witcher, not my writing
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castillon02
https://castillon02.tumblr.com/post/628646803554926592/geralt-has-a-network-of-people-who-dont-mind
:
Geralt has a network of people who don’t mind trading with Witchers. They
set things aside for him sometimes: herbs that he’s bought before, books or
armor that he’s asked after. In return, he makes room in his saddlebags for
metals the smith can melt down, books for the bookseller’s cart, and
monster organs that can be added to an herbalist’s potions.
Business. An exchange of goods and coin. Nothing to do with the way Ensa’s
eyes light up at copper and silver, with the way Broc’s hands rub together
upon seeing a rare text, with the way Tusson smiles and leans closer when
Geralt starts pulling eyes and tongues out of his bag.
Those smiles are for his money and his wares, not for him. He’s worth
nothing to them if he’s not buying or selling.
—
(Ensa makes bells with some of the metals Geralt brings her. The hammer of
her profession has taken some of her hearing, she says; he tells her when
the bells ring true, and she tells him the latest gossip, updates on which
nobles have money and monster problems. She’s in Kaedwen, one of his first
and last stops on the Path.)
(Geralt finds a few scrolls written during one of the Conjunctions stashed
in a troll’s cave, and when he shows them to Broc in Novigrad, Broc shoves
a book of armor diagrams into his hands along with a hefty purse. Hmm.
Witcher gear must be out of fashion at the auction houses.)
(Tusson gives him live herbs from their garden and asks him to plant them
at a crossroads. “Propogation is good for business. More places to harvest
from.” Eventually, the ingredients for Swallow flourish around all the
crossroads in Aedirn. Easy healing for Witchers passing through; easier
pickings for herbalists who live there full-time.)
(Useful. He’s useful to them. At least they don’t mind being useful to him
in return.)
—
Jaskier gives him gwent cards, sometimes. (“Won it off my comely companion
from last night. Strip gwent, Geralt! You should try it.”)
Pastries, other times. When they encounter a baker, Jaskier usually pulls a
spare coin from his boot and buys whatever’s apple-filled—Geralt’s
favorite, because then he can share half with Roach. (“I got one for Roach
too, of course. What do you take me for?”)
Mostly money isn’t involved.
Instead, Jaskier does things like steal all but one of Geralt’s hair ties
for a week and return them when they’re dyed black enough to suit his
fancy. (“Now they’ll go with the rest of your outfit!”) Like anyone cares
how a Witcher looks, least of all the Witcher in question.
Jaskier sees winter cress on the path and says, “Oh, those match your
eyes!” He spends an hour weaving an elaborate flower necklace, only to give
it to Roach for a snack when they’re going through a bog.
When there’s enough light to write by, there are stories scribbled on spare
parchment, tales that Jaskier modifies with increasing ridiculousness,
trying to lift the stern shield across Geralt’s face and get him to reveal
an amused twitch of his lips, a mirthful crinkle around his eyes. (“Oh, Sir
Fair, I fear that your penetrating log—your banquet-sized sausage—your
hip-heaving halberd—aha, there it is!—I fear that your hip-heaving halberd
will leave me spoiled for all other polearms.”) When Geralt leaves for
Kaer Morhen, he finds them stuffed in his saddlebag with a note saying that
he can use them for kindling if he wants. He brings them to the keep
instead.
Once, Jaskier spends ten minutes staring at stag beetles fighting on a log
before noticing that Geralt is staring at him, and then he abruptly
begins a stag beetle dialogue, underdog challenger versus heavyweight
champion, and he leaves room for Geralt to voice the underdog if he wants.
(“And what do you have to say in the aftermath of your stunning upset
victory?”
Geralt sighs, finally gives in, and says his most satisfied-sounding,
“Hmmm.”
Jaskier dedicates the resulting beetle battling poem to him in order to
commemorate the occasion.)
Black leather. Apple tarts. Poems. A Witcher’s life hasn’t prepared him for
this kind of economy. What’s the value of a flower necklace, braided and
eaten?
—
On the path from Kaer Morhen, Geralt sees an ammonite poking out beneath
the melting snow, the curl of its shell perfectly preserved, and stops
Roach so he can pick it up. It’s not anything special. The land around Kaer
Morhen used to be a sea, long ago, and the rock-wrapped bones of her old
inhabitants are everywhere.
He slips the ammonite into his saddlebag. Still plenty of room for Ensa’s
future bells when he finds them, and some people haven’t seen this part of
Kaedwen.
As he crosses the Mahakam Mountains, one of the region’s massive vultures
wheels above him and drops a primary feather right in his path. Tusson
bought most of the monster parts from his saddlebags, but even if they
hadn’t, a feather is hardly a burden. He stores it in one of his longer
potion vials. There’s a joke he might make about songbirds versus
scavengers.
In Novigrad, Broc hands him a small purse in exchange for the books Geralt
took from a bruxa’s lair, and then he slides a little pamphlet across the
counter to him.
It’s a copy of Jaskier’s beetle battling poem.
“Not a coin, but I thought I would toss it to you anyway, seeing as you’re
in the dedication. I particularly liked the allegory about getting your
muse to speak to you.” Broc winks at him. “Never hurts to invest in young
artists.”
Broc has never winked at him before, not in twenty-odd years. Geralt
stumbles through his thank-you. Jaskier is clearly a terrible influence.
A terrible influence that he might just run into again, given that he’s
near Oxenfurt. But that’s all right. Geralt has made his preparations, the
way he always does with monsters, with merchants, and now with bards.
The next time Jaskier gives him something useless, Geralt will be able to
reciprocate.
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