piece of filth.

        “Oh, believe me, I would just love to spend another night with these lovely… villagers.” Several other words had crossed her mind, several not so polite words. Her gaze shifted towards the road. A chilly wind blew, sending a shiver down her spine. The road was long and most likely surprises would await her, not so pleasant surprises. But she had to leave or she would not make it to her destination in time. “However, I’m in a bit of a hurry. Who knows, perhaps we have the same destination.” She took a few steps away from the witcher, a wide grin on her face. “After all, traveling alone is rarely any fun.”

     “I CAN ASSURE you, vatt’ghern, that I would be far away from Novigrad if I could —– but I’ve got loose ends to tie up and people to help. I do more of THAT and less killing lately, if only just to spice things up a tad.”

     He sits almost casually on the tree branch, having picked that particular spot to converse with Geralt because of the relative privacy it offered, and there’s an amicable look in his eye as he looks to the witcher. If only they could stop meeting under the BAD kind of circumstances – preferably when the world wasn’t going to shit, but that’d mean waiting till the end of days. This would have to do instead.

     “It’s been quite some time, Geralt. I can safely say I’m glad to see you in good health.”

“Funny. Met a scoia'tael that wasn’t big on formalities a while back. Had a particular way of saying ‘hi’ -- something about honey and ants if I remember correctly.” Oh, ha, ha. “Can't help but to wonder what he'd say about this.”

It all comes back to him in a rush, unbidden but not unwanted -- not all of it. Oh, how their fates had crossed, tangled and messy but so difficult to forget. Following the sound of that voice, it’s as though a memory sits in wait at the end, untouched after all this time. Nearing the tree, Geralt half-expects to hear the familiar song of woodflutes, but it never comes.

WHAT BITTER WORDS FILL HER EARS,    enough to make her lurch in silent dissent.    auburn brow creases,    alabaster skin wrinkling in a concoction of anger  and  protest.        ❛      I DIDN’T KILL HIM.      ❜      it sounds so silly now,  already scathed and bruising       !     but she’s adamant,  nonetheless,  vermilion lips drawn into a SANGUINE POUT.        ❛      it feels like i’ve exhausted the words,  but i’ve nothing to do with that man’s death.  NOTHING.   i hardly knew the dolt…        ❜       carefully,   statuesque figure rises from the dense soul in a teetering form.   there’s pain to be had in her legs,  all right.         ❛      i sing and they label it witchcraft.  i meant it when i called them all dimwitted.       ❜       emerald gaze rises                          and how far up they go     !     ‘neath their gleam,  a lingering  SURPRISE.   this hero of hers looked more BEAST than man,   a grizzly,   marred brute.   there is a subtle gasp from betwixt her ruby - ledges.  

           whatever fire she’d prepared to spew had been quelled at the very sight of him.   HUMBLED,   she averts her sultry stare to the scenery that surrounds them.        ❛     you’re not who i was expecting.      ❜      a modest claim.        ❛     but nevertheless,   I OWE YOU A THANK - YOU.    i’d have been turned to ashes if not for you.      ❜       slender digits brush away the folds of her  CARMINE GOWN  despite there being none.         ❛     three days is being generous.   they call me a  SIREN,  i trust they’ll come after me sooner than that.   i’m not sure where to go from here,  that seems to be my dilemma.      ❜

“Not saying you did.” This world was not kind: it did not care for the accused or its women, and cruelly, life had the gall to condemn her as both. Yes, she would have made the perfect kindling for the purifying flame, a bonfire to delight the raving masses. Despicable. They may have been dimwitted, true, but he knew with greater certainty that they were savage, and the damnation of the wicked like her -- a temptress with the kiss of death -- was the very thing they delighted in. “But it’s not me you should be convincing.” 

