a lot about the hay show by the amazing devil will stay with me forever but two of the things that felt most profound were the way we sounded like a church choir singing "if i don't make it back from where i've gone just know i've loved you all along" at the end of the show and then erupting into that same lyric again in the churchyard just minutes afterward, just the spirit of all of us singing our love for the band together there where they could hear it 💖💖💖
Oh that forced me to gasp and transport into that moment - okay that sounds utterly mad - but for a moment I could hear it AND see it spilling out into the churchyard past the judgy church ladies (in my version they are likely styled a LOT older, but growing up as the preacher's kid I DO know the type) and singing your way away from the concert on a f*ing high built of community and love. (Joey's precise horror...now you're part of the wild)
Sorry, not sorry, I'm mid chapter writing a scene staring our favorite bard. LOL Can't turn off the muse... He's a TAD dramatic...and corny.
Imagine a Coraline!Au of the Witcher, where the Beldam is an almost extinct entity. Most of the witchers in Geralt’s generation have never heard of them, let alone seen them, due to many dying out because of targeting the most unhappy and traumatized children across the continent: witcher trainees.
To put it mildly, the mages and witcher trainers virtually annihilate the Beldams.
So it’s no great surprise that Geralt doesn’t recognize the doll that Ciri has with her when he meets her for the first time. His medallion hums, but it’s a faint thing, and he doesn’t want to make her part from a beloved childhood object that brings her comfort when she has so little. Especially when he doesn’t know how to comfort her himself during tear-filled nights.
But then, a week after meeting Ciri, the pair stumble upon Jaskier in a tavern and apologies and rants and hugs are had once the bard is coaxed into a private room. Jaskier plasters on the brightest smile he has as he finally faces the little girl, Geralt’s Child Suprise, the wonderful—
The look on Jaskier’s face fractures as he sees the doll. He stares at it, the little creation with bright white hair and black pants and a brown shirt (and Geralt thought that was strange, had wondered why it hadn’t been a dress befitting a princess) and the button eyes.
Jaskier moves quicker than Geralt had thought possible, yanking the doll out of the girl’s hands and throwing it in the fire, heedless of her screams. Jaskier ignores the way Ciri pounds on his back, crying, grabs Geralt’s arm as he goes to pull the doll from the flames.
“Don’t, Geralt. We need to burn it, need to get far away from here, we need to—”
“It’s a doll, a child’s toy!” Geralt hisses, going to yank his arm back.
Except the bard doesn’t let go as he usually does, and while the witcher could force Jaskier away, the uncanny serious look on the bard’s face makes him pause.
“Look at it, Geralt.”
Geralt follows Jaskier’s finger, to where the doll is staring at them in the middle of the flames.
It takes him a moment to see what’s wrong.
To feel a chill crawling down his spine.
“Children grow up with bedtime stories of witchers that take naughty children in the middle of the night, never to be seen again.” Jaskier shakes his head as he starts packing up what little had been put out already. “They know children go missing, the ones no one wants, but they blame the wrong person because they never see who takes them.”
Geralt lets Jaskier drag them out of the room, both he and Ciri looking back one last time at the fireplace. At the doll that seems to look at them as they walk out the door.
At the doll that doesn’t burn.
“You never asked why it is I’m so against people calling you a monster, why I don’t fear you as everyone else does. I’m not sure I would have told you the truth if you’d asked, frankly, but you should know—”
Jaskier shuddered as they left the inn, inhaling sharply as he watched Ciri run ahead to tack up Roach.
“Witchers are nothing like her. You could never be like her.” The bard swallowed harshly, tracking the young girl’s movements. “I’ve searched for thirty-five years, trying to find someone who received one of those blasted dolls and lived to tell the tale.”
Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, a sick sort of understanding spreading across his face.
“And…?”
Jaskier frowned, seemingly lost in thought.
In memories.
After a moment, he shook himself violently, eyes like ice turning to face those of molten lava.
“And I will do everything in my power to make her the second to do so.”
Having a fucking BRILLIANT Sunday, are you? I've forgotten a lot about a Coraline, but this brought a lot of it back to me in a RUSH. Absolutely nailed that cross-over. Bravo!
