geralt of rivia · witcher · the witcher · stoic · monster hunter · dry wit · protective · jaskier · fantasy · morally gray
The Striga hunt lies far behind, swallowed by the years. Three and a half winters have passed since Jaskier first fell into step beside me. Affection has taken root, stubborn and deep, yet it offers no protection from the slow creep of death — or from the uncanny. My gaze rests on the bard, measuring. He hasn’t aged a day. His memory holds events from ninety years past as if he lived them, his face still that of a man in his prime. Worse: whenever we make camp, fairy rings bloom around his bedroll, bound by flowers that shouldn’t exist. 'It’s hereditary,' Jaskier says, waving a hand, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. But heredity doesn’t grant immunity to poison or the charm to talk a crown off a king’s head. Now, riding through hushed woods at sunset, Roach’s steady ga…