They sit around the big table, all eyes riveted on the magnificent Yule tree whose myriad of candles bathe the room in a festive golden light. And, naturally, on the presents beneath said tree. To Jaskiers delight, everybody has not only managed to anonymously deliver a correctly labelled present on time, but they have also done their best to dress up, at least a little more than usual. Milva has even donned a dress and put red and green ribbons in her hair! Jaskier was so baffled at seeing the archer like this, he was left speechless for almost an entire minute, certainly a new record.
"Nuncle, can we have the presents now?" Angoulême asks for the umpteenth time.
"Alright, my little pixie troll, I guess I've made you wait long enough. It wouldn't do if you explode on us from curiosity."
"Showtime! Finally!" she exclaims, jumping up from the bench and darting over to where a big box labelled Angoulême is waiting to be unwrapped. She lifts it easily and shakes it. The box is feathery light and no sound can be heard. Hmm, what on earth can it be? Not a dagger, that much is certain. Something light and soft. Very mysterious …
Fringilla's much smaller box, in contrast, does jangle ominously when she picks it up from the floor. Definitely something metallic, but what? As a precaution, she withdraws into a corner where she has a bit more privacy while opening it. Which turns out to be very fortunate, as she flushes beet red when she sees what is inside. Quickly, she closes the container again. Well, the others might not have noticed anything thanks to her dark skin colour. And she will make sure it stays this way. Who on the continent made this thing? Darn, now this is giving her ideas. Unfortunately, they will have to wait until after Jaskier's party. Well, those particular ideas might work better after a few glasses of mulled wine, too. She flashes Geralt a bright smile. He is in for a surprise tonight …
Jaskier, in the meantime, has picked up a package that strangely resembles—
"A giant dildo?" he asks, winking at Angoulême who is still busy unwrapping her box that is fitted with several layers of wrappings, all neatly fastened with lots of twine. When Jaskier shakes his oblong package that has indeed a shape reminiscent of the object he mentioned, there is the distinct sound of - rain? What the heck? This is intriguing …
Geralt's gift is of medium size and, like Angoulême's, has hardly any weight and does not make a sound upon shaking it. However, unlike the girl's, it rustles softly when he squeezes it carefully. The sound as well as its faint scent remind him of something. The stables? But how are the stables connected to a Yule present? Mystified, he loosens the red bow that adorns the package and unwraps it.
"What the—?" He holds the more than strange object out for the others to see.
"An elephant?" Milva asks sceptically. The fattish straw creation has four legs that much is obvious, but the rest? "Or, maybe, a hippopotamus? Not that they exist, but legend says—"
"But hippopotami do exist. Where I come from—" Cahir starts to object.
"Don't pull my leg, Nilfgaardian, everybody knows they are made up, like unicorns," Milva insists. "And isn't it hippopotamuses?"
"Everybody knows it's hippopotami. And I'm not a—"
"Shut up, Cahir!" they all say in unison, rolling their eyes. To make sure they will not have to hear it for the millionth time, Milva quickly grabs a big honey cake in the form of a horse and stuffs it between her friend's teeth, effectively silencing the non-Nilfgaardian for the next minute or two.
"It's Roach, can't you see it?" Jaskier suddenly laughs. "Not that I made it, but isn't it obvious?" How exactly it is obvious to Jaskier that the strange, four-legged straw creature is a horse, let alone a specific one, eludes most of the other hansa members, but as nobody objects, including the anonymous creator, this must be what it is. Leaves the question what Geralt could possibly use this strange straw Roach for other than to light a fire. Yet, doing this would be very disrespectful to the giver of the present and to the effort put into the creation of the curious creature. Well, usability is not the only trait a present should be judged by, is it?
Edibility is undeniably another characteristic that should not be judged too harshly, not even if the present, with a lot of imagination, resembles a Gugelhupf. This is the case for the odd thing that Regis lifts out of his gift box. One side is slightly burnt, the inside seems not to be completely cooked and the consistency is more rubbery than anything else, but Geralt can smell several different spices, the scent of cocoa and vanilla, and is there not a piece of eggshell sticking out of what is presumably a failed baking experiment? Regis looks at his present with an amused smile. Then, he breaks off a piece to put it into his mouth.
"Are you sure you want to eat that?" Geralt asks, looking at the pseudo-cake as if it would suddenly grow a many-eyed head and at least six hairy legs.
"You do know that higher vampires are not that easy to kill, don't you?" Regis smiles at the Witcher and takes the bite. "Hm, interesting," he adds. "I don't think this peculiar recipe will make it into the top one hundred of the famous Beauclair bake-off championship, but I've definitely eaten worse. Maybe not worse cakes, but, well, when you're several hundred years old and spent five decades buried alive in a coffin with a wooden stake through your heart, you eat all kinds of grub in the absence of a more delectable alternative. Would you like a piece?"
