rewatched that Witcher S4 teaser trailer and it infuriated me
1. in an incredible show of Doctor Who raised instantaneous transferred pettiness, I despise New Guy Geralt already
2. netflix I hate to break it to you but this is Imminent Hansa Shenanigans Season - Geralt is simply not going to get the chance to wander alone with roach through the woods without Jask bullying him, Milva bitching at him, Cahir stalking him and Regis snarking at him
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A/N: some blood mentioned- death mentioned but nothing on screen. cannon level. also, i am sorry that I am not consistent in my writing. take this as a sacrifice. tis soft and a bit sad.
A sharp cry startles you out of your sleep, Eskel already on his feet and alert. Grumbling groggily, you look around at the expanse of trees darkened by shadows nestled around you, the flicker of the fire carving sickly shapes up their bodies, as nothing else seems to move.Â
“A… baby?” you ask confused, eyeing Eskel as he sniffs around, listening intently. He nods slowly.
“There were others near, you stay here,” he states gruffly as he hauls his swords over his shoulders before stepping into the shadows. Frowning, you rest back, staring at the lick of the flames in the air, mesmerized by the brilliance as it begins to lull you back to sleep. Just as you're about to doze back off, Eskel steps back into the small clearing with a snap, his mountainous frame freezing looking down at his arms, eyes widened like a startled deer. Head lifting to meet his gaze, you realize that he isn't alone- the bundle of cloth wiggling in his arms, gentle whimpered cries escaping from its restraints.Â
“The baby?” you ask sleepily, opening your arms for it. He lays it gently in your arms, moving slower than you've ever seen him, hesitation in every movement until it is fully in your arms. Cooing gently, you smooth the blanket from its face, softening at the reddish tinge still fading from its outburst just minutes ago, shushing them gently. “You are safe, little one.”
Eskel just sits on the other side of the fire, shifting rather uncomfortably. They don't teach baby handling in their training, you assume, offering him a gentle smile. He tries to match it, staring at the small body in your arms.Â
“Its mother?” he just shakes his head sadly, lifting his hands. The reddish stain marking him from palm to finger.Â
“It looks like bandits, they probably left the child knowing it wouldn't last long in the wild.” His voice is soft. The baby seems to settle a tad as he speaks, gurgling sleepily.Â
“We will drop them off at the next town.” you offer, knowing it is only a day's ride more. He nods, sighing.Â
“What… Can I help?” His voice is slow, eyebrows pinched, unsure. Grinning, you nod.Â
“Can you sing to us?” you rarely ask, the request always catching him off guard, but he nods, settling back against a tree trunk, peering off into the shadows. A pause, as you assume he is listening to the forest to make sure that you are indeed alone before he starts singing. He sings in a language you don't know, his baritone echoing through the emptiness between the trees, the sound haunting and beautiful, his eyes sliding shut as he continues. The vibrations of his voice melt away your fight to stay away, the baby's eyes having already shut once more as you finally succumb to the darkness, too. Once he is sure you're both asleep, he regards you gently, how you cradle the child, arms wrapped protectively around it as you sleep- the sight is one he has thought of often. A pain, an ache he has resolved himself to feeling in the past. The need for a family. Softening, he shifts to make himself more comfortable.Â
“Goodnight Kit,” he pauses, smiling in spite of himself. “Goodnight, Kid.”Â
_____
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when we meet back up with geralt in posada after blaviken, he’s more isolated and closed off, but he is materially better off. that’s the context that the butcher of blaviken moniker is meant to be taken in (aka not a slur against witchers).
it’s a micro aggression, and a fairly subtle one. geralt’s reputation as a ruthless killing machine is an asset in his work as much as it is hurting him personally. it’s a reputation that would inspire the confidence to pay geralt up front (the kid in posada tells geralt “i’m sure you’ll come through” based on the knowledge of who he is specifically.) it’s something that an effective student of human nature credibly wouldn’t identify as a problem until he got to know geralt better, and something said student of human nature is absolutely cruel enough to weaponize against geralt later if her were sufficiently hurt (which i don’t believe he would do at that point if it was a slur).
