#idarran

[party-in-eldarya]

whenever I look at my fav characters/crushes and see that they are at least Problematic (or simply evil) I keep on repeating:

Halsin. Xan. Xan is a true neutral.

[dukeofdogs]

Rissberg degenerates my beloveds.

[lambert2269]

hey @eskel0002

are you up for a slight detour. we've got to find him.

[wanderingwolfwitcher]

The Witcher Netflix Writers: 

[stillness138]

For the character ask meme: Idarran and Alzur

ehehe nice

Alzur:

First impression - long before cdpr did anything with him, in my head he was this mysterious, legendary, cool figure. I knew of the guy and of his accomplishments - from the double cross mentioned in Road With No Return through the zap card in gwent to the little there was on wiki/in educated videos about the creation of witchers. I remember thinking he wouldn't test the mutations on girls before i learned about the first batch of kids brought to Rissberg. Oh how naive i was :D.

Impression now - scrunkly motherfucker. I enjoy him thoroughly. The journey story is imo one of the absolute top pieces of lore writing to come out of gwent. They could've gone with the shallow notion i myself had of Alzur before really thinking critically (or to be honest, cynically, given the nature of this universe), but instead they presented two clashing points of view, both valid given their context, that helped paint the man at the center as the very much imperfect person he is. For once, genuinely decent picture of this genre of character. Also,

Favourite moment - when i unleashed the "Alzur really was a bug fucker huh" discord message onto tumblr in one of the shitpost collections and then our resident spy saw it and had it canonized in Rogue Mage 😌. Ok conspiracies aside, i think the circumstances of his death are just too fucking funny.

Idea for a story - [REDACTED] xd. Actually, i guess i can type out a peek to the level of derangement i reach sometimes: So i'm quite a fan of the album Mezzanine by Massive Attack, right. Teardrop, probably the most famous song from it, is one of those that i believe have rearranged my soul. So one day i'm listening to it, staring at the album cover, and it hits me; the bug on it looks like Viy's gwent portrait. So then my brain makes a few lightning fast connections, and the result is the idea of a short album in the style of Mezzanine, from the point of view of Galanthea as a sort of "return" into music without the Snowdrop pseudonym, with a few songs dealing with the things she learns about Alzur from Madoc, the rampage of Maribor, and Madoc's subsequent death. I consider myself musically illiterate, in that i just don't understand music theory, how songs are made, any of that stuff, but it's one of those things that i keep returning to like "it's extremely cool...to me." I guess i can always write a fic about it, but we know how """good""" i am with finishing those, too xd. Brain, why you gotta be like that.

Unpopular opinion - I love Lorenzo to bits but i think the key art for Alzur's journey is a little bit goofy 🙈. On the other hand, the atmosphere is kinda neat, so i dunno. I feel like we can all agree that Lily deserved better and that Rogue Mage is underdeveloped. I guess here's a tinfoil hat thing, i think the ice dragon might be a future tie-in for the lynx game. Smth about dragons and far north and unexplored areas and so on. But i should probably not dwell on basic imagery so much.

Favourite relationship - I think it's kinda fucked up to say that how he affected Madoc's life and caused him immense trauma is my favourite bit, because more so, like i said, i just find the entire dynamic between Alzur, Madoc and Galanthea compelling to read. Ship wise though, it's [redacted], of course. The thing is just that i wouldn't want to impose Alzur on anyone xd.

Favourite headcanon - that the Golden Nekker was like his little buddy. I kinda got that from the scrapped Rogue Mage art (because i decided to take it literally, because i have brainrot, because i need help) and i thought it was silly in an endearing way.

Idarran of Ulivo:

First impression - because i haven't read Season of Storms yet, my first exposure to Idarran was, i'm pretty sure, when his card came out. I might've heard Ortolan's monologue in a video before, but because my memory is shit, it largely escaped me. When i saw his card and read the flavor text and sort of pieced most of it together, Idarran seemed like this weird kid who's weird mostly because of the circumstances. Whose interests wouldn't be a little fucked up if they grew up in the sewers.

Impression now - that's still more or less the case. He's smart, capable, and off-putting. But i find the way of it - no pathos, not even much of edginess or self-absorption - actually quite endearing, too, he seems to me like someone who just wants to be left alone. Relatable. Granted, the accounts - at least those that i'm familiar with so far (is there something significant about his personality in any of the trpg books?) - are limited.

