#filedfangs

“Oh, y’know. Gone. Likely being used firewood for some sod, ‘r something. Figured you’d relish in the silence. I’ll have to see if I can scrounge up the coin to buy another... And lutes aren’t particularly cheap, unfortunately. Ones of superior quality, especially,”

“I’m not saying we need to stop in EVERY village! Just ONE. One little village.” The bard’s complaints were for no one in particular. It was the Witcher’s own unfortunate fault that he was the only soul around to listen. “Remember beds, Geralt? Remember pies? Gods, I miss pies. Gravy. Wine. A nice little tavern filled with handsome travellers and pies.” 

     “What do you remember about your mother?”

     "I'm not what you think I am."      He said it softly, tone careful from where he stood just barely inside the entrance to the apartment. How he'd gotten in so silently behind the hunter was just testament to his own skill, but he stood there, waiting. Was he surprised that Geralt was there? No, though he'd hoped it would never come to this.      Bucky was dressed casual, the aim being to blend in and be ignored, which had worked for the past few months of keeping his head down and not lingering too long anywhere. He'd needed time to get his head together, to remember who he was and what he'd done, what he'd once stood for, and even longer to even attempt to have a handle on trying to live with what was in his head. He was still working on that part, ready to bolt, but this man would only chase, as he must have been doing for quite some time.      "I remember you, but that's not me anymore." He'd been Hydra's tool then, and he'd both fought and escaped only a few years previously, but he didn't know if Geralt even cared. Should he?

"Not often I find a pair of eyes that match my own out on the Path.” Cautiously, he watched the other, eyes darting to the wolf medallion hanging from his neck. His own was hidden, sewn into a pocket within his own light armour. There were few friends for Vipers on the path in Jaskier’s humble experience. “Suppose you’re here about the disappearances too?”

Three houses down was when she realized she was being followed. Booted footsteps lending a sound to her movements that her own slippers did not. Rounding the corner into an alley, the point of her dagger aimed for his throat if he followed.