#Dyn Marv

[shy-urban-hobbit]

What if Dyn Marv routinely 'abandons' kids in the middle of the woods for a couple of days when they first arrive to dissuade them from trying to run away (they've got better things to do than keep chasing them down and bringing them back afterall), because yes, being here sucks. But being out there completely alone with all the unknown beasties and bandits is way scarier.

[itsnotmuchyet]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53726809/chapters/136005934

After the mountain Jaskier throws caution to the winds and decides to use a secret he's kept his entire life to get back at Geralt. He expects a short and petty journey of revenge. Instead he makes new witcher friends, explores his past, and finds peace with who he is and what he wants in life. Meanwhile, Geralt hasn't heard anything about Jaskier since he sent him away and is growing worried....

[lenkalost]

Cedric and Axel are as different as night and day. Yet, they somehow became friends, a fact Cedric isn't unhappy about. But when Axel starts flirting with him, things become complicated. And between contracts and the everyday trouble that is Dyn Marv, Cedric doesn't need any more complications.

Hey! Here's the second chapter, featuring Belleteyn at Dyn Marv. I hope you like it!

[akhuna]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aiden & Gaetan (The Witcher), Gaetan & female OC, Gaetan & Joel (the Witcher), Gaetan & Schrödinger (The Witcher) Characters: Gaetan (The Witcher), Aiden (The Witcher), Joël (The Witcher), Schrödinger (The Witcher), Original Female Character(s), Guxart (The Witcher), Lexandre (The Witcher) Additional Tags: Dyn Marv Caravan (The Witcher), Cat School (The Witcher), Mentor/Protégé, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Team as Family, so what if Gaetan had a kitten, and if it was terrified of thunderstorms, caring Gaetan, Fluff and Angst, Language Barrier, dwarvish

Summary:

Gaetan's kitten Brigitt is facing her terror of thunderstorms and goes out into the nightly Camp of Dyn Marv to search for her mentor.

Based on @lenkalost‘s Tales of Dyn Marv series!

[blackberrywars]

I saw the flash fic thing you're doing!! If you're in the mood any of your adorable Kitten Shenanigans™ would be delightful ❤️❤️❤️

Ask and ye shall receive, my friend! It ended up just slightly angstier than intended, because witchers and Vesemir are involved, but I hope it meets your expectations for the Kitten Shenanigans™. Full disclosure, it is heavily inspired by this post.

——————————————————————————————

Kittens love to be tossed.

This epiphany —perhaps the most important one in all of Guxart’s many, many years of raising kittens into Cats— came at the cost of his ungreyed temples and his witcher-slow pulse. All he remembers now, four decades later, is that he had been walking through a Toussaint forest with Gezras when a horrible, ear-piercing shriek shattered the peaceful morning air. It had ripped through him like poison. Made his guts fall through to his feet. Nearly took him out at the knees before he whipped his useless body around, sprinting to the source, the lake where he’d left his kittens to bathe. Another scream found his ears, and he barely fucking registers the orange blur of Gezras beside him as he pushed ahead, bursting though the treeline to save his kitten 

“Lexandre!”

The sound nearly tore his throat apart, but how could he care? Just beyond the shores stood Lexandre, cowering from the claws of a water hag. He ran. Vicious, disgusting claws tore into his back as he tackled his kitten, curling him into his chest and away from the danger. He barely felt them, just kicked away underwater as fast as he could, hearing the sound of steel on flesh, knowing that Gezras had the danger in hand so he could focus on getting his precious cargo to safety. When Lexandre began to scratch at his arm, he pulled them upwards to the surface, took their heads above the sudden waves.

He expected screaming. He expected whimpering and sobbing, to have to comfort his kittens and scold them in the morning.

He hadn’t expected laughter.

—

— — —

—

From that day onward —when the beat of his heart had kept pace only with the rapid, joyful cries of “Again! Again! Again!” as rowdy kits begged to be tackled once more— Guxart had a new tool to wrangle his growing clowder. Lakes, rivers, bushes, leaf piles, snowdrifts, pillows. Other kittens, on occasion. And oftentimes, right back into his arms. Any and every surface that could give them a somewhat soft landing, and Guxart has both an irresistible reward for good behavior and a deterrent for excessive mischief, all in one. Good kits are tossed, repeatedly. Naughty kits would have to, unsatisfyingly, throw themselves. It minimizes considerable damage. So, when he decides to show Vesemir his newfound knowledge, he expects more gratitude than he gets, and maybe even a fun, tossing-related reward of his own.

“What the actual fuck, Guxart.”

It was foolish, in retrospect.

“What? They’re having fun, look at ‘em.” 

Guxart’s newest charge, a dwarvish girl just barely past five summers, falls hard into his arms, giggling with glee. Kiyan’s weight pulls at the strained muscles of his back the same way her smile pulls at the strained strings of his too-soft heart. Shrödinger handles his other kit, Joël, in a similar manner, tossing him higher still. The pair had done excellent in their drills today, and had been slowly learning to hold knives properly with no delays, thanks to the promise of being tossed. His wolf snarls, curling his lip. It’s handsome, but ultimately unnecessary.

“You’re going to hurt yourself, damnit! What the fuck are you even doing to them? What for?”

“I’ll be fine, pretty boy. My kits aren’t so big yet. And it’s called kitten-tossing, a favorite pastime around here.”

He catches Kiyan again, and lets the resistant kitten wiggle her way out of his arms to be tossed by some other willing elder before turning back to his sometimes-lover.

