Setting.

A small Tavern on the outskirts of Vizima, about 5 or 6 months before the events of Witcher 3 take place.


Burning, cleansing, suspiciously oily and utterly gross all in one. Iorveth stared down into the murky depths of old tankard gloomily, and had to wonder Why in the seven bloede swine sucking hells am I drinking this bloody ratpiss anyway? And how did I end up in a rat loving dive like this in the first place? "Bloede easily as I recall. First ye followed a halfwitted dragon in her naive vision to bring all the races together in perfect harmony, then ye went and bloede well enslaved yourself to the vatt'ghern, do ye really need any more reminders of what lead ye to this place Vethy boy?" He heard the familiar mocking voice, a voice from his past... Belonging to another dead face.

Oh right, he thought bitterly as he forced another few mouthfuls of the cheap vodka down his throat thats why.

He had started years ago, to numb the ill-advising voices in his head, which screamed hue and cry, and warned him of the self-destructive path he chose. Though that said there was quite a bit of disagreement between the voices on just what the self-destructive bits comprised of.

Some of the voices were in favor of the old ways he had embraced so readily during the last invasion of Nilfgaard, some had always believed that the Scoia'Tael should stand alone apart from the humans, and others still favored the complete opposite of both strategies, adhering to the way Saskia had shown to him.

Iorveth himself however, had taken to the path of ignoring the voices altogether and silencing them the most effective ways available to him, so that he could concentrate fully on the road ahead of him. Normally he utilized a special tea brewed from a mix of camomile or 'camel root' beggartick, and krathom, however it was somewhat difficult to find them growing close together, and the war was making it outright dangerous to search for them, particularly with the fisstech trade exploding as it was. So vodka it was for him for the time being, he needed something to quell the demons in his head, and while far from ideal, it would do the job.

And it was a job that surely needed doing. He needed focus on the fight somehow, he was doing this for his people after all, for all those who suffered from the suppression of the Dh'oinne filth.

And alright, perhaps a just a little for himself. It was easier to focus on the tasks he'd been given, rather than on his sorrow-laden heart, and the... rejection he'd suffered.

Staring grumpily at the Peppervodka in his hand he cringed noticeably before chugging down another large gulp of the questionable brew, his good eye glaring daggers at the innkeeper who wasn't looking back all too friendly himself.

With the war with Nilfgaard on people had other things to worry about than a notorious Scoia'tael leader. But even so he still got nervous in such places, and outright hostile gazes sometimes unsettled even him.

Even so he needed to rest his aching arse for a few minutes in a warm place, and get some half-decent... or at least edible food into his stomach. He had been on horseback for days on end now, stopping by here and there and taking on some local odd jobs to make a few crowns... or even the now nearly worthless orens that had been Temeria's currency before the current madness struck.

Iorveth fingered a single oren with the old king's face roughly carved onto it. Bloede coin is almost as useless as the king was now. That said he couldn't help but feel a twinge of remorse, at the sight of the old king's face. Thing's hadn't been great by any stretch of the imagination under the old king, but at least he would have respected the people of Aedirn's decision to support Saskia as their monarch.

Now, with the Emperor of Nilfgaard in charge there truly was no telling just how things would go down, and all he could realistically do was just hope for the best.

It was countless times worse than the life in the woods around Flotsam, back with his commando. Harsh times surely, but at least he'd had a purpose that he had a realistic chance of fulfilling, even if he wasn't particularly thrilled about it.

Iorveth absentmindedly stroked the medallion at his neck, ignoring the glances and puzzled looks it garnered from the other patrons as they recognized what it symbolized, but wisely kept their traps shut.

He held it up to the light and examined it for what felt like the hundredth time. It got him thinking, to that rather fateful day a couple months back.


Three and a half days after the events at Loc Muinne.

It had been a surprisingly peaceful few days, after the gruesome events of the summit. Events which had left even Iorveth with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, though he showed nothing of it in his features.

He had seen far too much of the same happen, time and time again over the centuries for any new lines of distress to sprout upon his features.

No he had other, far greater concerns to do that instead.

