#keldar

[defunct-notfun]

happy birthday from keldar!

just a lil birthday doodle of keldar the pibble beefcake for teka. im glad u made it around the sun again friend!!!!!

[terra-tortoise]

@dragonaday-fr day 29 - an old dragon

Keldar! my oldest dragon, an earth snapper born in 2015

[hungarianbee]

Imaginary fic title: Endless Sea (preferably for Encanto or Witcher)

Love you, Bee ♥︎

Awww, love you too! And how can this be anything but Ivar/Keldar?? Let’s throw in some classic fairy tale elements, like the little mermaid, and we’re good to go.

Ivar has been oh so careful, but he’s caught in a net during one of his patrols. Warritt, the hypocrite, always said his curiosity would be his downfall, but Ivar always just shrugged it off.

He can’t shrug the net off though, not without considerable damage being done to his tail, where hooks sunk into the meat and the delicate part of his fins. Humiliating is one word for the situation. Scary would be another, if an understatement. He manages to get to shore, undignified and in pain. He fully expects to die there.

That expectation triples when he wakes up thirsty, famished, with a pair of yellow eyes watching him. A witcher, if the sirens are correct - they usually are, the pests, hunting humans like game -, and that can only mean one thing. Ivar bears sharp rows of teeth. The witcher, calm and collected, and cool as a sea cucumber, pulls out a feather and a book, and starts to sketch. When they're finished, they show the result: a perfectly drawn realistic picture of Ivar, with notations by the side. The witcher flips the page and Ivar grunts in surprise. He recognizes the tongue of vodyanoi, fishpeople, worshippers of Dagon, though he himself doesn’t speak it fluently. It takes a moment to decipher the writing (Dool Bool tohl grool?), but when he does, he ends up rolling his eyes. Yes, he speaks Common. And the witcher smiles, shuts the book and says, “I’m here to help.”

[tumbleweedtech]

Birds of Feather

Hello dears. I’m clearing out my WIPs, deleting ones I’ll not work on further. So here, you can have a small scene.  Rating: T, I guess? Just talking about grief of the loss of a relationship. Implied/past Ivar/Keldar, and Arnaghad/Erland. 

The knock was a soft beat that made Keldar smile even with the minor interruption. No one would mind an inkblot - there were far worse staining ledgers and journals alike. 

The quill was set down carefully as they beckoned their old friend to enter. 

"Letters." Erland waved a small bundle before passing them over. The years had worn heavy on his shoulders, and he walked with a stiffness in his left leg on the coldest days. 

Keldar smiled their thanks and flipped through, there were missives that were expected, a new letter from Vesemir, and a few interesting and unknown senders. 

"When was the last time you heard from him?"

"Don't meddle, Erland." 

"I'd see you happy if I could, Keldar. Loneliness is hard enough a load to bear, if you can avoid it..." 

They just sighed and sat back, stretching in their chair. It was an old argument, with Erland pushing gently, and Keldar pointing out the obvious.

"What would you have me do, Erland? My life is with this Library, and the knowledge our successors need to survive. I'll not chase ghosts to my end. And really? You're a fine one to talk. When was the last you reached out?"

Erland's face darkened as he turned away. "It's not the same."

"Is it though? You're both stubborn- wanting and waiting and not reaching out." Keldar watched the conflict on Erland's face with sympathy, knowing the question he wanted to ask and couldn't. "Yes, we've spoken. He asks of you. Every letter, he's asked of you. Damn your pride and go." 

"He truly hasn't said a word?"

Keldar shook their head, quietly. "I don't think he has realized how much time has passed- he watches, only watches for those riders. I cannot follow that obsession, Erland. He goes where I cannot follow. I have nothing to offer him, he has come and stripped the library of all it could offer him. He has no reason to return." 

Erland took a breath- and Keldar waited, waited for the apology that happened every iteration of this discussion. But this time, Erland strode forward quietly, solemnly, and placed a heavy hand on Keldar's shoulder. He squeezed gently, and Keldar patted it, sighing softly at the wrinkles and age spots on them both that whispered of time passing far too quickly. 

"I won't ask again, old friend."

"Thank you.”

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Hi Rawr!

If you're up for it, maybe ace!Keldar x Vesemir x Guxart? I'd love some fluff or soft smut ❤

I love the way you write them, even though I don't really know these characters, but it's always giving me feels <3

A/N: Guxart is renowned for his charm, his athleticism and his dynamic leadership, so when it looks like age is beginning to catch up with him, he runs and hides high in the rafters. It falls to Keldar and Vesemir to help him see his worth outside of being a Witcher. Warnings: none, old injuries.