“The long and short is that they like it. It keeps the hellions sweet, and I thought you’d appreciate that for your own little pack. I’m sure they’re no kits, but surely not all of your pups are as stiff as the pole stuck up Rennes’ ass.”

“Don’t you bring up Rennes, not when he doesn’t know I’m even here. What are you coddling them for? With their odds, what’s the point?”

Guxart sighs, rubbing at his graying temples. The movement makes his shoulder twinge again, but he ignores it again.

“Fuck off, Vesi. I can love them at least a little while, or however long they last. Besides, I think it really does help them —we don’t just get lucky picking acrobatic children, not with how desperate we’ve been for new trainees. The throwing… balances them, oddly enough.”

“Maybe. Or it’ could be what makes them all crazy.”

It’s a low blow, and it stings like bitter herbs in a fresh wound. But Vesemir can’t stay for long, so Guxart lets it slide with a wink and a laugh. A joke.

“Then what’s my excuse, hm? And yours, for coming here?”

“Don’t make it like that. You’ve always had your way of handling your recruits, and I won’t stop you. Lexandre turned out mostly fine, explosives aside.”

With that, the Wolf bumps his hip against Guxart’s, the best apology he can make, and Guxart takes it. He likes his way, and this method is one of his best to not only prepare his kittens for witcher life, but show them some kind of affection under the guise of training. It works, whether Vesemir understands it or not. He’ll bet anything the bastard adopts it himself, once he gets a pup who needs it badly enough.

——————————————————————————————

[restless-witch]

varieties of exile - geraskier in drabbles - pt 5

Witcher 3 + Netflix / This part is rated G / Geralt & Ciri / Incomplete 

.

They're on the last hard leg before Kaedwan to Kaer Morhen where he'll be able to fucking figure out what to do with his child surprise. They’re trying to outrun a Aedirnian windstorm,  Roach axii-ed half out of her mind to follow the path- when the unmistakable stench of other witchers and people was carried on the gale to Geralt. He immediately dove all three of them off the road into a gully under an upturned tree: he and Ciri and Roach were downwind and he'd probably only smelled them at all through the storm because of how big the group obviously was. He caught a great sound besides the cacophony of the storm-

You're pouting in your sleep

I'm waking still yawning

It was a tight fit and Roach started to shift uneasily- Geralt recast axii and thrust a sheathed dagger into Ciri's trembling hands and thanked the uncountable gods Calanthe at least made sure the girl could ride. He touched his forehead to Ciri's and dismounted, looping his finger through Roach's halter, debating whether he should guide Roach or sprint off as a distraction if they're noticed by the party. It didn't really fucking matter, there were enough of them to break off and hunt them both- better they stayed together.

We're proving to each other

That romance is boring

The shouted bawdy singing came through like static and the ring of a blade; a whole host of fucking trouble when he heard the groan of wheels-

Through the roots of the upturned tree, thirty yards beyond them, he saw the Dyn Marv caravan crossing the parallel road. 

It was only his third time passing the caravan, but the whole clowder appeared to be making the most of the storm. It was unnerving the way they somersaulted and vaulted over the brambles and ducked around the wheels seemingly unperturbed by the heavy drafts bending the trees and the youngest kits were nearly blown away by the stronger blasts of wind. Crowing their song like they’ve filled a whole tavern on their own.

Still there are things I could do

If I was half prepared to

Prove to each other that romance is boring

A child, still brown eyed and scrappy, nearly flew into a trunk when a witcher scooped him from the skies and pulled him down to earth again. Geralt realized the whole tumbling crew was paired and tethered together- elders dancing around the youths who wavered between elegant rolls and buffeting into the sky.

As more than half the caravan and its wagons and eccentric inhabitants thrashed past, without giving any attention to them, Geralt silently held Ciri's hand and nudged her to peer out at the strange school.

Through the shaking world, Aiden's roguish eyes met his and winked.

He thought of the songs of Kaer Morhen. The pattering work songs boys chorused as they ran the walls, teaching them the roads spidering across the continent and the names of the constellations; the supper ballads reminding them their noble histories; the rolling melodies for learning footwork.

He didn't think any of them could bear to sing with Ciri.

.

A/N- wOw! My draft has ballooned from 5k to 10k words! Thanks y’all for getting me excited about this WIP :) 

The song is “Romance is Boring” by Los Campesinos! I just saw them live again and they’re so so so good! I love the song and listened to a few covers- I guess I imagine it sounding somewhere between their KEXP recording for energy and mood and a few acoustic covers  for an idea of what it will sound like when it comes back into the story.

Encouragement and kind words will always make me more excited to write stuff <3 and feel free to dash off a message to me! I haven’t really made any friends in the fandom yet :3c

Thanks for reading, friends!

Rough and tumble ragged drafts on tumblr here: actual fic varieties of exile

Polished chapters on ao3 here: Varieties of Exile

[vesemirsexual]

better world where Kiyan gets less fucked up and eventually free. he’s still got a demon in him, but he gets back to the caravan and due to the nature of the caravan, it takes like 1.5 years for anyone to notice anything weird anyway

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

Thinking about Dyn Marv and the absolute HELL that would be living your formative years sharing a literal wagon with 10-25 co-ed pre-teens and teenagers. Perpetual sleepover. Everything is damp and smells of dirty socks and blood and puberty sweat. That horrible sticky feeling of sliding into your sleeping bag after a long day. Kiyan put Aiden's hand in warm water during the night and now everything smells of piss. There are spiders. Every morning you wake up and your toes are cold no matter how many pairs of socks you wear. You want to strangle the mf who sleeps next to you because she snores.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

I just love the concept that Aiden was older than Lambert, perhaps a lot older. He might be a bit grumpy, perhaps witty, perhaps with a dark sense of humour, but there is something inherently good there. Lambert said Aiden didn't take human contracts, he was the best man he's ever met, so I imagine someone who had been kicked and beaten down by life, someone that struggled often, but still tried to rise above. Still made a choice to be good in a way that Lambert would appreciate.

