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The Wyvern Witcher
Story Arc One: Grim Up North
Chapter 2: Draconic emblem - part 2: Personal whims
The Witcher was leaning on the wall of the smithy as he waited for his order, enjoying the sweet music that was coming from inside the forge. Steel being hammered in the anvil, hot blades soaking in water, the grinding, all these felt relaxing in his ears, always have, especially when could all be heard at the same time like now, the smell of molten metal wasn't bad either… Urick wondered sometimes if his father was a blacksmith, he always felt comfortable around fire and metal… He dismissed this foolish assumption. He never had a family. Ever! … Or he did? … "And I simply screwed things up. Like always. Betraying my mates back in Ymlac because I was afraid and couldn't take the pain, getting exiled from the School of the Wyvern for killing a broodbrother in a feat of rage, getting my entire hanza killed when I made a mistake that got the attention of the wrong kind of hunter… Seriously everyone that stays around me for too long ends up a corpse sooner or later. It's a miracle really, that Elrik escaped this fate. Or did he? Who knows? He might be dead by now." The Witcher sighed at his own grim thoughts and looked up to the sky, as if it held an answer for him. It didn't. Gray clouds were obscuring the great sun above, he smirked at how appropriately symbolic that was.
Rivia, the winter capital of the twin realms of Lyria and Rivia was a rather cold place herself, despite the migration season not be very far off, making her status as 'winter capital' rather ironic – or appropriate, depending on how one defines winter in the North. Since Urick passed the border towards here on Hlaith's saddle clouds have been ever-present in the skies, the rays of the sun only briefly crept through the occasional opening in the 'curtain' above, and that was never for long (twelve or so seconds, at maximum). Humidity in the air was high as well, making everything seem dull and depressing, even to a Witcher like him. He felt sluggish, as if his bones weighted more than usual, and struggled to keep his eyes open each time his eyelids felt a tiny bit heavier. He didn't like any of it. It made him feel older than he was, and he was young for a Witcher, not even seventy.
The approaching man in heavy armor that was coming his way with heavy, aggressive steps forced his eyelids open, the unpleasant expression on his face all but screamed trouble. He was big, bigger than Urick was, with a nice chiseled face that sported a mustache in the imperial style -this style originates in the Empire, but in the North it was reserved for the important men only, like aristocrats, sorcerers, or particularly wealthy merchants and village elders- the emblem in his expensive-looking armor depicted a green dragon with red eyes that has been pierced in the chest by a black sword while spouting green fire, he carried no weapons.
The man stopped four paces away from the Witcher and shot him a look he was all too familiar with – the kind of one who is a jerk and thinks of himself above everyone else and is offended by the mere presence (or existence) of some people – and mutants probably counted among them. Urick removed his hands from behind his head and folded them across his chest while shooting the man who most likely was a noble knight a similarly condescending look.
They stare at each other for a few seconds before the Witcher broke the silence. "Something I can help you with sir?" Urick's voice was completely dispassionate "Any monsters that need slaying?" He didn't really expect an answer, at least not one that was warm, welcoming, or completely honest, but he chose to be polite all the same.
Instead of answering, the 'noble knight' spited on the Witcher's face, hitting him in the right cheek, and resumed walking towards the smithy.
The Witcher was wiping his cheek with his gloved hand. But when the armored man came close enough, he retaliated. The armored man stumbled back a little. It was rather juvenile of him to admit, but Urick felt proud of the accuracy of his aim, his concentrated saliva fell straight into the 'knight's' face.
"How dare you, you vagabond?!" The armored man yelled. The sound of his voice was so ridiculously over-the-top it couldn't make any more obvious how much insulted he felt.
"With dare." Urick plainly answered. He had come far past the point of caring about his behavior in these barbarous lands anymore. And as they say back home "In the North, do as the Nordlings do."
The armored man wiped the spit from his face, but not all, his mustache has become undone on the right side, the whisker facing down. "Do you know who I am, mutant?!" He asked indignantly, with a really angry face.
Urick folded his arms over his chest again before answering, his tone as plain and monotonous as it was before "No sir, I am afraid I have no idea."