Favourite moment - how old fuck Malaspina did only the bare minimum on witcher mutation research and Alzur and Idarran are responsible for most of it. Though I feel like Idarran also peaced out of it quite early on, which seems to be supported by Rogue Mage and also by the fact he really just looks like he's way more into his fucked up monsters than anything else.

Idea for a story - i am quite intrigued by the beef Maxii has with the entire Rissberg group and where it went. Now i just leaked that i've barely played Rogue Mage...

Unpopular opinion - you know how there are characters that do really good in side arcs in a story but wouldn't work as the main focus? I think that's Idarran in the bigger picture of the Rissberg group, witcher experiment and Maxii's shit list. So i feel like there should be more about him, but not too much, if that makes sense.

Favourite relationship - we took Alzur's (and eventually many others') bugfucking to a literal level but i actually find the idea of "Bug" being Idarran's nickname around Rissberg equally cursed-yet-enjoyable.

Favourite headcanon - that the bald spot in his hair is a result of an experiment gone sideways or being around something gross in the sewers. Again, favourite with these characters mostly means "it's awful but it particularly captivates me" :D.

[blackberrywars]

Two Cloaks, XXXL (Chapter 2)

Rating: E Words: 2,453 Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland Additional Tags: Order Of Witchers, Young OG Husbands, Pre-Divorce, Animal Death, Pelt Tanning, Draw Me Like One of Your Skelligan Girls, Seduction, Oral Sex, Arnaghad Swallows, Anal Sex, Waking Up Together

Summary: Erland isn't quite satisfied with the blanket ruana, so he goes looking for something a bit more… substantial.

Chapter 1

AO3 LINK

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The day passes by quickly enough, when Erland has twelve lanky witcherlings to teach Signs to, and Arnaghad —surely still in his new cloak or gods help him— is far and away. With a stern warning to keep any additional practice to the courtyard, he sends the bairns off with a deep sigh. They’ve worked hard today. Even Rakhen, the tallest of the lot with the least-proportional magical talent, managed to set the row of candles alight without melting them. It gives Erland enough time to go through his own exercises. Or to slip away from the castle entirely. Alzur, Cosimo, and Idarran have little use for him beyond his unique ability to teach Signs in their stead, and he’s avoided them all by virtue of them locking themselves away in their laboratory. More likely than not, they won’t even notice him escaping into the woods. He won’t be long. He knows precisely what he’s looking for.

The beast is a relatively young one, all things considered. Hardly out of adolescence but having done an admirable job packing on his winter weight, he swaggers from tree to tree so he can spray them. It makes him all the easier to track. Under normal circumstances, Erland would avoid killing such a specimen, but Arnaghad’s cloak has to be perfect, and this beast hasn’t seen enough fights to mar his hide. As it is, he perches in a tree and waits, watching the great young bear lumber into view. Grizzled brown fur, thick and evenly spread, spanning what will hopefully amount to Arnaghad’s shoulders. He’s magnificent, but no match for Erland. A Somne puts the beast to sleep, and twin daggers through the eyes make it permanent. It’s only after his nose stops twitching that Erland realizes the beast does have a scar —a healed-over trio of claw marks on his shoulder, no doubt from a fight with another boar. He smiles despite himself. Arnaghad would probably like it even better.

Erland skins it then and there, in no mood to haul the body back up the mountain. It feels rather wasteful to not make use of so much meat, but the forest can enjoy it on his part, and he can always hunt again. More importantly, if Arnaghad finds out what he’s doing ahead of time, he’ll refuse, and that is unacceptable. So unacceptable, that when he does make it back to Morgraig, he hides the fur in the spare stable closet. Not only had Arnaghad given up on horses long ago, the big bastard couldn’t fit into the tiny space if he tried. And no one really uses the closet anyway. Not only that, but with no chimney, it will keep the pelt from spoiling, and if he hangs the thing diagonally, he can stretch each part out. Even though it traps him in with the stench, it’s the best option he has.

But Erland has personally put his bare fist through a water hag while stepping on her court of drowners. More impressively, he only vomited up half the contents of his stomach when it was over. The memory alone makes it more than easy to strip the hide entirely, scraping any spare bits of flesh and sinew until the dusk’s shadows, encroaching from the slats in the door, grow too long to ignore.

