Chapter Text
Perhaps Geralt should have taken some clue about the bard when they first met. It was some tavern in a backwater town that he should have already forgotten. A place small and insignificant just outside of Aidern. Still, he could not have forgotten the way that the young man strolled right up to him where he was sitting in the back of the tavern, purposefully in the shadows to avoid such confrontation. Cornflower blue eyes met an unnatural yellow, and the body of the brunette remained loose and carefree. He smelled of chamomile and daisies, the familiar reek of fear nowhere yet to be found.
“You! You look interesting enough. I can’t help but notice that everyone here seems to have given their commentary on my performance. That is, everyone but you. So? What did you think?” The bard asked breezily, as if he were not talking to the most feared being in the tavern.
Geralt blinked at him, wondering if he was brave, foolhardy, or stupid. Or possibly a combination of all three.
“Well? You don’t want to keep a man with - bread in his pants, waiting . . . “ the bard said with dramatic pauses and inflections, gesturing vaguely to his person. He was wearing bright blue silken garments, though now that Geralt was paying attention the pants did seem a bit lumpy.
“Give me a review,” the man prattled on, not stopping for even a single breath. “Three words or less.”
“They don’t exist,” Geralt grumbled out after a long pause, taking a pull of his meade.
The bard cocked his head, though his mouth was immediately moving to respond to the words. “How do you mean? That the lyrics don’t exist due to the fact that words are perceived differently by different beings? Or perhaps you mean that your review doesn’t exist because you do not care what small influence that my songs have on this small audience in general. Or do you mean - “
“The monsters in your songs,” Geralt interrupted gruffly, wanting the bard to stop his inane flow of words. “They don’t exist.” It was an accurate observation to make, as a witcher. The bard had been singing about Draugr Deathlords and chitinous creatures named a chaurus. The only thing that had been semi-accurate was his lyrics about dragons, but that was an overused theme anyway.
The bard spluttered for a moment, his jaw working in exasperation. “Yes, well . . . “ he finally got out, before his mouth turned downwards and he muttered, “perhaps they don’t in this dimension,” seemingly to himself. Probably unaware that Geralt could still hear his words with his enhanced witcher hearing.
Geralt let him believe that he hadn’t heard him; mostly due to the fact that he had not been paid to deal with crazy on that particular day.
But then the bard seemed to come back to himself, his true blue eyes assessing Geralt and sizing him up. “Oooh, hold on, hold on. White hair, yellow eyes, two swords on your back? You must be Geralt of Rivia! The witcher, the butch- you know, I could work with this!” he said excitedly, bouncing on his too-high-for-the-current-fashion heels. “Yes, I can definitely be your bard, mister witcher!”
“No.” Geralt said resolutely, shutting the thought down with a single word.
“You’re right. It will surely be a lot of work to get your reputation up to snuff and all that, but it’s nothing that I will not suffer. I am nothing but the humble bard, after all. I look forward to our perilous journeys together!” The man spouted, putting his hands to his chest and looking as if he had just been tasked with a sacred quest of some sort.
Geralt was just about to shut him down when a man came over, looking a bit desperate. “It’s true, then? You’re a witcher?” the man asked. “We’ve been having trouble with a devil . . . “
“Ah, our first contract!” The bard chirped gleefully, never dissuaded no matter how much Geralt growled and grumbled.
“My contract,” Geralt corrected, but the man ignored him and came along anyway, even though Geralt made him walk beside Roach.
Even when they found themselves tied in ropes, Jaskier did not smell of fear. In fact, he smelled quite the opposite; joyous, excited.
“Wow!” He exclaimed when the lady elf punched him in the face and split his lip. Geralt could only tell because he could scent the blood in the air so close. “This is neat!” Jaskier concluded. Geralt thought him to be quite delusional.
“Hey, hey, hey, not the lute! Please, it was gifted by a dear friend,” Jaskier said, finally smelling of something other than his base scent. Salt, tears, a deep grief as the neck of his lute snapped. “Recently departed,” Jaskier added, his voice thick.
“Leave him alone, he’s a simpleton bard. He has nothing to do with this,” Geralt said, unsure as to why he was trying to defend the man he had just met. Still, it felt true and right to do so.
Jaskier kept babbling and somehow, somehow, his bardic words and lyrical tongue spared them their lives. Filavandrel even gifted Jaskier a new lute, elven made and all the more beautiful for it. He picked at the strings as they made their way back to the tavern, humming snatches of lyrics to the tune that his fingers produced.
“It’s not quite the same as my old one, but it resonates with the tune of this world better I suppose,” Jaskier pronounced, halfway through their journey back. Geralt did not know quite what that meant, so he simply gave a low hum in response. Jaskier seemed to take that small noise as a glowing compliment.
“My best friend enchanted my last one, so it was very special. I should have gotten her to make it unbreakable now that I think about it. She was very good at that.”
-
Jaskier hummed a faint pleasant melody as his fingers worked through Geralt’s hair, washing out all the lingering Selkie blood and guts. “Is that a new composition?” Geralt asked, his voice pitched low so as to not disrupt the peaceful atmosphere. Before Jaskier, no one had ever washed his hair for him and he found the experience to be quite relaxing.
“Hmm? Oh, it’s actually a very old composition of mine. My first, actually,” Jaskier said matter-of-factly. “I haven’t performed it since I took the title of Jaskier, though. The people here would find no meaning in the lyrics.”
“Will you sing it to me?” Geralt asked, curious for once about one of Jaskier’s songs. The bard had never been reluctant to share before, and the melody sounded much like a lullaby.
“Well, alright. But it would be better with my lute,” Jaskier said, rising from his position beside the tub to dry his hands and pick up Valdo’s lute. He wet his lips with a flash of pink tongue and sat on the edge of the bed. “I will only play this one in private,” he warned before he began to play.
“Our hero, our hero claims a warrior’s heart . . .
I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes
With a voice wielding power of the ancient Nord arts
Believe, believe the Dragonborn comes
It’s an end to the evil of Skyrim’s foes
Beware, beware the Dragonborn comes
For the darkness has passed and the legend yet grows
You’ll know, you’ll know the Dragonborn’s come . . . “
Jaskier hums, his voice sounding ethereal and otherworldly even in such a mundane inn in the middle of nowhere. But then he began singing in a different language entirely, one that Geralt had never heard before even in all of his long years of traveling.
“Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin
Naal ok zin los variin
Wah dein vokul
Mahferaak ahst vaal
Ahrk fin norok paal graan
Fod nust hon zindro zaan
Davahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal . . . “
Jaskier’s voice trailed off as he finished the song, his fingers still strumming softly as his blue seemed misty and far away, lost in thought. He smelled sad.
“What language is that?” Geralt asked, snapping Jaskier out of his reverie. He pretended not to notice as the bard reached up to wipe the moisture of his eyes.
“Oh, it’s the language of dragons. I don’t know how to speak Thu’um fluently, of course, but one tends to pick up a few words when stuck at Lofti’s side,” Jaskier babbled, placing his lute down gently on the bed beside him.
“What does it mean? The lyrics?”
“Dragonborn, Dragonborn
By her honor is sworn
To keep evil forever at bay
And the fierce to rout
When they hear triumph’s shout
Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray,”
Jaskier translated.
“What exactly is a Dragonborn?”
“A Dunmer with a dragon’s soul, defender of the lands of Skyrim, and slayer of Alduin the World Eater. She goes by many names, but you can pretty much say anything and everyone will know who you’re talking about.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Geralt pointed out, rinsing his lathered hair with water from a pitcher.
