Chapter Text
It was refreshing to be on the move again, under gently swaying branches rather than musty stone halls. After months of wintering in Kaer Morhen, Geralt was headed steadily south, trading the heavy snowfalls of the mountains for their flurried foothills. For a time, he travelled in complete solitude, just him and Roach, edging ever closer to the small villages and towns that dotted the surrounding land. By the time they reached the larger part of the river that wound its way across the valley floor, the weather had transitioned from the flurries of late winter to the cold drizzle of oncoming spring, but the forest had not yet woken from winter’s heavy slumber save for the few bits of green in the grass at the road’s edge half buried under mud.
He came across the rumors first, muttered between travellers who passed them on the road. Giant centipedes had been nesting in the forest nearby, for years, it seemed. While no one stopped him to offer the contract officially, preferring to cross to the other side of the road and pass him with suspicious glowers and the occasional curse, Geralt decided to track down the nest.
“A little exercise never hurt,” he told Roach when she snorted at his guiding her off the path and into the deeper woods. “Maybe a village will be grateful to be rid of them, offer us some coin or a drink.” He tied her reins to a tree well out of sight of any travelers and not far enough into the wood to be targeted by the carnivorous insects. Drawing his sword, he tightened the straps of his armor and patted her cheek. “At the very least, it’ll be several monsters fewer in these parts. And that’s worth an hour or so of your patience, hmm?” Roach snuffled her agreement into a patch of grass and Geralt turned to the scattered trail of displaced underbrush and churned earth that trailed into the depths of the wood.
Geralt made short work of the creatures, finishing off the nest with a few hours to spare before dark. It was an old one, well established. The locals had probably had trouble for years, decades even, and it was a satisfying hunt to wipe them out and make one more small corner of this world a little safer. The heads were conveniently smaller than the wide sections of carapace that made up the monsters’ near-twenty foot long bodies and Geralt broke off the large pincers before packing the heads away in a sack and making his way back to the path with Roach. It wasn’t long before they came across a small mining village with little more than a smithy, tavern, and the homes of the workers and their families. Places like this could be unpredictable, local superstitions enhanced by their isolation and the close-knit community rarely welcomed strangers. This particular village was close enough to a trade route for travellers to be expected, but, going by the stares that followed him from the first muddy street through to the tavern, witchers weren’t their usual fare.
There were so few witchers left that even here, so close to the place Geralt had been trained, one was likely a rare sighting. Probably because most preferred to skirt around smaller settlements like this, leave them to their superstitions and avoid the muttered insults spat on the ground at their feet. Geralt might have bypassed this place himself if it weren’t for the centipedes.
He dismounted outside the tavern as the orange rays of sunset began to fade from the sky and led Roach the few steps further to a hitching post, frowning at the nervous energy in her flicking ears and uneasy steps.
“Just one drink,” he murmured to her. “Need to let someone here know the woods are safe around the fields now.” A glance at a passing miner’s suspicious scowl drew a sigh from Geralt’s lips. “Even if they do run us off for it,” he added, fastening Roach’s reins to the post.
The sudden movement at the tavern’s cloudy windows didn’t escape him, but people tended to be skittish when he arrived; it came with the job. He gave Roach a reassuring pat and took the sack from her saddle, keeping the hood of his heavy cloak up as he entered. Geralt made for the bar, feeling the eyes of every patron burning on his back as he stood at the counter.
The barkeep was an older man, steel-grey hair shaggy and unkempt. The lines dug deep into his brow suggested the sour glare he was currently wearing was his natural expression, worn into his face with daily repetition just like the wagon ruts in the street outside.
“Do you have an alderman here?” Geralt queried, hoping he could bypass the average villager and go straight to the man in charge. It was unlikely any single inhabitant would have anything to offer him for his work, but if they’d elected an official mayor or leader of some sort, he’d have better luck there.
“Oh, sure,” the man deadpanned, his tone mocking. “Didn’t you see the grand mansion down the road as you came in? Lives there. Has tea with Queen Calanthe every afternoon - you’ve just missed her.” There was a pause in which Geralt’s jaw tightened with annoyance and the barkeep eyed him. Then a lift of his chin indicated the weighted sack hanging in the witcher’s gloved hand. “What’s that?”
Geralt considered him for a moment. No alderman likely meant no pay, which wasn’t a terrible loss on his part. A monster was slain and a village made that much safer. The supplies he’d brought from Kaer Morhen would last him some time without needing replacement or replenishing, so he had no real need for coin just yet. But still, someone should be told, and whether this man was the town’s authority, its idiot, or both, he’d be able to spread the word well enough.
