a writing magic dragon

kim | main and AO3 @isamagicdragon | i'll write and post fanfic here

[tonythepizzaguy]

mad max x a crooked touch crossover fanart

my hc is that astarion drives like a maniac but looks calm while doing it, meanwhile tav is actually a maniac going RATATATAATATAA

hey also i'm on twitter now

[amagicdragonwrites]

Eskel Whumptober Day 3: Hair’s Breadth from Death

Gun to Temple | “Say goodbye” | Impaled

A contract in Skellige goes awry.

TW: Impalement, graphic descriptions of personal injury, blood

It was supposed to be an easy contract. 

A ship had gone missing, and after a short investigation, Eskel finds that sirens were to blame. They’re dangerous creatures, yes, but the particulars of this contract had all been in Eskel's favor. Their nest was built right at the edge of the cliffside — should have been easy enough to stun them and let them fall to their deaths on the beach below, or to shoot them out of the air with a crossbow. Burn the nest and it's a day's work done well. 

But he hadn't counted on an ekhidna returning to find her nestmates dead and her eggs smashed. He’s bent over the nest, dousing the remnants with oil, when he hears the screech: high and mournful and hair-raising in its grief. Before he knows it, he’s hurtling into the sky, wrestling a furious ekhidna who drags him through the air with an iron grip around his throat. 

Eskel’s choking — the air is getting thinner and thinner and he can feel the bones in his neck creak with the pressure. It’s instinct to cast Igni, but this high his flames sputter, out of control — sparking red and blue and way too close to his face — 

It's enough. The ekhidna lets him go, shrieking with pain as her feathers catch fire. Eskel’s free to take in a huge, gasping breath, but then he’s falling, plunging straight to his death the same way he executed the rest of the sirens. 

He makes the sign in a split-second — Aard, to push himself over the ocean rather than over the solid beach. It’s a miscalculation. Eskel sends himself careening right over the wreckage of the ship. He barely manages to get a Quen up in time, but it’s sloppy work — it shatters the second he makes impact and —

Of all the places possible, of course he would land on the mast.  Impalement. It’s a shit way to go. The Quen managed to protect him from the fall, but it can’t protect him from simple physics: two objects cannot occupy the same space at once. Unfortunately for Eskel, there’s no way a human body would win over solid wood, even as mutated as he is. The broken point of the mast just barely missed his vitals, so it didn’t kill him straight out the gate — Eskel has the wonderful privilege of watching his life drain away drop by drop.

[amagicdragonwrites]

Eskel Whumptober 2022 Day 2: Nowhere to Run Cornered | Caged | Confrontation

Eskel has been taken captive by Orianna, a higher vampire with a known addiction to blood. She invites Dettlaff for a taste of the newest vintage in her collection.

Contains a noncon sexual situation. TW: captivity, enthrallment, mind control, blood drinking, graphic descriptions of vampire feeding, and dehumanization of Eskel as vampire chattel. Please mind your own well-being before reading.

“You’ll not stay for a drink?” 

Dettlaff stops at the threshold of Orianna’s bedroom in her Beauclair estate, and turns back to look at her latest thrall. “You know I dislike imbibing,” he says impassively, as he surveys the man slumped in the cage. “This one’s older than your usual. Why?” 

In truth, the man hardly looks appetizing at all. Orianna typically prefers a younger vintage — sweet and light, almost fruity, as she had once described it to him — but her current captive is definitely mature, the meat on him tough-looking and sinewy. And yet he’s emaciated, all but drained from Orianna’s overindulgence, the creature’s weak, pitiful heart beating sluggishly in his chest to circulate what little amount of blood Orianna has left to him. 

“This specimen is unique,” Orianna says, unlocking the cage and stepping inside to cradle the human’s face. Already heavily damaged from Orianna’s claws, Dettlaf notes with derision; she’s never been able to control herself or her transformations when inebriated. “His blood is… fizzy on the tongue, and that balance between sweet and bitter…” She sighs dramatically, her fangs lengthening in preparation to feed. The thrall tries to expose his neck for Orianna, but all he manages is a pathetic jerk, lacking the strength to even raise his own head. 