It would be a bunch of small, consistent things, no big acts of heroism or showy sacrifice. Maybe, helping an old lady with her pixie problem and accepting a bowl of soup as payment, using his intimidating physique to stop an abusive father even though 'flashing his fangs' loses him work, burgling a lord whose rent has tripled in the last two years, being loyal to his brothers even though it would be easier if he turned his back on Dyn Marv for good, cutting the fingers off a john who wouldn't take no for an answer.

Aiden didn't get it right all the time; sometimes Aiden got angry, or low, or lashed out because life is fucking hard. Sometimes he slipped up, because Aiden was a man. Not an effigy. Not a symbol. He was a man. An imperfect, but good man. And he never used the shit hand life dealt him as an excuse, because fuck letting the past govern his future. They would drink, and laugh, and move through the hard bits together.

Perhaps Lambert saw some hope in that, maybe even a way to forge his own path. With Aiden. There was more to life than the Path and Kaer Morhen and the demons in his head. Aiden was tangible, realistic proof that life could be something more. Something better.

Losing that? Yeah, I'd be pretty fucking angry and bitter too.

[jayofolympus-writes]

For the writing ask: 4. Please babble about your OCs. :)

Oh boy do I have OCs! I've got more OCs than you can shake a stick at.

Starting with ones who are in fics I've already published, we have The Witcher OCs Ola, Jakub, and Kacper, all from Taken In Exchange, and Star Wars OC Bastion, from the series that I very imaginatively named... Bastion.

For The Witcher, I also have Bartek, who does not yet have a fic because he does not have a plot, he just has Vibes. Some day, though...

I'll put all this under a read more because it's going to get long

The Witcher

Ola is a cobbler who, as a child, was saved by the witcher Jakub. She grows up to be a somewhat abrasive person who comes across as unfeeling and cold hearted, and doesn't make friends easily, though she loves her son and her chosen family. She's aromantic, but after meeting and growing close to Kacper, they become platonic partners, and he helps to parent her son Kuba.

Jakub is a Bear witcher, who is gruff, quiet, and fond of animals. He's got a horse named Nightmare who is a total sweetheart to him, Ola, and Kuba, and a hell beast to everyone else. In TIE, Jakub dies saving Ola, though I have considered writing an AU in which he lives and gets to meet little Kuba.

Kacper is a Griffin witcher, and is generally very awkward. He's friendly, but is bad at conversation and has a habit of sticking his foot in his mouth because he either speaks without thinking or asks too many questions. He admires Ola for her level headedness, and loves Kuba like a son.

Bartek is a Cat witcher, and was raised by the Dyn Marv caravan from a very young age. He was found in the forest as a toddler, and was too young to know his own name, so he eventually chose his own from the suggestions made by the older Cats. Before he chose his name, the rest of the Cats had many affectionate nicknames for him, including Kitten, Wee One, Sneaky, and Little Shit. His luck is notoriously bad, though always just good enough to keep him alive.

Star Wars

Bastion is my self indulgent "super hot and cool and competent" OC. He's Darth Maul’s nephew (Savage Oppress' son), and is raised on Tatooine by Maul and Obi-Wan. They train him to use the Force so that he can help Luke defeat the Emperor, and he joins the Rebel Alliance in his late teens. As a kid he is very serious about his training, but very much enjoys just hanging out with his uncles too. As an adult (not written yet), he can come across as a bit of a buzzkill thanks to his strong sense of duty, but when he lets loose, chaos reigns supreme.

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Aiden sighed as he settled back in the grass, basking in the midday sun whilst his horse grazed nearby. After almost a week of camping, he was pretty sure he only had a day, two at most before the Dyn Marv Caravan passed close enough for him to join the clowder for the winter. It was a trick all Cat’s picked up after a couple of years on the path and missed opportunities to go home because you were restless. Pick a stretch of road and hunker down until you hear the calls. They still liked to remind Schrödinger of the year he missed them because he got distracted by a pretty shepherdess and was helping her ‘tend her flock’, as it were.

He smiled to himself as he closed his eyes and started idly listing off the various birds he could hear. Something he’d always found calming. Wood pigeon; obviously. A blue jay, a couple of crows making a din about something further into the trees, a linnet.

He tensed when his sensitive ears picked up a distinctly human call. Somebody somewhere in the woods was singing. Aiden relaxed when it didn’t sound like they were getting any closer (further away if anything) before frowning. He couldn’t make out the words but from tone of voice alone it was apparent his mystery serenader was pissed. He winced in sympathy for whoever or whatever had earned such ire. His musings were interrupted by the sharp crack of wood breaking, followed by the singing rapidly turning into a shriek. He whistled 'stay' at his horse, hoping the flick of an ear was acknowledgment and not a fly before leaping to his feet and grabbing his swords before sprinting in the direction the noise had come from.

The groans of pain and multiple (very creative) curses were both a blessing and a curse. It was providing him with pretty clear directions but who knew what else they’d attract. It wasn’t long before he found their source though. A pit trap, the branches and bracken laid over the top destroyed. He made sure to make his footfalls louder as he approached.

“Hello, is somebody there? Oh Gods, if there is, please be an actual person and not some sort of liche or something.” The voice only sounded slightly shaky, which could just as easily be down to the scent of pain as well as that of fear.

