#quen officer face paint

[robo-dino-puppy]

quen officer

[hungarianbee]

(AN: I’m in love with the older generation of witchers. This fic was written when I was down. Yay for projection. Look out for - tw: panic attack. Keldar is the archivist and teacher of the School of the Griffin. Ivar Evil-Eye is the founder of the School of the Viper, who was put through multiple trials that ended with one of his eye mutating even further, giving him the ability to glance into other planes and follow the movements of the Wild Hunt.)

Keldar wakes to the sound of heavy breathing and someone hitting the floor. They instinctively roll to their feet, the golden glow of their Quen falling away quickly as they spy the witcher covering in the corner between the wall and bed.

Ivar’s thin face is covered with a sheen of sweat, drops rolling down his cheek, following the path of the scar running from temple to mouth. His hair sticks up in a mess as Ivar runs a hand through it, gripping the handful so tight that Keldar winces in sympathy. The pupil of his witcher eye is razor-thin when he meets the Griffin’s concerned look.

“Shit,” Ivar hisses through clenched teeth.

In a sudden flurry of motion Ivar uncoils and shoots for the door. His sleeping shirt slips from one shoulder and he doesn’t bother putting on shoes. Keldar follows in his steps. They’ve never seen Ivar in such a state before, the Viper always composed if inpatient and quick to anger.

They take the stairs up one of the towers, where Keldar knows Ivar’s office is located. When they finally burst in, Keldar has to take a second to take everything in.

The office is a mess. The walls are covered with sheets of parchment, charcoal pictures depicting figures in black, skeletal armour. One wall is dedicated to drawings of people - humans, elves, dwarves, even creatures like succubi. But what takes up the most room is a huge rectangular table in the middle, which is covered in the most detailed map Keldar has ever seen. Little painted needles stick out of it, marking places in a fashion that at first glance doesn’t make sense. Their fingers tingle with the need to touch and learn, but Ivar needs them.

The Viper circles the table and sticks a red tipped needle into it. When Keldar looks closer, he can read the location; Claywich in Temeria.

Ivar curses up a storm in his search for charcoal and clean paper. He scratches at the patch of scaled skin on the back of his neck in agitation.

“They’re here again,” he seems to be lost in his head, eyes switching from drawing to notes to the map. His tenor slips into the higher registers. “A male gnome, wild black curls, glasses on his nose, possibly shortsighted.” As he lists these, his hands practically fly on the paper. His far-away eyes are fixed to a point in the air, not comprehending anything around him. “Not particularly muscular. He would be absolutely useless to them. What’s their game? Where’s the pattern?”

Keldar crouches in front of the Viper. “Slow down, Ivar. What happened?”

“The Wild Hunt,” Ivar spits. His chest heaves with too shallow breaths. “They crossed the Spiral again, and took a gnome with them. A total of four riders, not including the navigator.”

He finishes the drawing without even looking at it, and jots down the date in the corner. It ends up on the wall with the other portraits.

Keldar carefully pulls the Viper’s shirt up his shoulder. Ivar leans into the contact slightly. Seeing as their touch wasn’t rebuffed, Keldar slips careful fingers into his hair, gently untangling the knots they find and tucking it behind mangled ears.

“I can never catch them.”

Ivar looks tired as he says this. There are dark shades under his eyes that signal countless sleepless nights and Keldar wonders how they didn’t notice them sooner.

“Always a step behind.”

“You need someone who can make portals,” Keldar murmurs, knowing the immediate rebuttal already.

“Don’t trust mages.” Venom seeps through the words. Ivar touches the scars above his mutated gecko eye and Keldar’s heart aches with the gesture.

“Then make our own,” they suggest. And it’s ludicrous - witchers are not capable of handling this kind of magic, but the Griffin’s mind is already whirling a mile a minute.

For the first time since he woke up, Ivar snaps into the present. The intensity of his wild-eyed stare makes Keldar want to shuffle in place. “What do you mean?”

“You told me how one of your own, Warritt, managed to alter a Sign so he can see once again. Something that was never once replicated.” Keldar gestures to themselves. “And I happen to be the librarian of the vastest collection on magic witcherkind has ever seen. Between the two of us, I think we can break Ban Ard in half.”

Ivar’s eyes are glued to them in awe, mouth hanging slightly open. He quickly closes it. With a soft sigh he tips forward to rest his forehead on Keldar’s shoulder. Strands of hair tickle Keldar’s face. “You brilliant man.”

The Griffin’s hands awkwardly hover over his back, then they pat his back twice, lightly scratching at Ivar’s exposed scales. “Don’t mention it.”