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Geralt was already tired of this little farming village in the middle of shitsticks nowhere and he had only just tied Roach to the hitching post pegged into the ground beside the sorriest excuse for an inn he had ever seen. But horse and rider were tired, the lodgings were bound to be cheap, and on top of that the bard had been silent for the past few hours on the road. While the rare break in his incessant chatter would usually have had the witcher embracing the refuge of silence, Geralt correctly interpreted the sudden death of Jaskier’s endless enthusiasm as time for a long overdue break. It had been a particularly gruelling few weeks, for the both of them.
“Perhaps I should herald our entrance with the legendary tales of your exploits Geralt – maybe the locals just need to see how sunny and approachable you really are?”
“Hm.” Geralt half wished the bard’s silence had held as he removed the necessities from Roach’s saddlebags, more than prepared for the rejection they were likely to receive. He checked she was as sheltered from the rain as she could be, giving his mare a gentle pat on the neck before striding for the door with Jaskier fumbling to keep up and fortunately abandoning his idea of a community serenade in the process.
The ceiling of the inn dipped in the middle, the candlelight bouncing off the wooden beams in soft gold curves. There was a general air of chatter which dulled slightly at their entrance, then slowly petered out to a low background as the scarred skin and glowing eyes just visible under the hood of Geralt’s cloak caught their attention. He left his companion to close the squeaky door against the deluge outside, heading for the bar in the far left of the room without hesitation even as one peasant spat at his mud caked boots on the way past his table.
“A room for the night. Dinner and hot water for a bath if you can spare it. My horse is tied outside and needs feeding too.” His eyes were trained on the innkeeper, a stout blading man who stared up at Geralt with no small amount of fear. It took a slight twitch of Geralt’s eyebrows before the man wet his lips and stumbled over his words to speak.
“A-And for your friend?” The man’s eyes darted to Jaskier who was still fiddling with the door, realising he had accidentally forced the rusty mechanism to lock and was struggling to undo the damage as nonchalantly as possible. Geralt grunted an affirmative and handed over the necessary crowns once prompted, receiving two clunky brass keys in exchange. “Dinner will be served here in an hour-” He gave a parting nod and turned back for the door, quickly brushing away Jaskier’s panicked hands and wrenching the door unlocked and open.
“Find the rooms. I’ll get the bags.” He passed the keys off to Jaskier who nodded and scarpered upstairs, glad to escape the scene of his mishap. Geralt stomped out into the rain which was quickly becoming a torrential downpour and hurried to Roach, removing her tackle and spreading a large blanket over her back to keep her as dry and warm as possible. He fed her the last handful of oats from their stores as he stroked her head and neck. Roach had managed to get them out of a few tight spots with nekkers on the road but due to time constraints Geralt had had to push her hard regardless. She deserved a good rest and some affection more than any of them.
Finally satisfied with Roach’s condition, he heaved the saddlebags and packs onto his shoulder with the saddle and reins hanging from his free hand. Trudging back inside he received a few more glares but ignored them once again in favour of climbing the stairs and following Jaskier’s scent to their rooms. He dumped Jaskier’s belongings in the doorway before heading into the neighbouring room and setting his packs and Roach’s tackle in a far corner. Geralt shed his waterlogged cloak next, hanging it up in front of the fire to dry while he removed his dual sword sheath. He withdrew the blades partially to ensure water hadn’t leaked into the oiled leather interior. A small hum deemed them safe and he deposited those in the corner also as he moved onto his various knives and daggers; he didn’t particularly feel like wiping down and treating his weaponry against rust in the morning.
He was disturbed by a timid knock on the door minutes later and his gruff call of admittance encouraged a terrified young girl to enter, hauling a small wooden tub containing a rough rag and a crude lump of soap for cleaning. Sitting on the bed to pull off his filthy boots and scrape the mud free with a paring knife, Geralt watched as she placed it next to the fire and made several trips up and down from the kitchen to halfway fill the tub with hot water. A crown and a slight headshake was the dismissal she received when she asked if there was anything else he needed.
Deeming his boots as clean as they could reasonably get, Geralt locked the door and stripped himself of armour and underclothes before stepping into the wooden tub and sinking to sit cross legged. He heard Jaskier singing and splashing about through the walls and had to resist an eyeroll as he commenced with his own cleaning. His hair and face was first while the water stayed relatively hot and clear, all the dried slime and gore and mud loosening and dissipating under the attention of the soapy water and cloth.
