Red Rowan

by Indiannahjones

With the Wild Hunt defeated and Empress Ciri on the throne, Geralt thought he and Yen would be free to retire to Toussaint and settle down... but it seems the ghosts of Geralt's past are intent on coming back to haunt him. Geralt/Yen, past Geralt/Shani. [Inspired by a letter found in Witcher 3 if Geralt took the alchemists' potion in Witcher 2.]

5. Eglantine

The sound of Roach's hooves against the polished stones of Beauclair's streets was oddly satisfying to Geralt's ears, and he clicked his tongue as he pulled on her reigns, slowing her to a steady walk. The mare tossed her head at the prompting, giving a soft bluster and flick of her ears, but she did as she was told, pacing slowly through the streets of the Lassommoir quarter until another pull of her reigns drew her to a stop in the middle of the main square. Dismounting his steed, Geralt led her to the edge of the pavilion, knotting her reigns to a tying-post beside a public water trough, before reaching up to take Rosie under the arms and lifting her down as well, setting her gently on the ground before looking up to see what he could observe.

If anyone here was aware or afraid of the corpse-eater in the sewer, they were certainly not showing it; merchants and labourers meandered the streets, sipping wine and talking merrily as if nothing was amiss, and day-drunk young lovers sat reading paper-thin poetry beneath the shade of a nearby bookstore portico. The only sign Geralt could see that something was slightly off was a heavy wooden disc sitting conspicuously in a corner of the pavilion, covering what he assumed to be a manhole in the town's quick-fix attempt to stifle the problem he had been summoned to resolve.

Turning to look down at Rosie again, the witcher propped his gloved hands on his hips, watching as the girl petted Roach's mane while the horse drank patiently from the trough. "Where can I find whoever put up this contract?" Geralt asked, causing the girl to look up again.

Rosie paused at the question, taking a moment to stare blankly at a side alley of the city square, as if trying to remember something she had seen or heard earlier that day. Then, turning, she pointed to a tavern down the street, a stalwart building with a sign depicting a humanoid-looking fox, likely a gathering-place for working-men from the weathered look of it. "There," she told him, matter-of-factly. "The Clever Clogs. He'll be in there. His name is Rudin." Then, turning to look up at the witcher again, she stared up at him with expectant eyes, and he frowned, unsure what she wanted from him, but unable to help feeling wary about whatever it was.

"Do you take all the contracts you're told about?" Rosie asked, curiously.

"No," Geralt answered. "Only the ones brought to me by annoying little girls."

"How do you know which ones to take and which ones to leave?" Rosie pressed, ignoring his snide remark.

Geralt sighed, realizing he would not be getting out of this conversation as easily as he might have hoped. "Sounds interesting, I take it," he answered, more honestly this time. "Sounds like a waste of my time, I let someone else deal with it."

"Who else can deal with it?" Rosie asked. "There aren't that many witchers around."

"Not my problem," Geralt answered, shaking his head. "Can't go chasing every bump in the night."

Rosie frowned at this answer, seeming dissatisfied. "You're not very nice, you know," she told him, causing him to look down at her at the observation.

"Don't get paid to be nice," Geralt answered, bluntly. "Get paid to kill monsters."

Rosie's countenance twisted at his answer, and she crossed her arms, making a sour face, but Geralt only grunted at the ugly expression, making an equally unimpressed face in return. Letting out a hard huff, the girl uncrossed her arms, before turning and heading off up the cobbled street in the direction of what Geralt guessed was Beauclair's art district, though it was easy to get turned around in such an enormously varied city. He squinted after the girl as she ran, wondering now if her uncle might be an artist of some sort – that would certainly explain why his attention was so split on the girl, as well as his narcissistic and biting disposition. Geralt had known artists who could get so wrapped up in their work they completely missed important things going on right in front of them, and he figured a fast little girl could easily slip out undetected while her artist uncle was hard at work on a new painting or sculpture.

Frowning a bit at the thought of Rosie wandering the streets unsupervised, he let out a short breath, before reaching for Roach again, petting her assuredly behind the ears. "Good girl," he told her. "Hopefully won't be seeing that one around anymore." Then, tightening the strap on his swords for good measure, he turned in the direction of the tavern Rosie had indicated, starting to head towards the dim yellow windows and weather-worn siding of his next contract.

The tavern was already relatively lively as Geralt entered, filled with both lantern and natural light, and the witcher frowned as the smell of dirt and salt water hit his senses like the side of a barn. That was what working-men did in the Lassommoir district, he figured – they worked the vineyard soil, built fine houses for aristocracy, and unloaded trading-ships down by the docks, all to keep the extravagance of the artisanal duchy running smoothly. He had no idea which of these rough-looking men drinking in the middle of the afternoon was Rudin, but he figured that would reveal itself with time, and so, crossing to the bar, he sat himself down, indicating for the barman to pour him a drink while he waited.

"White Wolf," he requested. "In a mug. No glass."

"No glasses here, master witcher," the barman returned, shaking his head. "And no White Wolf, either. You want something fancy, you go to the Pheasantry. Here we just have vodka or ale."

"Vodka then," Geralt answered, nodding, trying to remember the last time he had actually had a mug of the stuff. Since moving to Toussaint, he could only ever remember drinking wine, or the occasional artisanal liqueur, but good strong vodka had been his drink of choice on the path when White Gull was not available, and he found himself feeling suddenly nostalgic for the taste of it – like iced metal going down, warming his stomach like a winter fire. As the mug was pushed his way across the bar, he could smell it long before it touched his hands, and he grinned as he picked it up, bringing the tankard to his lips. There were things he did not miss about being a witcher, things he did not so much mind about allowing his body to soften in the cushioned luxury of Corvo Bianco, but the good strong drink that came with treading the path was one thing he found he could never quite walk away from.

"Master witcher?"

Geralt hummed in his throat, halfway through his swig of vodka, finishing off his draught before turning to see who had approached to address him. Just as he had suspected, it had taken less than a few minutes for his conspicuous presence to catch the right eye, and he furrowed his brow as he took in the appearance of the man who now stood before him. "Rudin," he guessed, leaning back against the bar. "Heard you've got a contract. Monster in the sewer."

"Yes, master witcher," Rudin agreed, wringing his hands as he nodded. "The girl told me you'd come. Couldn't believe it… contract's only been up since this mornin' or so. But, here you are. Guess she was right."

"Guess so," Geralt answered, feeling his hand clench around his mug at the confirmation. He wondered how early 'this morning' had to mean by Rudin's standards, before realizing that, for him to have gotten off work by now, he had to have been up before the sun to hang the contract and start his shift. What a little girl would be doing up wandering the working district at that hour was beyond the witcher to guess, however, and the idea of her walking from Beauclair to Corvo Bianco in the dead of dawn was another thought he could not quite rationalize. That being said, there was no other way she could have gotten to his estate by so early in the morning, unless someone had specifically brought her there; she had said she was fast, but that particular trek still seemed a bit too fast for the witcher's liking.

"So what is this monster?" he asked, still wary, taking another sip of vodka.

"'Twas a ghoulie," Rudin answered, making an indicative motion with his hands into the shape of gnarled claws. "A big, big ghoulie. Might've been two ghoulies stacked, but at least one of them had nasty sharp teeth." He bared his teeth as he said this, as if to demonstrate for the witcher what he was talking about, and Geralt frowned at the yellowed gaps, hoping the man's poor care for his teeth was not due to a lack of funds. As much as he liked Beauclair, he could not afford to work for free, but he figured this man seemed like a decent enough individual, despite his apparent flair for the theatrical. He seemed enthusiastic in his concern over whatever monster it was he was trying to describe, at least, so Geralt had to assume he would be happy to put up the required coin to be rid of it.

"You mean a ghoul?" Geralt asked, hoping to clarify, folding his arms as he listened to the man's tale.

Rudin paused as he considered the question, tapping a blackened finger to his chin, and Geralt found his gaze drawn in surprise to the horrific state of the man's nails. Most people who lived and worked in Beauclair took special care to keep their fingernails clean – even the working-men Geralt knew would usually wash their hands after a day of labour – so the state of this man's hands seemed unusual, though not quite strange enough to distract the witcher from the matter at hand. "Not sure," Rudin finally answered, shrugging, drawing Geralt's attention to his face again. "Don't think so. 'Twas mighty big to be a ghoul. Ugly, too, whatever it were. Saw it devouring a corpse while I was down in the sewer."

Geralt's frown deepened at the final statement. "What were you doing in the sewer?" he asked.

Rudin shrugged again at the question, seeming less concerned than Geralt might have expected. "Looking for corpses," he answered, simply. "Has to be someone's job, you know. Fools go down there all the time, lookin' to escape from the law, or tryin' to find hidden passages into places they can't get into. Or sometimes people murder others and then dump the bodies down there." He folded his arms at this last comment, sniffing offhandedly. "It's a respectable occupation," he added, sounding entirely unperturbed by the morbidity of his own description. "Corpse-collecting."

"Hm," Geralt returned, his mouth thinning into a hard, unsettled line. "And who pays for that?"

"The city, mostly," Rudin answered, nodding in agreement with himself. "Keeps the waters clean and keeps corpse-eaters away from town. Prevents diseases… oh, and the smell can get to be atrocious otherwise. Just better and more sanitary to keep an eye on it, make sure too many bodies don't pile up."

"Certain your ghoulie wasn't a drowner?" Geralt asked, eager to return to the topic of the contract. "They can get pretty tall."

"'Twasn't a drowner, no," Rudin answered, shaking his head, solemn and assured. "I knows drowners. Seen enough of them on the shorelines when I'm out there."