Together he and Geralt guided the mage back to the fickle safety of Vergen's stone walls, so she could rest and find back to strength. The elf did not trust her. It was nothing personal really, he didn't trust mages in general since the sterile witch Findabair had lead a good number of their people into enslaved ruin, and particularly not after the events that had just taken place with Eilhart. But he was placated by Geralt's calm voice. "She's a good person. I trust her, elf." He had said with that intent stare of his, so calm, so full of himself. As always. And behind that Iorveth could see more, could see the affection...the love he carried for her even if he himself wasn't entirely aware of it.

"You better be sure of that, Gwynbleidd. Else I'll come for your bloody white head and this time I'll make sure for it to be mounted nicely on my wall." The elf's voice was low and dangerous, but with no real bite to it.

Iorveth knew that Triss had been a victim in this, But still one could never be sure what she had done beforehand, how deep she had her hands in the shit. Geralt had had no answer to that but a dark stare and the elf knew that she left him in the dark often enough to make him wonder that himself.

But if he trusted his mage, Iorveth wouldn't object. Especially since now the day of the parting came, each of them going their own ways. And while the Witcher had a set goal and grim determination Iorveth had nothing but uncertainty.

That is until the frowning vatt'ghern thrust a heavy leather pack into his arms the next morning, silently motioning for him to open it with an incoherent grunt that the elf had learned meant 'for you'. That elicited a half-smile from Iorveth, he always found himself unexpectedly amused by the Witcher's taciturny in most matters. But the smile vanished and a frown replaced it when his slender fingers pulled at the leather strings that held the package together and he glimpsed what lay inside "Is this supposed to be an example of your bloede dh'oinne humor? If it is you can shove it up your white arse." He growled and was about to shove the pack back into Geralt's hands but he just grunted, his eyes shining with humor. "Look under it, elf." He just said, his voice tense as if holding back a chuckle.

Geralt was well used to the elfs hot blooded personality by now and mostly spared himself from a barbed retort since he'd learned that it would only make things worse and often ended with a pointy arrow or a sharp blade against his throat... though to be fair it also ended with the tip his own dagger digging into Iorveth's kidneys at the exact same moment, along with the hook he hung his trophies resting point first against the elf's carotid.

The elf's frown did not waver as he pushed the contents of the bag aside and grabbed the piece of parchment that was under it. Iorveth squinted a tad as he examined the drawings and written text, and abruptly he understood what it was, though he still failed to grasp the meaning behind it all. "Gwynbleidd..." He growled, his tone still rather annoyed, though he was feeling more perplexed than anything else at this point.

Iorveth was not sure why but the man looked uncomfortable and broke their eye contact for a second. "What the schematic is for is clear, but I must ask this favor of you, elf." He murmured brusquely, a serious look upon his features. "I know you have nothing left tying you here and you'll be leaving soon just the same as me, and that you're tied to some of the best craftsmen in the business, people who'll likely have the skill and knowledge required to replicate or at least repair these items. And since you'll be doing an awful lot of traveling in the near future I was thinking you might find someone to see to these items for me. My own path takes me far, but I doubt I'll have the time required to give these these things the attention they require, the path leads me to... other tasks, obligations if you will. Obligations which I can't put aside... no matter how painful they may be." The Witcher stared imploringly at the elf and there was also a hint of demand in his eyes. A demand he could allow himself, Iorveth knew.

Even so, he wasn't entirely convinced he should truly go out of his way to meet the dh'oinne's ridiculous demand, and was about to say as much when Geralt once more cut him off, much to his annoyance. "You know the value of the gear Iorveth, at least as far as the schematic goes. And you know just how effective it is. If not for me, then at the very least you should seek out one who is capable of replicating it for yourself,"

Iorveth's eye widened a fraction at the thought. He did indeed know the value and effectiveness of the gear, at least as far as the type the schematic could be used to create, and it was definitely not something to be scoffed at to be sure. Seeing the understanding in Iorveth's gaze the bloody vatt'ghern smiled, damn him, knowing that he had solidly hooked the elf at this point "and if there should happen to be a surpluss of materials on hand, well then..." Geralt shrugged, trailing off, leaving silence and the elf's brain to fill in the gaps, as he knew they would and the smirk on his features made the elf want to slap him a good one, but he knew this was too good an opportunity to pass up, so instead he quelled his urge for violence and nodded resignedly.