“No Liche around these woods. None I’ve seen anyway.” Aiden said as he peered over the edge. It was deep, and the earthen sides were totally smooth, with not even a decent sized tree root visible, whoever had dug this wasn’t taking any chances.

A young man sat on the pit floor, blinking up at him with wide, blue eyes. A light pack on his back and a lute laying next to him, his hands grasping his left ankle. His gaze fixed on Aiden’s swords from where they peeked over his shoulder, “Wait. Armour, two swords…Witcher?”

Aiden nodded, mentally preparing himself for having to convince him to accept help from him.

“Oh, thank fuck.” The man’s shoulders sagged as he gave a relieved sounding laugh, “For a minute there I thought I was in trouble. Jaskier the Bard.” He inclined his head and Aiden got the impression it would be a full bow if he were standing, “Be a dear and help me out?” Aiden blinked down at him. Shit, he was definitely concussed.

After Jaskier had assured him that no, he hadn’t hit his head, but he had buggered up his ankle somewhat, they came up with a system. Jaskier passed his lute and pack up to Aiden, the Witcher feeling guilt spring up at the flash of pure hurt in the human’s eyes when he half-jokingly asked “’How do you know I won’t just leave you there?” He held his tongue as he hung as far over the edge as he dared and offered Jaskier his hand so he could haul himself out with Aiden’s help. He looked anywhere but at Aiden as he sat and tried to wipe the dust and mud off his bright red doublet. He immediately reminded the Witcher of a cardinal bird.

Aiden cleared his throat awkwardly, “Your ankle, think you can walk on it? I can help you back to your camp or horse if not.”

Jaskier shook his head, “Don’t have either I’m afraid. I’ve been travelling incredibly light as of late, I don’t know if you’ve tried it, but it’s been surprisingly freeing not being weighed down by useless stuff, you know.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call a bedroll useless.”

Jaskier waved a hand, “Debatable. I-fuck!” Aiden caught him by the arm as his ankle immediately buckled underneath him when he tried to stand, “No, walking’s not happening. Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologise for. Lean on me.”

“Where are you taking me?”

Good fucking question, actually.

Aiden really didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t leave a defenceless human hobbling around on an injured leg, but he couldn’t exactly risk an outsider encountering the Caravan either. There was a reason they stayed off the main roads after all. He tried to sketch a basic map in his head: This should be just about manageable.

“My camp. We’ll use my horse to get you to the nearest town and you can make your own way from there yeah? Unless you know of anywhere else nearby, where were you heading?” The nearest town was about a days ride away, if he rode through the night after dropping Jaskier off he should hopefully be back in time to catch the Caravan.

“I…no,” and there was that hurt again, “I have nowhere to be and nowhere to go. Such is the life of travelling Bard.”

“Easy, Sparrow.” Aiden cooed as he helped Jaskier up on the saddle, the Bard holding his lute in his lap and muttering something about how it must be some unspoken Witcher tradition to name your horse after another animal.

“Know many Witchers then?” Aiden asked

“Just the one, we travelled together on and off for a time, he’s a Wolf.” Aiden felt ice go down his spine. Fuck. A certain, tolerable raven head being the exception, if he was going to end up with some possessive fleabag accusing him of kidnapping, Aiden was cutting ties now.

“Where are they now?” Aiden tried to keep his tone light. If Lambert had lost another brother, he wouldn't know until he made it back to his own home for the winter and the thought that Aiden would know before the poor sods family momentarily settled heavily in his chest.

“I don’t actually know. We had a bit of a disagreement a while back. Which school are you by the way, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Aiden fished the snarling cat head from out of his tunic, which was met with raised eyebrows and an “…Ah.”

“Still happy with our plan?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jaskier sounded genuinely confused.

“I can guess what your Wolf told you about my lot. If you’d rather take your chances, I can leave you with some basic supplies.”

“Dear, if I paid attention to every single thing I got told about Witchers, my life would have taken a very different direction. You’ve given me no reason not to trust you so far. So, hop up and let’s go.”

“Self-preservation isn’t a phrase you know very well, is it?”

“We’ve a passing acquaintance at best. Speaking of, may I know the name of my rescuer and escort? Unless you don’t mind me calling you Dear for the entire trip.”

“I’m Aiden.”

Read the rest on my A03!

[lenkalost]

Cedric and Axel are as different as night and day. Yet, they somehow became friends, a fact Cedric isn't unhappy about. But when Axel starts flirting with him, things become complicated. And between contracts and the everyday trouble that is Dyn Marv, Cedric doesn't need any more complications.

Hey! Another Saturday, another chapter. Today, there's all the drama. I hope you enjoy it. ;)

[akhuna]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gaetan & Cedric (The Witcher) Characters: Gaetan (The Witcher), Witcher Cedric (The Witcher) Additional Tags: The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Family Loss, Loss of Parent(s), Cat School (The Witcher), Dyn Marv Caravan (The Witcher), Headcanon, Campfires, yes Gaetan tries to calm Cedric down here, Gaetan brought Cedric to the Dyn Marv, Bonding, Background Character Death, Building trust, I really had to type out the Gaetan & Cedric tag, oh my Summary:

Gaetan is taking a young Cedric to the Dyn Marv to become a Witcher. After learning about Cedric's past on their first evening, Gaetan shares his own backstory about his family, and, most importantly, his sister.

~ ~ ~

Heeey folks, what’s up, I had some thoughts about Gaetan’s backstory, specifically, his sister. :)

(Feedback is always welcome, as is criticism.)