"Collecting corpses?" Geralt asked, dryly.

"Collecting corpses, aye," Rudin agreed, seeming to completely miss the deadpan sarcasm of the witcher's tone. "You wouldn't believe how many wash up on the shores."

"I believe it," Geralt sighed, taking another swig of vodka. "So, about your ghoulie…"

"Ugly bugger," Rudin said, making his attempt at fangs and claws again. "Big fella, too."

"Right," Geralt answered, starting to get annoyed. "Anything else you can tell me? What sounds it made, or anything about it other than just that it was… big?"

Again, the corpse-collector paused at the question, tapping his grubby fingers against his scruffy chin, but Geralt found the man's grunginess much less distracting this time, having now discovered a valid reason for why his hands might be covered in filth after a day's work. "Now that you mention it, I do recall hearing somethin' of a slurping sound before I rounded the corner on it," Rudin said after a moment, shaking a pensive finger at the witcher. "Terrible noise, it were. Thought it might've been the muck down there, you know. Very well may have been, so don't take my word for it. But… possibly, yeah. A slurping noise." Then, having said this, he paused again, thoughtful, before screwing up his face in a look of defeat, crossing his arms over his chest once more and giving another offhanded sniff.

"Truth be told, though, once that thing caught sight of me, I didn't stick around to get an eyeful," he added. "I turned and ran, like any man might do. Any man but a witcher, that is."

"Hm," Geralt answered, nodding slowly. "Big thing making a slurping noise. Thanks."

"Come with me, I'll show you where it is," Rudin offered, waving a hand for the witcher to follow. "Finish your drink and I'll take you down. Er… show you where to go down. I'll not be going down with you."

"Wouldn't expect you to," Geralt answered, dryly, finishing off his tankard of vodka. Then, setting the empty mug down on the bar, he stood to his feet again with a warmed exhale, before indicating with a jerk of his chin for Rudin to lead the way.

Leaving the tavern, Rudin waved for Geralt to follow him into the street, eventually leading him back to the town square, where Roach still stood, waiting patiently for her master's return. For a man tasked with collecting corpses, Geralt thought, Rudin seemed oddly small for the job, though he supposed any man could seem somewhat small to a six-foot-three witcher. Placing two fingers to his yellowed teeth, Rudin let out a sharp whistle, getting the attention of two teenaged boys who had been fishing idly at the edge of the wall overlooking the river. Dropping their fishing-poles into the street, the boys scrambled quickly to the corpse-collector's side, before moving on his signal to instead stand beside the wooden disc Geralt had noticed earlier at the edge of the square.

"The ghoulie's down there," Rudin told him, pointing to the wooden cover. "We plugged the hole to keep it from coming out. Not sure it could've done, even if it'd wanted to, but… better safe than sorry, as they say."

"Hm," Geralt answered, frowning at the covering, before looking up to catch the eyes of the two young men. "Cover it back up after I go in," he told them, pointing to the wooden closure as he approached. "Don't expect much trouble, but you can never be too sure. If I knock three times, open it. Not before then."

"Be careful down there, witcher," Rudin warned, calling out as Geralt came to stand beside the manhole, waiting for the two young men to lift the lid so he could climb down inside. The lid lifted off with a grunt of effort from the boys, and Geralt let out another weary sigh as he stared down into the abyss, not looking forward to the smell and filth he knew would be waiting for him below. Lowering himself into the hole, he secured his boot into the first rung of the descending ladder, starting to make his way down, before he suddenly felt a small shadow cross over his face. Looking up again, he squinted into the fading light, taking a moment to see who was standing over him, only to quickly recognize the face of the corpse-collector peering down at him from the side of the hole. Rudin's brows were raised as he stared down at the witcher, his mouth twisted, hands clenched into the dingy material of his once-expensive tunic, looking the world like a worried mother watching her child play on a dangerous beam.

"Try not to die down there, if you would," Rudin entreated, sounding less concerned for Geralt and more for himself, a fact which did not help the witcher's building irritation. "If you do, it'll be me who's tasked with pulling up your corpse. And you look rather heavy. No offense."

"No offense?" Geralt repeated, now more frustrated than ever. "How the f—" But he found his objections siphoned off by the closing of the wooden lid, sealing him and his undeclared exasperations in the darkness of the Beauclair sewers.

---

Geralt dropped from the final rung of the ladder onto the culvert floor, and he grimaced as he heard the squelch of sewer mud beneath his boots, knowing full well much scrubbing it would take to get the smell out of his armour once he was done down here. Pulling a vial of Cat from his belt, he downed the potion in one quick swallow, making a face as the tart taste of berbercane made its way down his throat, before closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath, allowing the potion time to take effect. Opening his eyes again after a moment, he blinked a few times, looking around the now-much brighter sewer, before drawing his silver sword from its sheathe and starting to make his way down the trail, careful to step only on the banks as he walked, not wanting to soil his boots further in the putrid water.

The sewers were louder than the witcher had anticipated, and he listened closely for any unusual sounds, trying to block out the persistent din of flowing water and squeaking of rats as he did so. The smell of the sewer would likely have caused a man with a lesser constitution to vomit, but Geralt had dealt with smells like this before, and worse, though he could not quite place what those might be, at the moment. Even so, he was already looking forward to the bath he would take at the local inn once this was over, and to never having to go down into any more city sewers again, if he could help it. That would have to be added to his hiring specifications once he was out of here, he decided – no more sewers, no more portals, and, gods willing, no more vampires.

Geralt treaded as softly as he could through the mud, making sure to watch that he was not stepping on any rats, peering around a corner of the waterway and making a quick sweep before rounding it to continue his search for the monster. Rudin was right – whatever efforts Beauclair had put into cleaning these sewers had apparently worked, as, apart from the potential corpse-eater, Geralt found the place to be impeccably well-maintained, relatively speaking. He had been in a few sewers before in his time hunting monsters, and had seen the worst humanity had to offer in that regard, but he found that this waterway in particular had a notable lack of trash, bones, and other signs of societal indifference.

What a corpse-eater would be doing here of all places, rather than residing in a more criminal waterway, was a mystery to him, though he supposed that relied heavily on expecting necrophages to have working means of logic. Necrophages only thought about the smell of rotting meat, he knew, and if even one corpse had been allowed to decompose down here, that would be more than enough to draw in any number of drowners or ghouls.

Turning another corner in the sewer, Geralt suddenly stopped as a new sound began to reach his ears, and, lifting his head, he narrowed his eyes, listening for the sound of slurping Rudin had described. Hearing the telltale noise, the witcher hummed, pleased to be on the trail, before starting in the direction the sound was coming from, gripping his sword at his side as he prepared to meet the monster head-on. The sound of slurping grew louder as Geralt followed it through the sewer, joined quickly by the sound of crunching and the wet, meaty tearing of flesh, and, making a face at the thought of the monster gorging itself on a fresh corpse, he crouched low, treading quietly as he came upon a corner where the sound appeared to be the loudest.

The horrific slurping and crunching of bones echoed off the sides of the culvert corridor as the witcher approached, and he slid a bottle of necrophage oil from his belt, prying off the cork and pouring it over his blade, listening to it sizzle as the potion adhered to the metal. "Let's see what you are, then," Geralt muttered, before rounding the corner on the monster, holding his sword at the ready as he prepared for whatever was to come.

The creature was faced away from him as he stepped out from the cover of the sewer wall, hunched over only a few yards away from his waiting blade. It appeared too enraptured by its meal to even notice the hunter approaching, and Geralt made a face as he crept a bit closer, the slurping and crunching sounds growing louder and more visceral in his ears with every step. Even bent as it was, the monster was still incredibly tall – likely eight feet standing, if the witcher had to guess. It was also incredibly wide, with heavy rolls of fat sagging over its massive sides; Rudin had not been exaggerating when he had said it would not fit through the manhole, it seemed, though the sheer size of it still managed to make the witcher a bit unsettled to look at, knowing how many corpses it had to have eaten to have gotten that way.

The monster's skin was grey and ashen, but even from a few paces away Geralt could see how tough it was, hardened into calloused channels over the protuberant veins running a grotesque map across its ghoulish flesh. Its back was pockmarked with two nearly-uniform rows of gruesome, pustule-looking growths, protruding from either side of its flabby spine in pulsing, purplish boils, and all the way from its wicked, curved claws to its rough-skinned elbows was stained a dark, noxious red, as was the skin from its massive, flat feet to its knotted knees. From the smell alone, Geralt could tell that this was not its natural colouring, but coats upon coats of caked, rotting blood, and he frowned as he stared at the unusual creature, trying to remember if he had ever learned about a beast like this in any of his studies at Kaer Morhen.

The monster had certain attributes to it that reminded him of a graveir, though there were enough parts that did not match up to make him severely doubt that – but as he took another step closer, Geralt felt something suddenly give under his boot, and he swore under his breath as his heel cracked down on a brittle bone hidden under a layer of mud. The bone gave a loud pop as it collapsed under his boot, and the monster straightened quickly at the unexpected noise, before turning to look back towards its unwelcome guest, seeking the source of the interruption.

With the creature now facing him, Geralt could see that it held a corpse between its massive hands, though the poor sod was barely recognizable as human in its current state: its thigh-bones had been broken in such a way that they protruded from its flesh like spikes, and its spine had been broken in half so severely that the body now sagged at an impossible angle. He could also observe a few more details about the monster itself, now that he no longer had to be stealthy about it. It was a hairless creature, with hard, red, bone-like spikes protruding from its head and back, and layer of fresh blood ringing its mouth, dripping down onto its flabby stomach. Its gruesome face lacked eyelids or lips, though it did have a bulbous, fleshy nose, the corners of which nearly touched its too-close, glowing milky eyes.