“No, you wouldn’t,” Jaskier dismissed, waving a hand and making his rings glint in the light from the fireplace. “Like I said; no one here would find any meaning in the lyrics.”
Geralt hummed, thinking that no matter how long they had been traveling together, Jaskier still held so much mystery. Most of the time he seemed to be a completely open book, telling the truth even as he confounded them with tricky turns of phrases and lyrical riddles. Sometimes though, Jaskier made no sense at all even when Geralt could detect no hint of a lie in the bard’s steady heartbeat.
The air now smelled of earthy herbs and chamomile that Jaskier insisted on putting in the bath, the mellow scent diffusing through the air in the steam of the water. Beyond that was a hint of sadness still, only discernible because Geralt knew Jaskier well. Geralt didn’t ask about it. He never did.
Jaskier went quiet, though he still seemed to move with some silent melody as he put his lute back in its case properly. He then removed his still too-high-for-the-current-fashion heels and tugged off his jewelry. The only ring that never came off was the one on his left index finger that bore the Lettenhove signet. The White Wolf wasn’t sure why it seemed so important to him, as he knew that Jaskier’s family spared him no love. It didn’t make sense to keep a reminder of that, in his opinion.
“Come Geralt, you’ll prune if you stay in much longer,” Jaskier teased, holding open a towel for him as if he were a toddler instead of a fully grown witcher. Geralt grunted but stood from the tub, suffering Jaskier’s touches as he patted him dry.
“I need to do some reading,” he said, taking the towel from the bard and finishing the drying process efficiently.
“Studying for your next monster mash?” Jaskier asked as Geralt dressed, focusing on putting on his own bedclothes. Geralt offered no response to this, but he did move forward on the bed to make room for Jaskier when he headed over with the hairbrush.
Broad shoulders relaxed as Jaskier gently detangled the knots from his hair, the tines of the brush feeling nice against his scalp. The bard kept brushing even after the knots were gone, his fingers moving through it to admire how smooth it felt. When he finally put the brush away, his fingers came up instead to section out portions and begin the braids. Geralt had never worn his hair in braids before he met Jaskier, but the bard had convinced him that it helped to keep the hair from his face more easily when he fought or rode Roach. And it did.
Ever since the first time Geralt had allowed Jaskier to wash and braid his hair, it had become a routine for them. Geralt never asked and Jaskier never asked permission.
With Jaskier playing with his hair it was hard to concentrate on his book. It made him so relaxed and sleepy that it was hard not to just zone out and enjoy the feeling. Jaskier was softly humming another song now, something that had no lyrics. He completed the second braid and began working them together, tying a soft strip of fabric at the end so they would hold.
“Lovely,” Jaskier murmured quietly, letting his fingers run through the white hair one more time before he pulled away. Geralt tried not to latch onto the word as a compliment, though he knew he failed. It was hard not to, when he got so few of them.
Geralt inhaled slowly, noting that Jaskier smelled warm and content behind him. Jaskier shifted and settled down on his side of the bed, curling up comfortably on the pillow. “Goodnight, Geralt. Don’t stay up too late, you’ll ruin your complexion,” he mumbled, falling asleep almost as soon as the words were out.
Geralt rolled his eyes and turned back to his book, not taking Jaskier’s advice. Witchers required less sleep than humans anyway.
-
“And then he invited me to the library, Geralt! The library,” Jaskier said with his usual dramatics. But his eyes were too wide and glassy, his heartbeat much too fast. He was breathing heavily, the sweat that was collecting quickly smelled of rank terror.
Jaskier never smelled of fear, and never like this. Not when he was pinned by a bruxa, not when a drowner had pulled him under, and not when he was being chased by a Kikimora. So why then was he reacting like this now, to an innocuous invitation to a place where a scholar such as himself belonged?
Geralt grabbed his shoulders, feeling the man’s smaller frame shaking beneath his hands. “Jaskier calm down. Take a deep breath,” he ordered, exaggerating his own slow breaths so that Jaskier could match the pace. The witcher rubbed small soothing circles along his shoulder blades as the bard slowly calmed.
“My point, Geralt,” Jaskier said after a few quiet moments, “is that Valdo Marx is trying to kill me. I am sure of it.”
Geralt wanted to tell the bard that he was being overdramatic and unreasonable, because inviting someone to a library could never be perceived as a threat. And what reason could Valdo Marx possibly have for wanting him dead anyway?
But Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes were too earnest, his scent too clean, his heartbeat too steady for him to be lying about this. Geralt’s grip on Jaskier’s shoulders tightened slightly, a low growl emanating from his chest. “Don’t return to Oxenfurt this winter if he’s there. Come to Kaer Morhen with me.” ‘Where you will be safe’ went unspoken, but not unheard.
Geralt had never had any intention of ever inviting Jaskier to the witcher keep, but now that he had it felt . . . right.
“Really? I can come?! Oh Geralt, it will surely be magnifi - “
“If you write any details of its location in your songs, I will cut out your tongue,” Geralt told him preemptively.
“Right. My lips shall be sealed, my good friend,” Jaskier promised, pretending to zip his lips and throw away the key. The effect was immediately ruined when his lips parted to speak again. Geralt groaned as Jaskier pestered him with questions about the old keep. Perhaps he should not have been so hasty to give up his quiet winter.
-
Jaskier let out a low whistle as he took in the mountain they would have to trek up to get to Kaer Morhen. “This reminds me of the Throat of the World, my friend. At least it doesn’t have stairs; my fair lady had to carry me up the last thousand as if I were no more than a sack of potatoes. I told her so, and she said that at least I was a very light sack of potatoes. I hadn’t known exactly how to respond to that, but she patted my delectable derriere and told me it was a compliment. It was not one of my finer moments, I assure you,” Jaskier went on as he kept his pace beside Geralt.
Geralt was leading Roach beside him on his other side, as the first snow had already fallen and he did not want to risk her taking a misstep on the rocky terrain.
“The Greybeards wondered why the Dovah had even bothered bringing me with her, but they were very hospitable all the same. And of course she would be an extremely quick learner of the Thu’um - it’s in her blood, after all. So it hadn’t even hardly been a day before we were already making the trek back down. All those stairs,” Jaskier said with an exaggerated shudder. “They were hell in my heels.”
Of course Geralt noticed and paid attention to Jaskier’s style, and it was hard to miss his continued decision to wear at least six inch high heels everywhere he went. The bard did not change them even when walking the path with him, for some reason. Jaskier also never properly dressed for the weather, always choosing silken garments with silver fastenings that cinched his waist like a woman’s corset. It had not been the style in the least when they had first met, but Jaskier’s fashion seemed to catch on with both nobility and the general public once he had become famous.
The problem came when the cold did, Jaskier refusing to wear a cloak because, “It hides my delicate figure, Geralt! I have a reputation to uphold!” And yet he would still shiver and complain, sometimes shaking so badly that it made his long legs wobble in his ridiculous heels.
It was maybe after the fourth year of traveling together that Geralt had had enough of it. So he stopped visiting whores and saved up enough coin to commission a highly sought after seamstress to craft a warm but extremely stylish coat for his bard. If he knew exactly what Jaskier’s fashion taste was (as well as his exact measurements), then it was only a direct consequence of having spent so much time with the man.
Admittedly, Geralt had still been extremely nervous when he presented it to him. He worried that he had gotten it wrong, that Jaskier would not like the style at all. Or maybe he would dislike the silver color of the shiny fabric. The inside was laced with gray rabbit fur, perhaps that would repel him?
