clach na ben (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
clachnaben) wrote2020-12-16 02:58 pm
clachnaben) wrote2020-12-16 02:58 pm
Entry tags:
WIP Wednesday: who will keep me company if not all these wips
I have like five or six wips currently on the go and it is too many. I need to finish one of them to at least whittle down the list, but unfortunately that is not happening. Please take this snippet of my current Witcher wip as tribute. It is brought to you by the fact that I have done nothing but play the Witcher 3 for the last two weeks.
Ciri sat, one leg crossed over the other, one arm resting on her knee. She wasn’t his little girl anymore, the headstrong warrior who would rush into any battle with just her sword and a grin. He sat and braced his elbows against his legs. Emhyr did not look up from the paper he was writing at, his quill scratching away. Geralt could smell the ink, and the human scent of Emhyr’s sweat, the faint aroma of food as if he had eaten at his desk recently.
A maid, dressed all in black, brought a tray of glasses, the glass edged in gold, and Mereid poured a rich red wine, the smell of it rising off the pour like a warm stew. He let himself smell it without drinking for a long moment, and savoured the first sip. It had a lovely softness to it, and a pleasant earthiness, a nice slow-rolling stone aftertaste.
“Hmm,” he said happily. Emhyr looked up, setting his quill down and raising an eyebrow.
“How fares Corvo Bianco?” he asked, without preamble. Geralt lowered his glass warily, Cirilla watching them both over the rim of her glass.
“Fine,” Geralt said slowly.
“I understand you have had your first grape harvest. How long do you plan to age the bottles?” Emhyr said, for all the world like he was interested in the minutia of running a minor estate in Toussaint. Hell, knowing how Emhyr’s brain worked, maybe he was.
“Six months,” Geralt said. “And half the harvest to age another year.”
“Corvo Bianco produced excellent vintages in my father’s reign,” Emhyr said. “I have been lucky enough to sample some of the wine that survived the Usurper. It is gratifying to hear that it is producing again.”
“Thanks,” Geralt said, feeling a bit nonplussed. Emhyr had never made small talk with him before. He glanced sideways at Ciri, who was hiding a smile behind her wine glass.
“Then, to business,” Emhyr said, moving the papers in front of him to the side of his desk with a heavy thwack, and leaning back in his chair. “A ghost has been sighted in the east wing of this palace. When approached, it apparently summons wraiths to defend itself. The court’s official augurers have determined this is an ill omen, and the court may not withdraw to winter in Nilfgaard proper. I require a witcher to rid us of this spectre.”
Ciri sat, one leg crossed over the other, one arm resting on her knee. She wasn’t his little girl anymore, the headstrong warrior who would rush into any battle with just her sword and a grin. He sat and braced his elbows against his legs. Emhyr did not look up from the paper he was writing at, his quill scratching away. Geralt could smell the ink, and the human scent of Emhyr’s sweat, the faint aroma of food as if he had eaten at his desk recently.
A maid, dressed all in black, brought a tray of glasses, the glass edged in gold, and Mereid poured a rich red wine, the smell of it rising off the pour like a warm stew. He let himself smell it without drinking for a long moment, and savoured the first sip. It had a lovely softness to it, and a pleasant earthiness, a nice slow-rolling stone aftertaste.
“Hmm,” he said happily. Emhyr looked up, setting his quill down and raising an eyebrow.
“How fares Corvo Bianco?” he asked, without preamble. Geralt lowered his glass warily, Cirilla watching them both over the rim of her glass.
“Fine,” Geralt said slowly.
“I understand you have had your first grape harvest. How long do you plan to age the bottles?” Emhyr said, for all the world like he was interested in the minutia of running a minor estate in Toussaint. Hell, knowing how Emhyr’s brain worked, maybe he was.
“Six months,” Geralt said. “And half the harvest to age another year.”
“Corvo Bianco produced excellent vintages in my father’s reign,” Emhyr said. “I have been lucky enough to sample some of the wine that survived the Usurper. It is gratifying to hear that it is producing again.”
“Thanks,” Geralt said, feeling a bit nonplussed. Emhyr had never made small talk with him before. He glanced sideways at Ciri, who was hiding a smile behind her wine glass.
“Then, to business,” Emhyr said, moving the papers in front of him to the side of his desk with a heavy thwack, and leaning back in his chair. “A ghost has been sighted in the east wing of this palace. When approached, it apparently summons wraiths to defend itself. The court’s official augurers have determined this is an ill omen, and the court may not withdraw to winter in Nilfgaard proper. I require a witcher to rid us of this spectre.”