Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Witchers in the modern world were about as welcome as unsolicited dick pics.

People saw their cat eyes, the scowls permanently etched on their faces, and the weapons always strapped to them, and they promptly locked their car doors like that was going to stop a mutated monster slayer with anger issues, chips on their shoulders, and more bulk than a gym bro on steroids.

Witchers got it. They really did. They were so mutated, so far removed from most of humanity, that they were considered a threat on sight.

But it was all still bullshit!

“People these days are so just jumpy ,” Lambert said gleefully as a woman, not five feet away, triple-clicked her key fob with the sort of panic usually reserved for horror movie victims about to open the basement door where the murderer was lying in wait.

Click.

Click.

Click.

“Like I’m gonna vault the hood and steal your purse full of expired coupons and hand sanitiser.” Lambert sneered at the woman as she walked away from her car, watching the witchers as though they would kill her before she took her next breath.

Lambert waited precisely one second before he moved towards the car.

“Lambert, no!” Eskel called to his brother, already dreading the lecture they would get when Vessimer heard about this. They were hundreds of years old, and still, Vessimer made them feel like little boys who had tied string to a bumblebee.

Geralt made a few grunting noises that Eskel was sure were meant to mean “Lambert, stop,” but seeing as how he didn’t voice the words,

Lambert completely ignored him. Not that he hadn’t ignored Eskel’s actual words anyway, the bastard.

Lambert was already halfway to the car, ignoring both of his brothers. His wide smile showed off the tips of his unnaturally sharp teeth.

Lambert sauntered up to the car’s passenger side window, leaned down dramatically, and tugged the door handle gently but with a grin sharp enough to gut a ghoul.

“ Don’t worry, it’s locked! ” he called out to the woman who was just standing there, wide-eyed as she watched him.

The woman yelped when Lambert’s golden cat-like eyes met her own fearful one. She clutched her chest and dropped her soy latte on the ground like it was radioactive.

Lambert laughed as the woman scurried away in her high heels as fast as she could. When she turned around, he threw double-finger guns over his shoulder before he strutted back to his brothers.

Eskel stared at him. “You love to be hated, don’t you?”

“I thrive in adversity.”

“You’re thriving like mould in a damp cupboard.”

Geralt didn’t bother to look up as his brothers insulted one another, knocking shoulders as they walked down the street. “You’re a plague.”

Lambert shrugged at Geralt, his face full of faux innocence and very real mischief. “And yet you keep inviting me on these monster-killing road trips. Wonder why that is?”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it kept happening.

Not the whole locking your car doors, or spitting in the street at them etc.

Well, yes, but also the way Lambert kept up his new ridiculous routine of checking the car doors whenever he was in either a pissy or adrenaline-filled mood. Considering this was Lambert, that meant all the gods damned time!

Once, a teenager locked his Prius with unnecessary force as soon as the witchers came into view. Lambert detoured straight for him and his car, tugged the handle, leaned in like a car salesman sensing a lucrative sale and smiled sharply as he said, “It’s still locked! Great job, sport!” The kid flipped Lambert off before pulling away. Lambert flipped the kid off in return before sending a wink his way. Lambert’s cackles could be heard following him down the street as the kid nearly drove into a bush, face bright red at Lambert’s antics.

Next time it was a dude in gym clothes who spotted them as they walked past and straight-up bolted to his jeep, slamming the lock button four times as soon as his arse was on the seat. “Don’t worry!” Lambert called after the retreating jeep, “Your overpriced protein powder is safe from us!” He paused and tilted his head when he thought of what he had said. “Well, they are safe from Geralt and Eskel. I will 100% steal your shit. But not today.”

Geralt had turned slowly to Lambert. His expression would have scared a lesser man. “Do you ever shut up?”

Lambert, however, was not a lesser man and just grinned at Geralt cheekily. “Sure, I do,” Lambert answered. I take breaks when I sleep.”

“That’s a lie,” Eskel muttered as he shoved Lambert as he passed him.

“You still talk in your sleep. You once tried to order a kebab at 2 a.m. while recovering from potion toxicity.”

Lambert beamed at this new information. How had Eskel never mentioned this before? “Did I get it?”

“You cried when the dream kebab didn’t show up.” Eskel deadpanned at him.

“Tragic. That’s absolutely tragic. In fact, it’s so tragic we should get kebabs now to fix it,” Lambert said before leading them to his favourite place. Eskel and Geralt shared a long, suffering sigh as they followed in their younger brother’s chaotic wake.

Geralt sighed when he realised it was going to be another day full of the same bullshit they always dealt with.

Until it wasn’t …

They were passing through the kind of cul-de-sac that made Geralt’s teeth ache. All pastel houses with fake shutters and cookie-cutter houses that were exactly the same as the house before it. The three witchers stood out like a sore thumb. Grubby and covered in blood and viscera as they were, the stench of drowners cleaning them. The fools in this neighbourhood had thought themselves untouchable from monsters and things that could rip them apart limb from limb, feeling they were too good for a witchers services, at least they had until they were desperate and a bunch of their rebelling teens were nothing but bones at the bottom of their once idyllic lake.

