#magic jaskier

In this au, dragons are not equal in mental prowess to a human; they’re sentient and respond well to their riders, and can communicate their emotions through mental links, but they cannot speak or act like humans. They’re kind of like really intelligent dogs or horses. And they’re magical. 

So, I was violently hit with the idea of this crossover / au, and I had to write the bare bones of it or I swear I would die. Enjoy or don’t, lol 

Dragons were sentient and far more intelligent than most, but not of equal intellect with elves, and so when the elves arrived on the Continent, they viewed them as mere animals. One elf made the mistake of hunting and killing a dragon for sport and presented it to their monarch as a trophy. This angered the dragons, when they found one of their pack dead and their hide being toted around by the two-legged foreigners in their land. The elf was hunted down by the pack of the dragon killed, but more elves continued to hunt down smaller dragons, to prove their strength and power. Surviving a dragon’s revenge became noteworthy and a great tale to tell around the dinner table.

Over time, though, the dragons started to encroach on the territory the elves had claimed, the further they went for revenge. Then one day, a whole band of elves killed the alpha of a dragon pack, unaware of just who they killed, and the whole pack of dragons attacked without mercy. 

Unable to communicate with the dragons or draw a peace treaty, because the dragons could not utilize language or complex thinking the same way as them, the elves were forced to defend themselves.

This started a bloody war, called The Dragon War, between the elves and the dragons. The elves were smart and fast and could utilize magic, but the dragons were big and strong and merciless, and unknown to the elves, could also wield powerful ancient magic, drawn straight from the land. Dragons lived in packs, but they could communicate among each other, and most dragons became aggressive.

It wasn’t until one day, when an elf called Buttercup came across a lone dragon egg. It had been abandoned in a ruined nest, most likely a victim of a battle between dragons and the elves that had attacked the nest (for elves had taken to trying to wipe out the dragon species at this point).

The elf, in awe with the bright white egg, couldn’t bring himself to kill the dragon inside.

He brought it back to his village in secret, and he nursed the egg for months on end, hoping that the cracked little egg could still hatch despite the trauma it had received in the battle.

To his delight, the egg broke on a full moon, and out popped a baby dragon.

Buttercup named it Vaeta, the word for “hope” in the Ancient Language.

The dragon was small – barely the size of a house cat – and was weak and vulnerable. It bore no scales, couldn’t breathe the elements like the adults of its kind, and had tiny razor baby teeth. Buttercup had no idea how fast dragons grew, and he quickly found out just that – they grew like weeds. Within a week the baby dragon was the size of a sheep dog and was beginning to form beautiful scales. Its appetite was ravenous, and it learned to hunt easily. Buttercup learned that Vaeta was a girl.

Despite its instincts obviously forming, the baby dragon stuck close to Buttercup, and would whine like a dog when left for copious amounts of time.

Vaeta also protected Buttercup from things she deemed as “threats” and would curl up in bed with her elf at night. Buttercup kept her well hidden, until his small village was attacked by other dragons, and Vaeta, far smaller than the other dragons attacking, reared up in the air for the first time and scared off the foreign dragons that were hurting her elf.

The rest of the village was wary of trusting Vaeta, and Buttercup bore the brunt of the blame; should she do anything to harm elves, it was his head on a pike, draped with her hide.

Nonetheless, Buttercup soon found a new purpose in life – to stop the Dragon War.

He figured if they could raise elves and dragons together, they could stop the aggression. The more the wild dragons saw the elves making nice with their dragon kind, the less they would attack. After all, dragon packs didn’t attack other dragon packs.

So, slowly, using Vaeta as a go-between, Buttercup was able to tame smaller dragons.

Vaeta soon fell pregnant and laid a clutch of nine eggs within ten months. The elves had no way of knowing if this was a normal pregnancy for dragons, or if the clutch was healthy or large.

The eggs all hatched, in varying shades of silver and black. Out of nine four were female, called Jasny, Niebo, Pływ, and Magia; five were male, called Srebro, Drzazga, Noc, Palić, and Stal. The elves were quick to try and tame them, only to find out the hard way that they weren’t like dogs and cats. They were even more intelligent than their horses, too. Buttercup ended up helping his dragon, Vaeta, raise her hatchlings with other nursing elves, and then Buttercup set off across the Continent with his dragon to try to stop wild dragons from attacking.