He returns the same night, slipping from Arnaghad’s heavy arms to work drowner brain oil into the tough hide. A boar brush —and he can’t help but laugh quietly, because Arnaghad uses a similar one for his own hair— spreads the stuff onto each bristle, from the short undercoat to the soft, dense winter coat. If he’d waited another few weeks, it would have been even thicker, but that would mean another few weeks of Arnaghad insisting upon his elk coat. No matter that it doesn’t cover his thighs. No matter that it slips off his shoulders if he turns around too quickly. How the big bastard hasn’t choked on its closure, Erland will never know, even if he’s had his legs wrapped around that neck enough times to know it’s as tough as an ox’s. He slips back into bed a half hour later after a cursory wash in Igni-heated water. When he wakes, tucked right back into a broad chest, he smiles and hopes Arnaghad can’t smell the chemicals.

The next few weeks pass him by like that, hoping Arnaghad’s patience holds out longer than his reproachful gaze.

He stretches and tans the hide, brushes out the fur until each hair stands on its own. He sews up the eyeholes and painstakingly attaches the claws back onto the bear’s flat paws. He works (better-smelling) oils into it until not even a hurricane could soak it. Pride isn’t a noble thing, but Erland is more than a little impressed with himself when he deems it done. The massive cloak reflects the firelight ever so slightly, covering most of their bed as he stretches it out. Its head faces the door, fierce with dark fabric eyes leading down the scars that remain on the shoulder. Loud footsteps echo faraway in the hall. He can’t care enough to be ashamed of the way his own heartbeat quickens or how his blood rushes south.

Quickly, Erland strips to his tattoos, drapes himself across his gift like a poised whore, and watches the door swing open. He watches Arnaghad’s eyes adjust to the dark, and then dilate into new moons as he lays eyes on him. Timing is everything, in a battle. A strike too soon could leave a man open to attack and breathless. A strike too late could be blocked and misdirected. Erland has remembered and tried to write down everything Gryphon ever taught him, and he wonders what the old knight, let him rest, would think of this particular application of that advice.

Shock is a funny thing, on the face of someone like Arnaghad, and if Erland’s heart wasn’t beating human-fast, he might laugh at the way his massive jaw falls ever-so-slightly open. Another man, less acquainted with interpreting his love’s expressions through his beard, would likely not even notice how Arnaghad flips. He takes in the scene like a hunter. Amber eyes flick over every detail before he’s on top of him, that massive chest pressing him down. His hands cover Erland’s entirely, making fists in the soft fur he’d spent so long working on. Chapped lips cover his own, and he can’t help but to smile into it, grabbing Arnaghad’s wrists to drag those massive hands across the cloak he’d made, soft and warm and big enough to cover them both, probably. He tucks his chin down, breaking the kiss.

“Do ye like it?”

“Yes.”

A broad hand slides down to squeeze his arse, and Erland scoffs even as it makes his dick twitch against Arnaghad’s belly.

“I wouldn’t have asked if that was it. Tha’ fur is for you.”

“And this isn’t?”

A harder squeeze, which gives Erland the opportunity to slip beneath his other arm, rolling off the bed as Arnaghad grabs for his ankle. He dances away, but Arnaghad doesn’t bother following him from the edge of the bed, dark eyes never leaving Erland’s dick. Hmph. Keeping out of range is more difficult than not, but he manages to circle to the other side of the bed and drag the pelt around himself. The back half scrapes across the floor, and the arms drape down to his hips. The bear’s head flops over his eyes, obscuring his vision with the dark inner hide.

“Look, ya bastard. Caught somethin’ a wee bit bigger than an elk for ye to wear —maybe ye’ll actually keep warm in it.”

“The blanket cloak was just fine, birdie,” Arnaghad huffs, “You even hemmed it.”

“It had no hood, and I had no more blanket tae make one! An’ furs are better than wool besides, least fer an outer coat.”

“That so?”

This time, when those two hands wrap around his waist, Erland goes right along with them onto the mattress, letting the bear head flip back over his braid. One of the bear paws falls off to the side, set far two wide for his own shoulders, but Arnaghad’s oversized thumb pins the other to his stomach, sharp claws digging slightly into his navel, and if he arches his back into the sensation, only Arni would know. The fur is lighter than the hair on his own body, but it matches Arnaghad’s perfectly. Not to mention the fact that the paw is just barely bigger after drying out. Erland can’t help but smirk with satisfaction, curling his hands into the hide. He’d chosen well. Under his beard, he can see Arnaghad smile too, even if he grunts right after.

“It’s unnecessary.”

“I’d call it useful.”

“Wasteful.”

“Practical.”

“Uncalled for.”

“A right excellent gift.”

