Keni
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@openedbooks
Hello! I'm Inky! (they/them, 26), it’s nice to meet you if you’re new and if you already know me, it’s nice to see you over here! This blog is a single-fandom multimuse for characters from The Witcher! Most of my portrayals are mainly book and game based, some are heavily headcanon based due to lack of canon information, and I have some ocs as well! I look forward to interacting with you all!
RULES / MUSE LIST / INTEREST FORM
taking a page from alba’s book and revamping into a multi-fandom multi because my brain has been so very empty for far too long dgjhdsghjfdgs
don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here?
Scene of Deluge (detail) by Joseph-Désiré Court, 1827. / Dreamland by Segovia Amil. / Ocean Vuong, from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
↳ 𝙲𝙸𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙽 & 𝙸𝙾𝚁𝚅𝙴𝚃𝙷 ––– a gift for @openedbooks
woo! sorry for my dip in activity my vibes have truly been all over the place!! but i will be writing here again soon!
gezras’ bio is done!! my bios are officially out of construction gfhjgfhjgfjh finally!
company . - for geralt & regis
With the weight the last week or so situated securely upon thin shoulders, Regis' carefully crafted surface of calm pleasantry cracks the moment he thinks he's alone. It's a foolish moment for all of it to strike home, in his opinion-- he's only shelving a book, yet he can pinpoint the moment his grip goes slack and his knees give out. He sinks to the floor of his crypt and buries his face into the palms of shaking hands.
He had tried everything.
Hadn't he tried everything?
Why, then? Why did it turn out this way? Had he misjudged Dettlaff, a vampire with whom he shares a deeper bond than any imaginable, so badly?
Is this his fault, for trying to seek a better way? A resolution that all parties could walk away from alive? He had promised. He had given his word to Geralt.
If he had killed Dettlaff, if he had sacrificed more, would everyone else have been better off for it?
The dark pit of his thoughts begins to swallow him, casting Regis into a frenzy of what ifs. In hiss current state, the higher vampire misses the sound of footsteps upon stone-- but not the familiar scent of the witcher.
Geralt must have come back. Why has Geralt come back?
Regis forces himself to straighten, nearly pushes himself to his feet to try and play things off-- as casual as can be, perhaps teasing his friend for his unexpected return. But he freezes and his playful ' forget something? ' dies before it leaves his lips.
Geralt had crossed the crypt to him remarkably quickly and had taken a knee at his side. A humbling sorrow wells up in the barber-surgeon's chest as he understands what his dearest witcher is trying to do.
" I-- I do hope you'll forgive me, Geralt. " Regis forces out sound from his throat as he rubs his hands over his face. He lowers them to fold in his lap and looks over to the man beside him. His eyes are red, he's certain, but he's doing everything he can to piece himself back together as quickly as possible. " I wasn't expecting you to-- you just left, and I don't mind, but...I am not feeling quite myself at the moment. Was there something you needed? "
nonverbal prompts. ( accepting ) // @fatedriven ❛ company . silently sit with my muse to comfort them.
❛ volumes . gaze at my muse in a way that silently says ‘i love you’ . ( cahir for iorveth! )
@closedcoffins
" -- ' Essea ', to mean ' I am ', " The Scoia'tael commander explains, voice crisp and clear as he places emphasis on the proper pronunciation. " and ' esseath ' to mean ' you are '. "
Teaching Cahir the basics of Hen Llinge had begun out of necessity and consisted only of phrases the Vicovarian needed to understand in order to fight alongside Iorveth and his unit. Spar'le, gar'ean, and so on-- the things that would serve them all well in battle, provided the human could understand them.
As it turns out, Cahir had a knack for it. It's little wonder, Iorveth supposes, considering the similarities between the Elder tongue and the Nilfgaardian language derived from it. As a result, their lessons continued, strengthening the soldier's vocabulary and understanding, opening him up to the fundamentals of conversation.
With Cahir going off to follow the Vatt'ghern, Iorveth had expected him to fall behind during their separation. On the contrary, as they sit here side by side and refresh what the man has learned, it seems to the elf that he's actually been practicing while on his own.
" Your pronunciation is better. You still -- "
The Aen Seidhe stops, his eye catching upon Cahir's face as he turns his head to speak to him directly. Blue eyes gaze back at him, somehow with rapt attention and no small amount of dreaminess-- as if the man is both listening and not listening, simultaneously, with all that he has. As if the world no longer exists and everything has narrowed down to this moment, to them, to him. Cahir looks at him as if he is the only thing around worth looking at.