Head had been bent downward to focus her attention on the whet stone near lovingly being scraped, over and over the edge of a well-worn balanced dagger. A stump suited her well enough for a chair. Settled over her lap, the dagger was slightly smaller along the hilt to compensate for grip. Double-sided, the wicked little blade came to a keen, keen, fine point. Excellent for piercing leather, slipping between ring-mail, as well as gaps in heavier plate. Perhaps it had been her task at hand, or the fact that the man was absolutely dead silent on his approach, until his low, gravelly voice could be heard–that put her on instant wariness. She’d gone from sitting, to standing, dagger in hand–blade turned down to the ground kept at her side but at the ready…just in case..in a blink.  “Mother shitting fuck, I didn’t even hear you,” breathed outward. What a lovely first thing to say, Anthracite. Good job. Well done, she thought.  It took her that long to puzzle out the words as she tipped her chin upward to look at his face. (Which she had to do with nearly all humans, elves, ect. Part of being short, y’know?) Gold eyes flickered to his and stayed. Huh. Cat-slit pupils. Her eyes narrowed as she stood still; akin to a deer startled out from underbrush considering fight or flight. Tense for just this moment, but she made no threatening moves.  “Give enough power to anyone an’ they can fuck it up. People are flawed,” answered absently. Then she gestured with unarmed hand and finger up to his face. “You some sort of possessed? Can you see in the dark like a kitten with them peepers?” 

“Not about to disagree.”

She moved in the blink of an eye, startled to action and dagger at the ready. Geralt should have expected as much: women of her caliber didn’t take all too kindly to surprises, and certainly less so to armed men coming upon them unannounced. In hindsight, he was fortunate to stand unharmed; that blade, sharpened to perfection, would have had no difficulty cracking into his skull.

“Talking from personal experience?” Geralt probed, head craned to regard her. Arms crossed, the hunter stood firm, frightened by neither her curiosity nor her blade -- though he should’ve been. Rumor had painted her as some godless brute, but to their credit, witchers hadn't any concept of fear. “Word gets around,” he commented upon her reputation. “Hard to ignore. Probably heard it.” 

But at least she wasn’t spewing the vitriol the ‘good, common folk’ have taken to calling him. Possession proved quite tame in comparison -- in his experience, of course. “More or less, but last I checked: no,” Geralt answered, ignoring the accusatory finger. No demons here. “Doesn’t stop the questions, though. Pretty much heard it all.” Though she was a rather curious sort; he’d a feeling she could test that theory with ease.

He’s the most beautiful wolf/bear dad.... Hold me. And there’s more.

I’m in dire need of medical assistance.

           ❝ OH…YOU’RE SHARP.                  fufufu… ❞

      To be expected, surely – she faces a Witcher’s wit now.

              ❝ It’s as you surmise. I’m no more human than you are.                  But I already told you – I’m not a Crone. ❞

      She speaks of them as if they were their own species; one separate from – one lowlier than her own.  It’s by all technicality quiet coexistence, but it’d sooner burst in volume than it would be called friendly. Any being with any modicum of power would never to care to share its home with those with the same power and ability to impede their machinations. But territorial quarrels are tedious, laborious and thus of little interest to her. She would not directly interfere with the dark happenings in Crookback Bog, and the Crones shall not interfere with her dolls.

              ❝ You can’t sacrifice to a god you don’t revere,     you                   know ? I may not be kind, but if you’re investigating                   missing wives and missing children…   I’m not your                   culprit. ❞      ( oh, but do her words bely ignorance )

“Might surprise you. Got other things sharper.” Of course, a cutting wit didn't quite cut the way blades did, did it? Oh, his daring trumped all.

It is a subtle warning, tame at best but ever lurking. See, he senses she knows more than she dares let on, and while sacrificial blood may not sate her hunger or fill her belly, he can't imagine she's that pure in comparison.

He’s looking at her again.

The smooth skin between Yennefer’s brows creases as she fixes the witcher with a look that could be described as impatient by a kind man. Other words that come to mind are cold — even caustic. It’s hard to think around him, made all the more difficult by that staring of his. 

“Something on your mind, Geralt?”

It comes out sharper than she intends — like the nip of frost against unprotected fingers. (Magic’s taken its toll on her, particularly that of ice.) So, in an attempt to soften her harshness, she adds in slightly gentler tones, “Something I can assist with, perhaps?” 