My favourite quotes from Joey Batey and Madeleine Hyland tonight:
[Joey, on the act of creating] "It doesn't matter if it's good, it matters that it happened"
[Madeleine, on which minor deities they said they would be when they first started discussing the Solkats] "I said I was the goddess of muddy hems on long dresses. I think you said you'd be the god of... the moment ice clinks-" [Joey] "-at the bottom of a whisky glass"
[Joey, on finding the will to return to a hometown that didn't treat him well] "I'm different now, what have you got for me?"
[Joey, this one is better without context tbh] "I'm getting the heebie-jeebies, and I like my jeebies invariably un-heebied."
Still an everyday story, this is a tale of redemption.
Yes, that’s right — I’m writing another story about Dandelion redeeming Geralt. So Geralt here might be a bit more sensitive than usual. No self-harm, but there might be suicidal thoughts — perfectly normal, just thoughts. Anyway, that’s the idea. The timeline is set shortly after the events in the Valley of Flowers, when they’ve only just gotten to know each other.
A short story, complete in one go, 3,200 words.
Chapter One
Dandelion was singing and playing at a royal banquet, and as it happened, Geralt had been invited too — his least favorite kind of occasion. It started because his employer, a farmer, was in a good mood and announced that as long as he was employing a witcher, he felt responsible for making sure the man ate and drank well. Geralt wanted to thank him properly, but only after getting the job done. The employer, however, wasn’t in any hurry.
He hadn’t expected to run into Dandelion here. The mess in the Valley of Flowers had happened not long ago, and he’d thought he wouldn’t see the troubadour again for at least half a year. Yet here they were.
Geralt feasted at the table, making no pretense at manners. Just as he was about to enjoy a glass of wine, Dandelion somehow made his way over mid-song and launched into a bit of improvisation with him. The guests around them cheered and urged him on, but Geralt just kept drinking. Then Dandelion returned to the stage, finished his piece with a deep bow, and the whole hall erupted in applause.
After the performance, the troubadour finally had some free time. He walked over to Geralt, took the untouched glass of wine from his hand, and downed it in one go.
“My throat’s about to catch fire from all that singing.”
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Neither did I, Witcher!” Dandelion threw his arms around Geralt, who patted him on the back. “I’m guessing you didn’t come willingly? Work?”
“Yeah, something like that,” Geralt sighed.
“Now that you’re here, you might as well enjoy it,” Dandelion said, leaning against Geralt and stealing a piece of steak he’d just cut.
“What about you?”
“I happened to be passing through, and the hosts were so enthusiastic they just swept me right in.” Dandelion’s mouth was stuffed full, his words muffled. “Got a place to stay tonight? Let me crash with you.”
Geralt nodded — his employer was covering lodging too.
“Great… let me have another bite…” Dandelion bounced excitedly. “What’s the job? Tell me.”
“The farmer said he kept hearing a clacking noise around his mill after midnight. I searched for days and couldn’t find a thing. Then we found a human corpse there. I compared it to every monster wound I know—” Geralt took a sip of wine, leaned close to Dandelion’s ear, and lowered his voice. “Whoever killed him looked more human.”
“Whoa!” Dandelion glanced around warily, confirming no one was near, then let out a hushed gasp. “That’s fascinating. I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“Hey, we just went through life and death together not long ago.”
“That’s exactly why — no.” Geralt pulled a key from his pocket. “Go on, Dandelion. Wait for me in the room. If I’m not back by morning, come find me.”
Chapter Two
The air was damp. Dandelion woke up stifled on a hard mattress, tugging at the collar of his doublet — he’d drunk too much the night before and passed out as soon as he lay down.
“What time is it?” he muttered to himself, scratching at his tangled curls. Through the fogged-up window, he couldn’t see the sky, so there was no way to tell the hour by the sun.
He fumbled his way to the door he’d accidentally locked from the inside. Fortunately — or unfortunately — Geralt hadn’t come back last night. Damn it! He clumsily shoved the key into the lock, slung his lute over his back, and dashed down the stairs, snatching a piece of bread off some poor soul’s table as he ran. A string of curses erupted behind him.
“Damn you, Geralt, and your cursed jinxes.”
When the troubadour arrived, his timing was perfect — just in time for the mob. They were gathered around a large banyan tree. Geralt, his neck in a noose tied to the trunk, was drenched in blood.