“Came across a giant centipede nest just north of here. Probably been feeding their young at your expense. I took care of them.” The barkeep raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, setting aside the mug he’d been cleaning and grunted. “I’ve collected the heads as proof.” Geralt rested the sack on the counter, undoing the rope holding it shut. “They’ll not be troubling you again.” The man leaned forward and took a cursory look into the bag; the sight twisted his mouth.
“So you’re here to squeeze what little coin we have into your purse, then, is it? Well, you can keep riding, witcher!”
Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but the hostility in the man’s tone suggested things could get messy should he push his luck.
“I’m not here for your money. I just want a drink.” He took a seat on one of the barstools, leaving the sack on the ground at his feet. An ale might just chase off the chill of the evening, make his search for a campsite all the more bearable in the drizzle that had begun outside. If the drink itself was bearable, that is. He’d stopped in plenty of towns where the drink tasted worse than the selkimore guts he was covered in.
“I just said you can-”
“Put it on my tab, Ivan, and get me one as well.” The rough voice belonged to the dark-haired man who pulled up a stool not far from Geralt, a merry grin splitting his beard as he looked Geralt up and down, ignoring Ivan’s grumbling as he turned to fill the order. “So you’re a witcher, then? Haven’t seen one of you here for nearly twenty years. Lucky us, eh, boys?” he said with a glance over his shoulder, where the other men still watched warily. “Heard you say you wiped out the whole nest of those nasty little things for us.”
Geralt eyed the man, noting the scent of metals and smoke that characterized a town blacksmith. His smile seemed friendly enough, but there was something hard in those dark eyes, something tight and angry in the soot-dusted fist that gripped his mug. Geralt offered him a low hum and a nod, ignoring the way his own drink was slammed on the counter in front of him by the bartender. The blacksmith raised his mug to Geralt, saying, “To monster-slaying, eh?”
The man didn’t wait for a response, throwing back a large gulp of his drink. He didn’t seem to fit the image this town had given. Here, the overall feel was one of hostility, mostly veiled, but easily incensed over even the smallest of imagined slights. The brazen toast was something more befitting a town on the coast where Jaskier’s songs were well known and feats of the ‘White Wolf’ common conversation over drinks. Geralt would have expected this man to be showered with disapproving scowls, but the other patrons and even the bartender himself deferred to him as if he were an authority.
He could well be the closest thing this town had to an authority figure. The town blacksmith was often one to handle village issues, whether it be a horse’s thrown shoe or a broken pickaxe. In a mining town, he’d be providing an essential service. Perhaps that was all the hardness was, just the tension of a town’s leader facing a potential threat. Geralt drank in silence, the ale as good as could be expected, but it wasn’t long before the man spoke up again.
“You keep those as trophies, then?”
Geralt followed the man’s gaze to the sack at his feet and watched with interest as the bearded jaw worked silently as if in anger, though the tone of his voice had remained light and conversational.
“Take it,” Geralt nodded at him. “A mage might give you something for them, but they’ll be more use to you if you burn them at the edge of your fields. Warn off any other scavengers.” All he received was a noncommittal grunt and Geralt kept a close eye on him as they both finished their drinks. The light outside the dirty windows was fading fast. He’d need to get moving if he wanted to have more than dried provisions for dinner. The atmosphere of the tavern was tense and uncomfortable, the man still seated to his left glowering into his tankard, and there was none of the bustle and cheer that usually filled a town’s gathering place.
Geralt rose slowly, making sure to keep his movements smooth and nonthreatening as he got to his feet and cast a parting glance at the barkeep before heading for the door. Before he’d taken two steps, however, someone caught his arm. He turned to see the smith, smile firmly in place once again but his eyes glittering like dark beetles beneath his furrowed brow as he said, “Before you go, there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask a witcher.”
A shuffling alerted Geralt to the approach of several more villagers behind him, moving between him and the door, and his heart sank. Not a smooth exit after all. The hand on his arm tightened, the smithy’s smile soured by the hate in his eyes.
“Does it cut you up inside, every time you kill one of those monsters? Is it like killing your own kin? Or are you really soulless, like they say?”
