#𝐍𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈: a portrayal of Dettlaff van der Eretein of The Witcher: Blood & Wine
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#𝐍𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈: a portrayal of Dettlaff van der Eretein of The Witcher: Blood & Wine
toussainttwins:
“Ah, there is always time for a little mischief,” chirps the petite succubus reassuringly. “I vow upon a heron…your brioches are in a perfect shape. Even their measurement number is pretty. Look!” a small, pearl incrusted notebook is offered for Dettlaff’s inspection. Surely, it ought to calm his vanity. The twins during their successful career and their string of love affairs learned to appease it. Even if it meant faking the numbers and keeping double books…
Dettlaff yanks the book away and flicks through several pages, cross referencing each number to his memory and to his surprise. . . the measurements remain relatively the same, give or take a number or two depending on the date but it was nothing that stood out to his eyes.
❝ Mmn. . . ❞
It’s not that he’s vain, but since coming to stay in Beauclair his diet has taken on a vastly different course than what was usual in his 300-something-year history. Sweets here, sweets there, sweets everywhere. . . far less meat than he ever recalls eating. That much sugar couldn’t be good for anyone, vampire or not.
Gramcing, Dettlaff hands the notebook back, ❝ It must simply be the outfit I am trying on then. Perhaps the colour does not flatter my figure after all. . . I’ve never been one for lighter shades. But I do like the texture. ❞
@toussainttwins: "It may look large enough..." smiles the coquette with a measuring tape, held with the assuriety of a weapon. "...for a bite!" the pearly fangs click in the empty air and Natanis breaks into peals of laughter.
❝ Tanna, now is not the time for that— and. . . that is not a sufficient answer. An apple, small or large, can easily be bitten into and, and— ❞ oh, he’s overthinking this isn’t he. He always does that. She’s trying to. . . joke, isn’t she — ? He doesn’t find it funny.
❝ Let’s just get this over with, ❞ he snarls softly, growing fidgety each second he must remain still. His toes wriggle around in his boots, impatient.
@toussainttwins: a measurements session!
❝ Be honest, please. . . I can handle it. . . ❞ he hesitates, the words stuck upon the roof of his mouth. A blush creeps up his collar. ❝ Does my. . . back end look larger than usual — ? ❞
➤ @toussainttwins SENT : We st, I mean BORROWED these two STRAW HATS from human villagers. That's why they are DIFFERENT. But the RIBBONS are the SAME! JUST like US! Do we look quite like human CUBS called CHILDREN now?
Their little blunder goes unnoticed to Dettlaff’s ears, lucky for them because they’d receive a good berating for the theft; not only because it was wrong but because it could also compromise their identities as succubi—inhuman, monsters—and people were not kind to those who were not like him, Dettlaff had learned early on and he hoped they knew to be cautious as well.
He finds the hats suit them, covering their heads enough to hide their growing horns. From what he can tell, they look like unassuming human children—at least—were it not for the fact their furry legs and cloven hooves shown beneath their skirts. Still, it was a good effort and he had to applaud them. A longer dress and they’d be mistaken for the most innocuous of humans.
❝ Very good, indeed, ❞ he nods with approval before trailing off in thought, eyes flicking over their hats as if to search for something that should have been there. ❝ But. . . you are missing something. . . ❞
He pauses to ponder for a minute, then, getting an idea, Dettlaff bends down to pluck two wildflowers from the grass and places each atop each brim of the hats. He takes several steps back to inspect his work, beaming widely as he admires the new adornments and the little burst of colour it added to the twins’ complexion. Perfect.
❝ Much better now. When yo return the hats, maybe I could. . . hmm, maybe I could make each of you one so you do not have to ask again. ❞
cat painting by vanessa stockard
➤ @citybutcher sent: look.... for the meme // [ look ] for your muse to catch mine staring // word prompts
He’s not sure what it was that first drew him in. Maybe it was the way the setting sun glinted off Rhenawedd’s raven-black hair, the hues of magenta and mauve accentuating her features, bathing her in a contrast of light and shadow that his fingers tingling to reach for an easel, a brush, a stick of charcoal, anything to capture that image on something.