A/N First I want to make this clear that I have only watched the Netflix version of the Witcher. My information comes from the show, from here, and some research. Plot sort of goes with the show plot line. I purely only wrote this because lets get real here Basil is a dreamboat and I have a thing with enemies to lovers. Also I have't really written anything in a while so there may be mistakes that I haven't caught. Here goes nothing.
You will only find my fic posts under Netflix!eskel to separate my content from the witcher tag.
Part 1
She lazily sits atop of her horse with her body slumping forward with every trot. One hand is loosely grasping the reins and the other she keeps pressed against a hot, sticky, wet wound carved into her side. On her back is a violet cloak, damp and cold with snow. The winter was forcibly hitting strongly in these rock covered mountains, with the snow relentlessly falling in large clumps.
The rider was following a feeling, a dangerous and stupid feeling that was leading them across the vast land before her. It was a punch in the gut and a comforting arm around her shoulders. It was a feeling to find an old friend and would help her seek refuge.
“Come on girl,” She says. She removes her hand from the wound and swipes it across her trousers. With a cleaner hand she gently runs it across the horse's neck. “Not too far now, the feeling is getting stronger. It’s practically tugging at me.”
The horse lets out a tiring puff of air and stomps against the snowy ground. The rider pats the top of her head, soothing her.
“I know it’s utterly ridiculous ,” She shouts against the growing wind. Her hood flies back exposing her face, chapped from the cold and lips cracked from dehydration. “We will feel safe and warm once we’re there. Destiny calls our names. Wherever that might be. Or I could be leading us to our deaths.”
The two keep trotting further down the path until what looks like an old deteriorating castle constructed into the distant mountain side. A thrilling feeling whirls in her belly.
“You see,” She says to the horse. “It lead us somewhere…”
A sickening chill interrupts her speech, it runs up her spine and slithers around her arms until it reaches her shoulders. Then crawls up her neck, stays and circles around her throat. The sounds of birds chirping and squirrels foraging stops. The wind dies down until it stops. It is silent.
At her back there was a sudden crack, then a domino effect of several other trees cracking. she swings her head to the side, hair whipping again her raw cheeks. The trees were swaying in a bazaar and unnatural way, limbs moving as they shouldn't. Snap! A tree falls far behind her. Her horse tugs and whines in protest of halting.
“Girl, this is it, we can make it!” The rider gently kicks at the horses side, starting a nice stride forward down the uneven path. Adrenaline pumps through her veins, dulling the pain at her side. With barely any feeling left she rips her sword from its sheath at her side. She holds the weapons up as high as she can. The trees down the pathway start slingshotting pine cones and winter nuts towards her direction.
“I am not afraid,” She repeats over and over, an elder phrase that would mean nothing and do nothing, but to muster up the courage she had left.
Branches snap above her heavily drop
to the ground, slinging snow up in clouds. The horse kicks up her legs.
“Cambria, Steady girl, steady!” The rider shouts gripping at the reins.
Above another branch falls and drops before The horse’s hooves. The horse jumps back again, flinging the rider off of it. She lands on her side and it knocks the air of her lungs. She sits up and feels the itching sensation of trickling blood on her skin.
“Fuck!” She cries and then takes in a large breath of air. She places a hand forward, pressing it in the snow and pushes herself up. In the distance was her terrified horse in a dance with nature attacking her. She stands up, body moving forward, off balance. The trickling sensation turned to a new warmth running down her leg. “Fuck!”
She bends down and grabs the sword on the ground, her body falling even more forward. With quick reflexes she stabs her sword into the ground before and uses it as a crutch to stand back up.
“Cambria, it’s alright girl we are almost there!” She says through the fatigue. She quickly limps down the trail towards her only way of surviving. When she makes it back to her horse she throws her on top of her horse. “Onward!”
The grand building indeed looks to be an old castle made for lords and ladies before the rider’s time. The details blur before her as salty beads of feverish sweat fall down like rain. The horse continues forward until the two were met with tall large double doors. The feeling leading her was strong. An old friend is here.
“Wait here,” The rider whispers, patting the top of the horse's head. She forces herself down, practically falling just barely landing on her feet. The sword in her hand falls to the ground sloppily beside her. She groans and bends down to retrieve it, releasing a crack from her rib cage. Mashing her teeth together she holds back tears and a scream of agony. She looks down at the tunic in shreds and this time the sight of blood makes her stomach churn.“Goddess you’ve brought me this far, let this be a place to rest.”
