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Chapter Text

Emhyr sat on a log, deep in a forest in the North, far away from his home, pondering his fate. The curse that had been imposed on him was particularly vicious. With every breath he took, Emhyr cursed the usurper who had killed his family and given the order to inflict this upon him. He also wished the mage who had imposed this curse on him a drawn-out and agonising death. And if fate wouldn’t deliver, he would take care of it himself, as soon as he had his rightful throne back. He would enjoy tearing both the Usurper and the mage apart limb by limb. He liked to imagine their pain and their suffering. The thought was soothing to him, whenever things got rough. And things were about to get rough again for dusk was close.

Ever since the curse was placed on him, he would violently transform into a monster at nightfall - a process that painfully changed his body into a new form, turning his hands and feet into clawed limbs, while his face turned animalistic, growing a snout and inhuman eyes. But to Emhyr the spikes were the worst part, making him writhe in pain each time they pierced his skin during the transformation. Generally, other humans were showing unwelcome reactions to his cursed form. Some tried to hunt him down, while others seemed strangely drawn to him, seeking contact when he wanted none.

To make matters worse, every night his cursed form forced him to go hunting for prey. It was hard work, finding the kind of prey he seemed to crave during the night. And when he had tracked it down, after several hours of crawling through the undergrowth, he was forced to begin his disgusting meal. He didn't want to do any of it, everything in him rebelled against the deeds he committed in this form, and if he had the choice, he would rather starve to death than tear into his prey so bestially. But in his cursed form, he was ruled by his instincts while his consciousness faded into the background, forcing him to watch his body commit the acts that filled him with disgust.

He knew it, it would happen again any moment now. The sun was setting in the west and soon its last rays would disappear behind the horizon. Emhyr could already feel his body twitching and tingling in anticipation of what was to come. He was dreading what would happen soon. Sometimes he wondered if death would have been a more preferable fate than this. But he would never give his enemies the satisfaction of seeing him defeated. He would get through this night, as he had gotten through any night that came before and as he would get through any night that would come. And someday, he would find a way to lift this curse. The solution lay somewhere here in the North, he knew it. He only had to endure until then.

When the sun finally set, Emhyr let out a bloodcurdling scream as the transformation began.

A few minutes later, a tiny hedgehog hopped down from the tree trunk it was sitting on and went in search of tasty snails to eat for supper.

Chapter Text

Attend the tale of Hubert Rejk.

His skin was pale and his smile a fright.

He shaved the faces of gentlemen

Who never thereafter were heard of again.

He swang his knive, left few alive,

Did Hubert Rejk, The Demon Barber of Novigrad.

“That’s not how it happened,” murmured Geralt, so tired of Jaskiers antics that he couldn’t even be bothered to be frustrated anymore.

“Hubert Rejk was a coroner and a katakan and he mostly killed prostitutes.”

“Yes, I know Geralt. But my audience doesn’t care about that because they are a heartless bunch of bastards! I also have this whole plot about some lovers who can’t be with each other. A baker woman who makes people into pies! My ideas have to go somewhere, Geralt! And nobody wants to hear about yet another monster that perished at the hand of your pointy sticks. They want some panache. Some passion for the art.”

Suddenly his intense hand waving waned and he got earnest. 

“Priscilla wanted me to make something funny, yet cruel out of it,” he murmured. “Something to laugh about, yet creepy enough that nobody forgot about the evil of things. And something so heartbreaking that people would be reminded of their own moral standards.”

“No easy feat,” commented Vesemir, sipping from his hot ginger apple cider. “Let’s hear it and see if you managed.”

The notes the bard teased out of his trusty lute were far from their usual sweet melodious tunes, but dark and uninviting. They echoed ominously in the Great Hall of Kaer Morhen, making the shadows go darker and the air even colder. Unconsciously they huddled even closer together, hugging their blankets.

Everyone always loved the night of Samhain. Ironically enough it was the only night of the year where the true monsters seemed less real. 