Arnaghad just huffs again, apparently deciding to drop the subject in favor of staring at Erland’s cock again, since the damn thing has decided to wake up and poke him in the belly. Direct as ever, he shoves his way down Erland’s body, never so much as pausing as he bullies his legs apart with the sheer breadth of his shoulders. Erland shifts his hips, sinking into the stretch. It’s a position that ought to be significantly more uncomfortable than it is, if not for long practice and the longer licks Arnaghad makes across his hip bone. Erland closes his eyes for a moment. Sighs out when over-large teeth nibble the fatty roll between his hip and thigh, when a broad nose nuzzles through his coarse hair, pulling it gently.

He downright fucking smiles when Arnaghad wraps that big, soft mouth around his cock.

On a less perfect evening, he might try pulling his bear’s own fur, but that had always been a gamble between gruff irritation and a good hard fuck. Instead, the space behind Arnaghad’s ears molds to his grip, easy handholds where he could grab any other lover around the head. Not to control, tonight. Not when Arnaghad’s mouth is so sweet, intent on pleasing him and more than capable of doing it without Erland yanking on him. He blames the ache in his cheeks on how even when Arnaghad pulls off after a few minutes, he makes certain to kiss the sensitive spot under his tip. Still, a token grumble is the least he can do.

“Are ye not going tae finish the job?”

“Yes,” Arnaghad says evenly, reaching into the side of their bed to retrieve a well-loved tin, “Or would you rather do this like whelps with nothing but spit?”

Erland just rolls his eyes and lays back. From this angle, he can watch Arnaghad’s dark, frankly luxurious eyelashes close as he gets back to the task at hand, sucking hard enough to make him groan. Arnaghad works in a familiar rhythm, with enough pressure that Erland’s hips buck ever-so-slightly into the back of his throat. Doesn’t even pause when his braids fall over his broad face and the beads clink loudly into each other, just presses his fingers gently into the space behind Erland’s balls, and then he really bucks. Like a whelp. He feels rather than sees that thought cross Arnaghad’s mind with the curl of his lips. Cocky bastard. Still, he reaches down to push the braids back behind Arnaghad’s ear, runs his fingers over the delicately-carved lines. It’s easier to buck up on purpose when he crosses his ankles on that blue-cloaked back.

At least until Arnaghad takes the choice out of his hands and just pins his hips to the pelt with one broad hand. Then Erland suffers properly. Suffers Arnaghad’s mouth, big enough to swallow him whole if the big bastard didn’t know he was more sensitive at the tip anyway. Suffers efficient strokes of a thick finger slipping up his arse, a broad thumbprint against his rim, hard enough to make him nearly choke on his own spit. Suffers the disgusting, wet sounds of deceptively full lips pressing on his balls. Arnaghad hadn’t always known how to take him apart, but he was a quick learner with a long memory.

Erland can’t stop it when the lights go off behind his eyes. Arnaghad just holds his hips still, forcing him to come down his throat.

When his ears stop ringing, he glances down at the near-imperceptible smirk buried in that beard. The tin has reappeared in Arnaghad’s left hand, and Erland just rolls his eyes even as he pulls one of his thighs up and back.

“I know it’s half the reason ye got so feckin’ big, but you don’ have ta swallow every time something’s in yer mouth.”

Arnaghad’s hand on his hip turns bruising at the jibe, but he just shrugs, using the other one to coat his dick in the oil.

“Spitting would mean getting up.”

And maybe Erland is just a bit cracked in the head, but his chest swells anyway. Pragmatism had always been Arnaghad’s way, and applied to fucking, it’s practically a sweet nothing whispered in his ear. Sweet enough to make Erland bring his leg back down, kicking Arnaghad hard enough in the shoulder to push him off and pulling up onto his knees so the pelt falls off his shoulder. His bear takes the hint, flopping onto his back atop the fur, big body fitting perfectly within it. A bear atop a bear. Erland straddles him, and can’t help but smile when he slides back, feeling Arnaghad’s cock propped up between his cheeks.

“You gonna finish the job?” Arnaghad says, running his hands up to cup the backs of his knees.

Erland reaches back to adjust the angle and sinks down the barest inch, burying the groan in his chest. He finds his handholds again, fingers brushing the fur through Arnaghad’s hair, smiling wider at how closely the colors match.

“Only if ye wear the cloak the second round.”

He thrusts back down and throws his head back, not bothering to wait for an answer.