The armored man wiped the rest of the saliva from his face after realizing that the Witcher's eyes were fixed there. He put his hand on his chest then and started speaking in such a dramatic tone that it would've made the seasoned actors of the Etolian amphitheater feel dull by comparison. "I am Ambroz the Indomitable! Fourth in line to hold the name and honor of the legendary dragonslayer! Knight in the service of Her Majesty, Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia! Seventh-born son of the noble house…" the Witcher stopped paying attention and instead started nodding in affirmation at the hurricane of names (or titles?) that was coming from the knight's mouth, hoping it will end soon … … … A fool's hope that proved. … … … … Ambroz had finally finished.
"What can I say sir, your name carries such weight behind it, I am surprised your back is as straight as it is. You really are worthy of it." The Witcher said in a complete deadpan "Compared to mine, it has so much meaning. I am Urick, by the way. Just Urick. Born in… the gutter I guess? Brother of NONE. Son of… some street whore I guess?- Seventh-born you said? Bless your mother's courage sir, for-" –– "Not only had you spat on my mien without falling on your knees to apologize for the insult!" Ambroz loudly interrupted the Witcher, and began walking towards him "But you have the audacity to make fun of me?! And insult my mother's memory?!" the 'knight's' face was mere inches away from the Witcher's by the time he finished talking. Urick didn't raise his eyes to meet his however, instead he lowered them, and turn to the left to see that Ambroz yelling had caught the attention of folk nearby who they start gathering around, clearly to enjoy the sight of a nonhuman freak be put in his rightful place – Nordlings were like that.
Not enjoying other men to invade his personal space as much as he didn't enjoy prolonged eye contact, Urick hoped to the left and took two steps back without breaking his posture. The way his 'escape' was executed managed to draw a few laughs out of the gathering crowd.
"Running away coward?"
"No sir, I just don't like men invading my personal space since I have no interest in them sharing my bed."
"What did you say?"
"If you are interested in stout lads I think you would find those of Passiflora in the city of Novigrad to be-" –– "I HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR MOCKERY YOU DEGENERATE SCUM!" Ambroz screamed in utter fury, his chiseled face had twisted into the angriest grimace Urick had seen since coming to the North – even his now comically uneven mustache did little to spoil the effect.
The knight took out his gauntlet and threw it at the Witcher, aiming for his legs.
The Witcher jumped and avoided it. His hands clenched into fists and his expression turned serious three seconds after he landed.
"I challenge you, rogue!" Ambroz said "In a duel to the death!"
"Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes!" some woman squeed from inside the crowd, her voice full of excitement. "Yeah, teach the fucking witchman his place!" a man yelled, and immediately after him, the entire crowd started wildly demanding for a fight to commence.
"The good folk have spoken Witcher, you cannot refuse now. Honor is at stake – yours and mine." Ambroz said, gesturing towards the crowd as if to drive home how important their howling was.
Urick turned to look at the 'good folk' that have gathered around the smithy's fence. The way they howled and cheered in the prospect of seeing the blood of something that wasn't human spilled reminded him of the Monster Coliseum back home. It disgusted him. "Good folk my ass" he thought, frowning, and turn to the 'knight' "I am afraid I cannot accept the honor of fighting you sir. Because I don't have any to defend. As I revealed to you before, I am the lowest of the low, and as all Witchers are, I am also a coward and a cheat, so there is no honor in-" –– "You won't talk your way out of this!" Ambroz interrupted again, he may have not been as loud as before, but this time, his expression was legitimately threatening. No dramatic exaggerations of any kind.
The Witcher took the situation seriously this time, realizing that he won't escape this, no matter how much he wanted to "First blood only." Urick demanded.
"I already set the rules for this fight Witcher." Ambroz said and spat on his ungauntleted hand. He then wiped the lower part of his face with it a few times till his mustache became more… even-looking?
Urick put some effort to keep a straight face but he managed "Well I am not accepting them. First blood only!" he repeated more firmly.
The Witcher and the knight stare at each for a few seconds before a voice cause both of them to drop the contest at the same time to turn at its source – Master Carson "What the flying fuck are all these humans doing here?!" The dwarven blacksmith barked as he was coming their way, carrying a sword wrapped in cloth. Judging by the design of the hilt, as well as its size and width, it appears to be a sihil -a rather large sihil- It wasn't Urick's order.
