#aen sidhe

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

i think the welsh in fantasy thing is also maybe people lazily trying to copy tolkien? like sindarin is based on welsh in that it has a similar phonology, uses mutations, etc, but tolkien actually bothered to make a new language. then other authors who want smth that sounds 'tolkien elvishy' but don't want to make their own language just use welsh

Oh that's exactly it. Thing is, Tolkein came up with an entire conlang - it LOOKS like Welsh, but any Welsh words in it are 'false friends' - they mean something completely different in the real world, because he only hit on them by coincidence. And even then, crucially, he used Welsh phonetics and pronunciation regardless.

Whereas the Witcher just made a Welsh/Irish/Old English mashup. The identical (or similar-but-with-a-random-apostrophe) words literally mean the things they mean in the source languages. I'm currently playing the Witcher 3, and I found a message on a noticeboard in White Orchard in Elvish:

Darl'len, Aen Sidhe! Neen evelienn Scoia'tael marw. Caemm aep woedd, holl Aen Sidhe. Darganfod an uniade ninnau. Ymladda dh'oinne. Ess'tedd, esse creasa.

If you are a Welsh speaker, reading that feels like having a stroke.

Without looking it up, here's what I would translate it as using my Welsh, my rudimentary Irish, and filling the blanks with Ye Olde Mys-spelld Englishe:

"Read, Fair Folk! We Scoia'tael never die. Come to woods, all Fair Folk. Discover our union. Fight men. Sit, this place."

Looking it up, here's what it means:

"Read, Aen Seidhe! Not every Scoia'tael is dead. Come to the woods, all Aen Seidhe. Discover and join us. Fight the humans. It is time, it will be the place."

Look how close I was. Look how close I was. Damn. Or should I say, Da'mn.

And then the TV show and games use English pronunciation rules, because they can't even be fucking bothered to offer that incredibly basic level of respect.

Rings of Power cast a Welsh-speaker as Galadriel at least, so that's something. Although they made her use an English accent because LoTR elves are naturally all English, can't have any Welsh accents ruining the Aesthetique (I cannot stress enough how perfect it would have been to show the difference between Mirkwood and Lothlorien elves with Hwntw/Gog accents but alas we do not live in a world where even mythical beings who are based on us get to be played by us)

[powdermelonkeg]

Look just hear me out

The very very first elves lived in the Feywild, and supposedly came around from Corellon's spilled blood in his battle with Gruumsh, the god of orcs. Back then, they could shapeshift and were extremely powerful. His favorites went on to become his pantheon, not-yet-Lolth included.

Stands to reason that since they literally came from the blood of a god, they should be something analogous to aasimar. Further proof of this: the Avariels were winged elves from way back in history.

Along came a band of Aen Elle. Notoriously world-hoppy and power-hungry, they intermingled with Corellon's blood kids in an effort to get some of their power. Corellon's bloodline loses its ability to shapeshift and become the Eladrin, not quite fey anymore (save for the ones that didn't migrate to Toril because they got steeped in the Feywild for 30k more years after that, but they're not important here).

Also notoriously xenophobic and seeing other non-elf races as beneath them, the Aen Elle back home get appalled by this and cut the elves that intermingled off. The Eladrin are disowned and disinherited by the Aen Elle.

-30k DR. The first elves come to Toril. More elves eventually settle. Etc etc, all of elven history, we now have Moon, Sun, Wood, Wild, and Drow.

Back in Witcher-world (forever mad that the planet/continent doesn't have a name) 2k years pre-Conjunction, some Aen Elle split off from the whole and eventually become the Aen Sidhe. Also post-Conjunction, Lara Dorren happens. All of Continental history here, etc etc.

ANYWAYS. The reason elves look like elves between worlds is because it's the Aen Elle's fault.

[kuripon]

Jaskier & Eskel & Geralt, pre-OT3 | rating: Gen | word count: 581 | CW: Eskel’s gorgeous. | Written for @witcher-bows-and-arrows​‘s Feb. 6th SFW prompt: Admire.

