From a Very Distand Land.

“You think a threat will just make me spill out my guts and confess my woes to you. Think again,” he growled back, glowering at her briefly before deciding she wasn’t worth it. He turned his back to her, continuing with putting on his gear, only half turning when he heard her approach. His hearing could pick her out wherever she went but he still liked to have his eye on her.

Lambert rolled his eyes at the continued questions, but as long as she kept her hands away from her swords, he’d accept her presence. The irony of wondering if she’d go for the steel or silver sword though. Not that he wanted to find out, he had not yet crossed the threshold of murdering other witchers.

He turned back around, lifting the wolf medallion from his chest to prove her point, wearing a full on deadpan. Then he grabbed his swords, strapping them over his back. Fully armed again, he felt more confident, as well knowing better where he belonged.

Not too far gone yet, she had no idea.

“I certainly wasn’t bit no, what do you take me for,” he replied finally, stepping past her (on a comfortable distance). The road was nearby and he intended to get back on it.

         “Do you not wish to be rid of curse?” She questioned, following after him. Of course he hadn’t been bit, even if he had, it wouldn’t have had any effect anyway due to the mutations. No, the only way, from Rashiida’s understanding, how at Witcher could become transformed into such a thing was due to magical influence.

           “Why do you not let me help? Are you not afraid that curse will become worse over time? You really wish to keep it?” The Manticore student seemed rather persistent in following him. 

He was never the biggest fan of people mispronouncing his name, but he couldn’t really be angry either, especially not with a fellow witcher and somebody who wasn’t familiar with the common tongue either. He understood the language barrier, after all, when he was in Toussaint, he struggled with it as well. And yet surprise still held him, never really expecting a fellow witcher from so far away recognizing him, not to mention be so far up north either. “I probably would have, but I was a bit further down south, hunting down a basilisk.”

The white-haired witcher nodded in appreciation at her praise, yet again something he wasn’t exactly used to hearing. A sad, tiny smile appeared oh his lips, as much as he tried to hide it, Rashiida’s words reminding him of Vesemir. “My mentor was a good man, and a good witcher. He used to say that you learn as long as you live.”

Perhaps there were things Geralt should have been wiser about from previous experiences, but he was a stubborn one as well and there were instances where nothing could get into his thick head. “I believe that witchers are not welcomed anywhere, even when people hang out contracts to get the beast taken care off. But war brings death, and death draws in necrophages and wraiths, if not worse beasts. People depend on us, even if they don’t like to get familiar with us either.”

           Truer words could not have been said, especially since the Zerrikaninan queen had banned entry to the country for all witchers, recently. A strict matriarchy, they disallowed men to carry weapons, on top of that, dragons were considered gods and draconids were sacred, and since most witchers were known to be men and dragon slayers, it was easier just to ban them entirely. It was hard not being permitted to enter the country she was born in. Ofier and Zangewbar were familiar, and the Haaki welcomed Witchers as great warriors, but most of them were capable enough of taking down their own monsters, so there just wasn’t enough work there.

               With a last hack of her knife, she finished beheading the Fiend, and held it up to allow the blood to drip down for a few moments before standing, holding it away from her as she motioned for him to follow down the hill.

                “At this point, it would probably be best to simply take other jobs. A few of my brothers from the Manticore school have taken up guarding caravans from bandits and raiders. Certainly not as much as the head of a fiend for a noblewoman’s gold, but the payment is at least steady.” 

          She glanced over her shoulder to look at him for a moment, then glanced over at the bushes where a strange animal was gingerly gnawing leaves off of the shrubbery. She clicked her tongue and said something in a foreign language, and the creature turned its head and trotted out of the shadows of the forest and  towards her on command. The creature resembled a horse, but had a slightly longer neck and legs, a humped back, and four split hooves. If Geralt was familiar with Eastern animals, he would recognize the creature to be a camel.

“Sailors…?” Ingvar repeated the word, trying to remember if he’d heard it before, and, more importantly, what in the world it meant. He broke eye contact, opting to look down at he ground instead. He was just about to give up and admit he hadn’t a clue what those were when suddenly he recalled.

“Oh; I… I-I not meaning to be frightening them,” he admitted, “… not sailors, or… anyone. I just trying to be living. I… was hoping I far away enough that they wasn’t knowing I here, or being afraid, but I supposing if you is here, I too close, for they knowing I here.” The giant abashedly looked her in the face again, “Is that… is that being right, Miss? You was coming because someone telling you I am here?” It wouldn’t make any sense, otherwise; how could people be afraid of his being here if they didn’t know he was there in the first place?

