#witcher dijkstra

Back protesting as he crawled out of his tent—what he would give for a hot bath, a nice long soak—he was almost tempted to sneak away to Oxenfurt for a night. Or maybe even Novigrad, he did have business he’d been putting off—people could say what they wanted about that slimy, fat, fuck—but Dijkstra persided over a rather well kept bath house. 

Selfishly, it was one of the best perks about their little alliance. 

A nice soak, perhaps a couple rounds of gwent, avoid Dandelion, and then maybe another soak. The thought of Dandelion shot a cord of annoyance through him. 

Why and how that insufferable bard seemed to be involved with everyone of any interest was beyond him; but nonetheless, it appeared a fact of nature, much to his chagrin. Dandelion's attachment to Geralt had stretched his patience, especially when they had all been forced into close quarters. Roche had been rather content to never cross paths with the bard again, after the disaster that was Flotsam. 

When the flamboyant ingrate had appeared at the Rosebud and sat down in front of him with a message from Dijkstra, Roche had felt an aneurism begin to tickle behind his eyelids. Not that he had any right to throw stones—considering his own precarious partnership with the manipulative whoreson currently known as Sigi Reuven, but “Dandelion” and “covert operative" were oxymorons in his opinion. 

Dijkstra and Dandelion were polar opposites in every sense of the phrase, and if the two weren’t so clearly familiar with each other, Roche would have accused Radania’s former spy-master of somehow having learned of his dislike for the man and purposefully using said bard as a go between to have a laugh at his expense. 

But no, Dandelion was one of Dijkstra’s. 

He huffed, cracking his neck. Roche felt the weight of eyes on him and knew he was going to hate today. 

Ves was squatted down, poking some of the cooking embers back to life as the camp around them slowly roused. She glared up at him before stabbing her stick into the fire with more force than necessary. 

“What are we doing with the squirrel?” She asked, pointedly.  

Roche glanced at the cage—Iorveth, still safe and sound, curled into the corner, shiny green eyes peaked out at him from the shroud of the blanket. He felt his heart speed up—hand grabbing for his pocket of its own accord—where the key to the cage resided, something he was sure Ves noticed. 

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Roche be looking like this when Dandelion showed up FYI; in my fic he’s actually still upset that Geralt betrayed him for Iorveth in Witcher 2 (as it should have been)