"Fuck, no!" Geralt says with emphasis. As his other comrades do not seem to be more eager than the Witcher to try any of it either, Regis takes another bite and then puts the cake back into the box for later - maybe. It is the thought that counts anyway …
Milva's gift is by far the smallest one. Just a little box with an envelope attached to it. Upon shaking the box, it makes gurgling sounds. Is there some kind of fluid inside of it? There is indeed. When she opens the box, a plain brown flask filled with a translucent liquid is revealed.
"Is it a perfume?" Jaskier inquires, curious.
"Or a schnapps?" Angoulême, who is now attacking the many pieces of twine with her teeth instead of her fingers, asks, looking at the archer expectantly.
Milva opens the lid and sniffs. The liquid smells faintly sweetish, but not really like perfume and neither like a strong alcoholic beverage. Hmm, what can it possibly be? She licks a drop of the slightly sticky, amber stuff off the tip of her finger.
"Careful, Milva, as long as you don't know what it is. It could be poisonous," Cahir warns, his mouth still full with the last bite of honey cake.
"Sure," Milva rolls her eyes at him - again. "There are probably quite a few people who want to poison you, I'll give you that, but why the fuck would any of my friends give me a toxin for Yule?"
"Cahir is not totally wrong here, dear Milva," Regis interjects before Cahir can say anything. "It could be a venom to coat your arrows with for all we know. I'd strongly advise you to have a look at the attached letter first before you ingest any of the flask's content. I'm sure it will tell you what it is. Not that I made it, but—"
"- it is the reasonable thing to do," Geralt finishes the higher vampire's sentence, something that usually occurs the other way around.
"You do know that I can't read, remember?" Milva grumbles and presses the pinkish, scented envelope into Cahir's hand. He looks at it dubiously. 'For Milva,' it says on the front in a handwriting that looks familiar. Fringilla. Well, he can keep a secret. Let's see what it is she has written. Cahir opens the envelop and pulls out a card adorned with neat, golden letters. At first glance, it looks like - a poem? Shit. He keeps staring at the words until Milva elbows him in the ribs.
"I thought you can read, being a count and all!" she exclaims.
"Alright, if I have to." Cahir swallows the very last crumbs of his honey cake and clears his throat, looking as happy as if he had to go to his own execution. Then he starts to read.
"Oh holly, holy holly bush how green,"
"Though ev'rything is dull and dark and bare,
In midst of winter smooth your leaves still sheen
Red berries glow, they gleam and glint and glare."
"Iambic pentametre!" Jaskier exults. "The high queen of poetry! I'd never expected one of you—"
"Berries don't glare, what utter nonsense," Milva mutters. However, she pokes Cahir in the ribs again, clearly his cue to go on reading. He takes a deep breath and continues, trying hard to suppress the strong urge to break into a laugh.
"Your wood in fireplaces burns hot bright
Your leaves make wreaths to decorate our hair
In coldest winter giving warmth, delight
Protecting us from deadly lightning's flare."
He pauses for a moment, but this time, nobody comments. Cahir is not exactly versed in poetry, but actually this does not sound too horrible. And it is an ancient belief that a holly bush planted close to the house wards off lightning. As Jaskier does not start to fall about laughing or give a detailed speech raining down criticism of the form or metaphors onto the verse, perhaps Fringilla has just discovered a new, hidden talent beyond magic?
"Not wilt nor wither do your dark green leaves
Like ivy do not you succumb to death," he continues, trying to put the stresses in just the right places. This is important in poetry, is it not?
"Your perseverance helps us heal our grieves
To brave it out, in spring then start afresh.
Though prickly-leaved like holly art thou, too
This Ilex cough suspension I now gift to you."
There is a brief pause after he has finished.
"Alright, why not simply write cough suspension on the label?" Milva eventually asks. However, her eyes look suspiciously wet. The poem written for her must have moved the tough archer after all, even if she might not admit it.
"Well, not bad, well done, anonymous poet, this sonnet is almost a sonnet. There is something wrong with the last line though, it's clearly not a pentametre but a hexametre. It could be fixed by simply leaving out the Ilex but—
"Shut up, Jaskier, it's my poem and I like it. And bollocks to your whatever pent-up sex metres!" She snatches the card and envelope from Cahir's hand and puts both into the belt bag attached to her dress, together with the brown flask. The cough suspension might come in handy as soon as they finally leave Toussaint. Geralt has promised them that it would not be long now. Fringilla will not be happy about it, but they have lost far too much time already, and she is growing restless. This business with the baron is not helping either. High time they pack up and get a move on. It is going to be a hard and dastardly cold ride across the mountain passes, but who if not their weird Hansa would be able to do it? Equipped with a potent cough suspension, what can possibly go wrong?
