author foreword:

In the witcher realm, particularly the literature, vampires are born, not "made." After the conjunction, like many fiends and apparitions, they entered Geralts plane. With that being said, I was unsatisfied because even across all platforms, there was little known about higher vampires. So I played with the idea and tweaked some of the rules. In the book, Regis declines drinking. In the game, you saw for yourself Geralt and our favorite barber-surgeon share a bottle of mandrake. Thus I felt compelled to make little differences of my own accord for the sake of the story and some added drama with our current comprehension of Vampire lore unrelated to Witcher. I hope it does not offput anyone with my doing so. I will still try to keep closely to both the books and the story nonetheless (so long as it does not conflict too terrible between the two)

Upon arrival, the challenge for Regis was finding a surface unstained with blood.

In the guest bedroom on the second floor of Geralt's estate and vineyard, the moment the vampire crossed the threshold the smell of peaches hit him like a warm, summer gale and it pained him greatly. His mind reeled, his vision oscilitated likened to being struck to the head by a hammer.

I have my principles. I am in control.

With a sobering respire, Regis collected himself. Even still, like the flowers from his dream, he strained at the mouth of the doorway, claws gripping its frame until the wood splintered around his fingertips. The need to be near her, to close the distance was debilitating, betraying he had not successful slept off his bloodlust. Her taste, though not on his tongue, still resonated through him like a lingering fever.

"Are you alright, Regis?" the witcher eyed him. "If this is too much… just show me how and I can do it myself."

I have my principles. I am in control.

"I'll be fine," assured the vampire. Once in full authority of his faculties, he straightened up, squaring his shoulders and reinstated his haughty posture. "What's her condition?"

"Dying."

Regis roved his eyes from one wound to another, and another, across her contorted body and the spread of her hair, once a white flame, now stiff from encrusted blood over an equally ruined pillow.

Geralt was not far off with his statement; a fleder, known for mutilating its prey, could have very well committed this act.

Amidst sheets that were once white was Lazarus. She was strewn along her back like a cast-aside doll, broken with limbs positioned and angled in such a way it caused even Regis to wince. She looked uncomfortable, poised even, in a bodily rictus and barely breathing. Had a vampire and a witcher not stood before her, anyone else would have presumed she was dead and in full rigor mortis.

On his right, a bloody handprint marred the surface of an opened window. A futile attempt to air out the room. Off to the side were her tall boots caked in mud and broken twigs. Boot prints and brush strokes of crimson ruined the floor, and much of everything else. The room was dark, sans the pale morning light spilling into the dwelling and a single candle light upon a table.

"When I happened upon the campsite, they'd been drinking." said the witcher. "Guess the revelry brought out the worst of them. Suppose they knew she was dying, and couldn't be saved. Thought it best to get the most out of a girl unable to defend herself."

A muscle in the barber-surgeon's jaw ticked. "Where are they now?"

"Taken care of," the witcher said darkly, then went to explain the extent of her injuries.

Regis felt a disturbing sense of relief, surmising confidently Geralt had dispatched them in his most signature fashion.

Streaks of dirt and clinging bracken stained the fabric of her chemise, competing which could soil the material more than the blood already had. Not even her brown trousers lasted through whatever hell she was dragged from. He saw her belt unbuckled and the opening of her trousers also undone.

"Anything else?"

There wasn't.

"I can summon a servant and hope her body doesn't reject the blood," the witcher continued, shaking his head shamefully. "I would give her mine if not that witcher's blood is toxic. Even if Marlene is willing, which I fear, she is too old to survive the transfusion. I don't want to risk it. I can find a volunteer, I just need you to conduct the transfusion."

"Another timeless and imperative practice left out of witcher's academics." Regis muttered dryly. "How am I not surprised."

Geralt narrowed his whiskey-colored eyes, ignoring the quip. "I have a corvine quill and ox urethra prepared and sterilized."

"There's no need," the vampire muttered, stepping away from the door. "We already have a donor and we won't need such tools."

"We do?… we won't? "

Regis removed his leather medical bag, then his gloves and began unbuttoning his dark doublet. His movement was methodical, slow, and with a tinge of hesitation. After all, he was a barber surgeon, the very reason Geralt summoned him. In his time, he'd seen torrents of blood, some for greater purposes, others far from it. What made this moment so consequential? What made this amount of blood loss that surrounded him far more significant?

