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moonlights-inkwell · 4 years

Text

And Me Wearing Your Clothes

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 5,992

Summary: A creature in the woods is killing village girls in the woods, but to keep you safe Jaskier volunteers himself, and one of your dresses as bait instead.

A/N: This one probably needs some level of explanation. So, Joey wears a dress on the cover of The Horror and The Wild, and it has lived rent free in my mind since I first saw it so I had to get around to writing Jaskier in a dress eventually. Also, I know I’ve used Little Miss as a pet name for the reader in fics before, but don’t know if I’ve mentioned that it’s because of the song Little Miss Why So, which the title is also taken from- Just in case anyone was wondering where the fuck I pulled that from.

There’s some mild smutty elements in this too. No explicit smut in this chapter, but this is gonna wind up being a two-parter anyway, so you’ll get the explicit stuff later. It’s worth noting that this is chronologically the first part of my whole series with Jaskier, at least so far- so sorry for any confusion.

When Geralt had informed you that there was a job in a village not far from where you had set up camp, you had been more grateful of it than you would admit out loud. Villages mean inns, taverns and a chance to sleep on something that isn’t dirt, but the way the white-haired man looks at you lets you know this won’t be as easy a job as you could hope for.

“Small village, no inns or taverns, less than a hundred and fifty or so people- less by the day.” He sighs and heaves himself off of Roach to sit on a felled tree by the fire.

“Less by the day?” You raise an eyebrow. Little places such as these tend to have smaller problems, thieving little creatures, the occasional Doppler; but Geralt’s words make it all too obvious to you that the diminishing population isn’t just because people are leaving for somewhere that actually has a place to drink.

“They say there's something in the woods.” He says, as if that’s all the explanation that you require. It takes a second of looking at him pointedly for him to realise you need more information than just that. “Sounded like an Aswang from what they said. Been snatching up local girls, sucking them dry and leaving the bodies to be found come morning.”

Talking to The White Wolf is a Sisyphean struggle; so often it's like drawing blood from a stone, but on the days he decides to speak you can barely understand what he's saying. Not for the first time, you consider simply pretending to know what he means, to act sage and wise, but think better of it all too quickly.

“The bloody hell is an Aswang?” A fair question in your eyes, but the man sighs. You think, on occasion, Geralt forgets that just a few years ago you were just a barmaid with a love of brawling, not some monster hunter with dreams of Glory. Not that there’s much glory in your hunts, just bruises and wounds, limps that last too long and perpetually sore back, even if the occasional song comes from it.

“A type of vampire.” He clarifies. “Dangerous. Normally have a taste for pregnant women and baby blood, seems this one has a taste for any woman it can get its hands on.” That makes your blood run cold. Travelling with the Witcher and his Bard has been the first time in your life where you’ve been free from the limitations of your sex, but the way those amber eyes are watching you now has you suddenly all too aware of yourself.

“A taste for women? Why, Geralt, that’s a very tasteful way of describing yourself in a brothel.” A voice pipes up from behind you, causing you to jump. Jaskier. You thought him still asleep, he'd slept poorly the night before, but if the tiredness lacing his voice is any indication, he's only recently been roused.

“Not now, Bard.” Geralt growls out, but the bard just chuckles and gets to his feet, leaves crunching underfoot as he walks up behind you and settles at your side, a hand pressed to your lower back. Warm, especially through the thin material of your blouse.

“Oh, Geralt, a smile won’t kill you.” He trills and in spite of how serious you know the situation to be, your lips turn up in a far too easy smile. It does just as quickly though, when you realise that Geralt is still looking at you.

“...You want me as bait.” It comes out less as a question and more as a statement as your own eyes meet amber. Geralt doesn’t say a word and you look down. It’s not meant as an insult, and you know that, but it stings none the less; hurts to be asked to be less useful on account of having a cunt. He's asking you to make yourself weak, it’s a request that should be seen as an honour, a few minutes of acting like something you aren't to spare the lives of those girls in the village, but instead it leaves a sour taste in your mouth- like talking a gulp of milk only to discover it's curdled on your tongue.

The hand at the base of your spine rises quickly and rests on the curve of your back as Jaskier seems to realise what you just said.

“Bait?” He sounds as incredulous as you feel. “For what?”

“Vampire.” Geralt says crudely, “It's it targeting women.”

“And you want to send Little Miss in there as bait?” Jaskier snaps back at him, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as if you'll be plucked away without a second’s notice. This, this concern is all too welcome, and you glance at Jaskier from the corner of your eye. His clothes are still crumpled from sleep, but he's pushing himself up to his full height as if he expects that to intimidate a Witcher. It’s a foolish endeavour, but gods how you appreciate it.

“She can handle it,” is all the response that is given, which only sends the man beside you into further ramblings.

“She can handle it? She could fucking die, Geralt!” His voice raises, and you're quite sure he’s forcibly making his voice lower to try and sound less emotional about this. “You want to send her in, I’m betting almost completely unharmed, to act as a lure for a blood sucking creature of the night!”

You should feel insulted, to be talked about as if you aren’t there, but now you’re far too focused on the hand resting on you to focus on much else. Early spring's chill is still in the air, making the bard seem warmer than be likely is; and which is the cause of the goosepimpling of your skin is a mystery. Since the bard and yourself started your... entanglement, even the lightest most mundane touch has seemed like lightning crackling through your body. Entanglement is one way of describing it. Really, all that has happened has been kissing- the sort that start as barely more than a brush of lips and don't stop until it turns to heavy breathing and you removing yourself from the situation before you can do something you may regret.

He's always been a mother hen, flapping about to stitch whatever wounds he can and forcing you to seek out healers when he feels it more extreme than a simple slice, but you've no doubt that this concern is coming from a more selfish place than simply wanting you safe. The grip of your shirt is all the confirmation you need.

“It only attacks women, Jaskier.” Geralt growls out slowly, as if teaching an especially slow child. “And unless you’ve a secret to share, Little Miss is the only woman we have.” The pet name comes out in a patronisingly saccharine tone that makes you turn your eyes to the ground.

“I would sooner go out there in a dress myself than let you put her in harm's way for no good reason!” Jaskier shouts back at him, sending your eyes up to meet the Witcher's, when you catch sight of something rare. A smile.

This is a bad idea.

Awful idea. Terrible. Quite possibly the worst idea that the three of you could have come up with, and the fact that Geralt is allowing it to go forward is a mystery.

Well. Not a mystery. Geralt, for all his attempts at stoicism and claims of emotionlessness, has a sick sense of humour: and a chance to humiliate the Bard who interrupts his silence with every passing second must have been more tempting to him than you ever could have anticipated. You, on the other hand, were less keen. Especially when informed by Geralt that Jaskier would need to borrow your only dress for this humiliation tactic. It had taken an hour and a half for it to be taken from you, and it was only really able to be taken because Jaskier had pulled you into a kiss unexpectedly, causing you to drop the dress to wind your arms about his neck. A genius manipulation, really. Should have seen it coming.

