It cannot be that difficult to do, can it? Many people do it more or less regularly. Well, it is mostly women, but the heck, if they can do it, he can, too. He has never done it before in his life, but everybody does it for the first time once. And now is the time for him, Jaskier has decided. A brave, almost foolhardy decision maybe, but he will tackle the task and it will turn out amazing. He only needs to borrow somebody's kitchen. Not the castle kitchens, he would only get under the cooks' feet and they need to prepare the festive dinner not only for the Hanza's private party, but also for the official Yule celebrations his Little Weasel has to attend. A real pity that Anarietta cannot spend the evening with him and his friends. Well, the downsides of being a Duchess. They can have some fun together after the festivities, though, just the two of them, in his Little Weasel's huge four-poster bed. He already has a nice idea for that, too. But no, don't think of it just yet, Jaskier, he berates himself. Concentrate on the present for Regis. The higher vampire deserves something really nice for not having tried to suck any of them dry even once during the many weeks of travelling together. Although he could easily have done it.
A kitchen, where can he find a kitchen that is not busy? Jaskier racks his brain until he feels steam coming out of his ears - metaphorical steam, of course, not real one. Then, finally, it hits him. The plump widow that works at the Clever Clog tavern and made big mooneyes at him just the other day. She will be busy at her job, surely has a well-equipped kitchen and will, no doubt, let him use it for a few well-chosen words of flattery. Yes, that will work. Baking a cake for Regis will be, well, a piece of cake. Humming jauntily to himself, Jaskier puts on an extra pelt and struts purposefully toward Temple Gate and the close by tavern where he hopes to find the widow.
A lot later, the more or less proud product of his labour in the oven to cook for an hour, Jaskier gazes around the kitchen. Melitele's tits, it looks like a battlefield. Even worse, he looks like a battlefield. Damn, he will never be able to go back to the Clever Clog and look the widow in the eye. Unless— well, it will need a lot more than flattering words to make up for the kitchen disaster, but then the cleavage of the widow's dress was very promising, displaying a pair of delectably plump and perfectly round pomegranates. She is not a young girl anymore, but there definitely are advantages to more mature and experienced women. He likes her full, black hair and fiery dark eyes, too. Actually, she reminds him a bit of Yennefer. Hm, he only has to be careful that his Little Weasel will not find out about it as she can be very emotional, and a jealous fit could result in very unpleasant, well, results.
The bizarre things one does for one's no less bizarre friends ...
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After his not exactly pleasant first-hand experiences with dungeons, Cahir is not keen on visiting one today, or ever, but it has to be done. He needs something for his gift for Fringilla, and he knows he will find it down there. Nobody will mind if he takes it either. They sure have plenty of the stuff anyway and will not miss it. Like the other item that he has already filched from the stables and that he can feel inside his trouser pocket. As soon as he has what he wants from the dungeons, he only needs to add some decorations for a more personal touch, connect the two items, wrap the whole thing in a piece of fabric or put it into some kind of box and, tada, ready is the perfect gift.
If only the stench of mouldy, stuffy air did not evoke those dreadful echoes of tortures past. Cahir swallows and takes a deep, steadying breath through his mouth, trying to shake off the memories that still haunt his many nightmares. Then, with the determination befitting a warrior and erstwhile commander general of Nilfgaard, he climbs down the stairs toward the cells.
The idiotic things one does for one's only living friends ...
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Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck! Cursing loudly, she throws yet another failed attempt at making an awesome present for Geralt into the fire. How lucky that the material does not cost anything and burns so brightly. She watches with satisfaction as the abomination that was supposed to look so differently from how it turned out to look goes up in flames as if it was its own fault and not courtesy of her lack of talent. But damn, how hard can it be to make this?
There is still some time left and she is not going to give up, no and never! Determined, Angoulême grits her teeth and grabs another handful of straw. Good thing she took plenty of it from the stables. Good thing Cahir did not see her there, too, otherwise he would immediately know who made Geralt's gift. Unfortunately, what the Nilfgaardian - no, the non-Nilfgaardian - was doing in the stables, she could not see either. Was he just there to look after his horse or did it have something to do with the present he has to make? Angoulême longed to peek out from where she was hiding behind a wooden partition, but, although it was not easy, she reined in her curiosity. He might spot her after all if she did have a look, something she had to avoid at all cost.