Iorveth has lived a significant number of years and has seen and done plenty with them... yet he can't recall anyone ever looking at him like that.
It occurs to him, too late, that he's gone silent for a beat too long. His lips part to speak, but the words don't find him quickly enough for his liking so he closes them once more. Instead, his brow arches, mouth drawing into a slightly crooked smirk. He makes no move to look away, though there was certainly a time when he would have.
Things have changed, however-- many things, but especially things between the two of them. These eyes on him do not make him uncomfortable-- they're Cahir's, so there's no reason why they should.
" You're staring... " The elf comments, amusement bleeding into his tone along with a rare, lighthearted curiosity. " Have you been listening, Cahir? Que glosse? "
nonverbal prompts. ( accepting ) // @closedcoffins
YOUR MUSE’S LOVE TROPES : GOTHIC LITERATURE. // MUSE : REGIS
italic for things that sometimes. bold for things that always. strike out what never applies
CARMILLA. giant featherbeds. tightening a corset. moonlit walks. killing for love. cruelty for the sake of love. love is always selfish. romantic tragedy. love to the brink of destruction. nighttime rendezvous. bloody kisses on soft skin. death was the maiden. a very strange agony. claimed by the supernatural. dreaming about your lover. sympathy for the devil. loving me to death. candlesticks lighting up the palm of your hand. a passion that wearies you. killing the one you love.
PHANTOM OF THE OPERA. a single red rose laid out to be found. sensual voices singing them to sleep. a familiar shadow attending every recital. love waits on the rooftop in the night. two soulmates holding hands. walking down long corridors. retrieving something lost. devoting one’s craft to them. making them your muse. the horror was for love. painted faces on parade. gentle touches in the dark. revealing your darkest secrets. beauty and the beast. writing messages on the mirror. kindness conquers all. letting your lover go. love never dies.
JANE EYRE. loving the escape. an impassioned affair. being consumed by love. meeting your soulmate. lace and silk. thirsting for the perfect romance. marrying for passion. losing yourself in the face of your lover. wedding veils and bouquets of pink roses. maddened by love. finding warmth in the cold. calling out for your love. starting at the bottom. the fire cleanses all. hiding your passion. your love will destroy me / my love will destroy you.
THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY. painting a portrait or sketching the face of someone you love. meeting in secret. visions of your lover dying. clutching a lover’s clothes to your chest. love so consuming you kill them. protecting their innocence at all costs. betrayal. polyamory. devotion. flowers for the one you love. remembering the name of your first love. jealousy when you see them with someone else. love so consuming you die for it. visiting the place where you saw them the first time.
THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. letters to your lover. marrying for love. these bars can’t keep me from you. motivated by love. an avenging angel. scorching jealousy. love reborn. devoted to memory. it was all for you. going your separate ways. commit murder for me. an unstoppable hunger. death comes for us all. the strongest love eventually grows apart.
DRACULA. the holiest love. girls love wolves. the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. violence is passion. red lips, sharp teeth. love letters in a diary. unrelenting support. getting lost in the woods. coming home to you. walking backwards into hell. vengeance for my love. even death won’t stop me. we can live forever. love is an open wound. too much love to give. bestowing your favor. a never-ending thirst. beauty even in death. ravenous desire. if only death had a heart to give. a mercy killing. these violent delights have violent ends.
FRANKENSTEIN. childhood friends to lovers. they were something out of a dream. arranged marriages. learning to love. was it all really worth it? our guilt can know no bounds. vengeance, my love. dismembered body parts. my beating heart in your open palm. your death destroys me. adam and eve. crossing the mountains. an antagonist in mourning. paradise lost. the loss of innocence. abandoning your dream. the tempest on the horizon. humans are the real monsters. my love is wiser than my hate.
tagged by: I stole it from so many people! :>
tagging: steal it from me if you want to!! and tag me i wanna see!
𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 (a series of nonverbal prompts . mature themes present , ‘ my ’ muse belongs to the one who posted the meme - send “ + REVERSE ” to reverse the prompts .)