[blackberrywars]

Story - Dyn Marv

SFW prompt for day 6 of the @witchersummercamp event!!! Shout out to @hellinglasses and her own kitty companions for beta’ing

Rating: G

Words: 4350

Pairing: Gen with references to Arnaghad/Erland and Guxart/Vesemir

Tags: Cat School, Dyn Marv Caravan, Cutagens, Papa Guxart, Bedtime Stories, All Of The Younger Cats Are Kittens, Non-Graphic Violence, Swearing But Not In Front Of Kittens, Must Be A Good Example, Witcher Lore References But Disguised As Fables

Summary: Every night, Guxart reads a fable to a tangled pile of kittens, and though the pages are stained and the illustrations are faded, his newest clowder is just as enraptured as his first. He hopes they learn its lessons well.

Read on AO3

——————————————————————————————

If he didn’t know what little bastards they are, Guxart could almost call his smallest kittens, piled up and on top of each other in the trainee wagon, cute. At this age, they’re all still devastatingly little in a way that makes him ache. Gaetan barely reaches his mid-thigh on tiptoe. Dragonfly head-butted him in the balls earlier today during training. Kari lost his four front teeth this year, and won’t regrow stronger, dwarven ones until he loses the rest. At eight years old, Aiden still has cheeks like bread rolls —entirely too squishy for her own good. Daniet just hit a growth spurt, making her knees spasm constantly with the pressure. Even Cedric and Axel, both nearly eleven, can each hang off one of his arms with little difficulty on his part. And every last one of them is staring up at him with their expectant little eyes in every shade that won’t last. Like a chorus, the nightly question goes up into the night air.

“Story? Stoey? Storytime? Story? Storytime? Stoeytime? Stories! Story! Story! Storytime! Papi, it’s Storytime!”

According to whatever rotation they’ve cooked up, Dragonfly guards the book tonight. It’s a heavy tome, one of the few that Dyn Marv can afford to carry around. Brown, weathered pages slip between her fingers as she finds the right page. The Bear and the Bird. He recognizes the tale immediately, though the illustrations have faded from the vibrant colors they once displayed, the ones he painstakingly inked onto the parchment so many years ago. Time hadn’t been kind to the book, but his newest kits love it just as the elder ones did. With an imperious stare, carrying all the self-assured authority of the princess she almost was, Dragonfly drops the open book into his lap with a painful thud against his still-sore groin. 

“Storytime.”

She nods her little chin once and sits back down with her littermates, pushing Gaetan onto Aiden’s lap so she can take the pillow for her own head, lounging across it carelessly. Guxart sighs, settling his back further against the wall. His usual reading cushion has disappeared, likely under the mass of watchful kittens in front of him, so he makes do with the wooden floor, crossing his legs and resting the book on his knee. He doesn’t need to actually look at the words to tell them the story, but the kits always insist that he should get to read it too. With a cough to clear his throat, he begins the prologue:

“Very well, kits. Storytime. But this is the only story you’re getting, because after this, you are all going to sleep. If I hear a single sound out of any of you once I close this book, you will have to make your own breakfast for a week.”

Guileless, with seven little grins and fourteen shining eyes, they promise to all fall right asleep. They won’t bother him or Gezras for anything unless someone dies or “frows up” in the middle of the night. It’s bullshit, of course. Bullshit of the highest order. But he nods and tells them they’re good little kits anyway because they look so cute when they’re proud of themselves for successfully lying to him. 

“Now, where was I? Right, yes —the begining. A long, long time ago, beyond seven mountains, beyond seven forests, a little bear cub wandered through the woods all alone. His mother had left the den a week ago in search of food, but never returned. When his hunger became too great, despite how small his size and how blunt his teeth and how thin his fur, he decided to risk the dangers of the world, for his other option was death. He ventured out. For two days and two nights, he wandered through the forest, his belly rumbling, empty and cramped. Still, no matter how he tried, food remained out of his reach.

Bees stung him when he reached for their hive. Fish slipped from his little paws, too slippery for the soft pads. Squirrels leapt into trees he couldn’t climb. Deer vanished before he could even chase them. Even the berry bushes were all picked clean by earlier hunters, who’d left nothing but rotten fruit on the ground. Desperate, he ate them. They were slimy, mushy, and foul but he’d never been hungrier, so he devoured every last one he could find. With each bite, he felt sicker. His head felt fuzzy, his tummy ached, and soon he was so disoriented that he could barely keep his feet, stumbling until he found the edge of a cliff…… and fell right off it!”

Gaetan gasps, “No!” from his perch on Aiden’s lap, chubby leg kicking out in alarm. Guxart fixes his face into a mournful expression, nodding solemnly.

“Yes! He fell for what must have been miles, spinning through the air. All he could see was the blue sky, the gray cliffs, and the green grass, one after the other until they blurred into one, and he shut his eyes against it, bracing himself for the end. When he stopped, the air left his lungs in a rush, which didn’t shock him much more —he had died. Dead little bears don’t need breath. But then he inhaled, and a strange, soft thing brushed his long snout, gently enough to make him sneeze himself upright. He opened his eyes, and there in front of him, on a bed of brown twigs and leaves, hopped a little bird. It peered up at him before speaking, eyes wider than dinner plates:

‘You don’t look like a bird.’

Confused, the bear replied, ‘That’s because I’m not one.’

‘Then how did you fly here?’

‘I fell. I think.’

‘But you landed safely!’

The little bear, whose back hurt quite a bit, disagreed. On the last word, at least. Furiously so. But the little bird refused to believe anything else —he had fallen from the sky, so a bird he must be. They sat in the nest, arguing and quarreling until they exhausted themselves and fell asleep, with the little bird curled against the little bear’s warm, soft belly and the little bear balanced so as not to squash him. They woke the next morning, and though the little bear remained hungry, he could not help but be dragged into the argument once more.