And indeed, Jaskier did seem a bit taken aback when Geralt practically shoved the garment into his arms, trying not to seem as nervous as he truly was. “What’s this?” Jaskier had asked, his eyes wide and still looking at Geralt.
“It’s for you,” Geralt grumbled, somehow holding eye contact. “A coat.” He clarified, gesturing to said item.
It had prompted Jaskier’s eyes to follow the motion, his hands spreading the material so that he could look at it properly. “You . . . got me a gift?” Jaskier asked, his voice thick. When he looked back up, his eyes were shiny.
“I was tired of you complaining about the cold,” Geralt deflected, moving to adjust Roach’s saddle bags just to have something to do with his hands. Behind him he heard a small discreet sniffle, but he did not remark on it.
“Thank you, Geralt! It is perfect, where did you find this? It fits my aesthetic so truly that it’s almost like it was made for me!” Jaskier exclaimed, and as Geralt turned he caught the glimpse of the bard holding it against his chest from the corner of his eye.
Of course Geralt was not about to admit that it had in fact been made specifically for him. “Try it on,” he told him instead.
Jaskier actually listened to him for once and did as he was told, pulling it on and tightening the facets at his waist. “Well? It fits perfectly, but how does it look? I don’t have a mirror right now, so tell me exactly,” he asked, striking a pose and even doing a slow twirl.
“Hmm. It suits you.”
“Geraaalt, that is not a good description. How does my waist look? Can you still see my ass?” He asked, trying to look over his shoulder to see for himself.
“You don’t have an ass.”
Jaskier gasped, looking truly hurt for a moment. “You take that back right now! I do have an ass and it looks amazing! Why else do you think I wear the heels? Geralt? Geraaalt,” Jaskier called, but the white wolf was already walking away.
When he caught back up he was still pouting. “You know I have an ass, you’ve seen my ass! So many times!”
“Hmm.”
The same coat that Jaskier was wearing now, as they made their way towards his home in the mountains. It was a fond memory for Geralt, but he was pulled out of his reverie ironically by the lack of noise. “Jaskier?” He called, halfway through the name when he spotted his bard only a little ways up the path, having apparently sprinted to get there judging by his quickened breath. He was bent over beside a bush, picking the berries carefully from the thorny branches. “Jaskier!” He repeated loudly in panic, quickening his pace to reach the man’s side swiftly. “Don’t eat those, they’re - “
“Snowberries!” Jaskier chirped cheerfully, a wide smile on his face when he looked up.
“ . . . poisonous.” Geralt concluded.
Jaskier rolled his eyes, rising easily from his crouched position with the berries still clutched in his hands. “I wasn’t going to eat them, Geralt. But you never know when a Snowberry might come in handy,” he said, his inflection going a bit wonky like he might be quoting someone. His blue eyes also had that faraway look that they occasionally acquired when he seemed to be remembering an old memory.
“Just remember not to put your hands in your mouth before you’ve washed them,” Geralt said, watching Jaskier come back to the present.
“It’s sweet that you get so worried over me,” Jaskier said, batting his eyes as he deposited the handful of berries into his blue pants pocket. Then he went quiet for a tense second, where he seemed to be debating something with himself as they continued walking.
“Spit it out, Jaskier,” Geralt growled after a moment of quiet too long. “Sometimes your silence is worse than your incessant babbling.”
Jaskier startled at the outburst, fiddling with the sleeves of his coat. “Ah, well, you see, it’s just that . . . “
“Jaskier.”
“Yes? Well, no. I mean, would you mind calling me Snowberry? Just once . . . “
“Why would you want that?” Geralt asked, giving him a sidelong glance. It wasn’t even the proper name for the plant he had picked up - Jaskier had just seemingly made up a name upon seeing them.
Jaskier shrugged at the question, looking avoidant and genuinely bashful for probably the first time in his life. “It’s nothing, you don’t have to - “
“Out of all the creatures, plots by man or otherwise, and people that I have ever encountered; you are undoubtedly the most strange, Snowberry,” Geralt told him.
Jaskier let out a breath, an audible thing that the witcher could not quite place. His scent changed to something dark and bittersweet, though he was wearing a small smile nonetheless. “Thank you. Still, I think that I prefer Buttercup from your lips,” he joked, though it was half-hearted.
“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledged, unsure how to reply to that.
Seemingly struck by inspiration, Jaskier began humming a new melody. “Oh, Snowberry they called me in lands faraway, in Skyrim by my lady’s side . . . hmm . . . “ he plucked at the strings, modifying the melody. He continued singing softly, and Geralt didn’t understand even half of what Jaskier was singing about so he tuned him out again. It was an easy accomplishment with how much practice he had had over the years.
“So this is your bard, then?” Lambert says when they finally reach the keep. He eyes him up before clapping Jaskier on the shoulder so hard that it nearly makes his knees buckle. “You sure are a pretty one, aren’t you? Geralt should have brought you sooner, but he always was the most selfish. You’re just in time for dinner!”
They ate and warmed by the fire, Geralt’s brothers telling embarrassing stories of him while pestering the bard to do the same. “Well . . . “ Jaskier started, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of his lips. “There was this one time when he was fighting ghouls and he managed to land right on his ass in a patch of stinging nettles.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt warned with a low grumble.
The bard looked up at him, his face the very picture of innocence (if one did not know him). But Geralt did know him, and Jaskier was the furthest thing from innocent.
“When he returned to the inn, he handed me a bottle of chamomile oil, bent over the bed, shoved down his pants, and told me to rub it on. I thought it was a proposition before I saw the welts,” Jaskier continued anyway, laughing so hard that he had to pause in places. Even Vesemir was howling by the end, and Jaskier had tears of mirth in his eyes.
Of course, Geralt did not find this story very amusing. He definitely did not have a small quirk of a smile on his lips, not at all. He rubbed his hands over his face and groaned to cover it. “I knew that I should not have brought you,” he said, though it had no heat.
“You most certainly should have,” Eskel responded devilishly, leaning over to drag Jaskier flush to his side with an arm around his shoulder. The bard looked startled at first before his face lit up and glowed with glee. “He’s far more amusing than your broody arse!”
Not long after they were done eating, Jaskier yawned and his eyes began to droop. Geralt showed him to his room where the bard had barely removed his heels before he was snoring on the bed. Geralt shook his head and wasn’t even surprised when Jaskier slept soundly through the witcher manhandling him beneath the covers.
It did not take him long to find the library (checked meticulously and cautiously for librarians) the next day where he spent most of his time holed up learning about monsters, potions, and the history of witchers. He was ecstatic to discover the hot springs, and thankfully Jaskier didn’t mind doing most of the cooking. He played his lute for them in the evenings and even relented to playing ‘The Dragonborn Comes’ again for them when Geralt requested it. It had apparently become his favorite song (as much as he admitted to it, which was not at all - but the request was enough).
Since then, it became an on and off again thing for Jaskier to come to Kaer Morhen during the winters with Geralt. Sometimes he would go to Oxenfurt if Valdo Marx was assured to not be there, and other times he would seem to disappear from the face of the land entirely for long stretches of time. Geralt never asked where he went off to in those times and Jaskier never volunteered the information.
He would return smelling of blood, fresh pink scars along the insides of his palms. A scent of ozone and shifting desert sands would cling to him for a while after he returned. Yes; there was still a lot of mystery surrounding his bard. Which led to another thought.