For years, Buttercup studied dragons and took notes and realized the hierarchy they held, their social groups, their intelligence – he was astounded. But then he made the discovery of a lifetime; the dragons, though they lived in individual packs, much like wolves, had a reigning monarch above all. They had a queen. And if he could appease the queen dragon, making the other dragons friendly would be child’s play from there.

Eventually, it came to Vaeta challenging the dragon queen for Buttercup.

Unfortunately, she died a bloody death.

The queen of dragons, impressed with the ferocity of the foreign dragon who clung to an elf like he was her mate, spared Buttercup’s life. She admired the loyalty of the dragon, though unguided it was to a two-legged hunter who hurt their kind. The queen also mourned, for she never wanted to kill one of her own kind for an elf. In grief, also watching a grieving and crying elf, she drew upon the land’s magic and nosed Buttercup with her giant scaled snout. The resulting magic was huge.

It was bonding magic. A treaty to be recognized by all parties; no more blood was to be shed between the scaled and the soft, or shall they suffer tenfold the torture they inflicted. This magic treaty also entailed the queen dragon stepping down, so no dragons’ packs would dare.

The elves took this magic and added structure to it, binding all the new dragon eggs to a counterpart.

This was how the Dragon Riders (Shur’tugal in the Ancient Language, or Argetlam meaning “silver hand”) were created.

The Dragon Riders were a coalition of elves and dragons formed at the end of the Dragon War to forge peace and order between the two races. The Riders were created because treaties between the two races would prove useless to stop fighting; a signed piece of paper meant nothing to a dragon. So, an irrevocable bond was wrought by the elves and the dragons: the elves provided the structure of the spell and the dragons provided the strength, thus creating the Dragon Riders.

When a fleet of humans sailed across the sea thousands of year later, they too were added to the elite order of the Dragon Riders. The role of the Riders became more than uniting the elves and dragons; they became keepers of the peace and fighters of monsters throughout the Continent (previously called Alagaësia by the dwarves who lived there first) and were respected and honoured by the people they served.

Unfortunately, Stregobor happened.

Born in the ancient province Inzilbêth, and one of several siblings (Aleksander, Szymon, Edyth, Casimir, Ozella, Sylwia, [Stregobor], Valerie), Stregobor was accepted into the ranks of the Dragon Riders at the young age of ten, after being traditionally tested for great potential. He quickly excelled in all areas of combat and spellcasting, which filled him with pride, arrogance, and vanity.

Although some of his fellow Riders were wary of his swift rise to power, the majority of the order neglected caution, ultimately leading to their downfall.

Stregobor was chosen by a dragon and became a Rider in his early years.

His dragon Smokwia (derived from Polish “smok” for dragon and “kwiat” for flower), was killed by urgals some years later in a careless accident, when she was not yet full grown.

Stregobor was mad with grief and hatred, and he asked the Dragon Rider council to grant him another dragon. But that wasn’t how it worked – the dragon chose the Rider, only hatched for the person destined for them – and forcing that had consequences. The council refused, sensing his mental instability, cut him from the Dragon Rider ranks, and sent him away.

With his request denied, Stregobor took it upon himself to steal another dragon egg.

He convinced another Dragon Rider named Morzan to leave the gates open to the place where the eggs were stored. Stregobor stole a dragon egg. Then, he forced this dragon, whom he named Zwieraln (derived from Polish “zwierzę” for animal and “idealny” for perfect), to hatched and serve him by dark magic.

He formed the Forsworn, a group of thirteen dragon riders and their dragons loyal to only him, and he killed all the other dragons and riders in existence through ambush, propaganda against Riders, and years of spies and long-fought battles. He made sure to smash all the eggs he could find, so that no one else could ever rise above him in power – or so he thought (for there were those who risked neck and tail to save and hide the last few dragon eggs).

Stregobor proceeded to create a kingdom of his own that most of all the Continent’s people called The Empire of Nilfgaard, through which he ruled most of the Continent (with few exceptions of other strong kingdoms, like Cintra).