           For someone so tall, this guy sure was... what was the word? Shy; polite... spineless? He was bigger than anything she’d ever seen on land, and yet he was nervous about humans being scared of him. The way he was stuttering, and his strange phrasing, made her think he just wasn’t all that confident in speaking the Common tongue-- she could relate to this, at least. The woman waved a hand at him in a dismissive manner, an attempt to wave the worry away from him.

              “Sailors, they saw you. I am unsure why they wish to come here, but they do not wish to approach now that you have arrived. Humans tend to fear those bigger and stronger than them.” While as a witcher, it wasn’t her place to set herself into racial politics, it was an observation she couldn’t help but notice, having lived among them for almost a century by now.

Lambert’s brow furrowed; eyes narrowing at the rather blunt question. Spoken poorly to boot but he could understand her perfectly well. So she wasn’t from around, honestly, her looks gave that out as well. Too exotic to be a plain Velen inhabitant.

The medallion was a whole other thing. On a woman?

“Who the fuck’s asking?” he retorted, not answering her own question. For one thing, that was none of her business and she had managed to wander onto a very private moment. The fact someone else, someone who looked a witcher somehow had found out about his curse was… unnerving. The urge to grab his swords was increasing by the second. Instead, he had to settle with getting his armor back on. Without his eyes leaving her.

Her stance may be relaxed but she was obviously a witcher (or someone foolish enough to imitate one) and he was a cursed beast. It wasn’t too hard for him to put two and two together.

             “One who can fucking help or fucking hinder, is your choice.” she answered, tone mimicking Lambert’s tone. His hostility towards her certainly wasn’t helping to convince her to help; but she’d still refrain from attacking unless a contract on his head was out-- why waste energy on something that somebody might not even pay for.

            “I will ask again: how did this happen?” She asked, tone a bit softer than her last statement. “Is unusual for witchers to be afflicted by curses-- so this must be direct curse instead of getting bit, I presume?”

             Holding her hands up slightly to keep it away from her weapon, she approached, cautiously, closer to the man to take a look at his medallion. Wolf School. She had met one other Wolf Witcher in these parts as well-- wasn’t surprising considering that Kaer Morhen was supposedly not too far, somewhere in Kaedwen. 

↳ bold / italicize what applies to your muse !

╳     flaws moody  | short - tempered | emotionally unstable |  whiny | controlling | conceited |  possessive  | paranoid | lies impatient  |  cowardly  | bitter  |  selfish  | power - hungry greedy  |  lazy  |  judgmental | forgetful | impulsive spiteful  | stubborn |  sadistic | petty | unlucky

♔     strengths honest | trustworthy |  caring  | brave patient | selfless |  ambitious  | tolerant  |  lucky intelligent  |  confident  | focused | humble | generous merciful | observant |  wise  |  clever |  charming cheerful  |  optimistic  | decisive | adaptive |  calm

Tagged by: @blavikenbutcher (thanks so much i never get tagged in anything!)

Perhaps Loki should have stopped trying to get back to Asgard the moment he first landed in this strange place and the spell backfired on him. But alas, he was a stubborn one, which in the end meant that he messed up even more. One after the other, his teleportation spell failed, and it seemed that the only places he could travel to were ones in the strange world he landed in to begin with. Loki pushed it onto the fact that magic there was different than in Asgard, which in return messed with his spells, at least the major ones.

The god of mischief had, by the point where he arrived in one of the many taverns in Velen, heading to Novigrad, settled in well, found out through small talk with the locals as he traveled as well as through listening in during conversations everything he needed to know about the realm. Currently he was in the Northern Realms, as they called them, and a war between those and the Nilfgaardian Empire was at the full course. In many ways, as he traveled, the ransacked and burnt down villages reminded him of those from the Nine realms whenever a war would break out and he would accompany his brother to ease the tensions.

Upon entering the tavern, Loki got himself a warm meal and a drink (even though he wasn’t exactly the greatest fan of the local alcohol), before finding a cozy place by the fire, warming himself a bit. He glanced a the woman sitting next to him as she addressed him, giving her a light smile and a nod. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, I apologize. I’m just a traveler seeking shelter for the evening. You’re not from around, are you?”

