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 β as not many things did β 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 β he'd thrive anywhere music thrummed and liquor flowed. the thought of him makes surly features sour even more, if it were possible.
a few weeks had passed by now, and finding information had been difficult, to say the least. many people were secretive, much preferring to keep their lips sealed even with the threat of violence β for it seemed a greater threat loomed that terrorised them much more than she ever could. those that did cave knew very little, but one name had been mentioned repeatedly: fearfully. silco. the man who appeared to rule this city. that also seemed to strike a teeth chattering terror into many. further 'research' revealed he was also the owner of a tavern bar, known as the last drop.
which was where she found herself now, features curling as the blaring music and idle chatter only became more ear - splitting upon her entry. it was busy, so much so that the witcher had to weave through countless flailing bodies, sticky with bodily fluids and reeking something vulgar, to make her way to the corner of the room where it was possible to view almost every inch of the establishment. despite her impatient streak, if the situation called for it, ciri could hold off her loathing for remaining static. hood drawn up and over her face, to hide unusual hair and unnerving features, she settles against the wall to observe.
the smell is another thing that gets her β sweat, stale alcohol, tobacco smoke and people's rancid breaths all mixed into one miasmic cloud that settles heavily and leaves her nose twitching in revulsion. it wasn't the worst she'd ever smelled, and she'd become accustomed to it shortly, but it didn't make it any more pleasant.
the hours dragged on, patrons coming and going, fights starting and ending, some shady looking under the table deals happening β all of which uninterested her. all but one woman: rugged and impressive looking, a seemingly metal limb in place of flesh and bone, with an aura that commanded nothing but respect. whose presence remained throughout the entire night, unwavering. people gave her a wide berth when passing, avoiding eye contact, their heads downcast β drinks brought directly to the table, where ciri had swiftly figured out she was playing some sort of card game. not gwent, she doubts, but something that leaves her with a triumphant, goading smirk after every victory. she was exceptionally good, apparently, and it makes her wonder why so many continued to challenge her.
her importance became clear when the games came to a stop, a man having come to collect her. through the ruckus she manages to hone in on the conversation: 'silco wants you' and without a moments hesitation the table was cleared and she was stalking through the crowd towards a door, presumably leading to him. ciri debates following. meeting the man himself, that had been likened to that of a devil, would likely get her the answers she needed quicker, but she needed to gather information first: things that may prove vital to future endeavours.
instead, her hooded form pushes off the wall, traversing the short distance to slump into a seat at the previously filled table, knees touching and arms crossed over her chest. the hood of the cloak she'd taken ownership of shadowed her features, gaze dropped to scan over the stained floor, and the mixture of smells emanating from it is just as bad as the room itself. there's no need to raise her head at the approaching footsteps that approach a short while layer, knowing it was the one she'd desired to have this impromptu meeting with.
" i know your kind. " ciri chimes before the taller woman can speak, not bothering to look up as her ears catch the creak of wood caused by her taking a seat. she'd quickly realised witcher's weren't β had never been β a creature in this place, so using preconceived fears of their less than stellar reputation would do little to help. " loyal. to almost a fault β " there's a knowing lilt to her tone, as though recalling past memories. in her short period here, they had heard nothing good of the man who controlled the city of iron and glass under an unforgiving, merciless rule. a cruel man who did whatever he could to further an agenda of his own, dismissive of all those surviving beneath him. " β even if that loyalty were to lie within evil. "
the questions the witcher wanted to ask had to remain mere thoughts, lest her lack of knowledge betray that she wasn't from the city, nor any surrounding areas. " what does silco want with the undercity? " despite ciri's uncertainty in their many differing customs, she still retains a confidence that's stuck with her throughout life like flies to shit. many of the answers she'd received to said question were lousy, so who better to inquire than his apparent aide - de - camp.
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"well lookee here." the brunette stated with a knowing grin as she approached the younger woman. "looking much more lively here out in the wild rather than on a throne, 'bout time." β @cryowitcher
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 β 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.
" how did you find me? " perhaps a foolish question as she takes a few steps towards her: witcher's were notoriously skilled trackers. ciri merely didn't expect the woman to be searching for her.
