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Geralt heaved the severed cockatrice head up onto the large, table-like rock with a satisfying squish and then half-climbed, half-crawled the rest of the short distance himself.
With an exhale that was part sigh, part groan he pulled himself into a cross-legged posture for meditation.
Twin rivulets of blood trickled down the back of the stone – one from the trophy, one from the witcher.
The unfortunate creature had gotten a few good swipes in at Geralt before meeting its inevitable demise, and one particularly deep gash on the hip was the cause of the witcher’s delay. It would be hell limping all the way back down to the village on that leg without taking a potion, but he’d already taken as many as was safe before battling what he had been told was, of all things, a vampire .
F-cking villagers.
So meditation was the only thing for it. In a couple hours he could clear enough of the toxicity to drink some Swallow and continue on his way. Sundown was still a ways off, and he was reasonably certain no further cockatrices – or vampires – were about, so he could afford to take the time.
He looked out at the rolling green mountains stretched out before him and allowed a little part of himself to enjoy the sweeping view. He supposed that there were worse places to be stuck meditating than a serene mountain-top lookout.
A faint whiff of smoke wafted up from the village below.
The village that had hired him was only a few dozen meters away, horizontally at least. It was far more than that, taking into account the vertical distance, which was both why it had been an easy hunting ground for the cockatrice and why Geralt had spent the better part of two hours bushwhacking up the back side of the damned mountain to get to it’s roost.
Undignified clamoring through dense brush was one of the many far-from-glamorous parts of a witcher’s Path, no matter how the fool bard insisted on embellishing events in his ballads.
Or used to insist.
Geralt very much doubted that the bard was still literally singing his praises after the way he had… hm … after how they had parted ways.
With an unwelcome pang, Geralt realized that the mountainscape before him was oddly reminiscent of the one he’d been surveying the day before the dragon, when Jaskier had talked about the future. About what he wanted out of life.
Geralt had known, even then, that he’d have to put an end to those thoughts. There was no such thing as a quiet life for a witcher, no matter how tempting the prospect might be. He hadn’t wanted to think of how to let the bard down, he only knew it was inevitable. Which was probably why he’d allowed the full force of his frustration to fall like a hammer on the hapless man.
He winced mentally. The bard hadn’t deserved that.
He sighed again and tried to empty his mind, slipping toward meditation.
And then the unmistakable sound of plucked notes drifted with the smoke up from the village below.
Generally speaking, Geralt professed absolutely no real understanding of music. He had no opinion of its quality, no favorite tune or melody, no great love or loathing for any song (except perhaps those about himself), and certainly no desire to increase his knowledge.
So he was surprised to realize that he recognized the instrument being played with certainty.
It was a lute.
The second realization was even more surprising, if also more disheartening.
He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt –-
-– that it was not being played by Jaskier.