Limping, the rider approaches the door and with her free hand presses against the worn wood. A place for rest, she internally mutters in elder language. The door opens allowing warm air to sweep her damp hair from her face, it almost brings her to the ground. She stumbles in hearing the sounds of metal clinking.
She gains some balance and opens her eyes. In front of her was a room full of men and a small girl with white hair. The sight of the girl makes her heart skip a beat. She turns her head and in the distance was a large, white haired, rugged man.
“Geralt,” it was a whisper. She collapses backwards against the door dropping her sword to the floor with an echoing thud. The blood at her side was no longer trickling, but flowing in a stream onto the floor in tiny pools. She shoves a hand over the wound. “Geralt is that you?”
“Lena!” Geralt shouts and the rider hears the dropping of weapons and the scraping of wood against the floor. “What’s happened?”
A smile slowly creeps across Lena’s face when the blurred image of Geralt appears in front of her. He raises his brows in concern, yellow eyes large and frightening. Lena tries to stand up sloppily.
The large Witcher’s arms picks the rider up and holds her close to his chest. His yellow eyes never leaving hers. He hurries up the stairs, down a hallway and into a dimly lit room. Geralt places Lena on the table.
“What’s happened? Who is this girl?” An older man with silver hair approaches the table and looks at the girl.
“She’s an old friend of mine,” The white hair Witcher responds.
“You don’t have many friends.” Lena mumbles.
Lena coughs, partially breaking through the fog in her head. She attempts to sit up. A man rushes over to the side of the table. And Lena watches as he slowly brings a hand to his chin while examining her from her boots up until his eyes met hers. She musters up strength to distance herself from him.
“Geralt,” She shouts. “They…my horse..the girl.”
“You’re safe Lena,”Geralt says as he places his finger in the bloody fabric barely stitched together. He rips it open. Geralt’s strong hands pull at the fabric until it rips from the rider's body body.
“When have I ever been safe, Geralt!” Lena shouts with feelings of vulnerability and exposure.
“Eskel I need you to calm her while Vesamier mixes something to help her sleep.” Geralt orders.
Lena shakes her head no as she looks down at herself. Half of her tunic is gone leaving her body bare for everyone to see. She could feel the warm air sweep against her breasts where the remaining fabric was covering.
The state of the wound is gruesome.
“Cloth and water,” Geralt demands. “Now! Damn it!”
“Shhhh girl,” The man named Eskel says in a soothing low voice. “It will be over soon.”
She looks at the man speaking to her. His eyes go soft briefly, then he disappears from her line of sight. Geralt uncorks a bottle of clear liquid and Lena’s eyes bult open, at the sound. She looks over and tips the bottle over, the liquid splashes against the torn skin and bubbles. Lena lets out a convulsing scream, the liquid feels like salt and fire in her wound.
Even in her insufferable pain and weakness, Lena, scurries up to the table's edge, slipping on her own blood.
“Eskel!” Geralt shouts.
Strong hands latch onto Lena’s shoulders and force her down on the table again. Geralt applies a rag to the wound and starts cleaning it. He pulls out a strip of fabric that had wedged itself inside of the wound.
“This one must have some strength on her, with those muscles carved into her arms,” Eskel laughs. “Thee not a fair maiden, even when thy frail.”
She peers up at the man telling jokes. She meets a pair of eyes she has never seen the likes of. She blinks and her face easily scrunches into a scowl. A round of laughter comes from his lips.
“Do I offend?” The man asks, ending with a chuckle. The liquid coats her side again. She contains a scream by closing her dry lips and eyes.
“Eskel,” Geralt says and lets out a deep mmmm.
“Please, no more.” She begs.
“Just look at me, girl,” The man above says, peering down, strands of loose hair fall forward. His hands move to the sides of her face.“Look at my eyes.”
Lena focuses on the two different colors in both eyes, blue and red. Another Witcher. Her eyes go big again studying the colors and how they blend. The Witcher above chuckles. She unlocks her eyes from the man’s and stares up at his cheek bone. A carving of scars start at the corner of his mouth to run across his jaw. Her eyes briefly trail over the designs. The man turns his head away from her like he was trying to hide them.
