Hello! My gosh, I'm so sorry that it's been so long since my last update. I was overseas for a month and then I ended up with pneumonia, and then I moved houses! Long story short, it's been a wild two months. But I'm back! Thank you again for all of the support on this little trashcan story, it really means the world! :) xx

The wind blew fiercely through the trees as Roach's hooves thundered along the path to Beauclair. The scent of flowers swirled into the gusting breeze and the sun began to make its slow, steady climb into the brilliantly orange dawn sky.

Not a bad day for a ride.

The road was quiet, and Geralt took a moment to watch as the sun's bright light crested the mountains to the south and shimmered on the surface of the Sanscretour. He had some time to waste, so he dismounted and sat under a tree, oiling his swords and armor as he waited for the humans to wake up and start their day. He even took an hour to meditate, sinking deep into the icy calm of his contemplation.

His golden eyes snapped open as soon as the first market bells rang out across the hills, bringing the scent of fresh bread and coffee with them. Geralt stood up and smoothly resheathed his weapons, flicking his hair out of his face and running a hand over his week-old beard.

Showtime.

Geralt munched absentmindedly on a hunk of bread, breathing in the fresh mountain air as he directed his horse towards the heart of the merchant district. It was a short ride, but he relished the feeling of the crisp morning air through his hair and the warmth of the slowly rising sun on his cheeks. As he cantered into the city, the stillness of the morning was shattered by the bustling of every day city life.

He ignored the stares of the common folk and continued onwards. He was used to it. Witchers were welcome in Toussaint, but that didn't mean that they were common.

Eventually, it got too crowded for his liking, so he smoothly dismounted, tied his horse to a post at a watering trough, and continued on to the bar that lay directly across the square from the Cianfanelli bank. He ordered ale, and sat down on a rickety metal chair on the patio, waiting patiently for his companion.

His fingers drummed incessantly on the table in front of him as he mused over what he'd learned the day before about the Baron and Sophie-Marie. He still had too many questions without answers, and he wasn't impressed. Barnabus-Basil had proven unhelpful as well; apparently he couldn't talk about Sophie-Marie without waxing on about how lovely of a person she was.

Geralt wasn't so sure that she was worthy of the praise. He was too old and too battle-weary to be naïve; he knew full well that people were rarely what they appeared to be. He had a gut feeling that the noblewoman had held quite a few nasty little secrets close to her chest.

Maybe one of them got her killed.

Two drinks later, Damien finally deigned to show up to Geralt's polite request for a meeting. He clattered into the square on his war horse, frowning gently at Geralt, who at this point had put his booted feet up on the table.

"Your manners certainly will not endear you to the owners of this establishment," he said pointedly in greeting, gesturing widely at Geralt's apparent disregard for etiquette.

"I've been waiting for two hours," Geralt said quietly, holding out his hand for what he'd asked for. "You're late."

"Your message did not indicate a specific time."

"First bells isn't ambiguous, Damien."

All that he got in response was an eye roll. "Then you would have known that the streets are nearly impossible to pass through on horseback."

"I've seen you walk," Geralt said drily, looking expectantly at Damien's bulging saddlebags. "All I need is the order, and then I'll be on my merry way."

The last part was said with no small measure of sarcasm.

After returning from the Baron's estate, he'd sent a messenger pigeon with a request for a handwritten note from the Duchess. Damien sighed deeply before reaching into his saddlebags and brandishing an elaborate scroll at Geralt.

"Here you go. I'll ask you not to bother me with such trivialities again, Geralt. I have a city to run, you know."

"And I have nearly four dozen of your best knights to avenge. I'd say that we're even," Geralt reminded him, not very gently. Damien had the good grace to redden slightly; his breath puffed out in a huff as Geralt took the scroll and gently unrolled it. A tiny scrap of parchment fell out of the long tube; he quickly caught it and read the message written in a neatly flowing noblewoman's handwriting.

There had better be a good reason for this, Geralt. Use my order to finish the job that I have assigned you. I will know if you use it otherwise.

Bonne chance,

Anna Henrietta

Smirking, he pocketed the note and strode across the square to the bank, completely ignoring Damien, who still sat astride his horse like a topper on a wedding cake. Geralt raised one gauntlet-enclosed fist and knocked loudly on the metal door, which rang like a bell. The bank wasn't officially open this early in the morning, which suited him just fine.

The door creaked open about an inch, revealing the ruddy face of the person that he was there to see.

"Giacomo Cianfanelli. Since when do you open your own door?"

The dwarf laughed, shaking his head as he opened the door even wider. "The Duchess has made some rather unusual requests of me lately. I saw the Lord de La Tour in the square and assumed that he was here to see me."