Geralt heard a grunt of effort to his left. Wrenching his arm free from the smith’s grip, he turned to face this new opponent, catching only a split-second view of the man’s snarling face before the wooden chair splintered pain across his temple. Geralt stumbled, momentarily dazed, bracing himself on the bar; he could feel blood soaking his hair, drawing a warm wet line down his face, and a low growl rumbled in his throat. Several men cursed as he straightened, stepping back like they’d expected a poorly-made, loose-legged chair to bring him down with one hit. Both of Geralt’s swords were still outside, secured to Roach’s saddle, but a piece of the broken chair was all he needed, knocking his assailant out cold with one strike. The smith blocked him on one side, four more men at the door and another three rising from their places at the worn tables. Some were unarmed, others carried the tools of their trade, pickaxes and shovels they hadn’t bothered to drop off at home before stopping for a drink. Two more men came at him and Geralt instinctively turned to face them, only to hear a grunt of effort from the blacksmith behind him.
Pain burst sharp and sudden, the weight of the blow landing directly over where the chair had hit and Geralt’s knees buckled as the villagers closed in Time blurred in moments of alternating darkness and clarity. A glimpse of the smith, standing over him, a hammer in his hand and the tool bloody. The lantern outside the tavern glaring blindingly down on him in the dark of dusk. Rain on his face, stinging across the throbbing pain in his head. Men shouting orders and responses. Tugging from all sides and the sudden chill of the air as his cloak and armor were torn away and cold mud soaked through his clothes from the street. He struggled, but every slight sway of his head sent pain arcing through his skull and his vision reeling.
When the world finally righted itself, Geralt was sitting in the mud, bound by the wrists, arms behind his back and around a sturdy wooden post, thick and unmoving as he leaned back against it. Rain pattered down onto his neck and back from the overhang, his legs muddy and already soaked through. He blinked the sparks from his vision and Roach’s startled whinny drew his attention immediately. Two men were pulling at her, boots slipping in the mud as they hauled her toward the stables beside the tavern. The sight drew an animalistic sound of fury from him and Geralt raked daggers with his gaze across the men surrounding him until he found the bearded face of the blacksmith.
“What the f-”
“Shut your mouth!” the man shouted, delivering a hard kick to Geralt’s side, breathing hard from the exertion of capturing his prisoner. Geralt seethed. Most men were wise enough to keep their heads down when a witcher was near, despite their superstitions, but this attack had been unexpectedly brazen and organized. This ragtag group of villagers had a leader and that leader, undoubtedly the blacksmith they were all looking to now, was either a madman or else a very, very dangerous vigilante. Either way, he was stupider than the mud caked around his boots.
“Nobody asked you to step into our lands and our business, witcher. This village has had its fill of monsters - why would we invite in a devil to rid us of them? Like bringing a wolf into your home to chase out the rats.” He spat and turned to wave his fellows over. They came carrying a lantern and Geralt’s heavy leather saddlebags.
“Now let’s see what you’ve really been up to, eh?”
The men passed in a jumble of shadow and light, triumphant faces lit grotesquely from beneath by the swinging lantern until they all crowded around the table a few yards away. The lantern they set on it cast long shadows in the fading light. The furnace and anvil further inside showed this awning was part of the blacksmith’s shop, further proof he was the ringleader here.
Blinking the rain from his eyes, Geralt confirmed that the dark shapes over the forge were indeed the heads of several centipedes, one with the pincers still attached. The carapaces were cracked at the bottom edge like the heads had been messily hacked off of the bodies and Geralt had no doubt Tomas had done that himself, probably killed them himself too. They were all juvenile creatures, though; the adults were too clever and too large to be caught in any man made traps.
The smith stood to Geralt’s right, just under the awning out of the rain, between the witcher and his fellow villagers as they dumped the contents of the bags on the table, rifling through them with varying degrees of interest and apprehension. Geralt ground his teeth at the distinct sound of glass bottles striking the wooden surface. It was probably too much to hope for that they’d be stupid enough to drink one of his potions. The man who did would be dead before he could pass the vial along. The rest of his things were just basic provisions, food and water for the road, knives and traps for hunting. The pouch of coins would interest them, but Geralt could collect it up again while they were nursing their wounds. He just had to get free.
The knot was tight but not very well tied, and Geralt could feel it loosening, even if the twisting involved was rubbing burning lines into his wrists. A voice rose up behind him, calling, “Tomas, take a look at these!” over the clatter of steel on wood.
The smith stepped closer in response.
The knot loosened further.