Shit, this new attempt looks marginally better, but still not at all like she imagines it in her mind's eye. Another one for the fire. Angoulême's fingers have begun to ache from the unusual work and it is increasingly hard to sit still in one and the same place for what feels like hours on end. She would much rather run into battle or dance naked on a tavern table than do this. Or perform that gift-wrapped blow-job, but Geralt has already threatened to use Milva's belt on her before for mentioning that she knows how to express gratitude, so, unfortunately, that is out of the question. She sighs heavily.
Well, the tedious things one does for one's goody-goody friends ...
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Hhm, darn, this is not how she imagined it to sound. Not at all. This is truly disappointing. No, she will have to come up with something better, something sounding more like the real thing. But what? And how? Shit, she is not made for this. She really thought it would be easier. However, she cannot give up and go to the party empty-handen, can she, especially not when the present is for Jaskier of all people who is so terribly enthusiastic about this event. Geralt would probably not mind, and neither would Regis or Cahir or Fringilla. Angoulême, of course, would throw a fit, but she could just tell her that, as compensation, she would be allowed to call her aunty for the rest of her life and the girl would be over the moon and totally forget about the missing present. But with Jaskier? No, there is no way out of it. She will have to make it work, no matter the cost. Maybe if she uses a different kind of filling? A finer one? And somehow add some obstacles? Hhm, it might be worth a try. Millet, perhaps, or rice? And stud it with nails? If she wraps a nice skin and some colourful ribbons around it afterward, nobody will see the metal heads and it will look pretty enough for the bard. Alright, it is a plan that will, hopefully, make this thing sound like it should. She will have to hurry, though. And then she still has to find something to wear. Damn. How she hates to dress up. As if it were not enough to wash a little and quickly comb through the hair. No, Jaskier certainly expects more for the occasion. A dress? Yikes. Well, but the bard will be delighted if she does show up in a dress for his party. Alright then, a dress it is. Milva heaves a heart-felt sigh.
The silly things one does for one's equally silly friends ...
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Regis smiles broadly, looking proudly at the fluffy things that cover most of the floor of his room. Who would have thought that an easy pursuit like this would be so much fun? Never in his several centuries long life would he have considered doing such a simple, manual task that even little children could perform, and do it gladly and for several hours. Not that those things are useful for anything, but they look nice and he is sure that Angoulême will like them. Perhaps not as much as she would appreciate a flask of his legendary mandrake moonshine, but gifting her one of those would not only trespass against every Youth Protection Act - if there is such a thing in Toussaint - but it would grossly violate the rules of Jaskier's gifting game, and he is no spoilsport, no. The broad smile still in place, he loops another woollen thread around the double ring. Just one more, then there will be a double dozen of his colourful creations. A perfect number. And surely a lucky one, too. Then he will force himself to abandon this surprisingly pleasant and gratifying endeavour and see if he can help Jaskier with the decorations or any other vital party preparations.
Well, the cute, fluffy things one does for one's only human friends.
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What can she make for Milva? Gods, she has been asking herself that same question for what feels like hours of walking up and down the length of her room and has come up with exactly - nothing. Not the tiniest of tiny ideas, and time is running out. Bollocks. She could have done so many more useful things in the meantime, or she could have had another delicious helping of a certain Witcher after the first one before breakfast. But no, thanks to the silliness of the bard, she has to rack her brain for non-existent present ideas. How wonderful. And an utter waste of time. Perhaps she already has something that she can give away? It would be cheating, of course, no better than if she conjured something up, but it is only a game and how would the others find out? Still, it does not feel right to do it. Well, maybe as a very last resort. She eyes the dressing table with the many little flasks of beauty tinctures and jars with cosmetics and make-up of all kinds and colours. No, Milva would not have any use for any of these. Fringilla sighs heavily. Finding a fitting present for Angoulême would have been so much easier, just some colourful, jolly little trinket or something home-made to eat for the ever hungry teenager. She would have had plenty of sexy ideas for a present for Geralt and several funny ones for Cahir. But no, it has to be the archer. She truly likes Milva and her straight-forward, slightly sarcastic but honest nature. Still, coming up with a present for her is annoyingly difficult. Fringilla heaves another deep sigh.