→ 𝐈 . GENERAL
❛ hush . raise a finger in a gesture to silence my muse . ❛ sit . gesture for my muse to sit down . ❛ door . hold a door open for my muse . ❛ tap . tap my muse on the shoulder to garner their attention . ❛ hunger . give my muse something to eat / drink . ❛ cook . present my muse with home - cooked food . ❛ brush . work a brush / comb through my muse’s hair . ❛ read . silently read a book alongside my muse . ❛ hand . hold out a hand for my muse to take . ❛ dressed . help my muse put on an article of clothing . ❛ note . give my muse a note saying : [ content ] . ❛ amplify . turn up the music in the car .
→ 𝐈𝐈 . ANGST
❛ patch . help my muse patch up a wound . ❛ night terrors . hold my muse after they wake up from a nightmare . ❛ company . silently sit with my muse to comfort them. ❛ hospital . my muse is told that yours is in the hospital . ❛ revelation . show my muse evidence of a lie they told . ❛ indulge . find my muse drinking to cope . ❛ downfall . find my muse collapsed on the ground . ❛ console . comfort my muse as they cry . ❛ nurse . give my muse company in the hospital .
→ 𝐈𝐈 . AFFECTIONATE
❛ wink . wink at my muse . ❛ wrap . wrap an arm around my muse’s [ shoulders / waist ] . ❛ caress . gently caress my muse’s face . ❛ tousle . mess playfully with my muse’s hair . ❛ chest . place your head on my muse’s chest . ❛ comb . comb fingers through my muse’s hair . ❛ grasp . run to my muse & jump into their arms . ❛ lean . lean on my muse’s shoulder . ❛ tender . kiss my muse on the [ forehead / cheek / nose ] . ❛ abrupt . kiss my muse out of the blue . ❛ chaste . chastely kiss my muse . ❛ good morning . kiss my muse the morning after . ❛ volumes . gaze at my muse in a way that silently says ‘i love you’ .
→ 𝐈𝐈𝐈 . VIOLENT
❛ strike . [ slap / punch ] my muse in the face . ❛ gun . wield a gun at my muse . ❛ twist . twist my muse’s arm behind their back . ❛ throttle . aggressively wrap your hands around my muse’s throat . ❛ parch . burn my muse with a hot object . ❛ take down . forcefully bring my muse to the ground . ❛ gouge . wield a sharp object at my muse . ❛ shunt . shove my muse backwards . ❛ stickup . yell at my muse to put their hands in the air. ❛ shoot . [ fatally / non-fatally ] shoot my muse . ❛ stab . stab my muse with a [ knife / other object ].
→ 𝐈𝐕 . NSFW
❛ surprise . send an unexpected nsfw image to my muse . ❛ pin . push my muse against a [ wall, table, other ] . ❛ go down . go down on my muse . ❛ choke . intimately wrap your hands around my muse’s throat . ❛ belt loops . pull my muse closer by their belt loops . ❛ skinny dipping . go skinny dipping with my muse . ❛ rip . tear a piece of clothing from my muse’s body . ❛ mark . leave a mark on my muse’s body [ specify where ] .
update : ragna’s bio is done and gezras’ is almost there !!
ulvehekser:
@openedbooks SAID :: ‘don’t make that face. i’m telling the truth!’ ( from Jaskier ) Distrust Prompts | ACCEPTING
WITH HIS JAW CLENCHED, the witcher stepped forward and pressed his hand flat against the other’s chest to give him a firm shove. The bodies at their feet were still warm, fresh blood pooling from them and soaking into the dirt. By nightfall, these bandits would be a feast for the crows and far worse. They wouldn’t have been, if Jaskier hadn’t run his mouth — or at least, that’s how Geralt felt about it all in the heat of the moment.
“You could’ve died!”
With such disparity in their strength, it isn’t any wonder that when Geralt shoves him, the bard stumbles. After all, Jaskier isn’t the sturdiest of men, not by a long shot-- a fact owed to a life that demands blessedly little of him in terms of brawn. The witcher’s hand against his chest easily forces the breath from his lungs in a short ‘ oof-- ’ and sends him staggering back a step.
Thankfully, he doesn’t fall. He doubts his ability to handle being spontaneously covered in fresh blood, as any sensible person should.