It stole his breath away to the point he was no longer aware he wasn’t even breathing, until he caught her looking back and he had to glance away as quickly as possible, far more interested in the road dust that had accumulated on his boots. Speaking of, he needed to have those cleaned soon—right, yes, right, right—not that she’d just caught him red-handed, staring at her like a damned wolf about to maul his prey, no, not at all— one, two, three, deep breaths, Dettlaff.
He kicks at a pebble by his boot, trying to ignore how hot his face felt and trying even harder not to think about how it was probably redder than a bloody beet. Then, in a rush of bravery, he glances back to meet the dark blue of Rhena’s eyes and he feels frozen there in place, drawn into the infinite beauty that stared back at him. Dettlaff thought he felt his heart seize in his chest. Panic. Fear. Something else he could not put a name to. . . something. . . pleasant and tender, infinitely warm.
❝ M-may I paint you — ? ❞ he blurts the words out without thinking and mentally claws himself to death for it. Elder damn you — ! Dettlaff, you FOOL.
dettlaff always imagined rhena passing away in his arms, safe and warm and eternally loved while he kissed her and told her how much he loved her and how grateful he had the time to be happy together–when she was old and finally at the end of her natural lifespan–never… from his own claws
belleteyne:
She caught the little notions of his fingers, the tongue darting out to lick over his lips. She frowned, scooted the chair further away from him in the room no more the size of a cabin, at best. There is no room to move to and no place for her to stay anymore. Emhyr’s amnesty had been revoked, the vineyard offered to Geralt of Rivia retracted. Whatever promise Anna Henriette had made to the Witcher for killing the Beast of Beauclair ( And how quickly that promise was eradicated, for the monster supposedly slain stood before her in his imminent glory ) was gone. She waited, closed her hand and opened it again, Geralt’s medallion placed in her opened palm. A recurrence of movements. The canting of her head to observe the vampire. A threat? A friend? In the presence of Dettlaff van der Eretein, she was unsure, left inebriated by the amount of blood she had lost and wine she had gulped.
“ I don’t know what I feel.” She replied. Loneliness. An emptiness brought back decades after her departure in Aretuza and the exhausting search for a cure. This was ..worse. A void unable to be filled. “ I feel numb.“ Yennefer corrected at last and spit out blood into the cup she held. ” Do I feel alive? Yes and no. The pain reminds me that Cirilla was real. Geralt was real. My mind forces me to believe they will walk through the door any minute and all of this was but a silly dream.“ Dreaming she did. What could have been. What will be.
No longer is.
“ Syanna is gone, yet you remain here. Do you..plan to leave?” Perhaps a silent plea. Perhaps a way to redirect the conversation from her pain to his. A selfish reason, Yennefer noted. “ I’ve never been to Nazair.”
Blood engulfed her and too late she realized what it was like for him. The oppressive stench of her blood. The Sorceress stumbled to her feet, ignoring the warning signs of her body that told her to sit back in the chair and rest. “ It is for the best if I change into something less ..dirty. You are starting to make me nervous.”
She was afraid of him, and he needn’t have an extensive knowledge of human mannerisms to know that: the apprehension evident in her violet eyes and how she scuttled away from him like a rabbit looking for a hole to retreat down: he was the fox aiming for her throat and all that power beneath her fingertips meant nothing in her current state. But he couldn’t blame her, not after what he’d done to Beauclair, not after killing the woman he loved more than all the stars combined and STILL he had felled her by his hand alone and yet—yet still—it hurt.
Loss was the only thing that brought them here today, the only reason that she was here, in the presence of a mass-murderer; that strange sense of camaraderie only found in two people who had nothing left. It was for that reason alone she had not spurned him, drawn to the bereavement that clung to him the like a moth to flame.
Nazair.
