This event will take place from August 15th to August 21st. We allow content from all the different media (video games, netflix show, books), as long as it’s centered around the character of Cirilla. Writers, artists, gifmakers, anyone is welcome to participate! There are no restrictions of pairings or rating. Happy creating!
💚 We track #ciriweek
Prompts for writers / artists
Monday: friends, comfort, hold
Tuesday: apology, post-canon, blame
Wednesday: story, family, fix-it
Thursday: training, humor, smile
Friday: scar, AU, anger
Saturday: pride, power, explore
Sunday: free space
Prompts for gifmakers
Monday: favorite scene from s1 / favorite scene from tw3
Tuesday: favorite trait
Wednesday: quote
Thursday: favorite scene from season 2 / favorite ciri mod (tw3)
free space | @ciriweek 2022 | ciri & yen | time of contempt spoilers
Ciri tripped over a rock hidden in the sand and fell onto her hands, her arms collapsing beneath her weight from exhaustion.
Hunger and thirst were boulders atop her, leaving her unable to rise to her feet to stagger on. Every inch of exposed skin burned in the punishing sun by day and stung in the night's freezing temperatures. Her muscles spasmed painfully as they cramped and attempted to shiver to keep her warm.
She let out a sob. Little Horse whickered and used his muzzle to push at her back, urging her to get up and carry on, ever careful of his horn.
"I can't, Little Horse," she whimpered, voice barely audible. "I can't. I'm so tired. And it hurts so much."
Little Horse refused to take that for an answer, stomping his hooves and nudging her insistently. Ciri let out another sob, eyes heating up but refusing to shed a single drop. There was no water in her body to spare. Not with the spring they'd left behind over 2 days' march away.
The bitter cold threatened to freeze her pained, weak, and numb body stiff.
"Maybe we can just wait here," she whispered, cheek pressed into the frigid sand. Fine grains stuck to her face and neck wherever they cushioned her, soft as silk and hard as rock at once.
"Lady Yennefer will come," she told Little Horse, her voice barely a whisper of breath. "She'll find us, you'll see. She'll come for me. There's no way she won't, not unless—"
Her breath caught in her lungs. She remembered looking back at the top of the stairs, before she'd run down as instructed. The image of the mage's back as she rested her head against a column as clear as a painting in her mind.
And her parting words.
"I love you, my daughter."
"No..." she whimpered, realisation a blade's cold kiss to her heart. "No! She can't be dead! She can't be!"
Little Horse only looked at her with his soulful eyes.
"No!" she wailed. "Mama! Mama!"
"Mama, it hurts! Mama! Mama, where are you?! WHERE ARE YOU, MAMA?!"
Her cry rang out through the desert, but only the biting wind answered her.
"Mama... Mama..." she whimpered, voice breaking, with only the sand's cold embrace for comfort. "Come. Come for me, please. Don't leave me here, Mama. Don't leave me here alone."
explore | @ciriweek 2022 | ciri & dandelion | mentioned character death
Kelpie snorted and stomped as the horse and her rider landed in Oxenfurt, having jumped through space and time itself.
"This should be our world," said Ciri as she looked around. "Certainly feels like it."
They'd arrived in a shadowy alleyway, a short distance away from the famed Academy. Twilight had fallen, and the noise of students carousing at the bars and taverns nearby mutely filled the air.
"Come on, let's go," she told Kelpie, then set them off in a brisk trot towards the faculty housing.
"Excuse me, is Professor Pancratts in?" she asked the young guard falling asleep at the entrance.
The—boy, really—leapt to attention. "W—who?" he stammered. "Who's asking?"
Then he caught sight of the fearsome scar on her face, her ghostly pale features, the twin swords on her back and the black horse she rode on, then blanched sheet white.
Ciri was fully prepared to leap down from her horse in case he fainted to catch him. It was not the first time she'd had to execute such a maneuver.
"Professor Pan-cr-atts," she enunciated slowly. "Ciri's asking."
"Y—yes, sir! I mean m—ma'am!" he squeaked. "Please wait a moment!"
And so Ciri waited while the guard hastily confirmed that yes, Professor Pankratz was indeed in, and a 'Ciri' was listed in the book of approved visitors.
"Shall I take your horse to the faculty stables, sir? I mean, ma'am!" the guard rushed out.
"Yes, you may," she told the boy, and swung down. She handed him the reins and a silver. "Make sure to take good care of my horse."
"Yes, sir! Ma'am!"
Ciri sighed and waved him off, and the guard scampered away in relief.