Jaskier swallows hard, raising his chin to look up at his dear friend-- and pointedly away from the cooling corpses. “ I-- alright, Geralt, I shall admit that my tongue runs away with me at times, but really, what did you want me to do? I couldn’t give them all of my things and neither could you! I mean, would you really have handed over your swords? No, I don’t think so! You-- ”
The troubadour pauses in his impassioned self-defense as his mind catches up with his mouth. There’s something in Geralt’s voice, something in his eyes under the set of those furious brows. And then there’s the words he’d said, themselves. “You could’ve died!”
Geralt is... worried.
Jaskier shakes his head and takes a tentative step back towards the witcher, hands raised in a placating gesture. “ Can we go, Geralt? ” His tone, though still insistent, softens by a degree. “ I am fully in one piece, I can promise you that, but I simply cannot continue this argument surrounded by bandit corpses, I hope you can understand. ”
( * THE WITCHER 3 PROMPTS !
trigger warnings for murder / war.
❛ you always were an unruly child. i adored that about you. now fly. ❜
❛ don’t blame yourself. ❜
❛ you don’t know how it is. to see someone you love die. because of you, for you. ❜
❛ who taught you to fight like this? ❜
❛ hatred and prejudice will never be eradicated. ❜
❛ to have a scapegoat — that’s the key. ❜
❛ kings die, realms fall, but magic endures. ❜
❛ i missed those awkward compliments of yours. ❜
❛ it’s bound to come in handy. and, each time it does, you will think of me. ❜
❛ do anything stupid, and i’ll kill you, too. ❜
❛ kill me if you must. i’ve nothin’ to live for anyway. ❜
❛ whisper to the wolves. tell them to stay away. ❜
❛ i was attacked — had to defend myself. ❜
❛ once i was free… i shall be free once more. ❜
❛ come on, let me give you a taste of my life. ❜
❛ well… some causes require a sacrifice. ❜
❛ done my fair share of fighting. wouldn’t carry a sword if i didn’t know how to use it. ❜
❛ have you killed humans? ❜
❛ i want to see how you manage in a fight, if you can fight at all. ❜
❛ nothing wrong with having a drink in good company. ❜
❛ i merely know when to indulge my pride, and when i must swallow it. ❜
❛ we can fight another time, in another place. where the walls have no ears. ❜
❛ next time you wonder why i’m so bitter… well, there’s your answer. ❜
❛ suddenly, i’ve an immense desire to drink. ❜
❛ i trust you have an explanation for this. a very good one. ❜
❛ i’ve had nothing but nightmares lately, pretty horrible. ❜
❛ i was afraid you were dead. ❜
❛ they’ll know where we’ve gone, they’ll know how to find me! ❜
❛ if i’m to die today, i wish to look smashing for the occasion. ❜
❛ women only ever beautify themselves for their own satisfaction. ❜
❛ always believed attack was the best defense. ❜
❛ don’t treat me like a child. ❜
❛ i like it when you smile. come here. everything will be all right. ❜
❛ i won’t let them take you, you know that? ❜
❛ you gotta keep clear, stay out of trouble. ❜
❛ i cannot hide forever. i must face them! ❜
❛ you humans are so… impractical. ❜
❛ i’ll remember your teachings always. and the sacrifice you made. ❜
❛ we all knew what we were signing up for. ❜
❛ no. i will flee no more. ❜
❛ lying didn’t always come easily to you. ❜
❛ we’ve done the hardest part. only got the pleasant bits now. ❜
❛ you worry too much. what will be, will be. ❜
❛ you were born to greatness. ❜
❛ appearances can be deceiving. ❜
❛ you’re so charming when you try to be funny. ❜
❛ we may not survive this. in fact, our chances are slim. ❜
❛ we’ve come a long way, and i’ll be damned if we’ve come to fail. ❜
❛ i admire your optimism. wish i shared it. ❜
❛ i wish to leave, go far away. and i’d like you to come with me. ❜
❛ you know me. nothing i like more than breaking rules. ❜
❛ what can you know about saving the world, silly? ❜
❛ you know who i am. and why i’m here. ❜
❛ how many have you already killed? how many more might you still? ❜
❛ i sense your pain. i see your fear. ❜
❛ i don’t feel a thing anymore. ❜
unsure if I’ll be getting any replies done today, BUT! I will be finishing my last two character bio pages ( gezras of leyda and my oc ragna. )
I also might make an interest checker? It makes it easier for me if I know which muses you are interested in interacting with so that I can send you things from them and know how to approach you for plotting. Especially since there are so many different adaptations of the witc.her and not everyone is familiar with them all! :>
to all of my new followers : welcome to my regis blog, you’ll notice there are other muses listed here but make no mistake, I mostly write regis fdshjgdhjs
closedcoffins:
Cahir releases a quiet sigh of relief. He had thought, of course, that it would be irrational for Iorveth to do away with him over a simple request, but there has always been that fear. The Emperor had allegedly been ready to execute him for something he hadn’t known about at all, without wanting proof or testimony. Cahir hadn’t even been told directly of his transgressions, having been informed by the Scoia’tael who had handed him over to Iorveth in the first place.