"Let me guess, she wants you to close any patron accounts and confiscate any and all of Dandelion's assets?"

"Ye know that I cannae divulge any client information," Giacomo chuckled, tapping his finger against his nose in a conspiratorial fashion as he led Geralt into the bank. "But yes, ye'd be correct. Now, what can I do for ye? If ye're here to take out more money, and it's still in yer account, I havnae moved it-"

"I'm on a contract, and I need to know if you ever had business dealings with someone."

"Now, I just told ye-"

"I don't need their passcodes, I just need to know if you know about him," Geralt said quietly, searching for patience as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Instead of wasting time explaining his contract he handed the scroll from the Duchess to the banker instead.

Giacomo's eyes widened as he read over the official directive, reddening a bit as he rerolled the parchment with hands that shook ever so slightly. "I see. So, I am able to accommodate her Grace's request for an inquiry," he said weakly, attempting a smile.

It was more of a grimace.

Geralt pocketed the document and crossed his arms, glancing at the bank employees. "It's a sensitive matter."

"Aye, and ye'll not find more discrete employees," the dwarf said firmly, rustling his mustache and sighing in defeat. "Go on then, Geralt. What's the name of the poor sod?"

"I'm looking for someone who calls himself "Gwaethe the Generous". If there's anyone who would have information about him, it's a banker."

"Aye, I know him," Giacomo muttered darkly, glancing around at the bank employees and gesturing for Geralt to follow him into his office. He closed and locked the door, turning to half-glare at Geralt with an accusatory look in his eye.

"Are ye sure we're talking about the same man?"

"Blond hair and two different coloured eyes?"

"Aye, that's him."

Giacomo's expression was stony, and he appeared to be on the verge of losing his cool. Geralt prompted him to continue, very intrigued by his odd reaction.

"And?"

"And the bastard gave me bad gold!" Giacomo thundered, still glaring at Geralt. His golden eyes narrowed; he wasn't in the mood to try to pull information out of the banker.

"Go on then."

"He took out a loan for twenty thousand florens and cheated me, the prick!"

"Hm. How so?"

"It's easier if I show you," Giacomo grumped, waving with one beefy hand for Geralt to follow him down the hall. "Twenty thousand florens- I should have known that the number was too high. The loan was paid back in full in a few days, and I didnae think that anything was amiss until the interest rates jumped a few months later."

"Why do the interest rates matter?"

"We didnae open the vault until then," was the rumbled response.

"I don't need the backstory," Geralt said shortly, his swords clinking in time to his long strides. The dwarf harrumphed with annoyance before pulling a large, ornate key out of his pocket and he quickly unlocked a vault hidden behind a glamour spell. Geralt put his hand around his medallion to quiet its vibrations; it was hard to concentrate on the conversation when the metal was trying to jump off of the chain.

"Aye, yes ye do. Take a look for yerself. It's still an active crime scene."

Geralt's eyebrows rose in surprise as the vault creaked open and the contents of the room were revealed. Instead of gold or jewels, the room was filled to the brim with small bones; most likely the knucklebones of some sort of humanoid creature.

Nekker bones, looks like.

"You weren't kidding," Geralt said quietly, striding silently into the room and picking one of the bones up off the ground. "So, the gold disappeared."

"How the bastard managed to do it, I can't figure out!" Giacomo half-snarled, crossing his thick arms across his barrel chest and glaring at the room with no small measure of hatred. "He disappeared, so I cannae collect what is owed to me."

"Hm. Interesting."

"It's infuriating! The bank is spelled against all measures of magic, so I-what in Lebioda's name are ye doing?"

He cut off as Geralt quickly licked one of the bones; his eyebrows rose so far up in his forehead that they nearly disappeared into his hat.

Geralt ignored him; he was too busy sniffing the new wet mark on the bone. "It's not magic exactly, it's Doppler blood."

He knew that scent. It smelt like cinnamon and burned lavender. Doppler blood was so unique that it was impossible to miss.

He suppressed a surge of annoyance; Dopplers were largely harmless, and to spell this many bones meant that the sorcerer had hunted several. There was too much blood to leave any of the creatures alive. His mind flashed to Dudu, and he had to close his eyes for a second to retain his calm demeanor.

He wasn't pleasant to anyone when he was annoyed.

"I-uh-what?"

"Doppler blood. He's spelled the blood to transfigure the object the same way that a living Doppler would. The bones aren't under the influence of the magic, that's how he got it in here without raising suspicion."

"Well, poke me sideways," the dwarf let out a growl of annoyance and turned on his heel, gesturing for Geralt to follow him once again. "That's just another reason for me to string his arse up when he dares show his face around these parts again."