Cracking her back, she stretched, shook out her muscles, sighed again, then headed off to Dandelion's quarters.
Once she arrived, she knocked smartly on the door twice.
"No more consultations, you numpties!" came Dandelion's shrill voice. "Stop bothering me! If you fail, you fail! Good fucking night!"
Ciri snorted, then cleared her throat.
"What if it's me dropping by for tea instead, Dandelion?" she called through the wood. "You wouldn't leave Geralt's only daughter alone out in the freezing cold, would you?"
She heard the patter of slippers and then the door swung open to reveal Dandelion.
"It's the height of summer, you scamp," he deadpanned.
The two of them stared at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter.
"Come here, you rotten child," Dandelion said with a smile. "Give this old bard a hug, huh?"
Ciri grinned at him and stepped inside to engulf him in a painfully tight bear hug, lifting Dandelion right off his feet as he sputtered and squeaked.
"I miiiissed youuu~" she sing-songed, then finally placed him back down on his feet.
Dandelion harrumphed and straightened out his nightclothes.
"Rotten child, I tell you," he said, wagging a finger. "Off! Off with you! Make the tea!"
"Yes, sir!" Ciri tossed him a jaunty salute and then bustled off to prepare the pot.
"Here you go," she said, carefully handing him the cup.
"Many thanks," said Dandelion, then peered up at her. "Have you, perchance, grown taller?" he asked suspiciously.
"I don't think so," Ciri replied, bemused. "I think you grew shorter though, Dandelion."
"Pah, pah," the troubadour-turned-professor spat and shook a finger at her. "I may be old but I'm not that old!"
Ciri hid a laugh and nodded seriously.
"Bring that chair here," Dandelion ordered. "Sit by me, tell me what all trouble you've gotten up to this last year. Knowing you it must've been loads of it."
"Guilty," said Ciri with an unrepentant cheeky grin, and began to tell him all about her adventures and misadventures over the past year and a half.
The two of them talked long into the night, catching up on all the interesting things that had happened. Soon enough, Dandelion was yawning frequently and his eyes drooping shut.
He kept waving away her insistence that he go to sleep in his bed comfortably, determined to spend as much of the one night she would be in this sphere with her. And so Ciri kept talking to him until he gently drifted off to sleep.
When she was certain he was deep in slumber, she put away the pot and cups, rinsing everything out and returning them to where they belonged.
After, she wandered over to the bedroom to fluff up the pillows the way Dandelion liked them and pull back the blankets. She then made her way back to the sitting room, and with all the care she had, gently picked up Dandelion in a child's carry.
The professor felt incredibly light and fragile in her arms, and she made sure to navigate the path back to the bedroom slowly and very carefully.
Ciri gently laid the poet down on the bed and pulled the blankets back over to tuck him in. She felt a sudden pang of dread that she might look away and never see him again.
He was just so old and breakable.
And so she stood over him for a long while, watching over him as his chest rose and fell with steady breaths, fighting down the flood of emotions threatening to drown her.
As the light of dawn began to creep over the sky, Ciri finally moved from her place of vigil to smooth down the blankets and press a light kiss to his forehead.
Then she slipped out of his rooms as silent as a ghost.
Two weeks later, Professor Julian Alfred Pankratz passed away in his sleep peacefully.
Ciri's breath entered and left her lungs in short, panicked bursts.
The pits of her tank top were soaked, sweat beading along her hairline and upper lip even as her muscles jittered and trembled from the frigid air, sending visible tremors along her frame.
The announcer's voice was painfully loud and yet so far away, the din of the crowd's cheers a muted roar.
Her palms remained cold and clammy no matter the number of times she wiped them on the sides of her black skinny jeans, and she chewed her bottom lip frantically, desperately resisting the urge to turn and flee.
Then warm arms wrapped themselves around, a chest pressing against her back. The familiar scent of cigarette smoke and rose perfume twined around their figures.
"Nervous, my Falcon?" Mistle breathed into Ciri's neck.
"No," Ciri lied.
Mistle laughed, the sound deep and throaty.
"Must be just the cold then," she murmured into Ciri's ear. "Don't worry, Falka, I'll keep you warm."
Mistle kept her word, the two of them swaying gently in place, the heat of her body a searing warmth. Ciri's breathing and pulse rate steadily slowed back to something in the normal range.
Then the announcer called for the next act. And Ciri's breathing and pulse spiked again as whispers broke out around them.
"Steady, Falka," said Mistle, holding her tighter. "Steady."
"I can't do it," Ciri rushed out. "I'm sorry, I can't!"