Was it her pleasant, unprecedented fragrance or because he knew if she died, that would be the end of it all? Her blood was special; she was special. He couldn't allow such a being to be wasted away by sadistic bandits, by humans.

No, it was not that.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Geralt caught him by the arm as he stepped forward. "You mean yourself?"

Regis knew why; the significant reason was the quantity.

"As you know, vampires blood is highly regenerative," the barber-surgeon explained, glancing down at the hand that still gripped him then to its owner. "We run the risk of acute kidney failure, among many other life-threatening complications should we gamble with a foreign haemoglobin. Vampire blood is also universal. Her body will not reject it but yield utterly and willingly. That is simply the nature of it. Please, release me."

The amount it would take to sustain her health would be substantial and would irrevocably bind them, possibly change her if he gave her too much, considering she was on the brink of death as is. The risk was something infinite and abysmal. Not even sleep could wear away the effects. His viral blood would take root as if it had claimed another body, and would function as an extension of his senses and being. A considerate and irreversible proposition was upon him. If he mentioned this to the witcher...

No, this was the only way to save her life.

Geralt obliged, allowing Regis to peel away his doublet and dress down into a loose-fitted under blouse and his trousers. He rolled up the sleeves as a pensive silence consumed the room.

"I also know what happens when you share too much with a human," the witcher said gravely. "Are you sure about this?" To solidify his statement, he gave the room a once over, to the substantial blood loss and its derived mess. He glanced back with a telling look.

Human, the barber-surgeon smiled knowingly.

"Don't you think we have enough vampires running around Beauclair, Regis? Alps, bruxae, katakans, fleders? Considering my entire presence here is founded on the fact that a higher vampire is murdering knights left and right, dismembering them and tossing their hacked pieces into the river."

Regis listened carefully and had every intentions of sharing his suspicions with Geralt however, now would not be an opportune time considering neither individual knew what was about to happen.

A dying werewolf, revived by the eternal blood of a vampire.

And Regis was far too curious to see how it unfolded.

Perhaps her body could only handle her lycan mutation and his blood would do nothing more than heal it? He hoped so. Fathering a newborn vampire was a risky feat.

Then there was Dettlaff's reaction he had to consider.

"When you went to acquire the saliva," he said, "You had a choice: kill the spotted wight or lift the curse. You made your decision, because it was the right thing to do." He turned his hand over, tracing a thumb across his wrist where beneath the pale skin blue threads traveled into the meat of his palm. "You could have cut her down, Marlene, or left her there with her affliction where she would have continued to suffer and starve, obsess over spoons and the curse. There are worse things than death, Geralt. As you are aware."

"Except I didn't have to share blood with the wight in order to break the curse." Geralt muttered. "Nor as a result did it run the risk of turning me into one."

"But you did have to make a sacrifice. No one else could have drank the contents of the caldron and survived, only a witcher could have suffered such levels of toxicity.

Thus," Regis crossed the room to sit beside Laz on the bedside. "Fate, as you so adamantly follow, has it that a vampire should be the giver, than the receiver. No other's, like a witcher, could survive such an ordeal. The least I can do is ensure she does not consume too much, but bare in mind, I will give her all that she needs."

"What if what she needs turns her?" Geralt said stubbornly. "Then we've got a baby vampire, wild with hunger, on our hands. The river already flows with blood."

"Then consider it fate. If things should go awry, I as a higher vampire will make the necessary decisions."

Bringing his wrist to his mouth, Regis nipped a vein with a sharp fang and suspended it over her parted lips, using his other to tilt her mouth open. He opened and closed his hand, coaxing the blood to drip liberally, landing upon her parted lips and teeth. Several droplets hit home at the back of her mouth.

A moment passed.

Her eyelids fluttered and her chest swelled, then she choked and sputtered breathlessly. Blood spattered back onto his face as she tensed up in a coughing fit, turning her head away. Regis adjusted his posture so that he was further onto the bed, then scooped her up into his arms and pulled her across his lap.

The wrist would not work. She needed to be sat upright whilst she drank.

Geralt watched, becoming quiet.

With a claw, Regis sliced open a small nick in the crook of his neck and steered her mouth against it.