“Whatcha thinking about? I can practically smell the smoke from your brain,” Jaskier said, plucking his lute and walking by his side as he had a million times before.
“How old are you?” Geralt asked. How long had they been walking the path together? It felt like forever, yet Jaskier looked just as young as he had in that inn when they had first met.
“Why? Do I look old?” Jaskier asked in panic, bringing a hand to his face. “Sweet Melitele, Geralt, am I getting old?!” He looked horrified and morose at the concept.
“Hmm,” Geralt hummed.
“You’re so mean! We can’t all stay looking so young and beautiful like you witchers. I’ll get old and wrinkly and maybe go bald in places - please kill me if I start balding, I wouldn’t be able to bear it!” Jaskier bemoaned melodramatically, strumming a depressing few notes with his quick fingers.
Geralt made a note to not bring it up again, since the topic seemed to send his friend into an existential downward spiral.
- Lofti -
“Lofti,” Hermaeus Mora purred in his slow overindulgent tones, the inflection only perfected by centuries of holding information that others would wage wars over. It always grated Lofti’s ears to hear it.
“Hermaeus, oh, it’s been far too long,” Lofti drawled sarcastically, pointedly putting a bookmark between the pages of the book she had been reading before closing it and looking upon her not-so-welcome friend. The Daedric Prince would pop in every century or so unannounced seemingly just to annoy her. “I wasn’t expecting visitors. Can I get you anything? Some Firebrand, perhaps?”
Of course he wouldn’t be able to drink it his current form - that being a single eyeball and many tentacles, respectively. “How gracious of you to offer, but I am afraid that I must decline. This is not a social call,” he said in his slow and pretentious voice. Still, Lofti’s ears pricked up at this news.
“Oh? What need do you have of me, then?” She asked, hardly daring to hope that she would be sent on some new and thrilling adventure. It had been truly ages since she had brought peace to Skyrim, and now she found herself far too idle for her liking; even as the continued listener for the Night Mother.
“I knew it, Dovahkiin; you are still an adventurer at heart. You are stagnant here amongst your wealth and servants,” Hermaeus gloated, his tentacles waving about in a pleased manner.
“Get to it already, what’s happened?” Lofti asked impatiently, though she was far too old to be prone to twitchiness.
The Daedric Prince hummed with contentment. “A new realm that once was lost to us has opened to this plane once again. You are to be my champion and find out as much as you can about it. Already I have felt such delicious ripples of intrigue from this gate.”
“What’s in it for me?” She asked cagily. She had not forgotten Hermaeus’s last pet Dragonborn Miraak; she did not wish to become enslaved as well.
“Besides a new adventure, oh restless one? How about . . . your bard, Snowberry? You have missed your dear friend, have you not?”
“Snowberry? Really, Hermaeus? Even a Daedric Prince cannot bring back the dead entirely,” Lofti scoffed. Not that she hadn’t tried to bring back a person’s consciousness with spells and enchantments and potions. Too many damn times had she tried to bring back even just one loved one, but they never came back completely right.
“He still lives; no resurrection necessary. That is where he went when you rent time and space with your Thu’um atop that mountain.”
“Very well. What must I do?” Lofti asked, already thinking of Snowberry’s honeyed voice and brilliant smile. If he was truly still alive then she would see him again.
“I will teach you to move between realms within one breath and the next, that way you may come and go as you please. It will be a quick lesson for a scholar such as yourself.”
“Teach me this spell, then.”
Though Hermaeus Mora did not have a mouth it did seem as if he smiled at her words. The Daedric Prince was right - she easily learned to portal back and forth between the realms with only his glib instructions. Less brief was his explanation of the task he held for her.
“This girl . . . Princess Cirilla is her name. Find her and protect her, for she is important in this new realm. She is but a child at this moment, but she is entangled entirely in the strings of destiny. Tread lightly, Dovahkiin, for you know how sticky such a thing can be.”
Lofti hated it when he monologs. “Yes, I do. What is the quickest way to find her?”
“She is Princess Cirilla of Cintra. Perhaps start there.”
Unable to take his irritating voice any longer, Lofti nodded and grabbed her gear. She always traveled light since she could easily portal back to any one of her homes in Skyrim (or the one at Raven Rock). “I will have written you a book when I return,” she promised him, stepping easily from one realm to the next.
She stood in a chasm in the ground, shattered bits of stone at her feet. Idly she wondered what had happened here to cause such a divide as she used the cover of the night to turn into bats and fly from the rift. It exhilarated her to use her vampire gifts for something useful once more; gifts that she had not used in far too long.
When she came upon Cintra, it had already fallen. Utter destruction, so much blood. Bodies were piled in the streets ready to be taken and burned. Lofti remembered the war between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks none too fondly at the sight, having flashbacks of the decimation it had wrought upon Skyrim’s holds.
Ulfric had tried to overthrow the Imperial’s rule while they were also dealing with the Thalmor invasion. Had the man succeeded, Skyrim would have no doubt fallen to the Aldmeri Dominion.
Lofti shook away her musings and melted away from Cintra into the shadows, keeping her ears attentive for any new lead that might bring her to the Princess as she followed the troops of refugees. No glaring signs pointed to the lost Princess, so she waited. Watched. Listened. And perhaps by destiny or just by chance, she watched from the cover of the forest as a large man with white hair called out Cirilla’s name.
Watched as the small girl appeared, relief in her eyes as she ran towards him. Her hair was almost as gleamingly pale as the man’s, her eyes unnaturally bright in the moonlight. They embraced for a long moment, both oblivious to her presence. And Lofti felt it; that all too familiar crescendo of destiny.
‘Right, right, right. This is right,’ it sang out silently yet still so powerfully present. It was different this time, it felt different. Because for once, she was witnessing someone else fulfill their own destiny.
Though Lofti desperately wanted to find Snowberry, she instead followed the witcher and the Child of Destiny to Kaer Morhen. She kept to the shadows and used her skills and armor of the Nightingale to remain undetected even from Geralt’s senses. None even batted an eye when she moved through the keep. Lofti hovered in the veil between worlds to listen in on conversations without having to worry about being found out.
Still, when Eskel arrived late with a Taproot embedded deep in his shoulder, Lofti knew that she would have to step in. If allowed to fester and sprout, it would turn him completely. Only, they called it a ‘Leshy’. Lofti supposed that some things would be different in this realm, but that Spriggan must have found a way here from Skyrim.
She waited until all had fallen asleep before sneaking into Eskel’s room and injecting him with a paralysis potion. It took hold immediately as she dosed him with a strong anesthetic to numb the pain from what she was about to do. It was not going to be the best experience for the man, but it would keep him alive.
Lofti drew her Dragon Priest Dagger and carefully separated the flesh, revealing that small wooden Taproot to her sharp and knowing eyes. It had already begun to sprout slightly, digging its tendrils into the surrounding flesh. Thankfully it had not yet latched onto bone, and Lofti was able to carefully untangle it from the muscle. It was very important to get every piece, so she made no more incisions as she worked it free with her fingers.
She incinerated the seed in her hands before cleaning the blood from them with the basin of water from the bedside table. Going back to Eskel, she used Healing Hands to mend the torn and bruised muscles and flesh. It didn’t take long before the wound was completely closed, not even a scar remaining to mar his shoulder as a reminder. The paralysis and anesthetic would wear off by morning, and he would still be a little sore -
“Who the fuck are you?” Eskel growled, his motions so fast that Lofti was already pressed to the bed with a knife at her throat before she could even draw a breath. Okay, so she had miscalculated a bit.