"You can," Mistle told her. "If you're scared, just look out into the audience, then close your eyes. And picture it being just us. It's just us in the garage."
The announcer called for them again.
Mistle pressed a fierce kiss to the side of Ciri's head, then pulled back to stand beside her. She took hold of Ciri's hand and squeezed it. Then grinned at her.
"Let's go, people!" she yelled and then ran out, Ciri dragged along stumbling in her wake.
The rest of the gang whooped and hollered as they raced out on the girls' heels. Ciri abruptly found herself front and centre on stage. A microphone was smacked into her hand and she gripped it tightly, bringing it up to her lips automatically.
The stage lights blinded her, the audience a frothing sea of black interspersed with glowing lights. They screamed and cheered, the noise assaulting her from all sides.
Somewhere out in that seething mass were Mama, Geralt, Dandelion and the rest of the Hanza, all of them waiting on her with eagerness and pride.
The audience roared back at them: clapping, whistling and shrieking. Ciri's blood thundered in her ears, adrenaline sharpening all of her senses and making her body tingle.
"You've all been very eager to watch us," she told them. "But before we start the show, I thought you'd like to know who all are responsible for making this happen."
Applause and whistles came back at her.
"First off, we have... Iskra on the electric!" she cried.
Iskra played a quick riff to even more screams and shouts.
"Reef on rhythm!"
A short melody that was received equally enthusiastically.
"Mistle on bass!"
A strum of strings that could be felt in their chests.
"Asse on the keys!"
Fingers were dragged along a keyboard.
"Kayleigh on the drums!"
The crash of cymbals.
"Not forgetting our lovely manager, Giselher, of course," she said with a wink.
The whoops and cheers only grew louder.
"Get ready to scream your hearts out everybody," she told them, flicking her hair. "I'm Ciri, on vocals, and together, we're Ciri and the Rats!"
Mistle pressed against her, a ballast in the storm, and Ciri closed her eyes and smiled ferociously. It was just them, the gang of misfits, playing late into the night in Giselher's garage.
training & smile | @ciriweek 2022 | ciri & geralt | no cws
"Geralt!" Ciri cried as she threw herself at the witcher.
Geralt caught her with the slightest grunt and swung her around in a circle, eliciting peals of gleeful laughter. He gently lowered her back to the ground, keeping an arm around her back.
"Did you see?!" she asked excitedly, clinging to him with her arms around his waist. "Did you see me, Geralt?! I did it! I managed two pendulums at once!"
Lambert sauntered over.
"That she did," he drawled. "Not bad for a witcher princess!"
Ciri stuck her tongue out at him and Lambert pulled a face back at her.
"I did see," Geralt told her, smoothing his free hand over the windswept blonde strands that had escaped the leather tie pulling her hair back.
"Praise me, Geralt!" she demanded as she stared up at him with wide eyes that he could never deny. "Praise me!"
Geralt smiled down at her and folded her into a tight hug, making her giggle and squirm as she tried to wiggle out of his hold. He playfully pretended to bite her and snarl, Ciri pretending to bite and growl back while being interrupted by bouts of laughter.
He finally loosened his grip enough for Ciri to wiggle out of his arms and down to the ground like an eel. She huffed and straightened her clothes, then pouted at him.
"Geraaaaalt," she whined. "Praise me!"
Geralt hummed, as if deep in thought, but at her widened eyes, folded like a deck of cards and wrapped her back up in a hug.
"Well done, Ciri," Geralt whispered, then pressed his lips into her hair. "Well done."
Ciri lit up and threw her arms around his neck to hug him back tightly. Geralt indulged her for a long while before finally pulling away.
"Come on," he said, ruffling her hair. "I'll carry you inside pick-a-back."
"Yes!" Ciri cried gleefully and hastily clambered on, plastering herself to the witcher's back.
Lambert strolled ahead of them, then shot them a playful smirk from over his shoulder.
"Last one back is a stinky bloedzuiger!" he yelled and then bolted off.
"Go, Geralt, go!" Ciri hollered.
And Geralt was off like an arrow, Ciri yelling and swearing as the witchers raced to make it inside.
Sheer luck had Geralt and Ciri skidding into the hall first, courtesy of Lambert tripping right as he was about to reach the threshold.
And so Ciri had an absolutely magnificent time the following two weeks calling Lambert a stinky bloedzuiger at every opportunity, Lambert reacting with the appropriate amount of outrage and snark.
He and Geralt were the only ones who knew that Lambert had faked tripping.
And they would take that secret with them to their graves.