Logically, Guxart knew it would happen one day. Every mortal creature on the Continent aged, even witchers. It was a natural part of life’s cycle, but that didn’t mean he liked the idea or acknowledged that he was growing ever closer to his body’s limit with each passing year. Keldar and Vesemir had both wound back their exercise to something more manageable, applying themselves instead to the general running of Kaer Morhen, with sparring sessions out in the courtyard to keep their wits and footwork sharp. But Guxart ignored the creaks of his joints and the twinge of his muscles, the way everything ached in the mornings when he got up early to run the walls with the rest of his school. 

His stubborn refusal to deal with the inevitable caught up with him one afternoon during a sparring match with Eskel. The wolf pup had the strongest Signs Guxart had ever seen, coupled with the tight turns of his pirouettes and the flurry of his strikes, Guxart found himself evenly matched. His lower back protested as it always did—a relic of an unlucky encounter with an ekimmara that had nearly taken his ability to walk—but he pushed on. Eskel threw Aard after a neat counter, and Guxart lifted an arm for Heliotrope… or tried. His entire back went into spasm as he twisted to deflect, and Eskel’s Aard hit him squarely in the chest.

Once the momentum of his forced cartwheel petered out, Guxart laid on the dusty cobblestones several feet from his sword, pain stealing the breath from his lungs. The spectators paused, expecting him to spring to his feet as he always did, but when it became clear he was down for the count, it was Aiden that broke ranks and ran to his side. “Guxart,” he murmured urgently, stretching out a hand to his Grandmaster’s shoulder as he crouched down. “What—?”

“G’back,” the old tomcat snarled, his fingers curling. He pushed up onto hands and knees, seething through a groan of agony. “Out’th’way.” Guxart shoved Aiden back as he staggered to his feet. Eskel tried to offer an apology, but Guxart waved him away with a low warning growl and limped into Kaer Morhen, his shoulders hunched. He wasn’t sure what hurt most—the embarrassment or his back.

Despite the pain that had seized his muscles, Guxart managed to climb into the rafters of the library and tuck himself away to avoid facing anyone after his humiliation. Several hours passed and he stayed, his head in his hands, his back twinging every time he shifted his footing. As the sun set, orange light flooding through the multiple panes of the long windows at the end of the library, the bookshelf below him creaked. “Looking unsteady there, bird,” Guxart mumbled into his knees as Keldar pulled himself onto the rafter.

“Aye, well,” Keldar puffed, “it’s a long time since I’ve had to clamber through the roof beams. Are you done sulking?”

“I’m not sulking,” Guxart bit out.

“Hmm.” Keldar sat on the beam in front of him, legs crossed, fingers steepled. “What’s hurting more—your back or your pride?”

“Oh, fuck off, you wouldn’t understand.” Guxart regretted it instantly but he had always found it difficult to be the first to back down, even with the two men he loved.

Keldar watched him carefully, head cocked to the side, fingers lacing together over his folded legs. “This doesn’t make you worth any less, you know. You’re more than your ability to fight.”

Guxart turned his face away, eyes closed. He knew he’d been cornered, that his lover had known the answer before he’d even climbed up the rickety bookshelf to get him down. “I’m… not like you and Vesemir. I don’t have anything else to offer.” 

“Guxart,” Keldar growled and reached out to take his wrist, no longer able to keep his hands away. He gathered Guxart’s hand towards him, bending the fingers carefully to place a kiss upon rough knuckles. “Foolish tomcat. It’s you we love, not your ability with a sword.”

“Didn’t see Vesemir complaining last night,” Guxart rumbled back, scrambling for humour in the face of more difficult emotion. He pressed his cheek into the heel of his palm, elbow on an upturned knee, and sighed. “When did I get old, bird?” 

“We’re the lucky few,” Keldar replied as gently as he could. “It’s something we should take pride in, not lament.”

“No witcher has ever died in his bed. Isn’t that what the old wolf says?” Guxart smirked and then regretted it as he looked up into Keldar’s face. The griffin tried to disguise the flash of hurt, but his lover saw it clear as day; the only griffin that had the chance of dying in his bed now was Keldar, while Guxart had dozens of his kits still stalking the Continent. “Keldar, I’m sorry, I didn’t--.”

“Think,” Keldar grumbled, “yes, it’s an area for improvement. Well, you can make it up to me now.”

“Anything.”

“Vesemir has drawn a bath for you in our quarters and wants to look at your back.”