With the Dragon Riders wiped out, there was suddenly an influx in monsters that no mortal man could battle, and so people set out for a new form of protection against magic and monsters (because obviously Stregobor wasn’t doing that). That’s how witchers came into creation, when those with too much power and those too desperate came together to create the Order of Witchers and Trial of Grasses, to form perfect monster-fighting machines, and whom would not wield as much power as a Rider so that the humans wouldn’t have to fear being oppressed (for many still believed Stregobor’s propaganda against Riders; they thought the Forsworn were the only “untainted” Riders).

Geralt, at a young age, was abandoned in Carvahall to be raised as a nobody and farmhand by his mother Visena, who was a druid and magician in affiliation with Stregobor in the Nilfgaard Empire. He was eventually adopted by Vesemir when the old witcher realized who he was, and the ties he had; also, Vesemir realized he was Geralt’s real father, an old Rider from the time before Stregobor’s reign turned into a witcher.

Vesemir had no idea that Visenna was pregnant, let alone that she gave birth to a son, and promptly took Geralt in under the pretense of him being a Child Surprise.

The older witcher never wanted his son to become a witcher like himself, but he couldn’t stop the school from taking his boy and training him, preparing him for the Trial of Grasses. At least the young boy was able to befriend Eskel, another boy already at the keep.

They went in to take the Trial of Grasses together.

Both came out a little worse for wear, but alive.

Cat-like eyes, Geralt with white hair.

Lambert was later found almost dead at the edge of Carvahall, a real Child Surprise this time, and was also taken in to be trained into a witcher. He also survived the Trial of Grasses.

Then the witcher schools were burned and raided because people were worried about the “mutants,” because another king with too much power decided they weren’t needed anymore, and they were almost all wiped out like Dragon Riders.

Vesemir mourned the loss of another of his families but was beyond glad for the ones who survived because they were still out on The Path; he was the only witcher to survive the sackings.

Vesemir also still mourned his dragon he had lost so long ago in the raids, one that was grey and silver, a male called Jaciel (derived from Polish “przyjaciel” which means “friend”).

Queue the scene in Posada, with Jaskier approaching Geralt out of interest and eventually recognizes him as “The Butcher of Blaviken.” (The same events transpired in Blaviken, except Stregobor had sent others to kill Renfri because she was a threat to his crown, and also boasted about carrying dragon eggs, which she claimed would hatch only for those against the king of Nilfgaard [which wasn’t true, she didn’t have any eggs]; he used the excuse of her being born under the Black Sun, sent assassins, was going to capture her and torture and experiment on her for her magic and questionable birth, and Geralt coming by and murdering her whole gang and her included was just a happy little accident that meant he didn’t have to fight off any accusations on his part). Anyway, Geralt is known to oppose Stregobor, but isn’t actively trying to usurp him, so he is free to go around and do his witcher duties, but he is heavily hated for opposing the, “oh so gracious and powerful king, and murdering innocents in droves.”

So, Jaskier recognizes him, and being a young half-elf noble (being the son of the queen of elves, and the son of a high-ranking human noble), is yearning for adventure, and follows this guy to the end of the Continent because, “oops, I fell in love with him.”

But the two of them are captured on a contract by a group of rogue elves outside of Ellesméra (the “forest of elves,” and while there is one united queen, there are several noble families and different elven territories), reduced to few in numbers because of racist humans, and they don’t recognize who Jaskier is (as Julian Alfred Pankratz [human name], Julek Dìoiasaeil of Ellesméra [elven name], child and heir to Queen of the elves, Meira Banrighflùr of Ellesméra).

[Quick side note, Jaskier knows he’s half elf, and personally knows his mother, but does not know she’s elven royalty? Like, he knows her as “Meira” and “mother,” and only knows enough elven heritage to know about his roots and biology, but that’s it. He grew up as a human with his viscount father].

And the rogue elves reveal that the reason they left Ellesméra and set out on their own was because when Stregobor was toppling the Dragon Riders and smashing the eggs, they [as a highly ranked noble elven family, Filavandrel being the head of the family] were entrusted to protect and hide one of the last clutches of dragon eggs from the Forsworn; unfortunately, they were not successful, and in their escape they were only able to recover one cracked egg, and even then they weren’t sure it would hatch because of the trauma, or if the dragon inside was still alive.