Eventually a simple brown bottle that stands alone on her chest of drawers catches her eye. Hm, this could, at least, be useful considering that Milva spends a lot of her time outside in the cold. And has she not coughed once or twice just this morning at breakfast? But a simple cough suspension as a Yule gift, one that she made weeks ago and that she has made many times before? No, this alone is not enough. She will have to add something that makes this one bottle special, something creative, imaginative, artistic. But she cannot draw, not if her life depended on it. A poem, perhaps? About a cough suspension? Don't be ridiculous, Fringilla, she berates herself. But then, is not this whole situation ridiculous? Her agonising about a Yule gift for hours? She has never written a poem before, never even as much as considered writing one. But hell, why not, it might be fun. Only which rhyme scheme to use? And what about the metre? And how to start?
Maybe by getting some parchment and ink, silly? She stands up and walks over to her bureau. It is a beautiful piece of furniture, dark, almost black wood with inlays of ivory and pearl, and perfectly tidy. Tissaia de Vries would be proud of her. Fringilla scoffs at the thought. Then she sits down, takes a quill and a bottle of ink from one of the drawers and plenty of parchment from another one, dips the quill into the black ink and lets it hover above the parchment. What to write?
When with a cough you should fall sick,
Don't be a dick,
Act quick
This here suspension will do the trick.
No, no, she groans. It rhymes, yes, but it is awful rubbish, the others would laugh their heads off, especially Jaskier, and Milva might be offended. Her mood is bad enough most of the time anyway. Frowning deeply, Fringilla creases up the parchment into a ball and throws it against the wall. Maybe think of a rhythm first. Dactyls? Iambs? Trochees? Anapests? Gods, this is hard.
Soon, Fringilla's head starts spinning. Inspiration, she needs an inspiration, a hook, a prompt. Holly, the suspension is made of holly berries,
Oh holly, holy holly bush how green,
but what rhymes with green? Bean, mean, spleen, latrine ... By the Golden Sun, this is tough work. And the almost empty parchment leers up into her face like an evil adversary challenging her to give up, to yield. But she will not! Chewing on a strand of her black hair, she imagines the holly shrub coming to life in her mind's eye. The shiny green, prickly leaves, the small, red berries, around it the bare branches of oaks and beeches. And suddenly, inspiration flows. A first stanza, it is there, on the parchment! But what now?
A dozen of crumpled up pieces of parchment and plenty of chewed up hair later, Fringilla almost likes what she has written. There is no time for changes anyway, dusk is falling and she still has to get dressed. She sighs deeply, her brain feeling totally drained from the hard work. This was more exhausting than the battle of Sodden.
The inane things one does for one's boyfriend's friends ...
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After several pints of ale at the Pheasantry, Geralt suddenly feels so sleepy that, leaning into the stone wall of the alcove that is his favourite, secluded spot at the tavern, he drops off and starts to snore. And, believe it or not, the sound of himself snoring somehow seems to remind him of another sound, of the regular thud that echoes through the surroundings when he chops wood. He is a real master at wood chopping. If he were not a Witcher, he would probably have ended up a professional woodchopper, and he would have thoroughly enjoyed the job. The powerful, rhythmical motion of the arms, the raw impact when the axe hits its target, forcefully splitting the wood in two - not the skull of an unfortunate monster or some evil human knave for a change - in combination with the resinous scent of pine and fir and spruce ... With exactly this vivid audio-olfactory memory, Geralt awakes with a start.
"The chair? I've asked if I can I borrow this chair. Five times! Must I spell it out for you? C - a - h -, no," the man rubs his skull, confused and obviously not the champion of the Beauclair spelling bee. "C - a—"
"Here, take as many chairs as you want." Geralt shoves the brown, wooden object into the peasant's chest. Without another word, he then rushes toward the exit, remembering only at the very last moment that he has not paid for his beer. Quickly, he throws some coins at the innkeep who comes running after him, gesticulating wildly. Judging from the way the man's face lights up, it was probably far too much, but it was worth it. Finally, he has an idea. Maybe not a particularly good or practical one, but he likes it. It is kind of funny, fulfils all of Jaskier's requirements as he has never made something like it before, and it cannot be too hard to put together. He just needs to chop some wood. Geralt sprints toward the stables, jumps onto a horse and gallops toward the forest. Fuck, he needs an axe, too, if he does not want to ruin his swords. Well, he knows a tree feller's hut at the edge of the forest, he will borrow one there. Or buy one. Thanks to his recent monster hunts he has enough coin in his pockets to purchase all the axes the man might own. Well, come to think of it, he could buy the wood instead of an axe. Then he will have a lot more time to do the actual crafting. He could even give the thing a personal touch by painting and decorating it a little. Geralt smirks at the thought. He already has an ingenious idea for the decorations.
The ludicrous things one does for an enemy turned friend ...