Chapter Text
Ysgith. Jaskier shudders at the sound of the word in his mind. Is it just his imagination, or does the name alone sound poisonous? It is probably idiotic and thanks to his own overly creative imagination, but he has a really bad gut feeling about this part of their journey. Well, their entire mission is, very likely, a fool's errand and will lead to their untimely demise. Still, this bleak wilderness in particular looks - and smells - even worse than the many other wildernesses he has traversed in the more than twenty years of following the Witcher across the continent, there is no doubt about it. They even have to cover their mouths and noses with makeshift bandanas against the gas and poisonous fumes coming from the stinking bogs, the black mud, the overgrown tarns and the murky forests dividing the bogs. The fabric makes breathing harder, and the stickiness of the air swarming with mosquitoes, horseflies, and biting midges does not help either. At least, thanks to his herbaceous scent, riding as closely as possible to the higher vampire keeps most of the bloodsucking insects away. They have to stick together anyway, as, according to the Witcher, it is the best strategy to survive in this hostile environment.
"Geralt, you didn't say anything about how long it'll take us to cross this— this very weird wilderness," Jaskier says eventually, breaking the heavy silence that is hanging over the land, and their company. His voice is muffled by the bandana and the Witcher, riding in the vanguard, has his back to him. However, with his heightened mutant senses, the bard is sure his friend can still hear him. "An hour? Two hours?"
Geralt grunts.
"Three? Tell me it won't be longer than three hours. I'm thoroughly fed up with this already." And it is not only due to the ever-present stench of rot and decay, but even the trees look ominous, some with bulbous trunks covered in scales, others low and misshapen, crouching on piles of roots twisted like octopuses. Their gnarly bark is covered in shrivelled, pale-green bog lichens, and long beards of moss that sway not in the wind but from the rising bog gases hang from bare, contorted, whitish-dead branches. Eerie as fuck, if you asked him, Jaskier the famous bard.
Geralt glances across his shoulder at the unlikely company following him. Besides himself, only Regis knows how vast Ysgith is and what deadly dangers lurk in its smelly waters and dark forests. But with the five of them, including a witcher, a higher vampire, a warrior and an archer, experience, two swords and a bow, Regis and he reckoned that, while too little to take on a Nilfgaardian raiding party, it ought to be sufficient for Ysgith. It will not be a walk in the park though, and especially not for Jaskier.
"Sorry, bard." Geralt shakes his head apologetically. "Not three hours. Three days."
"What? Are you serious? We'll have to camp here? Twice? Melitele's tits, three days in this stinking mud hell? And we've only just set foot into this icky Ysgith!" Jaskier groans dramatically, then swats away another mosquito.
"You didn't have to come, Jask."
"Right, and neither did the others. We could've let you ride to Nilfgaard on your own, lone wolf and all that bullshit. We've heard it more than often enough. But you need us, Geralt, want it or not. We're a true fellowship—"
"—bound by fish soup, I know," Geralt grumbles morosely. Although, in retrospect, he has to admit that the fish soup was extremely delicious. "Maybe you'd prefer to ride through hordes of soldiers armed to the teeth with spears, swords and axes instead? Regis and I decided on the route through Ysgith not out of enthusiasm or the lust for adventure, but out of necessity. Thousands of Nilfgaardian infantry are roaming the hills, and we need to make it to the druids of Caed Dhu. Now shut up, bard. And don't forget what I told you. Don't—"
"—touch anything, don't eat anything, don't even look at anything, I know, I'm not daft, Geralt! Who in their right mind would even want to touch any of those strange plants, or those over-sized, ugly toads and whatever else slimy, creepy creatures live in those stinking mud holes." Jaskier grimaces with disgust, yet, thanks to his bandana, nobody can see it.
"Good. And now quiet, company, I need to concentrate. Every rotten log could suddenly grow eight feet and a pair of stalk eyes and attack us. And eyeheads, although pretty vicious, deadly venomous and as fast as lightning, are the least of our troubles. We'd only have to make enough noise and they'll run away."
Jaskier shudders once more, suspiciously gazing at the many logs of dead wood that are lying scattered all around. Those eyeheads do not sound like he would wish to meet one, ever, no matter how easily they can be scared off.