Jaskier thinks Eskel is gorgeous. Absolutely, drop dead stunning. In fact, Jaskier often needs to take a moment to himself when he first sets sight on that statuesque jawline, not to mention that physique, the rugged charm of a life well lived. If there's anything to be said about Jaskier, it's that he knows how to appreciate the finer things in life.

Jaskier deserves nothing but the best in life. And the best is Eskel. He dares anyone to disagree with him, his right hook needs a little polishing up.

He lets out a wistful sigh, watching as Eskel reads by the fire, admiring his lovely profile. He has to remember to thank Geralt for inviting him up to Kaer Morhen this year. He'd heard much about Geralt's remaining family on their way to the stronghold deep in the Blue Mountains, taking care to note every single detail that Geralt willingly offered. He noticed that Geralt often went back to Eskel, but said nothing of it to the man himself.

And now he can see why.

Geralt perches on the bench next to him, though Jaskier pays him no mind. He leans forward just the slightest bit, chin thoughtfully nestled in his palm. His eyes trace Eskel's fingers when they turn the next page in the book of Aen Sidhe poetry he's reading. Thick. Sturdy. Scarred here and there. Sure of themselves. Jaskier wonders what they would feel like wrapped around his waist. Shivers threaten to run down his spine, but he lets out another sigh.

"You too?"

"Hm?" Jaskier asks absently, his attention still firmly wrapped up Eskel's everything. Eskel shifts, his legs uncrossing and recrossing at the ankle. Melitele bless him, Eskel's thick everywhere, isn't he? And in all the right places. What Jaskier would give for the chance to show him just how much that thickness is appreciated. Preferably with their clothing off. But that's a thought for another day.

Deep, quiet chuckles sound in his ear. An arm settles behind him, resting on the table they're leaned back against.

"Entrancing, isn't he?"

Jaskier nods, moving his pinky finger to his mouth. He nibbles on the nail absently. "He doesn't even know the half of it."

"No, he doesn't. He doesn't believe me. Will you tell him?" Geralt murmurs, his fingers resting lightly on Jaskier's shoulder.

Jaskier eyes Geralt from the corner of his eyes, reluctant to turn away from Eskel.

"You've told him." Disbelief colors Jaskier's words.

A light blush settles on Geralt's cheeks as he turns away from Jaskier's knowing gaze. Geralt's blush still manages to surprise him.

"Not in so many words," he admits most reluctantly.

Jaskier hums, wondering if he should give voice to his thoughts. Geralt's not necessarily monogamous, and he himself has been known to entertain more than a few lovers simultaneously. But could they share a lover? Would they be able to share a lover?

Geralt stares at him intently, the blush faded just the slightest bit. The fire crackles in the background under the sound of another page being turned. As if he could read Jaskier's mind, he nods, hand coming up to cradle the back of his neck.

"We could..." Geralt offers.

Jaskier tilts his head towards Eskel. "Will he-?"

Immediately, Geralt shakes his head, silver locks brushing lightly over his forehead. "He won't."

A smirk spreads across Jaskier's lips. "Shall we?"

Geralt stands, disentangling himself from Jaskier, takes his hand, and pulls him up from the bench. Together, they walk towards Eskel, hand in hand.

"Eskel, my dear. Can we borrow a moment of your time?"

[a-byronic-heroine]

@caelmewedd asked: Little Aevon was watching Kly from hiding, she wasn't going to approach her too early, still remembering what a woman had been mean to her lately. Maybe the woman was pure-blood Aen Elle, but she had no right to despise her and the other creatures around her. Discreetly followed the woman to a forest hideout, an old, half-dilapidated house. She walked to the door, not knowing what she was looking for and why she wanted to meet this woman again. She cautiously ordered inside where she saw a woman Aen Elle preparing some strange ointments. The little elf squealed softly when she realized that the woman was looking at her. "Hi. Do you remember me?" Aevon asked quietly, staring intently at Kly.