Jaskier was struck with grief from their story (because he grew up under the Nilfgaard Empire, left to study at Oxenfurt in another kingdom, and didn’t know of Stregobor’s evil).

So, the elves gift Jaskier a magical lute and ask for him to sing of their demise so the king may never come looking for them, and in return for Geralt’s help and coin, give Geralt the last known dragon egg in existence, hoping it would find a safe home at Kaer Morhen, away from Stregobor.

Only, Jaskier cradles the egg one night at camp, and in the middle of the night the witcher and bard wake to it fucking hatching for him.

Of course, right?

Suddenly they have a new objective; get to Kaer Morhen as fast as fucking possible, or so god help me Jaskier, someone will see your bright fucking dragon and then we’re all dead.

This au is also staring Yennefer, taking the place of the mysterious Angela with a werecat, who I’m choosing to make half-elf like Jaskier, and who also likes to spread chaos everywhere she goes (and she’ll have less magic, but is just as badass, and is a genius with potions and knows the Ancient Language).

Jaskier’s dragon is blue and beautiful and is a male he names Dandelion, or some shit like that.

Also, this would be a geraskier (Geralt x Jaskier) fic, because obviously.

Fuck, Geralt hated monster hunts.

Not the contracts he took from frightened villagers, or even those given to him by the local authorities of the bigger territories. It was the spectacles, the hunts that people flocked to for huge sums of coin and acclaim, put on by the bored and rich.

Geralt didn't hunt monsters for sport, or glory; nor to furnish bastard lords with trophies to mount over their mantles. But Geralt was a Witcher. He had a job to do, and that job didn't make enough coin to turn down the bounty on a creature he already intended to pursue.

The reports told of a monstrous beast, roaming the forested mountains that formed the border between Kaedwen and Redania. From what Geralt could tell, it sounded like a wyvern; but mutated somehow, strange and twisted. A kindred spirit, Geralt supposed, lips curving bitterly.

Whatever. The hunt began tomorrow--up the mountain and through the trees, avoiding the others as thoroughly as possible, hopefully reaching the wyvern before they could. Geralt was grateful only for the fact that the mountain was shorter than its nearby brethren.

Well. That, and the tavern at the bottom of it. Ugly and dirty, but a tavern, still. Geralt bought a drink and claimed a table in the darkest, dingiest corner of it, assuming that his demeanor was foreboding enough to dissuade those foolish enough to want to talk to him.

Apparently he needed to rethink how fucking foreboding he was, Geralt thought, darkly, given that it took naught but a half hour for some idiot to approach him. Geralt took stock of him out of his periphery; tall and lithe, clad in a ridiculous blue outfit with an instrument--a lute, maybe--strapped to his back. Handsome, enough that Geralt would bet good coin that he was also profoundly annoying.

He reached Geralt's table and struck a casual pose, to limited success. The dark, messy hair swooping over his blue eyes looked stupidly, purposely disheveled. "You know, for a man as dashing as yourself, you seem to be tragically lacking in company."

Of course Geralt wasn't lucky enough to get a regular idiot. He got one with balls to hit on a Witcher. “Fuck off.”

The man had enough sense to not sit down, but not enough to stop talking. “The name's Julian! Julian Pankratz. Just a humble bard, as you can see.” He gestured towards his lute. “My apologies for interrupting whatever deep thoughts you’re clearly entertaining, but I’ve never met a Witcher before. I can’t imagine how many stories you must have, of all of your noble deeds and, just--general heroism, I suppose." He smiled at Geralt, eyes bright and eager.

Geralt scowled, but the bard's baffling enthusiasm was sincere enough to lower his hackles. Just barely. "Well, then. Fuck off, bard."

Undeterred, Julian flashed him a saucy grin. “How about this? I’ll fuck off and leave you to your Witcherly business, once you’ve let me buy you a drink far better than the swill they’re slinging for the rest of this lot.”

Geralt swept his gaze across the room and let it fall on the bartender, who was serving everyone from the same dingy barrel. "Must've missed the menu." His voice turned mocking. "Or are you going to pull some strings? Have a lot of connections in bumfuck Redanian taverns?"