Chapter Text

It had been years since “The Incident” as Lambert called it. Vesemir would certainly call it a “Dumb Mistake” - with capital D and capital M. Lambert could almost hear him asking “Are you two still rookies or what? I cannot believe you made it through the trials!”. But Vesemir was dead and only the voice in Lambert’s head remained. A last inheritance from the stern man who had dragged Lambert to Kaer Morhen as a child. Lambert knew that Vesemir and the other teachers were supposed to teach them how to kill monsters. And he learned how to kill them, he knew at least five ways to lure and kill a cockatrice, and ten ways to kill an Elemental. But the most important lesson he had learned in Kaer Morhen hadn’t been taught by any of the instructors. Instead Lambert took pride in the fact that he had taught it all to himself. He had learned how to survive, enduring the brutal training, the loneliness and the pain. He had learned to always come up swinging when life had pushed him down. Taking every opportunity and every advantage he could get was by now second nature to him.

That was why he had argued after The Incident - which had been Eskel’s fault as much as his own, really - that they should use the effects to their advantage instead of seeing a problem that they needed to solve. It had taken quite some time to convince Eskel and some arguments Lambert had made would have certainly sent Vesemir spinning in his grave if he only had one. But in the end, they decided to keep things as they were. After all, they were already known as The Wolves of Kaer Morhen. Adding a little prefix to that moniker couldn’t hurt.

For Lambert it was the beginning of a golden age. They made much more money, because they were now able to hunt at night without any difficulties on a regular basis, making the usage of Cat superfluous. They were stronger too, and the additional weapons were a boon during gruesome hunts. What did it matter if you lost your sword, when you could just use built-in claws? Their sense of smell had improved, too, making it easier to track down their prey.

Of course, there were disadvantages, too. They had to camp outside for a few days a month, but Lambert had always preferred the outside to some stuffy, overfilled inn anyway. They also needed to avoid witchers from other schools, just to be on the safe side. Fortunately, there weren’t many witchers left and the chances of meeting each other were low. Geralt was an exception to this. Eskel had convinced Lambert that they would visit Geralt in the South this winter - the lucky bastard had given up on witchering and was now a famous vineyard owner. Eskel argued that it would be safe, considering that Geralt’s definition of “monster” had always been flexible at best.

In consequence, they were travelling South during the Autumn and life still felt the same as it always had. Joining forces, they travelled as a pack, sometimes split up for hunts that didn’t require two of them, got paid for adequately - even if they had to threaten the occasional mayor,, slept outside or at an inn if it wasn’t that time of the month. It was good, mostly. Right now, though, Lambert was very annoyed. He and Eskel had run into a pack of Rotfiends and killed them off swiftly. They weren’t really a challenge anymore except for their stupid self-destruct body mechanism and the ungodly stench their remains left behind.

That was also the reason why they were both currently standing in a stream trying to wash off the disgusting liquids and the smell. Which was a bit of a challenge with all that new body hair.

“Fuck this shit, Eskel!” Lambert cried out as he pulled on another clump of Rotfiend brain matter which was sticking to his hair. “We’re never fighting Rotfiends ever again!”

“Manners, Lambert. We are werewolfs, not swearwolves,” Eskel replied calmly. Lambert looked at him incredulously for a moment, then pounced with an outraged cry and tried to drown the stupid bastard.

Chapter Text

Valdo Marx brushed some nonexistent lint of his immaculate doublet and took a deep breath. He didn’t take his eyes off the dark, looming estate while he slowly made his way up to the big oaken entrance door.

He had already tried his usual suitors to get a few crowns out of them. But this time even his mother had refused to help him out of his dryspell. He had been unlucky in the last few horse races and gwent games, gambling the money away he owed others. When his mother had exclaimed in disappointment, that if he kept it up his reputation would be in shambles just like ‘this cousin of yours’, he had remembered the stories. Of this really wealthy Viscount de Lettenhove, a cousin thrice removed or something, looked upon because of his attitude and lifestyle, which, according to his mother, exceeded the definition of bohemian or eccentric by far. He hadn’t seen Julian since they were thirteen or something.