‘I am not a bird!’

Immediately, the little bird protested, ‘You are! You fell from the sky and landed here, just like a bird! Your wings are strange, and you landed heavily, but a bird you must be.’

‘I am not!’ said the little bear, waving his arms around as if to prove their lack of feathers. ‘I have no beak, no wings, and no tail!’

‘But you flew!’

They went on, back and forth, until finally the little bird, frustrated and indignant, cried out to his father: ‘You say you’re not a bird? Fine, then, I’ll prove it to you!’

Saying this, he used all his might to push the bear off the side of the nest. Had the bear been less hungry, less tired, and less weak, the little bird would have failed, but the bear, startled, toppled over the edge for the second time, crashing upon the rocky earth with a horrible crunch.”

“NO!!” cry all his kits in unison, and Daniet lunges for the book in his lap, quick but not quick enough as Guxart hides it behind his back with one arm, and holds the misbehaving kitten by the forehead with the other fully extended. A gentle flick of the wrist, sends her back to the pile so she can grumble.

“A horrible crunch from his right arm, and as the little bear lay on the ground, howling in pain, the bird descended from its nest, shouting in alarm, hovering over the bear’s prone body:

‘Have I killed you?! Did your parents never teach you to fly?’

Through gritted teeth, the bear replied, ‘I’m alive, no thanks to you. And like I already told you, I’m not a bird.”

Apologetic, the little bird fussed over the bear’s broken arm and cared for him over the course of a month until it healed. And while the bear was angry at the bird for pushing him off the nest, he was so well-cared for —with clean water, herbs for pain, and all the food he could stand— that the little bear felt his grudge subside quickly. In fact, by the time he could walk again, he could no longer be called a little bear at all. Everyday, the bird brought him a feast. Honey stolen from the bees, fish small enough to fit in his beak, nuts and fresh berries instead of rotten ones, all of it went into his belly until he was healthy and fatter than a caravan!” 

“Fatter than a caravan!” Aiden shouts, curving her arms around her body in an approximate comparison, “Papi, that’s impossible.”

“Ah, but it isn’t! Not for this bear, at least.”

“Impossible,” accompanied by exasperated bug eyes.

“Everything’s possible, kit, except maybe you shutting your trap. Oh, wait. Shut your mouth, kitten, or I’ll close this book.”

Before he even finishes his sentence, three pillows —one from Dragonfly, one from Axel, and one from Cedric— club her across the face, knocking her right onto her back. Gaetan keeps his seat, miraculously, and turns around, beating her stomach with his little fists. The things a good union can do truly amaze him. If his kits all make it past the Grasses and manage to stop arguing at every occasion that isn’t their hallowed Storytime, they’ll topple anything in their path. Before he becomes that very thing, he continues reading.

“Thank you. After the month had passed, the bear could walk easily again, and learned to hunt for himself. Still, his arm ached. As the seasons turned ever closer to winter, the cold seeped into his fragile bones, and he became sleepier and sleepier, preparing for a long winter’s nap. Such was his nature, but still the bird —who had grown large and strong in his own right— fretted. When the bear grew fatter, the bird worried over the waddle in his step. When he began digging his den, the bird fussed over his dirty claws. Worst of all, when the time came that the bear retreated into his yearly sleep, the bird insisted on waking him every day.

‘Wake up!’ the bird cried, flapping his wings as loudly as he could at the den entrance, ‘You will freeze in here if you sleep any longer —move, please, to keep yourself alive!’

The bear, half-dazed, grumbled back, ‘Leave me be, birdie. I’m a bear, we’re meant to sleep the winters away.’

‘You’re wrong! If you stop moving, your blood will go cold and you’ll die! I would miss you so, now please wake up!’

‘You will see me in the spring. No need to miss me at all.’

Again, despite all the bear’s insistence that yes, he was fine and could certainly survive being buried under the snow, the bird returned to rouse him each morning at dawn. Each time the bird came to wake him, the bear sent him away, pleading with him to not return until spring. They would meet again soon. Even asleep, even in the ground, he was safe and sound. Still, the bird persisted, and each day, the bear grew more tired. Without prolonged sleep, he lost weight faster and faster until by just midwinter, he was as skinny and hungry as he had been on that fateful day he wandered into the forest. Just as before, he gathered all his strength and wandered out alone.

This time, though he was more than large, strong, and clever enough to hunt, the winter had turned the lush wild into a barren wasteland. Bees hid away in their haves. Fish swam trapped under frozen ponds. Squirrels burrowed, sleeping in their own dens, just as he should have been. Deer had long since left for warmer climates. Not a berry remained on the dead branches of the shrubs he’d once feasted on. By chance, or by luck, or by some strange wrinkle of fate, he chanced upon a lone, injured wolf, and despite not wanting to fight another predator, he was hungry enough to hunt it. 

Across the woods and fields, he chased it, though his arm throbbed with pain from the movement and the cold. Eventually, just as the sun appeared on the horizon, he was able to clamp his jaws around its tail, biting down hard and dragging it towards him to tear at its soft underbelly with powerful claws. But his hunger made him clumsy. Instead of reaching the heart, the bear only tore open his abdomen —a fatal blow, but not at once. And although the wolf had his guts hanging out of his body, tell me kits, when is a creature most dangerous?”

From the pile, in various tones of enraptured squeaks comes the answer, “When it knows it’s about to die!” Kari’s missing teeth make the words come out round, Gaetan still has trouble with pronouncing consonants at the ends of words, and Axel's voice decides to slide down an octave halfway through, but they all have it correct. Just so.