How long had it been since last he set foot in the land with blue tinged roses — ? The place he’d been born. Home. And yet he knew home was not a place. Home was... his pack. Sy-Rhenawedd. But Rhena was no more; perhaps never had been. Thus home was no more. He was but a displaced soul left to wander in a world that had scorned him the moment he was born: branded monster by name alone. He’d never had a bloody chance.
❝ You do not need to fear me, Lady Yennefer. Your blood is of little interest to me, ❞ he urges, his gaze flickering over her once immaculate black-and-white dress, now soiled with crimson and dirt. It no longer appeared to be bleeding, but the wound would need to be cleaned lest it fester. Dettlaff was not lacking in basic medical knowledge, both in part due to his caring for lesser vampires and having a physician as a blood-brother lent itself well to such knowledge. Not particularly extensive, but enough to prevent a human from dying from an infected injury.
Dettlaff glides across the room until he retrieves a basin filled with fresh water, returning to Yennefer’s side with both it and a cloth in hand. ❝ Allow me, ❞ he says gently as he dunks the cloth into the water, reaching for Yennefer. She would be going nowhere in her current state, he knew, as if she could possibly refuse him like this.
❝ If. . . you wish to travel to Nazair, then I. . . ❞ Dettlaff’s eyes flicker back to the wall where only an ebony smudge remains, the evidence of claw-marks present in the plaster. Even with her face gone, snuffed out in a fit of grief-induced-rage, Dettlaff felt her stare like a ghost hovering just at the corner of his eyes, watching him, judging him: I’m dead because of you.
He shakes his head of those terrible thoughts and returns his gaze towards Yennenfer, his eyes averted just so he does not make contact with those violent, violet eyes. ❝ I will accompany you. If you will have me. ❞ By the Moon, what was he thinking — !? He must be out of his mind, as if she’d accept such an offer from a. . . a Beast.
But he had nowhere else to go. No one. Nothing else to lose. Nothing. Nothing. N o t h i n g.
➤ @tempred sent: Rette hands Detlaff a bouquet of wildflowers. " for that one time you helped me get rid of the rock off my ankle. "
Why would she go out of her way to give him this for so simple a gesture — ? Dettlaff figured that anyone else would have done the same as him and could not fathom that someone would simply leave her there, stuck in the mud with an impending storm on the way. But he knew better than most that people could be cruel and kindness was more often than not something that had to be bought in this world. A shame.
Regardless of her reasons, he accepts the bouquet, delicately wrapping his fingers around the stems as though he were afraid any more pressure might bruise them. Lifting the flowers to his nose, he inhales the many blooms, and from the scent alone, he can identify several of which he was exceedingly fond of. What stole his attention above the others were the hues of blue that stood out in bright contrast against the rest of the colours: the Blue Roses of Nazair. How could she have known they were his favourite. . . ? Perhaps it was his thick accent, or better yet, his bright, blue eyes which often reminded others of the famous blue blossoms.
These roses often cost a fortune outside of Nazair, especially since they were only native to Nazair outrageously difficult to grow elsewhere, which only baffled Dettlaff further that she’d go out of her way to spend so much money on flowers that would wilt in a week. He’s touched, truly, and loss for what to say. Instead, he plucks one of the smaller roses off the top of the bouquet and leans over to tuck it behind one of Rette’s ears, a smile pulling at each end of his lips when he pulls away to admire the contrast of red and blue.
❝ It suits you. I, hmmm. . . thank you. ❞
➤ ANON SENT: "Enchanting ladies and valiant masters! Garlic bouquets for your beloveds! Stay safe from terrible creatures of the night and impress your paramour. For a price as fair as your heart!" // a Toussaint merchant, after the Night of Long Fangs, when the whole Duchy grew keen on anti-vampiric measures
Beauclair was just as he remembered, resplendent in its beauty; radiant and picturesque as if torn from the pages of a fairy-tale itself with the rays of the sun reflecting off Beauclair Palace that stood in the distance: its spires tall and proud, a bastion of the so called knightly virtues it prided itself upon. A warm breeze flowed through the streets, carrying with it the scent of rose blossoms and freshly opened bottles of wine the citizens were ever tipsy on. It was, for all intents and purposes, perfect.