Its ears were triangular, deformed, nearly folded in on themselves, and its mouth was like something from a nightmare: massive, round, and ringed with rows upon rows of sharp, jagged, unaligned teeth. White viscera dribbled from the monster's chin, dripping in coarse globules from its vacuous mouth, and as Geralt watched, its long, tapered tongue slithered out from between its teeth, slurping up what marrow still clung to its hideous maw. The witcher felt his stomach turn at the sight of the creature's tongue: long, nearly purple, and worm-like in its thinness, clearly designed to clean out the soft, fleshy marrow of the bones its teeth were built to crush through.

From the look of most parts of this creature, his best guess now was that it was some kind of massive cemetaur, though something about the parts which did not match up bothered him in ways he could not quite place. He felt he should have been able to, considering how familiar they felt, but, as he tried to decide what detail he was missing, a new sound suddenly caught his attention, and he looked up again as the cemetaur began to shudder and shake in front of him. A moment later, its hagfish-like mouth opened wide in a gurgling roar, and as the witcher watched, six dripping, veiny tentacles began to snake out from behind it, unfurling their sickly forms from, he guessed, the pustules on its back he had taken note of earlier.

The creature howled as its newly-expanded tentacles writhed around it like a gory halo, and Geralt felt his stomach drop to his knees at the sight of this new development. The body of the monster, apart from its girth, was definitely indicative of a cemetaur, he decided – but the tentacles and mouth, as well as the body mass, were almost certainly that of a zeugl.

Slitting his glowing eyes against the darkness, the witcher adjusted his grip on his sword, glancing over the monster as quickly as he dared to look for some sign of weakness. He had fought both of these monsters in their basic iterations before, but it stood to reason that a hybridization might have strengths and weaknesses its contributing factors lacked. "No clue what the fuck you are," he growled, baring his teeth at the ugly creature. "Doesn't matter. Your head's gonna look good on my saddle." The cemetaur screamed at the taunt, and the witcher snarled back, just as animalistic. Then, lunging for the creature, he swung his sword at its fatty chest, only to choke and swipe blindly as his leg was pulled out from under him by one of its tentacles.

The cemetaur lifted him into the air, swinging him wildly around, and Geralt felt his breath leave him at the sudden change of equilibrium – but he gained it back quickly, gritting his teeth as he sliced at the slimy membrane with his sword. An acidic hiss erupted from the cut as the oil burned the monster's flesh, and a spurt of blackish fluid jetted out from the wound as it writhed, spraying the witcher in the face with a liquid the consistency of runny pus. Geralt gave a shout of disgust at the sensation, wiping the liquid from his face, before kicking at the tentacle again and taking another swing at it with his sword. This time the blade cut deep into the flesh, severing the tentacle almost halfway to the core, and the creature squealed as it let him go, dropping him in the mud, squarely on his head.

Geralt panted as he pushed himself to his knees again, dazed for a moment by the fall, and he staggered a bit as he returned to his feet, only to quickly pick up his sword again, starting to run for the creature once more. The cemetaur howled at the witcher's resilience, thrashing out at him with another tentacle, but Geralt slapped it out of the way with another strike from his blade, watching as the tentacle writhed and sizzled as the broad side of the metal connected oil with flesh. Swinging at the cemetaur, Geralt sliced at its arms, cutting deep as the creature threw up its hands to defend its face, and he grinned at the satisfying scream from the monster as the blade oil bubbled against its skin.

He did not have time to enjoy his victory, however, before another tentacle darted out from the six at the monster's back, attempting to grab him from the front; he swung at it, warding it off, but did not notice as a second tentacle snaked around from the back, seizing him up by the ankle again and dragging him up and off the ground. The cemetaur hoisted Geralt up in the air, roaring as it swung him helplessly about, before twisting him around and slamming him, hard, up against the stone roof of the sewer. The witcher gave a sharp bark of pain as his spine connected with solid rock, getting only a moment to recover his breath before he was slammed into the ceiling once more. Still dangling from the creature's grasp, he kicked, swinging his sword around blindly, trying his hardest to aim for the monster's face, but the cemetaur only swung the witcher away again, keeping him just out of sword's reach.

Geralt writhed in its grasp, but his struggling did no good, as a second tentacle quickly snaked out from its mass to join the first, grabbing the witcher by the arm this time and stringing him between the tentacles like a pig on a spit. Geralt struggled against the creature's grasp as the cemetaur flipped him around, handing him off from one pair of tentacles to the next in an effort to keep him unbalanced, kicking blindly as he was manhandled and growing dizzy as he tried to keep track of the ground. Just then, a sudden sharp shake from the monster's tentacles sent his sword flying out of his hand, and the witcher watched in horror as his blade hit the floor, sinking a few inches down into the mud. The cemetaur gurgled as it watched the blade fall, swinging the helpless witcher gleefully around to its head, before dangling him over its hagfish maw and opening its jaws wide, preparing to feast.

Geralt had heard tales of people being swallowed whole by zeugls, but the relative size of this hybrid's mouth made him suspect he would probably be going down in chunks if it tried anything like that – and so, with one last useless kick to its tentacles, he bent over double, reaching to his boot, undoing the straps holding it in place and letting himself fall out of it. His foot slid easily from the armoured shoe, and he twisted himself around as he fell, slamming his body into the creature's face before rolling off its flabby back and springing quickly to his feet again. Grabbing his sword from the mud, Geralt swore softly at the sacrificed boot, knowing Yennefer would have his head for losing another piece of armour so soon – then, lunging for the monster, he sliced at its back, his blade cutting deep into one of its tentacles, cutting the appendage nearly halfway off at the base.

The cemetaur screamed at the blow, its tentacles writhing, and Geralt found himself knocked clean off his feet as one of them slammed into him from the side, stunning him with a blast to the ribs. He coughed as he fought to regain his breath, pushing himself quickly to his feet again, before diving out of the way of a second attack as another tentacle came darting towards him. Swinging his sword again, he felt it connect, this time slicing the attacking tentacle right down the middle, and the cemetaur shrieked at the newest affront, waving its wounded tentacle wildly through the air, spraying the witcher and the sewer with the same black viscous fluid as before.

Geralt growled as he shielded his face, before leaping for the next tentacle slithering his way, swinging upward with a skilful sweep and cutting the appendage clean off. The tentacle writhed on the muddy floor as the last pulses of life drained from it, before it finally lay still at the witcher's feet, seeping black fluid into the channel. Wiping at his face with a satisfied smirk, Geralt lifted his sword again, lunging for the cemetaur, before carving a brutal slice across its tentacles as another one darted out to grab him. Jumping back from a second attack, the witcher swung at the tentacle, knocking it out of the way, causing the appendage to sizzle as it retreated back behind the cemetaur once more. A third tentacle lunged out next, trying to grab him, but again Geralt reacted quickly, ducking and rolling swiftly out of the way, before jumping to his feet and blasting the monster in the face with a dose of Igni.

The cemetaur howled, covering its face, before it began to barrel forward, hands outstretched, intent on overtaking the witcher with its bare brute strength. Its tentacles fanned out around it as it bounded towards him, shockingly fast for something so large, but Geralt was quick to jump out of the way again, sending another blast of Igni into the monster's face for good measure. The cemetaur screamed at the newest attack, slapping the fire away from its head, before a tentacle suddenly shot out from its mass of appendages, striking the witcher square in the face. Geralt staggered at the blow, his vision swimming with stars, feeling a faint trickle of blood starting to seep from his nose – but he did not have time to recover before he was slammed up against the sewer wall, trapped between the monster's gargantuan weight and the reeking corridor stone.

He could feel his lungs burning as the cemetaur crushed him, using its massive body to smother him as it trapped him up against the wall. Its snarling maw was open wide above him as it pushed its body up against him, its tentacles writhing around its gruesome form like snakes, and he struggled for breath, kicking his legs, fighting uselessly against the monster's weight. His vision began to darken in his eyes as he clawed uselessly at the monster's girth, until a sudden crack from his ribcage brought him sharply back to reality, making him realize that, if he did not act quickly, this could very well be the end. Wriggling his hand down to his belt, he fumbled blindly along its side, feeling until his fingers closed around a familiar shape. Then, pulling up the bomb to show the monster, he lit it with a burst of Igni from his hand, before grinning up at the cemetaur as realization began to slowly dawn on its ugly face.

"Open wide," he choked, tasting blood on his lips. Then, shoving the bomb down the creature's surprised throat, he retrieved his hand before it could become the cemetaur's next meal, quickly casting Quen on himself and covering his ears.

The cemetaur gagged at the new obstruction, turning its head away as it began trying to cough it up, but the bomb did not have time to make it all the way up its gullet again before it went off with a sharp, muffled noise at the back of the monster's throat. The creature screamed as flame belched out of its open mouth towards the witcher, and Geralt could swear he heard a dull, metallic thunk as the bomb detonated in the cemetaur's throat – but he did not have time to think about it as the flames flew forward towards him, sparking wildly against the force of his shield, causing him to grit his teeth as he felt the heat starting to puncture through his spell. He had expected the bomb to work, to blow the creature's head off, but it seemed this monster was somehow tougher than even its hardened bone structure and sturdy mass had made it look.