It'll never succeed though

Jaskier is perhaps more attuned to his feminine side than many men; His love of scented bathing oils and ointments for his hands, fine clothes and penchant for the dramatics spring to mind, but there's no way that he could be mistaken for a woman unless this Aswang has incredibly poor eyesight. Sweet smells and minor theatrics do not a woman make, even in a borrowed dress. You sit by the fire pit, poking, poking, poking at the burning logs with a long enough stick that you don’t risk your hands with each jab.

Geralt won’t even let you help him set up the trap, and all at once you’re reminded of your girlhood; how the boys in your little home town had allowed you to play knights and dragons with them, only to have you act as Princess. You had always hated it, sat stock still and aloft chairs stacked like a tower for hours while the boys would tumble around fighting each other, roaring and crawling, stabbing and calling in their presence until it was finally time to rescue you- always long after you had grown resentful of your place waiting. You wanted to nothing more than to pick up one of those wooden swords and take part properly, but every time you had asked you had been told that there are no female knights, only princesses. You would always run home to your mother to complain only to be tapped lightly on the nose and told what an honour it is to be picked as a Princess, and given a bowl of peas to de-shell for supper. It didn’t feel like an honour then to sit around feeling useless, and it doesn’t feel any better now. The only respite that comes is from the jabbing and stabbing of the logs.

“I think they’re dead, Little Miss.” Jaskier speaks in your ear, sending you to the ground in shock. The self-pitying had ensured that you hadn’t heard him coming, and he laughs. Chuckles that drip honey have you look up at the bard, ready to curse him for frightening you, but the words wither away on your tongue. Your lip trembles and you drink him in.

With you on the ground, he looks so much bigger than he already is but that isn’t what has you tongue tied, no, not at all; it’s the dress. It’s white, and you always thought it made you look sickly, but on him it’s almost otherworldly, like something you might see on a god, flowing in a wind you hadn't felt before he reappeared. It’s beautiful. He's beautiful. The fabric clings to his pectorals and tapers in at his waist and you realise something that has never struck you before: Jaskier is muscular. Not to the extent of Geralt, but muscular none the less, the muscles of his arms thickening as he crosses his arms across his chest, which only accentuated the sculpture of his pectorals and the dark thatch of hair visible from the plunging neckline of the gown. Tanned skin all but glows in the light of the flames, given richer colour by the stark and almost holy white gown, giving him the illusion of something more than just your bard; some manifestation of Apollo, youthful and beautiful, still grinning that boyish grin, looking for all the world both like he has spent his whole life lounging about and spent it in fields to develop those muscles. Logically, you know he must be muscular, spends his days walking across the continent, carrying bags and bedrolls and whatever can’t, or won’t, be carried by Roach but it catches you off guard. You've always considered him a dainty flower of a man, always singing, always strumming, but now you're confronted with the reality of the situation, Jaskier is all sinewy muscle and dark hair and truly, you’ve no idea how patterned doublets and a lute have kept this reality a mystery to you. He’s beautiful, always beautiful, but this is something else entirely. Beauty implies something entirely understandable. This is otherworldly, incomprehensible in how it makes both so much and so little sense all at once. Your throat is dry and you take a deep gulp of air and struggle to find the words to say and settle on a soft little,

“Oh.”

“Oh?” He smirks, eyebrow raising as he offers out a hand to you. “Does it not look nice? Do I not look like a delicate lady in need of protection?” He teases, skin around his eyes crinkling with his grin.

“You look better in it than I do.” Your voice comes out weak, and he smiles and tugs you to your feet once you take his hand. “Though you are perhaps the hairiest delicate maiden around here.”

“Don’t do yourself a disservice, Dear Heart.” He says tenderly and cups your cheek, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He calls that space Your Kiss, as if a kiss is a part of your body rather than something people give each other. “You look beautiful in everything and anything- and nothing.” You raise an eyebrow at that, smirking slightly at the comment. “Not that I know what you look like naked! Not that I haven’t thought about you like that, unless that makes you uncomfortable-" He rambles, cheeks flushed a pretty sort of pink, so you lean in and peck his lips.

“It looks much better on you, Dandelion.” You say decidedly, settling on the balls of your feet. “Though I rather think it isn’t complete.”

“Is that so?” Jaskier asks and watches you as you scramble through your bag and pull free two small pencils before settling yourself on the ground and tapping on the log. It takes a second, but he does sit, eyeing the pencils like they might be weapons. “Are you going to stab those into my feet, so I walk in a womanlier way?”

“...Is womanlier even a word, Bard?” You tease, trying desperately to avoid the hand attempting to swat at your head for questioning his obviously superior understanding of language. “And no. Not at all, they’re cosmetics.”

“Cosmetics?” He repeats and watches you as you grab one of the pencils and a dagger, carving at the wood until it is sharp enough for you.

“You do understand women put products on their faces to look prettier, don’t you?”

“You don’t,” He snaps back at you, indignant that you would even question his understanding of the fairer sex. “You’re all bare and natural, and look all the prettier for it, like a rose.” A hand moves forward and cups your cheek, you can feel every callous and scar that riddles his skin. He’s trying to avoid you putting the makeup on him, but just for now, you allow yourself the indulgence. It’s only dusk. Geralt said that the plan won’t need to be enacted until close to midnight and he has yet to even return from his setting of the trap; a little time to take pleasure from something as simple as the man who kisses you having a hand on your cheek. “Beautiful, fresh like a daisy and lovelier than the month of May...” He continues, hand shifting a little forward so that his fingers bury themselves in your hair, causing you to lean towards him, head shifting into the touch- reminding you all too much of the little cat who used to come begging for scraps when your mother and you would eat outside in the warmer months. It’s a strange thing to catch your attention so, but now that the thought has entered your mind, you cannot help but wonder if your mother has been feeding the tiny little beast in your absence-

“Little One?” Jaskier says gently, snapping you free of your thoughts, you’ve no idea how long you’ve been thinking, but it was clearly long enough that the man before you has noticed it.

“...Yes?”