“I’ve found that purse strings are the most effective strings to pull. Well, the second-most effective.” Geralt raised an eyebrow and Julian winked and waved towards his lute once more. “Through the lute, one can reach the purse and, just as critically, the heart! Which also happens to have very pull-able strings. It’s tremendously versatile, really. The, ah, lute.”

Geralt snorted despite himself and considered his ale. It really did taste like goat piss. Geralt carefully weighed the prospect of a decent drink against being forced to suffer through the bard’s...everything. “Will you keep your mouth shut while I’m drinking?”

"I cannot, in good conscience, promise that,” Julian replied, beaming. “But! I’ll buy you an especially expensive drink as compensation for your time.” Geralt rolled his eyes, but shoved his mug towards Julian. He watched the bard dart over to the bar and chat with the bartender; the man raised his eyebrow at the coins Julian subtly slid over the counter and, to Geralt's immense consternation, pulled something out from beneath the bar and poured two mugs of it.

Julian sauntered back and took the liberty of sliding into the booth across from Geralt, looking deeply smug. Geralt frowned and took a wary sip from the mug passed to him. It was good. Fuck.

"So," Julian said, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward. "Would you prefer to regale me with what I'm sure will be tremendously vivid and intrepid tales, or would you like me to fill the silence while you drink?"

"Is that an offer or a threat?"

Julian pursed his lips in thought. They were very pink, and very soft-looking. "Hm. Both, I suppose." The bard cupped his chin in his hands and leered. Geralt groaned and took another swig.

One drink turned into two, turned into three, turned into Julian fumbling the fourth mug and cleaning the fancy ale trickling down his wrist with delicate swipes of his tongue, turned into Geralt hoisting Julian up by the thighs and shoving him against the back wall of the tavern to suck dark bruises into his throat and grind their hips together in a rough, dirty rhythm.

Julian dragged Geralt into a hot, biting kiss, moaning breathlessly against his lips. "Let me down, come on, let me see it,” Julian panted, scratching his nails down Geralt’s arms. Geralt gave him a parting bite just below his jaw and dropped him, allowing the bard to frantically undo Geralt's pants.

“Oh, fuck," Julian panted, pulling Geralt out. He licked his lips and stared at Geralt’s cock. "Gods, that is something.” He nuzzled against it, before heaving a regretful sigh. “Listen, love--”

Geralt scowled through the hazy lust and tugged at Julian's hair. “Don’t call me that.”

Julian pulled back to make a disbelieving face at him. “Are you always this crotchety with your bedmates?" He directed his gaze towards the night sky and sighed again, dramatically. "You really are lucky that you’re so incredibly attractive.”

Geralt stared at the bard with matching disbelief. “What about you? Do you always fucking talk this much?” Julian licked a stripe down his cock and Geralt’s mouth snapped shut.

“Anyways, as I was saying, I would really, truly love to tackle this, but I've got a job to do tomorrow, and I need everything, you know." Julian gestured vaguely at his throat. "Intact." He looked wistfully at Geralt’s cock. “And that would ruin me. Fuck."

Geralt bit back a groan of frustration. His cock throbbed. “Then what do you propose we do, bard?"

“Ah, well,” Julian said. He tilted his head and paused in mock thought. "I can eat you out until you cry. Or you can fuck my thighs. Or you could jerk us off with those massive, lovely hands of yours." Julian sat back, legs spread, eyes glinting. "You've had sex before, right? With a man? I wouldn't want to deflower you behind some shamble of a tavern."

Slowly, Geralt raised both eyebrows and looked down at Julian. "You want me to answer those, or do you want to get up so I can show you?" Julian nodded quickly in assent, a blush rising to his cheeks. Geralt offered him a hand up.

"Wait, wait, wait! One for the road." Julian leaned forward to suckle briefly, gently at the head of Geralt's cock. “Okay, okay, I’m done,” Julian breathed, rocking back, ignoring Geralt’s shocked moan and instinctive thrust. He slapped lightly at Geralt’s thigh. "Down here, anyway. What do you say to a location change, Witcher? I’m sure you’ve got a tent or something somewhere.”