Geralt was wandering down the street, ignoring the looks they were getting as Eskel and Lambert bickered, feeling grateful that they rarely went on hunts alone now. Their pay was deposited straight into a bank account and shared equally with all the witchers left in their schools.

There weren’t many of them left, but they at least now always had enough food to eat and a home to go to, something they had never been able to rely on in the past. New witchers couldn’t be created, not that any of the others would allow it to happen anyway, and so the last of them hung on. Fighting monsters the way they always had and still being treated like shit for it. Nothing new, Geralt thought with a sigh.

He sighed even louder when he looked up at the noise Lambert made when he spotted a car idling away in the direction they were heading.

Geralt couldn’t help but notice how out of place the car looked. It was bright yellow, the only spot of colour in the whole depressing neighbourhood, and even that was hard to tell, considering the amount of mud and dust covering it. If their car was anything to go by, whoever drove it obviously wasn’t concerned by looks.

Geralt didn’t trust whoever owned that car on principle. One should look after one’s tools, whether it was a car, a sword, or a calculator. Whoever owned that car obviously couldn’t care less about the vehicle that transported them around.

Unfortunately, Lambert had no (or at least very few) principles, and as soon as he noticed the car window down, he veered towards it like a dog chasing a mailman. A dog that fully intended to bite.

Eskel sighed as he followed Lambert, not sure if he was doing damage control or going to egg him on today. “Here we go,” he called back to Geralt, who just grunted at them both, already fed up with their shenanigans. He had expected Eskel, of all people, to behave better than Lambert.

Lambert reached for the handle, grinning at Eskel, who was already laughing. “Don’t worry, it’s …”

The door swung open, causing both Lambert and Eskel to stand there in shock. Lambert whispered, “ … unlocked . ”

“Need a lift?” was heard from inside the car.

The man inside smiled widely as though an aggressive and armed stranger hadn’t just approached him. He was young-looking, with bright eyes, dimpled cheeks, and curls that looked a little too artfully tousled to be accidental.

Lambert stared at him in surprise when he didn’t start screaming in his face immediately.

Eskel peeked over his brother’s shoulder, unsure if he should drag Lambert away or not. Geralt reached for his sword because you never knew what people were going to do, and he would rather become the Butcher again than let his idiot brother get hurt right before his very eyes.

“I mean …” the man continued, completely unperturbed by the three large, glaring men towering over him as he sat in his driver’s seat with a smile. You all look a little footsore. I’ve got snacks and Spotify Premium. Do you want to hop in?”

“… Are you high?” Lambert finally blurted out, genuinely confused.

The man let out a laugh that could only be described as musical before he tilted his head, and his smile softened in the face of Lambert’s confusion. “Only on life and a concerning amount of caffeine.”

“You know we’re Witchers, right?” Eskel asked from where he stood, just as bemused as Lambert.

“Indeed, I do,” the man said, his voice rising in what the witchers would normally classify as excitement, but obviously, that couldn’t be the case here. “I’ve always wanted to get to know a Witcher. You’re legends! Tragic, brooding men who are full of mystery and Destiny. It’s a very sexy vibe, if I may say.”

“You may not …” Geralt growled out, trying to figure out the trap here. There had to be one. People, especially humans, didn’t want to just meet them.

“Noted. But still true,” the man added, not bothered by Geralt’s grumbling in the slightest.

The man, Jaskier something or other, held a hand towards Geralt as he introduced himself. “Jaskier. Bard. Songwriter. Professional disaster. And you handsome men are?”

Geralt looked at the offered hand like it might explode.

Lambert took it wearily before shaking it and muttered, “Lambert. Gremlin. Sarcasm enthusiast.”

“Charming is what you are,” Jaskier said brightly, and the witchers were stumped to realise he actually meant it. There wasn’t a lie on the man. “So. Carpool?”

There was a silence that lasted an uncomfortable length as the witchers stared at the man in the car. He stared back, smiling softly.

Eskel finally shrugged and broke the silence before pushing Lambert into the front seat as if this was his fault. “Fuck it, we’ve done dumber things.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jaskier said brightly as the witchers gingerly fit themselves inside Jaskier’s much too small for 3 fully grown witchers’ cars.

Geralt glared as he settled next to Eskel, his hand never too far from any number of daggers. He refused to take his eyes off the odd man who was offering them a lift. “He’s obviously insane,” he muttered loud enough for even Jaskier to hear.

“I prefer the term odd, not crazy, thank you very much,’” Jaskier said as he finally started the car. “I also need an address. Oh, and Lambert, wasn’t it? There’s gummy bears in the glove box,” he said with a smile.