“Well done! So the wolf, one paw in his grave, gave a final lunge, whipping his body around to bite at the bear’s sore arm, right over where the old break had settled. It gave a horribly familiar creak, but the bear growled, tearing his arm out of the wolf’s jaw before the crunch and releasing his hold on the wolf’s tail. Allowing the creature to escape into the underbrush, leaving nothing behind but a trail of thick, dark red blood. Not too far away, he could hear the wolf whimpering and howling, but the pain in his arm immobilized him. Before, it had ached. Now, it burned with the ghosts of sharp teeth and hard earth. Just as he steeled himself once more, to chase it again despite his exhaustion, the bird appeared through the trees.

‘What happened?’ he shouted, flying closer to land by the bloody snow, ‘I returned to wake you this morning, and I found you gone! Are you hurt?’

‘Yes,’ the bear hissed, tucking his wounded arm closer to his body, ‘Because of your waking me, I grew hungry, and all I found to eat was a wolf almost as skinny and desperate as I am. But even a wolf like that still has teeth.’

The bird ducked his head, chastised.

‘How can I help you? This is the second time I’ve hurt you, my dear, and I want to make up for it.”

‘Hmm,” the bear grumbled, ‘Fine. That wolf got away, and I’m still hungry.”

Eager to help, the bird took flight, tracking the blood trail from above and leading the bear, slow on his injured paw, to the wolf, who had curled up at the base of a tree to die. The bear killed it quickly. He ate even faster as a heavy fatigue set in over his body and mind. After, they walked back to his den together, the bird perched delicately on the bear’s back as the bear settled in below the earth, full and tired. He made the bird promise not to wake him. The bird, feeling how warm the den was and seeing firsthand how much his friend needed this rest, agreed, on the condition that he would stay in the den too, to watch over the bear. If the bear had any objections, he voiced them with a snore. They passed the winter like that —the bird watching over his sleeping bear— but in spring, his arm still ached.

At first, the bear tried to ignore it. He avoided hunting anything that could run, kept his lame arm as still as he could whenever possible. It wasn’t enough. Eventually, he had slowed so much that by midsummer, when he should have been fat again, he remained lean without a steady supply of fresh meat or fish. Again, the bird fretted. With minimal grumbling, the bear accepted his dear friend’s care, but every step brought pain that not even the strongest herbs could relieve, and he grew thinner by the hour. After a near fall off the very cliff he’d stumbled from as a cub, the bird confronted him.

‘Dear one, you can’t go on like this. I can’t hunt enough for both of us, and I don’t think you’ll be able to stand in the river for the salmon run. You won’t live through the winter.’

‘I’ll survive, birdie. I have so far.’

‘But you might not this time,’ the bird said, flapping his wings nervously, ‘You need help, and I… yesterday, I flew over a human  town not far from here. They have a hedgewitch who can fix your arm.’

‘Humans?’ cried the bear, ‘A human, hedgewitch or not, would poison me before she healed me. And that’s if the rest of the town doesn’t chase me out with pitchforks on sight!’

‘What other option do you have? You’re injured, why would they be frightened by you?’

‘I’m a bear! That’s enough, for most creatures. You’re the exception, little bird.’

For a day, the bird left him be. But as soon as yet another fish slipped through the bear’s paws, he returned, pestering him to go to the healer. Worn down, tired, and in constant pain, the bear finally agreed to go if his friend would watch over him, and so, the next day, he trudged after him until he could smell the town —smoke and sweat and waste. He walked to the edge of the forest as each pebble sent shockwaves of pain through his arm. He hesitated at the fields before loud squawking overhead pushed him forwards. He took a step on the supposed hedgewitch’s road. And so the screaming started.

It started and didn’t stop, tearing from the mouths of humans and the dogs they’d tamed. Women shrieked and babes cried, the hedgewitch herself stepped out to bellow curses at him. The bear turned back around, and already  he could see the men of the town running from their homes and fields, the sun reflecting off their weapons with the hard glitter of iron and bronze. They screamed for more men, more dogs, and most of all for his head as they drew closer. As quick as he could on his injured leg, the bear turned and ran. A stray torch burned a brand into his side, a fencepost cracked across his spine, and a sharp axe swung just an inch too wide to hit its mark, but he kept going deeper into the woods, all the while his bird followed overhead, yelling furiously.

He ran and ran and ran until he couldn’t feel anything anymore, and then one step further before collapsing to the forest floor, motionless.”

Still on Aiden’s lap,  Gaetan sniffles loudly, bringing one fist up to his pale, round cheek to brush out the tears. Quickly, Aiden tries for damage control, gently shushing her little brother and squeezing him tighter, but Guxart sees the panic in her eyes and reaches forward to take him onto his own hip. Gaetan hugs his side like a limpet, burying his face in Guxart’s soft sleep-tunic. His littlest kit. The rest of his clowder is mercifully patient as he runs a hand through his kitten’s fine brown hair, smoothing down the spikes before lifting his little chin up.

“What’s wrong, kit?”

Gaetan only sniffles again, shaking his head.

“Come on, now. Sit up. We’ll finish it together.”

That tiny frown only deepens, and the wobble in his chin stops before he grumbles, “I ‘on’t get it. Why the people hurt the bear? Why don’t the bird listen?”

“Ah, that is the question, kit.” Guxart sighs, hefting his child further up on his hip and adjusting the book on his knee. “Bears can be dangerous, and people often lash out. As for the bird, well. There’s a few more pages left to read.”