"What the fu-?" the dwarven blacksmith turn to the knight without finishing his sentence "This again!" He said, then darted between the two "If you two want to kill each other go elsewhere okay this a ploughing workshop not a-!" Master Carson's angry rant stopped abruptly as Ambroz grabbed the sword's grip suddenly. The sihil hissed out of the scabbard and swung towards the Witcher immediately. He avoided it, but since he didn't expect the assault, the blade slashed his cheek and nose from the left side before hitting the smithy's wall. It was nothing but a surface wound. A second swing follow suit but this time Urick expected it, his adrenaline raising. He dodged to the left, completely avoiding the blade this time around. His opponent was surprisingly fast for a man wearing heavy plate. A third swing followed, horizontal, this one was slower than the previous ones. The Witcher avoided it by rolling to the left, gaining some distance from his opponent's reach, he recovered quickly.
"Is that your idea of honor!?" Urick yelled in anger.
"By refused my challenge you also foregone the right to defend yourself" Ambroz's tone was annoyingly self-righteous as he spoke "Thus you made your choice mutant: You choose death."
The spectators started cheering at the knight's degree.
"Yeah!"
"Kill him!"
"Death to the Witcher!"
"Slaughter the freak!"
Every child's voice that Urick heard amidst the crowd was both a small nail in his heart as well as a weight off his guilty consciousness over the massacre he committed in Honeysuckle.
"Very well" Urick said, tasting his own blood "Victory or death." He challenged, solemnly promising to the Great Sun that the pretentious knight's fate would be the latter.
"Hexer!" Master Carson's rough scream caught Urick's attention, he turned immediately. A sheathed sword in the dwarven blacksmith's strong hands, the pommel shaped like the head of a wyvern – his sword "Catch!" He yelled and threw it in his direction.
The Witcher sprang to grab it. His opponent wasn't willing to allow him a chance to defend himself and moved to attack, farther demonstrating how much of knight he wasn't. Ambroz swung his sword vertically aiming to cut him in half from the wrist below. He was moving fast for a man of his size and weight he carried but still he was just a human, and a human's speed and reflexes could never much a Witcher's. Urick fell on his knees, avoiding the fake knight's sword blade while grabbing the sword thrown to him from the scabbard's higher point with his left hand. The Witcher was already changing his stance into a one-foot kneeling position while the fake knight was raising his sword above his head, preparing for another horizontal swing. The sihil fell. The Witcher jumped backwards, avoiding the blade, as he tried to regain his footing in time… however he took three unsteady steps back and finally fell on his bottom.
Despite superior speed and reflexes the Witcher had clearly overestimated himself with that move, it was rather risky and it could of have easily costed him his life. He promised to himself not to make the same mistake again as he returned to his feet and grabbed the sword's hilt. He drew it, releasing the blade from the scabbard and threw the latter to the side. The wyvern steel sword's blade shone with the yellow light of the Svarog runestones that were engraved into it – exactly what he paid in advance for.
"Gut the ploughing whoreson Hexer!" Cried Master Carson "I had it with his shite every bloody time!"
The Witcher assumed a defensive stance, holding his sword with both hands, and began slowly circling the fake knight. Ambroz assumed a similar stance but unlike his more agile opponent he remained still. Both the combatants' eyes were etched at each other, both wanting for the other to be the first to lunge an attack.
Ambroz had proven the least patient after the Witcher had pretty much moved to the opposite side of where he originally was, lunging at the Witcher with a thrust. Urick dodged to the left. But this time around his opponent anticipated that, his arms stretched, he moved the blade along the Witcher's path. Urick deflected the blade and retreated back. Amboz didn't slow down as his blow was deflected however, instead -without losing his momentum- he followed up with an immediate swing, then another, and another, and continuing. His sihil's superior reach was forcing the Witcher to deflect each time while pushing him back with each blow.
The pretender knight has proven himself a more demanding opponent than originally expected -the speed in which he swung his huge sword was worthy of any Frundsberg Braveheart's- but Urick was still determined to defeat him in clear swordfight. The Witcher wasn't moving at full speed, he could have easily avoided Ambroz's attacks with no need to deflect. He was biding his time, giving the pretender knight the illusion that he had the upper hand while waiting for the right moment to strike – And judging by the way he continued carelessly swinging his sword without a moment to breathe -like a man berserk- with a furious grimace while sweating, that moment won't take long to come. The Witcher was making sure not to find himself backed to a corner till then.
The moment came! Nine swings in succession, each new one was delivered with reduced speed than the previous one. Eight deflected, the final one dodged to the left. Ambroz had exhausted himself and his sword fell heavily and noisily to the ground on his last swing.
The Witcher raised his sword to strike as he regained his footing. His sword fell.