Lambert reached forward before quickly noticing the unopened bag of sweets and fishing them out. “Fuck yeah, why didn’t you say that to start with?” he asked as Jaskier laughed beside him. Both of them ignoring the holes Geralt was glaring into the back of their heads from his place behind them.

Chapter Text

Jaskier had somehow managed to get his boots filthy, his scarf caught on a branch, and the elbow of his jacket caught and ripped on a tree before he had even made it to the clearing where the Witchers were cutting open a group of freshly slain drowners. A large group of drowners, too. Jaskier was glad they had worked together, and he eyed the drowners wearily, remembering things that were (mostly) best forgotten.

It was now early evening. The air was thick with swamp fog and blood, and the smell of wet rot clung to the trees, making Jaskier wrinkle his nose in disgust. Not that he would have left, no matter how foul the smell or scene before him was.

“Are those it’s brains?” Jaskier suddenly asked the witchers before him. Both halves horrified and half fascinated as he peered over Lambert’s shoulder to better understand what the other man was doing.

“Yep,” Lambert answered, his whole hand swallowed up as he fished around in the creature’s skull. He grinned at Jaskier, looking like a mischievous child—admittedly, a blood-covered one. “Want a closer look?”

“Absolutely not,” Jaskier said. “But also, yes … Give me a second to process the contradiction of both of these feelings,” he said as he took a deep breath before moving beside Lambert instead of behind him.

Geralt was crouched nearby, stoic and silent as always, as he expertly separated glands and organ clusters and placed them into little vacuum-sealed bags.

“Do you … do you always harvest things after a kill?” Jaskier asked, pulling his scarf tighter over his nose as he leaned closer to the dead creature before him.

“Only useful parts,” Geralt snapped at him shortly.

“For what?”

“This,” Eskel murmured as he uncorked a small vial of clear fluid and poured it into a glass vial. The contents turned a bright, unsettling green before Jaskier’s very eyes.

“You’re making a potion in the middle of a swamp?” Jaskier blinked at Eskel. “Is that safe?”

“No,” Lambert answered him cheerfully.

“Yes,” Geralt snapped out at the same time.

“Depends who you ask,” Eskel added helpfully, ignoring his brothers as they glared at one another.

Jaskier watched them work like a wide-eyed child on a field trip that suddenly turned into a forensic autopsy before his eyes. The three witchers moved like they’d done this a thousand times, which Jaskier supposed they probably had, and he paid attention as they communicated with grunts, hand signals, and the occasional “Hey, toss me the other spleen.”

When they were finally finished, Geralt stood and pointed one of his bloodied fingers directly at Jaskier.

“None of this goes in your songs.”

Jaskier blinked at him innocently. “What? The potion-making or skull surgery?”

“Any of it,” Geralt growled out.

Jaskier was sure it did not have the intended effect Geralt was going for. He was sure it was meant to be some kind of threat, but well, one, that growl was sexy as fuck, and two, Geralt had just been digging around in drowner brains, looking as happy as a kid digging for worms. That was to say, not scary at all, not even a little bit. Jaskier, of course, wanted Geralt to growl at him like that again, and so he opened his mouth to ask, “Can I at least mention the word ‘spleen’ in passing?”

“No!”

“But it’s such a good word, Geralt.”

Geralt was already walking away and so did not see the huge grin now gracing Jaskier’s face.

That night, Jaskier insisted on camping with them. Regardless of how much the witchers (Geralt in particular) tried to convince him it was a bad idea, Jaskier knew he wouldn’t be in any danger. After all, he was camping with three witchers AFTER they had killed the drowners already. There was no danger here, and Jaskier was sure that if, miraculously, there was, he would be perfectly safe behind all three men.

“I need the full Witcher experience,” Jaskier declared once again, as though that was the most reasonable sentence in the world.

“No, you don’t,” Geralt had argued back.

But it was already too late, and Geralt knew it as he gave up with a strained sigh.

Jaskier then made up his wildly expensive and far-too-colourful tent and unpacked what Eskel suspected was a gourmet food pack from the kind of high-end shops no witcher would ever be able allowed to step foot in even if they wanted to. He hung up tiny, battery-powered fairy lights along the trees like this was his home away from home. Eskel gave Lambert a look, who looked back at him just a bemused before shrugging his shoulders at the man’s actions.

“I brought actual food,” Jaskier proudly told them as he set out the containers of roasted vegetables, seared meat, and a sauce that smelt vaguely like it had been created by and for the Gods.

“You gonna feed us?” Lambert asked. As soon as Jaskier nodded with a beaming smile, Lambert grabbed some of the meat and started shovelling it into his mouth before it could ignite on the little camp stove Jaskeir was fiddling with.

Jaskier clearly had no idea what he was doing and was much too close to the fire as he nearly singed off his eyebrows, and Eskel’s, who was beside him whilst flipping the bacon hat, probably cost more than Geralt’s entire gear.