Dandelion squeezed into the crowd to find out what happened. One woman didn’t want to talk at first, but the moment she saw it was Dandelion, she lit up.
“Shh — they just dug up a corpse nearby! He’s the murderer.”
Dandelion rolled his eyes, thanked her, and swung his lute around to the front. He raised his clear tenor voice, strummed the strings, and instantly drew every eye. Only Geralt kept his head down, staring blankly at the ground.
The song rang out, the melody sweet and sorrowful. Dandelion sang of their first meeting at the edge of the world, but he’d twisted the story beyond recognition — in this version, Geralt was a hero to humanity. The woman he’d spoken to earlier burst into tears, and others pulled out handkerchiefs to dab their eyes. The men carrying hoes muttered among themselves and gradually dispersed.
Dandelion fixed his gaze on the farmer standing beside Geralt, and a suspicion crept into his mind: maybe this whole thing had been a setup from the start.
The farmer listened patiently. When Dandelion finished, he even applauded. Most of the crowd had drifted away, but the ones who remained were either the farmer’s men or perhaps onlookers — or perhaps not.
“Master Dandelion! To hear your performance is truly a blessing I don’t deserve,” the farmer said with a bow. Dandelion returned the courtesy politely.
“I heard Geralt speak highly of you at the banquet! So how did things come to such a dreadful pass between you two?”
Two burly men had quietly moved behind Dandelion, but he pretended not to see. The farmer clasped his own hands, still smiling, but when he stepped up to Dandelion, his face suddenly changed.
“I advise you not to meddle. I don’t care who you are, troubadour — if I dare kill a witcher, you’re no different.”
Geralt shook his head and sighed. Then he turned around, leaving only the rope swinging in the air. The witcher kicked the man behind Dandelion on the left square in the chest, sending him stumbling to the ground. The man on the right had just drawn back his fist to punch Dandelion’s face when Geralt blocked it and slapped him so hard his head twisted. Dandelion raised his lute to smash it over the farmer’s head, but the farmer stomped on his toes. The troubadour yelped in pain and fell flat.
Two more men rushed forward. Geralt picked up a fallen cudgel and stood in front of Dandelion. The two men stopped short. The farmer screamed in fury: “Get him, you cowards! What are you afraid of? We beat him half to death last night!”
The witcher twirled the cudgel in his hand. The weight felt good. The farmer’s shouts grew louder, but the two men never dared step closer. Some ran, some backed away. Geralt strode over to the farmer, his face dark, and brought the cudgel down on his head. Just knocked him out, nothing more.
Dandelion picked himself up and dusted off his clothes. Geralt had his back to him.
“Let’s go. We shouldn’t stay here.”
Passersby pointed and whispered. Geralt walked in silence to the stable, where Roach was calmly munching on hay. Dandelion wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. He watched Geralt wipe his face with his hand, pull a ragged cloth from the saddlebag — dark red blood soaking through the fabric, loose white hair covering most of his face.
Roach was led out. Geralt swung into the saddle and reached down a hand. Dandelion grabbed it and climbed up behind him.
He wanted to ask: Geralt, are you all right?
But the other would surely say fine, so what was the point?
“Do you want to hear me talk?” Dandelion said.
“Not really.”
“All right, then —” Dandelion shut his mouth.
Geralt spurred the horse and left the village behind.
Chapter Three
Geralt washed his wounds simply in the stream. Dandelion sat by the campfire, scratching his head, trying to figure out what was wrong with Geralt. Normally, he wouldn’t be this gloomy over a little misunderstanding — and he hadn’t even killed anyone.
Dandelion reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. He’d been planning to collect his payment today — he hadn’t gotten his fee for singing at the banquet yet — but seeing the state Geralt was in, he hadn’t felt right asking the witcher to wait a bit. Then he found a leaf in his pocket and tossed it onto a pile of identical leaves.
Geralt was bare from the waist up, river water and blood dripping down in droplets. Dandelion swallowed hard and pulled a big roll of bandages off Roach’s back.
“Damn it, how did you get hurt this badly?”
He wrapped Geralt’s arm first. Soon the yellowish cloth was stained red. Then the abdomen, then the shoulder. The witcher suddenly frowned. Dandelion thought he’d hurt him.