***

Geralt woke the next morning with the sun, and without Julian. He wouldn’t have cared, if it hadn’t meant that he slept so deeply that he somehow missed the bard leaving. Swearing, he rifled through his supplies and gear; swords, potions, coin purse, each of them present and accounted for. He huffed out a breath, relieved that he hadn't been robbed blind, and by a bard at that.

Readying himself quickly, Geralt set out for the day, armored and armed to the teeth. He made it to the border of the forest in good time; he'd taken a different route than the other parties, and while he couldn't be sure that it would pay off in the long run, he certainly appreciated the quiet.

He smelled Yennefer before he saw her, the scent of lilac and gooseberries drifting in the breeze; it took but a moment for her to fall into step with him. “I thought I might find you here, Geralt. It’s good to see you."

Geralt looked her over. “Good to see you too, Yenn. Bored with your lordling already? Looking for somewhere to summer?” Geralt gestured broadly to the forest around them. “Seems like the Pustulskie mountains are nice this time of year. Rampaging beasts aside, that is.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes, gathering her skirt up to step over a muddy patch of grass. “No, to both. But you know that. I’m here on business, and I thought we might be able to help each other.”

“Oh, is that what you thought?” A smirk played at Geralt’s lips. “And I figured. This isn’t your usual crowd.”

"Quite," Yennefer said, dryly. "I happened to see some of the others on my way. Charmers, all of them, with their quaint little blades and ratty beards."

Geralt hummed in agreement, pushing a tree bough aside. "There's even a bard here, if you can believe it.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think about them. Shit. He felt a touch of heat rise in his cheeks.

To his surprise, Yennefer tensed. “And what, exactly, did this bard say his name was?”

"...Julian?" Geralt paused, trying to remember through the haze of drink and his own indifference. “Fuck, not pancakes. Pankratz?”

“Jaskier’s here?" Yennefer hissed. "Geralt, we need to move." She quickened her pace, hurriedly traipsing through the trees.

Geralt matched her stride, snorting in amusement. “Why, are you secretly afraid of lutes?” The rest of her words caught up with him. “Wait, who the fuck is Jaskier?”

“Because I refuse to let him jeopardize this endeavor.” Yennefer scowled, brow furrowing. “Fuck, what is that idiot even doing here?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, Yenn. I heard we’re hunting a wyvern, might be for that.” Yennefer stopped in her tracks, turning to shoot him a look that suggested that he should hold his tongue if he wanted to keep it in his mouth. “But if you tell me what the fuck you’re talking about, I might be able to help.”

"Julian Alfred Pankratz," Yennefer said, voice dripping with derision. "Otherwise known as the troubadour Jaskier." She prodded at a flower emerging from the dirt with the tip of her boot and rolled her eyes, tone turning lofty. "Oxenfurt's first mage."

Geralt stared at her. "Mage? He told me he was a bard." He scoured his memories of the night before, trying to remember an instance in which Julian--Jaskier--had used magic, had given any indication of magical ability whatsoever.

Yennefer made a disgusted face. "Ugh. He is." Her eyes narrowed intently, gaze sharpening. “What else did he tell you?”

Geralt kept himself from coughing, just barely. “We didn’t exactly bare our souls under the moonlight, Yenn. I think he mentioned that he had a job to do today, but that was it.”

Yennefer closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, grimacing. Geralt could hear the grind of her teeth. Without speaking, she reached into a pouch at her side, picking carefully through the contents and quickly withdrawing a blue scrap of cloth tied with twine.

"I swear, this had better be worth it," Yennefer muttered under her breath, undoing the twine. Wrapped in the cloth was a lock of soft, brown hair. Pinching it between her fingers, she brought it to her mouth, whispered something Geralt couldn’t parse, and blew on it.

Geralt startled as the lock of hair immediately burst into flame, billowing smoke that drifted against the wind. Yennefer’s gaze snapped to the direction that the smoke had begun to waft, a vicious, determined spark in her eyes.

"You find the wyvern, Geralt. I'm going to go have words with our bard."

***

Geralt saw the glade before he walked into it. Even through the trees, he could tell it was gorgeous--the light of the midday sun shone brightly upon the foliage dotting the clearing; at its heart lay a clear, glittering pool of water.

It would've been the picture of serenity, if not for the massive, fuck-off wyvern right in the middle of it.