“Bacon’s done!” Jaskier suddenly announced triumphantly.

“ My face is done,” Eskel grumbled, irritated.

Jaskier grinned widely at the witcher, completely unrepentant.

Later that evening, after the food was gone and Lambert had butchered a tale about a barghest and a goat, the four men settled into a comfortable silence.

Jaskier sat a little apart from the others, his back against a tree as he strummed softly on an old, well-loved lute. It was a simple melody, just a few chords he played like a lullaby. Then he started singing, half under his breath, like he wasn’t even aware of it.

“Steel flashed, claws cracked,

Through the dark, he fought them back.

One small child, safe and sound,

While monsters bled upon the ground.”

The notes were soft and gentle, the kind of tune created for small children to let them know an unnamed hero would protect them. The fact that the hero of the song was a witcher still startled Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert.

“Eyes like amber, hair so pale,

Took no coin, just turned to go.

Told the babe: ‘Run and be safe.’

Vanished ‘fore the world could see.”

Oh, Witcher, witcher, saved the boy,

Oh, Witcher, Witcher, the family rejoiced,

Oh, Witcher, witcher, thank you once more,

For killing the things that hunt little boys

It wasn’t a fancy song. Far from it. But what it was was a kind song.

Which is what made Geralt’s fingers twitch and his jaw set as he ground his teeth harshly. He knew that song. They all did. It had first sprung up about 10 years ago. Out of nowhere. No pale-haired witcher remembered the contract; none knew who they had saved to even receive a song. It was something they had never imagined would happen, especially considering the song sang their praises and not how monstrous they were. It was still a mystery to all the remaining witchers how such a soft song about them had become popular. How it was sung in dingy pubs and common places all around the Continent.

Everywhere it was sung, witchers got a slightly better go of it. Children weren't scared of them; after all, their bedtime lullaby told them that a witcher would save them. Parents who knew of monster problems may have sneered at the witchers, but they never said anything outright, never tried to chase the witchers away. They knew that if they wanted their children safe, they needed a witcher to do their work, and so, because of one little song that no witcher could place, the witchers were slightly less reviled than they had ever been.

After a few years, it had fallen out of popularity, though the song still lingered in the more out-of-the-way places, places where music wasn’t as quick to spread and where monsters were not an invisible threat the way they were in larger cities, like where the wolves had set up base at the moment.

And now that song echoed through the trees in Jaskier’s warm, unwavering voice.

Eskel turned slightly toward the singing man. “That song … Where’d you hear it?”

Jaskier didn’t look up; instead, he sat there still plucking at the strings. “Dunno. Somewhere,” he replied with a casual shrug. “It’s stuck with me though.”

Lambert gave a low whistle at Jaskier and his playing. None of them would admit it, but they had heard that song over and over again for years, and no one had ever sung it as well as Jaskier had. He sang it half-heartedly and barely paid attention. All three witchers wondered how good he sounded when he actually tried.

“I never thought I’d hear that one around these parts again. It used to piss off half the drunks in Redani,” Lambert added.

“It’s a shame, really,” Eskel added before settling down on his bedroll. “It’s a good song.”

Jaskier grinned softly at the witchers when he finally looked up from his lute. “Thanks. I might polish it up one day,” he said before bidding the witchers goodnight and stepping into his tent.

Geralt didn’t speak. He just stood, silent and heavy in the shadows, his eyes fixed on Jaskier as he entered his tent.

Because no one just happened to know that song and sing it perfectly.

Especially as all three witchers knew Jaskier had been lying when he said he didn’t know where he had picked it up from. None of them wanted to press Jaskier about it, not yet, but Geralt promised himself he would keep an ear out for other inconsequential things Jaskier was lying about and why.

On the next hunt, Jaskier somehow learnt of their whereabouts and joined them again, something he did every chance he got now.

He always popped up just after the hunt was finished and the critters were dead. He was always just in time for the mess and ingredient gathering but never in time to be in danger.

“Bard’s back,” Lambert called from where he was plucking griffon feathers as Jaskier walked toward them, waving cheerily with his notebook in hand.

Jaskier stopped mid-step. “Bard? Really? That’s what you’re calling me now?”

Lambert snorted at him. “Yeah. You write songs and play a lute, don’t you?”

“I’m a singer-songwriter,” Jaskier said, wounded. “Do I look like I juggle knives and tell tales in alehouses for tips?”

“Bards weren’t fools, Jaskier,” Eskel explained softly when he realised neither Geralt nor Lambert would. “They told stories with music. From ballads to dirty jigs, They held music in their hands, and if they were good, well, they held people in them too,” Eskel told him with a smile.

Jaskier’s entire face lit up at the compliment, and he let out a soft “oh” at the insinuation that he was that good at singing, at least to these men.