The cemetaur staggered back, shrieking and gagging, finally freeing Geralt from its crushing weight, and he gasped for air as his vision began to clear, feeling the sharp pain of his broken rib as his senses began to return in full. Pushing the thought aside for the moment, he quickly grabbed up his sword again, using it to push himself unsteadily back to his feet; it took a good second to regain his equilibrium, and he could still feel his arms shaking as he lifted his blade, but he looked on in satisfaction as the cemetaur writhed, clawing at its chest as it vomited up burnt tissue and half-digested carcass onto the sewer floor. Spitting blood from his mouth, the witcher snarled at the wounded creature, before letting out a yell and starting to charge forward for another strike. The cemetaur turned at the sound of his shouting, using one of its remaining tentacles to slap him out of the way, but Geralt was back on his feet in no time, ducking another swing as he lunged for it once more.

The cemetaur's skin was tough against his sword as Geralt swung for its fatty stomach, and he could hear the sizzling of oil on flesh as his blade bit through the monster's weighty form. A line of blackish blood welled up across its abdomen as his blade drew across it, and the cemetaur shrieked in protest at the attack, but the witcher only grinned, drawing back his blade again, before bringing it down against the cemetaur's neck to decapitate it for a clean-cut kill. He felt his stomach drop, then, when instead of the clean strike he had intended, he felt his body gave a sudden jolt, and he stared on in horror as his sword was, once again, wedged firmly into the side of the creature's neck. Panicking, Geralt braced his boot against the monster's stomach, feeling his heel begin to slip into the cut he had made as he tried to pull his sword free from its meaty neck – but the cemetaur only howled at the witcher's struggle, before grabbing him tightly by the throat, using its blood-stained claws to lift him victoriously into the air.

The cemetaur's tentacles waved around it as it stared up at him with dead, milky eyes, its purple tongue snaking out from between its teeth, making Geralt's stomach turn at the sight of the worm-like appendage. The witcher writhed in the creature's grasp, seeing stars begin to swim in his vision as its fingers crushed around his throat, but he did not have time to think before he found himself suddenly thrown into the mud at the cemetaur's feet. Gasping for breath, Geralt reached up quickly, taking hold of his reddened throat; the creature had not killed him – that was a surprise. It could have easily crushed his larynx, had almost done so from the feel of things, but had decided not to follow through, for whatever reason.

Perhaps there were more things out of place with this creature than he had initially realized, he thought. Perhaps along with its hybridization came a sense of humanity, one disparate from either of its contributing parts.

The thought of the creature's potential humanity was short-lived, however, as he suddenly felt the cemetaur's foot press down on the back of his skull, driving him face-first into the mud and using its weight to keep him from surfacing for air.

The witcher thrashed against the heavy restraint, clawing desperately for a handhold in the mud, kicking uselessly as he fought to find something to use to fight his way up for air. Throwing back his hand, he signed for Igni, blasting the monster with a burst of flames, and the cemetaur howled, angered by the spell, before Geralt felt its foot leave the back of his head, only to be replaced instead by its bony knee, its massive claws reaching down to pin his wrists against the muddy floor. He could feel the sharp spur of a broken bone against his palm as his body was pressed deeper into the muck, and he thrashed uselessly against the cemetaur's grip, feeling his ribs straining and cracking in his chest as the monster kneeled on his caving spine.

He could taste blood pooling in the back of his throat as he fought against the creature's grasp, the liquid bubbling up like vomit over his tongue, and he hissed for air between his teeth, feeling his mouth seethe with mud as he fought to find a pocket to breathe from. His head ached like death, ready to burst, and he could hear his heart pounding like a funeral bell in his ears, nearly drowning out the monster's snarls as it pushed him down further into the mire. He could feel the dribble of liquid marrow and saliva leaking down from its grisly maw onto the back of his neck, the hilt of his sword still stuck in the creature's neck jabbing mockingly into his back every time the monster leaned down over him, and he tried his hardest to cast Yrden, hoping to startle the monster into letting up – but with the lack of oxygen he could only feel his hand spasming into unknown shapes, unable to bend his fingers to cast.

Another crack in his ribcage sent a spark of panicked adrenaline to his brain, but it was only enough to alert him that no other part of his body was working; with the weight of the monster on top of him, everything was numb, and his consciousness was quickly going black. Blood bubbled uselessly around his face as he sought to turn his head under the monster's grip, but it seemed even that was impossible, and as the sound of the cemetaur's roars began to fade in his ears, he suddenly felt something unexpected: the familiar sensation of a weak vibration against his chest in the mud. He did not fully register the sensation until a second later, when a loud booming sound reverberated from somewhere deeper in the sewer, causing the cemetaur to look up, startled and distracted by something a bit further down the darkened corridor.

As the monster looked up, its weighty grip loosened ever so slightly on the witcher's wrists – unintentionally, Geralt was sure, but he was not about to question a chance to free himself from imminent death. Taking the split-second opportunity, he quickly slid his hands out from beneath the cemetaur's claws, before using one last desperate burst of dying consciousness to cast Aard up and behind his back. The monster shrieked as it went flying, staggering back a few feet through the mud, and, finally able to lift his head, Geralt took in a deep, life-giving breath, vomiting up mixed mud and blood as he began to crawl towards the nearest wall. Gripping the stone wall, he dragged himself upward, sitting against it as the sensation of life began to return to his legs, and he gagged again, vomiting more mud and blood as the cemetaur howled in anger.

Gritting his teeth at the murderous creature, Geralt wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, before pushing himself the rest of the way to his shaky feet, holding himself upright against the wall. "Come on, you ugly fuck," he croaked, barely recognizing his own hoarse voice.

The cemetaur screamed, starting to barrel towards the witcher again, its heavy, angry footfalls causing the ground of the sewer to shake beneath its weight, and Geralt huffed, spitting out blood, before starting to run forward towards the monster as well, meeting it head-on. The cemetaur swiped for him, attempting to grab him between its meaty hands, but Geralt ducked, before blasting it in the face with Igni again, causing it to shriek as its hands flew back to its face. Using its distraction to his advantage, the witcher hoisted himself up onto the creature's stocky front, using its sturdy arms as leverage to grab hold of his sword's hilt. Then, bracing his remaining boot against the creature's face, he pulled on the sword with all his strength, trying desperately to dislodge his blade from its thickset neck.

The cemetaur choked as the witcher's boot slammed into its face, shrieking at the obstruction, before it quickly reached up, shoving the leg down and into its mouth instead. Geralt howled in pain as the cemetaur's hagfish maw closed around his calf, its rows of teeth crushing into his flesh as it sucked his leg further down its throat, and he let out a bark as the sword finally dislodged, the weight sending him falling back to dangle awkwardly from the creature's jaws. He could feel a shiver of pain course through him as his leg was sucked down the creature's throat up to his knee, its teeth boring into his flesh as it went, devouring him alive, slowly and painfully. He hissed in agony at the sensation, a froth of spittle trickling unpleasantly up his face with the flow of gravity – but then, thinking quickly, he moved his sword to one hand, before twisting around and blasting the ground with a desperate burst of Aard.

He was not even sure this would work – he had never tried anything like this before – but he figured anything had to be better than being eaten alive. He was pleased, then, when the manoeuvre went exactly as he hoped it would, providing him the needed boost to flip him rightside-up again, and he quickly hooked his remaining free leg around the creature's shoulder, sitting on its protruding girth as he looked up squarely into its dead, glowing eyes. Lifting his sword so the creature could see it, he watched as the cemetaur's expression changed, its vicious snarl lowering to a look that made it clear it knew exactly what was about to come.

"FUCK OFF!" he yelled into the creature's face, before drawing his sword back behind his head, driving it down with a satisfying crunch and splatter through the top of the monster's skull. Black blood sprayed from the cemetaur's head as the sword split down to its ugly nose, splattering Geralt's face and chest with chunks of rotten meat, and he pulled his sword slowly from the creature's skull as its jaw finally went slack, releasing his leg and allowing him to fall to the floor of the sewer again. Letting out a grunt of pain, Geralt dragged himself away from the dying beast, clutching his bloody leg as he watched the monster's remaining tentacles jerk and writhe. The cemetaur wavered for a moment in stasis, seeming unwilling to go down just yet, before it finally fell first to its knees, and then onto its front, eventually coming to lay completely still, facedown in the mud.

Sheathing his sword at his back, Geralt hissed as another shot of pain raced through him, drawing in his leg and pulling off his boot to inspect the extent of the damage. The boot peeled off uncomfortably, dripping with sticky, viscous fluid, and he let out a discouraged grunt at the sight of his leg free from the leather; the cemetaur's teeth had punctured straight through his armour, drilling nearly an inch into the flesh of his calf, and he growled in pain as he pried a lost tooth from one of the deeper bite-marks. Black liquid oozed from a few of the wounds, dribbling down his leg into the sewer mud, and he hummed as he opened his potion-satchel, searching for a bottle of Swallow to dull the ache.

Geralt frowned as he pulled out the little red vial, realizing he would have to choose between his ribs and his leg, before deciding that his leg was probably more important and uncorking the bottle to pour it on. The potion bubbled against the witcher's skin as it seeped into his open wounds, and he gritted his teeth at the stinging sensation, before a numbing effect began to take over in its place. Letting out a sigh, he inspected the cuts on his leg, noting that some of them had already begun to heal, but a few still gaped raw and bloody, needing a second or third dose of Swallow to close them.

"Shit," he swore, quietly, knowing those would turn into more scars for Shani to fret over. Pulling his ruined boot back on then, he dragged himself unsteadily to his feet, before turning and staring down at the dead cemetaur, remembering the strange blockage in the creature's neck that had prevented him from taking its head in the fight. Limping over to the monster, he knelt down beside it, pulling his hunting-knife from his belt, before picking up the creature by its ugly head and dragging it into his lap to work. His cuts were precise, practiced and deep, his expression steely as he sawed his way through the monster's neck, and it did not take long for his knife to find whatever had prevented his sword from going through; feeling around the mass with his blade, he found where the strange obstruction began, and he cut at it, going down and around, until finally prying up an oval-shaped hunk of flesh from the side of the creature's neck.

