#multiitis

There’s this feeling that haunts him sometimes, low in his bones like some creeping monster. It fights its way through his blood, struggling through the thick, alchemical mess of it, and crawls through the chambers of his slow-beating heart, and settles somewhere in his lungs.

It’s not premonition, or destiny, or anything so foolish. He’d call it gut feeling, but it never resides in his gut, and it’s never wrong. It’s just a manifestation of the inevitable: the town that’s going to short him on his payment; the town that won’t talk of their monster, even to a witcher; the town that will run him out by sundown; the town where, despite the miles and years between them, he’s sure to hear an all-too familiar voice accompanied by an all-too familiar lute.

He understands all but the last. Jaskier’s ability to find him, again and again, might be chance or might be deliberate design. Geralt hasn’t asked, and doesn’t care to.

It’s Jaskier’s name that the thing in his lungs whispers to him here, as he relieves Roach of her saddle and methodically brushes her down. He doesn’t rush to prove himself right, taking his time to give the mare the attention she deserves after several long, hard days on the road. He’s taken a contract from the gravedigger, who’s lost two men to the beast in the crypt already, but he’ll start at first light. It makes no never mind; it’s always dark in the crypts no matter the hour, and its intended denizens, all dead, are not in particularly urgent need of his help.

“Maybe I should just stay out here,” he says to Roach when he’s done. He slices an apple, lets her take quarters of it from the flat of his hand. “Sleep in the stable with you.” She whickers, lips dragging over his hand in search of more apple before she lowers her head and butts him in the chest. “Fine,” he says, and runs his hand down her nose before he enters the tavern.

He doesn’t need to look for Jaskier, because Jaskier has a talent for making himself the centre of attention. And so, he pushes himself towards the bar—ignoring the sideways looks and the quietening of conversation—and when he notices Jaskier noticing him:

   “Well...looks like somebody's in the dog house, old boy.”

 Jonathan grinned knowingly and reached out to pat Rick’s shoulder- a gentle show of camaraderie after hearing Evelyn slam the door so hard it made the china cabinet rattle. He’d been there before himself, oh yes, numerous times...but it was easier to see the funny side when you weren’t the one on the receiving end.

 And they were both hot-headed, it seemed. A combination that Jonathan knew well enough to avoid on the rare occasions that they came to raised words. Usually they were insufferably sweet with eachother, sitting at the other end of the spectrum which Jonathan also took to avoiding. Why was there no neutral ground for Heaven’s sake?

 He hovered towards the scotch on the nearby table before taking the decanter in one hand and snaring two glasses in the other. Then he turned, wiggling the glasses suggestively, just enough for them to clink together in his fingers.

It’s hours yet until noon, but the burnished golden disc of the sun beats down a heat almost unlike anything she’s ever known, even in all her time in Egypt. The clouds have slunk away, taking the winds with them; the air is dead and still and oppressive. It lends an ominous sort of silence to the streets. Even the market, ordinarily a hive of activity, is sluggish and muted.

Evie’s hand darts back and forth in front of her face, desperately trying to swat away the persistent black flies that seem determined to bother her.

“Pepi II used to surround himself with slaves slathered in honey to keep flies away from him,” she says, irritably. “Rather extreme, but I can’t help wondering if it worked.” She slips her hand onto Rick’s arm to stop him.

☽ /  @multiitis​ :  hope + drabble ( raps )              SEND A WORD FOR A DRABBLE !!  

       GROWING UP, SHE’D NEVER HAD FRIENDS OF ANY KIND -- not many could see past the icy barrier she put up for everyone, growing colder over time as she aged. school turned to tutoring as she’d gotten into fight after fight -- never fitting in quite well enough -- && she was satisfied, as she reached adulthood, with being alone forever. that was just how it would be -- besides, if she wanted to be a guard someday she’d have to keep working harder && harder because nothing was ever good enough for her to be given the chance she was clearly ready for. duty came first. 

       besides, people only disappointed her && then abandoned her for others -- left her behind with heart break even when she was a child && the wound on her heart patched over with new scarring only to opened up anew with a bright new face she couldn’t stand at first.

       in the end, she brings something new with her -- something that no one’s ever given cassandra before: hope. she’d placed aside a new future for herself -- a place she could have belonged entirely && be given the glory she so desperately sought all her life -- for her. for this princess that extended an offer of friendship to cassandra of all people when she’d been so adverse to it. she sees cassandra’s softness that not many others care to see is so obviously there behind all her walls -- but she sees her for her && doesn’t judge for that. she lets her be her && that’s enough for cassandra.

       it gives her hope that she was actually capable of having friendships && relationships -- gives her hope that maybe she won’t have to be alone for the rest of her life. despite putting something important aside, maybe she could hold her duty && strive for her dreams with friends by her side. 

@multiitis​ liked a starter for a little bit of eugene lovin'

eugene let out a sigh despite the smile that was still on his face. he couldn’t help himself when he was around rapunzel. she was the sun in every sense of the word. it didn’t matter how bad of a mood he might be in, the second she walks into a room he can’t help the pull on his lips. 

WHAT for real?!

bass. my muse going deep (interpret as you want).

There’s not one man at the end of his sword, but three. Lined up neat like ducks in a row, all the way up to the hilt. The tip of his sword is stuck in the door to the abandoned church and there’s a shaft of sunlight coming in from where the door is cracked. 

These were no monsters, these were just men. No need for a silver sword, just meteorite steel and iron scented blood falling in fat droplets to the floor. 

Jaskier has sung about him besting a dozen monsters. Selkiemores and alghouls, cockatrice and basilisks. He’s painted Geralt in the bright light of his romantic heart, making him out to be the hero. 

But there’s falsities in all of those songs. Little details plucked out and replaced by sweeter words to make for a better story. And those little lies have built a pedestal beneath his feet that was doomed to fall at some point. 

Jaskier would see him at his worst, one day or another. That day just happened to be today. 

The men are Nilfgaardian. Boys, really. In a hurry to put on their country’s colors and go to war. They were barely trained, probably the sons of farmers and fishermen given swords and horses and sent on a holy quest. 

They never stood a chance against a creature like Geralt who was a head taller, twice as fast and three times as strong. The Trial of Grasses saw to that. Geralt could no more call himself a man than a fish could call itself a bird. Both had eyes, and that was where the comparison ended. 

The sword pulls free with a wet sound, and the thud of three bodies tumble one after another. One of them’s lost their bowels in death, the stink of it fills his nose so much it makes his eyes water.