“Witchers must have a faster metabolism . . . “ she mused, undaunted by the blade pressed against her trachea. Instead she was making a note in her head to mix her potions at least ten times stronger if they were to be used on a witcher.
“Answer me witch, before I cut your throat.”
“I am the new nanny, and apparently vastly underpaid if this is the thanks that I receive for saving your life,” Lofti said in a deadpan tone, looking up at him with an unimpressed expression.
“Who hired you? A nanny? Who thinks we need a nanny?” He asked with exasperation.
“Who do you think hired you a nanny?” Lofti asked in the same disapproving voice as before. “Now get that blade from my throat boy, before you do something that you’ll regret.”
Eskel pulled back slowly with his brows furrowed, wincing as he moved his previously injured arm. “Here,” Lofti said as she sat up and rummaged through her bag. He still seemed highly on guard until she produced a potion, handing it out to him. “That should be plenty strong enough for you since I brewed it for myself. It will stop the pain and help the healing. Only take a small sip in the morning and at night. Any more than a small sip, and you won’t wake up. Got it?”
Eskel nodded very slowly, still looking at her with much confusion. “It infected me, didn’t it? It felt like something was growing, pushing out of my shoulder. Do you know what it was?”
“It was a Spriggan. They plant seeds in their victims to grow their numbers. I had to do a minor surgery to remove it, but it’s gone now. You will be fine in a few days.” Lofti said, packing up her bag and purifying her Dragon Priest Dagger with fire from her fingertips.
“You were just fucking with me, right? Vesemir didn’t actually hire us a nanny?”
“No, he did not. Do not fret, young Eskel; I am far removed from any politics or schemes that would do you harm. Sleep and forget me,” she said, adding her vampire’s seduction to those last words. “I am but a dream and a vague memory in your consciousness. It is unlikely that you will see me again soon.”
Eskel began to nod off, his eyes becoming droopy. “Oh, and Eskel?” Lofti added as she slowly began to blend back into the shadows once more. Eskel hummed inquisitively, following her last movements through the dark with his glazed eyes. “Don’t forget your potion.”
- Snowberry -
“You know, as much as I love adventuring with you, I don’t quite find Dwemer ruins that fascinating. Oh sure, maybe the first couple of times we’ve delved this far it was fun and mysterious, but this is just excessive. And they give me the creeps,” Snowberry babbled conversationally, not even flinching as Lofti shot an arrow over his shoulder into the head of a Falmer. This was their second Dwemer ruin this week, and Lofti was going to two more after this to search for Aetherium shards. “I mean, why can’t the shards be located in happy bunny meadows? It would at least be more scenic.”
“Yes, but then you wouldn’t be able to sing about how I defeated the hordes of Falmer just to retrieve a lost ancient treasure,” Lofti rejoined, shooting two more of said creatures and downing them with one arrow each.
Katria looked smug as she glided beside them, pleased that Zephyr was being put to good use once again. Lofti had tinkered with it after they had cleared the first ruin and now it practically sang beneath her fingertips.
“It had better be a very neat ancient treasure, for all the trouble we’re going through to get it,” Snowberry grumbled, wondering if Lofti could improve his lute the same way she tuned her weapons. “Hey, could you enchant a lute?” He asked, speaking his thoughts aloud.
“Hmm, I’m not sure. I’ve never done it before, but I could try my hand at it when we return to Markarth,” Lofti mused as she worked out the next puzzle so they could proceed deeper into the ruin. Vlindral Hall was her favorite house in Skyrim, and Snowberry had been there many times with her. He had even struck up a friendship with her housecarl, Argis the Bulwark they called him.
-
“What happened to you? Why are you injured?” Lofti asked, immediately concerned over Snowberry’s bruised face and mild limp. She had only left him for a month so that he could return to the Bard’s College in Solitude.
“Bandits,” he admitted sheepishly. “Ambushed me on my way back. They . . . broke my lute,” he added sadly.
“At least they didn’t break your fingers. Here, come with me to Proudspire Manor; I have a few extra lutes that I have picked up during my travels,” Lofti said, leading the way on the short walk to the building next door. It was the first time she had invited him there, though he had been to her other houses around Skyrim. Lofti owned a house in every hold in Skyrim.
It was obvious that her adventures made her very wealthy, as well as her other lucrative side jobs that she dabbled in. Proudspire Manor was much like her other houses; filled with odd treasures and rare books.
She led him downstairs where a number of instruments stood on display. He went immediately for the dark oak lute, the wood engraved with intricate etchings of dragons and Nordic runes. “This one. It’s beautiful,” he said, picking it up and testing the strings with his fingers. It was out of tune, but he could fix that.
“Perfect. Actually, while you are here I would like to work on something. I need your ring and that lute,” she said, already making her way back up the stone stairs.
“My ring? Whatever for, darling?” he asked as he followed her to her potions room, watching her pluck a nondescript and unlabeled bottle from the shelf as she then moved on to the enchanter station in the next room. She wordlessly held her hands out and he handed her the requested items. “Right. So you’re going to enchant them, then,” Snowberry concluded as she downed the potion and set to work.
He always found it fascinating that souls could be captured in crystals and used to imbue magic in items. Lofti used Black Soul Gems for this, which meant that she was working with human souls. They were the most powerful of gems for enchanting, which showed that Lofti meant business with this.
She finished her work quickly, handing back the items. “They are finished. I enchanted the lute with illusion so that others will be allured and swayed whenever you play. As for the ring, I added fortification to health and stamina,” Lofti explained. Just as he slipped the ring back onto his finger, she added, “I also cursed it so that it may never be removed.”
“What! Why?” He exclaimed, tugging at it immediately to test. It wouldn’t budge.
“Well I can’t have my fragile and beloved Snowberry falling ill or getting injured during an adventure now can I?” Lofti asked breezily, giving him a wolfish smile. “Oh, and you can breathe under water now as well, which is a nice touch I think.”
“Right. Thank you, my dear lady,” Snowberry said sincerely, touched that she would care so much about his well-being.
It did come in handy on their next excursion when he was shot in the leg by an undead skeleton. Lofti pulled the arrow out for him and the wound closed right up in seconds, not leaving even a blemish on his skin. After that experience, he began testing the limits of the enchantment. There appeared to be none, he found. It dawned on him slowly that he was, quite indubitably, indestructible.
Even though all of his wounds healed easily, dark dungeons still managed to spook him sometimes. It was the atmosphere.
-
“This is neat! I am much more a fan of boats and new lands than dungeons. Though the whole pillar building and worshiping is a new one for me, I must admit.”
“Not a fan of the Soul Cairn?” Serana needled him lightly, her smirk playful as Snowberry shuddered visibly at the memory.
“Not quite, no. And I did not particularly enjoy retrieving Auriel’s bow either,” he added, neither of them paying much attention to their surroundings before they approached the shrine where the villagers worked and chanted in tandem. Lofti’s eyes went dark, and when she came to she saw Serana and Snowberry still caught in the enchantment, their voices raising to chant with the others.
“Fuck.” She said, shaking her fuzzy feeling head before getting up to physically grab her friends and carry them away on each shoulder. As they got further away, they seemed to come to, their eyes wide and panicked as their thoughts cleared.
“Whaaaaaaat was that? Lofti?” Snowberry asked, looking horrified.
“A new adventure. Come on, let’s find someone to tell us what’s going on.”
“Not like I can do much different when I’m stuck aloft your shoulder, O mighty hero.”