Geralt, who was walking past Jaskier, paused just long enough to glance pointedly at the lute slung over Jaskier’s back. It was made of old wood and had been lovingly repaired in places. It was far too traditional an instrument for a man who wore designer boots and quoted internet memes, yet he played it like he had been born to do so.

“Bard,” Geralt said again, his tone final before he kept walking.

Jaskier laughed, the sound wide and delighted. “You lot are so weirdly old-fashioned, I swear. How long have you even been alive?”

“Old enough to know you talk too much,” Geralt muttered, refusing to let himself get lost in Jaskier’s smile or the happiness wafting off him.

“But I’m charming still? Right”

Geralt kept moving, not giving the bard the ego boost he clearly wanted.

Lambert nodded at Jaskier, smiling mischievously. “As charming as a raccoon in a rubbish bin you are.”

“Thank you!” Jaskier beamed even larger at Lambert’s words.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Lambert huffed out, trying to ignore the laughter that threatened to rush out of him. The bard was all right, as far as he was concerned.

After that, Jaskier just kept showing up, smiling like he belonged there, laughing and joking with the witchers. Fitting in almost seamlessly as he kept collecting every story the Witchers let slip. And, well, none of them really told him to stop coming around. So until they did, he would continue to fill up his notebooks, ready to turn their heroic exploits into songs that would be worthy of them, of all the witchers who still did a service so many people would be dead without.

Chapter Text

There were few things Lambert liked even less than towns. Maybe overcooked bacon. Possibly necrophages. But towns were right up there in the top three things he hated with all the passion in his spiteful soul. There were always too many people gawking at him wherever he went. There were too many muttered slurs that his enhanced hearing picked up perfectly. Too many people who thought they were subtle when they triple-locked their cars or pulled their children closer the moment they saw a Witcher, which was why Lambert had begun to play his “Don't worry, it’s locked” game. To turn the tables on them. To give them a friendly fright, considering they were always worried about him, his brothers, and his brethren doing something nefarious. It didn’t matter that even in this day and age, they risked their lives, usually on much larger infestations that had been ignored until they couldn’t be anymore, with every contract they took. Didn’t matter that being a witcher was still a vital service and that sometimes Lambert wished they would let a group of monsters rampage a town. Get the kids out, let the monsters eat the ignorant adults, and maybe then the world would be kinder to them. But then, Lambert knew better than that. They would all be blamed and shunned even harder if that were possible if monsters did more than just small amounts of damage, and life was already hard for a witcher without them making it harder on themselves.

Which was why it took Lambert a while to notice that people were being weird towards him. Not hostile weird either. But friendly weird. He had seen people smile at him. He had seen children wave at him, and their parents hadn’t pulled them away and scurried off as fast as possible.

Lambert felt uneasy. His senses were screaming that something was off, and things that were off were often deadly.

He hurried forward, checking the time to make sure he hadn’t missed his meet-up with Eskel and Geralt. They had taken different, smaller jobs around the area, as no witcher had been through in a few months.

Lambert had to suppress his snarl when he was standing outside the shop they were to meet in, and a random woman put her hand on his arm, smiled at him, and handed him a pamphlet before mentioning kids and colouring books and walking away.

Lambert looked down at the pamphlet now in his hand. It was a bright, cheery yellow colour with stars on the front and a picture of a cartoon Witcher.

Lambert blinked down at it as he read the title.

“Meet the Modern Witcher! Myths and Facts!”

It read in a loopy blue script.

He opened it, unsure if he wanted to laugh or sneer at the words written inside of it.

MYTH : Witchers have no feelings.

FACT : Witchers experience emotions just like anyone else! They simply express them differently, often due to their traumatic upbringings and constant exposure to life-threatening situations. Give them grace!

 

“Eskel,” Lambert called as soon as he saw his brother walking towards him, his voice tight and confused, causing Eskel to hurry towards him.

“Eskel, you gotta see this.”

Eskel was beside Lambert’s side quickly, placing a hand on Lambert’s shoulder as he looked him over for injuries. “What? What’s wrong? he asked, the concern clear in his voice.

Lambert shoved the pamphlet into his brother’s hands without saying another word.

Eskel read aloud.

Myth : Witchers have to have their hair a certain way.

Fact: False. Witchers are not legally required to have any specific hairstyle. Some shave their heads bald. Some have long flowing locks. Like all people, they express themselves through their hair and clothes. The only “uniform” they have is armour distinct to each group of witchers.

“Read the next one,” Lambert said as he read over Eskel’s shoulder, pulling Geralt close as soon as he had approached them.

Eskel flipped the page and did so.

“MYTH : Witchers kidnap children.

FACT : No. Absolutely not. That’s nonsense. We don’t even like other people’s children.” - Letho, a Viper Witcher.

 

“That’s a direct quote. From Letho, of all people?” Lambert cackled.