“Eskel, I need you to hold her down. Make sure she doesn’t move,” Eskel nods and she starts shaking her head no to whatever it might be. “Be brave Lena, you were brave enough to travel here.”
Eskel gently slides his rough hands across Lena’s shoulders and collarbone bringing her tightly to his hard chest. His skin was deliciously warm against her cold, almost frozen body. She could smell ash and cedar, and blood coming off him.
Geralt nods his head and Eskels grip gets tighter, pressing his fingertips into her skin. The silver haired man from before approaches the table with an iron rod and at the end of it was bright orange, hot.
“No Geralt, please,” Lena tries to say. “I don’t…you don’t have to…”
“The heat will prevent the skin from dying and stop the bleeding.”
Lena calms her breath with the sound of Eskel’s voice vibrating behind her. He lowers his head and rests it near her shoulder. She could feel the rise and fall of his breathing and the beating of his heart. “There we go. Breath. Your heart is beating fast. Very fast.”
Geralt plunges the iron rod into Lena's side, leaving it there. The girl lets out a cry and the man behind her holds her tighter to his chest.
Her breath slows and all of the remaining energy she has is fading. She couldn’t fight much longer even with one last tug. She lifts her head up to the one holding her, his eyes.
“Careful, careful now,” He whispers behind her. He takes a deep breath and she feels his chest. “Drink this down.”
The older man with silver hair walks over to her with a bottle of red liquid. He gives it to Eskel to assist.
“Drink.” Geralt orders wiping his hand on a rag.
“I don’t want to sleep,” Lena says. “I need to be awake. It’s not time for rest.”
“Lena,” Geralt’s hard face falls into an unusual sweet smile, his bright yellow eyes fix on her. “You need sleep, if not a tincture for sleep your body will give up on itself. The blood you’ve lost and the fever that has taken over will kill you.”
“I only trust you Geralt,” The girl forces out of her mouth as she clumsily tries to sit up again. The man behind her locks her in place gently.. “I don’t know these men.”
“These are my brothers, I trust them.”
“You said you don’t trust anyone.” Geralt’s lips mash together and go flat.
“Here we abide by regulations,” Geralt looks at the man holding onto Lena. “Eskel is my good friend too.”
“Please drink this,” Eskel says, pressing the bottle to Lena’s lips. His scarred side facing her. He tips it over into her mouth and she swallows the liquid making a pained face. “Doesn’t taste too good does it? A bit bitter.”
“Once she is asleep I’ll clean her up.” Geralt says watching as the tincture takes control of the girl's body. She lightly falls back onto Eskel’s chest, his furrowing eyes being the last thing she sees.
“I don’t want to sleep,” She slurs. “My horse, she needs attention. There was something following us, the trees they were dancing and cracking…limbs were falling from the sky.”
“She must have been delirious. Taken by the fever. I’ll go out and find the horse.”
Eskel gently removes the girl from his chest and lays her down on the table.
“You fight monsters…” Geralt went on about. The white hair man grabs a bowl and a pitcher. He fills the bowl and sprinkles flakes of an orange herb. Fresh cloth has been placed on the table near the pitcher. Impatiently he soaks the cloth with the liquid.
“How do you two know each other?” Eskel asks with a perplexed expression forming across his face. “Who is she?”
“ Eskel,” a warm smile appears on Geralt’s rugged face. “Just an old friend.”
“An old friend?” A smirk crawls across his face. “No wonder you were so eager to rip the very tunic from her body.”
Eskel laughs. Geralt lets out his usual hmmmm and glares at his friend.
“Eskel go tend the horse.”
“I am right, aren't i?” He laughs walking out, shaking his head.
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I decided to watch Netflix! Witcher again this time with original voice acting - for reasons I watched the first time with polish dubbing.
And while I don't think I can force myself to watch all 8 episodes once again, I need to say a few things, before I close that particular doors for good and likely pretend they aren't there.
What I liked about The Witcher - Season 2:
Henry - at least I can see that he is trying, with what he was given to play - I also appreciate that he apparently saved us from getting even more of "meta-commentary" in the scenes where there is no place for it.
some visuals - f.e screaming bruxa
those rare moments when we've got glimpses of what could have been, if the producers gave rat's ass about the source and not only about their overlords with cash.
