WIP Update (WIPdate?): The Witcher King
Dandelion plucked a pheasant leg from his plate and wafted it threateningly in Aiden's direction. âYou have a lot to learn about courts in the north. You scoff now, but think of the humiliation when all we have to offer at Geralt's side is wine, wheat and Metinnan silk. Culture, that is what we need to bring to those heathens. Culture.â
Geralt hummed thoughtfully. âThey will have their own culture. We'll need to adapt to it.â Aiden nodded in agreement and the three of them lapsed into silence as they ate.
Indeed, Geralt had read widely for months. Knowledge was power, after all. But the more he read, the more unsettled he became by the stark contrast between the warm climes of his southern home and the frigid northern regions. They traded in the bizant, not the gulden. They worshipped Freya and the prophet Lebodia. Most of the official accounts had been dry and boorish, but Aiden had always been able to source texts that Geralt's tutors would blanch at. So Geralt's study of economics, faith and customs had been tempered with more exciting stories of prophets being eaten by dragons. Geralt had enjoyed one in particular, recounted by Addaria Bach, a dwarven musician from the Copparette, about how followers took Lebioda's remains from his sarcophagus during certain festivities to kiss them and, much like the dwarven poet, Geralt had been amused by the prospect of pious priests in silken robes kissing fossilised shit.
âWhat are you smiling at?â Dandelion asked around a mouthful of pheasant.
âProphets and dragon dung,â Geralt replied blithely and Aiden grinned.
They saw the lazy evening hours away with inane conversation and a few songs on Dandelion's lute, before bedding down on their sleeping mats. The temperate was barmy and there was no sign of rain, so they had decided to sleep outside under the insect netting. Geralt stared at the glittering stars above his head and picked out the constellations one by one. He wondered whether the stars would look the same in the north, or whether they would be as alien to him as the currency and the faiths.
The crickets and crackling fires around the camp were soon accompanied by Dandelion's soft snores, and the camp quietened enough for Geralt to pick up on a conversation happening several metres away.
âHeard the beast's ruthless,â said one low voice. âEmotionless. Doesn't feel a thing. Only appetite he has is for the flesh, younger the better.â
Another soldier scoffed around his tankard. âLet's hope that Prince Geralt inherited that famous stamina of his great-granda Hugo then.â There was a round of raucous laughter, and then, âBy the time that monster's finished with him, he won't be walking at all, let alone worrying about riding a horse.â
I'm meant to be working on Decembert and Geraskier stories, but my brain decided no. Instead, we've gone down a rabbit hole of lore and continued writing The Witcher King. Prince Geralt's on his way west to catch a boat from Cidaris to Pont Vanis in southern Kovir. He's doing a lot of introspection, worrying, you know, Geralt type things.
Lebodia's story is great. Not only was he worshipped by one of the last Manticore Witchers (Merten), but he feels a lot like the Continent's answer to Buddhism. Compared to the northern Pantheon (very Olympian/Nordic) and the Eternal Fire (very medieval Christianity, right down to the crusades), Lebodia promotes peaceful ways, simple wisdom and kindness. Literally, that's it. Here's a teaching:
"He who intends to walk the valley of darkness ought to bring a lantern with him. For he who sprains his ankle in the darkness will not walk far." âThe Good Book; or, The Teachings of the Prophet Lebioda
He gets eaten by a dragon while trying to protect some villagers from it. Lebodia is known as the Great Beggar, and I guess this kind of reflects "higher society's" low regard for the religions and prophets of the peasantry, perhaps. But I like to think Lebodia's story would resonate with Geralt a whole lot. Kindness, practical wisdom, defending the innocent.
Now, Hugo of Rivia, my dearest boy. Hugo is distantly related to Meve or Reginald (the family trees are a little vague), but he is also Foltest's ancestor (which could potentially make Geralt related to Foltest, which... urgh, royal interbreeding). But Hugo! He got pegged by his wife so hard he couldn't ride a horse. Proof, I hear you cry.
Hugo of Rivia was the second Prince Consort of Bienvenu, queen of Temeria. Not much is known about him other than the fact that he fared much better than his predecessor, Ragbard, in the queen's bedchamber. Rumours were rampant that he had to work very hard to fulfill the expectations of the queen - hence the ever prying eyes and his rather famous reluctance for riding horses. (Witcher Wiki)
He's also reported to have died of "sexual exhaustion" trying to give the queen a second child, although his efforts were "heroic". There are many a rude song written about it and I'm sure Dandelion knows them all. As for the soldiers in the earlier excerpt commenting about Hugo's stamina, I'll leave the interpretation of their intent down to the reader. Either way, I want to slowly shed more light on Geralt's past and why his reputation at home (and his self esteem) is so very low.
With thanks to my partner in crime, @cylin-aka-ankamo, for ongoing support with this project. Go check out her Witcher King art.