But it was time to have a little family reunion, Valdo thought. And if he could sweet talk himself into this cousin's heart and pockets filled with gold, then all the better. He was out of options, anyway.

He was in front of the entrance now, trying to find a bell or knocker to announce his presence. Then he noticed that the big iron cast wolf that fletched it’s very pointy teeth had a small mechanism in his mouth. It’s eyes looked distressingly alive.

He hesitantly reached into the maw of the creature and quickly pulled the ring. There was the sound of a few ominous clicks and nothing happened for a few seconds.

Then an organ boomed it’s nefarious sounds. Valdo couldn’t have pinpointed where it was coming from, for the deep notes seemed to be coming both from the high turrets as well as the very grounds, making his teeth vibrate. The fugue in minor just ended when a little girl opened the heavy wooden door.

“What do you want?” asked the ashen haired girl rudely, unconsciously wiping something red off her hands and onto her trousers.

“Hi … um… hello there,” fumbled Valdo, a bit startled by the whole surreal reception. “My name is Valdo Marx and I am looking for my cousin, Julian Alfred Pankratz-Addams. I am aware that the viscount's time is precious, but I was hoping to get a few minutes with my dear cousin. I haven’t seen him for so long and I thought - “

“Daaaaad!”, screamed the child into the mansion, leaving the door open for Valdo to enter, “there is a snob on the door asking for money!”

Valdo sputtered at the scandalous cheeky brat, but was shaken out of his huff when he took in the interior of the reception hall. It was equally gloomy and tasteful, the walls filled with beautiful art, even though the motifs were a bit gruesome. There were arrangements of dark roses on the expensive furnishings. A big staircase was the most prominent installation of the hall, leading up to the higher floors.

On them stood the most beautiful woman Valdo had ever seen. A dark beauty of grace and tranquility in a black form fitting dress. Her long raven hair hung around her face lusciously, framing her high cheekbones and making her violet eyes even more intense.

“Excuse my daughter,” the lady said in a sultry voice. “She is in possession of manners but rarely decides to use them. But I guess all kids are a bit rowdy at this age.”

She glided down the stairs and the mesmerizing smell of lilacs and gooseberries permeated the air.

“Lady Yennefer Morticia Addams of Vengerberg, mistress of the house. And you are?”

Reminding his own manners, Valdo quickly did a small bow, then took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

“Valdo Marx, Viscount of Caelf and troubadour of Cidaris. Maybe you have heard of me?”

“Ah. Yes. I think I did. My husband curses your name from time to time. You were in some kind of rivalry back when he still went to Oxenfurt, I take it?”

“Ah, yes, yes. I was thinking of him just the other day and I was wondering how my dear Cousin fared in life. I haven’t seen him in over ten years or so and thought it was time to reacquaint myself with this side of the family.”

There was the smallest of smiles on her lips and a knowing twinkle in her eyes. As if she could see right into his head, reading his thoughts and intentions. Valdo got the distinct impression that it was her he had to impress and sweet talk rather than his cousin. Maybe if he pulled out all of his charms and tricks, he could seduce her, tell her a sob story and get some jewellery out of her which he was sure she owned heaps of.

Lady Yennefer's smile got a little bit bigger.

“Let’s go in search of my husband, shall we? I was looking for him myself. I am sure he is around somewhere. Oh Geralt, no. We talked about the carpet.” Her eyes had strayed to something behind Valdo.

The troubadour turned around and saw a whitehaired hulk of a man, wearing nothing but a pair of high waisted black leather trousers. In one hand he gripped a sword, in the other a - monster head? It was definitely a head, still dripping blood and other secretions from the clean cut at the neck.

Valdo felt a bit faint.

“Mmh,” the muscled man hummed and somewhat sheepishly walked a big circle around the carpet to get from one door to the other.

“Please don’t take his refusal to greet you properly personally. Geralt is not the most talkative. Especially after his workouts.”

“W-workout? There was a head involved!”

“Yes. We have an ongoing ghoul problem in our backyard. He prefers grave hags but it’s harder to attract them.”