Ambroz didn't immediately realize what happened and probably thought for a moment that the Witcher missed. He didn't. And once he moved to steady himself, Ambroz realized it too: His left hand -the one he took his gauntlet off and threw at the Witcher's feet as a challenge- has been severed from the wrist.
Ambroz started screaming in horror and shock… and then in fury as he raised his sword with his spare hand to strike at the Witcher again when he moved a little closer.
Urick deflected the blade in time. He was surprised that the fake knight had strength enough to swing his sword at him again, but he has learned from a young age to never drop his guard till he was one hundred percent sure his opponent wasn't breathing.
Ambroz went for another swing. Seriously injured and tired, he struggled to lift his large sihil, his move slow and clumsy.
The Witcher took advantage and moved fast, slashing his armored adversary in the axilla as he lifted the sword above his head, cutting through the chainmail with his runestone-reinforced sword. He quickly turned around for an immediate second strike, slashing at the back of his opponent's right knee, severing the joint.
Ambroz dropped his sword as he fell on his knees. He then fell completely to the ground. A paddle of blood began forming. He wasn't breathing anymore.
Urick stare at the corpse for a while before he went to collect his new sword's scabbard from the ground. With the exception of the children crying, the once wild crowd had now gone completely silent. They were obviously not entertained at the fact that the mutated freak had defeated the 'noble knight.'
"Here! Here good sirs!" a man's voice and fast steps broke the symphony of cries that had started to almost sound pleasurable to the Witcher's ears. Other steps followed the man, steps heavy with armor.
Urick turn to look at seven men, all sporting the coat of arms of the twin realms, wearing medium armor with the exception of the one who appears to be leading them who wore heavy plate instead, not as impressive as the three piece one of Ambroz but his definitely provided better mobility. Four were armed with crossbows, two with halberds, and the leader with a spiked mace – a short sword was also hanging from his belt.
Urick let his scabbard fell to the ground. His sword's blade didn't need rest just yet.
"Throw your sword away Witcher" the leading guard ordered, his voice was gravely and unpleasant, more appropriate for a cutthroat than a soldier "and come with us." He added.
The Witcher didn't comply, his grip on his sword's handle tightened, his eyes at his new possible adversaries.
The guardsmen's leader raised his hand slightly after a few seconds of seeing that the Witcher wasn't cooperating. All the arbalests in his unit raised their crossbows at the same time, pointing at him. "Do as you are told. And you may come out in one piece yet." He said.
"Damn it, I don't have any bombs with me. If all four shoot at me at the same time I can block one bolt with the Quen Sign and deflect another one with my sword but the rest will hit me… except if these four are the worst marksmen that ever lived" Urick took a good look at the crossbowmen "Which doesn't seem to be the case. They WILL hit me. And then I would be easy prey for those halberdiers." The Witcher had assessed his situation. All the odds were against him, no matter what.
"I repeat myself for the last time Witcher: Throw your sword away."
"Wait a ploughing minute Adolv!" Master Carson yelled "the Hexer merely defended himself from -" –– "Stay out of this Carson!" the leading guard interrupted the dwarven blacksmith "If you know what is good for you" the leading guard continued "I would enjoy neither the prospect of seeing your workshop sharing the fate of your predecessor's nor making your wife back in Mahakam cry."
"What! For twenty fucking years now, I outfit your troops, you whoreson!" Master Carson snapped back at the leading guard.
"And we are really grateful for you supporting us in keeping the law and order" despite the vocal dissonance the leading guard maintained a serious and amiable non-threatening expression while talking, and he was rather casual, one could say annoyingly so "and for our mutually beneficial relationship to continue master, I suggest you go back to your workshop and fetch a pair of those dimeritium handcuffs you have stashed away for the redanians that will be here in three days -I am sure they won't miss a pair- and put them on our male witch here so he won't attempt any spellcasting after throwing away his sword."
… Urick's eyes went wide… He has never felt more cornered in his life, and he had fought Leshy without silver and triumphed. He began sweating.
"Ploughing whoreson, I thought we were mates." Master Carson whispered to himself. "I am sorry Hexer." He said, beaten. The Witcher could hear his footsteps as the dwarven blacksmith went back inside his workshop.
Urick's face completely externalized his feeling of despair, there was no point trying to hide it anymore. He was absolutely sure that if he barely managed to make it out alive of the cells in the Empire-controlled lands then he definitely won't come out as he entered in the ones of those barbarians – At the very best! The Witcher was clenching his teeth.
He threw his sword away in surrender.