"You think he would?" Geralt asked carefully, closing the office door behind him once again. "You think he'd be that stupid?"

"Stupid, no. Arrogant, yes. Ye'd be shocked at how many people forget how long dwarves can live," Giacomo replied darkly, pulling out a fresh piece of parchment and scribbling a long message. "Tell ye what, if you can find him, I'll give ye a cut of the money."

"Sounds fair. I'm on another contract though; the Duchess isn't likely to be pleased if I take off on another one."

"Witcher, if ye be lookin' for him, he's not a fresh mushroom."

"I'm not familiar with that idiom," Geralt muttered, trying to keep a small smirk off his face as Giacomo waved a hand at him in dismissal.

"He's a bad sort. The Duchess wouldn't mind that ye've got an extra incentive to finish the contract now, wouldn't ye reckon?"

"Fair enough."

"Find the cheatin' bastard, Geralt. Ye'd be doin' us all a good, solid favor."

"Do you know what he did with the money?"

"No, but it had to be fairly large-scale. Try looking in the gambling dens, that's my bet," Giacomo admitted, scratching his head. "Find out where my gold is, would ye? It would be a grand thing to balance my books for the first time in fifteen years."

"I'll do my best," Geralt sighed, pocketing Giacomo's official request for a contract and turning to leave. "By the way, how does the Baron of Montmartre have so much money?"

Giacomo blinked in confusion for a moment before reddening. "Geralt, ye know that I can't-"

"Remember Annarietta's note," Geralt reminded him, not so gently, before raising one eyebrow and crossing his arms. He was left waiting for a good thirty seconds before the dwarf scowled and opened a file drawer and withdrawing a giant ledger.

"Fine. The Baron's got an anonymous benefactor. I suspect that it was the Lady Sophie-Marie. She had a lot of money in her personal accounts when she died."

"The accounts weren't attached to the family estate?"

"Nay, they weren't. Her father asked for a separate one to be set up; his intention was to make sure that she was responsible with her money and to make investments. Actions and consequences, I suppose."

"He was the tax warden, I guess it makes sense."

"Aye, but she never made half as much as his account is gifted on a yearly basis," Giacomo said quizzically, staring at thick, age-stained ledger. "Over the last fifteen years, her balance hasnae changed, and her father's has nearly quadrupled."

"Hm. That's odd."

"Nothing about money is ever straightforward, witcher," Giacomo sighed. He closed the book with a loud thump, waving away the dust that flew into his face. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, was Gwaethe courting the Baron's daughter?"

"No idea. I was a little busy running my bank," Giacomo said pointedly, patting the ledger for emphasis. "But, if he were, the Duchess would have known about it."

"Thanks."

Geralt turned on his heel and strode out of the bank. His mind was whirring, ticking quickly over what he'd learned. He made his way back to where he'd left Roach, and gave her a quick pat before swinging into the saddle and directing her towards home.

She settled into a loping canter, and he let his mind wander.

So, this Gwaethe was involved in something that required twenty thousand florens. If he hasn't been seen in fifteen years, then he's either long gone, or he's changed his appearance.

He sighed.

There were two people who could answer his questions about the art of magical cloaking. One of them was currently in Kovir, and the other was probably rampaging around Nilfgaard.

He decided to try Triss first; Yennifer was still angry with him for choosing Tris over her. He wasn't in the mood to bear the brunt of Yen's passive (and straight out aggressive) comments about how he'd chosen to settle down without her.

In a spur of the moment decision, he steered Roach to the left of the forking path, away from home and towards the Mere Lachaiselongue cemetery. Roach let out a huff of annoyance, but he ignored it and spurred her into a full gallop.

Half a mile from the site, he dismounted and unsheathed his silver sword. With no hesitation, he reached into his pack and decanted a measure of cursed oil onto the blade. He also palmed an Ekkimara decoction, uncorked the small, ornate bottle with his teeth and swallowed the bitter green mixture in one gulp. Immediately, he felt the familiar burning of toxicity winding through his veins, and he felt the skin on his face begin to tingle in response to the mutagens that were currently attacking his cells.

He grinned wolfishly at the feeling; he was going into a fight, and it had been a while since he'd had a challenge. Without waiting for the odd feeling to pass, he darted into the woods, running as swiftly as he could towards the burial ground. He leapt over several stone walls on nimble feet, landing softly and stalking forwards as deliberately as a hunting cat.

His savage grin widened as he heard the telltale sound of emerging archespores. Their hissing and spitting didn't cause him any alarm; they were a stable presence in this particular graveyard. They were an annoyance, but at least Geralt didn't have to worry about any grave robbers foiling his investigation.