Geralt had seen wyverns, had seen royal wyverns, with their golden fringe, massive horns, and venomous barbed tails. But the creature before him was far larger than it should've been; besides, all of the wyverns Geralt had encountered had just a single tail. This one had three of them.

Wings folded close to its body, the wyvern dipped its gaping maw to drink from the spring. Geralt let out a very quiet breath, grateful that it hadn't seemed to notice him.

A slight movement to the right caught his eye. There, weaving slowly, quietly through the trees, was Jaskier, wearing no armor, carrying no weapons, and seemingly oblivious to Geralt’s presence. The only equipment that the bard seemed to have with him was his fucking lute.

Geralt watched, dumbfounded, as Jaskier inched closer; using what Geralt could only assume was his singular shred of reason, the bard kept to the shadows where the forest canopy was too dense for sunlight to break through. By the time he’d managed to process the idiocy he was witnessing, Jaskier had tiptoed right to the edge of the glade.

Mage or not, Geralt thought, that fucking moron was about to get himself skewered. 

Gritting his teeth, Geralt growled, drew his sword, and burst into the clearing. The wyvern reared up, towering over him as it unfurled to its full height; Geralt should've been prepared for the beast’s ear-splitting screech, but he still had to fight the urge to drop his sword and clap his hands to his ears.

Because of course he did, Jaskier swore and rushed into the clearing, entirely defeating the point of Geralt’s ploy. The bard stumbled to a halt beside him, staring at the wyvern in awe.

Geralt shoved him away and hefted his silver blade, bracing for the heat of the wyvern’s breath as it snapped and bit, the sharp rush of air as its tail--fuck, tails--whipped around to stab at him. Instead, the wyvern just shrieked and flapped its massive wings before taking flight, vanishing over the tops of the trees.

“Shit,” Jaskier breathed. He bolted into the forest, following the direction that the wyvern had flown. Geralt followed instinctively, faster than Jaskier but slowed by the foliage in his path.

He crashed through the treeline just after Jaskier, emerging onto a flat, grassy plateau. They both watched the wyvern soar through the air, making its way towards the peak of a nearby mountain. Jaskier clenched his fists and let out a wordless yell of frustration.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Geralt sniped, sheathing his sword. He surveyed the plateau, noting the cliff's edge a couple hundred feet away.

“No!” Jaskier hissed. “That was not the time for--for gallantry!” Comically aggrieved, Jaskier threw his arms out in a broad sweep. “Gods, do you know how much harder this is going to be? At this distance? With these acoustics?”

Geralt stared at Jaskier, but the bard just sighed, reaching for his lute and checking its strings. “Needs must, I suppose.” He quickly strode forward and turned toward the forest, frowning when Geralt followed and stood in front of him.

“Listen, if you don’t mind, I really need to get to this,” Jaskier said, hurriedly, peering over Geralt’s shoulder into the trees. “I encountered an, ah, acquaintance of mine back in there, and as delightful as I find your company, I really don't think I bought myself enough time to hang around and enjoy it.”

An acquaintance. “Yennefer,” Geralt breathed.

Jaskier stared at Geralt, aghast. "Excuse me, you know Yennefer?" His eyes widened with mounting horror. “Oh, gods, are you with Yennefer? Professionally? Sexually?” He brought the lute closer to his body, cradling it protectively. “That’s--horrible, really. For both of us, I suppose.”

“What the fuck did you do to her, bard?” Geralt snarled, drawing his sword.

Jaskier eyed the blade. "Not to worry, just something to hold her in place, for the time being.” He bit his lip, a hint of mischief glinting in his eyes. "This is a nice forest, really. Quite a bit of flora and fauna, all very obliging."

Geralt lunged forward. Jaskier danced just out of reach, shockingly nimble. "Oh, she’ll be fine! For that matter, it’s only going to keep her occupied for so long, and I would really, really, rather not have to deal with what comes after.” Geralt growled, but Jaskier just grinned at him, clever and confident. “Fighting Yennefer would be messy, to say the least.”

He took another swing, but Jaskier dodged once more and leapt back. “So,” Jaskier announced, strumming lightly at his lute strings. “If you’ll excuse me, love.”