“Urf,” Guxart frowned, but he was a cat of his word. They climbed down together, Keldar behind Guxart in case his back protested against the stretch of his arms. By the time they got back to their shared room, Guxart was aching all over. He wasted no time in stripping off his clothes at Vesemir’s behest and climbing into the bath. The hot water soaked away some of the pain almost instantly, and Guxart leaned back into Vesemir’s waiting hands.

“You’re a stubborn jackass,” Vesemir grunted, fingers gripping grey curls to prevent Guxart from sitting back up again. He needn’t have worried; Guxart was completely immobilised by the pleasure and relief humming through his body. “Going to let us look after you now?”

“Mm,” Guxart hummed, tilting his face into the backs of Keldar’s fingers as they stroked down his stubbled cheek. “Since you’re offering.”

Guxart basked in the adoration of his lovers as they bathed him. Old, rough hands rendered soft by the tenderness of their care. When Vesemir asked him to lean forward, Guxart mewled in quiet pain as probing fingers found the muscles that had seized and the scar tissue that evidenced the permanent damage that had been caused all those years ago. Vesemir was gentle though, pressing only as hard as Guxart he needed to ascertain that Guxart’s pain was muscular rather than spinal. 

Keldar and Vesemir still needed to help him out of the bath and into bed. Keldar cupped Guxart’s face as Vesemir worked salve and oil into his back. “Is that pity, bird?” croaked Guxart as Vesemir circling a thumb just to the right of his spine. 

“No, tomcat,” Keldar said softly, “it’s gratitude.” 

“Gratitude? Ow, wolf.” Guxart hissed and Vesemir might have grumbled something about not being such a baby before placing a kiss in his hair.

“That I’ll get to grow old with you and the worst we’ll have to deal with is a bit of backache,” Keldar said, resting their foreheads together. “You’ll get used to a slightly slower pace of life. It’ll just take time. Be patient with yourself?”

Guxart sighed, relaxing into the arm that wrapped around his waist from behind, Vesemir’s hirsute chest pressing to his damp back. It was easier to think about when he was reminded that he didn’t have to face the unknown by himself. “Suppose I can have a crack at it.”

[blooodymoon]

Lore-Only Gwent Cards Griffin Witchers (Named)

→ Voicelines

School of the Griffin

Masterpost

Card Art from Gwent.One My Edit

Card Texts under the Cut

Keldar “You blunt, brainless humanoids! What do you mean by ‘I don't know?’. You would go hunt the vampires with the Lebioda idol, smeared in garlic!” ⁠— Keldar

Coën “There is no such thing as a fair fight. Every advantage and every opportunity that arises is used in combat.” ⁠— Coën

Erland of Larvik Erland founded the School of the Griffin, and hoped his emphasis on knightly values would help elevate the reputation of witchers among the common folk. Alas, his efforts would go in vain.

[witcher-lore-enjoyer]

Griffin Witchers

Cat | Bear | Viper

I’m hyperfixating on witcher lore this month,.,.,. gimme the happy hormones mhmmmhmmn

Kaer Seren

Kaer Seren’s literary collection was its greatest treasure and the envy of a group of overzealous mages. In their attempt to seize it for themselves, they destroyed the very thing they desired most.

Located at the sea end of a mountain range in Kovir and Poviss.

Reaching Kaer Seren by land proved too daunting a task for most. The locale also provided the residents of Kaer Seren access to seafaring traders, ensuring they were always well-supplied. Armed with crossbows, a secured position, and a reliable source of provisions, the Griffins remained ready and capable to repel any assault.

Nevertheless, not a single soldier was prepared to fight an avalanche unleashed by the Council of Mages.

Founder

Erland of Larvik

Erland founded the School of the Griffin, and hoped his emphasis on knightly values would help elevate the reputation of witchers among the common folk. Alas, his efforts would go in vain.

Erland stood as an example for the new witchers, training them to have honor in their practice and conviction in their hearts. Together, with the head sorcerer of the school, a new discipline was crafted, focusing on magic, preparedness, and flexibility.

Training

At Kaer Seren, students are afforded the luxury of choice when it comes to their final Trial. They either locate and retrieve a griffin’s egg, or recite the entirety of Liber Tenebrarum verbatim. To Old Keldar’s dismay, no one has ever chosen the latter.

Throughout the ages, the other schools respected the Griffins for their study of magic and fighting style that emphasized multiple opponents

They are unparalleled masters in the art of tracking and hunting, even amid the most inhospitable of environments. No matter the trail, they won’t rest until their prey is captured, or killed.

Most Griffins can split an apple in two from a hundred paces. Just make sure you don’t move.

Witcher Mentor

Knowledge will keep you alive far longer than might, dear boy.

Keldar was in charge of monster knowledge tutoring.