“It’s stupid! If I had a big friend, I won’t hurt him!”

“Good kitten. Now, we’ve got plenty more kits who want to hear the ending too, so sit tight.”

 He acquiesces, nodding into Guxart’s armpit and reaching out one little finger to trace the edge of a yellowed page, where a slightly crooked drawing of tree branch falls off into the margin. 

“For many long minutes, the bear laid there, growling with pain as the bird sobbed, screaming out into the empty woods.

‘Dear, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, my bear, please get up! They could still be chasing you, we can’t stay here!’

The bear sighed, but said nothing.

‘Please!’ the bird cried, ‘I’ve hurt you a third time, and I won’t forgive myself if you die because of my mistakes.’

‘Be quiet, birdie. They’ve given up —I can’t hear or smell them. Just go.’

‘No! I… I won’t leave you here.’

‘And why not?’ he said, anger slipping into his voice, no matter how it tired him, ‘Your attempts to help left me with a broken arm, an infected wound, and now this. All because you don’t believe me when I tell you I am not like you —you call me your bear yet don’t listen until I roar. So go. You can’t help anyone here.’

This made the bird cry harder, tucking his head into the bear’s warm, soft fur.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, bear. I…… it’s not an excuse, but I want to do better by you. You aren’t like me, you aren’t a bird, you’re a bear, and the dearest one I know. I want to care for you the way you need.’

It was then, as his tears fell onto the bear’s skin, through the dense fur, that the bear felt the pain leave his body, and with it, much of his anger. Somewhere in his heart, he believed his little bird. And somewhere in the world, something else believed it too, as the wounds all along his body began to glow. Brighter and brighter —he looked something like the sun before it faded. Slowly, the bear stood, taking stock of himself as the bird gasped with shock.

His wounds were gone. Only the scars remained.

A strange magic, one he might have been frightened by, but the bear didn’t protest as he sat back on the ground, scooped his bird up into his paws, and nuzzled his feathered stomach with his nose. The bird wrapped his large wings around the bear’s head, hugging him tightly. He whispered promises to listen to his bear, and the bear simply held him tighter, and did his best to believe in him the same way the magic did, that he could be wholly himself with his little bird. And so they lived all that long, long time ago, beyond the seven mountains, beyond the seven forests: happily ever after.”

A cheer goes up from the kittens as Guxart closes the book, and he thinks about Arnaghad and Erland.

It’s the ending he’d wanted to give them, all those years ago when he wrote their story. The bear and the bird. Two legends, even to him. Gezras had told him the story as a witcher already on the Path, rather than a kit, but even then, he’d wished for something different. An ending where Erland listened to Arnaghad and got his head out of the clouds so his feet could stand on solid ground. An ending where Arnaghad had patience, where he tried harder to reason with Erland instead of lashing out in rage and violence. An ending where they lived happily ever after. Together. He tells it this way, for himself and for his kits as they grin at him, so that they might learn from the mistakes of their elders. They chant, as they do many nights:

“Another one?”

“More story?” 

“ I’m not tired yet!”

“Another stoey?”

“Story?”

As the eldest, Cedric leads the charge, turning his eyes to liquid, bigger than dinner plates and deeper than the sea. He’s old enough to have heard each one of these stories, several times over, but still he begs to hear them again like the littlest kits. Axel hovers just over his shoulder, the very tips of his pointed ears drooping with the force of his pout, and the rest quickly follow suit, facing him with a clump of shining eyes and downturned lips and dimpled chins. The little ringleader pleads with him again.

“But what about the one where the jaguar fell in love with the wolf? What about that story?”

“No, kit.”

He turns his stern gaze down when Aiden takes up the mantle. She shuffles forward from the pile, furrowing her dark brows, widening her eyes just that little bit more.

“Please?”

A gasp rises from the crowd, echoed by Guxart’s own. Aiden wouldn’t ask for water in a desert, and certainly not politely, with an earnest please no less. And Guxart knows by the steel in her eyes that it’s not manners she’s learned, but the art of tactical, unconquerable manipulation. Immediately, the other kittens copy her, and just as cries for a story rang in the evening, so too do the cries of please ring out in the night. Pride wells in his chest. He’ll make good on his threats tomorrow. Tonight, he opens the book, finds the page by the torn bottom corner, and shows them the faded illustration he’d painted so long ago —a black jaguar presenting a deer corpse to a hesitant gray wolf. To Court a Wolf had been one of the first stories he’d thought of, and the last he’d written down. By then, Vesemir hadn’t been around to tease him with it.

All the same, his kittens have all loved it best. Kiyan and Jöel still ask him to read it every now and again. These kits are no different, it seems, so he pushes the old memories away and begins to read.

——————————————————————————————

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

[likeapear]

Cat!Geralt au when? Hm? Let me explain myself: According to one of the Gwent reward trees, Gezras and his Cats take in badly mutated rejects from other schools. Geralt's second round of mutations fail somehow - perhaps he's too animalistic or his eyes/ears don't work quite right - and the Wolf school just...hurls him out. They're not so cruel as to make Vesemir or the other trainers do the killing and the mages wasted too much time on the little failure to kill it so down the mountain Geralt goes. It's assumed that he'll be killed as soon as he reaches the nearest human settlement but Gezras finds him first and takes him back to Dyn Marv. Idk if this is anything but my brain enjoys it immensely. Mayhaps just a drabble? Though I am notoriously bad at drabbles...

[vesemirsexual]

kaer morhen and dyn marv could never have frequent school exchanges. imagine if they’d sent lambert to the cats for 6 months. imagine how he would’ve returned.