Dying for Nilfgaard had seemed like an inevitability. He chose to join the army, but only because his family wished it, only because it was a way to keep them safe. Since joining, his life has not been his own. Any freedom of choice was taken from him, and he had regretted many things about his service. Though he is similarly at a loss for choice with the Scoia’tael, hearing Iorveth’s matter-of-fact dismissal of his statement—if you would go, then go—makes him newly invigorated to fight for them.
Under Iorveth, he is being given the option to go. If he left, he knows there would be little for him. Even so, Cahir could not be more grateful. Were he a more expressive man, he might even be beaning, but his expression does not change.
“I may suffer and die anywhere in the world. I already cannot do so among my own people,” he thinks achingly of Darn Dyffra, and hopes his family are doing well for themselves in his absence, “so I will do so among your ranks. I find it more honorable if I do die at all to die fighting for someone who I would like to be fighting for. Is that so unreasonable?”
Many soldiers fight because they want to devote themselves wholly to the place or the people they are fighting for. As for Cahir, he cannot remember a time before the thought was planted in his head that he wanted to be a soldier. He cannot remember a time where there were things he wanted to do for his own sake. He’s better answering to someone else, or at least following them, and Iorveth though rightfully distrusting is exceptionally kind to devote some of his already scarce resources to keeping Cahir alive.
“It must mean very little to you, but I had a life and family I was proud of, once. I cannot go back to them—the Empire is looking for me and would have my head if I returned to any territory they occupied. Nor can I go anywhere outside the Empire, for the Nordlings would think me a spy, and they would take any precaution they judged necessary, or they would leap directly to torturing me for information that I would give freely. Do you understand?” Cahir grimaces, imagining such a fate. Nilfgaard and the North are both terrible, he thinks. The elves are by no stretch of the imagination kind to him, but they are not so cruel that Cahir would prefer that fate. “I can go nowhere. But I don’t want to sit idly by in the face of your undue generosity, either. I’m not unfamiliar with suffering. If I have to suffer more, so be it.”
He falls silent, feeling oddly tired after such a speech. His voice is hoarse—disuse after two years of incarceration is not an easily solved issue, though he has been out for some time.
Still, he isn’t done.
“I may not be capable of understanding your cause no matter how dedicated I make myself to it,” Cahir says, “but I know that if things were different, I might be fighting for a similar thing. Vicovaro—my country—was absorbed by Nilfgaard when I was small. Life is not bad, but we are a proud people who cannot last forever without an identity. Were Vicovaro’s people to rise up and fight, I would join them. So I don’t see why I shouldn’t join you.”
The more the dh’oine speaks, the more Iorveth, against his will, begins to understand. Cahir speaks to him not as a Nilfgaardian soldier, but as a man cast aside by all-- enemies and allies becoming one in the same-- with nowhere to go save for one battlefield or another. A man whose home and culture is lost to him, taken and locked away to be replaced by something ‘superior’ , according to those who had taken it.
Iorveth thinks of the non-human districts within human cities-- the poverty, the disrespect, the exploitation and stunted livelihood. The eyes of his people-- kicked into the muck and treated as lesser, some high on fisstech to numb the pain; some angry, seething silently and waiting for their first chance to explode; and some who know nothing of where they come from or what they could be if they were only free to be it. He thinks of songs and stories lost, entire pieces of culture stamped out along with the lives preserving them.
We are a proud people who cannot last forever without an identity.
It isn’t the same, not nearly, but it is enough. It’s enough to know that, while Iorveth’s cause is not Cahir’s, Iorveth’s reasons-- the reasons of the scoia’tael-- are understood. Cahir doesn’t think of him as another mad elf with a mad plan. He doesn’t think of him as a beast, biting the hand that feeds him scraps. He knows what they’re fighting for, even if it is their fight and not his.
It’s enough.
