Falling for the famous fall event
Witcher Trick or Treat 2022 October 21 Prompt: Fall
"Ah, what a rare guest at our humble breakfast table! Come, sit friend. What brings you hither?" Regis asks good-naturedly when the door to the kitchen opens. The castle's kitchen where they are having an extensive and rather late morning meal - as it has become their custom. They, to be more specific, being the higher vampire Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, the archer Maria Barring, known as Milva, the juvenile delinquent Angoulême and the alleged non-Nilfgaardian Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. (Not to mention the several chickens that love to pick the plentiful crumbs under the table.) Once in a while those four are joined by their company's leader, the Witcher Geralt of Rivia, also called the White Wolf. Once in a while meaning whenever he is not otherwise engaged - on Witcher business in one of the many wine cellars, caverns and underground tunnels of Toussaint, or on some very different and extremely private business with the former Nilfgaardian sorceress Fringilla Vigo. Former Nilfgaardian, not former sorceress, mind, as she is still in possession of plenty of magic. However, ever since this motley crew that calls itself a Hanza, arrived in Beauclair, much of her time has been spent with a quite special kind of magic - the very ancient and mysterious magic of love. Involving herself and the aforementioned Witcher. Leaving the Witcher little time for his friends and comrades. A situation very alike to the one the new arrival to the kitchen has found himself in. Only that his time available for his friends and comrades is even more scarce than the Witcher's. Actually, it is more like non-existent. As his Little Weasel is very demanding - besides being the Duchess of the small but beautifully peaceful and secluded fairy-tale like duchy of Toussaint, the home-country of the famous Est-Est as well as of several other very expensive and celebrated-around-the-Continent wines. (And, although it is a vassal state of Nilfgaard, the only country on the entire continent that neither has nor needs either an army or a secret service. And whose borders even the Nilfgaardian counter-intelligence do not dare violate.)
"Am I dreaming? The bard in the flesh! I can hardly believe my eyes!" exclaims Milva. "Hm," she knits her brow exaggeratedly. "What was his name again?"
"Jason? No. Jasper?" the alleged non-Nilfgaardian with the very long name suggests, a little smile playing around the corners of his mouth - an occurrence even rarer than the White Wolf's visits to the kitchen. What a truly remarkable coincidence that exactly this day both of these rare occurrences are occurring at the very same time - as the white-haired Witcher is also sitting at the table busily eating away at a huge chunk of juicy roast beef. The fact that his mouth is filled to the brim with pieces of a dead cow probably being the reason for why he does not say anything in greeting to his long-lost friend. Although, come to think of it, it might also be owed to his overall taciturnity. Or the circumstance that the others in his company have, in the Witcher's opinion, already commented enough on the topic. An opinion not shared by Angoulême. As was to be expected, she butts in and adds her two pennies worth, too.
"Balderdash, it's Dandelion, can't you see?" The young girl, who, at first glance, looks so much alike Ciri, breaks into a raucous laughter and the others soon join in. However they do so with very different levels of merriment, Geralt and Cahir, as usual, bringing up the rear - as usual with merriment, mind, not in a battle or anything else that has more to do with the raising of swords or fists than with raising the corners of one's mouth.
Lo and behold, Angoulême is not so very wrong, too. The bard does look like a dandelion as he is clad from top til toe in yellow silk and brocade. Even his jaunty hat is yellow, including the long feathers sticking from its side. Actually, the only things not yellow about him are his hair and eyes.
"Dandelion, at your service, Mylady!" Jaskier - for that is, of course, what his real name is - not being a spoilsport and able to see, as well as take, a joke, takes off his hat and, bowing to Angoulême deeply, waves it about in such an exaggerated fashion that the girl falls off her chair and onto her butt laughing her head off.
"And how, Jaskier, can we be of service to you?" asks Geralt who, finally having swallowed all the cow chunks in his mouth as well as having washed them down with a long gulp of beer, is able to speak again. Having travelled with the bard for many a year, he has, naturally, seen through his friend right away and knows that there is something that Jaskier wants of them. Hopefully not something involving another banquet or courtly event. Especially not one he has to dress up for. And pretend he is actually enjoying himself while bowing and kissing beringed hands that have never seen a single day's honest work nor held a sword, as well as having to engage in very polite and very meaningless smalltalk with the baroness of this-and-that and the count of wherever-the-fuck.
After helping the still chortling Angoulême back onto her chair, Jaskier sits down on the free one opposite the Witcher. Not quite ready to spill the beans just yet, the bard grabs a tankard, fills it with beer, raises it to the others in the company, then takes a long drink. Putting the tankard back onto the table noisily and wiping some foam off his mouth with a silk handkerchief, which is, how could it be otherwise, bright yellow, he looks around the table. Everybody's eyes are trained on him expectantly. As they should.