- Geralt -
“Fuck, Jaskier!” Geralt called, but the bard was already beneath the water. He was still kicking and struggling, so the drowner couldn’t have had him under for long. But Geralt needed to get through about ten drowners that were between him and Jaskier.
Geralt roared as he slashed through them as quickly as he could, the chest-deep water slowing him down even further. His heart sank when Jaskier stopped struggling, his body never appearing above the surface. Fuck. What was he supposed to do with a dead bard?
He dispatched the rest of the drowners quickly, but he still knew that he would be too late to save Jaskier. The last drowner came up as he neared, releasing the bard so that he finally floated above the surface. Except he wasn’t floating; he was breaking above the surface, barely even rattled.
He coughed up a lot of water, but his face wasn’t blue. “Sweet Melitele, Geralt, you took long enough! It was trying to take a bite out of me!” Jaskier spluttered as Geralt severed the monster’s head from its body.
“You were under too long,” Geralt grunted, relief filling his body to see Jaskier looking like a drowned cat but still whole and breathing.
“Of course I was! You took forever,” the bard whined, sloshing his way to dry (well, dryer ) ground.
“No. I mean that you should be dead.”
“I can hold my breath for a long time,” Jaskier said with a laugh as he waved him off. “Why else do you think I’m such a great lover?” He added with a wink of his electric blue eyes.
“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledged with his usual verbacious nature, grabbing all the drowners he could reach so that he could harvest their brains for potions. “Why were you even close to the water in the first place? I told you to stay back.”
“Well I can’t exactly write epics and poems about events that I can’t even see, now can I?” Jaskier said for what felt like the thousandth time. It was already an old argument between them. “Besides, I am not fragile, Geralt. I’m not going to just break, you know. I promise. And plus, I have the best bodyguard in the whole land,” he monologged, even though he knew that the witcher was probably already tuning him out. It made him miss his dear friend Lofti; she was always interested in the things he had to say.
It was a long journey out of the swampy lands they were in, and it was already midday. They decided (or Geralt decided, rather) to make camp on the driest patch of ground they could find, the bard wasting no time in stripping his wet clothes off and putting them next to the fire to dry.
“I hate this mud,” he complained again for what felt like the thousandth time since they had started this particular journey. His heels sank in and got stuck every other step, making a loud squelching noise every time he pulled them from the sodden earth. It made for a very annoying trek.
“It wouldn’t be a problem if you wore normal shoes for once,” Geralt grunted, ignoring a now completely naked Jaskier. It was hard to do since he was lounging out on a thick woolen travel blanket, everything on full display.
Jaskier gasped as if offended, his hand going to his chest. “Excuse you, I was born in heels and I will die in heels; whenever and wherever that may be.”
Geralt didn’t bother to respond to that. At least Lofti appreciated his stunning fashion sense, Jaskier thought grumpily to himself.
-
“An incubus? So what, they suck a person’s life force right out through their cock? That doesn’t sound like such a bad way to go to me,” Jaskier prattled, his eyes cast to the side. They were a bit glazed like he was imagining what such an experience might be like.
“Tell that to the dead victims,” Geralt told him shortly, leading the way into the tavern.
Jaskier was just happy that he would have a bath and a bed by the end of this contract. He was already going over the songs he would play tonight in his head, his fingers moving on ghost lute strings. And indeed, it was an overall great night; he played to the requests of the crowd, got hit on by a tall, dark and handsome man, took him up to his room, and had a bath. They ate dinner and then Jaskier felt a lust he had never encountered before when he was kissed breathless by the stranger’s soft and alluring lips.
He allowed himself to be pushed and hoisted up on the desk, the man’s hands already tugging Jaskier’s shirt partially open. The corset lacing slowed them down, but the stranger’s lips were already worshiping his throat.
Seeming to give up on the shirt for the moment, his hand wandered downward to cup the very trying bulge in Jaskier’s trousers instead. Jaskier moaned and pushed into the contact, very onboard with that idea. Why did he even put his damn clothes back on after the bath?
Tall Dark and Handsome had just unbuttoned and unzipped his pants when Geralt came barging in, silver sword in hand. Because of course he would come in at completely the wrong time. Jaskier groaned. “Fuck off, Geralt - “ he started, but Geralt’s sword was already swinging through the air and severing the man’s head from his shoulders. The body immediately transformed into something black, demonic, and feathery.
“What the fuck?” Jaskier asked in shock, staring down at the good time gone very wrong in the form of whatever the hell that thing was.
“Incubus,” Geralt growled. “Are you . . . alright?”
Jaskier was quite a sight, his lips red and kiss swollen, his bright blue eyes glazed with lust still. Beneath the thin white silk of his half undone shirt, his pink nipples were hard and very visible even in the dim light of the tavern room. He was lounged back on his hands atop the desk, his legs still spread and showing off the bulge in his undone pants. The cotton of his underpants was visible thanks to the prior groping he had received, and his legs were dangling from the edge with his high heeled boots still laced properly. Jaskier looked inviting like this, alluring.
Geralt tried very valiantly to not find the sight of his bard like this - so desperate and wanting - arousing, but he knew that the image would be burned forever in his brain.
“I’m - “ Jaskier whimpered, closing his eyes as he wiggled a bit on the desk. His clothes were mussed and disheveled, revealing too much collarbone from where the Incubus had been pawing at him. His ridiculously tight pants had been pulled open at the fly, and his underpants didn't leave much to the imagination either. “What is it? Pheromones? Toxin? Enchantment?” He asked, worrying his swollen pink lower lip between his teeth.
“Enchantment would wear off when I killed it. It’s a toxin. How long were you exposed?”
“Oh gods. I took a bath with it,” Jaskier said with horror, even as he thoughtlessly reached up to toy with a swollen and sensitive nipple. He moaned as his hips bucked upwards at the simple touch.
He released a soft breath, long eyelashes fluttering open to look at Geralt pleadingly. “Geralt, I can’t - please, help me,” he begged, his voice already sounding so wrecked.
“You are intoxicated, Jaskier. You cannot consent right now. You’ll be fine. You can have the room tonight,” Geralt said, somehow finding the willpower to leave. He locked the door behind him as he went, dragging the incubus corpse out with him in a hurry. That night he slept in the hallway to guard the door, tortured by the slick wet sounds and Jaskier’s high keening voice for what felt like forever.
Fuck.
- Lofti -
“I am much revived!” Eskel announced to the hall at breakfast that next morning, tugging away his shirt to reveal his unmarked shoulder. Sarcastic cheers and half-hearted grumbles met his announcement, though the witchers did seem truly relieved about his recovery. If only because they were tired of his constant bad attitude since he had arrived back. Vesemir came in behind him and clapped him on the back. “I told you you’d be fine with some rest,” he said, looking pleased.
Lofti, for her part, did not know of any of this because she was currently busy burning the splintered remains of a dead Spriggan.
“Say Vesemir,” Eskel said lightly as they sat down to eat. “You didn’t happen to hire a witch nanny for us, did you?” Now that he was healed, his mood and his appetite was much improved. He chowed down on his oatmeal as if it possessed the ability to grow legs and sprint away.
Vesemir’s eyebrows furrowed in concern at the question as he looked at his son. “That Leshy didn’t knock you in the head, did it?” He asked, causing Coen and the others around to chuckle. Small girlish giggles joined in, and for once Eskel didn’t have any quip to make about the younger addition at the table.
“Nah, it was just a wild dream,” Eskel said with a snort, waving them off with a rude gesture.
