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“I shall never forgive you for this,” Priscilla tells her best friend. Jaskier doesn’t raise his head from his task of draping cheap tulle around her legs, so he must not take the threat seriously. Her eyes narrow. “Do you hear me, asshole? Never."
“I hear you,” Jaskier replies, all sing-song and teasing. Priscilla is going to poison his next meal. He pushes a safety pin through the netting, fastening it around her hips and then stepping back to survey his handiwork. “Not too bad!”
Priscilla scoffs, twirling to test the makeshift skirt. Sure enough, her metallic underwear, with bright silver straps clinging to her thighs and ass, is... partially disguised. You’d really have to be staring to notice it, and as Jaskier assured her upon their entrance, nobody’s going to spare her any weird looks. Not when there’s so many other oddities to stare at.
Like many of the hijinks that Priscilla has been drafted into over the last few years, this is solidly and wholly Jaskier’s fault. He’d sent her a text two days ago about getting last-minute tickets to a festival. Priscilla had reminded him (politely) that she didn’t do drugs anymore, and he had laughed and said ‘but you still drink, don’t you?’
The website to The Hidden Continent was down when she tried to check, but Priscilla didn’t bother asking Jaskier about dress codes, figuring that this event would be similar to other music festivals the two of them had frequented. So she had only checked the weather— blue skies all weekend, not a single cloud to warn her about the oncoming embarrassment— and packed her tent and supplies into the back of her tiny car.
She thought that something might have been wrong from the second she saw the unicorn on her way into the forest. An actual, honest-to-God unicorn, not a decoration; there was a knight tending to it, brushing out its mane by the side of the road. Priscilla nearly drove into a tree but managed to right herself, chasing away the creeping suspicions that this was a different kind of festival.
Then she’d gotten out in the parking lot, wearing only her golden lingerie set, small iridescent wings, and a dramatic makeup look with at least a pound of fake gemstones. Her gaze landed on Jaskier, waiting outside the festival entrance, wearing… Well. Wearing some Medieval Times bullshit.
They’ve mostly screamed it out by now, but Jaskier is still determined to go inside— inside the Renaissance Faire, which is absolutely not the weekend experience that Priscilla thought she’d signed up for. He brought a lute and a stupidly long coat that he’s sure to overheat in and everything. He looks the part— well, he looks like a bloody idiot, but judging from everyone else in sight, that seems to be the assignment. Priscilla, on the other hand, looks exactly like the rave queen she thought she would be this weekend.
Hence the skirt. She hikes it up, adjusting her silver bra so that the straps cross in a different way. There’s no way to make this outfit look decent, but the only other thing she packed is her pajamas. She’s about to tell Jaskier that she’s bailing when a family walks past them in the parking lot and one of the children’s eyes go wide. “Look, mum! A fairy!”
Jaskier’s expression is equally gleeful when Priscilla looks back at him. She relents, glowering, “Fine, alright. We can go in.”
The Hidden Continent, as it turns out, is just as weird as a rave, but smells infinitely better. Instead of dank clouds of sweat and weed, the air is intoxicatingly sweet. Jaskier drags Priscilla over to the vendor stalls and plies her with honey cakes and glass bottles of mead, which… is a good first step towards apologizing, she has to admit. The way he orders is hilarious though; he’s always been grandiose and melodramatic, but this takes it to the next level.
Strangely, Jaskier fits in here. Priscilla knows she must look as nervous as she feels, but Jaskier was right— nobody pays her any mind. A woman selling ‘alchemical treatments and medicine’ checks her out, but Priscilla doesn’t mind that kind of attention. Music drifts on the breeze from somewhere, and everyone seems to be in good spirits. Slowly and reluctantly, Priscilla begins to let herself have fun.
Then Jaskier finally lets go of her arm without warning, making a beeline across the market. Priscilla struggles to follow him through the crowd of knights and maidens and strange druid-looking people, nearly dropping her mead in the process. She drains the rest of it and finds Ye Olde Recycleing Binne to dispose of the bottle. And when she lifts her head, she finally spots Jaskier again, approaching the smith’s tent.
If Priscilla didn’t know Jaskier so well, she could have easily mistaken the scene for something right out of a movie. Jaskier takes off his ridiculous hat, smoothing down his hair and moving his lute onto his back, striding towards the tent with less confidence and bravado than before. He looks nervous, and Priscilla can’t tell why— not until the sole occupant of the tent comes into view, anyway. A grizzled, strong man, with his white hair half-tied up and a sword in his giant hands. Jaskier’s type in a fucking nutshell.
Priscilla groans. So that’s why they’re here this weekend.
The blacksmith sees Jaskier and drops his sword, burying it into the dirt without a second glance. He blurts out, astonished, “Dandelion!” and sounds just as raspy as Pris had expected. Jaskier strides forward, pushing the man further into the tent, and Priscilla groans and turns away. She doesn’t need to watch this, not when she’s the one holding Jaskier’s coinpurse and there’s still mead that she can go waste it on.