Orianna at least has the decency to support the human's neck for him; she cups his nape gently, and noses into the juncture between neck and shoulder where a mass of scars reveals the extent of her intemperance. "Eskel, darling," she murmurs into the man's ear. "We've a guest. Why don't you offer him some refreshments?" 

Eskel's eyes snap open and flick towards Dettlaff— and Dettlaff's next breath catches in his throat. They're a lovely, arresting shade of amber, but more than that, the pupils expand almost immediately into large, shiny discs the moment he and Dettlaf lock gazes, and the sweet scent of arousal begins to flood the room. 

"Please," Eskel croaks. "I want — please." He shifts feebly on the floor of his cage, presenting the other side of his neck and staring speakingly right at Dettlaff. "Please." 

"He begs so pretty, Dettlaff," Orianna purrs. "Won't you indulge, even just this once? He wants you so badly." 

Dettlaff never could resist being wanted, despite knowing that the desire was a result of Orianna's compulsion. He's beside Eskel in a flash, sinking his fangs into warm flesh and — oh. Orianna was right. Eskel's blood is effervescent, tingly on Dettlaff's lips, the rich, coppery taste of it even more intoxicating when Dettlaff's senses are overwhelmed with the heady smell of Eskel's precome and the soft huffs of his panting. 

Orianna smirks. "Always so sensitive," she croons, and then she's feeding as well. Eskel moans brokenly, twitching in Dettlaff's grip, and suddenly the sharp smell of semen joins the rest of it. 

Dettlaff pulls back, stunned. Eskel's face is slack now, and his trembling thighs are covered in his own spend. 

"Th-thank you, ma'am," he says, when Orianna finishes. "Thank you, sir." 

"Absolutely delectable," Orianna pronounces, wiping delicately at her mouth. "You've earned your rest." 

Eskel falls asleep as soon as he's given permission, and Orianna ushers Dettlaffout of the cell without even bothering to clean up the mess. She talks some more about the vintage, something about witchers and chaos and mutagens flavoring the blood, but all Dettlaff can think of is Eskel. 

If he's subjected to even a single day more of Orianna's gluttony, Eskel will die. 

Unacceptable. 

Dettlaffwalks out of Orianna's estate with a plan for Eskel's escape half-formed in the back of his mind. 

[amagicdragonwrites]

Eskel Whumptober 2022 Day 1: A Little Out of the Ordinary

Adverse Effects | Unconventional Restraints | "This wasn't supposed to happen"

After a second round of Trials, Eskel wakes up in a place he doesn't recognize, surrounded by a crowd of arguing mages.

An outtake from A Surfeit of Chaos, my mage!Eskel AU. This chapter depicts the immediate aftermath of Eskel's second round of mutations.

Eskel wakes up surrounded by a crowd of arguing mages.

It's the sound that hits him first: a deluge of screaming voices that rends his ears, all over a backdrop of a thousand sheets of paper crinkling together, and thundering drums that are out of sync. Then the rest of the sensation catches up with his brain — perfumes, too many of them, the scratchy sheets too rough on his skin, leather cuffs too tight at his wrists and his ankles and pain, in his parched throat, in his empty stomach, along his arms and legs where Master Hieronymus had stabbed him with needles, everywhere , and Eskel opens his eyes and he isn’t in Kaer Morhen —

“Calm yourself, boy,” a woman says commandingly, and the novelty of a woman's voice shocks him into obedience.

"— waste of a perfectly good specimen — is the boy awake?" one of the mages demands, breaking off from the argument and hurrying to Eskel's bedside.

"Quite," the woman says acidly. "He is also unwashed, unfed, and severely dehydrated. If this is how you treat your subjects, I've little hope for any success in your future experiments."

Experiments. More mutations. Eskel doesn’t hear anything after that, just more yelling as he cringes away from the approaching mages. It won’t do him any good, but he still finds himself begging no more mutagens and please, I don’t want this and wasn’t twice enough?

But everyone ignores him — a fatherless, motherless little boy’s pleas aren’t worth anything, and Eskel thinks hysterically that surviving the Grasses twice was already a miracle — there won’t be another one to save him now. The mages can’t touch him. If they touch him — if he lets them touch him — he will die.

