call me Fae || 20-something aroace || artist who says they're not an artist (read: imposter syndrome) || socially anxious word vomiter the Witcher, Kingdom Come: Deliverance II, The Magnus Archives, Supernatural, Baldur's Gate III, D&D
Geralt, babe, i’m sorry to be the one to tell you this but intentionally driving your horse at 2mph so the personification of unhinged talking chaos can keep up with you doesn’t vibe well with 2/3 of that life aspiration
This is my last piece—so I've finally run out of my stash. It's the Polish TV show take on the White Wolf and the bard.
1,600words.
Geralt pushed open the creaking oak door of the tavern. All he wanted was to pour a whole night's silence down his throat.
The air hit him—a blend of ale, sweat, and grease—and the clamor of voices grated on his ears. He headed straight for the bar, and out of the corner of his eye he caught a familiar figure: Jaskier, perched on a high stool with his legs crossed, the familiar white-feathered hat askew, a lute cradled in his arms.
And in that instant, all the witcher's brooding melancholy evaporated at the sight of those bright blue eyes.
He strode over, nearly lifted the bard off his stool—chair and all—and crushed him in a fierce embrace. Jaskier hugged him back just as tightly, arms around his back. It was Geralt who let go first—reluctantly pulling back half a step, forcing down the grin that threatened to split his face.
"Jaskier."
"Geralt! Long time no see, my friend! Look what I've got here." Jaskier swept off his soft cap and shook out a few shiny gold coins that clinked into his palm. He hooked his arm through Geralt's and tugged him toward a corner table, kicking aside empty bottles along the way, and called over his shoulder to the counter: "Don't be shy, it's on me—hey! Barkeep, the usual, and for Geralt—no spice!"
The stout man behind the bar grunted in acknowledgment.
"How have you been?" Geralt sat down. "And don't tell me it's another countess, a lady, or some village headman's daughter."
"Heh, a bard's life can't do without love, you know that," Jaskier said, setting his lute against the chair leg and adjusting his hat. "Life's the same as ever—not great, not terrible. But enough about me—what about you?"
"Afraid I'll disappoint you, poet." Geralt shrugged. "Same as you—dull and boring. No work, and on top of that, I get to endure the common folk's glares."
The innkeeper shoved his way through the crowd with two coarse earthenware plates and a bottle of dark red wine. Jaskier pushed the heftier portion toward Geralt, then raised his cup, tapping its base sharply on the table. "First, a toast. And by the way, alcohol does wonders for your spirits. Forget those idiots. Geralt, maybe you should think more about me!"
Geralt reached for the cup and nearly fumbled it—only his witcher reflexes saved him from betraying that instant of panic.
"Of course I think about you," Geralt said, raising an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on Jaskier's wine-wet lips. "Every moment."
He held his breath, waiting for a teasing quip, an eye-roll, or at least a hint of a blush. But Jaskier only licked his lips absentmindedly, set down the cup, and reached for the bottle again.
Geralt felt a pang of disappointment. It wasn't fair if he alone was thrown into turmoil by such words.
"Good," Jaskier said, raising his refilled cup. "Come on, a toast—to friendship!"
The two clay cups clinked together with a short, bright ring.
They dug into the modest but hot meal. Jaskier kept signalling the bar for more drinks, and by the time Geralt thought to stop him, it was too late. The bard wobbled to his feet, snatched up his lute, planted his left foot on the chair—and his hat slid off his head, sending a few gold coins scattering across the floor, rolling all the way to the boots of some burly men at the next table.
Money was fleeting, but not now.
Jaskier jolted sober, chased after them, and just as his fingers closed around the last coin, a boot came down right in front of him, and a shadow loomed over.
At the same instant, Geralt rose silently and stood behind Jaskier. The man facing them was bald, with a tattoo coiled around his neck, backed by three or four equally thuggish companions. The candlelight on the table glistened off their greasy skin.
Jaskier clenched the coins in his palm and instinctively shrank back half a step, his spine bumping against Geralt's chest. He quickly straightened up, waved a hand behind him to signal Geralt not to draw his sword.
"What's this about, gentlemen?" Jaskier spread his hands, flashing that brilliantly shameless smile bards are known for. "Allow me to offer my profound apologies... if I interrupted your entertainment. If you don't mind, I could play a tune for you."
The bald man grinned, lunged forward, grabbed Jaskier by the arm, yanked him close, and in an instant a cold dagger was pressed against the bard's throat.
The tavern erupted in chaos. One of the thugs slammed his blade onto the table and bellowed, "Anyone who calls the guards loses their tongue first!" The commotion subsided into muffled sobs.