Geralt, meanwhile, was frozen in front of the community bulletin board where he had half turned as his brothers laughed.

He was staring up at a poster, glaring at it with all his concentrated rage.

The poster showed a man with a long white mane, golden eyes, and a face that looked far too much like Geralt of Rivia himself to be a coincidence.

Above it, in bold golden bubble letters:

“Witchers – Because Monsters Don’t Slay Themselves!”

Beneath that:

“Original Witcher Truths Brought to You by The Witcher PR Initiative.”

“What. The. Fuck …” Geralt growled out, transfixed by the poster in front of him.

“Wow,” Eskel said with a laugh as he stood behind Geralt with the pamphlet still in hand. “That looks exactly like you. Even the scowl.”

Lambert doubled over laughing. “I’d say you should sue whoever made these, but they’ve got your good side.”

Geralt snatched the pamphlet out of Eskels hand and turned his glare to that instead of the poster. “Where the fuck did you get this?”

“Someone handed it to me,” Lambert admitted as he leaned against the wall, still chuckling. “Said their kid got a Witcher colouring book at school too.”

Geralt blinked. “Colouring book …”

“Oh yeah,” Eskel added, pulling one out of his bag like a magician. “Check this out. I was going to show it to you anyway. If that’s you, I bet this is me.” He said as he pointed to a witcher with scars almost identical to his own who was fighting a foglet. “And I think Lambert’s here, riding a griffin like a noble steed.”

Geralt stared at the small, unassuming book in Eskels’s hand and assumed many unkind things about whoever had created it. “This is weird,” he finally said.

“No,” Lambert countered. “This is amazing.” He grabbed the book out of Eskel’s hand and flipped through it. “You reckon this is Letho? This bald one bowing had to be Coen, right?”

Geralt flipped through the book in his hand again, worried about what he would read. Whoever had written this knew at least five witchers to have got such accurate pictures for them, even if they were cartoons. They had also apparently talked to witchers and shared … things. He started reading it, worried about what had been shared with the world at large.

To his complete surprise there was no information about their mutagens, just that they were enhanced humans as ordinary humans died at the teeth and claws of monsters and witchers did not.

There was no mention of their potions apart from the fact that witchers sometimes took them, and though their black eyes could be a little scary, it was to fight the things that would kill everyone around.

It was just stories and small tidbits about how normal witchers were aside from the fact they were witchers. There were mentions of heroic battles.

There were also plenty of helpful tips like “If you see a Witcher, don’t panic. Offer water. Stay out of the way.” “If a witcher tells you to run, run.”

It wasn’t accurate, exactly. It was mostly fiction, with a few facts thrown in. It also wasn’t dangerous. In fact, if the people around them paid heed to this, their jobs would be so much easier.

It was a curated image of witchers, a sanitised version packaged well in bright, colourful, eye-catching themes. Geralt was slightly impressed, even if he would never admit it.

Geralt’s knuckles whitened as his grasp on the paper tightened. “It’s Jaskier,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

Eskel blinked at him in surprise. “What? What do you mean it’s Jaskier?”

“This has his fingerprints all over it.” Who else could it be?” Geralt asked, surprised his brothers had not come to the same conclusion.

“You think the guy who almost burnt off his entire face and Eskel’s eyebrows the first time he camped with us is behind this like some kind of competent PR mastermind? Come off it, Geralt,” Lambert said, his laughter starting up again at the absurdity of Geralt’s idea.

“I don’t think so. I know it ,” Geralt snapped at Lambert. “We haven’t seen him in weeks. No word. No calls. No sudden, inconvenient songs showing up right after our hunts. And meanwhile, this has been happening in places we haven’t travelled to recently?” He said as he waved the pamphlet around. “His whole thing is telling stories, and he seems to be fixated on us at the moment.”.

Lambert raised an eyebrow at the sheer aggressiveness in Geralt’s voice. “And you’re mad about this because ...?”

“Because why? Are we a fad? Until he finds the next shiny thing to “inspire” him? How long until the information turns against us? Until whoever this is, until Jaskier gets bored and decides to PR us the other way? We have always been monsters to humans. We always will be. All this … The posters, the colouring books, the songs …” Geralt trailed off, his chest heaving as he thought about how easily this could all go wrong and he would once again lose someone. His brothers, the few witcher friends he had, Vessimer. Humans were fickle, and Jaksier was more so than most. Geralt couldn’t understand why Eskel and Lambert weren’t more worried about this than they were.

“You really think so? I mean, we know he can sing. But he has never sung anything overly complicated like these new songs that are floating around,” Eskel asked, deep into thought. He was pretty sure Geralt was just being paranoid, but it never hurt to be cautious. It was how they were all still alive after all.