"This is even eerier than the bank of the Chotla with all the rotting corpses," he hears Milva, who is riding behind him making up the rear with Cahir, say in a low voice and could not agree more. Having been arrested by Temerian soldiers after the Nilfgaardian attack on the refugee camp, he himself never saw those corpses, but Milva's descriptions were more than vivid enough. Still, Ysgith is something else entirely.
"At least we aren't alone." Cahir steers his chestnut colt even closer to Milva's black stallion, the thought of having to make camp in this scary wilderness all on his own giving him the creeps. It was bad enough while he was - more or less secretly - following the Witcher and his company through Brugge and Lower Sodden, but here, surrounded by all kinds of dangerous creatures, he would probably not be able to get a single second of sleep. And end up torn apart and eaten by one of the many monsters Geralt warned them about anyway. Now, together, they might have a chance. Even the bard could be of use against those eyeheads. He could bang a ladle against a pot or something, or maybe his loud singing would be enough to chase them away?
For hours they ride on in silence, swatting at the occasional bluebottle and trying to stay away from trouble with the local wildlife as much as they can. Once in a while they catch glimpses of glowing eyes in the bushes, hear leaves rustle not from the wind and twigs break under the weight of some unknown creature. However, fortune seems to smile upon their company. So far no creature has tried to turn them into its dinner - except for the mosquitoes, of course. How on the continent Geralt manages to find his way through the swamp is a mystery to Jaskier - and probably to everybody else except for Regis - but he does. Well, at least Jaskier hopes he does.
When the sun sinks nearer to the tops of the grotesque trees and nightfall is not far away, Geralt looks around for a suitable place to make camp. Although, suitable is relative in Ysgith. A little less inhospitable might be the more fitting phrase. Eventually, he halts Roach on a hillock surrounded by tarns that are not quite as smelly as most and where the ground is acceptably dry, meaning they do not sink into it ankle-deep with every step they take. He pushes his bandana down and inhales deeply. Yes, the air is so much better up here. They can finally take off their makeshift masks without endangering their lives. It is probably the best place they can possibly find in this vast wilderness.
"So, where are your monsters, Geralt?" Jaskier inquires not much later while they are sitting around the campfire, warming yesterday's left-over rabbit meat over the flames. The sky has taken on an orange evening hue. "You've scared the holy shit out of me with all your warnings, but the only blood-sucking monsters I've seen so far are those annoying mosquitoes here. Ouch!" He swats at one that had the audacity to bite him in the neck. "What about if I draw up a contract for you to exterminate those pests with a little Aard or Igni? I'd pay good money to get rid of the suckers. They're much worse than a reasonable vampire."
"And how, pray tell, would I do that without blasting you into tomorrow or setting you on fire, bard?" The Witcher snorts, amused. "Anyway, you know as well as I do that you have exactly two orens to your name, which would not be enough to pay for even the cheapest of Witcher contracts."
"Hmm, you might be right, but fuck, I hate those beasts!" Jaskier complains, swatting at just another mosquito. "Why do they only ever bite me?"
"They don't," Milva says dryly. "You whiney bard are just the only one who keeps on making a fuss about it."
"I'm not a whiney bard!" Jaskier splutters. "And here, see, five bites at least on my neck, I'm going to look as if I had contracted the bubonic plague."
"Don't fret, my dear bard friend, my special mosquito repelling herb tea will be ready in a minute. And I should have a very potent ointment somewhere in my satchel to prevent itching and inflammation of those nasty bites." Regis rummages in his shoulder bag. "Ah, here it is. Apply a little of it to every insect bite, and they will vanish overnight, I promise."
Jaskier takes the earthenware jar with ointment from the barber-surgeon's hand and sticks his finger in the white substance that smells strongly of chamomile. The irritating itching ceases almost instantaneously after he has spread some of the ointment on the swollen patches of skin. Not much later, Regis' wondrous tea takes effect.
"Wow, vampire, what a pleasure to have you with us," Jaskier says, sipping more of the tea. It tastes a little too bitter for his liking, but he would even consider drinking vampire piss if it kept the mosquitoes away. "Now you've saved my life twice. And this hair-brained Witcher here wanted to chase you away. How very lucky that you ignored him and gave a fuck about those moronic, narrow-minded notions of his."
Jaskier chuckles.
Geralt grumbles.