He methodically worked down his body, watching in apathy as a mostly healed gouge in his thigh split slightly and began bleeding sluggishly into the ever-murkier bathwater. Aside from a passing grunt he paid the wound no mind. The bleeding would stop in mere minutes and tender scar tissue would begin gathering there within an hour. Geralt stepped from the tub and stood in front of the fire for a moment to dry off slightly before redressing in his miraculously dry layers.
Midway through strapping on his vambraces, his head stayed down as Jaskier burst into the room a few minutes later looking much more chipper now he was clean and dressed in a fresh set of clothes. He even spared the bard from an irritated huff at his unannounced entry, glad that at the very least the slighter man was back to normal; even if his normal was maddeningly infuriating at the best of times.
“Say Geralt, why don’t we hang around for a few days? I could curry up some favour with the lovely people of this charming little village, you could do some pest control for the farmers for some easy coin-”
“Pest control?”
“-and Roach gets to have a lovely break. As do we but, you know, semantics. What matters is, everyone’s happy!” Jaskier beamed, hands on his hips and clearly very proud of his plan.
“Hm.” Geralt neither confirmed nor denied but the bard drew his own conclusion as always and sent him another grin as the witcher stood, towering over him in full armour once more. “Dinner.”
“Right you are good man!” Jaskier danced ahead, leading the duo into the hall after Geralt had strapped his sword sheath to his back once more. It had never hurt him to be too prepared. The bard snatched up his lute where it sat leaning up against the wall before fluttering off downstairs, not even bothering to check if Geralt was following in tow, which he grudgingly was.
His companion had secured them a decent corner table from which to view the rest of the room. He couldn’t help but notice that Jaskier had taken the bench with his back facing the room, allowing Geralt to sit up against the wall and have every occupant of the room easily within his line of sight. A small hum accompanied his descent onto the bench and Jaskier shot him another beam in response, clearly correctly reading the noise as one of gratitude. Geralt kept his eyes on the room while the bard prattled to himself, plucking on his lute strings nonsensically in accompaniment. He catalogued each cautious stare and whisper, each scrape of wood or metal, waiting for a challenge to appear.
“Oh look, food’s ready!”
Jaskier’s eager chirp broke his concentration and Geralt simply blinked as they were presented with rather large bowls of stew and a plate of seeded rolls. Lifting a heaping spoonful out of the steaming puddle of ingredients, he took a delicate sniff. Potato, carrot, peas, grains, some greens, rabbit, vole, rat-
He refocused to find Jaskier shovelling the food down with abandon, ripping off chunks of bread to wad in his cheeks like a rodent. Deciding to keep quiet on the contents of the meal, he too began to eat, dunking a roll into the liquid to soften it before taking a hearty bite. It was hot, filling and salty. That’s all that a decent meal really needed. Two tankards of ale were set down a moment later and Geralt nodded at the young girl a split second too late as she had already whirled round and hightailed it back to the kitchen.
“She’s probably just intimidated by my rugged good looks-” Jaskier mumbled around a mouthful of rat stew and Geralt merely cocked an eyebrow in response, draining his tankard in one to chase down the stringy protein. A slight scuffle caught his attention and he looked up to see a pockmarked youth stagger to his feet, shooting dark glares at his drinking buddies who all had their heads down and eyes diligently trained on their tankards. Jaskier remained oblivious to the man’s approach and only stuttered into silence at his ragged throat clearing once he reached their dimly lit corner.
“Witcher,” the man greeted, and Geralt could smell the apprehension rolling off him; as if the sweat beading his bumpy forehead wasn’t indication enough. He seemed slightly cowed by the lack of acknowledgement and cast a look over his shoulder before swallowing hard and continuing. “There’s… Y’see… Ain’t none of us rich here y’see, but we can pull ‘gether the coin-”
“I’m expensive.” He heard the man shuffle uncomfortably as he returned to his stew. Jaskier watched the proceedings closely, unsure which side to root for.
“We’ll pay ya, whatever you want. There- This rate there ain’t gon’ be no one left if we don’ pay ya to do this here service.” This caught his attention slightly and he gave a small grunt to encourage the man to continue. “Somethin’… Well, somethin’s been murdering the men. Every few nights or so, the guards- Started with some fires at first see, but it weren’t no natural fire. One time t’was pouring just as hard as this night, but the blaze jumped to the moon as if the house were bone dry. Then the men started bein’ picked off, weren’t showing up to their posts then was found in their beds all- cut up and… parts removed. Couple us been pulled from farm work to fill in posts and patrols… What if it don’t stop with them? You needa kill it, Witcher. I fear for all our souls.”