“I asked if I could kiss you.” Can I kiss you? Although you’ve never been someone with much interest in the romantics, you’ve never so much as kissed a man before you met Jaskier, you’re quite sure that men don’t normally ask if they can kiss you. Most that you’ve seen interacting with women simply crash their mouths on their partner’s, breeching their mouths with their tongues like they’re stabbing a creature that means them harm. But Jaskier asks. He means to ensure that you are always completely comfortable with his touching you, to make sure you know that if you have no interest in this contact that it will stop. He won’t push. It’s enough to make your lips turn up in a tiny little smile and you nod, leaning towards him and resting hands on his knees, lips puckered tight and eyes falling shut, and he chuckles. “Melitele, Dear Heart, relax your lips, you aren’t trying to pierce my lips with yours.” He lets his thumb glide across your lower lip, causing you, quite instinctively to relax your lips. “There we are.” A rush of pleasure overtakes you, making you shiver and heading straight to your core. Simple praise is all it takes from him to make you unsure of yourself, and want to do anything to please him, so when he pulls you up gently and settles you on his knees, you do so without complaint, and as if as a means of rewarding you, kisses you softly.

In the months since the two of you have begun this not-quite courtship you’ve grown more accustomed to kissing him than you ever would have anticipated. It happens so often that it’s almost strange to you. He kisses you as a means of waking you, kisses the back of your hand to reassure you, kisses the back of your neck when he passes you, hell; you’re more than a little sure he kisses you sometimes just to annoy Geralt. It feels so natural to you now, to have his mouth on yours, moving languidly like the rest of the world does not exist. He kisses like he’s afraid he might hurt you, all gentle touches and reassuring rubs of thumb against flesh. He knows that you’ve never so much as kissed a man before him and seems to take some pleasure in that- not in the kind of way that the boys at home seemed to when talking about deflowering some virginal girl, but in a way that he seems to enjoy teaching you something about intimacy, or at least this version of it. He acts for all the world like some sort of teacher, gently reassuring you when you go wrong and guiding you back on track, and you preen under the attention. He never pushes, never asks you to do anything you don’t want to do, and it’s far more appreciated than you will ever say, even if in the last few weeks you have found yourself wanting... more.

His lips are wind-chapped but somehow soft, and press into yours so softly, hand curved around your cheek and guiding you to tilt your head slightly, so you follow his lead, reciprocating the kiss as sweetly as you can, winding fingers around his wrist to hold it in place. The kiss is chaste, with no sign of moving beyond just the plush push of lips on lips but still, this position makes it feel more intimate than it has any right to; sat on his legs, your own parted and on either side, and the dress makes it more intimate still. In his doublet and trousers, the only warmth you feel from him while kissing comes from his hands and face, but now with so much skin exposed it’s seemingly coming from all around you, seeping through the fabric beneath you, from the arms extended in front of you, from a heart beating so close but so out of reach. The fire roaring just behind you is hardly helping the situation. Jaskier hums softly against your lips, little more than a vibration, but it makes you smile. Even when kissing he makes noise; he cannot bare to be silent, relish in the sounds of nature, no, he simply must make noise. It’s lovely really, such consistency is hard to find, especially on the road, but Jaskier is consistent. It takes a little more bravery than it should to swipe the tip of your tongue across the seam of his lips and the movement seems to shock the bard, who ceases his kissing for just a second before opening his mouth slightly and dragging his tongue across your own. Normally you would wait for him to deepen a kiss but with him looking the way he does, and the overwhelming need developing between your legs, you cannot continue this lazy sort of kiss as you normally might. No. Now, you need something more than this innocence. So, you shuffle closer to him, legs tightening around his and both hands moving to wind around his neck, fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Your own bravery seems to have inspired some in Jaskier too, so he wraps his arms about your waist and pulls you even closer still, tongue lathering over your own before his teeth drag across it and then bites gently. It makes you shiver, letting out a quiet moan which brings a moan out of him too. Not too long after that he pulls back and heaves a deep breath while you pant, head tilting back.

“That was new.” He laughs, fingers tracing circles into your back.

“What can I say? That dress really does look good on you.” You respond with a chuckle before leaning forward again, this time to mouth at his throat. You feel Jaskier gasp before you hear it, the skin of his neck going taut beneath your lips.

“Dear Heart,” He starts, and the pet name does nothing but make your heart race, “If you don’t stop soon, we’re going to have a... well, an issue.” He stammers out, and you pull back immediately, eyes wide with worry. Had you been too intense in taking your own pleasure from this situation that you had missed some clear hint of his that he was uninterested in going further? He goes to such painstaking lengths to ensure your comfort and you feel like you’ve encroached on his.

“An issue?” The words come out shaky, and you try to shift yourself back from him, but he holds you still. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t trying to upset you-”

“You haven’t. Gods, Dear Heart, I think you could stab me, and I would still thank you.” He says, still rubbing those reassuring circles into your back. “You’re just. You’re...” Jaskier stops and seems to deliberate his next few words, “You’re exciting me, that’s all.” That makes you blink. He doesn’t look all that excited to you, if anything he just seems to be riding the same high he always is after kissing turns a little more passionate, pupils blown wide and lips pink and plush from kissing, but he doesn’t look excited. Your confusion must be visible because Jaskier sighs, muttering something under his breath before his hand creeps higher toward your shoulder blades. “You’re making me hard.” He says, the words said carefully as if afraid he might upset you.

“Har- Oh. Oh!” Realisation hits you all at once and your eyes dart down to his lap, suddenly seeing the tent in the dress that certainly hadn’t been there when you first settled on him. It was mere centimetres away from your core when you were kissing him, and you hadn’t even noticed. It’s the first time you think you’ve ever seen someone be hard, even if it is completely covered up, and the knowledge that it was you who has done this to him fills you with pride. You’ve never really considered yourself the kind of person to have that kind of power over a person, you only ever really feel powerful in a fight, but the feeling overtaking you now feels like power. With nothing more than a mouth and tongue, you’ve affected him in this way. "I wouldn’t call that an issue.”

He blinks at you, lips slightly parted and he looks you up and down. For the first time, you wonder if he’s thinking of other trysts, where it was him in shirt and trousers on top of some woman in a dress who is falling apart at next to nothing. It should leave a sour taste in your mouth, but the feeling of power is more overwhelming than any insecurity.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, Little Miss.”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’ve never seemed interested in... progressing.” He’s being careful not to say anything he thinks might offend you. Jaskier is never one to mince words, but your virginity seems to have him somewhat uncomfortable when it comes to what language to approach sex with. You aren’t a child, and used to work in a tavern, you’ve heard all too many terms for sex; shagging, fucking, making the beast with two backs, a labour for Venus, but Jaskier calls it Progressing. Like it’s travelling, moving from one destination to another, from kissing to something else entirely. It’s quaint coming from a man who you’ve heard sing songs about receiving hand-jobs. “I don’t want to push you into anything you might not be comfortable doing, Little Miss, I don’t want you to feel pressured by me or this or anything-”

“I’m interested in progressing.” You cut him off, a little too eagerly. “Truly, I am. I just. Haven’t done anything like this before. So, I wasn’t sure how to go about it, you know. I couldn’t just... I don’t know. Ask you to take my virginity.” Jaskier chokes a little at the words.