What I didn't like:
pretty much everything else
If we put aside that this is The Witcher we are talking about and look at this as a random fantasy series so I won't have a heart attack over butchering of the lore and the characters I love - the plot is so full of holes and so shallow, that I have a feeling that I could construct better story at 15, not to mention now.
What happened with the narrative depth? With having a piece of media draw us in? Making us care? I think the puddles in my backyard have more depth. Or is this just not required anymore? Why, in general, media creators seemed to think us, the public, are dumb and incapable of grasping more complex stories anymore?
And logic? Does it get lost also somewhere along the way?
Now - acting - I have to say that people who dubbed the polish lines gave them WAY more than the actual actors this season - season one did not have such a huge difference. But I am all in favor of polish dubbing with this one, even when I generally much prefer watching movies and series in it's original form. Not with this one.
(The only two that are on par in both versions are Geralt and Jaskier - though I admit I am biased towards Michał's voice since he was my first Geralt. And Joey's singing is WAY better.)
I could go on. There are a lot of things that are wrong with this series and even looking at it as a stand alone doesn't make it more favorable. As a fans, speaking from a position of someone who is aware that we wouldn't ever get things 100% as we wanted and imagined, I think we were spat on.
Roach (and I love her, she's the best girl) got it better then Eskel (apparently only thanks to Henry) and I think that sums up season 2 pretty well.
All in all. Do Not Recommend. If you want entertainment, then maybe. If you are a fan - save yourself the heartache and go read "The Grain of Truth". Or play some games.
She looked out of the window, the morning mist started to part, and the streets slowly filled up with life, the merchants opened up their stands, and tried to sell their goods for the workers. She looked down, and she reminiscenced. Months ago, on that sleepy morning she stood at the window just like this… that day had so much potencial. She knew her father would punish her, if he would’ve figured out, that his youngest is out again, seeking pleasure in the arms of men and women… but he never saw his daugther again…
She heard the bed squeaking, she turned, but the man moved more quickly then she anticipated, and he was already beside her.
„Out of the bed so soon?” he asked as the morning lights touched his face, lighting up his scars.
„You said we should head out in the morning, so we could get to Kaer Morhen by nightfall.” she replied, as she reached out for him. „Your hands are so cold.”
„I prefer warm weather. Why do you think I spent the last year in Zerrikania?” said the man as he embraced her.
„Perhaps there are horned women, which you are so fond of.” said the woman with evil smile on her face. The man looked confused and utterly defeated. „You are talking in your sleep.” she laughed.
„Well, you… you are really.. you are…” he stuttered, but after a few seconds he composed himself. „You are the devil, but without horns.”
„Oh, it really hurt, my dear.” she laughed again as she wandered to the other side of the room, to get dressed. „Get ready, yesterday you were so anxious to see your brothers!”
„I know, I just hope they won’t be mad, that I haven’t spent my last winter with them at Kaer Morhen” he said, while slowly touching his wounds. It went from his left side of his waist up to this right chest. The woman stitched her up, but she was no healer. He went in and out of concussion for weeks, when she was finally able to get his fewer down. The winter was almost over, when he was finally able to sit up.
„I’m sorry that you got that, because of me.” she said as her face turned white, while watched the fresh scar. „You shouldn’t have played a knight.”
He let out a laugh, which sounded more like a howl. „Ah, yes. Vesemir always told us that. But I couldn’t let the that fiery woman in that nilfgaardian camp.”
„Fiery woman?” she recoiled.
„I heard you screaming. I heard how you yelled at captain, mocking his small manhood.” he wanted to smile, but out of respect, he did not. She was kept, and she was used for pleasure by men in that nilfgaardian camp for many months.
„Well, at that point, all I had left was my life, and my future life weren’t looking so bright.” she replied somewhat angry, as she attached her daggers to her belt. She was careless when Nilfgaard attacked, and she paid the price for it.
***
The man was right, by nightfall they reached Kaer Morhen.
„You sure they won’t mind, that you brought me?” she asked as they entered the castle.
„I trust you with my life, noone will question your loyalty.”