A golden dome blooms around Eskel’s cot, impenetrable even to these mages. For a single, strained moment, absolute silence descends upon the room, save for the hum of Eskel’s magic in the air. It’s a Quen shield, stronger than what Eskel could cast before — proof that the last mutations had been enough . Maybe they won’t need a third round? Maybe Eskel is enough as he is now, maybe if Eskel keeps this up, shows them he can be good, the mages won’t give him another set of mutagens —

But the arguing erupts again, just as abruptly.

“— twice mutated, he said, what an incredible opportunity —”

“—rather not deal with the lot, we ought to send him back right where he came from —”

“—wasn’t supposed to happen, they were meant to make witchers, not this bastardized excuse of a Source! We ought to kill him before he becomes a bigger problem —”

“Sources only become a problem if they are insufficiently trained.” The woman’s voice again. The lone woman’s voice. “Gentlemen, if you have no confidence in Ban Ard’s curriculum, then perhaps you ought to let me handle this case myself.”

Ban Ard?! “W-wait,” Eskel croaks, trying to push himself up. “Is this — where am I?”

No one seems to hear him. The mages keep shouting, and every word out of their mouths stokes the fear building inside Eskel’s gut.

“Wha— what are you going to do to me?!”

The woman is the only person who pays his pleas any mind. “You don’t need to hear this,” she says curtly, and with a snap of her fingers, the world goes black.

[amagicdragonwrites]

updates

i started this blog (and the 100 day drabble writing challenge!) to get me started on writing again — even just a hundred words a day seemed like an unreachable goal. it’s been 82 days since i started that, and while i haven’t posted a lot of what i’ve written, here is my progress so far:

the bounds of honor (112 words), a game of thrones drabble

lt jee at boiling rock au (279 words), an AtLA drabble

Escaping a Dinner Party (1254 words), a Witcher genfic

toph and bumi at earth rumble vii (291 words), an AtLa drabble

keira metz arrives in velen (439 words), a Witcher ficlet

Sweet Cream and Honey Cakes (532 words), a Witcher Geralt/Eskel ficlet for thegracious’ ongoing into the geralt verse project

where my heart lies (3601/8000 words), a Geralt/Eskel fic

from where we came (8509/10000 words), an as-yet unpublished mage!Eskel AU

the only living boy (690/??? words), an unpublished one-shot in the mage!Eskel universe

a tower out of nowhere (1927 words), another unpublished one-shot in the mage!Eskel universe

the gatekeeper (570 words), a Witcher ficlet for thegracious’ ongoing into the geralt verse project

this is nearly 18k words!!! i’ve nearly doubled the goal i set for myself! it’s not much, especially when compared to other writers who are consistently crushing it when it comes to output, but i’ve never written with this kind of regularity ever in my life <3

really looking forward to completing and sharing my current projects soon!

[amagicdragonwrites]

Update: i'm currently 9k words into a witcher fic. I have some pending requests, but i'll get back to them soon!

[amagicdragonwrites]

trying to beat the rain/ other weather related stuff

Velen is the most dreadful and detestable place Keira has ever had the displeasure to visit, so naturally, the storm comes rolling in on the day she was meant to leave.

Keira takes one look at the rain, pouring down from the sky in torrents, and sighs. The roads will be impassable for days, and she daren’t open a portal; it’s been less than a week since she managed to shake off the most determined of the witch hunters and the paranoia from being hunted has not abated in the slightest. At least she still has a room in the inn. It’s tiny, and the straw mattress provided is the furthest thing from the featherbed she used to have in Vizima, but it’s warm and dry.

After days of slogging through the bogs of Velen on foot, drenched and shivering and up to her ankles in mud, being warm and dry is a luxury that Keira won’t ever take for granted again.

There’s stew in the dining hall, but not much else; the war has brought nothing but misfortune to everyone in the North, and the peasants in little backwater villages like Midcopse always end up suffering the most. The innkeeper’s wife brings Keira a portion of the stew for supper, and she dithers by the door on her way out.