But when she tries to make her way back to the market, she gets… turned around, a bit. This festival is far bigger than she’d expected, and she begins to regret not taking a map when they’d come in. Jaskier had promised he knew his way around, but now that he’s in the arms of his mysterious summer lover, Priscilla doubts she’s going to see him for several hours. Fuck.
After wandering past a strange group of goth princesses who possibly might just be vampires and a rosy nobleman drunk off his ass on whatever ‘Erveluce’ is, Priscilla finally finds a row of buildings. Not tents, real buildings— small quaint brick houses that probably accommodate more permanent vendors than the stalls. The first one has a large sign over the door marking it as an apothecary, and Pris figures that’s as good a bet as any to ask for directions.
Except when she opens the front door, no counter or wares are in sight. It looks more like an eclectic bookstore than a drugstore or apothecary, with stacks of old books piled from floor to ceiling. Dried bundles of herbs hang from the walls; lavender is the only one that Priscilla recognizes, and it makes the entire foyer smell like lilacs. She breathes in, uncertain, and wonders if she’s perhaps breaking and entering.
But then someone barks from another room, “Come in, you’re going to let the cat out!” and what choice does Priscilla have? She shuts the door behind her, toeing out of her sandals and dusting off her tulle skirt. The safety pin has started to snag; she’ll need another quick repair the next time she tracks down Jaskier. Or maybe she’ll go buy one of those fancy gowns that everyone is wearing.
The first room she enters is vacant, with no humans or cats to be seen. There’s a skull up by the window, and more books and plants. It isn’t exactly the kind of cheerful decor Priscilla would pick out for her own apartment, and it’s colder in here than outside on the festival grounds; she shudders, folding her arms over her chest. The motion pulls her wings taut, nearly making them flutter. She doesn’t notice, too enraptured by the weird skull on the desk.
“Oh,” the voice from before says, surprised. Priscilla straightens up, whipping around. In the doorway to the study is the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen. “You’re not Triss.”
“No, I’m not,” Priscilla agrees. The woman tilts her head, scrutinizing her and her outfit. Her violet eyes trace over the shape of Priscilla’s body, as well as the silvery underwear that must be visible through the translucent tulle. Pris flushes under her watchful, curious gaze, stammering, “I’m sorry, I got turned around outside. I think I’m a bit lost, do you have a map or something that I could borrow?”
Priscilla clears her throat, wishing she was wearing more clothing. Or much, much less. This stranger must sense her dismay because she makes a sympathetic noise, sharpness not quite disappearing from her expression but she softens, shoulders sinking. “Is it your first time here at the festival?”
“Yes,” Priscilla nods, grimacing. “That obvious, huh?” She reaches down to grab fistfuls of her skirt, twisting them up into bunches. “Um, my friend didn’t give me a lot of details, and then he ran off to go get laid. And by a lot, I mean any. Any at all! Before I got here, I thought it was a rave.”
Laughing suddenly, the woman smiles. Priscilla smiles back, absolutely enchanted. It’s hard to keep her eyes off the woman’s body in that dark dress that flatters her in all the right places, but her smile is even more hypnotic. “That’s alright,” she tells Pris, still smiling. “You look the part. When I saw you standing in here, I thought that a beautiful lost fairy might have stumbled in.”
From anyone else, it would be unbearably cheesy. From this gorgeous woman, it’s the best pick-up line Priscilla has ever heard. She mumbles, “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Not at all.” That perfect smile widens. “My name is Yennefer, and yes, I can give you a map. Or you’re welcome to stay here while your friend is otherwise occupied, if you’d like. I have food, and wine…?”
Remembering how the blacksmith had called Jaskier by his stage name, Priscilla decides that a layer of anonymity would be sexy. Just for the festival. “I’m Callonetta,” she introduces herself, curtseying slightly. Yennefer laughs again, soft and delighted. “Wine sounds lovely!”
-
Someone blows a bugle somewhere, doing a poor imitation of a rooster, and Geralt shifts beneath Jaskier. Jaskier, not accustomed to waking at the very break of dawn, grumbles and sprawls over Geralt’s chest, muttering his protests. Geralt just laughs, kissing the closest part of Jaskier in reach— his ear— and then whispering, “Time to get up, Dandelion. Day’s a-wasting.”
“Day’s a-wasting— it is the crack of fucking dawn, you bastard,” Jaskier grumbles, half-muffled by the meat of Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt shudders, grinning. “I want to sleep in with you til half-past ten at least, and then go for round five, because you fell asleep before we could try that other thing—”
“You were half-asleep when you suggested it,” teases Geralt. Jaskier moves his thigh until it’s pressing between Geralt’s legs, but his lover just sighs, nipping his jaw underneath his ear. “You’re going to miss the whole fair at this rate.”
“Don’t care about the fair,” sings Jaskier. He can’t keep all the sadness from his voice when he admits, “Don’t give a shit about any of it. I only came here for you.”
“You must have really needed a good sword polishing.”