— — — — —

The next morning, when it’s Arnaghad’s turn to shovel snow again, he puts on the pelt without complaint, securing the ties and letting each paw hang down his chest, claws sharp and fearsome. His hood stays pushed back, and it nearly blends in with the dark mass of Arnaghad’s waves. Everywhere else, the rich brown fur strikes handsomely against woad blue. And while Erland has always thought Arnaghad beautiful, he dares anyone to disagree today. His big bear looks very warm indeed, and all he feels before drifting back off to sleep is a kiss to his temple and the gentle brush of thick fur against his collarbone.

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I had fun with this chapter, I won't lie, late as it is. I just had to keep adding stuff, and I couldn't leave off until I recreated the lovely scene from @whyzowl's wonderful art piece of Erland riding Arnaghad into the sunset. It is glorious, and everything I dreamed of with my request.

While I could draw from personal experience/culture on the last cloak, this one required a bit more research, so if you want to learn a bit about medieval fur treatment/usage, try here and there. The brain oil is real, even if it's usually deer oil instead of drowner.

Also, as @hungarianbee pointed out in my PMs, why yes this is Erland performing a birdie courting ritual for Arnaghad. And yes the big bear is being so patient and indulgent about it.

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Taglist: @hellinglasses, @hungarianbee, @halehathnofury, @tumbleweedtech, @round--robin, @on-a-lucky-tide, @keirametzbrassknuckles, @girls-and-honey, @the-butch-of-blaviken, @alllthequeenshorses, @t4tlambert, @karolincki, @blankacctoseeposts (if anyone wants to be added/removed, pm me and I'll have it done no problem)

[zhraek]

i forgot about idarran’s ability and accididentally did this shit and i was so suprised to what happened that i couldn’t stop laughing until the end of game

i think that guy who played aggainst me was also laughed because of my strange “tactics”

[cake-shop-rarepair-bingo]

Hello!! I have a quick question: what's your opinion about ot3s where Character A/Character B is very popular but Character A/Character B/Character C isn't? Would that count as a rarepair for the purposes of this event? Thanks! <3

It depends on your fandom! For examples, I'm going to use the Witcher fandom. If you wanted to do Geralt/Jaskier/Idarran? I would say no, not really. Because the main characters will absolutely overshadow any rare characters, and often feels to readers like the "main" pairing is the focus and oh- yeah I guess this other blorbo too. If, say, Eskel/Geralt/Idarran, where Eskel/Geralt are now big enough and popular enough that they no longer count as rarepair for us... But are not the top pairings? Then that ot3 would indeed be rare. It boils down to that if the ot3 isn't in the top pairings for your fandom as listed by ao3, I don't see why it wouldn't count! There are so many fandoms that I cannot possibly know them all. And honestly, I'm not going to police anyone anyway? If you believe it counts, go for it. Notes: Geraskier has over 20k works, and is by far the biggest ship in the fandom. Eskel/Geralt has 1100, so larger than most, but no where near the same size.

[martianapplecrumble]

Um Idarran... your crush on Gale is really showing

[thirstyforred]

for @cake-shop-rarepair-bingo

Title: O fanach robali Prompts: Thirsty's Special Challenge Card: Savolla || Main Card: meet ugly || Additional Inspirations Card: write in another language Fandom: The Witcher, Gwent Rating: G/Not rated Warnings: No Additional Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Savolla/Sandor de Baccalá Additional Tags: gossips, meet ugly, bug lovers & enthusiasts Summary: 5th chapter of the untranslatable fic about the most colorful novigradians, now about entomologists 💕🐛

the unpolished version under the cut :p

provided via Google Translate lmao

Everyone always knew that if old Wiley announced the arena was closed for the weekend in the summer, it was better not to go there at all, no matter what. There was talk that it might be a thicker party of the Kameleon company. So with the sense that if you were not in the subject, so to speak, there was nothing to look for. Only the truth is that it was a meeting of entomologists and they always paid the motherfucker good money for lending the arena.

Because these entomologists are not some village bug fans, but real experts and scholars. Mages and lecturers from Oxenfurt, all of them even from Nilfgaard or Ofir appearing to look at insects.

Well, it is known that such company is a total of greater deviations can have anything Chameleon frequenters. They're just less colorful.

And so they met Savolla, the magician who was expelled from Ban Ard for disciplinary reasons, which is rare there because the school is not famous for its discipline, and Sandor de Baccalá, some minor duke and agent of the blacks.