“ ...I understand. ” The bite has gone from his tone, and when he casts his gaze back upon the soldier, the glare has faded from sharp-edged green eyes-- replaced by a soul-deep exhaustion. It’s there for an instant, lingering, before it flees from sight, back behind the pride and the power. The elf crosses his arms over his chest and surveys Cahir once more, weighing things in his mind.
The scales tip in the dh’oine’s favor. Cahir explains himself until his voice turns raw, professing that he would fight in return for Iorveth’s kindness; His generosity-- things Iorveth was certain he no longer had... In light of it all, turning him away seems less and less like the best choice. The human is another mouth to feed, yes, but they’ve already been feeding him since the day Isengrim had left him with them.
“ Do not mistake me; I do not trust you. If you try anything stupid, if you do anything to harm us, I will put an arrow through your skull myself. ” The warning, while honest, lacks the harshness of Iorveth’s previous threats. It is matter-of-fact-- he isn’t trying to scare him this time, simply telling him the truth. “ Fight, if that’s what you insist on doing. But as long as you do it here, with us, you’ll need to adapt. ”
The Aen Seidhe turns, beckoning Cahir to follow as he walks, and stops before their stock of weapons. Nameless swords and bows, half-full quivers and daggers in need of sharpening-- all recovered from the fallen, elven and human alike. The commander glances over to Cahir once more and nods to himself, selecting a longbow and pressing it to Cahir’s chest.
It’s the first weapon he’s allowed the man to carry in his presence and he meets his eyes to show he understands the significance. There should be no miscommunication in these moments. “ You’ll need to get used to this, if you aren’t already well acquainted. We strike well before we show ourselves to our enemy. A longbow will grant you greater range and higher accuracy, provided you train with it well. You can choose your sword yourself... ”
He pauses, a frown drawing at his lips as a thought crosses his mind. His unit has never housed a human and so, in battle, very few orders are called in the common tongue. Many of his people, particularly the younger elves, know less of it than he does.
“ How is your hen llinge? Do you speak the elder tongue? ”
WHAT ARE YOU SEEKING? / MUSE : REGIS
HOME. "i wish i could say i am a light that never goes out, but i flicker from time to time." // oh, little one, you have burned for so quietly for so long, haven't you? burnt yourself out trying to give others light? wishing, desperately, that they would notice the way your hands shake or the wildflower bruises under your tired eyes. but they never have, have they? and so, it obviously wasn't bad? right? you had more to give, didn't you? how much could you pour yourself out before they noticed? it is all you've ever known, after all. help, help, help, help. (are you providing it, or begging for it?) but you've given too much, spread yourself too thin, didn't you? you are so heavy, so tired. you have spent your life caring for others the way you wished someone would care for you. but you're worried, aren't you? that if you can't be what they need, if you can't be the pillar for others to lean on, they'll leave you. what you seek is HOME, a safe place to rest and be taken care of. and little light, you deserve it. you have earned it. you are worth more than what you can provide for others: you deserve the same care you so freely give out. they will love you all the same, honey. set down the world, and rest that weary heart of yours
tagged by : i am a thief and i stole it from @beastslays tagging : steal it from me and tag me, i would love to see! :>
closedcoffins:
Regis is lucky to have such a convenient excuse for avoiding the topic. Lucky because Dandelion is far more observant and far less willing to let things of this matter slide than people often assume of him, and Regis is one of the few people who should know better. So when Regis diverts the question for later, Dandelion does have half a mind to scold and pry, despite his better judgment. But the vampire had chosen an excellent distraction in the form of Geralt in danger.
“Me?” Dandelion asks incredulously, eyes shooting open. He’s sure his anxiety is palpable—not once has he even considered returning to Toussaint. Surely, he’d be able to get himself out of any punishment Anna Henrietta might have in mind for him upon his return, but what then? “You should know, Regis, that Little Weasel would have my head if I stepped even a toe into Toussaint. Geralt must have really gotten himself into something terrible if you need my help with the Duchess—but when doesn’t he get himself into terrible things, the mad fool?”
As Dandelion speaks, his actions betray his true feelings—already he’s carefully placed his lute on an empty table and begun taking scope of the room to gather his more conspicuous belongings of import, most notably a rather fine bottle of wine is grabbed from behind a counter as a short-notice gift for the Duchess. The interaction during which he will give her the wine is already half mapped out in his head. Not that he says any of it aloud to Regis.