As a primordial response like fight or flight, his claws lengthened, as did his fangs, ready to attack and destroy whatever caused the release of its ethereal blood. His vampirism was in full engagement.

There was initially a sharp pain for vampires whilst they shared blood, but eventually, that would be replaced with a blissful ecstasy closely tied to sexual arousal. In any other instance, a vampire would be sharing such intimacies with his or her mate. Soon Regis and Laz would be coupled and, if he wasn't careful, a lover's embrace. Still, he didn't want to send Geralt away. Dettlaff would sense the exchange and would likely arrive to see what was transpiring. At any rate, Regis did not want to be interrupted, using the witcher's presence as a repellent.

Laz gagged then swallowed as his blood fought its way past her throat and compelled her to drink. Finally, she quieted. Her terse expression relaxed, as did her entire body.

Regis used every bit of his centuries-old resolve not to focus on her warm mouth against his neck, working like a hungry kiss. He thought of many, many other things. That Geralt was watching, that Dettlaff somewhere in the near vicinity knew Regis was feeding another his blood. That both of his friends thoroughly disapproved of his actions but there was nothing else he could do. Give blood or watch her die and it was not in his principles to allow such a thing to happen.

Her hands came up, fisting the sleeves of his tunic tightly, holding onto Regis just as she would hold onto her fleeting life.

Fangs still extended, sharp claws carefully still, so not to puncture or tear, a thickening took to his groin.

He thought of something else, anything else.

As she drank from him, as he cradled her close, a connection blossomed between the two, then a sickening pop and a tremor cracked against his palm that rested at her ribs. It startled them both. Gasping sharply, her head jerked back as something snapped back into place, adjusting itself accordingly as the vampire blood found its way through her and all her injuries.

It must have been painful for her body wrenched a second time without a moment's respite. Her fingers clutched his upper arms in a firm grip and threw her head back with a toss of bloodied hair. He held onto her while the spasms continued. She trembled and writhed, gasping and choking under a stream of sickening pops and cracks.

Geralt appeared at the bedside, "What's happening?"

Regis brought her closer, "She's healing. Don't touch her!"

He didn't mean to snarl. The witcher stepped back.

A bubbling scream, caught by tightly clenched teeth, tore through her throat and bulged the veins in her swan-like neck. Her eyes were squeezed tight, still, the tears slipped free. Regis could smell his blood within her and a swell of masculine pride throbbed his sensitive fangs. That same animalistic pride wanted to rip the chemise away, hold her down, and claim her.

It was simply the nature of it.

Another cracking shudder erupted through her, unfurling her contorted figure, straightening her back and snapping more fractures back into place. The torn flesh sealed shut. Her pallor skin flushed ruddy and hot from the feeding and from the pain. The blood trickling from her nose came to life and receded back into her nostril like a dark tentacle fleeing into the black shadows, leaving a stain in its wake. Her tongue, red with vampire blood, licked and panted with relief now that the pain was abating.

Her eyes finally opened. Lids half-mast, Laz's pupils were large, nearly snuffing out the gold and the blue, and glistened from the residual tears of her plight.

"Oh, I knew it," she breathed softly, tiredly. "I knew it..."

When she realized who held her, he watched her features softened, heard her breathing relax and a smile lifted the corners of her weary lips. She pulled herself closer by using his shoulders, running her fingers through his grey hair tenderly, and met him with an equally tender kiss. He could not resist in the least, opening up willingly to her soft lips and gentle tongue. He worried his throbbing fangs would impede her efforts. But she paid careful attention to them, in fact, ran her tongue up the sensitives shafts while avoiding the sharp edges deftly.

A shudder consumed him as he wrapped his arms around her back, swallowing a throaty moan. Geralt was still in the room and was more than likely bearing witness to their affection. Regis, the higher vampire, the barber-surgeon, and over four hundred years old until this moment relished in the youthful passion of their kiss, interrupted only by her angling her head just to slid her tongue in deeper nHe brought her closer in a tender embrace, despite the witcher being nearby. His body was aflame. He regretted not sending the witcher away, not allowing himself an intimate and private moment with the woman named Lazarus.

He felt it; their eternal merge concluded itself in absolution, like the shackle of an unbreakable, infinite lock biting down, unyielding its hold until the end of days.

Now all Regis could think and feel was her.

It was simply the nature of it.