She’d been aware of someone trailing her for some time. She thought it was a human, potentially one seeking trade. At least, she hoped they sought trade. It had been several days since she’d eaten anything. She had no currency, and humans were loath to trust an elven healer with their wounded and sick. Any time she tried to offer her service, she was usually spit at or threatened with weapons for being a filthy Sidhe witch. Even if they did let her heal them, they were always quick to cheat her out of payment which typically resulted in her undoing her healing or killing her patient outright in retaliation. She wanted to show those filthy mongrels she was powerful and should be afraid. 

She finally looked over her shoulder at who had been following her. She took pause at the familiar visage of the elfling brat from that odd forest. Her gaze became sharp and her more gaunt face pulled into a mask of neutrality. She stopped what she was doing and turned to bodily face the child, arms folded under her chest. “Yes, I do. You’re the half Aen Elle with the daft father. What in the name of the Frost are you doing here?”

[iztarshi]

Sapkowski's elves make their first appearance - aside from a few half-elves - here and we find out straight away they're not typical high fantasy elves.

Sapkowski's elves are very Celtic, the way Tolkien's are Germanic. They're called Aen Seidhe, which is a slight variation of the old Irish term Aes Sidhe and means the same thing, people of the hills/mounds.

They're very alien to humans, hold themselves inherently higher, and they don’t farm. The ones here are trying to learn, having been driven off land where hunting and gathering could sustain their population.

We'll see later that they can be colonisers and genocidal themselves, but these ones are victims of human colonisation.

Interestingly Celtic inspired elves are more often found in urban fantasy than straight fantasy, which makes me wonder whether there's an author who influenced that the way Tolkein influenced high fantasy settings. Not that that's terribly relevant to The Witcher.

[keyleths]

so in the show the elves are native to the continent and there's no aen elle aen sidhe split?

[cfgodsandmonsters]

❛ It’s an awful truth that suffering can deepen us, give us a greater lustre to our colors. ❜

sentence prompts ➝ queen of the damned - always accepting

Lips curl back into a cold sneer as a short bark of laughter escapes the aen sidhe. "nothing more than useless sentiment, humans seeking meaning among cruelty. tell me, gwynbleidd, do you shine more brightly for having suffered? Does your Child of Destiny?"

[ollovae3]

Other topic now:

Does anyone know where I can find an Elder Speech word list??

I wanna make an Aen Sidhe Witcher but I wanna name him right can't Can't Find Shit. Even Reddit didn't give me much? So if anyone knows of even a breif list I'll kiss you.

[heti330]

Faebruary 17th - Fachan

In Scottish folklore the fachan is a monster or giant described by John Francis Campbell in Popular Tales of the West Highlands as having a single eye in the middle of its face, a single hand protruding from its chest instead of arms, and a single leg emerging from its central axis. It has a single tuft of hair on the top of its head, regarding which Campbell says "it were easier to take a mountain from the root than to bend that tuft." 

(A mantra was spoken when drawing this piece 'Sometimes your art will never look right because what you are drawing is the weirdest thing you have drawn to date')

[mentoskova]

Elves in Witcher Netflix

Elves exploration concepts by Pixoloid Studios for Witcher Netflix

[geraltlives]

Filavandrel aén Fidháil

'It is you humans who hate anything that differs from you, be it only by the shape of its ears,' the elf went on calmly, paying no attention to the sylvan. 'That's why you took our land from us, drove us from our homes, forced us into the savage mountains. You took our Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers. I am Filavandrel aen Fidhail of Silver Towers, of the Feleaorn family from White Ships. Now, exiled and hounded to the edge of the world, I am Filavandrel of the Edge of the World.'

[vulturequill]

DA Elves

Am I the only one who sees a lot of similarities between Dragon Age elves and Witcher elves? And between Avallac’h and Solas, as long as we’re going there.