The last and by far biggest and bulkiest present is labelled with Cahir's name. It is not actually gift-wrapped but a large piece of green fabric that looks ominously like a curtain has been thrown haphazardly over the peculiarly shaped object. A bit reluctantly, Cahir uncovers the present. What the—?
"A chair?" he asks, puzzled. It is more a solid tree stub painted black with something like a backrest nailed to it, but it does resemble a chair. At both sides the backrest is adorned with black raven feathers that look like wings.
Jaskier bursts into a guffaw at the sight. "Don't you get it? It's an anagram. Not my idea, I swear, but this is so funny!" Swinging his rainmaker, he starts to hop around the strange piece of furniture, making up a new song on the go.
"A black knight by the name of Cahir
Was once gifted with a black chair.
Adorned with the wings of a black bird of prey
Left the knight stunned, no idea what to saaaaaay.
In the meantime, Angoulême has finally managed to open her box. For a split second, she is no less lost for words than her non-Nilfgaardian comrade. What the heck is this? A box full of - pompoms? What would she do with what looks like at least two dozen of the colourful, fluffy balls? Before she can think of anything, though, Cahir reaches into the box, grabs one of the pompoms and throws it at Jaskier who is still holding the last, very long note of this latest song of his. The fortunately very soft projectile hits the bard square in the face, effectively ending the song in a surprised 'fuck!' It is the premature end of what could certainly have been a new number one hit. At least for now.
With a delighted squeal, Angoulême takes her cue from the erstwhile black knight, grabs another pompom and hurls it at the bard. Used to having things thrown at him - usually by former lovers or people who have no musical talent and taste - Jaskier instinctively ducks to the side.
Fringilla is less quick to react. Hit by the fluff ball, she squeaks and lets go of her box. The chain inside of it jangles as the box hits the floor and topples over, revealing the compromising content. Attached to the chain there is a padded leather collar reminding of a horse's reins that is neatly decorated with carved wolf heads. They very much resemble the one Geralt had on his lost Witcher medallion. Everybody stares at it. This time it is not only Fringilla who flushes crimson, Geralt does, too. And with his much lighter skin colour it is easily visible. However, the embarrassed silence lasts only for the briefest of moments. Then, Angoulême breaks into a raucous cackle and starts hurling more pompoms at her friends. Who retaliate instantly. Soon, the woolly balls fly in all directions across the kitchens. Chaos ensues.
"Careful with the candles," Regis, always the voice of reason, warns, but there is no way he can stop the barrage of flying pompoms. Well, he will simply have to keep an eye on everything, and should one of his creations go up in flames, put out the blaze with his fire-resistant hands. He can always make more pompoms.
Amused, the higher vampire sits down on the winged, black chair and takes another bite of his cake. What a jolly Yule jumble! The cake is not all that bad, either. The mixture is a bit unusual, he has to admit. Is it chocolate and cinnamon with cucumber and chilly? Whoever the secret baker was, they seem not to have followed any tested recipe but mixed up whatever strange ingredients they found in their kitchen. Not so unlike their Hansa. A wild mix of totally different people and non-people thrown together by fate or chance - or maybe on the whim of some unknown deity on fisstech? - that nobody would expect to work well together. And still, they do in surprising harmony. Not counting the one or other minor quarrel, of course, like the incident when Milva had to stop Geralt and Cahir from punching and kicking each other to death with the help of her belt, or the fleeting moment when the Witcher told the higher vampire to leave and never come back. Which he simply ignored. But, all in all, they are a true, spicy and sweet company bound together by bonds of friendship, no matter how many pompoms they throw in each other's faces.
Well, the pompom battle looks like fun. Time he has some extra fun, too, Regis decides. With a mischievous grin, he rises to his feet as silently as the shadow he does not possess and positions himself directly under the mistletoe. In the mayhem of the fight somebody is bound to end up there with him eventually, he reckons. And, as always, the higher vampire is right. He does not have to wait long and a giggling Angoulême lands in his arms, flushed from the excitement and very ready for a peck on both her apple-red cheeks.
As the battle continues to rage on, Regis gets to kiss everybody, Geralt even twice. What an extraordinary night! For once, Jaskier definitely did not promise too much, Regis observes. This is lots and lots of FUN!