“Are you okay? Am I pressing too hard?”
Geralt turned his face away and shook his head. He pressed his hand to his brow, the one still intact. Dandelion tied off the bandage and stood up.
“All right, you rest for a bit. I’ll go see if there are any fish in the river. Hey, I’m about to starve anyway.”
Geralt nodded slightly. There was something in his golden eyes that Dandelion couldn’t read.
Dandelion took off his coat and shoes, rolled up his trousers, and stepped into the water. The icy cold shocked him into a shiver. Soon he spotted a decent-sized bass circling in the current. Carefully aiming at the small fish, he lunged the next second — the freezing water slammed against his heart, and in his flailing he accidentally kicked the fish onto the bank.
Geralt hauled him out of the water. The troubadour coughed and spat out a mouthful of bitter river water. He thought Geralt would mock him mercilessly. But the witcher didn’t. He just helped him steady himself.
“Go dry off, Dandelion. It’s cold here.”
“Cough, cough… all right, you go cook the fish,” Dandelion plopped down on the ground. “Let me catch my breath…”
Geralt didn’t even make a joke? Didn’t so much as smile? Dandelion sneezed.
The witcher picked up the flopping fish and started to clean it.
The troubadour stripped off his wet clothes, dried himself, and wrung out his dark-gold hair, which the river water had stained. At least now they’d have a little something to fill their stomachs — since that piece of bread in the morning, nothing else had gone into his gut.
When Dandelion returned to the fire, the bass was already cleaned. Geralt handed him half of it on a stick. The remaining half he didn’t seem to intend to cook.
“Wait, Geralt, there’s no way you’re not hungry. Eat up — we’ll share.” Dandelion took the stick, tore off some freshly cooked fish with his fingers, yelping at the heat. He blew on it, then held it up to Geralt’s mouth.
“Dandelion.”
“Eat, Geralt.”
“If someone called you a traitor, do you think I’d believe them?” Geralt caught Dandelion’s wrist and bit the meat from his hand.
“Traitor? What would I want from you? What do you have that’s worth betraying?” Dandelion shook off Geralt’s hand dismissively and wolfed down his fish. He didn’t notice the strange tone of Geralt’s voice or the strangeness of the question. “If you don’t want to cook yours, I’ll do it for you after I finish mine.”
Geralt said nothing. He took the remaining half, skewered it on a stick, and set it over the crackling, sparking fire.
Chapter Four
Dandelion was sneezing violently in the cold wind. He opened his eyes weakly. The forest had gone completely dark, the dense leaves blocking out the sky. Apart from the faint glow of the dying fire, there was almost no light.
The troubadour rubbed his shoulders for warmth, sat up, and threw a few more sticks onto the fire. Falling asleep with his hair still wet had left his head throbbing. He looked around and couldn’t see Geralt — his heart jumped — then spotted the witcher’s silhouette by the lake and breathed a sigh of relief.
He was about to lie back down when the sound of snapping twigs and water being stepped into reached his ears. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over himself, and ran to the lake. He grabbed Geralt around the middle, clutching right at the witcher’s wounded abdomen. The two of them tumbled into the water with a huge splash.
“What the hell are you doing, Dandelion? Have you lost your mind?!”
Dandelion flailed in the water. Geralt lifted him up and threw him back onto the bank. The troubadour’s hair, which had just dried, was soaked again.
“Damn it, I finally got my clothes dry!” Geralt roared. “And my wounds, you idiot!”
Dandelion lay on the grass gasping, his head spinning, shivering with a few more sneezes.
“I should be asking you what you’re doing standing by the river in the middle of the night!” Dandelion touched his burning cheek — this wasn’t good. He forced himself upright and looked Geralt straight in the eye. “I’m done tiptoeing around your fragile little feelings. Tell me right the fuck now — what happened last night? Tell me everything about that contract, or I’ll push you back in the water.”
“You dare threaten me?” Geralt raised his hands.
Dandelion gritted his teeth, stepped closer, lifted his chin, and said haughtily, “Save those tricks for the bastards who fall for them!”
“Don’t worry. I’m not so low as to use them on you. I was thinking — let’s go to the fire, if you don’t want both of us to freeze to death.” Geralt walked right past him.