She explained this in a nonchalant voice, as if it was totally normal to have corpse-eating monsters on the property, while she led Valdo through a corridor and then a door.

They entered a big kitchen. In one corner an old fellow hunched over a complicated looking glass contraption with different vials and vases. The elder just dribbled a neon green concoction into one petri dish, which reacted with something, gave a small puff and then an actual small cloud in the form of a skull formed in the air. The gray haired man furrowed his brow, obviously not quite happy with his experiment.

On another big desk right in the middle of the kitchen sat a redhead. Valdo didn’t know how else to describe him because the man's most prominent feature was the red hair. He had a lot of it - thick long locks that covered his shoulders and a full beard. He, just like the other fellow, seemed to be tinkering with something. It smelled a lot like salpeter.

“Lambert, Vesemir, how often have I told you two not to experiment in the same room anymore? Last time I had to redecorate the whole west wing.”

“And how tasteful it turned out,” murmured Vesemir, dripping yet another chemical into a petri dish. This time the concoction actually screamed. Vesemir seemed somewhat satisfied with that.

“What is he doing?”, murmured Valdo, frightened. If the whole place was going to explode, he was ready to run out of this place as fast as his feet were able to.

“Inventing an actual philosopher's stone. We all agree here that this Flamel guy did a real misnomer on his invention.”

“He has it all the other way around! Philosophers don’t turn mercury into gold, but money into booze! A true philosopher doesn’t care about the material world but only vino veritas. And instead of an elixir of life it should be one of Death, ending their boring neverending discussions about the duality of men and whatnot. He should have called it the capitalists stone instead,” added Vesemir heatedly.

Yennefer rolled her eyes but smiled indulgently, as if they had this discussion all the time.

Suddenly the kitchen door burst open and Valdo was nearly run over by a beast. A big wolf-like thing, snarling menacingly and growling, saliva dripping from it’s jaw in which he gripped something colourful in his bite.

“Eskel! No! Bad boy!” yelled a new voice, followed by a girl's delighted giggling.

While the big hound chewed on whatever was in it’s maw, the master of the house came through the door, followed suit by the rude rugrat, who had opened the door for him. She pulled a doll in a hangman's noose behind.

The Viscount stood in front of the eight foot big wolf beast, hands on his hips.

“This is the seventh hat you chewed through, Eskel! The seventh! I liked that hat! It had a very nice feather and fit perfectly to at least three of my doublets!”

“He chews on them because they are hideous and he cares about your style, dear,” supplied Yennefer.

The beast growled in agreement, then spit out the pitiful remains of amentioned hat.

The Viscount pouted, then lightened visibly by the sight of his wife. He took her by the arm and pressed a chaste kiss between her neck and her shoulder. Then he turned his head comically, his eyes squinting a bit.

“Maybe I should stop drinking my morning tea with arsenic. Or is Valdo Marx actually hiding under our dining table?”

Valdo debated with his survival instincts for a bit, then decided to save the last of his dignity.

“Sorry, I lost my… shoe.” Even to his own ears the excuse sounded lame.

“You came the long way from Cidaris only to look for a shoe? Are you quite right in the head, dear cousin?”

“Yes, yes. Quite alright. Is the… um. Eskel wouldn’t be inclined to eat my shoe… or me for that matter?”

Julian Alfred Pankratz-Addams seemed equally puzzled and offended. “Why would he eat you? Just because he is a bit furry at the moment, he is still a very nice gentleman who knows that it is unhealthy to eat stuff that has been lying on the ground. When he turns into a human every full moon I swear he has the best manners out of all of us.”

The beast huffed as if to agree wholeheartedly, then gently grabbed Ciri by the neck, who tried to get to the kitchen knives.

“I have been looking for you and then your Cousin showed up,” explained Yennefer, trying to steer the conversation back to the visitor.

“You have been looking for me? Excuse me, Valdo, how rude of me. It is a doubtful pleasure to have you here. But whatever matter you are here for - may it be your shoe or otherwise - has to wait a bit longer. The bidings of my lovely wife always come first,” the Viscount explained, while he cherished the arm of his wife with butterfly kisses.

