for the signs! You will know it is time when the rivers run red with the Blood of Elves.”
#the witcher netflix#geralt x yennefer#geralt of rivia#cirilla of cintra#eskel#witcher coen#vesemir#lambert#fanfiction
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łaskawy {adj. m} —– gracious . kind . benevolent . benign
“ ‘This is Coën’s first winter with us. He comes from the north, from Poviss.’
The young witcher bowed. He had unusually pale, yellow-green irises and the whites of his eyes, riddled with red threads, indicated difficult and troublesome processes during his mutation. “
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