They sat down again by the campfire.
Dandelion struggled to keep his eyes open. The splitting headache made him miserable, not to mention the occasional gust of cold wind in the midnight forest. The witcher, clearly tougher than him, didn’t so much as wince from the cold or the pain.
“I don’t tell you things, that doesn’t mean anything. Just like that question I asked — nothing special to it.” Geralt shrugged. “You’re a troubadour. There’s hardly anyone in the North who doesn’t know your name — you’re a king’s favorite, a drinker’s delight, a woman’s dearest friend. I’m a witcher. There’s hardly anyone in the North who isn’t afraid of my name — I’m a king’s tool, a drinker’s scorn, someone women cross the street to avoid.”
“That day in the Valley of Flowers, I saw your courage. I saw that bravado you put on, just for show. And I thought — wouldn’t it be good if I could die with you right then? I wouldn’t have to be a witcher anymore, a job even a dog wouldn’t want. And I could keep the memory of you, the you willing to sacrifice yourself for me, forever — so I’d know that there really was a human who truly loved me.”
“Fuck, what the hell are you going on about?” Dandelion staggered to his feet, nearly pitching headfirst into the fire. “You goddamn cursed idiot — they really did beat you senseless, didn’t they? Are you sure they didn’t take a club to your head too?”
“I could also tell you that I’m the best student Oxenfurt ever had, the most admired professor. I’m the greatest Dandelion, envied by countless troubadours. I’m also Viscount de Rautenburg. That’s right. And you’re just a mutant.” Dandelion pointed at Geralt’s forehead, looking down at him from above. “But so what? So I ‘condescend’ to catch fish for you, bandage your wounds, and generously share half of the fish I caught. They tell you all that, and the reason you can think of for me doing this is — I have an angle? I’m just playing with you? That one day this Dandelion, this pleasure-seeking troubadour, will get bored and toss you aside, and if it suits me, write a song spreading your story as a joke?”
“I never said that,” Geralt muttered.
“That’s what you were thinking!” Dandelion bent over. “You’re no witcher. I’ve met witchers before, and they aren’t as fussy and broody as you.”
Suddenly, Dandelion felt the world spin, and then his eyes wouldn’t stay open anymore. He collapsed onto Geralt. When the witcher reached out to catch him, his hand nearly got blistered from the heat.
“Dandelion!”
Chapter Five
Dandelion dreamed of a gentle, beautiful woman. Her smile was soft, her figure light, and she hummed a sweet melody in his ear — one of his own songs, no less.
The troubadour reluctantly bid farewell to the beauty in his dream, vowing that when he woke up, he would write a poem for her.
He pried one eye open with effort. The first thing he saw was Geralt’s weathered face, white hair spilling down to the ground.
Dandelion sprang up like a shot and slammed his forehead straight into the witcher’s nose.
Geralt finally sucked in a sharp breath of pain. “Shit…”
“So this is how you treat the man who saved your life,” Geralt said, rubbing his hopefully-unbroken nose. He ran a finger under his nostrils — good, no blood.
Dandelion held his forehead. Beneath his palm, he could still feel the lingering warmth of the fever that had broken. The campfire from the day before was nothing but dark embers.
“You’ve been taking care of me?” Dandelion wiped his face. “Oh right, I passed out last night!”
“Not last night. You’ve been out for two days.” Geralt reached out and suddenly pinched Dandelion’s ribs. The troubadour jerked reflexively, then went stiff and flopped back onto the pile of grass like a dead fish. “At this rate, you’ll die before you ever get the chance to die with me. You’ll just kill yourself first.”
“Fuck you! Did you have to pinch that hard?” Dandelion winced, gasping, clutching his shirt.
Geralt looked at his own hand. He honestly hadn’t used much force — or rather, he hadn’t felt like he used much force.
Dandelion slowly sat up, shaking his messy golden curls. A few dry leaves fluttered down from his hair.
“So then, what’s your plan?” Dandelion asked.
“What plan?”
“A plan for where you go next. Unless you want to keep wallowing in that self-pity from the other night—” Dandelion tilted his head.
“Thank you, Dandelion.”
Dandelion sighed, opened his arms,
“Come hug me, you idiot.”
Geralt didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, slipped his arms under Dandelion’s, and held him.