"In the end, here is where everything is paid back… Guess there is justice in this world."
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[- NINE DAYS AGO -]
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"So… Fiona… Who's the lucky man?" Urick asked the waitress, again against his better judgment, since he ended up sharing the table with her, even if she only sit here until the pain in her abdomen subsides so she could return to her duties.
Fiona raised her head slightly "The weather." She answered with a grimace. "Or the witch that caused it. Devils take her if that's the case!" She spat.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm not pregnant Witcher!" She lowered her head again after soundly clarifying, Urick decided against saying anything else.
After letting some time pass, the Witcher decided to speak again. "Since when had the pain started?"
"Since yesterday" Fiona answered without looking at the Witcher "I vomited four times since yesterday. Two before the cockerel even cawed. Haven't slept at all. Worst night of my life." She clenched her belly even tighter then, her pain obvious in her face. She didn't seem to be getting any better.
"Do you have anything to boil water in?" The Witcher asked.
"In the-mh-the kitchen."
"Stay here for a moment? I'll be back in a minute." Urick said, pick up his sword, and walked towards the stairs to go to his room.
"Hey!" yelled the innkeeper from the other table "Where de fuck are ya going Witcher? Ya ain't pay!" he continued while holding the head of the noseless patron on the table's surface in which spirit appeared to have spilled.
Used to it by now, not to mention the fact that he had rented the only room the inn had for the night, the Witcher ignored the innkeeper.
. . .
The Witcher returned from his room.
The waitress has remained on the table as instructed, still clenching her belly, also sweating again. Urick came by it to leave his sword along with the bundle of peppermint leaves he brought from Hlaith's saddle upstairs, he then headed for the counter. The innkeeper was standing behind it again.
When the Witcher came close enough, the innkeeper moved right in front of him and pushed him back. "Where ya think ya're goin?" the innkeeper asked with a grimace.
"In the kitchen" Urick answered plainly, sure as hell that he won't be allowed there.
"Why?"
"To borrow a bowl or something else to boil water in. Also, do you have any spare bread by any chance? Edible bread. It's for the wai-Wench! It's for the wench. It'll help her go better." Urick explained as calmly and politely as he could muster.
The innkeeper's grimace changed then to one expressing surprise, it was rather amusing to look at, he even raised an eyebrow "Fiona, when de fuck did I fire ya and hire de damn Witcher for wenching?!" he barked at the waitress.
Fiona turned to the direction of the counter "Sorry boss, I'll…" she said while attempting to stood up, with difficulty.
"Sit where you are woman!" Urick loudly protested – the loudest he had been this night. Only when the waitress's bottocks were once again on the bench the Witcher turned to the 'boss', an unfittingly bemused smile was decorating the innkeeper's ugly face. "You never fired her, and you never hired me, okay." The Witcher said.
"Reaaally now." the innkeeper grinned, fakely.
"Yes master." Urick continued, his serious expression unchanged "She is not with child, she's just sick, and I think it's in your best interest to see her healthy again, as quickly as possible."
"And pray yell…" the innkeeper took his large butcher-knife from below the counter and stuck it on its wooden surface "Why is dat." He said, still grinning, and began toying threateningly with the large cooking tool. The fact that he hasn't screamed or swore yet held a nasty promise, Urick thought.
"Why, let's see…" Urick began "I think the fact that six or so years -the least- is a long time to begin looking for a new wench in this village. And you're not getting any younger master, with all due respect."
"What?" the innkeeper asked confused. Urick expected him to snap at him but he didn't. That he had stopped fiddling with his cleaver was also a good sign.
"Pardon my dwarven, master. But quite frankly: Your ale tastes like Nekker piss. She…" Urick pointed at the waitress "is probably the sole reason men in this village keep coming. She has the best pair of tits around here, and probably the best… well, everything" Urick turned to the table the perverted patrons were sitting, their expressions as unfriendly as the last time the Witcher looked at them "I am pretty sure you understand what I am talking about master, and I am also sure…" he gestured at the patrons "that these distinguished gentlemen here that are obviously regulars in your fine establishment agree with me." After finishing his sentence, Urick took a second to appreciate himself. He certainly had improved tremendously in the art of bullshitting!
"I didn't get half the shite the freak said, but I'm only here for Fiona's teats." The one without a nose said, the entire left side of his face was drenched in beer. The other patrons didn't comment. They just glare at the Witcher.