Things progressed naturally from there it seemed, with Ciri’s desperate attempts to prove herself through training as the witchers taunted and belittled her. Lofti meanwhile had taken to borrowing books from the library as she idly observed the girl’s trials, pouring over the history and knowledge of the witchers.
She scribbled down the interesting things she learned in a journal she had brought specifically for that purpose; she had promised Hermaeus Mora a book, after all.
Commotion picked up a bit at the arrival of Triss Merigold, a witch that Geralt had asked to come help teach Ciri how to control her magic. Lofti knew it wouldn’t work out; Cirilla was already much more powerful than Triss would ever be. Such is the way with destiny.
Things settled back down into a routine quickly enough, and Lofti grew more and more restless as the days passed. Ciri’s training was going well and she was learning at an almost alarmingly fast pace. What Lofti truly longed to do was leave to go find her missing Snowberry. She longed for his company greatly, and Lofti had already spent far too many centuries without his voice and bright smile.
And as it turned out, she did not need to go searching for her bard at all. He came in through a portal in the main hall, a black haired witch stepping out behind him.
“Jaskier, Yennefer,” Geralt said, initiating a tense silence in the room.
“Ah, fuck it,” Snowberry said, stepping towards him and pulling the witcher into a hug.
“Yen? I thought you were . . . “
Dead. The unsaid word hung heavy in the air.
“Well, I’m not. It has been a rather arduous journey - “
Lofti could wait no longer. It had been far too many years, and she would not fight the pull any longer.
“Snowberry,” she called, stepping from the veil between worlds and revealing herself. He turned, his eyes so wide and just as bright blue as she remembered them to be. The witchers were immediately on edge, their swords already drawn. Lofti ignored them, only having eyes for the man she thought she had killed so many centuries ago on that mountain.
“Lofti? Lofti!” Snowberry said in excitement, tears in his eyes as he ran to embrace her. He was still under a head shorter than her, so light and skinny that it took no strength for her to raise him off his feet and twirl him around.
“My sweet Snowberry, I have missed you greatly,” Lofti said, not protesting when he reached up to pull down her Nightingale hood. “I thought you had perished that day atop the Throat of the World, and that day the stars and the moon ceased to sing to me,” Lofti confessed as she sat him back on his feet and kissed his cheek lovingly.
His hands were still on her shoulders, and he reached up to cup her cheek tenderly. “I am whole and alive, my dear lady. Better now, even, for seeing you. I was afraid that I had gone where you could not follow. The years we have been apart have weighed heavily on me.”
“It has been many centuries in Skyrim, Snowberry. If not for the rift and Hermaeus Mora, I would know you not,” Lofti told him, putting her hand over Snowberry’s where it rested on her cheek.
“Hermaeus Mora? You’ve been talking to that jerk?” He asked with a disgusted grimace.
“Aye, he comes and goes as he pleases,” Lofti said with a snort.
“Hey!” Eskel interrupted. “You’re that . . . nanny,” he said lamely and with much confusion.
Lofti tilted her head, then tipped it back to laugh deeper than she had in years. “Yes, young Eskel. I did seal your wound for you,” she said after most of her mirth had gone. She still wore an amused smirk.
“Wound?” Snowberry asked, looking between them.
“Eskel was attacked by a Spriggan. It had somehow found a way here from Skyrim, and it was clear that they did not know how to take care of it. I stepped in to help,” Lofti explained.
“Oh, that’s why - Lofti, I think that more monsters have crossed over from Skyrim. Yennefer and I came across a Chaurus.”
“How? You hate going deep underground, even with me.”
“It was above ground, in a forest. Thank Talos we didn’t run into a troll, or worse, a dragon! At least, not again.”
“I’m not sure Talos would hear your gratitude here, Snowberry, but I am glad that you are well. How is it that you know the witchers?”
Snowberry looked sheepish and a little guilty at the question, his eyes flicking back to look at Geralt. Lofti cursed in the dragon tongue, sending a rumble throughout the room. “Have you been cheating on me, then? Writing songs about other heroic figures?” She asked, though she was wearing a teasing smirk on her lips.
“Forgive me, Dovahkiin, listener to the Night Mother, Nightingale, leader of the mages, peace bringer of Skyrim, reader of the Elder - “
“Thank you for your praise, my darling, but your friends grow restless. You need a bath and some food. Come, I will attend to you.”
“Pardon the interruption, but who the hell are you exactly, and why are you here?” Vesemir spoke up, no longer holding his sword but his arms were crossed over his broad chest. His expression was stern.
“I am the Dragonborn Lofti. I was sent to this place by the Daedric Prince Hermaeus Mora to learn more about this realm. My personal mission was to find my darling Snowberry, but I was also tasked with finding and protecting Princess Cirilla of Cintra.”
“How did you know of her?” Vesemir asked, his slitted yellow eyes still narrowed.
“Hermaeus Mora knows many things, Master Vesemir. Hold no concerns; I am here to do no harm to you or your witchers.”
“You just wanted a new adventure, didn’t you?” Snowberry asked knowingly.
“That, and I wanted to see you again,” Lofti agreed easily.
“Don’t worry, my friends, Lofti is my old companion from Skyrim. We used to travel together for many years,” Snowberry told them placatingly.
“You said you are the Dragonborn. The same Dragonborn that Jaskier sings of?” Geralt asked.
“You still sing of me in this realm?”
“Only in private! . . . . Yes,” Snowberry admitted sheepishly.
- Cecil -
“Good morning, listeners. Yesterday we welcomed The Bard back to Nightvale. As you all know, he is a victim of the portal problem that cropped up when he was born atop table ten in Big Rico’s pizzeria. No one does a birth like Big Rico’s. No one.”
A shuffling of papers whispered across the radio waves as the announcer gathered his words.
“It has been reported from his songs that he has already visited two dimensions already, places that are far away and unknown to us. The Erika’s tell us that he consorts with Gods and legends, but The Bard is no one to fear. ‘Um, no, yeah, well, you see, The Bard is actually very friendly even if he does tend to babble a bit,’ answered one witness who saw his performance at the Town Hall meeting yesterday, where the man had just mysteriously appeared via portal.”
“Apparently he stepped from the void and just started playing. We here in Nightvale appreciate a good performance, though The Bard is unfortunately too finicky to get in touch with. He appears precisely on time for concerts and recordings, but then disappears into the void once more immediately afterwards.”
“As it stands, this makes it nearly impossible to get an interview from him. Perhaps one day he will explain his lyrics and travels to us, but . . . ah, hold on listeners, I am getting a call. Now I will take you to . . . the weather.”
“Hello listeners, welcome back. It seems that The Bard has once again eluded our reporters by traveling back to his latest dimension. He said just before he departed that he would be back for our annual winter festival, portals willing. Hopefully he will survive the void until we see him once more . . . “ Cecil trailed off, his voice foreboding.
“Now, onto other news!” He chirped, cheery once more as if the earlier tone had not existed.
- The Bard -
He had appeared in existence for the first time in Big Rico’s on top of table number ten. There had apparently been reports of music being heard for a few days in the pizzeria before he had finally broken through the veil and been born to Nightvale as an automatic citizen. He was wearing six inch high heels and a silken medieval looking outfit, a lute in his hands and a sigil ring of some kind on his finger.
He had already been belting out lyrics, strumming his lute, and dancing on the tabletop when he finally appeared in physical form. The couple seated at table ten in Big Rico’s who had come to enjoy a romantic meal were mildly annoyed, but not shocked or angry. When they caught on to the lyrics, they even began to sing along even though they had never heard the song before.