“I wouldn’t be taking anything.”

“But I do want you to.”

“I don’t mean in terms of... not wanting to. I do. Melitele’s tits, I’d crawl over shards of glass just to put my mouth on you, Darling. I just mean, I wouldn’t be taking anything from you. There’s nothing to take. You would just be someone who has been intimate instead of someone who hasn’t. You don’t lose anything.”

Your heart, something in the back of your mind says coyly, you’ll lose your heart to him if you allow yourself to be breeched by him, he’ll take it unknowingly and not be able to give it back to you. Each step, each breath, each blink and each song, he will have your heart entirely and there will be nothing you can do to have it returned. He’s had so many lovers before, it’s unlikely he’ll give his heart to you in return for you giving him your own- and it won’t be because he’s cruel or unfeeling, it will be because Bards give their heart to anyone who hears their song, and there isn’t enough of it left for you. He’s entirely enough for you, but you will never be entirely enough for him.

“If I lose nothing by it then why are we discussing it instead of... progressing?” You have to bite down on your tongue to keep from saying shagging. Fucking. Anything but this dance around what it is that the two of you clearly want.

“Because I want you to understand.” He says, and it sounds like a plea. “I want you to know that you don’t lose a thing, and I want you to be doing this because you want to do it, not because you feel like you ought because I’m hard or because you feel you owe it to me. I want you to do this because you want this, and because you want me.”

Because you want me. It makes you falter for a second. Of course, you want him, you wouldn’t kiss him if you didn’t. Your heart aches at the thought of someone kissing or sleeping with him and not wanting him, using him and discarding him afterwards.

“Of course, I want you, Jask.” Your voice is little more than a whisper.

“I mean it, Little Miss. If I do this, I won’t want for another person in my life, I won’t be able to not think of you, and if you’re doing this out of obligation and not because you want me, it will kill me.” He continues, the hand on your back moving up still until it’s buried entirely in your hair, twisting and feeling about your scalp like the answer to every question he will ever ask is written in your hair. “If this is only for once, I cannot do it. It would kill me to know how it feels to be inside you, to feel at one with you, and know you don’t ever intend to do it again. I care far too much for you to do a thing like that.”

“Jaskier...”

“I admit, I have a... reputation for leaving a string of not-quite-crying lovers behind me, but I cannot add you to that list. I won’t. And I refuse to spend the rest of our days together writing melancholic songs about how I want you, desire you, crave you, only to know you only have eyes for others, I would sooner-”

You can see by the impassioned look in his eyes that he has so much more to say, but can’t bear to hear anymore, for fear of fooling yourself that the beautiful man in front of you loves you. So instead, you reach down and wind your fingers around his member and relish in how his words choke to a halt and he lets out a sweet sigh.

“I don’t want to sleep with you once either, and your former lovers and I have nothing in common. For one, I’m not married, and two, I want you Jaskier. Not reprieve from some small pricked husband. I want to have sex with you because I want you, I care about you.” I love you; your mind screams the words you don’t dare say. It’s enough though. Enough for Jaskier to smile and move both hands around your waist once more and gently lay you on the floor beside the fire, hair fanning out like a halo among leaves and grass.

“I. I had intended this to have a more romantic location.” He admits to you as he parts your legs and settles on his knees in the space he has made. “Some inn, where I could strew some petals about, draw you a bath, sing a song.”

“I don’t need petals or poetry or baths.” You smile at him, but he shakes his head with an affectionate smile,

“It’s not about need, Darling, it’s about what you deserve. And you deserve to be treated like a princess.”

“In that dress I rather think you’re more the princess out of the two of us.” Out of the dress too. You’re rougher than any woman should be, and if your mother could see you now, you’d be pulled by your ear off to be told how good and proper ladies dress and behave- you find yourself covered in monster gore more often than you would like to, and have taken to wearing darker colours so that the dirt on them doesn’t show quite as much, but Jaskier with his sweet voice and fineries? He’s a crown away from being a prince, the sort who appear in every story you were told as a child who could fix any maiden’s problems with a kiss that would end in happily ever after.

A cough draws the both of you from each other and you turn your head to see Geralt and realise the light purple sky of dusk has been replaced with the near pitch of somewhere closer to when your plan needs to take place. He looks as uncomfortable at finding you as you feel at being caught. You feel like a child whose mother has caught you doing something they expressly told you not to do, and the fear of whatever comment he shall make keeps you from laughing at the mental image of Geralt dressed as some mother, in a drab old dress and dirtied up apron, flour dusted about his face, still world weary and with his swords strapped to his back.

“...Aswang will be here soon.” The Witcher says, and you’re grateful he’s decided not to address what he had walked in on. “We need our... beautiful woman to be wandering in the woods.” He gestures with a movement of his head to Jaskier to come towards you, and the bard does, albeit slowly, remove himself from the spot between your thighs. Geralt’s stoic face might be enough to fool most people who don’t know him, but you can see the mirth in his eyes. He’s glad he called Jaskier’s bluff on the dress, this story will never make its way into a song for the sake of Jaskier’s ego but will be brought out by Geralt at any and every ball that he is dragged to from now on. His fictional tale of the Bard being castrated by an unfortunate kick to the bollocks by an Ox as a child will now be replaced with an honest account of the esteemed bard Jaskier having volunteered himself- seemingly at random- to serve as bait in a dress for a very dangerous beast. You think he’s never looked more beautiful than he does in the dress, but Geralt very clearly sees it as funny. Men are strange. It’s just a dress, and a dress that makes him look far more attractive than any fine suit or set of armour ever could, so what is so funny about it. The Witcher says your name and you look up at him and nod. “Stay here.”

“But-”

“Hopefully the ‘fair maiden’ is enough to get the Aswang. If it sees an actual woman, it’ll attack it and not try to attack him. I’d prefer not to have to carry your corpse back to your village. It would be a long journey.” He’s being facetious, at least you hope, but you nod anyway. “We shouldn’t be too long.”

“Stay here, it’ll all be over soon.” Jaskier tells you, smiling that disarming smile he uses to try and charm more coin from locals.

“But the memory of you in a dress will live on.” Geralt says, unable to keep the smirk from his face, which makes Jaskier’s face morph between anger and confusion quickly before settling on incredulousness.

“No one is to hear of this Geralt. Geralt! Do you hear me? No. One. Geralt!” His protests increase as the White Wolf begins to trek back into the thicket of trees, Jaskier following behind him and shouting all the while.

“Jaskier!” You call to him, and the complaints die as he turns to face you. “Please, please be careful.”

“I promise, Dear Heart. I will be fine.”