It was as if that night had never happened.
But Dettlaff knew better. Toussaint knew better.
As he walked the cobbled streets, Dettlaff swore he catch wind of the blood nestled beneath the ancient stone, lingering in the soil. The blood of innocents sent to an early grave. The blood of men, women, children. . . how many children were orphaned that night because of him, crying out for parents that would not return home — ? How many became young widows never to know again the embrace of their lover and sweet, whispered nothings — ?
The strands of garlic that hung from doorways and stalls told of something more sinister at work. Children and youths—orphans numbering far more than ever in Beauclair’s history—sat at street corners, begging for whatever scrap and coin one might spare them. Others held religious symbols close to their breasts and sought comfort in divinity in lieu of Toussaint’s Virtues, uttering prayers towards Melitele or Lebioda beneath their breath for protection against what may yet linger in the dark, thirsting for their blood. It all spoke of subtle change at work. Change that the ghastly Beast of Beauclair wrought upon the duchy some dozen years past in the form of his righteous fury. The citizens of Toussaint feared that such a day might come again when all things vampiric would emerge from the shadows, should the gods—or the Beast itself—invoke their wrath upon them once more for turning their backs upon all that was Good and Righteous. . .
Dettlaff grimaced as the poisonous memories came creeping back, ones he thought long buried in the darkest corners of his mind where he hoped they’d never resurface. He should have known better than to think he could hide from his sins. But Dettlaff knew in his heart of hearts that his hands would never again be clean of the blood he spilled that night, and he knew the guilt he carried on his shoulders since then would never weigh any less. It was a burden he would forever carry so long as the sands of time still trickled away.
Returning here reminded him of it all. Reminded him of the Beast he had become. . . and since swore never to be again. It was time for new beginnings. He knew he could never undo what happened some fifteen years ago, but he also knew he could work to be better because there were still some who believed in his goodness. And that was just enough to push Dettlaff van der Eretein in the right direction.
Emiel had helped him make strides in opening his heart towards humanity again; he was one step ahead of the monster he’d been teetering towards, but two steps behind being a star citizen worthy of walking among men. He was, even after all these years, . . still something of a mess but far better off than he’d been right after he fled Beauclair into his self-imposed seclusion. Regis was more than a little surprised to hear that Dettlaff wished to return to Beauclair on his own terms, but confident enough in his brother to let him set off on his own this time. Though nervous to be without a faithful pack member at his side to navigate the crowds, Regis’ confidence in Dettlaff was enough to drive him forward with renewed conviction.
Dettlaff had hardly paid any mind to the merchants or swathes of people that frolicked about the streets, too absorbed in his thoughts until he was promptly pulled away from them when one of the vendor’s voices rang out, loud enough that Dettlaff recoiled from the intensity as though the merchant had been shouting right into his ear—he might as well have been. Dettlaff scowls and flashs his fangs for only a brief moment before composing himself, only to find himself face to face with a garland of. . . garlic — ?
He has to bite back a laugh, as if garlic could possibly repel his kind. It was just that, a superstition, and yet it persisted as a fail proof method of keeping vampires at bay even to this day. The smell was strong and repugnant, sure, and was a good way to mask the scent of blood if one was looking to hide from a lesser vampire, but many, like Dettlaff, found the herb to be an excellent addition to cooking, and some even enjoyed it. . . raw. Whatever it took to help humans sleep well at night, he supposed, not that a few strands of garlic would keep a bloodthirsty vampire hellbent on getting what it wanted away.