[sumerek]

[on-a-lucky-tide]

I just read your kear morhen fic with jask and kitty aiden and wolfy witchers. And OMFG! I wish I could just give you a trillion likes and reach through the phone screen and give you a big hug!!!! It was amazing!!! But now, I'm wondering.. jask has seen it but how will ciri react??? I think she would totally join in. She's still at an impressionable age and could totally pick up a few behaviors... Or act like a lion cub.... and will try and sneak attack the others like a real lion cub does!

Sssshhh. We’re huntin’ bardses...

It was a beautiful, crisp day at Kaer Morhen. Jaskier sat on the railings of the main stairs leading up into the entrance hall and plucked aimlessly at the strings of his lute. Oh, how he missed the summer, but there was something truly majestic about the ancient, Aen Sidhe Keep framed in an endless blanket of white snow and coniferous trees. She was like an old, stately lady reclining in a throne of stone. Glorious. Hmm, throne, stone, snow… bow…

Little did Jaskier know; he was currently under extreme scrutiny. His very life hung in the balance.

“Keep low,” Aiden breathed. Only tiny slivers of luminescent green escaped the consuming black holes of his pupils. His hand rested in the middle of Ciri’s back, urging her lower to the floor. They were currently obscured by a stack of crates; Ciri would have to navigate uneven terrain to reach her target. But who better to give the Lion Cub of Cintra a pouncing lesson, than the King of the Pride, right? “You need to pay attention to the wind direction, the ambient noises, the—.”

“What’re you up to, losers?” Lambert stomped up behind them; Aiden immediately lunged to snag his wrist and drag him down to their level. The target looked up, glanced behind him, and then shrugged with a shallow frown. The wind did carry voices, after all.

“We’re hunting bards,” Aiden hissed, and Ciri grinned up at the both of them, her tongue sticking through the gaps in her teeth where a few had fallen out in the last few days. Not knocked out, you understand. Fallen. She was still but a cub, and she was growing in her Big Lioness teeth. “So shut your trap.”

“Oh, f—,” Lambert started, clamped his mouth shut, and then hunkered down with them. “Have you told her about the wind direction rule?” 

“Yeah,” Aiden murmured. “Not as important though. Bards can’t smell for sh—sugar.”

“If this is training, then she needs to know the fu—fudgin’ wind direction rule,” Lambert grumbled.

“Oi, can we focus here?” Ciri cut in, and then flicked her head towards their chirping target. “I know the words ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ too, so cut that out.”

“Not from us though, right?” Aiden murmured, and Lambert smirked. “Okay,” Aiden looked back, his pupils blew big again and he shimmied his shoulders. “Move quickly, don’t lift your feet too far off the ground.”

“You need wide, sweeping steps,” Lambert cut in. “Keep your breathing slow. No panting.”

“Now, if we wait until he starts singing—,” Aiden held his breath.

Jaskier struck a chord, took a deep breath, and began his serenade. “To adore you is all my life, fair Ettariel, let me keep, then, the treaure of memories. And the magical flower; a pledge and sign of your love. Silvered by drops of dew as if by tears...”

 “Go, now, go, go!” Aiden urged Ciri into action and she flew forward. Her speed, for such a young age, was impressive, and the soft leather of her boots made no sound as she covered the uneven flagstones of the courtyard with grace and poise. The bard didn’t stand a chance. 

“Ack!” Jaskier cawed as he was taken out with a low shoulder tackle. “Your majesty, Ciri—by Melitele’s ti—ahh, bloody hell! What in—?” They fumbled around in the snow, Jaskier’s lute about a meter away, until Ciri was sitting on his chest in triumph. She looked across to her two uncles with a broad grin, and then looked thoroughly disgruntled when she saw them rolling around with laughter.

Jaskier tilted his head and glared at them. “I should’ve known this was you two, mark my words, you rapscallions. My revenge shall be swift and petty! Do you hear me? Swift. And petty.”