Somehow, you don’t quite believe him as he disappears into the trees to join Geralt at his trap, leaving you alone with only the fire and the moon for company. Eyes turn up towards the full, round beacon of light, the only break in the darkness overhead with no stars to join her. You aren’t religious, and don’t believe in worship or prayer but now, tonight, you close your eyes and breathe deeply. You trust in the moon more than you trust Geralt and Jaskier not to take any unnecessary risks,

“Please keep him safe for me. Please.”

#jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader #jaskier x you #jaskier smut #the witcher imagine

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vexing-imogen · 5 years

Text

hide your face (so the world will never find you)

Masquerade! Paper faces on parade Masquerade!

They’re the guests of honor tonight.

Fjord guesses that’s what’s supposed to happen when you’ve saved the world about half a dozen times and counting. It is a bit surreal though. Looking down at the sea of people crowding the Lavish Chateau and knowing they’re there for you, because of you.

He hasn’t joined the party yet, choosing instead to watch the revelry below from one of Jester’s childhood hiding places. He observes the masquerade through a simple face mask; a deep forest green, dappled with lighter greens, decorated with kelp and colorful sea glass, and held in place with a piece of the red cord he’s carried with him since his time on the Tide’s Breath. Jester had insisted that they all keep their masks and costumes a secret until the party, so Fjord makes a game out of searching the crowd for his friends.

Nott (Veth he has to remind himself. Not Nott anymore. Veth) er, Veth is easy enough to spot, leading Yeza around the buffet table. She’s wearing a pretty yellow dress, embroidered with delicate flowers. Her dark hair is braided into an elaborate updo, dark eyes sparkling with excitement above her broken porcelain mask.

He picks Caduceus out next, his firbolg form towering over most of the guests, but especially the white-haired gnome he’s conversing with. The beetle mask he’s wearing should be creepy as fuck, but his soft, floppy ears and long waterfall of hair soften the edges and make him look only mildly disconcerting.

Yasha would be hard to miss in a crowd, even without the large white wings that sprout from her shoulders. Her dress is midnight blue, embroidered with silver thread in patterns reminiscent of a lightning strike. Fjord thinks her white avian mask might be an eagle of some kind, but it’s hard to tell with her head ducked as it is, eyes on her dance partner.

Her dance partner being Beau. Beau, who Fjord wouldn’t recognize if he didn’t already know what her mask looked like. They’d gone shopping for masks together (Jester had pouted for hours when she found out), and he’d been the one to find the elaborate owl mask that looked a little too much like Professor Thaddeus. She’s dressed in a charcoal grey suit trimmed with blue. It has sleeves. Beauregard Lionett is willingly wearing sleeves and dancing and isn’t trying to start a brawl with the goliath from Vox Machina. He’s so proud he could cry.

It takes him a while to find Caleb. He’s sequestered himself in a dark corner (another one of Jester’s favored hiding spots), like Fjord, keeping himself separate from all of the attention and praise that none of them are quite sure they deserve. His cat mask is pushed up so he can better focus on his conversation partner. Essek, Fjord realizes with no small amount of shock. They’d invited him of course, at a banquet in Rosohna celebrating the end of the war, but none of them had expected him to actually show, Caleb especially.

Fjord searches the room for Jester fruitlessly. She isn’t by the stage, where a family of gnomes called the Shorthalt Seven play song after song. She isn’t sitting down with Allura Vysoren and her wife, Kima, who have abandoned their masks (a golden swan and a silver dragon, respectively) in favor of wine and ale. Nor is she at her mother’s side as Marion flirts with both Lord and Lady de Rolo. The Lady’s bronze dragon mask does little to muffle her laughter as her husband flushes a brilliant crimson behind a raven. She isn’t pestering Taryon Darrington, who is wearing a garish mask that can only be his construct, Doty. (the construct is wearing a mask, too. A truly horrifying thing that Fjord can only guess is supposed to be a likeness of Taryon.) In all of the music, laughter, dancing, drinking, mischief, and general chaos of the evening, Jester is nowhere to be found.

“Looking for someone?”

Fjord nearly cracks his head on a low beam jumping at the soft voice beside him. He’s halfway to summoning the Star Razor before he thinks that it might not be the best idea to run a random party guest through with a sword. He does spin towards the voice, and comes face to face with Keyleth of the Air Ashari and Vox Machina. The Voice of the Tempest. The powerful as fuck archdruid that could level the Chateau if she really wanted to.

Her rabbit mask is pushed up between her antlers, so he can see her wince and blush. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He waves off her apologies. “It’s fine, really,” he says, taking a breath and willing his heart to stop racing. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone else to be up here, that’s all.”

Keyleth nods, her mask slipping a little with the movement. “I get it,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong, I love getting dressed up, and the free drinks are always a plus, but the whole socializing part of events like these have never been my forte.”

“It’s not the socializing I mind,” he says, searching for the right words. “It’s being the center of attention that bothers me, I suppose. Especially when-”

“You feel like you don’t deserve any of it, and you’re terrified that everyone will realize all at once how much of a fuck-up you truly are and throw you out on your ass?” Keyleth finishes, giving him a wry grin.

Fjord laughs. “Um, yes. To all of that.”

“Unfortunately, that feeling never really goes away,” she says, shrugging. “Sorry.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Having friends helps,” she says eventually. “Getting to see the positive impact of something that you did? That helps, too.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I think it also helps knowing that you aren’t alone in what you’re feeling.”

Keyleth grins. “Don’t mention it. Now, did you need help finding someone?” Her fingertips spark with magic as she wiggles them at him. “I probably have a spell that can help.”

Fjord shakes his head. “Thank you, but sometimes it’s just nice to sit back and watch the crowd.”

She likely sees through the lie, but she doesn’t push it. “Okay,” she says awkwardly. “Well, I should probably get back before my friends send a search party after me. They can get kind of paranoid sometimes.”

He nods. “It was nice talking with you, Miss Keyleth.”

He’s turning back to search for Jester when Keyleth calls his name. He turns back to her, about halfway down the stairs, an unreadable expression on her face. “Yes?”

“One last piece of advice?” He nods. She takes a deep breath. “Don’t wait until it’s too late to tell someone how you really feel about them. It works out for some,” she adds, eyes darting to Lord and Lady de Rolo, now dancing close, lost to everyone else but each other. “But, the more time you get with someone you love, the better.”

He swallows past the lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

What he doesn’t say is that he was already almost too late. They’d lost Jester during one of their recent battles. She’d gone down and Caduceus was too far away, too focused on keeping Caleb and Beau alive. Fjord and Yasha’s meager healing abilities hadn’t been enough, and, for twelve agonizing hours, Jester was lost to them. Cad was able to bring her back with Beau and Nott’s help. Fjord’s too. He’ll be damned if he can remember everything he said, but he knows he’d whispered his love to her, for only her to hear.