Geralt's head snapped to his right as the first archespore burst out of the ground, showering the graves around him with dirt and rocks. He hit the ground and rolled in a quick somersault to avoid its attack; the acid began to bubble as soon as it had hit the ground where he'd be standing two seconds previously.

Geralt adjusted his grip on his sword and swung hard at the base of the plant, ducking to avoid its thorny, thrashing tendrils. The cursed plant shrieked with rage as he managed to cut though half of its stalk. With no warning, it receded under the ground, directing its spores to release and burn Geralt. He coughed into his sleeve, trying to ignore the watering of his eyes as he tracked the archespore underground. He strafed backwards, tuning his sensitive hearing to the ground; he was hunting the creature with all of his senses.

Thinking quickly, he cast Quen onto his body and readied Igni.

A faint rumbling sound underneath his feet marked the presence of the archespore, and he took one measured step backwards. His evasive manoeuver hadn't come a second too soon; the archespore reared out of the earth mere inches from where his boots had rested. Without waiting for the deadly plant to move, Geralt quickly cast Igni, and while it was stunned and burning fiercely, pirouetted and slashed downwards with his silver sword. The hit was true, and he severed the stalk entirely, stepping backwards and waiting for the plant to topple under the weight of its head.

The archespore let out one final screech of rage before it crumbled lifelessly into the dirt. Geralt took a moment to wipe his face and blade; ridding himself of the archespore juice that had splattered all over his face and arms as the plant had burned. He returned his razor-sharp blade to its sheath, surveying the graveyard with no small measure of surprise.

They're rarely alone.

The part of him that was still reacting to the decoction that continued to burn through his veins was disappointed that he hadn't had the chance to kill more of them. Usually there were at least four that would react to his presence in their hunting ground.

The rest of him welcomed the chance to catch his breath and make some progress on his contracts. He strode into the burial site, listening closely for any sign of returning archespores. He found nothing, and let his raised sword arm drop to his side as he searched the gravestones for the name of the Baron's daughter.

It took him ages to find it. He knew going into the graveyard that he was looking for a memorial statue, but the richer part of the property was home to hundreds of them, and he'd wasted two hours searching for it. Sophie-Marie's gravesite had been placed to the outskirts of the burial ground, behind a small shrine to Lebioda. He wiped the dirt off of the marble tombstone, sighing deeply as he considered his next move. He glanced up at her memorial statue, admitting (albeit somewhat grudgingly) that she was beautiful.

No wonder knights are jumping at the chance to save her.

His keen gaze swept over the nearby graves, searching for something that he could use to dig up the grave. He knew that Annarietta would be furious at him for disturbing her friend's resting place, but he couldn't ignore the fact that three of the lady's personal objects had given off the reek of necromancy. He had to know if her body was where it was supposed to be.

He trusted his instincts, and they told him that she wasn't there.

Finally, he spotted a shovel sticking out of the ground about a hundred yards away. He loped over to it, palmed it in one gauntleted hand, and began to dig once he'd returned to the grave. He muttered out a quiet apology to Sophie-Marie, ever mindful of the possibility that he could awaken her wraith if she was in fact still in the coffin.

He held Yrden at the ready, just in case.

The ground had been hard-packed over time, and he began to sweat. The rhythmic sound of his gravedigging was oddly soothing, and he settled into a comfortable state of physical exertion. His breath came only slightly faster, and his body rapidly adjusted to his new heartrate; being a mutant had its perks.

By the time the shovel impacted with the stone of the lady's sarcophagus, the sun was low in the sky. Geralt let out a quiet sigh; the only downside to burying bodies deep so that ghouls couldn't get to them was that it took a hell of a lot of effort to unearth anything.

He twisted his nimble fingers into the Aard sign and blasted away the dirt and debris that clung to the porous stone of the coffin. Using his strength, he managed to get his fingers between the lid and the main portion of the vessel. He took a deep breath to infuse his muscles with oxygen, and pushed hard with his mutagen-enhanced legs.

The coffin released its lid with a protest; the grinding of two stone slabs against one another as they moved apart set Geralt's teeth on edge. He tossed the lid aside, not even wincing as it hit the ground with a thunderous crash.

He peered into the coffin, his heart dropping as his suspicions were confirmed.

The body wasn't in the coffin; it was completely empty.

Why couldn't this contract just be an easy missing person's case?

Geralt thought grumpily, replacing the coffin lid and whistling for Roach.

The Duchess has some explaining to do. Who is this sorcerer? What's the story with the Baron?

When I said that I wanted to go back onto the Path, I meant that I wanted to go griffin hunting.

Geralt sighed as Roach trotted into view. "Let's go home."