Tools hung above him along the awning, a farrier’s long and heavy tongs closest at hand, sturdy and iron and ready for the taking. Even with his blades in their hands they wouldn’t stand a chance.
The jingling of coins covered the sound of the ropes as they came undone, and Geralt was on his feet in an instant. Immediately the throbbing in his head grew, making his vision swim momentarily, but his fist closed around heavy iron despite the distraction. As the smith, Tomas, turned, Geralt struck him a staggering blow, caught on his forearm as he tried to defend himself. The man fell back with a furious cry and Geralt rounded on the other five, brushing blood and wet hair from his eyes as he advanced under the overhang and the men scrambled for whatever makeshift weapon lay at hand. The first fell aside, struck squarely in the chest with Aard, and seconds later, a couple of his friend’s teeth scattered the ground as the second man fell beside him.
“Don’t let that devil near those blades! Geoff, get over here!” Tomas bellowed behind him but Geralt didn’t falter, the remaining three men stumbling over themselves to round the table as he stormed forward, eyes fixed on the next enemy, who held the witcher’s steel sword out in front of him like he was warding a wolf away with a torch. Head thumping in time with his heart, Geralt slammed the blade against the wall with the tongs, disarming the man and knocking him out cold. One more miner stood at the corner of the table, the others scrambling away or lying on the ground bleeding into the dirt. The witcher stooped to retrieve his blade, fingers just brushing the hilt when he caught a rush of movement to his left. He turned sharply, but the movement sent his vision askew, pain arcing across his skull.
Before it cleared, the rough bristles of a rope had dropped over his face, tightening suddenly around his neck. He growled furiously as he was jerked backwards, white lightning tearing through his head at the movement. Rain soaked heavy and cold onto his shoulders as two men hauled on the rope, their eyes going wide and terrified as he turned, caught the line in one fist and started toward them. The thump of boots behind him was the only warning before another noose circled his neck, pulled taut in the opposite direction. Sparks danced in his vision and thunder rumbled low overhead as his grating, fury-shaken breaths were cut off, the pain in his head growing unbearable. Concussion, possible skull fracture, not at all what he needed right now, and it was slowing him down more than he’d anticipated.
He captured both ropes in his fists, felt tension leave the lines as he dragged his assailants off balance, but he was vastly outnumbered. The pressure redoubled and Geralt’s vision grew dark. He felt his knees hit the ground with a jarring impact that echoed through his head, and their hands were on him again, the pressure at his neck lessening only slightly, allowing him to drag in a rough breath before they slammed him to the ground and pinned him there on his chest. At least three men were on his back, weighing him down in the mud and muck of the village street, their boots slipping in it as he surged upward, only to collapse again as someone’s elbow glanced across the wound at his temple, dropping him briefly into blackness. It could only have been for a matter of seconds, but when the filthy street stopped spinning, the ropes around his neck had moved, one at his wrists again, the other cinching tight at his ankles and Geralt snarled in furious frustration. Cold mud mingled with the warm wetness spilling down the side of his face as he was pressed into the ground, hogtied and held there as voices whirled around him, lanterns swaying glowing pools in and out of sight in nauseating flashes.
Women were screaming, crying, and through the darkening night he caught sight of one following in tears as a man was helped to the inn, holding his bloody mouth. Men were arguing nearby, Tomas shouting over them, and it all spun together into one miserable, incomprehensible noise, stabbing knives deep into his brain. More men rushed to their fellows’ aid, one bringing a sturdy wooden yoke usually used to carry water from the well. A hand came down, holding his head against the ground roughly to still his struggles, and Geralt took a moment to just breathe through the pain, swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat as his stomach roiled with the steady thumping pain in his ears.
Abruptly, the pressure left, and he was dragged across the mud, back to that damnable overhang and the smithy who stood by like a prison warden, leather straps in hand. Geralt was dumped at the base of the post, left to growl into the mud until suddenly, the ropes at his ankles loosened. His gaze flashed upward and he caught sight of the yoke, held in place behind the post, Tomas stepping closer with those straps, his face silhouetted like a spectre by the lantern light, and Geralt knew immediately that this could be his last chance at a quick escape. If those leather straps were tightened, it would take time to undo them, time to wriggle free, and he’d already had more than his fill of this stinking village.
