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When you live as long as a higher vampire does, you need to have interests. He's not sure why others of his kin remain so detached from humans - perhaps not enough to partake in slavery or cruelty, for the most part, but certainly enough to, say, open an orphanage and feed from the children you care for. Well, youth is Orianna's particular taste, and she's not alone in that. And it's... perhaps not right, not by the standards he's learned from his study of humans, but in the eyes of his kin? Her actions are benevolent. Children who would otherwise suffer, be sold into slavery, drudgery, starvation; hang as thieves before living a quarter of their lifespan... what's the cost of a little blood, when you're not technically hurting anyone?
Of course, not all higher vampires hold such peaceful interests. Sometimes one had to be culled, especially when their interests became too bloodthirsty for the safety of the wider vampire community. If they could remain discreet, nobody besides Regis really cared - but when bodies start piling up, it puts them all at risk.
Regis' particular interest lies in the study of humans. Everything about them. Such short lives, lived with such passion and vigor. Anatomy, physiology, healing, psychology, genetics. So much information, amassed by universities, the schools of mages and witchers. Some of it was quite useful, some horribly, terribly, devastatingly wrong. Like when they collectively failed to mitigate the effects of a plague, in spite of having the knowledge to do so. In spite of having mages who knew what to do, but weren't listened to. Sad times. He did what he could, but he was only one vampire, after all.
He was taking something of a break, the first time he met Geralt. It had been curiously difficult to gain his trust, such a determined young witcher he had been then! Still so sure the world was more black and white than shades of grey. Where monsters were monsters, and Regis is, after all, a vampire.
Speaking of monsters, the things done to witchers - by their fellow humans - were terrible. Like every witcher Regis had ever met, Geralt had benefited in some ways, but been hurt deeply in others. No child should have to suffer the things children destined to be witchers did. He's not sorry the means for making more witchers is mostly lost. Well, lost except perhaps for the Unseen Elder of Morgraig, who'd had a finger in that pie right from the very beginning. But the Elder's moved on to other projects now, and the human knowledge died with the very human massacres of the witcher schools.
A rasping sound comes from the body on his table, and Regis jumps to his feet, introspection forgotten. He feeds the man carefully from his own wrist, then washes tender, regenerating flesh down with a soothing infusion of herbs. With a soft sigh, the body drifts back into unconsciousness, ever so slowly knitting itself back together. It's taking longer than it would, with a full vampire. The genetic mutations that enabled this human the capacity to regenerate at all were thanks to experimentation with vampire genetics, and while it's working better than he could have hoped, Regis still isn't sure it's going to bring more than the body alone back to life.
He puts a pot on to boil, and throws another batch of herbs in to simmer. He'll need to collect more, but that can wait until evening. He settles back in his armchair to wait.
The first time he'd visited Kaer Morhen Unseen was years after meeting Geralt. At first, he just wanted to see if the other wolf witchers were like Geralt - which is to say, naively absolute about their world view. Instead, he'd found... a family, of sorts. A deeply traumatised, troubled family, but a family nevertheless. Eskel, calm and patient, who worked hard to make sure his anger never saw the light of day. Vesemir, older and wiser now than in his youth, full of regrets for the past but not knowing how to bridge that gap with the younger wolves.
And then there was the youngest, Lambert. Full of rage and pain for the things done to him, the only one of them able to point to the problems and name them for the traumas they were - and in spite of it, still holding an extraordinary amount of love for others. For Geralt and Eskel, most of all. Beneath the snarky banter and boundless sarcasm lay an affection forged by shared experience and trauma. His relationship with Vesemir was more complex, stained with the knowledge that the old man had suffered the same traumas he'd gone on to help perpetuate. He was never quite able to forgive the living symbol of the past.
Over the years, Regis had returned frequently, unknown to the witchers, to observe and learn, to try to better understand the bonds forged through such pain. Sometimes Geralt, familiar with the sense of his presence, would look in his direction, shake his head and frown as if trying to figure something out, but never quite getting there. Regis has been doing this for much longer than Witchers, after all, and he knows their limitations.
The year Lambert's Cat Witcher died, the youngest wolf had returned to the keep clutching a small knotted red heart, placing it safely in a box in his room but then bringing it out again every sleepless night to hold and grieve over. His sense of loss was so strong, so palpable, that Regis thought his own heart would break alongside Lambert's.
He hums to himself while he works. The wolves hadn't known about the Cats and their vampire mutagens. The Cats might, but even so they would lack the depth of understanding that Regis has. There had been a time when he was at odds with the Elder of Morgraig and his experimentation. A time when the Elder had taken things too far, and Regis had challenged him and survived, freeing a batch of so-called failed mutated Cat Witchers that included young Aiden. This, at least, he can give the youngest wolf. For all the pain these men have been through, they deserve some happiness.
"Water," croaks the voice of the man on the table, the first intelligible sound he's made. Regis holds a cup to his lips.
"Slowly, my friend. You're still healing."
His eyes aren't able to open yet, but Aiden's hand twitches, reaching out. "Regis?"
Regis coats his hand in salve before taking the Cat's hand, knowing that any touch on raw nerves would feel like fire.
"Hurts."
Relieved that Aiden's mind seems intact, Regis does what he can to dull the pain, and waits.