They only saw each other and the cats started to tremble because they had an ideological clash or who the hell. Savolla was of the Idarran school - that constructs like the Frightener made. And Sandor from Alzul, that is, experimented with mutations. They would gobble about the effects of using something on something's glands, and there would be fisticuffs.

Entolomodists, however, like insects, follow unexplored paths, and you can also find them at the bottom of a glass at the end of the evening. Someone ingenious introduced both gentlemen to Zerrikan moonshine with a scorpion, and before dawn Savolla and Sandor promised each other lifelong friendship, even love, and cooperation between the Salamander and Nilfgaardian intelligence.

And it was from this beautiful relationship that the project was born, which the gentlemen presented the following year, proud as if they had given birth to it themselves. And it was the same self-reproducing Kikimore Queen that escaped from the arena and smashed half of the building.

The Old Fucker wouldn't be swayed by any amount of fistech or black gold, and this was the last year of the entomologists' convention.

[tumbleweedtech]

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​ Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dettlaff van der Eretein & Idarran of Ulivo, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy Characters: Idarran of Ulivo, Dettlaff van der Eretein, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy Additional Tags: Mentioned Alzur, Child Abandonment, Idarran's Centipede Friend, Unethical Experimentation, Substance Abuse, Witcher Rarepair Summer Bingo Summary:

Idarran of Ulivo was a child left abandoned in the canals of Vizima.

But gifted with magic and incredible talent for mutations, he found a way to make his own friends.

This fic is a little bit of a wondering on how, exactly, Idarran may have found himself in Alzur's clutches.

 Witcher Rarepair Summer Bingo Prompt: Running Away Together

[continentcakeshop]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Gerd (The Witcher), Junod of Belhaven (The Witcher), Idarran of Ulivo, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Maria Barring | Milva Additional Tags: Meta Fic, Discord Au, chat fic, Joking about bestiality, gratuitous use of the work fuck, Gratuitous use of bears, The author isn't sorry either, majorsocks, Quote fic, Cake Shop Fic, Crack Series: Part 2 of Rivia & Lyria Discord AU Summary:

Lone Wolf has a deadline to meet and he needs all of his friends in the Rivia & Lyria Discord server to help him.

[wanderingwolfwitcher]

The Witcher passed through the woods away from his camp slowly but surely, Meteorite Steel sword and casting hand risen to the ready, viper eyes sweeping the forest trail and surroundings. Enhanced senses taking in every sound and scent for miles in each direction... looking down to the tracks of many sizable, insect legs. His quarry was cunning, capable of laying traps, intelligent... but could not hide its trail easily, with all those legs and its size. It was smart enough to know by now that he was on its trail... smart enough to run from him. He would not allow Idarran of Ulivo's latest abomination set loose on the world to kill any more folk than it already had. Didn't hurt the contract on it paid well, and it would make a hell of a trophy, of course. Then, after awhile, passing through the latest thicket of bushes, a figure on the other side of it awaited him in a grove, and he paused in his tracks, startled for a moment, assessing the figure and scene rapidly. Not many were able to catch him off guard... but it was a she elf... light on her feet, knew the land far better... and he had been so focused on the hunt she must have slipped his senses.

Eskel silently studied the red haired, emerald eyed, pointy eared, otherworldly beauty, reading her features, and looking between her and the weapons she had, along with her attire that blended far better into the forest surroundings than his own did. A Wood Elf, given the territory he had made his way into, a soldier or guard most likely. He had been hoping to avoid them, avoid as many people as possible, but was unsurprised he hadn't. At Kaer Morhen they had been taught nobody knew woods better than elves, or mountains than dwarves. Fighting either in their respective territories was more often folly than not. While he could more than fight them, he wasn't a fool, and not about to make enemies of them in their own land. Especially when there was a mutual threat involved, his reason for being here. Some guild negotiation and diplomacy would have to prevail over intimidation. Lowering his sword and casting hand, though ready to dodge aside or deflect her arrow if she loosed it at him, he inclined his head in her direction, deep, calm voice washing over the being slowly, mutilated visage smiling faintly her way.

"Evening, Lady. Can lower that bow any time, ain't intruding on your Elvenking's Woodland Realm without a damn good reason. Here on a hunt... and not for animals. Best you save those arrows... there's an insectoid monster called an Idr that came this way. Eats humans, dwarves, halflings, orcs, goblins and elves alike... ain't fussy, and has a foul temper. Long story. Can call me Eskel. Or Witcher. Either is as much me as the other. And who might you be?"

@wandering-woodlands

[trickylie]

[wise-lizard-wizard]

Gwent time!