           “Observant of you,” she replied, faint smirk tugging at her lips to meet his own as she got off her sitting position on her knees and moved to a more comfortable position, cross legged. For anyone who lived around here, it would have been obvious that the sun-kissed woman wasn’t local to the Northern, colder climate, so she was unsure if he was just saying it to make friendly conversation or if he was genuinely curious. Though, judging from his accent and how the man was dressed, he obviously wasn’t some hick from Velen.

          “Zerrikania is to far east, beyond Blue Mountains. You would have much difficulty passing with monsters about, and I do not mean occasional drowner.” The woman eyed the food and drink he had for a moment, then leered over at the bartender, who had told her that they had ‘just ran out’ of bread for the night. Lazy bastard just didn’t want to bother serving.

Geralt inclined his chin, hues fixed upon the Witcheress as he listened to her response.  Her explanation on how Zerrikanian women could surive the Trial was met with a delicately arched brow, the Wolf clearly thinking the notion a bit strange though he didn’t vocalize it.  Vesemir might’ve had something to say about this- yet the elder Witcher was unfortunately slain- his ashes occupying the mound that Geralt had been meditating over.  

Instead, the Witcher dipped his head in a slow nod of acknowledgement, the topic of conversation shifting as she retrieved something from her bag.

“Where did you get that?” the monster slayer inquired as his attention dropped to the wolf medallion in her grasp.  The question wasn’t malicious or aggressive- but he was curious how one from the school of the Manticore would acquire a wolf medallion.

Silence hung between them for a moment, and with a furrowed brow Geralt allowed his gaze to pan behind him, back towards the mound of ashes. 

“This is good enough of a place as any,” the Witcher answered after a small pause, his tone growing somber as he turned back to face the remains of the funeral pyre.     

             The quirked brow didn’t go unnoticed-- she should have figured that, at some point, someone, especially another witcher, would find her explanation questionable. At least he wasn’t verbally asking her about it. For the rest of the conversation, she did so subtly avoiding eye contact.

         “Druidess gave to me,” she explained, “I am unsure how she obtained it, but she tasked me to bring it here.” A slight tremble of the silver and the very small clinking of the chain when she turned it over to allow it to drop into the palm of her hand. It had belonged, she presumed, to one of his classmates or pupils, so she felt that it was in the right hands.

            Only when he turned away from her to look back at the ashes did she look back at him, then at the ashes, which she was now sure was a funeral pyre given the context. Judging from this, and the other, various details of what she had seen in the courtyard, she’d guess that something had happened here, not long ago, most likely a battle. Though, why such a battle would occur at an already ruined castle with little to no resources was confusing to the woman.

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏʀᴄᴇʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴇᴇʟ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʜᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴡᴄᴏᴍᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ, ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʀɪꜱꜱ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟᴇʀɢʏ ᴀɴᴅʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀᴄᴀᴍᴇ ɪᴛ. Triss was forced to use charms and poultices to overcome the handicap if she was unable to use her own magic to restore herself.

The alchemy shop had become a recent favorite of hers upon settling into Kovir; the redheaded sorceress believed the shop’s herbs, stones, and potion wares to be the best quality she could get her hands on without interacting with the imports market.

“You’re forgiven, I don’t mind answering your question Witcher.” She spoke, casting a polite yet warm smile the other woman’s way. “I use healing poultices, magical charms, my own magic where I can. Only the mildest potions–like what you might give an infant can I withstand.”

She picked out a few more things she needed and set the coin down on the counter top, turning to face the other woman once more. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in Kovir before, what brings you here?”

         The woman couldn’t help but return the smile; it was rare for a witcher, let alone a foreigner, to find someone willing to converse with her without the mockery or threats. Kovir and Poviss really were one of the more tolerant provinces in the Northern kingdoms.

            Despite the niceties, however, she was there to investigate the strange going ons in the Alchemist’s shop, and now, right in front of the shopkeep, would be one of the worst times to tell any customer that. Rashiida believed that in order to tell a believable lie, one must hold at least some of the truth in it; so, she came up with a reason on the spot.

          “Coincidence, mostly. Was going to Blaviken to see friend, but they have since barred town from accepting witchers-- something about butchering,” she said. “Was hoping to find contract around here, or possibly find way to send message to friend that I would be here instead.” This was partially true, she had tried going to Blaviken initially, as it was closer East, but they had turned her down at the gate, so she continued west until she came here.