“Name.” The man tripped over his words for a moment before identifying himself as Haralt. “Since I don’t know what I’m dealing with, you and your friends had better start scraping your coin together while I look around. If you can’t pay, whatever it is – it’s your problem.”
Haralt nodded and took a step back before pausing. “Ten men’s died the past month. Couple had houses, couple stayed in guard posts. Should see the Captain, we don’t know nothin’ else bout it.” With a final nod he turned and hurried back to his table of fellow farmers who all leaned in and put their heads together to quiz Haralt about the conversation.
“Any ideas Geralt? Our specialties tend to lie in murder mysteries,” Jaskier’s attempt to sound glib fell more than slightly flat but Geralt could feel his sincere curiosity and slight worry under his throwaway words.
“Whatever it is, it’s powerful and knows what it’s doing…” The witcher’s voice was low, amber eyes burning into the table top as his thoughts raced, though without examining the scenes of the murders and the bodies themselves he might as well guzzle some potions, stalk around in the dark and hope for the best.
“So much for our holiday…” Jaskier’s sigh morphed into a startled cough at Geralt’s intense stare and he wisely decided to duck his head, power through the rest of his meal and stay silent for the remainder of dinner instead of bursting into song or cracking any smart remarks.
Upstairs, they parted ways in the hall and entered their respective rooms to settle in for the night. Geralt simply lay his weapons beside him in bed before laying down fully clothed, always on alert and ready to fight or run at a moment’s notice. Instead of sleeping however, he simply lay in bed staring at the ceiling as the fire in his room slowly burned down to embers and the soft snores of other patrons filtered through the wooden walls.
The usual screaming thoughts chased each other in circles round his head now joined by the questions born from Haralt’s fearful request. He had Roach, the bard, himself and the state of their coin purse to worry about right now. Why exactly was he adding to the pile with the petty troubles of some villagers?
Because monsters were monsters, he mused, whether feared by a commoner’s whelp or the rulers of nations. He had sworn to protect and if it was within his power to do so, he would: of course helped on by the promise of pay more often than not. But perhaps the bard was right. Maybe it would do them all good to stay in one place for a few nights. Gather supplies, crowns, a few decent nights sleep and warm meals…
But as the sun rose, it’s warming gold creeping into the room to meet glowing amber, Geralt had a suspicion that things were quickly about to dissolve from bad to worse.
<>
Things had gone to shit faster than he had expected.
The visit to the Captain of the guard had gone as well as he could’ve hoped; after some snide remarks and a snotty attitude, the man had finally produced a list of names and approximate locations of housing as well as a short background on each of the men. The first four had been a small band of Nilfgaardian troops sent to bolster and protect the village against rebel insurgents, as well as keep an eye on the population. All a grand plan to secure and reinstate the region under firm Nilfgaardian control. The rest of the men seemed to be a rag tag amalgamation of fighters from other towns and villages who had arrived with the Nilfgaardians, all wearing the black and gold armour but never once hinting at their connection or history.
All attacks had occurred at night, seemingly hours after each man had come back from a patrol or scouting venture. There were no warnings, no sightings, no strange activity in the area, no screams. Just the sudden appearance of a roaring fire, or the discovery of a body in the hours or days following the fatal torture. And torture it was: fingers and toes broken, eyes gouged out of their skulls, the flaying of an arm or leg, burning of the ears, gutting, stabbing, poisoning, exsanguination, castration. The methods varied from victim to victim but in each case it was abundantly clear than the man had been made to suffer before finally succumbing to death.
Next had come the viewing of the remains. There were naught but charred bones left of the first few victims and all but the most recent bodies had already been buried. The various townsfolk he had tracked down were confident that no organs were missing at the time of burial and the two bodies he got a chance to view seemed to be internally intact at the very least. No strange scents had piqued his interest, either on the corpses or around the victims’ place of death. There was a sense of lingering magic at each site but nothing else that could definitively point to a culprit.
And so here he stood, broadcasting his rate to the group of enraged farmers who all had clenched fists and looks of intense hatred or disgust on their faces.
“300 crowns? Ya could buy all o’ next seasons harvest wi’that money!”
“Run ‘im off! Filthy thieving mutant ‘e is!”
“I’ll take ma fuckin’ chances-!”
