Kraa! Just a raven passionate about shipping Geralt and Regis.
Name of blog inspired by DieLizzy's Oblivion fanfic.
Everything else-blog can be found at @madeofcheese currently blogging lot about KCD there.
Martaana @ AO3
A take on a classic tale with Witcher 3 characters and an original character. Dettlaff van der Eretein-formerly the Beast of Beauclair, and Sarah-Illyanna de Veer a young nilfgaardian noblewoman. Dettlaff, fresh from his regeneration in the care of his friend Regis, must learn to navigate the harsh empire of Niflgaard while his rigid code of justice is challenge by a young painter with dreams and challenges of her own.
Sarah-Illyanna refused to let her grandmother see the broken pieces. Not while she was so frail, coughing blood into lace handkerchiefs. So, the little girl had slipped out after dusk, brave in the way only children who love fiercely can be.
Most shops were already closed, their windows dark. When she knocked on the door of the old tinkerer near the market square, the man cracked the door only an inch, saw her small figure, and hissed, “Go home, girl! The Beast is hunting tonight!” before slamming it shut again. Sarah-Illyanna’s lower lip trembled, but she did not cry. She wandered farther, past shuttered bakeries and silent taverns, into the harbor where children are not supposed to be in: the place was full of all manner of thieves and villains, drunkards, and women of ill-repute. Thanks to the Beast, even they were behind closed doors.
There, near the edge of the lake-side, near the stone bridge that connects to the warehouses stood an abandoned toy shop. Its sign, a wooden rocking toy horse, hung crookedly. The paint was peeling, the windows grimy. A thick layer of dust coated every surface visible through the glass she could barely reach even standing on her toes. Sarah-Illyanna’s shoulders slumped. Even the toymaker had fled.
She turned to leave, small boots scraping against cobblestones, when a sound stopped her cold.
A soft, eerie tune floated through the evening air. It was not the bright, familiar melody of her music box. This one was slower, darker, almost mournful — like a lullaby sung in a forgotten language. The notes seemed to beckon like invisible fingers. Sarah-Illyanna hesitated only a moment before pushing open the creaking door. Dust swirled up in lazy spirals as she stepped inside. Cobwebs brushed against her hair like ghostly fingers. Broken dolls and faded wooden horses stared at her from crooked shelves. Above her are puppets strung on their strings hung lifelessly like grotesque ornaments. Her heart beat faster, but the music continued, drifting from somewhere upstairs.
Gripping the shattered music box tighter, she climbed the narrow wooden stairs, each step groaning beneath her slight weight. At the top, candlelight spilled from a half-open door.
Inside the small workshop, a tall man in a black coat sat with his back partially turned to her. His wind-swept black hair, streaked with skeins of silver-gray, caught the warm glow of the candles. His hands — unnaturally long and slender, ending in sharp, pointed nails — moved with eerie precision as he sewed a torn teddy bear back together. The needle looked tiny in those dangerous fingers.
Dettlaff van der Eretein turned slowly. Piercing blue eyes, cold and ancient, fixed upon the small intruder. For a heartbeat the air grew heavy with tension. The Beast of Beauclair looked at the child standing in his temporary sanctuary, a fragile little thing wrapped in a small velvet cloak, clutching a small silk bundle like it was the most important thing in the world. Any other night, any other human, and those claws might have moved differently.
But this was a child. The grim lines of his face softened — only slightly, yet enough. The predatory sharpness in his gaze dulled into something almost… curious.
Sarah took one brave step forward, emerald eyes meeting his without flinching, her voice gentle and sweet, carrying the innocent lilt of a well-bred noble girl.
“Can you fix my music box, please, Mister Toymaker? My grandmama gave this to me and she is very sick. I don’t want her sad seeing it’s broken.”
As i said in my earlier regis post, i imagine vampires, Regis included, would be very uncanny and terrifying. So in this scene, i truly wanted to potray Regis' darker side. When Regis sees blood, he begins to tear up. He senses his addiction and urges returning, and he hates himself for it. So for me, this scene isn't simply scary, but also sad and tragic.
I usually imagine Regis as Anton Lesser, he has that kind and sophisticated aura imo, but here i couldn't really capture his likeness, so i just drew the closest thing to him.
I was going to give him a rose(but that belongs to Ciri iykyk), i ended up using thorns, hellebore aand dahlia instead. Felt more fitting for his….romantic tendencies.
If you’re new you can check my Witcher fanart series on my blog
I forgot to show you the AU about Emhyregis (2023) - an uncertain past, slavic realities, Emhyr's father is killed because of his machinations, and Emreis's offspring is hunted throughout his teenage years, spent among cruel packs of street children. Regis is the pampered son of a surgeon who managed to get hooked on drugs and start dealing them, dragging Emhyr into the business so that the gangs wouldn't kill him. About their rotten coexistence and Regis' drug highs and comedowns, about conversations about childhood dreams and how his tremors prevent him from becoming a surgeon. About how Emhyr once had a home and a family, and now only has a new drug-addicted friend who gave him a leather jacket.
I have a huge text, maybe it would even be cool to turn it into fan fiction someday
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