"Hm,” he denies, a low rumble in his chest.

Geralt is unrepentant -- to no one’s surprise, mind you -- his gaze steady even after he’d been caught. Her brusque words are things he’s grown to expect, but in his familiarity, they’ve lost their bite and hissing edge -- well, most times, at any rate. 

                 ‵ geralt! ′ she laughed, brushing away concerned hands from her wound, rent in her side ebbing warm claret. an aberration; a misstep, a witcher contract to defeat the leshen that prowls the woods of downwarren. an easy task for the witcheress and the rehearsed gwynbleidd. but, the woods trapped her; a quick teleportation to strike the leshen ended up with her too close and getting bunged into a tree. leshen are the timblerland; they control the wealds. she’d forgotten; a mistake. and geralt had defeated it. ‵ i can take care of myself, y’know! i just―forgot about the tree part. ′

“If that were always true, many things in history would have gone very differently. Do you let your fear control you?” Her voice is a rough thing, but every word is measured. Deliberate. 

She has fought in wars beyond count, and reveled in the fight. Reveled as magic and flames tore from her fingers or her claws, and felt more alive, and as she sundered the skies, rode the winds between the stars. Perhaps only a Witcher could understand seeing such things, when man could not, too caught up in that which they knew or that which they feared. 

Yes, man was cursed. But even dragons could know the bite of mortality. 

A dragon was the greater of two evils, to the villagers. At least, so they thought, and so she snorted. “They would not be the first.” Virala murmurs, quietly. No. She had been hunted before. But to hunt a predator– none had ever been quite prepared for what that task truly was. 

This was different.  

He smells of metal, beyond the swords he carried. Of wild woods, and of mountain peaks high to the sky. The curiosity she’s had of his kind, she supposes, was assuaged by this, if nothing else. He has an aura like a lake- deep and still, but so vibrant he could almost be taken for something like her. 

The Witcher was watching her like he could see into her- see what laid within her chest, in her head, and it made her bristle, if only marginally. The shadows that seemed to cling to her frame darkened to pitch, before settling. 

He drew close - too close- and the shadow went still, not even breathing for a moment. Discomfort warred with incredulity in her expression, but she didn’t give ground, keeping her gaze on him. The drake had never been able to read people well, but him even less so. The moment he unveiled the coin, she could hear the song of the metal, weaving through the air and her head. 

His words still cut through it, and Vira whips her pale gaze back to his face, pupils blown huge in her shock. But what he says- it’s right. “- Had I killed them, I wouldn’t have left even bones.” And so stood two beasts, two beings built for war and death, who by all rights, should have torn eachother apart- but instead of that, they stood in what could only be called armistice.

An almost-smile flits on her face, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “And what were you expecting?” A beast in her prime, most likely, a beautiful and terrible as the night– what she should be, but wasn’t. 

“You’re not exactly what I expected of your kind, either.“

No. “Doesn’t matter.” Now, ask anyone, and they would tell you this: there was nothing that touched the hearts of these men. Not love. Not joy. Not sorrow, remorse, or fear. Yes, he’d learned to embrace this image, and so, with ease, Geralt finished, “Witchers don’t feel.” 

Make-believe or not, it was irrelevant. In the end, he would not draw his blade on her.

Odd. To think that once, one day long ago, she was a creature likened to that of the gods. The world had bowed before her as they knew they should. They’d respected her for they knew their place. She was everlasting. Immortal. But, now, to expect a knife to the back, and to look so stunned when the witcher – a slayer of nightmares like her – refused to draw his blade… Of all people. Truly. My, how the world had changed.

“Wouldn’t have stopped there. Could’ve leveled the entire village. Wouldn’t have been able to stop you.” Did the prospect tempt her? To force man back into their place, to proudly reign back on top... Why, she’d only be restoring the natural order of things.