Keira sighs. “Is there a problem?” she asks sharply.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you’ve got the look of a wise woman about you,” the woman says hesitantly.

That gets Keira’s hackles rising. She didn’t think her wanted posters have circulated this deep into the countryside, but these days one can never be too fucking paranoid.

“It’s only, well, the young ‘uns are getting sick and we’ve no idea why,” the woman forges on, twisting her hands in her apron anxiously. “We’ve tried giving them broth and such, but the witch hunters took our herbalist and there’s been no one to care for our sick since — we won’t tell ‘em you’re here, ma’am, you can take the herbalist’s hut and garden and we won’t tell no one a witch is living there, just — please.” She takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “Please, help my son.”

Well. It’s not like she has anything better to do with her time, and Velen is as good a place to hide as any. Might even be better, really — Keira Metz, court sorceress of kings, living in a bog as some sort of washed-up hedgewitch? Unthinkable.

“I’ll see him after supper,” she says tiredly. Keira is warm, dry, safe, and fed — for now, that will have to be enough.

[amagicdragonwrites]

An excerpt from an unpublished draft from the heat that drives the light (the fire it ignites), following this scene.

Her husband is in the next room; guards are posted by every door and around every corner, but they let her into his room with no questions asked. Ozai is in bed, but awake; his eyes meet hers across the room and yet he says nothing. 

He did it, then, Ursa thinks numbly. Our children were obstacles so he got rid of them, I should have listened to Azula, how could I let this happen —

“Leave us,” Ozai says quietly. The healers that remained in the room hasten to obey. They shut the door behind them, and Ursa is trapped; that oppressive feeling of danger creeps down her neck again, until she’s clammy and cold all over and she shouldn’t have come here —

“Ursa. The children are safe.”

Her head snaps up. Ozai is staring at her intently, golden eyes razor bright despite the bruises and the burns on his body. 

“How?” she croaks. 

“I sent them to hide in the tunnels.” He pushes himself up in his bed, grimacing in pain, but Ursa hesitates to help him. The sheets fall down to his waist, and she freezes at the sight of his chest. 

Lightning burns. 

Only one other firebender in the palace is capable of bending lightning. The Fire Lord. Ozai's father. 

"My father loves Iroh, and he loves Lu Ten," Ozai continues carefully. "I suspect that the news of my nephew's death and my brother's disappearance has… affected him more seriously than expected. When I brought up the matter of succession, he flew into a rage and told me that I 'needed to suffer the pain of losing a child'."

Exactly what Zuko said. 

Ozai sighs. "I took the first opportunity I had to hide the children, but —" he gestures to his torso mirthlessly. 

Suddenly, Ursa knows what she has to do. 

"Something has to be done. The Fire Lord isn't — no one will be safe if even you weren't — something must be done," she hears herself say, as if from a great distance. Her mind is already skipping through plants and extracts, even as her heart starts beating in triple time from the fear. 

Her husband nods. "Father can no longer be allowed to rule," he whispers, looking meaningfully at Ursa. 

Ursa takes a deep breath to steady herself, and lets it all out, along with all the doubt and fear and guilt in her body. "Leave it to me."

[amagicdragonwrites]

ATLA Prompt : Lian The Maker, but in the Season 2 canon and with a redemption arc (sorry but I kin for Lian content, she's so unknown...)

I'm gonna have to pass on this prompt :( Lian the Maker appears to be a character from the video games, which I've never played, so I don't know enough about her to write for her!

[amagicdragonwrites]

ATLA prompt, Toph and Bumi first meeting post show finale?

“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the finale of Earth Rumble VII!”

A roar of applause sweeps through the crowd at the Boulder's entrance. He's looking great now — almost fully recovered from his injuries during the invasion — but to Sokka's great disappointment, he's not here to compete.

“One of our most notable alums is returning today folks, freshly back from training the Avatar himself! Let’s welcome today’s challenger, the Bliiiiind Bandit!” 

Sokka joins the rest of the crowd, clapping and screaming wildly in support of his friend. Down in the ring, Toph is clearly in her element, doing a few turns around the ring to hype up her adoring fans. 