Eh, why not, the least he could do now is give back a little to the local economy, so the vampire shrugs and fishes out his coin purse. ❝ How much — ? ❞ He asks, and thinks about his soon-to-be visit to Natanis, one of the few—if not only—things he was looking forward to upon his return here. Fifteen years. . . will she remember him still — ? Will she be happy, or angry, to see him after all that happened — ? He’s giddy on his feet as he thinks upon it, unable to stand still as he pays and hurriedly tucks the garlic away as he rushes off to buy a bouquet of flowers to present to the succubus upon his eventual arrival at her doorstep. . . twin feelings of excitement and nervousness colliding within.
To new beginnings—or an attempt at one, at least.
just dropping by to say that i love your blog and seeing you on my dash. your writing, edits, gifs and art are just so 😎👌👌👌
YOU ARE an aBSOLUTE GEM! thank you for sending this, it was so damn sweet to receive <3
Don’t lie - do you know what happens to liars? They get their rib cages torn open, and their hearts are eaten out. Oh… but you must never tell the truth as well. For truth sayers get their tongues cut from their throats and they are torn from limb to limb.
Helaena C Moon @ http://hapless-hollow.tumblr.com/ (via hapless-hollow)
➤ @toussainttwins sent: "And who am I going to be in this fairy-tale? You must, simply must tell me, sangbonbon!" // in relation to "Grimm Brothers" of the witcher verse
❝ You. . . are not featured in this tale, ❞ Dettlaff admits with a sheepish though apologetic smile that works its way onto his face. Spread out before the vampire is an array of various sketches: drafts for the latest tale he and Regis are collaborating on. This one so happens to be a retelling of the famous Red Riding Hood, and the heroine in question looks eerily similar to the portrait of a raven-haired maiden that once graced the wall of The Rocking Horse some many years past. Regis, ever equipped with a keen eye, had immediately noticed the similarities, but chose not to mention it.
❝ But. . . perhaps the next tale can feature you. I doubt Emiel would mind. Hmm. . . ❞ Dettlaff taps the tip of his charcoal stick to his chin in thought, a storm of ideas already brewing up in that head of his, ❝ A story of knights and succubi, living in harmony, and illustrating the virtues a succubus possesses. Perhaps, even Her Grace, the Duchess, shall become so enamored with its popularity. . . that her heart shall grow gentle towards succubi, and no longer shall you fear the prospect of a contract on your pretty horns. ❞
Dettlaff sets the charcoal down and places his palm atop Natanis’, brushing the pad of his thumb against her hand and leaving a smudge of charcoal behind. The smile he gives her is bright and wide: brimming with the mirth and adoration he feels for her. It contains all of his love, and more than anything, the blessed assurance of safety that comes with being a member of Dettlaff’s pack. There is never anything to fear, so long as Dettlaff has them tucked beneath his proverbial wings.
❝ But, regardless, you needn't worry. . . you have Emiel and I to keep you safe. The both of you. ❞
Erika Meitner, from “Staking a Claim”, Copia
➤ @aeliell sent: “ you swear you didn’t do it ? ”
❝ I DID NOT. ❞
The fist that slams onto the table is hard enough to splinter the wood beneath, the tableware clattering and tumbling into the floor from the force. By the sound of shattering that greets the floor, several met their untimely end. He’d have to repay Sigrid for the damage later, after regaining enough clarity to feel the guilt of his little outburst.
It takes several beats of tiem before Dettlaff is calmed enough to speak, and he does so through clenched teeth that ache against his gums. He’s seething, offended that Sigrid would even have the audacity to assume the recent strings of death in nearby villages were his doing. He wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, that part of his past was behind him now. He never killed without reason, not until, u n t i l ⎯ no, he didn’t speak of that. Beauclair was behind him. The Beast of Beauclair he was not. No more. Never again.
❝ I would give you no reason to think I am lying, e v e r, ❞ his glacial eyes come to meet Sigrid’s, somber, intense, and as deadly as a blizzard’s chill. Dettlaff may have been many things, but a liar he was not and never would be. It would make him no better than the one who had once betrayed his trust for the sake of deception. His lips curl at the thought: lies. Such filthy things, never would he stoop to such a level.
❝ This I swear to you. ❞