“It’s nothing, really. I was bored and looking for some entertainment,” elaborated Yennefer and her eyes gazed at her husband all soft and lovingly.

“Now that just won’t do!” exclaimed the viscount and clapped his hands twice right beside his head.

Suddenly a samba beat came from nowhere, the rhythmic drums and hip shake inducing trumpets blaring out loudly from all around them. Valdo was still looking around, trying to figure out where the music was coming from, while Julian had grabbed his wife's hip and hand, leading her into a dance. Yen's dress left barely any room to move her legs, but somehow she managed to match her husband's impressive moves gracefully.

“When you’re an Addams you gotta have a lot of passion”, crooned the Viscount along to the tune, pressed his dance partner to himself, then did a complicated assortment of dance moves that even professional Oxenfurt dancers would have been impressed about.

“When you’re an Addams you need to really love your wife”, supplied the Lady Yennefer and threw her husband an equally hungry and possessive look. “Several times a day,” added Julian, throwing Valdo an actual wink while smirking like the cat who got the cream.

“When you’re an Addams”, sung Julian, “you need to have a little moonlight” and when he dipped his wife the lights in the kitchen flickered and a beam of moonlight fell on Yennefers face, highlighting her impressive eyes.

Which made absolutely no sense, thought Valdo. It was still noon. How did they do that? The mysterious samba music too, for that matter, although he had to concede that the tune was quite catchy. He slowly began to suspect that this household was filled with monsters and magic users.

“You have to see the world in shades of gray, you have to put some poison in your day” the viscount sang. While he twirled his wife, he grabbed the vial Vesemir was offering him. They clanged the two glasses filled with something fluorescent together and drank them like shots. Steam was coming out of their ears.

Meanwhile Ciri - despite Eskels attempts to keep her away from the kitchen drawers - had grabbed a big butcher knife, happy with her acquisition. She aimed with frightening precision at the full body paintings of the leaders of the continent hanging from the far wall. Why Valdo hadn’t noticed them before was puzzling, considering that Foltest had an axe in his face and Radovids heart was pierced by a dozen arrows.

“When you are an Addams”-

Valdo jumped out of the way in panic when he saw the knife flying towards him.

The blade hit the Emperor of Nilfgaard right in his privates. Ciri giggled.

- “you need to have a sense of humor. When you’re an Addams, you need a moment to explode.”

Whatever Lambert had been experimenting with, went up right in that moment. His hair was even more impressive now, standing up in all directions. His face was black from gunpowder. Lambert seemed surprised for just a second, then grinned from ear to ear showing off his very white and sharp teeth.

“You are all insane!” screamed Valdo and slowly retreated to the kitchen entrance, making a wide berth around the gigantic wolf, who seemed totally unmoved by the whole spectacle, if it hadn’t been for it’s tail that wriggled excitedly.

The troubadour opened the kitchen door in a hurry. He wanted to get out of this madhouse. Damn the crowns and orens. He would rather escape with his body intact, thank you very much.

“You're happy when your toes are in the mud-”

Halfway down the corridor a side door opened. There was that white haired guy again, still not wearing a shirt, but this time armed with two swords, who still dripped blood and gore. Valdo screamed when he noticed that his eyes were an unnatural black, his pale face full of veins and the mouth formed into a snarl.

“You smile a bit the moment you smell blood.”

“AAAAHHHHH!”

Valdo gave chase, as fast as his legs could go.

He still ran when he was out the heavy door, down the entrance path and off the property.

Lady Yennefer Morticia Addams of Vengerberg smiled, clearly satisfied.

Then she snapped her fingers two times and the entrance door closed itself.