“The Fire Nation Army couldn’t even defeat Gaoling’s homegrown superstar, folks!” the Boulder continues. “But how is she going to shape up against the Earth Rumble Season VII Champion? Let’s welcome the mighty — and undefeated — Grand Master!” 

There’s a lot of rumbling, and suddenly, King Bumi of all people erupts out of the stadium floor in a huge tornado made out of earth. 

“We meet again, little Toph!” he calls out from the top of his earthnado, cackling madly. 

Toph turns to face her opponent, cracking her knuckles. “Don’t think I’m going to go easy on you because you’re a senior citizen, Grandpa,” she taunts. 

“Oooh, feisty, this one!” Bumi says, and because he’s absolutely crazy, he also announces: “By the way, did I forget to mention? The challenger who defeats me inherits my kingdom!!”

The stadium goes absolutely nuts. For a split second, Toph looks wrong-footed — and then Bumi hits her with a boulder right on the head. 

“Oh, you bastard!” Toph howls. “I don’t even want your kingdom, but just for that, you’re going down!” 

[amagicdragonwrites]

no new content today; got food poisoning and it was Not Great

[amagicdragonwrites]

An excerpt from an unpublished draft of the heat that drives the light (the fire it ignites), set immediately after Zuko and Azula’s flight from the palace.

Ursa wakes up, disoriented, to find herself in the palace infirmary. 

It takes her five seconds to wade through the haze in her head, but when she finally remembers – Zuko coming to fetch her, Azula frightened out of her mind, putting the children to bed, and then the intense sense of foreboding weighing on her chest that forced her to get out of bed and check on the children – she bolts upright. 

Her head spins, and bile bubbles up her throat. 

“My lady!” someone cries, and suddenly, there’s a basin in front of her, a servant holding back her hair, and a hot towel pressed into her hands. 

“Thank you,” she says hoarsely, dabbing delicately at her mouth. The servant bows, but continues to hover by Ursa’s bed worriedly. “What happened?” 

The girl wrings her hands, and doesn’t meet Ursa’s eyes. “There was a commotion in the Princess’s rooms, my lady, and on their way there, the guards found you unconscious right outside your bedroom.” She hesitates, then adds: “They found Prince Ozai half-dead on the floor, and the children are missing.” 

Ursa’s stomach drops. Agni. Agni. Ozai in Azula’s bedroom – impossible. 

The Fire Lord said that Father had to kill Azula to become Crown Prince, and Father said yes!

Azula is his daughter, through and through; there is no way Ozai will harm a hair on the head of his chosen heir. Sozin's line must be kept secure, he told Ursa, when they were trying for a second child; surely he wouldn't throw away that security for his ambitions? Now that Lu Ten is gone, and Iroh too old for more children, Azula and Zuko are the future of the Dragon Throne — the heir and a lone spare. He wouldn't.

Ursa doesn't want to believe it. But Azula’s voice rings in her head, accusatory: You know what he does to obstacles.

She sets the towel aside, and gets to her feet, trembling. "My husband. Where is he?" 

[amagicdragonwrites]

Oh AtLA please… could you do Zuko not going with Azula at the end of season 3 and going the gaang instead cue him and Toph commuting highway robbery in the runaway episode and him sharing in Aangs dreams

i've been thinking about this prompt for a while, but i haven't come up with a good scenario for this yet. maybe someone else might be interested in filling this prompt?

[amagicdragonwrites]

thank you all so much for sending in prompts! <3 i’m sitting on a few of them right now; it might take me a while to get to them, but if i don’t message you or post something, that means i’m still figuring out a good way to approach your prompt. <3

[amagicdragonwrites]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Yesterday’s completed ficlet is now on AO3!

Fandom: Witcher 3

Summary:

“Witchermans spicymans,” he complains. “No nice wine with.”  

“Evyluce, no,” Pico concedes, “but Gundybur yes!”  “

Spciymans bittermans! Good not!”  

“No, no, Nico’s right,” Geralt interrupts, trying to preemptively repress the surreal experience of debating his own deliciousness. “Witchers drink a lot of toxic potions, could make us too bitter to eat.”