"See master." Urick's eyes returned to the innkeeper "Since I came here early this afternoon, I only saw children and women long past their prime so I think, she…" he pointed at the waitress again "is still your best bet here if you want to keep your steady flow of customers going. Besides -" –– "Whad de fuck's a 'prime' Witcher?" the innkeeper interrupted with a gesture "some curze or zomething?"
The Witcher managed to keep a straight face yet. "No master, it is…" Urick stumbled on his words "well ehmm…"
"Yeá, what?" the innkeeper asked, annoyance clear in his voice.
Not able to find more civilized words, the Witcher decided to go with what originally came to his head, hoping he won't regret it. "The women here are old and ugly" Urick sighed "with saggy tits, soft asses and they're hairy as fuck. Only a dwarf's cock will go hard with that… That's what I meant when I said "long past their prime.""
"Ayyye."
"The freak's right there."
Two of the patrons -the noseless one and the bald specifically- agreed with the Witcher, nodding in affirmation. The one with the horseshoe mustache didn't say anything though, his stare as hostile as ever.
Urick turn to the innkeeper again. "Besides…" he paused and moved closer to the big ugly man, to his immense displeasure, before continue in a whisper "Her illness may catch on others. And you don't want that." he said and took a quick step back. The innkeeper was frowning but he appears to be listening. "Even if you gave her three days off she might not get better without any remedies" the Witcher continued "she might even get worse in fact. And I don't know if you have any cunning women in the area, but at least I -unlike her- won't ask for any coin in return."
"And ya'll do dis generozity why?" asked the inkeeper with a raised eyebrow.
… Urick paused. "Good question, actually." He thought. He couldn't come up with a good answer for the inkeep (or himself actually) as of the 'why' he should help the waitress free of charge. He was already at the counter, might as well take his beverage and go back to his room to drink it. It wasn't like Fiona was particularly nice to him… He rationalized that he only wanted to get into her pants. His actions were nothing more than a shot into getting his prick inside there.
"Water's in de back," the innkeeper's voice brought the Witcher back to the present, to his surprise the big man had moved aside "zecond barrel from de left. Dere's spare bread in de wooden box to de table, bowls to de levd." The innkeep continued.
"Leevd?"
"Aye levd." The innkeep frowned "You don know where dat is? Is dat-a-way." He gestured with his left hand.
"Thanks? A lot?" The Witcher said, with a really questioning look, and headed for the room behind.
Before he took his third step however the innkeeper grabbed him abruptly from the right shoulder and turned him around, forcing him to face him. Urick instinctively reached for his skinning knife. "Iv she gedz worse by tomorrow mornin" the innkeep whispered while close to the Witcher "You'd leave an arm ere." The way the innkeeper delivered his words was so sharply different than before he actually managed to make the Witcher feel tense, the fact the man started fiddling with his cleaver again wasn't helping, the Witcher almost drew his knife in a reflex.
The innkeeper moved back then "UNDERSTOOD WITCHFUCKER?!" The screamed his lungs out again. "ONE THING MISSING FROM DE KITCHEN AND I'LL CHOP YA PRICK OFF!"
It was funny how Urick was feeling less threatened now. He didn't exactly understood what all this was about but he didn't really care that much to learn. He headed to the kitchen.
The Wyvern Witcher - Codex
Bonus Story: Domestic disputes - part 1
"Bravo, Witcher. No really, bravo. Congratulations are in order." Velmelianna's snark was -as always- accompanied by her signature sarcastic gesture: clapping, three to four times, with her fingers only touching the lowest part of her hand's hill, so softly that only the most minimal of sound could be produced. As if Urick couldn't tell when she was mad or not, after all the time they have spent together, she just had to do that each time.
The Witcher leaned against the wall, right beside the door of the bedroom (really tempted to walk through it, and spare himself the lecture) with the bitterest, most dishonest smile his face could make. Crossing his arms, he lowered his head. "Thank you soooooooooo much Velma dear. I love you too!" He thought and nodded in sarcastic exaggeration, forming those words exactly like that in his mind so that she would 'hear' them clearly.
Velmelianna's beautiful lips contorted, only slightly originally and then into a full grimace that expressed her displeasure in that peculiar 'I am an Enchantress, and I've got this massive stick so deep inside my ass that I can feel it touching my brain!' kind of way that was typical of her kind. She had read his thoughts just as he expected. And obviously didn't like them. And for once, Urick didn't care.