Chapter Text

The first thing Geralt noticed was a nearly unquenchable hunger. No matter how many meals he had, he still felt a craving inside that wouldn’t go away. Marlene obviously noticed that something was off, too. She kept serving him bigger and bigger meals, each richer and tastier than the last one. Still, Geralt felt strangely unsatisfied. She also kept asking if Geralt was sick, claiming that he had grown increasingly pale. It was nonsense. He had always been pale, ever since the second set of mutations was performed on him. To avoid her fretting even more, he refrained from telling her that he hadn’t been able to sleep in a while. He’d always experienced bouts of insomnia. It would pass like it always did.

The next thing he noticed was that he was slowing down. During training, he got fewer hits on the training dummies. During fights, he had to struggle a little bit harder each and every time to subdue his opponent. Geralt blamed his sedentary lifestyle as master of Corvo Bianco and Marlene’s meals and tried to counteract it by pushing himself harder, training more often and more intensely. It didn’t work.

Maybe his desperate attempts at proving to himself that he was still a capable witcher were the cause for the disaster that hit him next. He had gone out to the banks of the Sansretour to hunt down a group of drowners who had been reported to terrorize the locals. Maybe it was hubris, maybe carelessness. Whatever the reason, in the end he found himself facing the largest group of drowners he had ever seen. He was seriously outnumbered and after a few minutes it grew clear that this was not a fight he would win. They were coming from all sides, tearing and biting at him, trying to pull him underwater. Maybe this was the right way to go, he thought, a fitting end for a witcher. He was still fighting valiantly, when one got lucky, landing a mighty blow across his shoulders. The sudden push forced him to his knees. He knew that it was the end. They were piling up on him and just a moment later blackness surrounded him as the water closed in over his head.

Geralt was surprised when he woke up. Everything told him that he should be dead. Instead, he opened his eyes and blinked the strange red fog from his field of view. What he saw astounded him. He lay on the bank just at the edge of the water, completely drenched, dead drowners scattered around him. A closer examination revealed that they weren’t simply killed, but had been literally torn apart, some by sword, some obviously with bare hands. Geralt decided that some other monster must have come by while he was blacked out and killed the drowners, saving him in the process. But no matter how hard he searched, he couldn’t find any other traces than his own and the drowners’. It was a mystery, but Geralt wasn’t in the habit of looking a gift horse in the mouth.

It wasn’t until he returned home that evening that he even remembered his own injuries. By all rights he should be covered in blood, judging by the scratches and bites he must have suffered. But when he looked into the mirror, he couldn’t see even a speck of blood. With trepidation, he removed his armour and lifted the drenched shirt over his own head. The sight that met him in the mirror, froze him in his tracks. His chest and back were covered in bite marks and scratches. None of them showed any sign of bleeding, even though some were even gaping, showing bone beneath the flesh. Geralt stared at himself in the mirror for a very long time, trying to decide if wounds that didn’t bleed needed wrapping. Or maybe he should take Swallow? In the end, he forwent both, deciding instead that it was time to pay Regis a visit.

It was late afternoon when he arrived at Regis’ crypt. He felt quite lucky that his friend had decided to return there after his leaving to take care of Detlaff. When he made his way down, Regis stood in the semi-dark of his crypt and seemed to be busy with an experiment of some sort. There was a beaker bubbling away merrily over a small flame and a strange colour liquid, dripping into a flask. Regis took one look at Geralt, then told him to take a seat until he was finished. As he sat down in one of the armchairs near the fire, Geralt tried to convince himself that he had imagined the concerned look on his friend’s face. Regis had no reason to suspect anything was wrong, yet, or so he told himself.

Regis finished washing his hands from whatever strange decoction he had just handled and sat down opposite of Geralt pouring him a hefty dose of his moonshine as he did so.

“What brings you here, Geralt? I appreciate you coming by, but I sense that this is more than a friendly visit.”

Geralt grimaced as the strong liquid slid down his throat. His friend was strangely direct and to the point today. Again, he decided not to ponder the strangeness of it too much, since he was glad that he didn’t have to listen to one of Regis’ elaborate sermons before he could voice his worries. “I know it sounds strange, but I want your professional input, Regis.”

“Oh?” Regis looked at him with a mixture of calm curiosity and faint concern that made Geralt feel like he was an insect squirming under the man’s microscope. “And what seems to ail you, my friend?”