Keyleth is long gone when Jester’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Fjo-ord, where are you? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. The party got too stuffy, so I went to my momma’s balcony for some fresh-”

He chuckles as her message cuts off. “Message received, loud and clear. Stay where you are, Jessie, I’ll be right up.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fjord finds Jester right where she said she’d be; in her mother’s room, out on the balcony, staring up at the night sky, the ocean breeze gently ruffling her hair. He stops to examine the mask that she’s left on the table before going out to join her. It’s a full face mask, styled after old theatre masks. One side laughing, one side crying; comedy and tragedy in one. The laughing side is a deep emerald green, the crying a jewel-bright pink, all accented with gold.

As he sets the mask aside and moves to join her on the balcony, he sees that the colors perfectly match her dress. The sleeveless bodice is patterned with harlequin diamonds, green, pink, and gold. Her skirt flares out, layer upon layer of emerald green tulle. She looks like a princess, and Fjord, in his simple mask and pirate costume, feels every inch a pauper.

The moment he sets foot on the balcony, she turns to him, and the smile she gives him wipes away any momentary insecurities.

“There you are, Fjord,” she teases. “It feels like I’ve been waiting forever.”

He grins, moves to lean against the railing. “Please accept my deepest apologies,” he says. “How ever can I make up for such a grievous error?”

Jester giggles. “Wellll, for starters, as cool as it is, you can take your mask off. This balcony has officially been declared a “no mask zone”.”

“Is that so?” he asks, smirking when she nods seriously. “I suppose I should comply, then. I wouldn’t want to break official rules.”

He unties his mask and hands it to Jester, watching as she runs her fingers over the sea glass. “This is really cool, Fjord,” she says, rubbing her thumb across a piece of kelp.

He blushes a bit, ducking his head. “Thanks, Jes. Yours is...gorgeous,” he says. “The wh-whole ensemble, really. I mean, gods, Jester, there’s rarely a day you don’t take my breath away, but tonight...gods, tonight...”

Her eyes are wide when he finally dares to look up at her, mouth hanging open just a little, a purple flush coloring her cheeks and chest. “Fjord...” She laughs a little, breathless. “Fjord, I...”

She’s speechless, searching for words, but she isn’t panicking. There are tears starting to gather at the corners of her eyes, but she’s smiling, and not the sad, pitying kind of smile she’d given Freddie de Rolo when he’d tried to kiss her, and she had to turn him down. He steps a little closer, gives her time to retreat if she wants. She doesn’t move.

He reaches up to stroke her cheek, and she leans into his touch, eyelashes fluttering. “We never did have that talk about the day you died,” he says softly. “Or about the day we brought you back.”

“No, we didn’t,” she says. She bites her lip. “What...what did you want to talk about?”

He has to close his eyes, can’t watch her face as he says what he’s about to say. “I don’t know what I would have done if we hadn’t been able to bring you back, Jester.” His head drops until his forehead meets hers. “Losing you would have destroyed all of us, certainly, but you can ask anyone, Jester. I was useless. It was only twelve hours, but it felt like a lifetime.”

She lets out a shaky breath that he can feel wash across his cheek. “And all of that stuff you said during the ritual?”

He pulls back just enough to look into her eyes. “I meant every word.”

Tears are flowing freely down her face. “Even the part where...”

“Especially the part where,” he says. “I’m in love with you, Jester Lavorre, and it shouldn’t have taken you dying for me to admit it.”

Her answering smile knocks all the breath from his lungs. Or maybe that’s her jumping to kiss him, throwing him off balance with her enthusiasm. He ends up on his back on the floor, Jester sprawled on top of him, both of them laughing hysterically.

“Oh gosh, Fjord,” Jester manages between giggles. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Jes, don’t you worry.” He pushes himself to sitting, giving her the chance to climb off of him. Instead, she settles more fully in his lap. “And you don’t ever have to apologize for trying to kiss me, alright?”

She grins, leaning in to kiss him. “Good,” she says. “Because I’m going to want to kiss you a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. I’m talking an obscene amount of kissing here, Fjord.”

He laughs, winds an arm around her waist. “I think I can live with that, darlin’.”

She rests her forehead against his. “Will you say it again, Fjord?”

He kisses her again. “I love you, Jester.”

“I love you, too, Fjord.”

#critical role #critfic #fjorester #fjord #jester lavorre #long post

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asharinhun · 4 years

Note

5. have they done anything they thought they’d never do? (For any of your OCs, or all of them!)

// Doing this to all my current Warcraft oCs xD

- Asharinhun Feralclaw

“I never believed in love at first sight… yet it happened to me, which was something I didn’t expect, especially not that I’d actually proposed to her.”

- Kielastrasza/Kiela Feralclaw

“Honestly? I often thought of finding and finishing off our mother’s killer, but didn’t truly believe we had the strength for it. Yet we did it.”

- Elyenastrasza/Elyena Feralclaw

“Yelling at people.” She nods sagely. “I’m usually the nervous, timid one, but upon seeing the mistakes those unqualified healers did, something snapped and the next moment I was in charge.”

- Ash'Arina Feralclaw

“Marrying a woman. Don’t get me wrong, she’s the love of my life. I just didn’t expect it to turn out like this, as I was always fawning over the guys as a teen.”

- Eoloran Soursea

“To actually reunite with my sister. To find out she was alive and relatively well in Suramar for all these years… Even we old ones can get surprised.”

- Sharyssa Dustshade

“Finding relatives after the barrier of Suramar went down. Mom always said noone could have survived outside of our family. I’m truly happy she was wrong.”

- Serena Brightspring

“It was already a wonder that I could love a kaldorei, let arone he feeling the same. And here we are, husband and wife, and he loves me all the same despite me becoming a cripple.”

- Brigitte Fársaw

“Befriending a mainlander. Ok, ok, he is a druid of sorts too, that helped, but I don’t trust them in general. I wonder why, but I do trust him.”- Vaela Moonbreeze

“Succeeding in becoming a demon hunter. It was my goal after I got blinded, but somewhere deep inside I was sure I would fail, especially with weapon training. Yet here I am, one of the Slayers.”

- Leanna Crowshade

“I actually admitted to someone else she’s more beautiful than me. That confession still hurts… my beauty was my life… but I will make every remaining free demon pay, espcially the imps.”

- Arlyn Zien

“Brawling was not new to me before, the number of times I did it as a kid, but it always felt a necessity.” She paused, grabbing the cold drink and gently held it against her swollen shut eye while glancing up to the questioner with her working one. “But, now I friggin’ love brawling. Especially as all patrons know to keep my smile intact. Nothing better than a good brawl, bruises or not, so long I can still sing the next day on the stage.”