Turning the mass between his hands, he scraped carefully at the skin with his knife, shedding it off one layer at a time until he reached the end of the meat. Then, holding up what was left, Geralt frowned at the item, observing what now looked to be a man-made disc, a meticulously-shaped and stamped chunk of metal about the size and weight of a horseshoe. "What the fuck?" he whispered, turning it over, squinting at the plate as he tried to read what was written on its damaged face. What part of the writing had not been worn off by being attached to the creature's flesh had been marred beyond recognition by a large, deep cut, clearly where his blade had tried to make its way through, and the darkness of the sewer made it nearly impossible to see much else about the plate otherwise. Even so, Geralt could not help feeling strangely on edge as he stared at the disc.

He had the distinct sensation that he had encountered something like this before, though he could not quite place where, or why he would have had an opportunity to come across something like this. Whatever it was, he thought, it had to have been during some time before Ciri brought him back, though what it could be and where he could have encountered something like it was beyond his ability to guess.

Stuffing the disc in the pouch at his belt, Geralt pulled his trophy-hook around next, using it to dig through the flesh of the monster's head, working it into the meat and through the brain until he felt it lodge securely in place. With the head now secured, he set it aside, before dragging himself painfully back to his feet, turning next to wrestle his second boot from the tentacle of the now-dead cemetaur. He sighed as he stared down at his ruined boots; the new, stiff leather of the one the cemetaur had taken had been thoroughly crushed, streaked with weathered white veins, and the sturdy buckles had been bent and warped past the point of useability. The heel, too, had been snapped nearly in half on the bottom, detached almost entirely from the foot of the boot, causing it to flop and slap unbearably in the mud as he began to make his way back through the sewer to the manhole where he had first come down.

Hanging the hook with the monster head temporarily on his belt, the witcher began to climb his way up the ladder, only to flinch and fall back again as his calf began to burn after only a few rungs. Geralt barked in pain as a jolt of fire coursed through his calf, dropping to the mud and gripping his leg as the sensation of crushing needles began to shoot up through his hip. He could feel his calf pulsing with venom inside his boot, the Swallow seeming to have only slowed the unrecognized effect of the creature's bite, and he gritted his teeth, grasping onto the ladder in an attempt to drag himself back to his feet. "Damnit," he swore, hearing his voice echo uselessly in the darkened culvert. Cupping his hands around his mouth then, he turned up towards the wooden covering, hoping the corpse-collector had not wandered off to the tavern in the time it had taken him to fight the monster.

"Rudin!" he called, his voice echoing down the corridor. "It's me! Let me out!"

"Not 'til you knock three times, master witcher," Rudin called back, his voice muffled through the weight of the lid. "That's what you said. We listen around here. We don't want no trouble, nor no monster comin' through, pretendin' to be you."

"Do I sound like a monster?" Geralt snapped, his hand clenching around the ladder rung.

Rudin paused at the question, taking a moment to turn it over. "You sound mighty cross, that's the truth," he admitted after a bit. "But if you was the witcher, you'd knock three times."

"I'm injured," Geralt called back, clenching his teeth as his swollen leg pressed uncomfortably against the leather of his boot. "Leg's hurt. Can't get up the ladder. I need some help from you and your boys."

"That's what you'd say if you was the monster," one of the boys called back, sounding pleased with himself for the conclusion.

Geralt sighed heavily, wondering for a moment if it would not be worth it to simply blast the lid off with Aard; that would take care of the problem, certainly, but Rudin and his boys were standing directly over it, and catapulting the lid at them with a force like that would undoubtedly injure them, if not kill them. Looking around, he wondered how difficult it would be to simply look for another way out, before realizing that would require more walking, and instead pulling his pack around, looking for something to throw. Taking an apple from his pack, he weighed it in his hand, before winding back and throwing it up against the cover of the manhole. He listened as it hit the wood with a muffled, satisfying thunk, its ripe face audibly bruising against the sturdy slats, and he paused at the sound, not even noticing as the apple fell back to the floor, starting to sink down into the mud.

The sound of the apple against the lid had reminded him of something he had almost forgotten about until then, and he found himself suddenly feeling a bit on edge as he remembered the booming noise he had heard while fighting the cemetaur. It had come from inside the sewer maze, and with Rudin still standing outside, guarding the lid, that meant whatever it was was likely still down here, lurking in the dark. The thought of a creature formidable enough to spook even the cemetaur made Geralt's nerves stand on edge, and he closed a hand over his medallion, remembering how it had gone off right before the telltale noise. Not only was the creature large and loud, it seemed, but it was apparently magically imbued as well, and the witcher turned quickly at the thought, staring down into the darkened corridor, wondering if he had killed the wrong monster.

If there was something still lurking in the unlit corners of Beauclair scarier than whatever he had just slain, he thought, he was not entirely sure he wanted to encounter it, least of all with only one working leg and no potions left to help him.

Limping to his apple, he picked it up again, not bothering to clean it before throwing it to the lid again, letting out a huff as it made contact with the wood a second time before falling back into the mud. The most he could do right now was get paid, get home, and have Shani treat his wounded leg, hopefully with blessed little scolding. Once that was done, and he was healed enough to fight again, he could try to figure out what was really going on down here – but for now he figured he had done a respectable job of the creature he had already slain, and Rudin had to appreciate one less monster lurking in his sewers. Picking the apple up a third time, he lobbed it at the wooden lid again, this time hearing an immediate reaction of muffled chatter before the lid began to scrape and creak, lifting away with young grunts of effort to allow the faintest strains of orange and purple to bleed through.

Geralt squinted up at the painted Beauclair sunset, a faint disc of watery light peering through into the darkness of the sewers, and he leaned on the ladder, looking up as Rudin and his boys began to peer curiously over the side. "We thought you was dead, witcher," Rudin told him, causing Geralt to frown at the admission. "You was takin' so long, we thought the ghoulie'd killed you. Glad to see you're only hurt. Not near as bad. For you, at least."

"Not being dead is my preference, yeah," Geralt returned, letting out a weary sigh. "Could use some help getting out, though. Leg's injured. Can't climb up too well." Then, taking the meat hook from his belt, he held it up in the fading light, earning a gasp from one teenaged boy and a gagging noise from the other. "Got a head to bring up as well," he added, too annoyed to be bothered by their reactions. "Thing's pretty heavy. Could use someone to bring it up. Put less strain on my leg."

A bit of hushed conversation followed from the three on the surface, before one of the boys began to hoist himself down, making his way a few runs down the ladder and holding out a hand to take something off the witcher's hands. Lifting the heavy trophy, Geralt handed it up towards the boy, making sure he had a secure grip on the bloody hook before finally letting go of it, allowing him to bring it the rest of the way up. The teenager gagged as he pulled the head up towards him, coughing a bit as he held his breath against the stench of the slaughtered creature, before he slowly began to move up the ladder again, taking the head laboriously with him. The second teenager jumped quickly out of the way as the first cleared the surface of the drainage hole, dragging himself up onto the street, first to his knees, then back to his feet again, and Geralt huffed as he watched the display, wondering if they made this much of a show when Rudin had them help retrieve human corpses.

Pulling himself up the ladder again, Geralt grunted in effort as his foot hit the first rung, the weight of his body pushing down on the calf sending another shock of pain up his leg and into his hip. "Shit," he hissed, gripping the ladder, trying his hardest to keep his balance to the other leg. Gripping the next rung, he dragged himself upward, slowly but surely, until he finally reached the surface of the street, holding up a hand to indicate for Rudin and his boys to help him up the rest of the way. The stones of the pavilion were blessedly cool against his back and leg as he laid out across them, allowing himself a moment to breathe, staring up at the waning sky as he expelled the last of the putrid smells of the sewer. He could hear the sound of footsteps behind him as Rudin and his boys gathered curiously around the severed head, peering down into its milky eyes as they whispered to one another, trying to decide what kind of monster it had once belonged to.

"That's a ghoul, that is," one of the boys said, assuredly. "I'd know it if I saw it. Look at them ugly sharp teeth."

"It's a cemetaur," Geralt returned, still breathing heavily, causing all three to look up at him in surprise. Pushing himself to his feet again, he groaned, slow to stand, before bending to pick up the monster head, staggering a bit on his injured leg as he made his way over to where Roach still waited. Hooking the trophy securely to her saddle, he patted her flank, earning an irritated bluster in return, before turning to look back towards the corpse-collector, who was watching him intently, curious to what he might do next. "Wouldn't go down there if I were you," Geralt told him, indicating towards the sewer-hole, watching as Rudin's brows shot up in surprise. "Not safe anymore. Just let the drowners handle this one."

"But… it's my job," Rudin returned, sounding shocked.

"Recommend looking for a new job," Geralt answered, before thinking a moment and adding, "Could use someone to paint some signs."

Rudin shook his head at the suggestion. "Can't paint for naught meself," he said, shrugging, honestly. "But, you did your own job fair and square-like, so it's only right you get paid. Perhaps you could use some of it to procure yourself a nice bath after all that mucking about, aye?"

"Definitely on my list," Geralt answered, looking down at his ruined boots and sewage-stained armour. "Never gonna get that smell out of my nose. Don't know how you do it."

"Oh, I can't smell, master witcher," Rudin told him, grinning at the clever workaround.