Please be warned!

Mentions of:

Child torture

Unethical experiments especially involving children

The creation of witchers

The sheer evil of Alzur and his asshole friends.

Mages just being assholes in general

Stregobor.

You have been warned!

.

.

.

.

.

I hate Alzur. I hate a lot of the witcher cards. I hate Alzur's master, Cosimo Malaspina and I hate their buddy, Idarran of Ulivo.

The sheer cruelty makes my blood boil. Sure, I know that's the point. These were horrible, evil characters. But the lofe we are given to work with here just makes me want to commit murder.

I have never in my life hated characters as much as I do these ones.

I have never been as close to Lambert as I am now. Like, yes, Lambert. You, Lambert, are completely, 100% correct.

I feel so conflicted over Vesemir. One the one hand, we have this witcher mentor Geralt respects. On the other hand that I just can't get over, he let children die. He put them through horrible trials in which many of them were killed. He made them participate in the mutagen trials. He willingly let children suffer and die.

And I can't forgive that.

Mages debate on whether what they (Asszur, Idiot and Cosm-bitch) did was ethical. They aren't referring to the child experiments tho.

Like, ugh.

So many of the witcher mages are evil assholes.

I especially hate Stregabor.

These are just the people I can name from the top of my head.

And so many people and kids suffered because of them.

Sure, you can argue that the making of witchers is a sacrifice to save the world from monsters, but really?

In the end, witchers are a dying breed. Everyone hates them. Monsters keep breeding and people keep being awful human beings.

Was the end really worth the methods?

Idk man.

I just... Feel so shitty and horrified for those kids.

So many died in pain.

I can't stand it.

[fourmarksmage]

from here x | @wanderingwolfwitcher​

"I never told you where I got it... and you've been kind enough not to ask, this winter, or any time in the past. I appreciate that. Most just assume it was from a monster anyways, I reckon. I wish that had been so."

Eskel’s deep, quiet voice spoke up to Yennefer, yellow, bestial eyes looking to her hand as it stroked gently over his mutilated visage, soothingly. His broad arms wrapped around her, drawing her against him more closely where they lie in the bed of her tower, one roughened hand trailing along her bare back slowly, the other twining through her dark locks. Amid the warmth of the fireplace, and the warmth of one another. He looked back into those otherworldly, lovely violet eyes of the raven haired Sorceress... each touch only lowering his guard further. Leaning in he pressed a tender kiss to her lips, letting it linger, tasting her again... but not losing himself in it... knowing he couldn’t hide from what she deserved to know. What he needed to speak of. It had been inevitable that it would come to this matter, this topic. He could have continued to put it off... knew she would understand, wouldn’t mind... but there was no reason to hide it from her. Not only was it done, but he knew her own grief and burdens as well, some of the things she had carried over long lives such as theirs. Knew she could be trusted with such a thing... that things were different now, from when he hadn’t trusted her back in the day. What they had already shared together, the growing bond, was something that couldn’t be denied. The unexpected hand of destiny bringing them together. He could share this much with her, as well. Let go of a bit more of the weight... knowing she was strong enough to help carry it for a bit. At last, drawing his lips back from hers, nuzzling her a bit, searching for his thoughts and words, the memories coming back to him, he spoke up again, slowly and carefully, taking his time. There was no hurry to it... approaching the thing he hadn’t spoken of aloud in decades. Not even to the other Witchers who already knew. Out of respect, they had never brought it up to him. He had carried the knowledge, and regret for too damn long... though he deserved the burden of it. What was done could not be undone. But it could be spoken of. Acknowledged.

"Had a Child of Surprise, some decades back... my early days on the Path. Her name was Deidre Ademeyn... saved her unknowing father, the Prince of Caingorn, from a bunch of Werebbubbs. He was out hunting with a party, when they were set upon by them. I was chopping firewood at my camp at the time... heard the commotion, came with my axe to deal with them. Tough bastards, but I chopped up or drove them all off all the same, before they could kill the Prince, as they did his companions. When it came time to claim my reward, I had listened to one too many of Vesemir’s stories. Chose the Law Of Surprise... when I should have taken the gold. Taken any other reward than the one I did. Didn’t claim her... never went back to Caingorn after I found out what... who... I had won. Rode around Caingorn each time I was out on the Path, and tried to forget all about it. Wasn't made or cut out to be a father... couldn't take a Princess from a safe, wealthy royal upbringing like that, and bring her to the ass end of the North, to what amounted to a ruined, dying School of mutant outcasts to live among. Wouldn’t wish a Witcher’s life on anybody... didn’t get that choice myself... and girls cannot survive the Trial of the Grasses anyways, even if the knowledge to make more of my kind were not lost. Cosimo Malaspina, Alzur and Idarran of Ulivo saw to that when they chose the original test subjects. Well... destiny played a hell of a joke on me for that choice. Turns out bringing her here would have been the right thing to do.”