As the ropes fell away, he lashed out blindly, fighting through the agony in his head, and relished the sick crack of his boot against someone’s knee. People were shouting and converging again, filling his vision with bodies and hands and boots, the scent of blood and sweat and booze nauseating around him. Geralt closed his eyes against the sensory assault, still twisting in their grip and someone backhanded him across the face, setting his ears ringing. He clenched his teeth, pain making his stomach twist sickeningly. Firm hands wrenched his arms back, leather fastened with vicious strength, pinning his wrists to the yoke. When he could breathe again past the pain and sickness, he was trapped, seated at the base of the post again, with his hands held up and back. The yoke was on the other side of the pillar, leather binding his wrists securely to each end with his back flat against the thick wooden post and his shoulders already burning from the strain.
A little ways in front of him, a man was collapsed in the mud, clutching his leg, knee wrenched out of place. Others stood a good couple feet from the reach of Geralt’s boots, panting and staring at him through the rain like he was a caged bear. A few furious tugs on the straps proved useless, though his rage-riddled growls made a few of the closer villagers stumble back in fright.
“What have you done, Tomas?” a woman cried above the frightened murmurs, and the blacksmith stepped into the yellow light of the several lanterns the crowd had brought. His arm was bloodied elbow to wrist, his eyes nearly black where they caught the firelight.
“What have I done?” he barked back. “Don’t you see what he is?” He snatched the lantern from the table and stood behind the post, where Geralt’s peripheral vision could barely catch him, and then the lantern blazed inches from his face. The glare was painful, but a few people had clearly seen the gold of his irises before he’d shut his eyes, eliciting a chorus of gasps from the crowd. “I’ve listened to the tales coming through, even if you all haven’t. What I’ve done is saved this village from becoming another bloodbath like Blaviken!”
The name drew an all-too-familiar twinge through Geralt’s heart, but he’d long since accepted that the world would never see what had happened there as anything more than the butchering of innocents. No matter how many times he’d tried to explain, no one ever listened, and the story had grown, twisted, from a gang of mercenaries and a fight he was forced into, to innocent farmers slaughtered at their market stalls in simple cold blood. This no-name village was miles from Blaviken, but he didn’t doubt the story had spread this far. It had been years, after all, and there was only one white-haired witcher still roaming the continent.
Tomas raised his good arm, catching the sack one of the other men hefted to him, continuing to speak like this particular patch of mud and rain was his personal stage.
“Came into the tavern with this-” He upended the bag, spilling the shiny black heads, eyes glittering even in death, onto the mud between Geralt and the gathered townspeople, ignoring the rain that stuck his dark hair to his brow and caused several others to tug their hoods and cloaks tighter around them. “Claimed he wanted no payment, but we all know you don’t rid yourself of a witcher without shedding gold or blood. Like as not he charmed these close enough to kill, and would’ve sent the rest into our streets tonight if the lads and I hadn’t put a stop to it.”
“What good would that do me?” Geralt spat, aiming his words at Tomas with a biting glare. “I destroyed that nest before I knew your village even existed.”
“And why should we believe that? ” The words were accompanied by a sharp blow to his jaw. Glowering up at the bearded man, Geralt struggled to keep his tone even, knowing that any sign of uncontrolled anger would only fuel their image of him as a wild beast.
“Would you have preferred I leave the creatures there until they grew fat on your livestock? Started to come for your neighbors? Your children?” He spat out the blood coating his tongue.
“We’ve handled it ourselves for years without any ‘help’ from your kind,” Tomas replied, to a murmur of agreement from the lingering crowd. “If you witchers are such kind-hearted folk, where were you when the igharn took Greta’s husband? When Mikel lost all his oxen in one night?” Geralt’s lip curled at the word “igharn,” recognizing beneath the twist of time the Elder word “Yghern,” the ancient name for the beasts that had scuttled about this place for centuries, growing and spreading until they reached settlements and the juicy meats of fattened livestock. “That last one of you that came through left my father and brother to fend the beasts off themselves when he learned they couldn’t meet his price. Both dead within a fortnight, trying to keep this town safe from creatures he could have wiped out in a night.” His bloodied arm swung out accusingly at the bits of exoskeleton that gleamed dully in the lantern-light, blacker than the tar-dark mud they sat in. “So don’t you bloody dare try to treat us like the other fools you’ve swindled, witcher!”
