Z I R E A E L

WOLVES FEAR IT — KINGS DO TOO.

ciri had managed to blend in . . . somewhat well within the impoverished streets of what she'd come to know as the undercity. many referred to it by another name: zaun ( amongst some minor others ) but there was an equal mention of both titles thrown around throughout the locations she'd visited in an attempt to garner information. she wasn't as foolish as to believe she could galavant around with two swords hung over her back, not if she wanted to stay low, so she'd scaled a building a few days after her unprecedented arrival to hide them: wrapped in dirty cloth and covered in debris to avoid wandering fingers potentially finding them.

it was different to temeria. far, far different. even in other escapades travelling time and space, the witcher had never come across something quite like it. it seemed as though they lived in slums; many buildings derelict and rotting, piles of trash littering a majority streets that weren't high traffic, beggars around almost every corner. while some parts looked much better off. yet it was far more industrialised than anywhere in the continent. it was all unfamiliar; and while it didn't scare her — as not many things did — it did make her uneasy.

most of where she'd derived her information from, or lack thereof, had been from bars. the more lively equivalent of a tavern, if she were to compare. vastly different atmospheres, but the same base premise of alcohol and music. except the music was constant and pounding, sending shockwaves through her chest and making it feel as though sturdy bones were rattling in the cage of her flesh. the lights were another thing; bright, colourful and flashing, often resulting in her hiding beneath the lip of her hood to avoid them. dandelion would love it, no doubt — he'd thrive anywhere music thrummed and liquor flowed. the thought of him makes surly features sour even more, if it were possible.

an echoing roar hits the back of clenched teeth, glinting silver blade raised high until it's swung down in one powerful, unforgiving swoop. the wyvern at her feet, previously squirming and screeching in its futile attempt to escape, begins to twitch and convulse violently in the throes of its agony. another swing, another grunt, and it stills. an eerie silence follows, ciri's shoulders just barely heaving as her hunched form straightens out, standing tall with her triumph.

one swift flick has the majority of the creatures ghastly blood splattering across the ground, a rag pulled from its placed tucked into her belt to wipe off the silver blade until she deems it clean enough to slip back into its scabbard. footsteps make her head perk, nose twitching with her quiet sniffs until a familiar scent causes her to turn.

previously surly expression faltering, her lips twitch into a smile at the figure approaching from the tree line. much like uncle vesemir, ciri regarded sera in a similar way — the woman having been present during her younger years training at kaer morhen. her boyish nature had made her standoffish at first, but after witnessing firsthand how badass she was? ciri had grown fond soon after.

" sera. " ciri breathes out, surprised, yet no less joyous, at the unexpected appearance. the last time they'd been in one another's company had been some months ago in nilfgaard: during her incredibly short reign as empress. it was a life that didn't suit her. it never would. her destiny had been set in stone even before her birth. a witcher she was born to be, so a witcher she will remain.

cirilla was no stranger to new worlds.

whether her jumps had been intentional or not, to where she wanted to appear or elsewhere, she always found her way. no matter the odds, survival was a feat ciri had grown to master over harrowing years of inescapable strife. no matter her physical state or inventory, sheer skill and determination drove her to success time and time again. it always would.

the last she recalls, she was travelling through northern temeria. whisperings of trouble amidst her wandering in the region drew her to velen. nightwraiths. pesky spectres whose forms danced madly upon sodden fields when the moon hung high. encouraged to surface by the cooling of the earth, they had congregated; raising each evening, laden with grief, eliciting trouble for all who dared pass through. many had fallen victim, and ciri chalked it as light work when a merchant, desperate, offered payment for the search of his missing son.

like clockwork, silver blade is carefully sharpened, meticulous in her administrations for it was a gift: a dear one at that. basked in the warmth of the beating sun at the edge of the haunted meadow, patiently awaiting the orange glow to fade to inky black, she resided. pupils expanding, eyes narrowing, her purpose for lingering begin their twisted crawls from their solitude beneath the ground once darkness blanketed the land.

plenty had been fought in her time. all leaving the witcher successful in her endeavours. this time should be no different: so she believed. moonlight grasped in sickly pale hands — an attempt to blind — left ciri's limbs tingling, physique beginning to dissipate into a flash of green until sharp claws and bony fingers caught her wrist. a sharp tug, the disorienting gush of rushing water plugging her ears in a way that left her nauseous, and then silence.

teeth grit, grinding beneath the pressure, her slick forehead raises from wet cobble, palms flat against the uneven surface she'd crashed into as she pushes herself up with a grunt. this was no velen. in fact, this seemed not to be temeria, either. unfamiliar territory. somewhere she had never been, even in previous space travelling escapades.

towering buildings, not a lick of sunlight, an acrid stench of something she found she couldn't quite place her finger on, but that made her sensitive nose twitch in distaste. it was all unfamiliar. no familiar smells, sights, sounds. a new world, secrets unbeknownst to her. another flash, another streak of green with a vineyard pictured in mind, and she appears only a few feet before her previous position. no way home, either. a hand raises over her shoulder, solace seeping into her when two swords remained securely in their sheaths.