“Then you’ll die.” Their protests died instantly, the witcher’s voice cold and harsh like biting frost in the dead of winter. “You said it yourself. 10 of your guards, the best hope you had at fighting off an enemy, picked off one by one in their own beds. All within the past month. I give it a year before only the women and children are left, and that’s if it doesn’t decide to start speeding up once the fighters are taken care of. You’ve got something nasty at work here, something that doesn’t want to be found by human or witcher. It has magic, it has a method and a list, and it enjoys playing with its food. Whether it’s vampire or succubus or phantom or sadistic sorcerer, it will kill you all unless I get to it first. So 300 crowns, or I’ll be in the next town before your wives and mothers have supper on the table.”
The weight of his warning settled over them all and what had started as the beginnings of a violent mob slowly simmered down into the grudging acceptance of heavy and unwilling sacrifice. Haralt looked particularly put out but his jaw was squared in determination as he turned to face the rest of the men.
“You heard the witcher. 300 crowns for ‘im by t’morrow eve, you hear? Beg and borrow if ya hafta. Just get the man his pay!” Haralt raised his voice over the dissatisfied murmurs, sending a tight nod Geralt’s way which he replicated with a barely audible grunt. The teen seemed capable of cajoling his fellows into compliance so Geralt decided to take his victory and retreat to his room in order to prepare for the work ahead. He was stopped at the stairs by Jaskier who came barrelling in through the front door, covered in horse hair and splatters of water.
“Geralt, there you are!” The bard hurried over, breathing hard and smoothing his hair self-consciously. “Didn’t get a chance to stop you before you stormed past-! Cleaned and brushed Roach while you were busy- I think she’s really starting to like me you know, she only pushed me over once!” Geralt snorted at Jaskier’s hopeful smile and just carried on upstairs while the other men trailed in his wake. “So, what did you find?” But as he spoke, Geralt felt unease prickle over his skin like an invisible sticky film.
“Wait.” His voice was low and gravelly but he continued to his room, shoulders even tighter than usual as he unlocked the door and shoved Jaskier inside before stepping in himself and locking the door once more.
“Well you didn’t have to shove me-!” He was quickly silenced by Geralt’s intent gaze which drifted into a glassy state as he ignored visuals and tuned into his other senses instead. There was the rumble of chatter in the bar downstairs, the creak and vibration of bodies shifting, the scent of fading anger and fear overlapping the bitter ale and woodsmoke and storms from the kitchen. Wait… Geralt took a deeper breath, mulling over the smell of charged static and heated air, feeling the faintest sting of lightning on his tongue. It had vanished almost as soon as he had identified it and his eyes snapped open to find Jaskier staring at him in confusion.
“She was here.”
“She? Who, Yennefer-?”
“The killer.” The growl grated its way out of his throat, eyes narrowed in warning. Jaskier flapped his hand impatiently.
“Yes yes, don’t mention the witch- But how do you know the thing’s a she?”
“All male victims, signs of sexual torture and disfiguring before death. Highly likely it’s a female.”
“Alright, but then what is it? Why would some random creature be going after some random village guards?” Jaskier sounded even more confused if that was possible and to Geralt’s annoyance he found he didn’t have the answer. He hid this small lapse by stalking to his packs and rummaging through his stash of various potions and oils as he talked.
“Doesn’t matter. Could be an alp, bruxa, higher vampire, rogue rusalka, a succubus on a power trip, or some kind of sorceress experimenting with her power. Either way, she’s powerful and dangerous. Even more so because I won’t know what I’m up against until I find her.” He pulled a mix of hybrid, vampiric and spectral oils from the mess of vials and stuffed them into his hip pouch which were quickly joined by Blizzard, Black Blood and Swallow.
Jaskier registered his preparations and sprung forwards, words crashing together in his rush to speak. “Geralt-! What’s the plan, how can I help-?”
“Stay here.” There was a prolonged silence while Jaskier gaped in shock, watching as Geralt surged around the room strapping on extra pieces of armour and gathering as many blades and silver instruments he could into the various holsters and clips on his belt and armour. And then before his companion had the chance to protest: “And find Roach another blanket.” He left the room a second later, sliding the brass key securely under his left vambrace and sleeve to sit chill and snug against his skin.
Geralt descended into the bar and took a cursory sniff of the air, diligently searching for that sharp almost metallic quality to the air he had sensed just minutes ago. But the scents were as mundane as ever and he took the back door out of the inn, content to investigate in the treeline around the lower portion of the town until night fell. It wouldn’t do to have a witcher wandering the streets, armed to the teeth with skin as pale as the moon and eyes blacker than hell itself. So the White Wolf slipped off into the forest and waited. Prowled.
<>
Six days.