They even gave a very generous tip, imagine that. That was when the portals first began. Cecil barely had time to announce his arrival before he was already bidding farewell to The Bard, as he had named him. That became his first name, and Cecil had become giddy and lightheaded at the fact that he had just named a newborn child.
Despite the distance of the void, Cecil's voice would travel on the radio waves across dimensions to The Bard at odd intervals. Just enough to keep up with the times. Lofti would shoot him strange glances as Snowberry would tilt his head, seeming to listen to something that nothing but he himself could hear.
Cecil had been going on about body doubles when Snowberry stood atop that mountain side by side with the Dragonborn, about to face Alduin the World Eater. The last thing he heard as Lofti shouted was Cecil's voice telling him rather emphatically to kill your double.
So when he arrived in Lettenhove he was not surprised to see his own likeness staring back at him, though the same could not be said of the other young man. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove was staring at him in open-mouthed shock, his hand frozen as it held a quill poised over paper. "Are you a shapeshifter?" He asked, his eyes glued to The Bard.
"No. You are my double. I am afraid that I must kill you now, lest I be deported to Desert Bluffs."
Killing one's double is not as easy as it seems, and it is quite a bit more messy than one might assume. The opponent matches you muscle to muscle, so it is more a battle of wits. Or perhaps more a battle of paperweights, as that was the weapon that finally ended their coming to blows.
Then there was the matter of the body. How does one clean up the mess of their own double? If only Lofti were here to incinerate it or banish it to the shadow realm or whatever magic she wielded. She could simply resurrect the double and make it walk into its own grave; effective and simple!
Alas, Lofti was not here and Snowberry had to find a way to dispose of this himself. He waited until dark (which was thankfully not long, as it had been twilight upon his arrival) before dragging the body and pushing it through the window to the garden below. He followed in the most logical way by use of the stairs and a door before digging the poor double his own grave.
Over the years, that spot had sprouted a lovely patch of buttercups, which he took inspiration from for his new moniker. Neither Jaskier nor Snowberry were prone to violence, but The Bard knew that sometimes one had to do what was necessary in order to survive.
- Yennefer -
"Jaskier said that you traveled together?" The witch asked, soaking away all the many weeks of troubles in the hot springs below the keep. Triss sat beside her, Lofti across from them.
'Dragonborn' Jaskier had called her, and Yennefer didn't know quite what that meant. The woman was tall though, even a head taller than Geralt. She was definitely an elf as was apparent by her pointed ears, though she had a sickly grey-green tint to her skin with glowing orange eyes. It made her wonder if the woman had taken some sort of mutagen herself.
Lofti even had snow white hair, just a shade brighter than Geralt's own.
"Yes, Snowberry and I began our adventures long ago. Back when he was small and weak and I had to hold his hand with every step. But then, I was still growing then too . . . " She mused, her glowing ember eyes seeming faraway. "I had just learned of my own destiny, and he was there to free my heavily burdened heart from its shackles."
"Why do you call him Snowberry?" Triss asked, wading over to undo Lofti's braids for her. It was made easier by the fact that she was crouched into the water, allowing the witch access.
"Thank you," she told Triss. "I call him Snowberry because he has a tough and hardy nature despite how appealing he looks. He also fortifies me in many aspects, though I would not go so far as to make a potion out of him," she said with a wry smile.
"Are you in love with him?" Yennefer asked bluntly.
"Not in love, no. I do love him very much, though. He is my dearest friend, and I am very glad that I had not killed him as I thought," Lofti responded just as bluntly, sinking further into the hot water to wet the ends of her hair.
"How did you almost kill him?" Triss asked, ever concerned. She sat back down along the ledge, rejoining Yennefer along the side of the pool.
"It was atop the Throat of The World, the second journey that we had made there. I was wielding the Elder Scroll this time, and Alduin had come. It was after I learned Dragonrend and shouted it to the heavens that the fabric of very existence itself rent open, and Snowberry was pulled inside. Slow time had no effect, and I could not catch him fast enough before he fell through my fingers. Despite everything, I am glad to own a dragon's soul."
"If I did not," Lofti continued in a musing tone, "I would not have placed such insurance on the one I hoard as my own." At her last statement, her orange eyes flickered like firelight even in the blue tones of the hot spring.
In this moment, she did rather look like a dragon. It reminded Yennefer heavily of Borch, the golden dragon they had met in the man's attempt to save his offspring. It was the same look of fierce devotion that Lofti had flashing in the set of her jaw and kindling fire in her eyes.
"Can you turn into a dragon, then?" Yennefer asked.
Lofti let out a small chuckle, but the mirth grew into a full fit of belly laughter. When she sobered enough to talk, she wiped the tears away and said a simple; "Ironically? No."
The tone made both Triss and Yennefer burst out into startled laughter as well, the sounds of it bouncing off of the walls and echoing even into the keep upstairs.
"Having fun without me?" A girlish tone came, the sounds of small footsteps producing a Princess of Cintra holding a towel around herself as she joined them in the baths. She had grown even in the time she had been at the keep, taller by at least one or two inches. Her light hair shines almost silver, though more yellow than Geralt or Lofti's.
"The Child of Destiny," Lofti said in welcome as Cirilla discarded the towel to the side and joined them in the warm waters. "It is a pleasure to meet the one who has caused such a shift in this realm."
"You don't need to speak so formally. You can just call me Ciri," the girl said, her nose wrinkling at being called 'the child of destiny'.
"I thank you for the honor," Lofti said seriously with a tip of her head. It would do the girl good to get used to people treating her with respect, as it was her due.
"So you're Yennefer?" She asked, turning towards the dark haired witch. "I've dreamt about you. A premonition."
"Hopefully not of the bad kind. It is nice to finally meet you, Ciri. Geralt had only mentioned you in passing," Yennefer told her, leaving out the fact that it had caused a falling out between them. Yennefer had been heartbroken and livid that day, feeling choked and so full of hate and heartache that she would never be able to bear a child. Whereas Geralt had a child of surprise and refused to claim her.
"We only just met. After the fall of Cintra," Ciri said, sadness coloring her tone a deep blue. "He found me."
"I am glad he did," Triss said placatingly, using a wet cloth to wipe a bit of dirt from the Princess's cheek. The girl had been more interested in training with the witchers than studying magic lately, and it showed in the scrapes, scratches, and bruises along her body.
"Triss says that she has been teaching you magic," Yennefer said to lighten the mood and bring the focus back to the present.
"She has been trying to teach me magic, but I'm just not any good at it I'm afraid. I like training with the witchers more. No offense, Triss."
"None taken," Triss said with a soft smile.
"We'll have to remedy that. Now with three witches, we should be able to find a way to keep you engaged," Yennefer said with a grin, making Ciri groan.
"No, let's not talk about studies in the bath. This is free time," the girl bemoaned, making everyone else chuckle at her theatrics.
"Alright, no talk of studies in the bath. But now that I am here, you will not be skipping your lessons." Yennefer said sternly. Maybe it was due to the fact that Ciri was Geralt's child surprise, or perhaps it was Cirilla herself, but something about the child sparked her maternal instinct. For perhaps the first time in her life, she found something worth protecting and nurturing. Tissaia could not take this away from her.
Perhaps this is what Lofti had been holding onto for Jaskier, Yennefer mused in her head.
"Yes ma'am," Ciri said, though there was a whining undertone to it.