- Lynesera

“I fell in love with a mortal. Me, a green dragon. Do you know how ridiculous and impossible does that sound? Yet it happened, and it seems I wasn’t even the only one.”

- Legana Al'Vera

“Attacking my eldest sister with the intent to kill. It’s her fault. First letting my twin die, then putting all the blame on me and forcing me to run. So I found a way, gained power and returned for revenge. I attacked her all right, taking one of her eyes, she took one of mine as payback. next time we meet, only one will walk away alive.”

- Alanrya Al'Vera

“After I was raisedas an undead, I thought I won’t have feelings and regrets from when I was alive. I was wrong. Worse, I didn’t interrupt the fight between my sisters. I was there, hidden from sight… and did nothing but watch.”

- Nevana Al'Vera

“I let our family fall apart. I promised mother I will always support the twins, for I am the eldest, it is my responsibility. I failed utterly.”

- Lyala

“Winning a race on three legs. I broke one of my hindlegs during the most recent demonic invasion, and the healers didn’t have the capacity as it wasn’t that serious. Still, I joined in for a small race with my fellow dryads to cheer up our moods. I actually won!”

- Laz'jea

“Da incident during da coronation of Queen Talanji. I was -still am- only an apprentice, I did what I could to be of use despite being ordered to hide. At one point my weapon broke, and I thought I’d die for sure. Yet da next blow never came. My teacher, Wardruid Loti saved me.”

- Alarastrasza/Alara Feralclaw- deceased

She’s no longer alive, but she’d say meeting Asha and having 2 beautiful duaghters with him was out of her wildest imagination, but she was really happy it happened. Even if it meant she had to give up her life to save them, she died with no regrets.

- Gerrard ‘Bastion’

“Somewhat looked down on mercenaries. Was a minor noble in Gilneas before its fall, with enough gold so even the third son like me could be tutored. Guess life has a sense of humour, however twisted. Ended up becoming a merc, changed my opinion of the profession quickly.”

- Lola Hayles

“The number of times we restarted with Gerrard… it didn’t work for long when we were together, but it became just as bad and worse when we were separate. I had almsot given up o nthe whole thing, then got kidnapped. He actually managed to track us across half of Azeroth, to Pandaria, and when he thought I was dead, he was preparing for a ‘heroic’ last stand to take as many with him as possible.” She paused, turning her head towards the direction from where the question was asked. “He is a fool, but he is my precious fool.” A small golden band was visible on her finger.

- Korhien Sunpaw

“ ‘ve an adopted sister. She was better to me than my siblings by blood. She got together with a conartist bastard. Told myself its her life, warned her, the rest wasn’t up to me. Didn’t stop me from trying to get rid of the bastard. Lucky for Sis -and so for me as well-, the prick showed his true colors. Now she’s fine.”

- Korhil Sunpaw

“I was always better at using weapons than my little brother, especially swords. Never lost to him, never thought I would. He became better than me with a bow, that i admit freely, but blades were my specialty. That is, until the day I found his injured daughter and brought her home. The fool, mad with worry, thought it was me who hurt her, called me for a duel. I thought it will be easy, just knocking some sense into him and that’s it. How wrong I was. My blade was out of my hands after the first few exchanges, his at my throat. I lost to him utterly.”

- Marcus the Bloodthirsty

“Where I go, blood flows. My sword needs it. I need it. I spare noone who gets in my way.” was what he said, but it was not the truth. Once, he spared someone.

- Niariona/Nia

Niariona should not even exist, yet she does. Result of a monstrous experiment by the Twilight Hammer, her very being is the result of brilliant but warped minds playing creators. She shoudl have been eradicated already. There were attempts, and her current wherebauts ar eunknown, but she is still alive.

// Thank you @nocturnedreaming , this was a nice challenge.

#oc #oc list #nocturnedreaming

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chimerabal · 6 years

Text

Session.... what are we at four?

I lost track. Oops. Thankfully tumblr is in reverse chronological order so it’s not actually an issue.

I WAS WRONG THIS IS SESSION NUMBER FIVE.

I am So Pumped for flavoring out my new spells that I almost forgot I needed to type this play by play--- which is super important because this week was full of dark humor and stupidity.

We started the session with all the players plus a giest and Ugly, our ~8ft by ~4ft scaab, having barged into a kindly (yet grumpy) man’s house and locking ourselves in for temporary shelter from an approaching cult. We were all pretty beat; with our cleric and necro-alchemist having just kicked the shit out of each other, and a ghost having kicked the shit out of my character. No one even thought to ask this dude’s name before our dumb asses started in on our bullshit. War cleric Mikela immediately found a crack in the boarded up windows to watch the cultists pass by. Sibyl, necro-alchemist, put herself in a cozy corner to sit out the rest of her post-brawl-trauma. After sitting Ugly in front of the door as a barricade, and offering a hollow and uninterested ‘sorry’ to the guy who’s door we just damn near broke down, my scaberen Uriel got hit with a wave of paranoia and started rifling through all the guy’s stuff looking for traps to disarm or Something. Before the man got too angry Mikela came around and spoke to him some and Uriel sat their dumb ass down next to Sibyl in the quiet corner to also chill the fuck out.

Mikela asked the man some questions about the town, and the cult, and all the happenings; then hit the helpful giest with some as well. We learned that before the cult started showing up two orphans appeared in town, a young man and his even younger brother. They were from a neighboring town, and were recently orphaned by something bloody and unpleasant. Unsatisfied with these answers, Mikela did some scouting from the upstairs window, got a second wind or Something, and decided that we should immediately leave the shelter we just worked so hard to Get Into and chase these cultist jerks down. Right Now. After all, the cult was recruiting--- or something loud--- just a few streets over, and we might not get this chance again before they kill more innocents. Uriel argued against this for a bit, since shes a coward they got indoors to Rest and that it would be stupid to throw ourselves back into battle unprepared and we should Really just take advantage of Finally being under a roof for a while. Sibyl agreed, more or less, that it was probably dangerous and stupid to back out without healing. This went back and forth for a bit, as it does. I manage to get a Super Abridged version of the script I had written out for learning All Of Sibyl’s Mysterious Secrets... got basically nothing outta her :P Scripts don’t work in RP settings, I get that now. Mikela did a healing spell that brought everyone back up to full health and the party agreed to head out.

We decide to leave Ugly with the man in his home, but the guy takes a little bit of prodding to agree to that. Uriel--- not totally over the paranoia from earlier--- is a huge asshole to him and he gives the party a time limit of three hours to get the hell back and take their awful zombie abomination. She almost commands Ugly to destroy the fucking house if they’re not back in time but Ugly is a good boy and wouldn’t have done that anyways ;w;b. The party stealths on over to where the Loud Cult Noises are coming from. There’s this... ascension? of very colorful giests centered around where we are headed. Sibyl is the only one who notices this and calmly instructs Mikela and Uriel to keep cool, and for Uriel specifically Not To Look Up. Uriel apparently really trusts Sibyl because she listened... until Mikela failed her perception and fucking started screaming. That many giests simply isn’t normal so... we were all pretty shook okay?

