Chapter Text
Monsters are the patron saints of imperfection.
- Guillermo del Toro
The epitome of Novigrad.
It wasn’t a charitable thought, but Geralt wasn’t in a charitable mood. A storm blowing through had soaked everyone caught unaware and the smell of shit—horse and sentient alike—coated the bottom of his boots. He could hear a squealing voice crying in the distance, no doubt someone tormented by the Temple Guard for daring to exist in their presence. Yeah, that about summed up the city. Perhaps there was some truth to the words Dandelion had penned, about noble arches and the inherent romance of winding streets, but right then Geralt couldn’t see it. Those arches weren’t enough to protect anyone from the downpour and if one more person jostled him, he’d—
Geralt sighed, letting the woman pass. He’d do nothing, of course, other than grit his teeth and bear it. It was a miserable day and Geralt had no more right to that misery than anyone else.
As he dodged a growing puddle, Geralt’s mind flashed to the vineyard in all its warm, dry glory. Toussaint didn’t have seasons so much as a mild flexibility in temperature, the nights never growing cold enough to chase its inhabitants indoors, let alone threaten the delicate grapevines. The climate was one of the major reasons why their economy had flourished, but right now, Geralt only cared about the sunshine. He wanted heat for his aching bones and something to look at that wasn’t gray stone or sour expressions.
You could go back at any time , a voice whispered, sounding suspiciously like Vesemir’s. If that was his conscience, Geralt had no desire to start a debate with it again. You own the house, boy. It exists to live in. How many witchers can say they’re so lucky? Geralt rolled his eyes at the well-worn reminder and shouldered his way into the shop.
Located in the heart of The Bits, the slums of Novigrad, Sal’s Pawn Shop was notorious for buying anything, provided you were willing to part with it for a reasonable price. As far as Geralt could tell, the man who worked the counter was not named Sal, nor was his father, nor was anyone else who’d ever set foot across the threshold. Rumor had it that the shop was a joint venture of the Big Four. If the whispers were to be believed, they used it as a way to accumulate useful goods at disgustingly low prices. Indeed, over the years Geralt had seen everyone from the poorest beggar trading in a nicked pair of boots, to high class ladies giving up family heirlooms for independence. Letting out a breath in the comparatively warm air, Geralt was glad that his latest dealings with the criminal underworld, however deadly, hadn’t put a dent in this practice. After all, there were only so many people in this city willing to pay for monster bits in various states of decay.
Especially since Novigrad had burned most of its alchemists.
Shaking like a dog to clear off the rain, Geralt took note of the still nameless owner and the customer he was assisting, one who bore a rather hefty sack of goods. Waiting wasn’t a problem. Geralt was grateful, even. The longer he was in there, the longer the storm had to pass by. In the meantime, he took note of the exits first—the one he’d come in through, the trapdoor beneath the rug that few others would notice—as well as the changes since last he’d visited. Namely, none. Geralt felt his attention stray to the only thing of real interest in the room: the customer.
He was, at first glance, remarkable only for his clothes. Despite being infected by a religion that presented uniformity as holy, Novigrad still sported diversity on every street corner, from wealth, to culture, and to individual taste. This man clearly possessed coin, though it was tempered by a quirky style that would have had him laughed out of most estates. His dark hosiery wouldn’t have raised any eyebrows—except perhaps by Dandelion in appreciation—and his worn boots were built for travel, not fashion. That too was common enough. What stood out was the lavender coat he wore, though the more he studied it, the less sure Geralt was that he’d chosen the correct term. “Lavender” implied that it was lighter than it was, though “purple” was far too dark. It was by no means garish in the way a troubadour’s would be, but neither was it subtle. Geralt found himself fascinated by the garment and its oddities; what seemed like a hundred pockets sewn into the lining and a cut that would have flattered a woman more than a man. The whole thing was such a hodgepodge of strange choices that, unbidden, Geralt thought, That’s not the sort of thing a human would wear.
He didn’t startle of course. A witcher never would. But Geralt did straighten from his casual lean against the wall and his hand instinctively strayed towards the hilt of his sword. If the customer noticed he didn’t react, and that more than anything convinced Geralt to evaluate the situation further, rather than responding to the perceived threat.
Go swinging with those fists of yours, Vesemir used to say, and you’re likely to get one bitten off. That wasn’t a lesson a witcher wanted to learn the hard way.
So Geralt forced his shoulders to loosen and took stock of more than just the man’s style. It became clear with every detail that this was no man. Not a dwarf, of course. He had at least an inch on Geralt even if he discounted the slight rise of his boots. Not an elf either, as his ears were clearly visible beneath a mound of short, curly hair that was so dark it appeared almost iridescent in places. The man might have been a doppler, though in Geralt’s experience they did everything they could to not draw attention to themselves. Only the most vain would adopt a look that flamboyant. Or perhaps the most foolish.
