#ivydrift

[castillon02]

For the wips - Lambert and the mule? I love it already

The mule’s short and stocky, her thick dun coat lightening to cream underneath her round belly and at the tip of the snout she’s got buried in a patch of chickweed. Her legs go dark as mud from knees to hooves, like she’s wearing hose, and if that weren’t enough of a give-away, she’s facing away from him, showing off the unmistakable erect mane of a Kaedweni wild horse. Crossed with a donkey? She must have been bred for stubbornness. 

Her back also shows scars from a lash, which makes Lambert even smugger about knifing the pissants who’d had her before. Only now he’s left with a dilemma: take her to his bastard castle or set her loose? 

“You’re tough, right?” he mutters at the mule. She’s sturdy. Maybe she can handle herself. 

Her big, goofy ears don’t even twitch at the sound of his voice.

Lambert frowns. But. Could be nothing. Could be a mule accustomed to conversation. He claps his hands, loud, to check. 

No reaction. 

He’s about to be back at his roost for winter, plenty of time to make more, so for a final test he pulls a banger out of the pack on his back and tosses it behind him. It explodes in a burst of bright light and loud noise, mostly harmless but good for distractions or scaring off unwanted animals. Horses in particular tend to bolt. 

The mule keeps chewing contentedly. She’s stone cold deaf, no way around it. 

A lump of dread builds in Lambert’s belly. Even a little old lynx could bring her down if she were facing the wrong direction. “Fuck,” he says. He’s not going to leave her here. 

Thank you for asking, @ivydrift! This one is about how Lambert absolutely Will Not take a mount on the path, for moral reasons of refusing to drag another creature into a monster-hunting lifestyle that will get it killed, but also for personal reasons of thinking that if he’s responsible for something’s life then he’ll inevitably fuck it up.

Then Lambert kills some bandits near Kaer Morhen, finds their deaf mule around a corner, and gets to have a stubborn little equine companion over the winter. As a treat, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. 

(I’m imagining Kaedwen’s wild horses are similar to Przewalski’s horses.) 

[reinvent-and-believe]

From the sensory prompts: some combination of 31 / 33 / 63 (if any of those are helpful!)

The prompts: the cold, sharp smell of the first frost, the feel of fingertips trailing over a bare shoulder blade, indigo skies just before dawn

—

The bard’s shivering wakes him.

Geralt’s eyes open, pupils adjusting to the dark. Through the uncovered window, he can see the deep indigo of the sky just before dawn’s first light, and knows it will be several hours before Jaskier wakes, if left to his own devices. He could go ahead and wake him; should, perhaps.

Instead he pulls him closer. Jaskier makes a satisfied little whine in the back of his throat, shifting until his torso is splayed out over Geralt’s. The witcher runs his fingertips lightly over the smooth shoulder, then rubs at the icy skin with a bit more force in a bid to generate some heat. It’s too cold to sleep so bare, even beneath all their blankets and Geralt’s thick winter traveling cloak—the biting, sharp smell of the first frost hangs heavy in the air, crisp and dangerous—but Jaskier had been so delighted to find shelter for the night that he couldn’t be dissuaded from stripping down. (Few things ever dissuade Jaskier from stripping down, when he’s so inclined.)

Their shelter is barely a cottage, practically a hut, that’s been abandoned for at least a few months, nothing covering the door frame or windows. But it has a firepit in the center of the room that warmed them through the night.

Encircled securely in his arms, Jaskier shivers again.

Geralt should just wake him. They can dress, break their fast, and make their way at first light.

Instead he lifts his head to glance at the firepit. Two smaller pieces of firewood must have fallen away from the flame last night; they lie unburned amidst the soot.

He carefully signs a blast of igni toward them, holds his bard tighter, and closes his eyes.

[reinvent-and-believe]

🌹

Thanks friend! 💜💜💜

“But I don’t want to…” It’s rare that he’s seen his bard at a loss for words, but the boy seems to be struggling. “I want you,” he repeats softly, eyes intently scanning Geralt’s face. “I want whatever part you can give, Geralt. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

And perhaps it’s absurd that this boy is worried about hurting him, as though Geralt couldn’t stop him if he wanted, couldn’t end his short life with a single blow. But then again, perhaps it’s not so absurd, when that callused hand returns to his chest and he thinks his heart might burst from the acceleration, when that pressure against his sternum is the only thing that exists in the whole world, and suddenly he knows that it doesn’t matter that he could outrun or outmaneuver or outmuscle the bard because with just a touch and a look he is helpless, hopelessly outmatched.

[the-butch-of-blaviken]

Hm, for the word guessing how about: knife, write/wrote, or splash?

I couldn’t find any of these words in my current wip, sorry! But I did find one in my secondary Keira/Lambert wip:

Lambert doesn’t know exactly what the problem is about; he just knows there’s a problem. Turns out it has something to do with translation, apparently. Like every proper sorceress who went to Aretuza, Keira knows enough Elder Speech to get by, but the book’s author apparently spoke and wrote in a regional dialect that is driving her crazy.

This is still completely unedited so i’m a little ashamed to put it out there so soon but it’s the only word i could find! Thanks for the ask! <3

[stillmadaboutpetra]

@ivydrift im now tagging u in the WIP game

[ahh-fxck]

✨- which fictional character (book, show, or movie) do you relate to most?

Ellen Cherry Charles, who stumbles bewildered through “Skinny Legs and All” by Tom Robbins without a Single Fucking Clue. I love this passage from the end of the book:

“We’re making it up.”

Who? What?

“Us. All of is. It. All of it. The world, the universe, life, reality. Especially reality.”

We’re making it up?

“We make it up. We made it up. We shall make it up. We have been making it up. I make it up. You make it up. He, she, it makes it up.”

Okay, I’m an artist, I can accept that. In theory. But how do I apply it to daily life?”

“You’ll have to figure...”

It out for myself. But hold on. Please don’t go away. Can’t you at least leave me with some advice?

“You need more?” (The inner voice was incredulous.)

Yes. Please. A little more. A speck more in the line of practical advice.

“Very well. The trick is this: Keep your eye on the ball, even when you can’t see the ball.”

You’re kidding, thought Ellen Cherry Charles.