He had memorized the whole Liber Tenebrarum and was easily infuriated when his students provided stupid or no answer, mocking that they would likely go to hunt vampires covered with garlic and armed with Lebioda figurines.

When Kaer Seren was destroyed, he was the sole survivor of those at the fortress. He still guards the ruined fortress of his beloved school.

Some Lore from Gwent

Despite his many successful hunts and the renown and respect the School of the Griffin enjoyed, the tide eventually turned against the witchers. They had been too successful and by the late 1160s many monsters had been eradicated.

Suddenly rulers became suspicious and wary of the independent schools of hardened killers and as witchers were less useful, the churches saw a new opportunity to spread more anti-witcher propaganda.

Seizing on this moment, jealous sorcerers in turn caused an avalanche that buried Kaer Seren.

Erland was not at the keep when it happened, he was close enough to see the culprits and, not knowing how many of his brothers had survived, he decided to leave and found a cave in the mountains. Here, he wrote down all the knowledge he possessed into journals so that, when the last witcher had fallen and the monsters grew in numbers once again, humanity would know how to fight back.

What happened to Erland after this is unknown.

Armor

Griffin School equipment is of medium weight and amplifies the intensity of the wearer's Signs; as such, it is heavily implied that the school and its disciples may have specialized in the use of magic.

Three More Witchers

Coën

Coën spent his first winter at Kaer Morhen when Ciri was in the keep. He trained Ciri in sword combat.

'Coen?' ‘Aha?' 'I'm still not fast enough—' 'You're very fast.' 'Will I ever be as fast as you?' 'I doubt it.' 'Hmm . . . And are you—? Who's the best fencer in the world?' 'I've no idea.' 'You've never known one?' 'I've known many who believed themselves to be the best.' 'Oh! What were they? What were their names? What could they do?' 'Hold on, hold on, girl. I haven't got an answer to those questions. Is it all that important?' 'Of course it's important! I'd like to know who these fencers are. And where they are.' 'Where they are? I know that.' 'Ah! So where?' 'In cemeteries.'

- Ciri and Coën

His features are described as unusual for a witcher, as he retained scars from early childhood diseases, like chicken pox, which he covers with a beard, while most witchers were immunized before contracting such illnesses. This would suggest that he either contracted the disease unusually early in life, or that his witcher training began later than most.

HERE - If you want to know what happend to him. (minor SPOILER for books)

Jerome Moreau

Gonna give that old bastard a piece of my mind! - Jerome about his father

From Gwent In 1087, after saving professor Tomas Moreau, a witcher demanded that which the scholar already had, but did not know of. From this day forward, Jerome, son of Tomas, became one of the children bound by the Law of Surprise.

A few years later, the witcher came for young Jerome to take him to Kaer Seren, the home of the School of the Griffin. The boy was subjected to the usual physical training and mutations necessary to forge a witcher. Yet the process seemed mild to him as if he was particularly well suited for it.

As a result, he mostly resembled an ordinary man, leaving only his silver sword and Griffin medallion to prove the contrary. Strangers and friends alike treated him better than the average witcher, with many failing to realize the fact that a mutant stood before them.

Unfortunately, extraordinary resistance was to become Jerome's undoing. For professor Moreau did not forget about his lost son, keeping him under constant observation. His normalcy led to his father's belief that the mutations could still be reversed.

When his father, professor Moreau, lured him to Toussaint with a contract, he decided to put an end to this charade. Jerome confronted professor Moreau in 1121. After imprisoning the witcher using a paralyzing spell, he proceeded with mad and reckless experiments to free his son from the witcher's mutations. Utterly ignoring his son's contrary pleas for mercy. This process was not mild. Not at all. Brought to the brink of death on many occasions, he rose every time faster and stronger than before. And more... mutated. As a result of old Moreau's experiments and in spite of his determination, Jerome became less and less human. Until the eighth day of autumn in 1122, the professor finally gave up. He collected his notes and closed his laboratory. As for the remains of his failed subject... He just burnt them, unwilling to face what he had done ever again.

It is possible, that Jerome is still alive, because there was no body/skeleton in the cell.

Adela

In The Hexer, a polish movie. there is a school of witchers described as being "beyond the mountains", to which Adela attended. At the time, only the Cat, the Griffin, and the Wolf Schools existed in the franchise, and as she didn't attend the Cat nor the Wolf, it's possible she went to the Griffin School.

This is however only a speculation.

[thirstyforred]

✦ thirsty's fav gwent cards (447/∞) Keldar

“ You blunt, brainless humanoids! What do you mean by ‘I don't know?’. You would go hunt the vampires with the Lebioda idol, smeared in garlic! “