It had been six long days of waiting and stalking and tracking and pacing and sniffing. That faint stormy press to the air had popped up all over the village and the woods surrounding it while Geralt had been on the hunt. Sometimes it was just a fading remnant of rain and steel on the breeze, other times the hairs along his arms quivered with the whisper of static that raced over him. He was acutely attuned to its presence after only a day, practically salivating for the bite of power on his tongue by the fourth. Jaskier was all too aware of his foul mood, quips and ballads absent for once as they sat to eat or saw to Roach, concerned blue eyes focused on him in all the moments his companion thought he wasn’t looking.
But it was while he made his patrol between the residences of the remaining guards on that sixth night that he finally caught what he had been searching for: the scent of clouds, the faint crackle in the air, the charge prickling his skin like burrs, the pop of lightning in his mouth. His silver blade was drawn a split second later, the seasoned movement drawing only a soft hiss as the blade rasped along the fabric and hard casing of the sheath.
The trees were in sight over a small grassy hillock and a guard’s small hut lay just up this road and to the right. Geralt figured this was as good a time as any to prepare himself for the potential battle and guzzled all three of his potions in quick succession, gritting his teeth as his blood boiled from the inside out and suddenly everything was sharp. The moonlight appeared as bright sun to his already enhanced witcher’s eyes, the cool breeze felt like an icy crosswind and the power in the air coated his mouth and throat with a hot metallic tang.
With a feral baring of his teeth that in no way passed for a grin, he began to follow the trail through the air. Only the shallowest breaths were needed to send all the information he needed rocketing down into his lungs and as he approached the creature’s target, he could make out a sound over the ambience of nature and the countless slumbering people in the houses around him. A fast pattering. It almost sounded like the scrambling of paws, but muted, as if underground. A heartbeat.
His eyes narrowed infinitesimally and he closed in on the small wooden structure, gait and footfalls shifting to move in near silence as he approached the front door which had been cracked open ever so slightly. Geralt paused, taking another breath and was almost bowled over by the assault on his senses. It was starting to build now, yes with proximity but there was something darker about the feel now; something bubbling under the surface, angry and nasty and ready to spring. He took a moment to refocus before reaching out and gradually easing the door open with not even the faintest creak.
The front room was empty spare a modest smattering of furniture and the remains of a blaze in the belly of the cooking fireplace. He heard that accelerated heartbeat mingling with the steady sounds of sleep drifting from the doorway at the back of the hut and lowered his stance in response, creeping forward on silent feet. As he approached the doorway at an angle, the bed of the man came into view with his peacefully sleeping face crushed into the bundle of cloth he used as a pillow. Two more half steps and- There.
At the foot of the bed crouched a small dirty creature, bundled in cloth and nigh invisible to the unaltered eye. Its heart raced and its breathing stuttered and its voice was harsh and guttural, a metal amulet cradled in its dirt streaked hands, small with soft and distinctly human nails-
Geralt stayed alert, simply sliding a steel dagger from his belt and stepping into the room ready to lunge. He was expecting surprise, fear, anger, a shrieked spell or a potion flask flung, but the thing didn’t even seem to notice him. He drew back his sword ready for the swift lunge and thrust across the room but-
“Please…” The voice was so quiet and raspy he thought he had imagined it. His muscles stayed coiled and bunched, ready to jump into action at a split second but something halted him. And then the creature raised its covered head and he saw a woman, a girl really, all wide wild eyes and hair and swamp muck and desperation and storm personified. “Don’t take this from me… I was so close-” Her hands shook and thin fingers tightened around the amulet, which at closer inspection appeared to be a crude lump of oxidised and burnished copper that hummed with a faint heat that set Geralt’s teeth on edge.
“You know I can’t do that.” His voice was flat, inflectionless, dead. He held perfectly still, eyes roving over the woman’s face and body, searching for the beginnings of an attack. None came.
“I know you’re to kill me- I don’t blame you, or them, any of them- But I need to do this. He’s the last one, I just, I need to finish what they started. I was going to- after they were all gone, there’s nothing left for me, I won’t even fight you- I promise to make it easy, just let me kill him-”
Her voice was faint, fading to a point so low even he had trouble hearing over the jackrabbiting of her heart and the rasp of her breathing. Her hands quaked more and he saw the column of her throat working hard to swallow as she gazed up at him, eyes glassy but a faint flicker in their depths screaming at him. Something about her felt wrong, made the icy burn of suspicion and unease scrape down his spine as he took another half step forward. The woman was muttering to herself now, but instead of the previous rasp it was now a smooth deep croon.