“Whatever, bard,” Aiden smirked, chest still wheezing and breathless. “Hey, Ciri. Fancy some tougher game? Heard Eskel’s weaving some baskets in one of the workrooms.” 

“Eskel,” she left her prey in the snow and tapped her chin. “Yeah, go on then. Laters, Jaskier.” 

With a broad grin, she trotted after Aiden. Jaskier stumbled to Lambert’s side, brushing off his doublet with quiet grumbles. “You need to watch that, you know, that young, they imitate everything. She could become a mirror image. Not so much the Lion Cub of Cintra as the Mangy Kitten of Novigrad.”

Lambert huffed. “If she becomes half the person Aiden is then she ain’t doing too badly,” he reached up and knocked Jaskier’s newly restored feathered cap from his head, and then departed towards the stables. 

Hat retrieved from the snow for a second time in as many minutes, Jaskier watched after Lambert’s retreating back with a soft, knowing smirk.

[akilah12902]

I just finished Iorveth’s path in Witcher 2, have some weird pseudo-philosophical semi-homoerotic STUFF. Takes place right after the end of chapter 1 of Witcher 2, after siding with Iorveth (and after having thrown him his sword earlier.) Very short.

That night, Iorveth approached Geralt where he was leaning on the railing. Geralt eyed the elf from the corner of his eye, waiting for him to speak. Iorveth took his time about it, pulling out and loading his pipe—which Geralt lit for him with a little spark of Igni, to the elf's visible startlement—and starting to smoke. Geralt leaned there in silence, enjoying the scent of the burning plants. Not tobacco—he couldn’t imagine that Iorveth could get tobacco unless the scoia'tel could waylay a shipment of someone else's—but a number of other herbs.

Most of the way through the pipe, Iorveth leaned into Geralt's view.

"Curiously soft-hearted one, aren't you," he said without preamble.

"Not sure what you mean," Geralt said. "I don't know that it's soft-hearted to save three lives."

Iorveth was too hard to flinch, but his shoulders slumped, ever so slightly.

"Not—" Iorveth gestured slightly with his pipe, off towards the berth where most of his troops and the three elven women Geralt had saved were sleeping. "Me. You've made it clear you don't approve of my methods, and yet you nearly got us into trouble stopping the one dh'oine who wanted to give me a little of my own back."

Geralt sighed, and looked back out at the river. "You've heard of the massacre at Kaer Morhen? It was only about fifty years ago."

A glance to the side showed Iorveth frowning at him.

"A mob of peasants, backed by mages, marched up the trail to Kaer Morhen, the Wolves' keep in the Blue Mountains, and slaughtered everyone there. Witchers resting from a year on the Path. Teachers. Trainees. Those of us who could no longer walk the Path. Even the children who hadn't been mutated yet. The only survivors, bar one, were those who hadn't come home for the winter."

Geralt turned abruptly to look at Iorveth, who seemed almost confused.

"We'd done nothing but help people," Geralt continued. "They killed us anyway."

Iorveth's brow drew in and he started to open his mouth. Geralt held up a hand.

"The Aen Sidhe's losses are magnitudes larger," Geralt said quietly. "But though I don't agree with what you would see done, I can understand, at least a little, of how you got there."

Iorveth took another few puffs on his pipe, clearly thinking. "So you spared me out of, what. Pity?"

"Say instead that I think humans need to stop," Geralt said. "And sometimes they could use a little help."

Iorveth snorted. "More than a little, Gwynbleidd."

"Of course, I do still go out and kill monsters," Geralt said. "I might just be too soft-hearted to live."

Iorveth gave him a sharp look with that one green eye. "And yet here you stand."

"Mm," Geralt agreed, and liberated Iorveth's pipe, to take the last few puffs.

[inexplicifics]

Rhyme for Filavandrel: Aen Sidhe, hail!

No, that's a horrid rhyme, I'll keep thinking. But maybe Lambert suggests it just because he knows it's bad?

*very dryly* “Thank you, Lambert.”

“I helped!”

“...So you did, my love.”