"Know what, witcher?" The bald man pressed the dagger a little harder against Jaskier's neck. "We've been circling around your little bard for a while. Today we finally caught you. See how kind we are? We let you finish your meal before saying hello."
"Yeah, real warm hospitality," Geralt sneered. "Let him go. I'm the one you can have."
"Save your clever talk, and don't get smart," the bald man licked his lips. "You'll do as we say, of course—but we're not letting him go either. Because he chose you. Now, a bard... let me think—should I start at the throat, or the wrist?"
He made a cutting gesture—but too slow. Geralt's sword was already out. A flash of silver, and the man's entire hand—dagger and all—flew through the air, bounced twice on the floorboards, and left a deep crimson arc in its wake.
Jaskier let out a short shriek, then clamped his hand over his mouth. He seized the moment of chaos, wrenched himself free, and stumbled behind Geralt.
Before anyone could react, the blade spun, blood splattered across the tablecloth and walls, and the dull thuds of limbs hitting the floor mixed with the wet sounds of severing flesh. Jaskier quickly crouched down, buried his face in his knees, and pressed his hands over his ears—but the sounds still seeped through his fingers. The stench of blood overpowered the ale and roast meat, filling his nostrils and churning his stomach.
He didn't hide for long. After taking a deep breath through the cloth over his mouth, he steeled himself, shot up, and grabbed Geralt's sword arm. "Geralt! Witcher! For fuck's sake, snap out of it!"
Geralt's dark pupils contracted sharply, then returned to normal. He looked down at his blade—blood was dripping from the groove onto the carnage below. He opened his hand, and the steel sword clattered to the floor.
The only remaining bandit slumped against the wall, his trousers soaked dark, his eyes vacant—any thought of fleeing had been severed by Geralt's blade.
"Jaskier..." Geralt stared at his own palms as if they were a mirror reflecting a monster. "I... I proved all their whispers right. I am... I am... please... stay away from me!"
Jaskier simply grabbed Geralt's bloodstained collar and pressed his forehead against the witcher's collarbone. "Geralt, hold me. Take me out of here."
"But—"
"No 'but'! I don't want to stay here one more second, you idiot." Jaskier sighed. Geralt unfastened his own coat, wrapped it around Jaskier's shoulders, and drew him into his arms. They staggered through the mess of debris and severed limbs toward the door, tossing all their remaining coins onto the counter on their way out.
They both knew—this town would never welcome them again.
They mounted their horses and galloped through the moonlit night deep into the dark forest, until no trace of light remained behind them.
Geralt silently set up a makeshift camp. Jaskier crouched by the stream, scrubbing the bloodstains from his hem and cuffs with icy water, forcing down the nausea that rose in his throat—at least don't let Geralt see.
At last, the campfire crackled to life, and Jaskier returned to Geralt's side.
"Stop thinking about it, Geralt... It's not your fault. You were just—" Jaskier searched for the right words, remembering the pent-up anguish Geralt had been suppressing before. The bard hadn't yet found a way to let those emotions spill out, and then someone had to come and pour oil on the fire. "You were just trying to be a good man. They never gave you the chance, so they got what they deserved."
"No, Jaskier." The bard had expected the night to end in silence, but Geralt spoke. "I never tried to be good. I've lost everything now. I've got nothing left to fear. So let me make this clear—"
"I only want to protect you."
"No. I crave you."
"I want to possess you."
Jaskier sat with his mouth open, frozen. Geralt seemed to have anticipated that reaction, and went on, tears streaming unbidden down his face, washing away the dried blood on his cheeks. "I've never aspired to anything noble. Every damn day I gritted my teeth and endured—it was all because of you, Jaskier. I can't bear it anymore. I can't lie to myself. So... leave me. Now that you've seen this ugly truth—spit on me, curse me, slap me, do whatever you like, or just turn around and walk away, and never look back."
Jaskier closed his mouth. He was silent for a moment, then stepped up to Geralt. The witcher closed his eyes, bracing himself for the slap or the spit in his face.
But the disgust he expected never came. Instead, a pair of slender arms wrapped around his waist.
They held each other under the moonlight for a long time.
So long that the fire slowly died down.
At last, Jaskier pulled back half a step. "What can I even say to you, Geralt? I don't need to say anything. Don't doubt yourself. You're not human—because humans are ugly and evil. You are human—because you are pure and noble."
sometimes I worry I’m becoming a normie but then I say one (1) thing about a special interest to an actual normie and they look at me like I’m a crazy person