"Well, my dear company, I guess you can easily see when you look out the window that fall is coming to an end." He pauses. As this is no news to any of the people - and non-people - sitting around the table, nobody takes the cue to look out the window. Unperturbed by this lack of response, the bard continues. "And, as you might not know, there is a certain tradition in Toussaint, an event that is celebrated every year and famous throughout. Throughout Toussaint, that is. On the thirty-first of October, in the evening. Concluding the harvest and wine-making season." He pauses dramatically. Not in vain this time.
"Spit it out, what folly do you want us to take part in, Jaskier?" asks Geralt suspiciously. "And it's an absolute 'no' if it includes dressing up all in yellow, if that is what it is about."
"Why, n'uncle, a yellow Witcher, that would be an absolute novelty!" Angoulême explodes with laughter. "Yellow? Don't you get it? A Witcher?" she asks when nobody chimes in. On the contrary, she receives a kick agains her shin for her, at least in her opinion, exceedingly hilarious pun. Must have been Milva who is sitting opposite her. However, before she can go into a huff about it, the girl notices secret grins on everybody's faces - everybody's except the Witcher's. Ah, now she is getting it. The others do not want to rile Geralt as a riled Geralt would most certainly not agree to going to any event with any of them, no matter whether or not it involves yellow clothing in any form or way.
"You could, I mean, dress up all in yellow - if you wanted to." The Witcher throws Jaskier a grim look that makes it more than obvious that he does not. "Right, not yellow then. However, you will need to dress up a tiny weeny little bit, I'm afraid. As it is a - masquerade. Toussaint's famous fall masquerade."
"A masquerade? Are you in your right mind?" the Witcher asks incredulous. "I'm definitely not going to a fucking masquerade. Forget it. I'm not dressing up like a bloody fool with fancy headdresses and feathers and teddy bear masks and glitter and stuff like that. Stuff that fucking idiot idea."
"But I want to go, n'uncle! I've never been to a masquerade in my life! Please, can we go?" Angoulême pleads, looking with wide Puss-in-boots-eyes first at the Witcher - but his face is so forbiddingly grim that she instantly knows she will not have any success here no matter how big and round her eyes - then at Milva. "Auntie, what do you say? Say yes, please!"
"I say don't call me auntie! I've said it a hundred times already! Are you so stupid, girl, or just obnoxious? Or both?" Milva explodes, throwing the wooden spoon at Angoulême that she was holding in her hand just a second before. Luckily, Angoulême, used to Milva throwing things at her, ducks even before the spoon leaves the archer's hand.
"What about you, Nilfgaardian, have you been to a masquerade?" she pipes up from halfway under the table.
"Are you so stupid, or just obnoxious? I'm not a Nilfgaardian. I've said it a hundred times already," Cahir says, however, as usual, without throwing anything.
"More like a thousand times. Or a million," Geralt mutters. The non-Nilfgaardian ignores him. Contrary to everybody's expectations, he then, in fact, starts to answer the girl's question.
"If you must know, we do have masquerades where I come from. And yes, I have been to several. They are not all that bad, actually. At least there's plenty of food and drink."
"See, n'uncle, even the Nilfgaardian -" Now the decidedly non-Nilfgaardian does throw something at her, lucky for the girl not a piece of cutlery, though. As, not having anticipated the very unexpected missile, Angoulême is not fast enough to duck this time and the unidentified flying object lands smack in the middle of her forehead.
Angoulême gives a loud howl. "I'm bleeding!" she squeals, seeing something sticky and red drop down her face. "Bloody Nilfgaardian! I'm going to look like a fucking rhino with a bump on my forehead as large as you wish your dick was! How am I supposed to go to a masquerade with my face disfigured like this? Pox on you and all of Nilfgaard!" She grabs her tankard, which is, to her great dismay, not filled with beer - Geralt would not allow it maintaining she is too young to drink alcohol while she seems to be more than old enough to go on a deadly suicide mission with him, so much so for the logic of a Witcher - but with milk, raises it and is about to throw it in Cahir's face - who, by the way, is allergic to milk, which makes her revenge ever the more satisfying - when a firm hand stays her arm.