“Just, one more… quick, then it’s over, you can be with him at last- One more and all the hurt will go away…” A hard blink and a confused fluttering of lashes as the woman seemed to wake from a daze, hands slackening around the amulet as her eyebrows drew together. “But… Never wanted them to suffer-” A harsh hiss and her face was cold and empty once again, metal clutched to her chest once more. “Lies! Now, end it!”
Geralt acted before either of them had the time to think.
The shockwave of his hastily cast Aard slammed into the woman and she shrieked, an ungodly grating scream, flinging a hand in his direction even as she toppled backwards. Her blast was twice as powerful, sending him careening back through the doorway and slamming into the front door of the house. He staggered to his feet with a hoarse groan and blinked hard as the ringing in his eyes and head sent lances of pain slicing down his spine. There was another scream from the bedroom, this time ragged and agonised, and he felt the crackle in the air and smelt the smoke as a magical fire burst to life.
He had just readied his sword again when she came flying out of the darkness towards him, face unnervingly lifeless even as she threw another spell his way with a thrust of the amulet. Rolling to the side just in time to avoid the surge of hissing energy, he finally understood why the villagers had known the fire to be of magical origin: already the bedroom was engulfed in bright yellow flame and from the heat and smell pouring out into the rest of the house, the guardsman had not even had time to wake before being consumed. Poor bastard.
Geralt had to flatten himself once more as yet another blast was aimed at him, but this time his eyes narrowed in on the ball of metal instead of its wielder. It seemed to be warmer than before, casting a faint red aura around those thin grasping fingers and sending webs of the stuff pulsing up the woman’s hand. Another spell and another roll – the woman was weakening however. Her hand motion was sluggish, eyes even duller than before and a grey cast beginning to settle over her face. The fire had encroached to the partitioning wall by now and seeing few other options, Geralt turned and dove out of the window, racing for the cover of the woods while the woman gave another rattling shriek and followed in hot pursuit.
Before he could reach the clearing he had mentally mapped just in case of a situation just as this, a stinging fire collided with his lower right leg and he roared in pain as his sensitivity sent the burn racing through every cell in his body. He only had time to catch his fall and flip onto his back before she was on him, another pulse of energy sending his blades flying and driving his body into the earth. Her eyes were darker and more soulless than he had seen up ‘til this point, her skin distinctly grey, clammy and beading up in a cold sweat while shivers and frenzied laughing wracked her frame. Her left hand seemed almost fused with the amulet which was sending out nauseating stabs of light and energy, matching the pulse of the sickly red glow pulsing through her veins.
“Finally- 12 lives… it has taken so long-” The woman heaved and convulsed with a deep groan, but the voice still spilled from her slack lips unaltered. “A full moon, a blood sacrifice, a vessel, a witcher… Ohhhh I can taste him- So much hate!”
The woman, who now looked more dead than alive, crawled to her knees and flung her head back to the sky. A heavy pressing weight kept his arms locked at his sides and he could only watch as the amulet seemed to raise towards the moon under its own power, the woman’s arm connected to it hanging loose and floppy. Harsh chanting ripped from the depths of the woman’s chest as the amulet began to glow and burn, brighter and hotter and under the chanting the woman was screaming-
Geralt cast Quen just as the amulet became a controlled implosion and sent a ball of energy speeding straight down. It rebounded off the golden haze of the sign’s shield with a massive BOOM and the woman was flung back with a dual scream; one high and terrified, one deep and enraged. There was another earth-shattering explosion and a flash of bright red which his witcher eyes could not withstand, eyes clenched shut and arms flung up to shield his face, the heat and the evil and the magic washing over him in a wave of death.
And then everything was still.
<>
When he finally blinked his eyes open, the shift of the moon in the sky and the background sting of fading toxicity in his bloodstream informed him that a few hours had passed. Geralt growled as he pushed himself up out of the crater he was nestled in, shooting a quick glance down at his right leg when a sickening wave of pain shot up to a spot behind his navel. Past the rips and tears in the fitted black leather, withered greying skin greeted his eyes, dark veins bulging and pulsing under the damaged surface. With little more than a grimace, he downed yet another Swallow potion and staggered to his feet as the familiar burn of the potion sent less familiar icy hot stabs through the bone of his lower leg.
He cast around for the woman and the amulet, only to find the former crumpled in a heap at the base of a thick tree. The glint of metal caught his eyes and he limped over to the patch of nettles to yank his silver sword from their depths. He paid no mind to the achy sting that erupted along his hand and forearm, simply sliding the sword back into its sheath before honing into his witcher senses. He scoured the forest floor and took several curious inhales, following the scent of corruption to the crash site of the obliterated amulet. Geralt sank into a crouch with a steadying hand braced on the trunk of a tree next to him while he picked up a small chunk of the tarnished metal.