Lambert laughed at them both and their paranoia. “Look, whoever it is, and I bet it isn’t Jaskier, is helping us. We should say thank you and call it a day. Besides, the songs have already spread. Especially the ones about Witchers saving kids or slaying beasts to protect entire towns. They are simple, catchy, old-timey songs. Gods, what I wouldn’t have given to have someone play these when people were still stabbing us in the guts with pitchforks. There was one playing on the radio yesterday.”

Eskel shrugged. He wasn’t sure whether Geralt or Lambert was right, but Lambert was correct about one thing. “ That folky ballad one about a Witcher named ‘Adder the Viper’ pulling a kid from a harpy’s nest? Yeah, it’s catchy and teaches the kids not to go to mountains alone.”

Geralt looked at Eskel like he was going to combust. “Adder? The Viper? That’s not even a real Witcher ,” he said in exasperation before storming off, ignoring his brother’s sniggers behind him. He would get to the bottom of this and knew just the person to start with.

Kaer Morhen Discord Server: “BrothersGrimm” Channel

Geralt : Vesemir, who the fuck authorised “ The White Wolf PR Initiative ”?

Vesemir : The what?

Geralt : THERE ARE COLOURING BOOKS. Of Witchers, on Griffins …

Lambert : Best day of my life this is. Geralt’s pissed off, and I’m seeing me riding a Griffen is pretty badarse, not gonna lie.

Eskel : The Griffin pic does go hard. I’m gonna colour and frame it.

Vesemir : … There’s a what now? What are you boys on about? Did you mix your potions again?

Geralt : Of course not! There are posters, Ves.

            POSTERS. PAMPHLETS.

            Someone is making us into a JOKE!

Lambert: Forget about him. Someone is giving us free, helpful PR. He’s just nasty cause he doesn’t know who it is.

Vesemir : I don’t know. I just found out that there’s a statue in Dol Angra of a witcher killing a water hag.

Lambert : … There’s a statue???

Eskel : I want a statue.

Geralt : VES!!!

Vesemir : Alright, alright. I’ll dig around.

Lambert : While you’re at it, can you find out if there are like any teddy bears? I want a stuffed Kikimore.

Three towns later, they stumbled into Jaskier again. He was sitting on a park bench, strumming his lute, surrounded by kids and their parents.

“Wolves!” he called out brightly, waving as soon as he spotted the three men walking towards him. “It’s been ages, hasn’t it? Miss me?”

Geralt stalked forward, ready to get some answers regardless of the audience they had. “Where have you been?”

“Aw, you sound worried.” Jaskier beamed up at him from his seated position, not in the least bit intimidated by the irate witcher before him. “I’ve just been travelling around. Exploring. Observing. That sort of thing. I’ve been meaning to bump into you because it turns out I still don’t have any of your numbers, which is a real shame, isn’t it?” Jaskier rambled one, completely derailing Geralt from the rage he had been feeling only moments before

“You mean collecting, right?” Geralt asked arms crossed as he tried to get this interrogation back on track and not let it devolve into whatever asinine chatter Jaskier wanted to talk about.

Jaskier blinked up at Geralt innocently. “Collecting what, my dear Witcher?”

“Pamphlets. Posters. Colouring books, you know, things that suddenly have all sorts of witcher information in them.”

Lambert piped up, a shit-eating grin on his face, “Cookies. Don’t forget the cookies.”

“Oh, those were delicious,” Jaskier said without missing a beat. “And very accurate scar placement. Impressive sugarwork.”

Eskel and Geralt both turned their amber-eyed gazes on the man, who let out a soft cough, his face slightly pinkening. “I mean, I saw the photos. Online. There are all sorts of things online, and everyone is talking about how delicious it is and how it's no wonder monsters want to eat witchers if they taste that delicious. You know how the internet is,” he said as he waved his hand, trying to pretend the last few moments hadn’t happened.

Geralt stared him down. “I knew it was you. Running this.”

“Running what, Geralt?”

“This.! Geralt gestured vaguely, encompassing the entire park where people were watching but not running in fear of an angry witcher, their current confusion at what the hell was going on and the past three weeks of PR madness.

Jaskier smiled at Geralt as he answered. “It isn’t me, I’m afraid, but would you be angry if it were?”

Geralt glared at Jaskier. Annoyed that there was no trace of a lie in Jaskier’s scent. Geralt had been positive that it had to be the bard. Who else could it be, and the timeline added up.

“I’ll take that as a yes then,” Jaskier said more to himself than Geralt before he returned to strumming his lute. “Well. Lucky for us both, it’s not me. But whoever it is has excellent taste.”

Geralt opened his mouth to retort but stopped himself. Jaskier wasn’t lying, and now Geralt was back to square one about who was running this thing. And Jaskier hadn’t even asked Geralt why he thought it was him. It was as though he had been expecting to be asked when they met up and didn’t look perturbed by it at all.