Geralt is taken hostage by three gourmet rock trolls. Not really a dinner party he wants to stick around for.

[amagicdragonwrites]

Prompt: an escape plan(atla, but any of the fandoms is good)

(Only if you wanna write it, btw!! I just like to see writing :D)

I sent you a message to ask if I could do this for the witcher fandom, but Inspiration hit before you could reply! I hope this one is okay. This will be a full fic; the rest of it should be up by tomorrow on both tumblr and ao3!

Geralt Escapes a Dinner Party

The aroma of garlic and rosemary frying in butter gently coaxes Geralt awake. 

Mmmm. Marlene must be making her herbed baguettes again. There’s still beef leftover from the night before; if Geralt is lucky, she might make him a roast beef sandwich for breakfast, complete with a bowl of broth to dip it into. He can almost smell it: the rich, fragrant beef broth fortified with last year’s red wine, some melting cheese, and the lingering essence of — 

Rock troll?

Geralt’s eyes snap open, and shit. He’s bound and caged, no weapons, no armor, no nothing in the cauldron he’s in except… garlic, rosemary, beef broth and Corvo Bianco red. 

The bastards are marinating him in his own damn wine. 

Lambert can never know about this. 

At least they didn't tenderize him. And Geralt is mostly unharmed, so he should be able to get the fuck out of this cauldron. He tries to start with his arms, but after a few minutes of struggling with the rope, it becomes clear that the trolls had an accomplice. They don't have opposable thumbs. They shouldn't have been able to tie him up. 

Flashes from the night before hit Geralt abruptly. He had been chasing a thief who had been stealing from some merchants in Beauclair. When the chase had led them deep enough into the forest, the man turned around, morphed into a katakan, and then —

And then Geralt woke up in a soup pot. 

Dammit. 

Freeing his wrists takes a lot more effort than it should. The katakan had been very meticulous with his knots; getting out of the binding requires more wiggling and shimmying than Geralt would like to admit. The sloshing around alerts one of his captors, though, and a rock troll in a ridiculously tiny apron lumbers into view. 

Predictably, it's not happy. 

"Awake witchymans!" he cries out in dismay. 

Two more rock trolls come barreling in — one of them has a huge skillet with the butter and garlic Geralt had been smelling, and the other one is holding a huge wooden mug filled with what seems like white wine. It can't be, though — as far as Geralt knows, rock trolls can't drink alcohol. 

Or maybe they do, in Toussaint. Figures that even the fucking rock trolls are obsessed with wine here.

Mug Troll takes in the scene — their dinner halfway to escaping — then whacks Pan Troll up the back of his head. "Nico killing witcherman want! But Pico listen not, killing not, only miranade make!" He snorts, sounding uncharitable even to Geralt's non-rock troll ears. "Killing Pico will witcherman, Nico sad not." 

"No kill not witchermans!" Pan Troll — presumably Pico — insists. "Now kill, later cook, meaty toughy tough. Chefyman so say." 

Geralt really doesn't like where this conversation is going, so he decides to interrupt. "Hey, hey. No one's cooking anyone today, you hear me?" 

Nico and Pico both ignore him, squabbling on about cooking methods, but Apron Troll comes up to his cage, frowning. 

"Food talk not," he says reproachfully. "Friendo talk, trolly talk, food not talk." 

Maybe this one can be reasoned with. 

To be continued

[amagicdragonwrites]

cont.

"I could be your friend," Geralt says. "My name's Geralt. What's yours?" 

Apron Troll seems very disconcerted by the fact that his food is talking to him. “Trollyname Rico, Nico, Pico,” he says, looking wary. “Why witcher friendoman, foodieman not?” 

Geralt thought fast. “Uh, friends give each other gifts, right? Seems like you guys like wine -- I could get you some.” 

That piques Rico’s interest. “Witcherman wines got?”

“Yeah, I make it. Could give you barrels, if you let me go.” There are still several barrels of wine leftover from the batch that didn’t turn out well; Barnabas-Basil would be happy to get rid of those, he’s sure. 