Geralt decided to start with the theory he had developed on the ride here, “I’m not sure, but I think my mutations might finally show some unintended long-term effects.”

Regis leaned back into his chair and folded his elegant hands in his lap. The movement brought Geralt’s attention to the jars with preserved body parts that sat on the shelf behind Regis. Had Regis always owned so many preserved brains? The convolutions glistened in the dim light, making them seem as if they were freshly preserved. Geralt swallowed down his spit nervously, almost choking on it. He had thought he was over Regis’ weird hobby of collecting body parts out of professional interest - as he called it. Obviously, he was not.

“Sorry, Regis, what did you say?”

“I asked what symptoms you experience that make you think your mutations are showing long-term effects?”

So Geralt told him about the hunger bouts, the strange craving and the sleeplessness. He also told Regis about the fight with the drowners and the strange wounds on his body.

“... and that’s why I keep thinking that my mutations might have gone into overdrive. It’s rare that a witcher survives as long as I do and no one knows the long-term effects of two rounds of mutations.”

Regis quietly shook his head, got up and motioned for Geralt to remove his shirt. “I don’t think that’s the case. Will you allow me to examine you?”

Only moments later, Regis' cool fingers were pressing on his pulse point. He hummed thoughtfully, then started to trace carefully over the edges of a particularly deep scratch inflicted by the drowners. His movements were feather-light and calming and Geralt found himself relaxing under the hands of his friend.

“This looks quite bad, my friend. I think we should stitch this.”

“Whatever you think is right. But why doesn’t it bleed?”

Regis leaned against his workbench and studied Geralt for a moment. “I’m not sure how to tell you this, Geralt, but maybe there’s no easy way to put it: You are dead.”

“I’m what?!” Geralt interrupted him, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“Or rather undead, to be specific. Your circulation has almost ceased, I can’t detect a heartbeat anymore. And I’m not sure if you have noticed, but you haven’t taken a breath since you entered my crypt. Did anything unusual happen before you started to feel like this?”

For a moment, Geralt thought back over the last few weeks. There had indeed been an incident, although he hadn’t attached much importance to it at the time. “There was a scurver, three weeks ago or so. I wasn’t fast enough with my Quen and the spikes hit me. When I was back home, B. B. had to help me to remove them because I couldn’t reach them all. I felt quite rotten for a few days.”

“That might have been the cause,” Regis pondered. “Occasionally scurvers carry poison in their spikes and if the poison merged with your mutations...you might have just mutated into an undead yourself.”

Geralt thought he should feel shocked. Or maybe panic. But in reality, he felt rather removed from the whole situation. Just one question popped into his mind and he blamed the strangeness of the moment for the fact that he blurted it out as soon as he thought of it.

“Is that why I keep having the urge to bite people?”

Regis only chuckled.

“Probably. I share that sentiment, Geralt. But it’s an urge we will have to refrain from - you and me both.” After a moment, he continued, “But I think I have an idea how to quench that craving of yours.”

A few hours later, they were both sitting on the tombstones in front of Regis’ crypt, enjoying the strangest but most satisfying meal Geralt had ever had in his whole life.

“I think it might be efficient if we shared our meals from now on. Less waste and all that,” Geralt said, just as Regis was taking a deep gulp from the goblet in his hands. When he lowered it, his lips were stained a deep red, glistening in the light of the candles that surrounded them.

“Why, my dear witcher, you prove yourself a practical man once again!” he exclaimed. “I take it you are enjoying your meal?”

“The texture takes some time to get used to, but I haven’t felt so satisfied in ages,” Geralt agreed and took another bite of the fried brain of the deer they had hunted down earlier. He hadn’t managed to eat it raw quite yet, even though Regis had insisted that it would do him good. “At least now I understand why the preserved brains in your shelf looked so damn tempting.”

Regis laughed at that, then continued, “Well, I always knew you enjoyed women with brains!”

Geralt nearly choked on his next bite until he remembered that he didn’t need to breathe anymore. Then he burst out into laughter.