Still drowsy and half-hard, Jaskier still finds the mental clarity to smack Geralt’s arm for that one. But he’s smiling against Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m serious! The school year is too damn long! I’ve waited forever to get to see you, and now the first night is over already… Before we know it, you’re going to be whisked away back to the real world, and I’ll never get to see you ever again.”
“You still come see me during the school year,” Geralt snorts. “Ciri thinks we’ve got raccoons thanks to all the fucking noise you make sneaking in.”
“Well,” squawks Jaskier, “I can hardly be blamed for my eagerness when I’ve so dearly missed you and your giant cock—”
Geralt silences him with a kiss, which is by far Jaskier’s favourite way to be silenced so he doesn’t put up a fight. They kiss unhurriedly, heartbeats matching pace after a quiet, long moment. Geralt’s lips are even sweeter in the morning; one of the great impossible injustices. Surely someone as beautiful as Geralt should have at least one catch, like horrendous morning breath. Jaskier wonders if he somehow sneaks away a few minutes before dawn to brush his teeth and put on mascara.
“We’ll get to round five, but I have to get up now,” Geralt tells him, kissing him once again. “I barely made any sales yesterday thanks to a certain clingy bard, and you’ve got to go track down your friend.”
Jaskier goes still. “Oh, fuck. I forgot about Pris!”
It takes them twenty minutes to get dressed and ready— well, to be accurate, it takes Geralt five minutes to dress and fifteen to fuck around with his hair, while Jaskier scrambles around the house rambling about how he abandoned his friend without a second thought in pursuit of some good dick, the best dick, but no dick is good enough to forsake a bosom friend, and Geralt, where the fuck did they leave his pants. It’s half-past dawn by the time Jaskier kicks open the door to Geralt’s summer home, still rambling about how Priscilla is going to actually murder him.
“You’ll have a grand funeral,” Geralt promises. His mouth opens to say something else but he freezes, staring oddly behind Jaskier.
“You’d better fucking come,” Jaskier stammers, pulling his doublet into place. His hair is a mess and there’s no accounting for his beloved hat, but whatever, he’ll track it down later. First things first is finding his friend. Then he finally clues into Geralt’s expression and follows his gaze, whirling around to see the occupants of the house across from Geralt’s lodgings.
Yennefer and Triss, the Continent’s resident witches, are also shutting their front door. But accompanying them is a pretty blonde wearing a long purple gown and a crown of flowers. She turns around, giggling about something, and then she and Jaskier make eye contact and the world goes to hell. Both shriek, in unison and similar tones, “So that’s where you were last night!”
“I looked for you!” Priscilla rounds on him first, stomping over. Her lips have a tell-tale wine stain and her hair has been painstakingly braided back into an intricate style under the flowers. “I couldn’t find you anywhere, and you were here all along? Snuggled up to this… this beefy blacksmith?!”
“Well, I looked for you,” Jaskier lies boldly. He can feel Geralt rolling his eyes. “So you mean to tell me the whole night you were just across the street, cavorting with witches?!”
“They aren’t witches! They’re lovely women, and yes, they were kind enough to host me last night, since you fucked off to get your dick wet and I couldn’t find you.”
At that, the two not-witches approach. Triss nods to Geralt, smiling politely as if to say ‘so you’ve found yourself an idiot bard too’— he nods back. Yennefer tilts her head, eyeing Jaskier with that shrewd look that always makes him a little scared for his life. But when she speaks, she sounds far nicer than usual. “So you’re Nettle’s friend?”
With the grace and reservedness of a banshee, Jaskier demands, “Nettle?!”
“Callonetta,” amends Yennefer, smiling broadly and mischievously. Her fingers curl around Priscilla’s far shoulder, arm circling around her protectively. Jaskier is going to blow a gasket. “She was lost. We helped her out.” Sure enough, Triss walks around Priscilla’s other side, sliding an arm around her hips and smiling politely. Jaskier’s eyes bulge out of his head.
“I’m glad we found your friend, Dandelion,” Geralt intervenes before anyone can yell any more. “Shall we work this out over breakfast?”
“Sure,” Priscilla nods quickly. There’s still glitter on her forehead from her makeup yesterday. “I’d love to get to know the man that Dandelion is so taken by.” Her eyes sparkle, and Jaskier wants to jump down her throat, but… she’s smiling so genuinely that he can’t be mad. He had half-assumed she would leave yesterday, so he supposes he should just be grateful she’s still here, and happy to boot.
“Well, Callonetta, if you’re hungry, there’s a stall that does these biscuits with lemon curd— here, I’ll lead the way.” He offers Priscilla his arm as an obvious peace offering, and she takes it, stepping out of the grasp of Yennefer and Triss. Jaskier starts leading his friend over towards the food vendors, and quiet music drifts across the gentle morning breeze, meaning the other bards have woken up somewhere. Jaskier starts to think this might shape up to be the best Faire yet.
From behind them, he hears Yennefer say, subdued but still amused, “Callonetta was telling us about another kind of festival in the fall that we think could be very fun, Geralt.”