old wolf

Yule has begun and, with it, the first cold days -- and nights -- of the year. Vesemir knows that soon enough he will be stuck in Kaer Morhen for a good while. He often spends the latter half of the year gathering whatever he needs to survive the winter. Grains, some cheap wine if he can find it, some coin, but also enough birch wood to warm his quarters and the living quarters -- if any of his ‘sons’ decides to return ‘home’ as well. He will have to hunt, but as soon as there is snow, it’ll be easier to make any meat or poultry last longer.

He hears heavy footsteps in the distance. He knows it is one of his own, after all, the keep cannot be found by those who do not know precisely where it is. He is still watchful, of course, but there is little doubt about who it may be.

Something feels different. The airt itself feels denser, heavier. It almost feels stuffy, but it is not it. Vesemir is an old being, he has seen a lot in his life. All sorts of beasts and creatures, from vampires to bloedzuigers. There is little that truly unsettles him. The odd feeling in the air does not either, but it makes him feel uncomfortable as if the trees themselves watch his footsteps.

His yellow eyes analyze the ‘woman’ before him with curiosity. The rumors are just that -- rumors -- but even such scraps of information can help build a pretty good picture. She is rather beautiful, as one might expect, and appear as normal as any young lady.

The news of a contract on the next town over had the witcher riding there the following dawn. Winter is too far off for him to head back to the keep and prepare, and like any other witcher, he too has to earn his coin. There is no retirement for men like him. Only the path. Or death.

He arrives before noon and takes his horse somewhere he can tie him and offer him some water. Despite his age, the townsfolk still look at him with fear, his two swords swaying from side to side as he walked, his bright yellow eyes set on darker skin -- darkened by time -- and making them stand out even more.

Finding no contract pinned against the town’s bulletin board -- at least not the one he was searching for --, Vesemir walks over to the local inn. People in small town have nothing else to do but talk and gossip. If someone else had taken it, they would know. If a young, local man is foolish enough to get himself killed, it’s his bad. Still, the old witcher can pick up where the soon-to-be dead youth will leave off.

He enters the inn, eyes still following him with careful suspicion. “No need for another one of you” is how the innkeeper greets him. “Another?” The fat, oily man talks and talks about how there is another of his ‘his kind’ in town and there is no need for ‘another one’. Intrigued, Vesemir asks about the ‘other one of him’ and his whereabout and, as luck would have it, he is not far.

The sight of Ciri makes Vesemir realize how time has made him soft. Of course, he cared for the younger witchers when they were but boys, and perhaps it is simply because Ciri is Kaer Morhen’s last child, but he cannot help but feel content to see her -- as content as his mutated self can feel -- and oddly protective of the little she-devil.

That was definitely something that he didn’t think of before. The child was sure that a witcher was meant to slay all creatures, but finding out this piece of information gave him a new view on the witcher trade. Not then and there, but in the future, he would remember Vesemir’s words, he would remember that he spared a creature and Eskel would do the same. “Oh…” Somehow it made sense, that Vesemir would let them go, maybe witchers weren’t as monstrous as humans made them up to be. “Did… Did he listen?” He knew humans could be stubborn and knew creatures could be just as stubborn, but he never saw a real troll, only read about them. He tried to turn on his side, now his interest piqued as Vesemir spoke but his muscles were sore and when he tried to move he simply groaned and closed his eyes tightly.

Of course, Vesemir wanted to talk about the salt incident. The boy figured that it was meant to happen, that he was going to get scolded since he realised he did something bad. Perhaps not as bad as he thought it was. But in his mind, it was bigger than it really was, it was the worst thing he could have done. He made a mental note, to remember how it felt so he would never do it again. He didn’t like the feeling of doing something wrong and being caught.

The boy sniffles and lets out a shaky breath once he feels his father’s hand on his shoulder. Immediately after, even before Vesemir spoke, Eskel hugged his middle tightly, burying his crying face against Vesemir’s shirt to try and muffle the quiet cries. The question made him nod eagerly but he didn’t pull away to speak, he spoke with his mouth pressed against the fabric, muffling all the sounds. “I-I’m… S-s-sorry…” His voice and words were broken as he spoke, sniffing loudly after each word.

If there is any wish to scold his boy about the salt incident, it quickly dissipates when he hears his crying and his arms around him. Eskel was clearly, truly sorry. There is no doubt Eskel is a good boy, that his actions are not born out of spite or anger, but are simply those of a young boy. Childlike, really. And Vesemir cannot blame him for that, but simply tell him that there are other fun things he can do.

At first, it sounded like a good idea, both Geralt and Eskel had come up with it and it sounded more than hilarious. The thought of salty dessert was funny and maybe even tasty! After all, they had tried other foods that were supposed to be one thing, but ended up being another and still tasted good. But of course, if they were to pitch that idea to Vesemir, the old man would probably refuse. Which was why they didn’t exactly let him know of their idea.

What Eskel did not think of before and during their little prank, was the effort that would go into that dessert. He failed to think of Vesemir’s work. It was always Mommy Nenneke who would do the cooking, so Eskel did not realise that maybe it wasn’t all so easy for Vesemir to cook as it was to Nenneke. Once they were caught, and Eskel sent to his room to think of what he did, boredom and annoyance made him actually think of what he did, made him think about how he threw Vesemir’s effort out of the window for just a couple of laughs, and a tartelette that tasted disgusting.

The boy sat on his bed, his head lowered as guilt was quick to creep up his back and surround him whole. When he heard his father’s voice he didn’t want to turn around, given that a few tears had been shed and his eyes were burning, which meant they were puffy, red and, most importantly, obvious. “Hm?” He merely asked, knowing how his tiny voice would break whenever he cried.

Hands still wet from washing all the dishes, Vesemir stands against the doorframe. He crosses his arms, looking down at the floor. Being a single parent is tough, being a widower more so. Deep down, he thinks the boys are adapting still, even if unconsciously. They were learning how to deal with loss yet again. Poor boys, whose biological family was only God knew where. Then they lost the one mother figure they had.

“I want to talk about the salt incident”, he says, raising his gaze finally towards Eskel. He knows the prank was harmless. It was not like he played with the car’s gasoline or found a snake and hid it inside the toilet. As long as Eskel -- and Geralt -- understands that it was wrong, Vesemir is content. And perhaps they do. Vesemir has to yet check on Geralt, but seeing a red faced Eskel makes him delay that encounter a couple of minutes more.

The old man tried to do some desserts for dinner. Tried being the chief word since, once it was done, he realized someone or someones -- probably both Geralt and Eskel -- had replaced sugar for salt. So the lemon tartelette was ruined. Salty. It was partially his fault for not tasting it, but still.