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Ciri raps twice on the oak door before her, not out of necessity—either one of the people she’s come to visit will likely have heard every step of her approach up the hill to the estate—but more out of politeness.
One can’t just phase right into someone’s living room, even if one is a queen. Maybe especially then.
It’s not Barnabas Basil that answers for once, but one of the house’s permanent residents.
“Your Highness!”
Regis beams at her, clearly both surprised and delighted, teeth on full display.
She scowls at him, but she’s unable to keep her lips from quirking up at the corners, too.
“Vampire,” she warns him, knowing full well that he’ll never stop making smart references to her royal titles, “We talked about this.”
He holds his arms open, and she embraces him tightly.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?”
She leans back, smiling again. "A girl can't simply stop by to see two of her favorite people in the world?”
Now it’s Regis’s turn to scowl in suspicion. He turns halfway over his shoulder, ignoring her entirely.
“Geralt,” he calls behind him, elongating the vowels in the witcher’s name, letting the sound carry. “Your daughter is up to something.”
Her heart swoops up like the bird for which she’s named when she hears gravelly tones issue from the top of the stairwell in answer.
“As always. What's that got to do with me?”
Regis looks back at her, holding her at arm’s length, making a face as he examines hers for clues.
“I'm just trying to surmise if this was her idea…”
Geralt's heavy footsteps on the stairs precede his arrival; he carries bundles of cloth in his arms, a jacket and a shawl from the look of it.
Regis's keen black eyes are furthered narrowed as he spots them.
“...or yours.”
Pausing at the bottom of the steps, Geralt shrugs and does something with his face that Ciri suspects is meant to be a pout. It's about the worst attempt at looking innocent Ciri has ever seen, and she knows a variety of them well, having been a purveyor of several during her time at Kaer Morhen.
"Ah," Regis says dryly, "Yours, then, I see."
Ciri laughs.
"Oh, Regis," she sighs happily, pacing way from him toward the dining table that sits in the center of the main room. "Live a little!"
Wine bottles are arranged neatly on the table, samples of their best vintages from over the years, resting next to an elaborately faceted crystal decanter. Between the witcher's keen sense of taste and smell, and the vampire's fastidious and knowledgeable gardening habits, Corvo Bianco has become not only one of the most well-respected wine producers in the duchy—and therefore lauded throughout the whole of the south—but a rather distinguished distillery as well.
“I have lived rather a lot," Regis grumbles, "which is precisely what concerns me: precedent. What have you two been plotting?"
Geralt crosses to her, tossing the coat and shawl over the back of a chair. He folds his arms over his chest, and she mirrors him, taking up the same pose. They look at one another conspiratorially.
“Nothing,” Geralt says, while at the same time as Ciri offers, “Not much.”
They both chuckle, and Ciri launches herself into Geralt's arms, kicking her feet in the air behind her as he lifts her up.
Depositing her back on the floor, the witcher turns to Regis, pointing an accusing finger at him.
“I owe you a surprise. For the katakan pup.”
As much as Ciri is well aware of what a katakan is, she has absolutely no context of this specific incident.
But given that Regis goes pale at the mention of it, it can't be good.
“Oh. Then I'm doomed, aren't I?”
Geralt smiles cryptically and tosses the shawl at his partner.
“Pack a bag. We'll be gone a few days. Gonna be colder than it is here.”
Surprise slackens the vampire's features. "Truly?"
Geralt nods.
“Well, omnia mea mecum—”
“Regis.”
“Right, right, I'm going.”
“Where are the—”
Regis places a hand to his head to keep his hat from blowing away in a sudden gust of wind. He swivels his head about, clearly looking for Roach and Orlock, his dappled grey, but only sees Ciri's black mare. Geralt shakes his head, shrugging on his coat.
Ciri strides up behind them. “I'm the method of transit, I'm afraid. I'm no Roach,” she winks at Geralt, “But I'll do my best.”
Regis glances at Geralt.
“You? Using a portal? Now I know something's wrong.”
Ciri places a hand on both of their shoulders, standing between them.
“Ready, gents?”
Geralt takes a deep breath, gripping his duffle with both hands. “As I'll ever be.” He looks past her at Regis, explaining: “Ciri doesn't use normal portals. She ‘blinks’, which is actually—”
She pictures the spot she wants to go to, and shuts her eyes, and—just—goes—
She's quite used to the feeling by now—the weird sensation of all your guts being twisted inside out, the overwhelming crush that comes from getting that close to the Void, only to dart away from it again, the world and the light and the sky rushing back.
All three of them find their feet planted on solid grassy ground in no more than a few moments.
Geralt drops his bag and staggers forward.
“—worse," he finishes, placing a hand over his stomach, steadying himself. "Much worse. But. Can't say it's not useful.”
Ciri rests a hand on her hip and rolls her eyes. "Thanks ever so for the kind words."
Perhaps it's to do with his being a more ethereal creature by nature, but Regis seems in better shape than Geralt, already having recovered, eyes pulled instantly to the horizon. His surroundings elicit from him a deep gasp, and Ciri can't really blame him.
She placed them on a mountain top, one of the higher spots in the region, for maximum visual effect. To the east and south, verdant forest spreads out before them. To the west, the waves crash up against the beachhead, beating as they have for thousands of years between the startling rock formations known as the Giant's Toes. In the late afternoon sunlight, all of it has an air of wild magic about it.
As many times as she's been here, as much of it as she's seen, Skellige is always breathtaking.
“What...? Where are—? Oh! Are we where I think we are?”
“Yep.” Geralt straightens up and moves to Regis. “You've only mentioned it about a dozen times in the last six months. ‘Geralt, the north of Ard Skellig is absolute exquisite in the late fall.’” He attempts to put on the airs and accent of the vampire, and it's a poor impression, but his point comes across as intended. “‘The cliffside views! The skaldic festivals! The small batch herbal variants from the meaderies!’”
He tips up the brim of Regis's hat, letting more sun fall on the vampire's smiling face. “I do actually listen to you. On occasion.”
Regis seems so overjoyed by Geralt's surprise that he doesn't even fuss about Geralt poking fun at him, simply pulling the witcher forward by the lapels and placing a peck on his lips.
“Thank you, my love.” He turns back to Ciri, “And thank you, my dear, for the use of your singular abilities.”
Ciri can't help but smile at them. “Of course. See you in a few days? Kaer Trolde harbor?”
Geralt nods. “You heading back to Cintra?”
“Not at all.”
“Then where—?” Regis starts.
Ciri can't stifle her grin—doesn't even try, in fact.
“I'll be waiting for you. At Kaer Trolde. I have... a variety of diplomatic negotiations to carry out. Very important, couldn't leave them to just anyone.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow and Regis laughs.
“Taken up bird watching again, Swallow? Sparrowhawks in season?”
Ciri thinks of red hair, amber eyes and freckles.
“More than watching, I hope.”