"Some men are just born lucky," Geralt sighed, wiping a globule of mud from his pauldron.

---

Geralt frowned as he closed his hand around what remained of his payment for the cemetaur contract, the weight of the purse much lighter against his palm than it had been the evening before. He had spent the first few of his coins on strong drink, for his nerves, and the next few on a hot bath, with the next handful dispensed over the course of the evening to have the hot water consistently refreshed. He had set up his alchemy station to boil as he washed, listening to the concoction bubble as he scrubbed the smell of sewage from his skin and armour, every so often leaving the bath to pour out a fresh vial of Swallow before replacing the ingredients to brew another dose. It had taken a few pours over his leg, and at least two doses down his throat, but by the time he was finally ready to sleep he felt he had expelled the last of the creature's venom from his wounds, and he could already feel his ribs beginning to knit as he laid down to rest, careful not to weigh too harshly on the still-healing bones as he drifted off to a fitful sleep.

The following morning had seen the dispersal of at least another half of his hard-earned wages, when he had gone to the armourer in town to request a replacement for his mutilated boots. "Monster got them," he explained, plainly. "Need something stronger. Boots keep getting destroyed." The armourer had given him a strange look when he had picked up the boots to inspect the damage, but he had not questioned the witcher's request, instead setting to work to see what he could put together. A few hours later, Geralt was finally ready to head back home, his new boots stiff and squeaking against his stirrups as the weight of the cemetaur's head bounced and rolled against Roach's side. Roach nickered at the unwelcome bulk of the trophy, tossing her mane as a globule of congealed black blood trickled down her flank, but Geralt only patted her neck, chuckling fondly at the horse's finicky distress.

"Don't get uppity," he told her, running his hand along her chestnut coat. "You're a witcher horse. You're used to this. Give you a bath when we get home." Roach blustered at her master's instructions, tossing her mane again to show her disapproval, but she did as she was told, continuing to make her way down the road towards Corvo Bianco. It had been a while since Geralt had ridden with a monster trophy on his saddle; he had given up the practice when he had retired, as there was no need to showcase his resumé when he only worked by special request anymore. Even so, he found the sensation oddly satisfying to revisit, revelling ghoulishly in the feel of the head bumping every so often against the back of his calf as he rode. He would not tell Yennefer of his enjoyment, of course – she would already likely be cross with him for bringing the grisly thing to their estate at all – but he found his small joy at the sensation of witcherdom to be strangely surprising, even to him.

Slowing Roach to a trot, Geralt steered the mare gently through the entryway arch, leading her safely to her stable stall before dismounting with a grunt and detaching the trophy hook from her saddle. Roach blustered as she felt the head being lifted from her flank, and Geralt patted her side, noting the streak of rotting black blood that trailed down her leg to the straw-filled floor. Hooking the head on the outer stable wall, he picked up a bucket from the horse's stall, taking it to the nearest pump and filling it with water before returning to the stable to wash the gore from Roach's flank. "Pretty gruesome," he agreed, sympathising as the horse gave another irritated bluster. "Sorry, girl. Gonna get you cleaned up good as new. Won't even know the difference."

Roach flicked her ears at the mention of a bath, blustering as she felt the brush and warm water against her flank, before turning her attention instead to her feeding-trough, allowing the witcher to wash her as she ate. "Just like a woman," Geralt told her, fondly, patting her side as he continued to scrub the blood from her fur. "Some pampering and good food and you're satisfied." Chuckling at the thought, he washed the brush off again in the bucket, making a face as the black blood swirled in the water, before petting Roach's side again and picking up the bucket, taking it out to dump it into the vineyard turf. He hoped Yennefer would not notice the telltale aroma until it dissipated into the soil, but with the strong smell of the flower garden to cover it up, he was certain he could distract her long enough for it to disappear before she had a chance to realize what he had done.

Fishing a hand into his satchel, he sifted blindly through his gear, before finally pulling out a small, stoppered vial of tiny metallic shrapnel, uncorking the ampoule and tapping out a few into his gloved palm. The slivers let off a strong energy as soon as they touched the air, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle at the feel of them, but he ignored the sensation, instead digging a small hole in the bloody soil and tipping a few pieces into the dirt. He kept these slivers of dimeritium on hand for the making of bombs, mostly, but the occasional outside use kept him vigilant in always keeping a few extra bits handy. Yennefer had never liked the idea of him keeping pure dimeritium on his person, and had never been shy about telling him so, but he found that he always managed to find some use for it that made it worth keeping around.

Covering the hole with dirt again, he patted it down, making sure it was sealed, before standing to his feet again, satisfied that another archespore would not now grow where the blood had lain to rest. Then, turning away from the vineyard grounds, he began to make his way towards the main house, wiping the last dirt from his gloves as he headed for the smell of chimney-smoke. The windows of the house were lit up with firelight as he crested the walk to the front door, and he took in a deep breath, closing his eyes, revelling in the familiar scent of home. Yennefer had enchanted the fireplace to always smell of something magical when it was used, one of the sorceress' many subtle contributions to the ethereal charm of the vineyard estate, and he felt the welcoming warmth of the front-room and scent of wild spices wash over him as soon as he stepped inside the house, eager to greet his wife on his arrival.

Yennefer was already sitting in the front-room as Geralt walked inside, and she looked up as her husband entered, watching in silence as he began his homecoming ritual of unshouldering his swords on the hook by the door. She had already clearly finished her supper, as her half-cleaned plates still sat before her on the table, and she now sat poised with a glass of White Wolf between her slender fingers, her other hand pressed pensively against the pages of a book she had been reading. "Had I known you would be home soon, I would have waited," she told him, causing him to look across at her at the comment. It was not particularly cold, per se, but neither was it notably welcoming; it was difficult to tell if he was in trouble for his late hour, or if she was simply making a dry pass at casual conversation.

Trailing her gaze down his scrubbed attire, the sorceress made note of the wear and tear, her eyes coming to rest last of all on his boots, before her sculpted brows began to arch at the unfamiliar work. "New boots," she noted, taking a sip of wine, before returning her attention to her book again. "You either fought something very small, or a pack of dogs with a taste for shoe leather."

"Cemetaur," Geralt answered, before pausing, his brow furrowing. "Er… zeugl."

"Well, which was it?" Yennefer asked, not bothering to look up from her book. "A cemetaur, or a zeugl?"

"Both," Geralt answered. Yennefer huffed.

"Surely not," she told him, shaking her head. "You couldn't have fought two monsters, Geralt. It's only been two days."

"Didn't fight two," Geralt answered, frankly. "Fought one. Half cemetaur, half zeugl. Never seen anything like it before."

Yennefer paused at the answer this time, taking a moment to ensure she had heard correctly, before finally looking up at her husband again, her expression an odd mixture of confusion and concern. "I'm sorry…" she said, setting down her wine glass. "Did you say it was a hybrid of a cemetaur and a zeugl? The implication being that those two specimens mated, and produced something… viable… which you then fought?"

"Yeah," Geralt answered.

"And you fought this?" Yennefer asked again.

Geralt hesitated, unsure which part of his statement was not coming through clearly. "Yeah," he repeated after a moment. "Fought it. Killed it. Cut off its head. Can show you if you want."

Yennefer paused again, seeming to consider, before finally shaking her head. "No," she said, looking down to her book again. "I don't take pleasure in the brutalization of beasts. And I don't appreciate being lied to." Turning a page in her text, she paused a moment, reading the first paragraph over a few times, before finally realizing she could not concentrate enough to absorb it and instead looking up at her husband again, stern. "I know biology isn't your strongest subject, Geralt, apart from a few… basic fundamentals," she told him. "But it's just not possible for species to breed in the way you're suggesting. A cemetaur is a necrophage, a conjunction creature, and a zeugl is…"

She frowned, rolling her lips in thought, trying to recall her readings on the subject, and Geralt blinked, waiting for her to remember what she was trying to say; he knew what kind of monsters zeugls were, and cemetaurs as well, but he also knew that Yennefer often had insights into things he did not, and if she had a viable explanation for the abomination he had encountered, he was more than willing to hear it. "I believe they're hermaphroditic," she said at last, letting out a thin, frustrated sigh at her inability to remember. "Aquatic or amphibious, I'm not quite sure… but in no condition to breed with a necrophage, regardless."

"People said witchers couldn't reproduce either," Geralt pointed out.

"And they can't," Yennefer returned, curtly, her frown deepening at the example. "I don't know which creature you're supposed to be in that instance, but I don't like either option."

"Hm," Geralt answered, before shrugging, too tired to argue. "Just tell Ciri about it, then. Sure she'll be interested."

At this, Yennefer froze, her gaze penetrating as she stared at her husband, as if trying to decide whether he was being truthful or simply looking to get a reaction. Then, pushing herself up tiredly from her chair, she closed the book she had been reading, smoothing the front of her attire before looking up again, irritated at having been so expertly played. "Alright, Geralt," she told him, nonplussed. "Let me see this head, then."

Geralt nodded, before tilting his head towards the door, indicating for his wife to follow him out to the stables. Yennefer was quick to walk ahead of him as they went, keeping her gait a few paces in front, but Geralt found he did not have the strength of mind to worry about her eagerness to disprove him. It was a difficult tale for even him to believe, and he had been the one who had actually fought the beast – even on the ride home he had sometimes found himself double-guessing his most recent encounter, and had more than once checked back to the monster's head to make sure it was truly still there, with its massive, hagfish jaws and the half-oval hole in the side of its neck where he had pried the metal disc loose. Pressing a hand to his satchel at his side, he felt the shape of the plate through the leather, the weight of the disc pressing softly against his hip as he ran his fingers over its unusual form, and he hummed at the memory, before allowing his hand to return to his side as they at last made their approach to the stable.