It seemed mundane enough, as if it were just the remnants of some metal instrument that had been left to rot forgotten in the woods. Except he could smell the death and power clinging to the mineral, the blood and pain and bone-
He blinked and cast around for a larger piece of rubble, bringing it up to his face and painstakingly cracking it into a few smaller chunks. Small fragments of reddish white bone became exposed and his automatic instinct was to recoil from the smell of rot and decay. Though with a second more measured sniff, he could pick up notes of other organic material encased in the metal pieces. Hair perhaps?
A groan off to his left broke his focus and he looked over to see the woman beginning to stir, her heartbeat gradually ratcheting up to its previous rabbit-fast pace. Dropping the remaining pieces back to the floor, he stood and hobbled his way over. He drew another dagger and knelt a small distance from her, still wary and alert though he was almost certain the dark magic corrupting her had been dispelled if the healthier flush to her skin was anything to go by. That didn’t mean she wasn’t corrupted in her own right.
“No…. No, nononono-” Her mumbles were quiet, strained and raspy in a way only damage to your vocal cords can achieve. She writhed in place, head tossing side to side before she finally lurched upright with a choked noise and a weak burst of energy. It ruffled his white hair in a stiff wind but otherwise the witcher remained motionless, watching as she cast around in panic before her frantic eyes landed on his lambent amber. A muffled sob escaped her lips and she shuffled forwards clumsily on her knees, eyes beseeching. “Please, tell me it’s over, I can’t hurt anyone else-!”
Geralt grunted with the barest inclination of a nod and the woman burst into tears in earnest, seemingly losing all wind in her sails and slumping over to sob and gasp into her hands. He shifted uncomfortably, two opposing courses of action screaming themselves hoarse and waging war inside his mind. Instinctively he knew he needed the answers to his questions before he could make a choice and he felt his shoulders slump under the weight of the moral burden.
It was clear now in the serene light of the moon that this woman was little more than a frightened girl but the fact remained that she had murdered 11 innocent men, even if it had seemed the product of magical possession more than her own free will. There was little that could absolve that kind of guilt. The woman’s hysterics had finally eased, and she pulled herself upright again with a poorly maintained air of calm. Her eyes were red rimmed and swollen and tears still stained her cheeks but the set of her jaw was strong.
“I suppose it is your turn to do the killing, Witcher…”
“Suppose it is.” His voice was gruff but not altogether unkind, curiosity still eroding his resolve as he made no movement. She didn’t seem to notice his hesitation; her lip wobbled slightly and she drew in a fortifying breath.
“I’m sure it doesn’t matter to you either way… But I never wanted to kill those men. I- I will admit I wanted to hurt them, make them feel-” She choked off before sniffing aggressively and continuing, silent tears slipping down her face once more. “I had no idea what that talisman would do… I know I deserve this though. I won’t even beg for my life. I don’t- I was always breathing on borrowed time…” She trailed off and bit her lip hard, lowering her head in a clear sign of surrender. End it.
“Explain.” Geralt was rough and demanding, the itch to cleave the woman in two burning fiercer and sending a last throb of resistance through his veins. He clenched his fists against the urge and met the woman’s incredulous stare with a firm glare of his own. She swallowed hurriedly, hands clasping in her lap as she cleared her throat.
“I… I lived in a hamlet several valleys south of here. I owned an apothecary, had family, friends, a- a lover I suppose, I was pregnant… And then one night we were attacked. A band of men, robbers and killers and bandits dressed in Nilfgaardian armour against a small group of unarmed men women and children... They destroyed everything, they beat and killed and raped and burned-” She became choked up and had to take several calming breaths, hands fisting in her rags so tight they began to shake. “Nothing was spared, I was the only one that survived. The others bled out, or burned alive, or were tortured or left to lay there and either the infection, dogs, or necrophages got to them eventually… I was hurt badly, they kicked my stomach, I was in pain and bleeding, I had to leave the injured behind-
“It took days but I made it to the woman in the woods… I was dead on my feet, I can’t remember much… I remember pain, and screaming, and I had to push… I gave birth to my baby- he was just rotting flesh and blood and bone when she showed me… I was sick, an infection in my blood, I was dying and she just kept whispering to me, day and night, it wouldn’t stop- I just wanted to hurt those men, ruin their lives the way they ruined mine. She promised she could help; she burned his bones and her hair, formed it with a lump of metal… She said I could borrow the power to hurt them and then be with my little Willem…”
Geralt’s stomach rolled and he felt the distinct urge to throw up for the first time in too many years. The woman was shaking, trembling like a leaf and her breathing was quickly overtaking her thundering heart. The air around her smelled like winter: the melancholy of freezing rain, the ominous press of a storm too far away to really be dangerous, and the sharp smell of mineral ichor bleeding up from the depths of the earth. She smelled gentle and wounded, crumbling like sand under the weight of her despair. Against his better judgement, he reached out and placed his right hand on her tense forearm, absently noting how his thumb and fingers could have easily circled the thickest point below her elbow.