"A fine bloede trade, Gwynbleidd. I will see what I can do." He said curtly. Geralt seemed relieved and smiled. grabbing the elf's forearm tightly in his. Iorveth returned the gesture and with their hands on each others necks they rested their foreheads together in a gesture of camaraderie and friendship.

"Take care, Geralt. And make sure you don't get your white arse killed. I've got a claim on your head." He jested, though managed to weave a serious note into his voice.

The Witcher laughed and shook his head slightly, yellow cat eyes fond and determined. "Wouldn't dream of it, elf." He simply said, his eyes telling more than his lips ever would.

They talked over the details of what was required, the of origin the items, about what little the vatt'ghern understood of the construction, and the parts necessary, along with some idle smalltalk, but everything that needed to be said had already been said, and in the end what was left was rather meaningless chatter to pass the time.

Sighing Iorveth looked over his shoulder at the heavy bundle and shook his head, already thinking about the weeks to come. About how he wouldn't be able to find peace, or rest.

And with those thoughts he started to feel a little world-weary, the hardships he was burdened with suddenly appearing to be more of a struggle than they had been before. And he knew he needed something... a task he could focus on not unlike that which the vatt'ghern had just provided. But more than that he needed a cause, something he could live and fight for... something he could possibly find in the quest to fulfill the Witcher's request. A fact that was no doubt first and foremost in the bloody witcher's mind no doubt. He thought amusedly. Nothing escapes those cat eyes.

He departed not long after the White Wolf, after having said his rather formal goodbyes to Saskia, queen of Upper Aedirn. It had pained Iorveth, to leave her behind and he couldn't conceal the longing in his moss-green eye as he stared into her dark blue eyes, as deep as the stormy sea and almost black. He could've lost himself in these sapphire stars... But it was not be, apparently. Almost apologetic in her demeanor, she fought off the silent pleas that swam in the elf's single soulful gaze, as if she was willing but something held her back.

"Farewell lady Saskia, my Queen... Saesenthesis. I have no doubt that you will lead these lands to prosperity, a tide of change that will sweep to many other kingdoms hopefully." Iorveth announced rather formally, but held her hand rather longer than needed, and swiped the curt bow of a warrior, her hand raised in front of his face during. How much would he have loved to be able to kiss the soft skin on the back of that hand, to caress it with lips and see her blush. But he stuck to etiquette mostly, knowing it would have done him no good to give into desire now.

Still, his heart felt heavy when he left her quarters and made his way to the stables of the city, his knapsack already packed with the few belongings he possessed and saddlebags slung over his shoulder.

The slowly setting sun shone warm on his scarred features and Iorveth closed his eye for a moment, enjoying the comforting warmth that seeped into his old bones.

With a twitching nose he opened his eye once more when the familiar scent of hay and horse tickled his senses.

Making his way over the stable and to the horse that awaited him, he stroked the soft muzzle and murmured soft nonsense to the old steed. With perked ears it pushed against his chest and then cheek with a soft snuffle.

It brought the cloth covering his eye into disarray and eventually it fell to the ground altogether, revealing short raven hair and the horrible scar disfiguring a whole side of his face.

"Careful, Tirth." He murmured and gently pushed the war horse's head away. Iorveth preferred to cover the mark of his shame, reminder of pain and hate, and he did not too care much if people he trusted saw it. Here though it made him uneasy and he went to pick the red cloth up fast but a gloved hand got the drop on him and snatched it away before he could. And that simple gesture was enough to ignite fury in the old elfs dark heart. Quickly he stood tall, his fist rising to make contact with the strangers face but a strong hand caught his punch almost effortlessly and now Iorveth finally saw the one standing there with his bandana in hand, and he growled in irritation. "Gwynbleidd? What the hell are you doing here, you should've been gone already." He said, his words flying from his lips heatedly since the anger in him hasn't quite settled yet. "Don't stand there like a bloede oaf, give it here!" The elf exclaimed exasperatedly and pulled the piece of cloth from Geralt's hands with a little more force than strictly necessary.