“That’s right, good. See? A hug solves everything.” Dandelion patted him on the back. “Now let go.”
Geralt had no intention of letting go. Instead, he tightened his arms, scooped Dandelion clean off the grass pile, and settled him on his lap.
“Hey! Most of the time when I do this, it’s with a one-night stand!” Dandelion struggled to get up.
“You said it yourself — you’re not a one-night stand, so it’s fine.” Geralt rested his chin on Dandelion’s shoulder. The blond hair tickled his nose. “Mm… you smell like fish.”
Mid Battle Cries
Madeleine: How about- sorry.
Joey: No you're right. Fuck am I saying.
(Heckler)
No don't help her. Between us we'll get this right. What.
Crowd: Come on,
With Madeleine: Come on love,
With Joey, Medeleine, and the crowd: With you I could summon the-
(Joey starts strumming again)
I know they may have just been buried under an avalanche of new access requests. I don't envy their mods. ((((HUGS)))) them all.
HOWEVER this isn't about their pace of approving new members. It's about the very strong suspicion I have that in creating the TAD server someone gave the DM Master himself free reign to write a whole campaign disguised as the RULES for entry.
I started working my way through the maze of "click here" "post there" "read these four pages of clever and thoughtful rules" and then finally, "Find the hidden blue heart to unlock the hidden door" early yesterday.
This little sparkle bard is as close as I've been able to get.
I'm half expecting to be tasked with writing a 200 word essay to finally be granted access to the ACTUAL server. DO NOT give that amazing menace any ideas.
So, the question. Have I missed a super-secret midden switch I was supposed to flip, an emoji I was meant to respond with, or am I just impatient? I mean it's great waving to dear hearts all over the world but to spend my entire existence stuck in the foyer and not allowed into the party feels unkind.
💬 2 🔁 18 ❤️ 60 · Transcript:
Colin: So you'll talk a little bit, and then we can have a little interacting, perhaps.
Joey: Correct, yeah
Transcript:
10, 12 years later, Hay Festival invited me to come talk about this book. I've been writing books for about 18 years now, and this is the first one that's been published. And I knew that in the time when I started writing books at the age of 20 and now, the world had exponentially changed. And I had to talk about something .... that's my mic getting stuck to my beard....
I knew that I wanted to talk about something in this book that scared the crap out of me. And it was being filmed. There are one or two people filming me right now. And just before I came out here, they asked "by the way, we've got a camera, do you mind being filmed?". And I said "yeah, fine, yeah, absolutely. " It's ubiquitous. We are just so used to cameras invading every inch of our lives.
Children, before they even understand what it means to be remembered, are being remembered days later. I've seen 3-year-olds know that the 'x' on a phone means go away. They'll swipe if they want to see the next thing. I saw a child do that on the train here. Swiping the window.
In my book, in Its Not A Cult, which is gone now. Oh, it's back! That's why I need the clicker. I wanted to explore what it would be like if I had a character whose addiction to filming was all-encompassing. I've seen people in my life, in my lines of work, who are addicted to filming. I've seen...
... There you go, did you hear it? Did everyone just jolt to see if it was theirs? A phone just went off and we all just went "yeah, it's probably the babysitter". Your brain went somewhere else. To think about who might be texting you, who might be needing you.
And that's what this book is trying to explore. That memory of me 12 years ago exists up here. This memory exists elsewhere now. This memory that is happening right now, this moment, is happening down camera lenses. And I'm fine with people filming.
But to talk about your first point, and also what you spoke about, you described it as oil and wood. I started to wonder outside, do the people who exist in those wooden, in those paintings, and the people collecting data to be immortalised, did they ever think "Oh, I wonder if anyone is going to remember me. "
I wonder if that's important to me.
When I was 20 and I started writing books, that was the biggest driving force. It's... when I started theatre, as an actor, and then I started to get into television and film and I thought "great, well they can't delete that. " And good our bad, whatever it is, I existed and therefore I mattered.
With music, I can point at things that have been created and I can say that I created that. And yet, tomorrow night our band are playing, in a church, and we've not played in years because I'm so terrified of being filmed sometimes. I don't want to be captured.
And neither does the protagonist in this book. They want to capture everything, but never be captured.