The monster's head still hung where he had left it, its mouth slack, eyes blank and rolling, dripping black gore in a steady tap onto the cobbled walk and down the side of the wooden wall, and Yennefer exclaimed in disgust as she rounded on the site, reaching a hand to nearly touch the gore dripping down her nice edifice, before turning to look back at her husband, frustrated at his lack of consideration. "You're going to clean that," she announced, shortly, pointing to the black blood seeping between the stones of the walk.

"Hm," Geralt answered, taking a quick glance down the grisly site. "Sure we can get someone to clean it." Then, pointing to the monster's sagging jaw, he took a few steps forward, indicating for the sorceress to take a closer look. "Look at the mouth," he said, touching a few of the jagged teeth, careful not to cut his glove on the venomous edge. "Cemetaurs have smaller mouths. Rounder, more specialized. Used for eating marrow. This is a zeugl's mouth."

"I'm not sure how you can tell that, really," Yennefer admitted, reaching out a hand towards the head, only to think twice and retrieve it again before touching any of the rank, dripping gore. "This thing looks like it's been through a butcher's grinder, the way its skull is split. Usually you're a bit more careful." Leaning down to inspect the head, she tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear, making a face as the smell of sewage and death wafted strongly towards her from the carnage. "It's not a small mouth, to be sure," she agreed, nodding a bit as she straightened once more. "But I don't think that makes it a zeugl, Geralt. A large mouth is unusual, certainly, but it could very well have just been a flaw in its genetics."

"It had tentacles, Yen," Geralt argued, starting to get frustrated now. "Actual tentacles. Zeugl tentacles. If I could've brought the whole thing to show you, I would've. Thought the head would be enough." Turning to look at the head again, he turned it on the hook, facing the blank eyes outward, causing Yennefer to make another face as the gruesome expression was faced towards her. "Not making this up," Geralt said, shaking his head. "Still down in the sewer for anyone to see. I know what I fought, Yen. It wasn't a cemetaur. It was…" He paused, frowning, holding the severed head between his gloved hands as he tried to think of what to say. Then, letting go of the head, he instead reached down into his satchel, digging around until he felt his hand close over the shape of the strange metal plate he had cut from the monster's neck.

"Here," he said, holding the disc out towards the sorceress. "Found this after fighting it. Stuck in its neck. No idea what it is or how it got there, but… gotta mean something. Wouldn't be there otherwise."

Taking the disc from his hand, Yennefer turned it over, her brow furrowing, before she began to run her fingers over the long gash made in the plate by his sword. "This was in its neck?" she asked, looking up at him again. Then, turning her attention back down to the disc, she frowned, squinting at the blurry text on the side with the gash. "It's certainly unusual," she agreed, nodding. "Unfortunately this one is too damaged to make out much of whatever was originally on it."

"Didn't realize it was in there when I tried cutting off its head," Geralt explained, letting his hand rest on his hip as he stared down at the disc. "Only found it after. Nearly lost my sword because of it. Couple other things, too."

Yennefer looked up quickly at the comment, staring into her husband's face, before her gaze flicked swiftly down to his crotch, checking that it was still intact. "Nothing too important," she commented, seeming satisfied that everything was as it should be. Then, returning her attention to the plate, she hummed, her mouth twisting thoughtfully to one side, before she finally shook her head, holding out the disc for him to take it back. "I'll ask around," she told him, solemnly, watching as he stashed the disc back into his satchel. "I might know a few people who may have some idea about the significance of something like this."

"I'll ask, too," Geralt answered, running his thumb absentmindedly over the clasp of his satchel. "Not in contact with any witchers anymore, but… maybe Ciri knows something. Can definitely ask her." He paused, thinking it over, his hand moving to stroke the scruff of his silvery beard. "Might be worthwhile to just head out to see her," he suggested, looking up at Yennefer again. "All these weird contracts lately… can't help but think hers might be related. If she knows something, might be good to go now. Get it over with."

Yennefer frowned at the suggestion, folding her arms. "If her contract was something as strange as all this, don't you think she would have mentioned something in her letter?" she asked.

Geralt shook his head. "No," he answered, honestly. "She knows I would've gone without her. Can't give me all the information. Knows I'd leave her in Nilfgaard that way. Try to keep her safe." Taking a breath in, he thinned his lips, pinching the flap of his satchel in thought, feeling the weight of the disc against his hip as he remembered back to the last time he had adventured with Ciri. "She's forcing my hand this way," he added, frowning a bit at the thought. "Withholding information. Making me go through her. Thought her not mentioning any urgency was a good thing, but… starting to think it's the opposite. Probably thought the less she gave, the quicker I'd respond."

"So what are you going to do?" Yennefer asked. "Leave now, in the middle of everything?"

"Gonna send her the plate," Geralt answered, turning to look at his wife again, refusing to be pushed by her irritation. "See if she knows anything. If her contract's related, I'll head out. If not, maybe she can give some information about the plate."

"And if she knows nothing about the plate?" Yennefer asked, not bothering to hide her testy tone.

Geralt shrugged at the question. "Then we're no worse off than we are now," he answered, frankly.

"Except that Ciri will know something is amiss here, and may be inspired to come visit you as a result," Yennefer returned, seeming quick to jump on an opportunity to puncture a hole in his logic. "Thereby putting herself in danger she wouldn't've done otherwise."

Geralt frowned at the retort, unable to help sensing that something felt more off than usual about the conversation; Yennefer was never shy to challenge him when she felt he needed it, but he saw no reason for her to do so now, when all his suggestions seemed entirely reasonable, as far as he could tell. "Why don't you want me to see Ciri, Yen?" he asked, tired of belaying the point. "Ever since you found out Shani was pregnant, you've been trying every way to distance me from Ciri. Tried to take her letter before I could see it. Didn't want me visiting her. Convinced me that writing about the clinic was a bad idea. Even now you won't let me ask for simple advice." Folding his arms over his chest, he hardened his gaze, staring down at his much shorter but equally indignant wife.

"Why are you trying to keep me from our daughter?" he insisted, growing more frustrated with every point. "You afraid I'll get her pregnant, too?"

He regretted the words as soon as he said them, realizing too late what he had done, what he had put into the air, but he could only look on helplessly as Yennefer's expression began to change, first to shock, then confusion, then to a scathing, disappointed incredulity he had seen only a few times from her before. It was the look she had given him when she had learned he had slept with Triss in what had once been their shared bed, a look of disbelief that he would have the gall to stoop to something so low. Perhaps that was where she went wrong, he realized: expecting him not to disappoint. He had disappointed her so many times over the years that it was incredible she still carried any modicum of faith in him at all, but he realized that whatever glimmer of hope there might have been was likely long gone after a hurtful comment like that.

"I'm… sorry, Yen," he muttered, dropping his head to look shamefully down at his boots. "That was too far. Didn't mean that."

Yennefer stared at him for a moment, her expression unmoving, hands fixed on her hips, as if trying to work out what to say in response to something she never thought she would have to hear. "That was disgusting, but I'll let it go," she finally answered, her voice quieter than Geralt had anticipated. He had expected her to scold him, to give him what-for, to lay out his blatant hypocrisy in accusing her of suspecting such foul thoughts of him – her, his wife, one of the only people who consistently believed in him, always came back to stand by his side, trusting him to be a better man than the rest of the cynical world thought of him. "I know what people have implied about you and Ciri," she added after a moment. "But I know you've never looked at her that way. I wouldn't be here if you had."

"Then what?" Geralt asked, now more desperate than angry. "Why are you trying to keep me away from Ciri?"

"Is that really what you think, Geralt?" Yennefer returned, sharply, looking up at him again with a cutting stare that sent a chill up his spine. "That I'm trying to drive you and Ciri apart?" Letting out a soft scoff, she turned away, tittering angrily to herself, folding her arms as she began to pace, finally allowing her pent-up anxiety to show. Geralt frowned as he watched her, knowing how much Yennefer preferred to keep these kinds of feelings inside, too stubborn to show her worry to the world, even when it was eating away at her like an anxious moth. "I'm worried for her, Geralt," Yennefer admitted, not bothering to look at him again as she shook her head. "I've seen the way you are together. You say one little thing, and she goes off on some grandiose adventure, with no regard for her safety or anything else but wanting to be by your side and do as you do."

Sitting down on a nearby bench, the sorceress tucked her knees together, letting her hands rest worriedly at her sides, her painted nails digging into the wood of the seat as she stared at the ground where the monster's blood had pooled into a gory stain. "If you think I'm selfish because I'm trying to keep her from killing herself after we nearly lost her too many times already, then so be it," she said, her voice firm. "Think what you want of me. I'm hurt, of course, but I can't stop you from thinking what you will." Folding her arms again, she stared down at her boots, her pretty lips thinning in a hard, troubled line. "You can go see Ciri, if you truly think it's what's best for both of you," she told him. "But I know you both, Geralt, and I worry. I worry that you'll say one thing about being a witcher, or hunting a monster, and she'll throw away everything to follow you into the unknown. I already worry about losing you every time you leave home. I don't want to have to worry about losing Ciri as well."

"Yen…" Geralt sighed, crossing to sit beside her on the bench. She stiffened as he sat down, but he did not react; she had every right to be cross with him right now, he knew, but he wished she had a bit more faith in his choices. "Ciri's empress now," he told her, speaking softly. "She wouldn't do that. Wouldn't abandon her people."