With that he turned away, muttering to the men. Geralt clenched his jaw against any further outbursts, testing the strength of the leather straps once more and huffing in frustration when they held, strong as ever, the knots too far out of reach for him to fiddle with. The crowd slowly dwindled away, most headed to the tavern to escape the downpour and check on the wounded. A few stayed behind to gather the bits of glittering carapace back into Geralt’s bag, carrying it off for their own unknown purposes. Soon it was only Tomas and his cronies who stood around the post, three sturdy-looking men, miners by the look of them. The blacksmith shared a few muttered words with them before following the crowd to the tavern, no doubt going to lick his wounds with the rest of them. The three left behind approached with heavy, firm steps and Geralt let out a heavy sigh, eyeing the men as they rolled up their sleeves.
“I don’t suppose an apology would make any difference?” He was answered with a kick in his face and he groaned as two of the men circled behind him, taking hold of the yoke and lifting, hauling him to his feet. Geralt grimaced at the change in altitude, head spinning. “Didn’t think so,” he mumbled under his breath as the beating began in earnest. He took every hit as best he could, managing to dodge some of the blows aimed at his head, but every twitch or tilt of his head resulted in stabbing pain. Eventually, they realized that they were at risk of really killing him if they kept pounding away at his head wound, and they switched tactics, aiming for his chest and gut instead. Geralt just braced himself, spat blood at their feet, and waited.
Someone would make a mistake. Untie him to give him food or to adjust the restraints, leave a weapon nearby, or even just leave him alone for a few hours so he could work at those leather straps, loosen them over time and get out of this town for good. By the time Tomas returned, they’d grown tired, leaving Geralt to drop back to the ground rather than keep the heavy yoke held up on his own.
Tomas looked him over in the dim lantern light, eyeing the new splatters of mud and blood, then grunted as if satisfied, and strode past. His arm was neatly bandaged now, but from what Geralt could see of the blacksmith as he leaned over the table, rummaging through cast-off bits of metal and half-finished work, the man was definitely favoring it. The blow would have been enough to give him a good concussion had that arm not gotten in the way. Geralt knew he should’ve been able to take them all, would have been able to, if not for that one lucky shot in the tavern that had left blood sticking his hair in matted strands. One slip, one little moment when he’d let his guard down, believed for just one second that someone in this miserable town didn’t immediately hate him, and now here he was, sitting beaten and filthy in the rain-soaked street while some stuck-up fool paraded around him like it was some act of great skill and bravery to swing a hammer at a man’s head when his back was turned.
When Thomas straightened, he held something fist-sized in one hand, a large hammer in the other, and stepped out of Geralt’s sight to kneel behind the post.
“Just in case you had any clever ideas about slippin’ away in the night,” he said, almost conversationally, and without warning hammered several jarring strokes against the yoke, the combination of the percussion and the clatter of something metal renewing the pain in Geralt’s head. When the hammering stopped, Tomas knocked the addition to the yoke, filling the air with the harsh clangor of a cowbell. “I’m a light sleeper, so don’t think you’ll be gettin’ past me. And I saw what you did to Ned earlier.” The blacksmith’s voice rose as he stood, still out of sight, though his shadow cast by the lantern wavered ghost-like across the ground. “You’ll be right here come morning, with none of your witcher trickery.”
Ned must’ve been the man he’d hit with Aard, because immediately following his words, the crushing weight of that hammer came down on Geralt’s right hand with the unmistakable crack of breaking bone. The witcher bit off the startled cry that leapt from his lips, strangling it into a grating curse. He’d just taken a shaking breath when his body jolted with the second blow, feeling the bones in his fingers grating wrongly in his left hand. Agony tore, sharp and jagged, down his arms, dragging his breaths to tight-jawed snarls, blood spilling down his chin, now from a bitten lip as well as the torn flesh of his cheek. Tomas’s boots entered his lowered vision and Geralt glowered up at him as the man spoke again, the hate in the smith’s voice bittered with personal vengeance.
“These people are going to see you for what you really are. Walking around in boots doesn’t make you better than other monsters - it just makes you harder to spot.” Disgust twisted his features and the man spat on the ground, rain washing away any sign of it before he’d even turned his back. With that, Tomas vanished into the dark night and left the witcher, finally, alone.
Geralt took a long few minutes to catch his breath. Things had gone wrong so quickly he’d hardly had time to process the situation before something new was heaped onto him. Now, shame was settling deep in his gut, honed to a steely edge by anger. He’d find a way to get out, one way or another, and as much as he wanted to promise himself revenge when he did finally escape this makeshift prison, he knew he’d really end up taking Roach and his things and leaving, never to return. He refused to be the butcher they’d painted him as.
That said, if those miners came back in the morning, he’d be sure to kick their teeth out.
That much would be fair.