Geralt barely had time to wonder what the fuck the bard was doing before Jaskier’s fingers came down on the lute and a battering wave of force smashed into Geralt, throwing him backwards. Like Aard, Geralt thought, dazed, as he tumbled head-over-heels through the grass. Skidding to a halt, he coughed up a mouthful of dirt and lifted his head.

Ahead of him, Jaskier looked to the sky, opened his mouth, and started to sing. The bright swell of it burst forth from his chest, accompanied by the sound of his lute, a livelier tune than what’d sent Geralt flying. He couldn't understand it, but that didn't keep it from filling his head so completely that he could barely think over it.

Gritting his teeth, Geralt got up and stumbled a few steps forward, only to hear Jaskier weave the same violent sound from before into the lute's melody, unleashing another concussive blast and hurling him to the ground once more. Geralt punched the dirt, furious, and looked up to see Jaskier wink at him, lips quirking up as words continued to spill forth from them.

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up." Geralt shouted, trying to pitch his voice to carry over Jaskier's. Instead, Jaskier closed his eyes, voice spiraling through the air, head cocked as though waiting for something. After a moment the bard's eyes flew open, shining with delight. His voice rose to a crescendo before hitting one final note and breaking off, just as suddenly as it had begun.

Geralt staggered to his feet, yet again, only to see Jaskier scrambling to return the lute to its place on his back. "I'm going to rip that lute apart with my bare hands," Geralt seethed at him, hands flexing, teeth bared.

"No," Jaskier said, looking past Geralt, blue eyes bright and wild. "You’re not." With a parting grin at Geralt, he turned and began running towards the cliff's edge.

About to give chase, Geralt paused for the barest moment, tilting his head; just beyond the echo of Jaskier's song ringing in his ears, he could hear something that set his teeth on edge, something unearthly. It sounded like--

Geralt dropped like a stone and flattened himself to the ground just as the wyvern barreled through the sky, swooping over the plateau and missing him by a claw's breadth, keeping low as it hurtled past him.

Screeching, the wyvern pulled up to Jaskier's flank, about to outpace the bard. Geralt watched, stunned, as Jaskier put on a final burst of speed and leapt sideways, grabbing the stringy tendrils hanging from the wyvern’s sides and scrabbling up onto its scaled back, situating himself ahead of the beast’s dorsal spikes.

With two flaps of its wings the creature soared over the cliff edge, bringing it and Jaskier into the open air. Taking the wyvern into a broad turn, Jaskier wheeled them around to face Geralt, looking tremendously smug.

Something bright and scorching roared past Geralt’s head. Whipping around, Geralt saw Yennefer run forward and send another fireball hurtling towards Jaskier and the wyvern, just missing them. The wyvern shrieked in agitation and Jaskier crooned at it, patting at its spines. He glared at Yennefer, who held her hands up, flames already beginning to lick at her palms anew.

Geralt grabbed her arm, ignoring the heat of the flickering fire. "Yennefer, enough. You'll just shoot them both out of the sky."

"Who says that's not what I intend to do?" Yennefer muttered, viciously.

"Yennefer!" Geralt growled, tracking the way the bard tightened his grip on the wyvern, lips parting around a volley of words. The creature's jaw lolled open, too, teeth bright and sharp; its tails flicked from side to side, dripping venom. “Don’t do this.” Yennefer glowered, but extinguished the fireball.

Seemingly reassured that Yennefer wasn’t about to take another shot, Jaskier laughed, joyously, and flashed them a winning smile.

“Yennefer, good to see you! As always, kindly consider dying in a fire. Geralt, genuinely lovely to meet you, and I hope that this is but a mere bump in the road of our blossoming acquaintance!" Geralt snarled when the bard had the gall to fucking wink at him, again. "Swing by Oxenfurt, if you get a chance. A week, give or take." With that, Jaskier petted fondly at the wyvern’s side and whistled, beaming when it trilled and beat its massive wings, taking to the sky.

Geralt stood there beside Yennefer, rooted in place. Silence hung between them. It was almost jarring, after the tremendous noise that had reverberated through the air just moments earlier.

“Well,” Yennefer said, finally, huffing out an annoyed breath. “Fuck.”