Rico, however, seems to have a discerning palate. “What wine withcermans got? Marlot? Kabi-sovi?” 

“No, I don’t grow Cabernet Sauvignon,” Geralt says, amused. “I make this one, actually, the one in the, er, pot. Corvo Bianco Red?” 

Rico rolls his eyes in disdain. ‘Kovo Blanko bad, witchermans not trollolo trick! Good wine friendo give friendo, not — trash not!”

“Hey, it’s not that bad!” Geralt protests indignantly. It wasn’t poisonous, and for Geralt, who regularly drinks White Gull so caustic it eats through copper stills, that was good enough. The wine snobs in Beauclair had a different opinion, though, and while he had never expected it to do well among the fancy connoisseurs in the city, having his wine trashed by a rock troll in his face is a different experience entirely. 

“What good wine have witchermans?” Rico prods. “Evyluce! Evyluce good!” 

“Yeah, fine, I’ll get you Erveluce.” A barrel would cost him more than a thousand fucking crowns, but Matilda de Vermentino and Liam de Coronata both still owe him a favor, and Belgaard had a good run this year. They might be willing to give him a discount. 

The mention of Erveluce breaks up the squabble between the others. “Evyluce gots?” Pico asks hopefully, padding up to join Geralt and Rico by the cage. 

Nico is still upset though, and when he joins the rest of the trolls, Geralt nearly gags at the smell of his breath. That is one fucking blitzed rock troll. Apparently Nico is an angry drunk; he slams his mug down and keeps on arguing with Pico. “Witchermans spicymans,” he complains. “No nice wine with.” 

“Evyluce, no,” Pico concedes, “but Gundybur yes!”

“Spciymans bittermans! Good not!” 

“No, no, Nico’s right,” Geralt interrupts, trying to preemptively repress the surreal experience of debating his own deliciousness. “Witchers drink a lot of toxic potions, could make us too bitter to eat.” 

Pico groans in dismay. “After even breathe? Wineyred like?”

Gods, these rock trolls even know how to let their wine breathe? They’re more cultured than Geralt is, it seems like. “I’ve been breathing this whole time and I don’t feel like I’ve gotten any less bitter,” he retorts. “Now are you gonna cook me, or are you gonna let me bring you some Erveluce like I promised?” 

Pico and Nico immediately start arguing again, but Rico has had enough. “Enough!” he bellows. “Rico Evyluce wants, witchermans Evyluce gots!” He yanks open the cage and fishes Geralt out of the pot. “Witchermans two barrels bring. For friendytroll,” he orders. 

Geralt makes quick work of finding and donning his armor. "Two barrels for Rico, got it," he grunts, grabbing his swords and heading for the exit. Pico, seeing his dinner running away, cries out in frustration and takes off after Geralt. 

"Dinnermans no go!" he yells. "Butter garlic Pico made lots, only meat witchermans!"

Geralt neatly sidesteps the lumbering troll. "I could get you a nekker or two," Geralt offers. Hungry trolls could try to replace him with another human — feeding the trolls with necrophages seems like a two-for-one solution, and besides, that rock troll up in Skellige had seemed to like nekkers. 

The appeal seems to be universal; even Nico perks up at the mention of nekkers. "Mmm, nekros, for flavorful," he says dreamily. "Garlic butter panning fry, Pico wineyred sauce making?"

Pico had already taken his pan and sprinted back to his kitchen, bellowing ingredients as he went. 

"Two Evyluce barrel, six nekro," Rico amends. 

Ah, well. Seems like a bargain, in exchange for his life. "Coming right up," he promises, then he turns back to the mouth of the cave and heads out. 

[amagicdragonwrites]

Ohmygods Jee in the cooler talking about how it’s nothing compared to the North Pole 😭

And then hearing Zuko get put in the one next to his and immediately thinking ‘must get him out of here’

I love this so much 💜💜💜

oh gosh, really glad you liked the drabble!

And yeah -- all of Zuko’s crew would probably go into “protect child mode”, mostly because they can all remember when zuko was ACTUALLY a child. hell, to lt jee zuko is STILL a child and still needs to be protected n