“I won’t kill you.” His voice was still gruff, but only in the way rain slams against a pane of glass; rough but pleasantly comforting all the same. The woman’s breathing had stalled at his touch but now she whimpered out an exhale, curling over and shaking to contain the avalanche of sorrow and panic and relief he could taste in the air between them.
“Th- Thank you Witcher-”
“Geralt.” He wasn’t entirely sure why he gave her his name. Perhaps it was a way of ignoring the slight warmth in his chest and the infinitesimal tightening of his supportive hand on her arm. His slight lapse in focus hid her motion until both her small cold hands were clasped around his right, squeezing fiercely.
“Geralt, thank you.” He met her wide eyes for a split second before humming his acceptance, gently but decisively pulling his hand away from hers in order to climb to his feet. She watched him rise, an expression of wary awe painted on her damp face and he sheathed his dagger before taking a cautious step back on his right leg. Pleased when he managed to hold his weight almost steadily, he turned his eyes back on the woman.
“You need to leave. I’ll say I killed the creature but if they catch wind of you, they’ll have your head.”
She nodded solemnly and pulled herself to her feet with the aid of the tree she had been sitting up against. With a strong wobble of her knees, she pitched forwards and Geralt lunged to catch her by her elbows and help her steady herself once more.
“I have nowhere to go… No coin, no clothes- If you could point me in the direction of a small village or hamlet far enough away from here, I’m sure I could make something up and settle in.” Geralt grunted in no small measure of disbelief and, seeing the minute trembling of her muscles, thought better of letting go of her arms and instead lowered her back to the ground to sit against the tree trunk. “Geralt?”
“Stay here. There’s a river just beyond the thicket there if you’re strong enough to wash. I have a… friend, back at the inn-”
“The bard?” Geralt frowned at the clear familiarity and she was quick to explain. “I don’t remember things clearly from the nights I… killed those men. But I remember seeing you and the bard through the windows of the inn. The talisman sensed you- It wanted you to find me.” She trailed off somewhat uncomfortably but he brushed it off; none of that mattered anyway.
“I will come back with food, clothes, crowns and a horse. We can leave you somewhere safe.” He shuffled again, more than slightly uncomfortable with the reappearance of tears in her eyes but luckily these ones stayed trapped.
“I owe you my life two times over, Geralt. I don’t know what I have ever done to deserve it or how I can repay you-”
“Then don’t waste your life. Live it.”
Geralt turned without a second glance and began the long walk through the forest back towards the centre of the village where the inn was nestled. His head throbbed with the potentials of his decision, both negative and positive, but strangely enough his shoulders felt free of the burden of choice. His right leg ached and was shot through with random stabs of pain, but he could worry about that when he had access to his array of alchemy ingredients.
An inner voice still screamed at him to turn back, that the creature was still alive and well and what kind of witcher didn’t fucking kill monsters, but Geralt continued. Yes, men too could be the villains of the story but in this story, it just so happened that there were two villains. Two villains and two heroes. A witcher and a woman who had had everything taken from her by the evil that preyed on her weakness. And what kind of hero would he be, what kind of witcher, what kind of man, if he started slaying the innocent and misguided and violated? He snorted at the romanticism of it all but ultimately couldn’t shake the feeling that despite his displays of hesitation and emotion and weakness, he had done the right thing.
All that was left to complete this chapter of the fairy tale was to deposit the maiden in a place of safety to live happily ever after and then ride away into the sunset. In hindsight, it was a good thing he had asked for so much coin from the farmers; he doubted he would be seeing very much of it by the time things had been concluded. Geralt sighed but resigned himself to his fate. There was no going back now. And as he drew closer to the inn, killing a stoat of some kind to smear the blood across his armour and swords to sell the cover story, there was only one thing that weighed heavy on his mind and heart.
The fact that Jaskier was most definitely going to use this as an excuse to compose yet another shitty ballad.