As one part of his mind rejected the possibilities, another cataloged the oddities. Or rather, what was oddly familiar. Geralt had noted the sweet perfume long before he’d entered the shop; the scent was heavy enough to carry through the rain. The man gestured enthusiastically as he spoke and his jeweled hands were out-shown only by his nails. Painted a deep black to match his hair, they were uncommonly long and the tips had been styled into deadly looking points. And then there was the matter of his smile. Though the man was surprisingly plain in face compared to the rest of his garb, his expression was downright neutral. His body language all but exuded warmth and welcome, but his smile... it never amounted to more than a faint uptick of his lips.
Geralt really did relax then, his shoulders almost sagging in relief. There were a number of human look-alikes who posed a danger to a city as bustling as Novigrad, the sort of mimics capable of carrying out everything the Eternal Fire feared from their actual citizens, but a higher vampire wasn’t one of them.
Forgetting Dettlaff already?
Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. No, just acknowledging that he’s an outlier.
For once, he wasn’t lying to himself. What Dettlaff had done was horrific, but it had only come about after he’d been pushed to a limit that no one—certainly not a creature of his power and temperament—should have had to endure. Syanna had toyed with him like a child abusing and discarding a once-beloved toy. Anna Henrietta had all but scoffed at Geralt’s warnings, choosing the memory of who her sister had once been over the safety of her Kingdom. Their choices by no means excused Dettlaff’s, but they did put him in a context that few were privileged to understand. Dettlaff, when left alone, preferred isolated spots where he could live in peace. Orianna had spent generations among humans and had found a strange balance between charity and self-indulgence, one that Geralt personally found repulsive, but wasn’t in a position to judge. And Regis...
Well. Regis was Regis. How could he explain that the best of humanity resided in a disheveled, overly articulate vampire?
Geralt didn’t have to imagine trying to convince his brothers of this. He’d already made that attempt and failed. Vesemir had grown up in an age where higher vampires were closer to myth than true beasts; the witcher’s boogeyman. He’d passed those views down to his students and Geralt could still recall, clear as crystal, the moment he’d leveled his sword at Regis’ throat, the lesson to kill warring with a shocking desire to protect. The reality that Geralt could do neither had festered like a sore, drained only once he’d thrown his arms around Regis in that abandoned warehouse, reeling from the shock of his friend standing there, miraculously back from the dead. He’d tried to explain all of it. Drunk and warmed by the fire one winter, Geralt had tried to draw on Dandelion’s gift for words and paint his brothers a picture of what higher vampires were really like: not their most fearsome enemies, but their greatest allies.
He’d nearly been laughed out of the hall. Lambert had laughed, as a matter of fact, while Vesemir had just shook his head, muttering on about fool boys trusting their hearts before their heads. Only Eskel had listened to Geralt’s ramblings with something akin to compassion, and after learning of his relationship with that succubus, Geralt better understood why.
In short, he was probably the only witcher alive who knew the collection of small, subtle signs that distinguished a true higher vampire from a lower one; certainly the only witcher who would smile at the revelation, rather than starting some plan of attack. It wouldn’t be the first time that Geralt had distinguished himself through what others would see as absurd or unsavory means.
A witcher, friend of the monsters? There were worse things to be in this life.
Lost in his thoughts for so long, Geralt noted with surprise that the transaction seemed to be winding down. The vampire handed off whatever he’d been bartering, received a small pouch of coin for his trouble, and then bowed far deeper than the broker deserved.
There was no fear in his eyes when he turned and saw Geralt standing there. Just as he’d smelled the vampire’s perfume down the street, no doubt he’d heard the distinctive sound of a witcher’s approach even sooner.
“Good day, Witcher,” was the polite greeting. Geralt tipped his head in acknowledgment. The smallest smile graced the vampire’s lips… and that should have been the end of it. Just a chance encounter that amounted to little more than an odd coincidence for them both. The vampire met his slayer and the witcher met his prey on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon. It was precisely the sort of anecdote that Geralt would recount to Regis over moonshine—if he ever saw him again.
The flash of pain that thought caused almost made him miss it. As the vampire raised his jeweled hand in a final farewell, the ring on his middle finger flashed in the light. It was a ring, Geralt realized, that he knew quite well.
It was identical to the one that had once graced Dettlaff’s severed hand.
The ring Regis said his mentor had given him.
Not much could stun Geralt anymore, but he stood for a long moment just staring at the now empty air, ignoring the broker yelling at him to present the goods already. The nekker eyes and leshen bark could wait. In fact, he dropped his own sack on the floor, heedless of what would become of it.
Geralt dove back out into the pelting rain, but the vampire was already gone.