The Witcher smirked, putting up his hands in a placating gesture, trying not to laugh. "Who would have thought, the feared leader of the Scioa'tael, touchier than a wench when she loses her silken glove." He said, unable not to hide his amusement. Iorveth moved like the cobra he so admired and struck out, his fist colliding with Geralt's jaw with a sharp *crack* in one fluid movement. "When you're done being a pain in my arse could you grant me the courtesy of informing me why you're here!" Iorveth snarled, quickly snatching his scarf back, while Geralt rubbed at his jaw and gave the elf a thoughtful stare.

Finally he muttered to himself, going over and pulling the saddle & bridle from a rack next to the stable. "There is something I forgot to give you. It will be of use to you when tracking monsters and power sources. Also, don't forget about th-" "Bloede hellfire! Shut it about that damnable blade will you? You told me at least a thousand times that I have to keep it charged. I know it vhatt'ghern. I swear my ears will fall of you say it one more time." The Witcher waved the infuriated elf off and rummaged in his pouch, though his fist itching to give hotblooded whoreson he called a friend some payback. Yet, there was no time for a real full on brawl and what was the saying? The wiser head gives in? "Here. I have no use for it any longer and carrying it with me only makes memories surface that I'd sooner see buried and forgotten." Geralt grunted and tossed the shining object at the elf who had just finished prepping his horse. Catching it reflexively he looked down in wonder at the extremely rare pendant in his hands. A Witcher amulet of the wolf school, just like Geralt's.

"I've never heard of such an amulet being given to one outside of the order." The elf said faintly and looked up at the man who had just tossed this invaluable gift at him. "Well, there's a first time for everything right?" Geralt countered lightly and nodded into the direction of Iorveths neck. "Put it on. Best keep it on your skin, or you might not feel the warning vibrations." Iorveth chuckled, putting the clasp of the medallion around his neck, and letting it slip insto his armor to rest against his chest just as Geralt had suggested. He knew there was no point in arguing with the man, not when it came to these things, so he accepted the gift without complaint. "Vibrations huh? Has me wondering what else you Witchers use these amulets for." Geralt chuckled but gave no comment. And before long the White Wolf mounted his horse who had previously been browsing peacefully, and looked none too happy at being disturbed. Nodding his goodbye Geralt took off into the sunset where Triss was waiting for him on a pale mare of her own. Together they disappeared behind some hills and leaving the Aen Seidhe behind.

Shaking his head he fastened the saddle bags and pack he had received earlier from the vatt'ghern to his saddle and climbed atop his own stocky battle worn mare, and took off into a uncertain future with nothing but the clothes on his body and the dark fire in his heart.

[Present]

Savoring the fire now his throat, he slugged down the last of the alleged "vodka" slamming the mug down on the flat, worn surface of the hardwood bar and thrust his chin at the innkeeper, his empty fictile cup already sliding over the wood towards the feisty man.

With a sour face he refilled the cup and slammed it down in front of the elf. "You better be able to pay this, knife-ear." Iorveth growled, his eye nothing but an infuriated slit now.

"Bloede gláeddyv shlogtha dh'oine!" Take your coin and leave me be." He snarled impatiently thrusting the coins forth and across the tabletop where they were promptly snatched away by the greasey innkeeper and counted pointedly before they made their way into a greasy purse. Without another glance the dh'oine scurried off and tended to other patrons, leaving the elf be much to his delight.

He swirled the suspicious drink around, just hoped things would all settle soon and fall in place.

Author's note

The Grinning Psychopath: Elder speech translation, "bloede gláeddyv shlogtha dh'oine!" In effect this means something akin to Bloody sword swallowing human.

Vatt'ghern means Witcher

The Grinning Psychopath: Gwynbleidd, is the elvish name of Geralt, which means White Wolf. Though if you played the first game, its likely you woulda already have known that from talking with the dryad... unless you were too busy staring at her green bush, which is... rather understandable admittedly heh.

AlexanderRevana: So, this is just the beginning brought to you by 'The Grinning Psychopath' and my humble self.

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