Milva grins while Cahir suppresses a smile. The Witcher has just so managed to refrain from running a sword through his guts and, only thanks to Milva's interference, has he been - very grudgingly - accepted into Geralt's company. But who knows, the Witcher might still change his mind about not killing him if he started to openly laugh about and make fun of their company's leader like the others.
"I'm glad I can help." Regis smiles through pursed lips. "Not to make a fuss about it," he adds, "but anybody else in need of a little ointment or more tea?"
Both Milva and Cahir hold their mugs out to the higher-vampire-barber-surgeon who refills them with another smile. The archer downs it quickly, then takes the jar and rubs ointment first onto her own and then onto Cahir's many mosquito bites.
"You know what, Nilfgaardian? You look like the streuselkuchen my mother used to make on Sundays. Mosquitoes seem to like you a hell of a lot better than the Witcher does." Chuckling, she applies a dollop of the salve to an especially swollen bite on Cahir's cheek.
"That, my dear Milva, is an extremely easy feat to achieve - judging by the furtive glares and the conspicuous distance the Witcher has been keeping from Cahir all day." Regis chuckles along with her. "Only that I believe, our friend here is not a Nilfgaardian. Or so he has claimed on several occasions."
"Several occasions?" Jaskier raises his eyebrows questioningly. "You mean on a hundred occasions, if not more. Right, Nilfgaardian?"
"I'm not one. Exclusively the indigenous residents of the capital and its closest environs lying by the lower reaches of the Alba River are entitled to call themselves Nilfgaardians, while my family originates in Vicovaro. But I guess for you, I'll always be a Nilfgaardian," Cahir says, having reconciled himself with and become accustomed to many things in this honourable company, including being called a Nilfgaardian. "It beats being a streuselkuchen, I suspect, whatever the heck that is."
"It's a special kind of crumb cake, sweet and buttery, and I loved it," Milva explains, looking dreamy all of a sudden. "It was pretty much the only thing that I missed after I had run away from home."
"Hmm, maybe," Jaskier muses, "if Mila loves this streuselkuchen thingy so much, being one might be preferable to being a Nilfgaardian after all? Just saying." He winks at Cahir who blushes visibly.
"I need a piss," Geralt suddenly says. He puts his sword that he was sharpening meticulously back into its sheath and gets up with a grunt, obviously having had enough of his comrades' conversation. With long strides and without looking back, he disappears between the bushes.
"Ah, yes, relieving oneself seems to be one more activity that most humans consider worth doing alone, like wanking," Regis says thoughtfully. "As a vampire, it completely eludes me why - pissing, shitting and wanking are absolutely normal physiological functions of the human body, like eating and sleeping which many prefer not to do alone at all - but it appears that this obvious logic is too difficult for the human mind to grasp."
"And you vampires piss and shit and wank in groups? Urgh!" Milva shudders at the idea.
"In contrast to humans, my dear archer, vampires don't need to defecate nor excrete urine, like we don't need to drink blood, or sleep. And wanking—"
Before Regis can elaborate on how vampires prefer to wank - if they wank at all - suddenly, a loud 'fuck' followed by a string of colourful curses can be heard from the direction Geralt has disappeared in.
"Bollocks!" Milva says, grabs her bow and nocks an arrow.
"Shit!" Cahir swears, unsheathing his Nilfgaardian sword.
"Fuckety fuck!" Jaskier exclaims, reaching for a semi-sturdy branch from their pile of firewood.
Regis vanishes into thin air without a word.
As fast as they can, the three humans break through the bushes. Their eyes grow wide when they see the reason for Geralt's loud cursing. Next to the almost black water of a tarn, an enormous spider-like monster is towering over the Witcher, threatening to devour him with its grotesque maw that strangely and to their utter surprise resembles a gigantic, flesh-coloured orchid with razor-sharp teeth. Strings of saliva are dripping from its no less sharp crushing pincers. Instead of hair, the spider's huge, bulbous abdomen is covered in spiky protrusions that resemble the blades of curved daggers.
For a split second, the comrades stand rooted to the spot, frozen with shock at the bizarre sight. Never in their wildest dreams have they conceived of a giant spider like this one, not even Jaskier who has seen a good share of monsters before, in books and in real life.
The colossal creature's dark and utterly terrifying silhouette is outlined against the orange glow of the setting sun like a piece of art.