“Honestly, how many times have I had to save his skin now from certain death? Far too many; what do you take me for, a worker of miracles? Well, only sometimes, and only where it counts.” His voice carries down as he walks up the stairs, only up there for as long as it takes to grab his actual essentials ( alongside a more-dashing-than-gaudy set of clothes befitting of Anna Henrietta’s presence ) then returning back down. “Well, I suppose there’s no two ways about it. If Geralt is in danger, I certainly won’t refuse such an earnest plea for my desperately needed help… Are we setting off right away? I must insist that we do—hold this for a moment. Don’t wrinkle it, it cost more than a fortune from the finest tailor I know, I shall have to introduce you someday; hold it carefully, I tell you.”
The bard places the aforementioned dashing outfit in Regis’s arms rather abruptly, turning to haphazardly pack most everything else away in previously packed away saddlebags that have a very striking resemblance to the saddlebags he’d gotten from Anna Henrietta—Pegasus may be no more ( though what a brilliant and noble steed he was ), but Dandelion won’t have any trouble acquiring a horse, certainly not with his notoriety in Novigrad.
When Dandelion finally takes the clothes back from Regis, packing them far more carefully into another, larger bag to be worn around the shoulder, he surveys his handiwork. Unfortunately, most things other than the nice outfit are likely to be wrinkled, but there’s not much to be done about that when time is of the essence and he’s feeling a very real sense of worry in his heart for Geralt, knowing exactly how tumultuous the Duchess can be.
Grabbing his lute with finality, he fixes Regis with a stern gaze. “Right. We’re off to get me a horse, and you if you haven’t brought one, since I undoubtedly cannot keep up with you if you go without. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about the explanation you owe me. You can craft any brilliant story you like, but I won’t accept a word of it if it’s not the truth. Off we go!”
Regis has very little time, or inclination, to respond to the vast majority of the ramblings Dandelion goes through. He’s content to wait, watching with a soft affection shaping his countenance as the troubadour bustles about, packing and complaining in equal measure. In spite of the urgency of their predicament, the vampire cannot help but find it all terribly endearing. It’s nostalgic, like returning home after a long and arduous journey, and Regis is helpless in the face of it.
The worry for Geralt lingers over it all like a dark, foreboding cloud and Regis has plenty to dread even beyond that, knowing well that Dandelion is the last person who will accept his propensity for avoidance-- but the poet creates light within darkness, whether he means to or not, and at least they share a sense of priority in this. Enough to set Regis’ explanation aside for a moment or two. The vampire will take any amount of time he can to try and formulate the best way to explain himself while also assuaging any concerns on his behalf.
He isn’t the one in prison, facing execution at the whim of a fickle duchess. His troubles matter very little, in the grand scheme of things, as they so often do.
Regis holds Dandelion’s outfit as carefully as he was instructed to, with steady surgeon’s hands. Looking over the doublet, he hums in acknowledgment of the bard’s hurried explanation of its quality. Regis has lived a long time, and has been partial to many a luxury, but fine clothing suits the bard in a way that it has never-- and likely will never-- suit him.
“ Though I do appreciate the thought, I have neither a fortune, nor any reason to visit an exceptionally good tailor. I doubt high society and I shall mix for a while to come, after this incident, as sad as it makes me to say. I’ve made the duchess quite cross with me as well, in fact, and nearly gave myself away in the process. ” There’s a brief flicker of pearly fangs just past carefully pursed lips-- the barest glimpse of a grin. “ I am certain you’ll look more than dashing enough for the both of us. ”
With the packing settled, Regis fixes the way the strap of his satchel lies upon his shoulder and nods his agreement. Retracing his steps back to the cabaret’s entrance, he opens the door and holds it for his companion. “ After you, dear poet. I’m afraid I didn’t arrive on horseback. It was faster, that way-- not to mention that horses are not particularly fond of me-- as I’m sure you recall. ”
He’s glossing over the wyvern in the room yet again, but he nods, at the very least, as he falls into step at Dandelion’s side. “ Of course. Lying to you would be an exercise in futility. But we’ll have plenty of time for me to explain myself on the road. Oh, and-- you mustn’t blame Geralt too terribly for putting you on such a spot. It’s my fault, really-- if not for my feelings about his most recent hunt, he’d be comfortably at home right now, and a much richer man for it. ”