Mikela’s scream alerted some of the cultists and we scrambled to hide. Uriel and Sibyl hid fabulously in the alleys... the exact same alley... in the same spot... against what our plans were. Mikela went upwards and scaled a building which.... wasn’t very stealthy but the cultists never bothered to look up, so ultimately the best hiding spot. Uriel tried distracting the cultists by throwing a gold coin into their area--- hoping it would distract them and they’d fight over it. It failed, they ignored it. Sibyl tried to divert their attentions to a near by area by firing a flame spell into said area.... which also failed and blew our cover.

The cultists were unable to hit either Sibyl or Uriel with attacks normally, BUT THEN one of Sibyl’s ghost-spells backfired a bit and she started glowing Very Brightly, blinding the enemies and also Uriel. Uriel was able to land a devastating hit on one of the cultists even when blind before backing the hell up and regaining her eyesight. Mikela got the jump (ha) on the enemies by launching herself off the building and into the fray, doing a lot of damage. Sibyl- still super glowy- electrocuted one of the cultists with a VERY COOL TASER GAUNTLET. Uriel ended the battle by strangling the remaining cultist into unconsciousness. Mikela looted the body and shouldered the unconscious dude and Uriel tried to carry the dead guy--- saying it would be disrespectful or something to just Leave It There Like That. Definitely not weird scaberen motivations no sir. We ended up giving the dead guy to Katya (who is here in spirit for this game- and here for when we can’t do things with our own bad strength stats) to carry.

The group hears the loud cultists from a neighboring road fussing over ‘that strange glow over there’ (Sibyl) and heading our way. The party runs through the town in weird ways to throw the group off our tail until Sibyl stops glowing, and then runs even more after that; we weren't able to shake them. The dead guy was leaking and leaving a blood trail. The group deliberates for a bit and decides to tourniquet the bleeding leg just above the offending wound, then cut the rest of it off and make a fake blood trail away from where we were going. The amputation is done with Great Somberness (because its so morbid on the party’s part, and because it’s ruining an other wise Lovey Corpse on Uriel’s). Uriel is then given the leg to make the fake trail with, which they do gladly.... probably having a bit too much fun splattering blood everywhere in the process.

The group returns to the grumpy man’s house with a body and a hostage and don’t immediately see the grumpy man. We find him barricaded on the top floor of his house with a spear poking out his only sight hole, ranting about how he KNEW that beastly thing was going to come after him, and trying to stab poor Sibyl who and just wanted to let him know we came back. Both Sibyl and Mikela try to talk the guy down, while Uriel is losing their god damn mind laughing at the situation. The hostage begins to awaken (Sibyl punches him), catching the guy’s attention. He disarms and sees Uriel and Katya holding a limp form, and Mikela shouldering a gagged and bound man. Pretty sure Uriel blew whatever positive progress we made on the grumpy dudes mental state with all the laughter and smirking... especially after asking What The Fuck she was holding. The group leave him alone to work with the hostage downstairs.

Mikela and Sibyl work a bit on getting the hostage to stop Screaming--- half because he’ll attract unwanted attention and half because, you just can’t interrogate like that. Uriel steps in and tells the guy that if he doesn’t shut up they’ll feed him to Ugly (who is still sitting in front of the door being a Good Boy). He stops screaming and pisses himself, which is gross on its own, yeah, but Mikela still had him on her shoulder. Uriel falls back into hysteric laughter as Mikela doffs her armor as quickly as fuckin’ possible. She then hurls all the piss covered armor at Uriel, who effortlessly dodges it. The armor hits Ugly--- making Uriel laugh even Harder--- then it tries putting ON the pissy armor--- and at this point Uriel is basically crying. Mikela is busy cleaning herself off, and Uriel is trying to regain composure, so Sibyl starts the interrogation on our prisoner.

The interrogation is pretty long, Sibyl asks a few questions before Mikela takes over, and eventually Uriel joins the group mostly to observe. We learn that this guy had Literally Just Joined the cult today. He joined because the church’s protections aren’t doing Shit in this crappy fucked up little town and almost everyone here is totally disillusioned. The dude Sibyl killed was the only person he actually Knew in the whole cult and he really couldn’t offer us much info on members... or really much of anything. He didn’t know the name of the demon they follow--- only that it’s name began with an N and that it was calling itself ‘the whispered one’ and ‘the heir to Griselbrand’ (which Uriel pointed out, is kinda stupid, why follow some lesser demon when Griselbrand is still in power?). Around here is when Sibyl checked out to work on her Mystery Notes... and Uriel got bored almost immediately after when the leader was described. The cult is run by a young twiggy male with long blond hair, and he often has a child with him (not even a partial demon or something cool and grotesque--- why even bother). Mikela asked some more questions and eventually came to the conclusion that it was the weird orphans from earlier who are now running the cult. I hope I got all the deets from that- this was Late Game and I’m not the best note taker lmao.

When Uriel got bored with the interrogation she noticed that Sibyl had left the room and, quietly, went to go find her. Sibyl had taken out the same note-filled bible from the other night and was flipping through it. Uriel got close enough to see the pages that Sibyl was focused on were written in code--- code that Sibyl obviously didn’t know. She startled Sibyl by asking what was up and took 3 points of head-to-jaw damage when Sibyl jumped up and bolted. Nosy persistence didn’t really pay off much for Uriel; Sibyl claimed to not know what the book was about, or if it was related to the cult-shit, and just gave some really vague and suspect answers that Uriel took at face value. And, although Sibyl is the most interesting character overall, Mikela barged into the room with her “ITS THE ORPHANS” revelation and won Sibyl some reprieve from my nosy character.

Uriel and Mikela discuss the orphans a bit, the ghost tells us that the town they are from is still there- but gives us Cryptic Horse Shit about how far away the town is from where we are. While we’re all distracted our hostage slips out of his restraints and flees the house, and we Only notice because the door is squeaky. As he leaves he says “I’m not the only one who’s heard the call” and we see a bunch more people walking towards where the cultists Probably are. Spooky.

The campaign ends here, and I shortly after realize I forgot entirely about the body I should have been working with... OOPS. I’m honestly only even mentioning that here because I don’t want to forget about it AGAIN come next week I need that for spells.

And per usual, not proof reading or anything, and I don’t trust that I didn’t miss details- I kinda check out sometimes on other peoples turns... Its the curse of an ADHD attention span without visual input ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I try.

#long post #Fantasy RP Campaign

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