Especially considering what lurked just beneath her too-human flesh. Geralt answered her curious gaze with a measured one of his own, testing and appraising. “Hm. Can guess what you were expecting: two blades. Glowing eyes. Could only be a witcher, probably one with a contract,” he said lowly, voice rough but calm, “one you already know about: A monster, large enough to eclipse the sun. Only warning people get before finding themselves under sharp claws. Can’t fight back– Ribs are crushed by force. Effortless. Fear doesn’t last long, though. Sharp teeth take care of them soon after, a poor act of mercy.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t exactly fit the image.” Beautiful, yes, almost tragically so, and every rose had its thorns. Those small hands had decided the fates of entire armies, those dark, dark eyes a witness to centuries in the making. They say never to judge a book by its cover, and Geralt knew better than to start now. “If villagers saw their dragon as a young woman, they wouldn’t have called for me.”

"But they paid for the head of the killer – not yours. Won’t get anything out of it. Besides, guessing you want it dead just as much as they do. Would ask why you haven’t taken care of it already, but I can guess." She’d grown weaker, no? Years of persecution and hunger would do that to anyone -- anything -- and any lesser being would have crumbled by now, but the terrible beast that seized the roads would not shed tears for her hardships. It was terrible. Gruesome. No, it would never be as noble as she, but it cared little for greatness.

"Might need some help,” Geralt said suddenly, words cutting through the silence. “A witcher, maybe.” His eyes were clear; he looked unperturbed, neither repentant nor in doubt. 

Yes, this was his job, this proud and fearless killer of beasts. With or without her, he would bring the bleeding head of the monster, clear her name and collect his coin-- 

somehow, the scent of battle and blood was sweeter than any perfumed lord or dusted tome, richer than incense or wine. but as smell came before sight, what presence stood before him then, of white hair and feline eyes — this captivating, haunting and stunning man which, if presented to any other arrogant highborn, would have all too predictably been met with words or gesture to suggest such telltale savagery was far, far below them — but not relian. instead, brow perked inquisitively, and his traipsing transit came to halt. 

“  told by whom?  ”    a fleeting colleague, perhaps, one who knew or suspected his infatuations with every and all things touched by magic’s grace.

Now, what man dared praise the sight of illness and death, of the filth he wore from the filth he slew? An interesting one, no doubt, with unusually dangerous tastes. Geralt needn’t say it: with a thirst for knowledge and a thrill for the menacing, this Relian had a concerning mix. 

I love how in witcher mythos, they’re branded as heartless and cold with hearts of pure stone. They don’t care or feel or experience anything normal humans do, too distant and detached to resemble the moral and living. Consequently, people are really quick to cast them off as mutants because they’re said to be stripped of any sense of humanity.

Yet, you have witchers like Geralt who knows, in the long run, it’s probably best to live to that stereotype. The further away they can separate themselves from others, the easier it is to make the hard and brutal decisions that often plague their profession. Besides, it’s simply beneficial considering they’re the only ones looking after themselves. Really, should they spare a second glance at those who won’t -- and never had -- do the same for them?

Despite all of this, Geralt himself remains full of emotion and basis decision on what he feels. It’s first made very clear in that famous line he says in The Last Wish:

“Lesser, greater, middling, it's all the same. Proportions are negotiated, boundaries blurred. I'm not a pious hermit -- I haven't done only good in my life -- but if I'm to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer not to choose at all.”

Geralt doesn’t want to choose a lesser evil if he can forge for himself a third more merciful path. In truth, even in the novels, he often uses his blade as a last resort when every and all other possibilities are exhausted. If he can avoid shedding needless blood, you better believe he will do everything in his power to make it happen.

But this bleeding heart of his, to me, is made even more glaringly obvious by the end of the books. In progrom at Rivia, Geralt rose to defend the non-humans that were being persecuted. At this point, we all know many people in The Witcher’s world already believe Geralt to be more beast than man, but if he’d actually embraced the “code” of indifference and neutrality, he wouldn’t have stood in defense of the oppressed. He wouldn’t have been run through with a pitchfork, bleeding out and dying for their well-being. If he were the big bad witcher every legend made him and his kind out to be, why would he?