No, instead, Jaskier just kept on smiling and playing, as though this whole mess and Jaskier in particular weren’t giving Geralt a headache. Geralrt just let out a soft snarl as he turned and stormed off, leaving Eskel and Lambert behind to deal with the frustrating Bard.

That night, Vesemir dropped into the chat.

Vesemir @ 10:21 p.m. I got answers. Sort of.

Geralt : Well?

Vesemir : The posters, booklets, merchandise. None of it’s turning a profit. The donations, streaming revenue, anything earned? It’s all going straight into a set of accounts.

Geralt : Whose accounts?

Vesemir : Witcher-only accounts. Custom routing: Someone paid a mage a pretty penny to key them to medallion-linked biometrics, which means someone got a hold of a medallion of each existing school. Yes, I asked around, but none of us have been                      missing one. I have no idea how they managed it.

Lambert : Wait … like accounts for us? witcher accounts

Eskel : You’re saying … whoever is putting in all this effort isn’t even being paid?

Vesemir: No! Apparently not. Every penny earned is being funnelled back into supplies, transport, and repair grants for the few still-standing keeps. We, the oldest witchers, were also sent a list of witcher-friendly establishments that would treat us fairly                    and pass it on to you all, as you never have a known address between the lot of you apart from where we are.

Geralt : Who would do that? For us?

Vesemir: Whoever it is, they’ve been planning this for years. The infrastructure is solid. This list has armourers, apothecaries, healers, and cheap but friendly motels on it, to name a few. It’s all legal. All overheads and every pound raised is accounted for.                    They are clever and have been doing this background work for much longer than I could have imagined.

Lambert : … okay. This is officially the weirdest conspiracy I’ve ever liked.

Eskel : Same. Hey, Lambert, you reckon we can request things? I want more stickers.

Geralt : I still think it’s Jaskier. He is the only known person who has been around us.

Vesemir: That’s the bard you were all jabbering about, correct? How old is the boy? This has been a work in progress for a long time, and I’m not sure he is old enough or, from what you say, Geralt, smart enough to have pulled this off.

Geralt: I don’t know, but I will find out.

Lambert: Geralt, leave the guy alone! I can hear you snarling over text. I like him.

Geralt: That’s just because you think he’s pretty, and he calls you Red Wolf.

Eskel: Like you have room to talk , White Wolf. We all know he fancies you!

Geralt: WHAT!!!

Lambert: How are you this dumb? Even I’m not this stupid.

Eskel: Tell that to Aiden. How long did that take you to court him? A couple of centuries?

Lambert: We aren’t talking about me. We’re talking about Geralt being an oblivious idiot and the bard all but throwing himself at him.

Geralt: He does no such thing.

Eskel: No, because for all his nattering, he at least has decorum and possibly a small sense of self-preservation not to launch himself at you, no matter how much he wants to.

Geralt: Bullshit! He does not fancy me.

Lambert: Uh huh, and I’m a mage.

Geralt: You’re a dickhead is what you are. Wait till I see you!

Lambert: Oh no, I’m shaking in my boots. Speaking of Vesemir, are there any cobblers on that list? Acid tried to eat mine.

Eskel : You alright?

Lambert: Yeah, fine. Just need new boots. Hey, does that mean I can use some of this money to buy them?

Geralt: No!

Vesemir: Yes. Just keep a receipt, just in case and don’t go overboard.

Geralt: Lambert, no! There has to be a catch here.

Eskel: or maybe, for once in our lives, someone has learnt to appreciate us and is doing something about it?

Geralt: You can’t be that naive, surely?

Vesemir: While I would usually agree with you, Geralt: Guxart, Erland, and I have looked into this extensively. They were looking first, as it appears we were the last school approached. This is a legitimate offer to help us, and we need all the help we can get.

Geralt: I still don’t like it.

Vesemir: You don’t have to like it. You have to just accept it for now. We will see what happens during the year. It is only the start of summer. When you return here for winter, then we will know if this thing was just a new fad or here to last, to help us in                    the future.

Lambert: Shut up, Geralt!

Geralt: I didn’t say anything.

Lambert: I can see you typing, and it's going to be bullshit. It’s cool. I get new boots, Esk needs a new sword. You need that stick pulling form out of your arse. Take the help now while it’s there ’cause you might be right, and it might all just fuck off and                    leave us as we were. No worse off and with new, decent equipment.

Geralt: Fine, But I’m not using the money!

Lambert: Don’t then. Be a twat. Don’t come crying to us when you die!

Geralt: How will I do anything if I’m dead? You idiot.

Vesemir: ENOUGH! It is settled for now. Use what you need, but keep receipts. Bring them back in winter, and I will keep them here. Be safe, boys.

With that, the four witchers left the chat for the night. Each wondered if this really was the good fortune they had always wanted and needed or if it would turn around and spit acid in their faces, as Geralt thought.

There was nothing for it, though. As Vesimer said, they would have to wait and see. Something Witchers were good at, thankfully.