“She had the misfortune of being born under the Black Sun... imagine you know all about that already... that old sorcerer bastard Stregobor’s doing. More than once since I’ve considered riding down to Kovir, chaining him in Dimeritium and dragging him through the streets from behind my horse right out of that tower of his. Your old school and Lodge mate, Sabrina Glevissig, was sent by the Council of Mages to Caingorn’s court... to do Stregobor’s dirty work. You can probably guess how well that went. Sabrina had a hand in it, my maiming. But in truth, it was more my own fault than even hers. Despite what she did to Deidre... driving her to insanity... it wouldn't have happened if I had done what I should have. Claimed her. I didn't, until it was too late. She came here when she was older, to Kaer Morhen, pleaded for my help... to protect her from Sabrina... to claim her. She had nobody left to turn to. And I... was a Witcher... not a Knight. Wasn’t made to save Princesses from towers... from evil sorcerers. I turned my back on her instead... and paid the price of neutrality for it. She collected it with interest. Then it was Sabrina of all people who healed me... saved me... more of destiny’s twisted humor at work, saved by the one most responsible... apart from myself. All I could do in the end was track Deidre down, so Sabrina could not... ended her suffering... the suffering she and the band of outlaws she formed were inflicting on her many victims. More blood on my hands... despite everything else she was, how much she deserved what Henselt did to her... Sabrina was right about that much. All I could do was keep her body out of the Council’s hands... burned it, so they couldn’t study the mutations. Didn’t speak of it since... just carried it around with me. All I could do."

She gave a light shrug when he mentioned her never asking about it. “All scars have their stories, but not all stories are for telling. Sometimes they’re just for you to know and be reminded of.” The scars she had chosen to keep for that exact purpose had the benefit of being easier to hide than the ones that marred his face. They were easier to keep as reminders to herself and herself alone. Besides, even if they were the result of a run in with a monster, it wouldn’t have been an easy memory. And while she could be cruel, cold, and unthinking, that sort of story would have never served a purpose to her, so there wouldn’t have been a point to draw it out.

But now that they had taken the time to grow closer, that he had managed to catch glimpses of her own vulnerability, she was curious, and was happy to listen if he was sharing. Her touches stayed light as she continued to trace along his skin and her body curled into him as he kissed her. She wasn’t going to push the subject, but she didn’t need to dip into his thoughts to know there was something hanging over him, something that he wanted to say. A younger version of herself might have pushed and prodded more, not trusting anything other than absolute transparency while offering very little of the same. The two of them, though, had lived enough that there was no use in trying to confess every pain point of their past. Things could just reveal themselves in time, like how they seemed to approach everything while they were staying in the keep. Tonight seemed to just be the timing for this particular facet of him, and she couldn’t deny there was some eager curiosity. Eskel always seemed the type to keep to himself… until he would just drop a wild story or two over drinks.

She stayed quiet when he finally spoke, keeping her opinions of Sabrina and Stregebor to herself. It was an underestimate to call her relationship with her fellow sorceresses complicated, and Sabrina in particular didn’t stir many fond memories. And the hurt Stregebor caused seemed to have no end. But she kept these to herself, just reaching up to comb her hand through his hair. Hearing about Geralt’s Child of Surprise for the first time had stung, and hearing about Eskel’s stung in a different way. Stung because she understood the mess destiny could make of someone’s life when they resisted what it clearly wanted them to do, thinking it was the best path for everyone. Stung because that girl’s life had been wasted because of things entirely out of her control. And stung because Eskel seemed to carry the weight of the guilt, when there were plenty of other factors that had led for that to all go so wrong.

“Well, destiny does have a way of tangling us up and spitting us out with no care for where we may land. We’re all just trying to make the best of things.” They had no way of knowing if destiny would have taken another disastrous turn when he brought Dierdre back to Kaer Morhen. All they could do was remember the pain for what actually ended up happening.  She leaned over, pressing her lips along the scars before leading down to his lips. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For trusting me. Believe it or not, I’m not usually the sort of person that people choose to open up to.”