"Honestly Urick…" the Sorceress sighed in exasperation as her voice trailed, and folded her arms, hands touching the elbows as always. Urick never really liked the way she crossed her arms like that, the gesture felt less defensive and more offensive – as if she was insulting him in a different language.
Whatever there was she wanted to say a few seconds ago she appeared to have dropped it. If she was still reading his mind the Witcher could not tell.
She didn't speak any further.
They both stayed where they were -Urick leaning against the wall, Velmelianna standing between the bed and the vanity table- both silent, both avoiding each others' eyes, both with their arms folded.
The awkward silence continued for a long while.
Not wishing to externalize anymore of the mounting frustration he had managed to accumulate these last few months Urick focused on any other sound he could still hear, no matter how small or fleeting it was: The droplets of water that were falling outside with gradually increasing speed, Minerva's occasional hooting coming from the living room, his own heartbeat, Velmelianna's heartbeat (which was frustratingly beating at normal rhythm), anything to just keep his mind away from his one true desire at the moment – To be elsewhere.
In the end it was Velmelianna that broke the silence, with a sigh.
The Witcher lifted his head as he heard the Sorceresses' steps. Velmelianna sat at the right side of the bed, her posture stiff, her hands gripping and releasing the sheets.
"You are neither my prisoner nor my slave Witcher." the Sorceress said, averting her eyes, her voice as cold as ice.
"No, I am not… but sometimes I do feel like I am Mel!" Urick thought, and Velmelianna turned to meet his gaze. He knew now for sure that she was reading his mind. The Witcher lowered his head again.
Silence and seclusion fell all over the room once again.
"If that's what married life is supposed to be like" Urick thought, hoping to break this suffocatingly awkward silence a moment sooner "IT FUCKING SUCKS! We don't talk, we fight, we avoid each other, we're rarely having sex – And when we do, it immediately gets awkward- Why the hell would anyone want to live like that?! This shit doesn't even bring -" –– "Social acceptance chiefly…" Velmelianna interrupted before Urick even finished his train of thought. The Witcher raised his head promptly to look at her.
"The production of heirs," the Sorceress continued from where she left after pausing for a moment. She was facing at the window "economic benefit, envy, lust," she went on, her tone dispassionate but not exactly cold like before "idleness, curiosity, enthusiasm -" –– "Why you brought me there Mel?" Urick interrupted the Sorceress as he moved away from the wall and took two steps forward with his arms still across his chest. Unlike him before, the Sorceress didn't turn to face him. "I have told you that I hate banquets." The Witcher continued.
"And tonight, you perfectly demonstrated just how far the depth of your disdain for social gatherings runs." Velmelianna turned to face him then "To me. And to everyone else present there." She said, her stare way colder than her voice "Congratulations, once again." She turned back to the window immediately after saying that.
Urick's answer came in the form of a heavy sigh. He just didn't know what he should say to make things better… He just wanted to leave.
"I told you, you are not a prisoner here. You can go whenever you want." She said without taking her eyes off the window. The ever-so-small sharpness in her voice told the Witcher that she wasn't as indifferent as she pretended to be.
Urick… just dropped his arms.
After a few seconds of silence passed, the Witcher just put his hand across the right side of his face and ran it downward. He wanted to leave…
But not like this.
"Mel…" he paused, struggling to find the right words "Listen, I… I'm… sor-" –– "For what?!" The Sorceress abruptly cut the Witcher sort as she turned to face him, her voice uncharacteristically loud and harsh.
But her eyes… so full of anger… or is it hatred?
"For what exactly do YOU feel sorry about Urick?!" The Sorceress stood. "Tell me! I'm dying to hear you out!"
Urick didn't answer. He had frozen in place. He had never seen Velmelianna like that. Not even when they adventured together and had to fight for their lives.
"For your behavior tonight?! For back when you left without warning?! For all the times you slept around?! For almost forcing yourself on me?! For killing Yarwel?! For what?! What?! WHAT?! WHA-" –– "FOR EVERYTHING DAMN IT, FOR EVERYTHING! … For everything, I am sorry."
. . .
"Go away."
"Mel -" –– "DON'T CALL ME THAT! JUST GO AWAY! LEAVE! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE–OUT OF MY SIGHT–OUT OF MY LIFE! I DON'T WANT TO LOOK AT YOU! I DON'T WANT YOU NEAR ME! JUST LEAVE! LEAVE! LEAVE! LEAVE! … leave… please…"