The man got more and more excited, as they were getting close to the halls. It warmed her heart, seeing him returning to home. They entered the hall side by side, but they did not get the warm welcome they expected.
The witchers turned their heads in unity, and drew their sword more quickly, than a human mind can comprehend.
„Eskel? Whats the meaning of this?” asked one of the witcher, with hatred in his voice.
The woman drew her daggers, as the man was still not in shape to fight. The witchers closed in on them, now they stood in the circle of angry mutants.
„Lambert? Brother, whats the matter with you?” asked the man as he tried to move in front of the woman, but she did not let him.
„Whatever you are, creature, this arrogant move will be your downfall.” said the previous witcher, and he swung his sword at the woman. She parried, and pushed him back. The witcher got furious. „WHAT ARE YOU?”
„Its me, Eskel, don’t you recognize me?” tried the man again, but the other one was consumed by fury.
„We mourned Eskel last winter.” said an old-looking witcher. „We burned his body in front of the castle. And we got back his medallion. So forgive us, if we are not really happy to see you, whatever you are.”
„I AM ESKEL, Vesemir!” he was tired, and wounds started to hurt again. „I lost that fucking medallion at the borders of Cintra.”
„Nothing and noone could take his medallion from a living witcher.” said a white-haired witcher. A young girl was behind him, looking curious.
„He was in no shape to search for the medallion that was possibly cut from his neck. He was fucking dying. He saved me.” said the woman with anger in her voice. Now all the eyes were on her, even the little girl’s.
„And who the fuck are you?” asked the first witcher, who tried to cut her.
She was not sure, that the truth was the good answer, so she hesitated.
„I remember you!” said the young girl.
„Ciri, no!” said the white haired one, but the girl was already beside the woman.
„I know you!” she said again. „I meet you in your castle. You teached me how to hold a sword.”
„Princess Cirilla. I remember you too.” she sighed. Cintra only brought her pain. Her family was at Cintra, when Nilfgaard came. The woman alone was unable to repell the nilfgaardians, because she was betrayed by the governor. Nilfgaard took their country within days. She had to flee, but the nilfgaardians found her. And because they had no idea who she was, they just used her as a tool for pleasure.
„I’m so sorry. Your father… your father tried to find a way out of the capital, but there was none. My grandmother always spoke very fondly of your family. King Ale…” said the young girl, but a glance from the woman made her stop.
„An another princess?” asked the elderly witcher with a sigh. He lowered his sword, but when he looked into the man’s face, he raised it higher. „It still doesn’t explain that creature behind you.”
„ITS STILL ME, ESKEL. WHATS WRONG WITH YOU?” he yelled, then groaned. The woman dropped one of her blades, and grabbed him. „Tell me then, how did I die?” he groaned, as he tried to stand up.
„You got bested by a leshy, it infected you, and then you get whores somewhere in the middle of the winter, and while fucking one, you turned into a leshy yourself.” said the white-haired one.
The man let out a loud laugh.
„Bested by a leshy? And turned into one while fucking a whore? Thats just rich.” he cried out, then repeated in disbelief.  „A fucking tree killed me by turning me into one, while fucking a whore? Don’t you realize how fucking impossibbe is that?” he asked with tears in his eyes from the laugh.
There were a quiet murmur running through the witchers. The older one lowered his sword once again, and reached out with it for the woman. „Touch it!” he ordered her. The woman hesitated once again, but the man nodded at her. She reached out, and touch the sword’s cold blade. Nothing happened. The woman looked at the man confused, as he also touched the blade.
„What is going on, now?” she asked while raising one of her eyebrows.
„Its silver. We couldn’t have touched it, if we were creatures.” the man explained.
”You all honestly believe if we would’ve come here to hurt you, we would just wait for your tests to end?” asked the woman in disbelief. The witchers looked at each other.
„Is it really you, brother?” asked the first witcher, who lowered his sword just now, but he was still suspicious. The woman had a feeling, that he won’t let this go so easily, and she was right. Before she could even move, the witcher dashed with a small dagger, and cut the man’s face.
„LAMBERT, WHAT THE FUCK? ITS ME! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU?!” yelled the man, while touching the new wound.
„Well, it certainly will not make you more ugly, brother.” he smiled finally, as he leaned in for a hug.