"Dear company, don't you think we can resolve this like civilised humans?" the one non-human in Geralt's hanza asks. "Without throwing things at each other? And no, you are not bleeding and won't look like neither a rhinoceros nor a unicorn even without me giving you an anti-swelling potion," the vampire says to the agitated teenager with the red-streaked face. "Here, my dear girl," he wipes her forehead with the non-yellow handkerchief he produces from one of the many pockets in his vest, "See? It was nothing but a beetroot. A criminally overcooked one to boot. No harm done. None at all."
Angoulême looks at the offending vegetable with disgust and shoots Cahir a death glare. "Are you so stupid, or just obnoxious, Nilfgaardian? I've said it a billion times already. I hate beetroots!"
"So, what about this masquerade of yours, Jaskier?" Geralt asks to distract the sulking Angoulême and raise the girl's spirits. "Any special motto? We won't have to come dressed up as grapes or take part in all kinds of embarrassing games like sack or grape-and-spoon races or blind man's buff?"
"No, Geralt, what are you thinking? I would never even consider inviting you to anything like that. Although, come to think of it, I would love seeing you do a sack race," the bard smirks. "Would definitely be a sight to behold." He ducks preventively, as he can see Geralt's hand inching toward a not yet eaten tomato on his plate. It would not exactly be the first and maybe not the last tomato thrown at him, but the stains would be a hell of a bother to get out of the yellow silk shirt, and he does like this particular shirt particularly well. A short glance from the vampire in the Witcher's direction is enough though to stay Geralt's hand and prevent another red-vegetable-missile-disaster.
"Certainly there is a motto," a voice from the door chimes in merrily. "And it has nothing to do with grapes. I believe you will rather like it, Geralt."
"Fringilla!" the Witcher stands up and briskly walks over to the beautiful sorceress in the silvery dress to plant a long kiss on her mouth. The others, needless to say with the exceptions of Angoulême and the bard, look away tactfully. Then he leads the slightly out of breath mage to the bench where they sit down next to each other and start to kiss again. The others, this time without exception, roll their eyes.
"What about this motto then?" Milva interrupts impatiently. "Are we going to be enlightened any time soon? Or should we just come back later when you have finished making out at our breakfast table?"
"Right, the motto." Jaskier tears his eyes away from the couple on the bench. "This year it is called," he lowers his voice to a husky whisper, "Creatures of the night. And, of course, it will take place at night. More precisely in an ancient and certainly haunted graveyard. What do you say, Geralt?"
"Does not sound half as bad as I expected," the Witcher mumbles between two kisses.
"Then we can go?" Angoulême springs up from her chair in excitement. "But wait, what the hell are we going to wear? We cannot just go like this, can we?"
"Then it would not be much of a masquerade, would it? There is still plenty of time, though. You'll come up with something, dear girl, I have no doubt."
"It's easy for you to talk, n'uncle Regis. You can just go as you and no one will be the wiser! Or turn into a giant bat. You can do that, can't you?"
"I could, I could, as the thirty-first is indeed a full moon night. But where would be the fun in that? A vampire masquerading as a vampire. No, no, I'm much more inventive than that, trust me." He smiles through pursed lips, his typical Regis smile. "However, I think I should make some arrangements. See you later, company. Lady Fringilla." He bows to the sorceress and leaves the kitchen without a second glance, obviously in a haste to put his plans for the famous fall masquerade into motion.
"If that is settled, I'll be off, too. Lots of things to prepare, and my Little Weasel is waiting ..." Jaskier bows and waves his hat once again, then struts out the door after the vampire.
"Right, we better get going, too, Geralt. We still have some research to do in the library, remember?" Fringilla's eyes flash mischievously. The Witcher does remember. How could he not. Some of the books probably do too, still bearing the traces of yesterday's passionate love making. It definitely has its perks to be the consort of the Duchess's relative and most revered guest. Who can have the vast library at her disposal - or their disposal - whenever she desires.
"So, do we come up with something together for that blasted masquerade?" Milva asks the other two that have not yet left.
"Sorry, but the purpose of a masquerade is that nobody knows who is who, so ..." says the non-Nilfgaardian and rises from his seat. "I better get going, too. Sorry again, truly."
"Let's go as a pair of prostitutes, they are also creatures of the night, aren't they, auntie?" Grinning like a pixie troll, Angoulême quickly darts toward the door after Cahir, just so evading the tankard that is flying her way. With a loud bang it crashes into the wall next to her, breaking into a thousand pieces and spilling beer all over the floor.
"Piss off, rascal!" Milva shouts after her, then curses. Well, she'll have to get a broom and a cleaning rag and clean up the mess she has made. Before she can go to think about what to wear for the masquerade. She is going to surprise them all, Milva swears to herself. Their eyes will pop out of their heads seeing her costume. She just needs an idea, preferably an ingenious one ...