"Wouldn't she?" Yennefer asked, turning to look at him, pointedly. "She loves you, Geralt. More than anything. And you love her too. I know you do. And I love her just as much, of course I do. But… sometimes distance is the best thing you can give the ones you love." She frowned, letting out a soft sigh, before turning to look out towards the flower fields of the vineyard garden. "She's still a child, regardless of what responsibilities she's been saddled with," she told him. "Even if you keep trying to convince me and yourself otherwise."

"Only a few years younger than Shani," Geralt returned.

Yennefer huffed at the comment, a thin, humourless smirk curving her lips at the thought. "Why do you think I worry so much about Shani?" she asked, tilting her head as she stared out at the flowers. "They're both so young still, so vulnerable. But Ciri is especially vulnerable, Geralt. She's still a girl, and she'd follow you into hell if you so much as implied you could use a second sword at your side."

"Third sword," Geralt corrected.

Yennefer turned to look at him at this, her eyes sharp. "Don't get cute," she told him, shortly. Then, standing to her feet again, she smoothed the front of her velvet and leather jacket, before turning to look back at her husband again, her demeanour her usual, practiced indifference. "Go talk to Shani," she told him, indicating towards the house, causing Geralt to frown a bit at the sudden shift in mannerism. He wished she would be more open with him, less poised, but she had learned to act this way to survive, and asking her to change overnight just because they were married now was unfair to Yennefer, he knew. It was something, at least, that he got to see her emotions in full from time to time, but he wished she would open up to him more, rather than always shutting down after only a few moments of vulnerability. "You promised you'd see if you could get her to talk about what she needs to prepare for the baby."

Geralt grunted, pressing his hands to his knees as he returned to his feet as well. "Dunno why that's my job," he answered. "Still don't think I'll be very good at it."

"Because it's your baby, Geralt, and your dick that caused all this," Yennefer returned, bluntly, surprising him with her stark brutality. "Now go talk to Shani. I'll put on some tea, and we'll drink it once you're done."

"Don't like tea," Geralt answered, frowning.

"And I don't like monster blood on my nice wood siding," Yennefer told him, turning to look up at him with cutting eyes. "Seems we're all suffering today."

Geralt blinked at the retort, his hand clenching unconsciously at his side, feeling for the familiar weight of his satchel, something to hold onto that was a bit less uncertain. "Are you upset with me?" he asked, not caring to leave the matter to guesswork. Sometimes it was difficult to tell if the sorceress was actually upset, or if she was simply being testier than usual after a rough day or botched spell; she had made no mention of anything going on that might have put her nerves on edge this evening, but he did not think the few things he had mentioned since coming home would warrant this sort of coldness.

Yennefer sighed at the question. "Tea is not punishment, Geralt," she told him. "It's just tea. If I were upset with you, you'd know it."

"Would I?" Geralt asked, his frown deepening.

Yennefer looked up this time, staring at her husband, her expression a mix of emotions, difficult to read. She observed him in silence for a while, as if trying to decide whether or not to indulge his stubbornness, before finally lowering her gaze again, her dark lashes forcibly nonchalant against her pretty cheeks. "I've been in communication with a few members of the Lodge," she said, speaking again at last. "They contacted me first, and at first I considered simply ignoring them… but my curiosity got the better of me. I responded, and they've been in correspondence with me ever since. Letting me know what's been going on."

"The Lodge?" Geralt asked, surprised to hear it. "Thought they disbanded after the fight with the Hunt."

"Not disbanded, no," Yennefer answered, looking up at the observation. "Spread out, would be a better way of putting it. Most of the Lodge lost contact after the fight with the Hunt, but a few have begun reaching out, trying to find one another again." Pausing then, she seemed to consider something, before turning away from Geralt again, brushing her dark hair over her shoulder as she began to head in the direction of the gardens. "Shall we walk?" she asked, hardly bothering to wait for him to catch up. Geralt blinked, confused by the change, but moved quickly over to catch up with his wife, not wanting to be left behind and curious now what she was making him wait to hear.

Yennefer inhaled deeply as she walked, taking in the fragrance of spring on the breeze, not saying anything for a while as she stared out peacefully over the rows of vineyard flora. Their château gardens were a sight to behold, Geralt knew, but he found he could hardly enjoy their beauty as he waited for Yennefer to speak her mind, worried now that she had learned something from the Lodge she knew he would not be happy to hear. "I received a letter from Triss Merigold," she finally spoke again, still not looking at her husband. "And before you ask— yes, she did inquire about you. I told her you were well. And married."

She paused again after saying this, still staring out over the flower beds, before turning to look back at Geralt, as if expecting some reaction to this news. Geralt said nothing at the mention of Triss, only stared back evenly at his wife, and Yennefer huffed softly at the lack of reaction, before returning her attention to the gardens once more, seeming pleased. "From what she writes, she's taken great strides in her efforts towards mage equality," she continued after a moment. "Also in helping mages in dangerous areas escape to friendlier territories. She mentioned that she's contacted other members of the Lodge as well, which is heartening to hear. Hopefully she's had a bit of success reaching members the others haven't been able to."

Taking in another lungful of vineyard air, she began to move down the path again, taking her time to admire the field of flowers as she walked alongside it. "Most of the Lodge's members went into hiding, not wanting to suffer repercussions for breaking Sabrina out of prison," she continued, her lips pursing in worry at the thought, her shapely brows furrowing. "Though there have been a few even they can't account for the absence of. For instance, they tell me they've completely lost contact with Kiera."

At the mention of Kiera, Geralt stiffened, frowning at the news. "Haven't heard from Lambert either?" he asked, not bothering to hide his worry.

Yennefer gave another soft huff at the question, turning to look up at her husband again. "Lambert and Triss have never exactly gotten along," she reminded him, seeming surprised he could have forgotten that detail. "We of course considered the possibility that Kiera's silence was due to Lambert's influence. That would make sense if it was only Triss having difficulties. But it seems Keira hasn't been corresponding with any other members of the Lodge, either. That's where our worries mainly lie."

"Our?" Geralt asked.

Yennefer nodded. "I'm still a member of the Lodge, Geralt," she reminded him, matter-of-factly. "Just semi-retired. Much like you and the witchers. We never can quite stay away, can we?"

Geralt's frown deepened at the answer, and he turned to stare out over the garden, unseeing, unable to help wondering what could have happened to Kiera and her witcher companion. The last time any of them had spoken to Kiera and Lambert, it had been when they had left to travel together after the fight with the Hunt; they had seemed content at the time to leave all semblance of their old lives behind, but if Kiera had given no indication that she was no longer interested in cooperating with the Lodge, then it was entirely possible that something unfortunate could have happened to prevent her from corresponding. If that was the case, then it had to have been something terrible for not even Lambert to be able to prevent it, an idea which unsettled Geralt greatly, though he was not entirely certain why. Witchers fell to monsters all the time, he thought, and Lambert in particular was young and brash, the kind of man who would rather die fighting than walk away from a threat to those he cared about.

"I did hear that Fringilla Vigo is back in Anna Henrietta's court," Yennefer added after a moment, forcing Geralt to shake the thought of whatever creature could have put an end to his fellow witcher from his mind. "Not that I'm surprised. I'm sure the fact that she and Anna Henrietta are cousins likely went a long way in her favour." Taking in a deep breath at the thought, she arched her brows, clearly displeased with the news. "Of course, Ciri's abolishment of Emhyr's ultimatum about mages in Nilfgaard's vassal provinces likely also helped," she added, seeming less invested in the actual politics than bitter about what they had deposited onto her until-then idyllic doorstep. "It seems we're all doing our part to help our fellow sorceresses… whether they deserve it or not."

"She helped us defeat the Hunt," Geralt reminded her, hoping to push the conversation to a different topic. He knew why Fringilla Vigo presented a sore subject for Yennefer, but he did not have the mental energy to address those spots of contention today. "Helped you escape Montecalvo. Told you how to get around the barrier, to get to Ciri."

Yennefer huffed at the defence, pausing to lean sullenly against a floral archway in the path. "Yes, well… even ghouls sometimes feast on the enemy, I suppose," she returned, dourly. "I do worry she may be part of what's causing the duchy to take so long on our request, however. If the court mage presents an argument for denial based on magical means, there's really no one to dispute it. She could say whatever she liked to have our clinic shut down. Or worse, put in clerical purgatory forever." She frowned at the thought, her lips twisting in a look of disgust, before her pretty nose flattened against her face in a spiteful scowl. "I still haven't forgiven her for blinding me at Sodden Hill, you know," she added. "That's a sting that won't go away anytime soon. Or for seducing you for months while you were here in Toussaint with Dandelion all those years ago."

Geralt felt a muscle in his jaw give a twitch at the mention of his journey to Toussaint with Dandelion, but he steeled his expression, hoping that refusing to react might convince Yennefer to move on more quickly. Yennefer pursed her lips again, her eyes sharp as knives as she stared down at the garden path, before she finally took in another deep breath, not bothering to look at Geralt this time as she spoke. "I'm still not even sure what you were doing here in that time," she told him, sounding half-bewildered as she shook her head. "There's not even that much for a witcher to do here. Apart from Fringilla Vigo, I suppose."

"Hmm," Geralt answered, looking down at the jab, realizing this would not be a conversation he could simply will away. Allowing Yennefer time alone with Shani while he was off filling contracts was turning into a terrible idea, he realized, as her exposure to the doctor only seemed to be drawing out all his wife's memories of all the other poor decisions he had made during their time together. They had been married for barely four months at this point – a fact which surprised him, now that he thought about it – yet in those months the topics of his prior faults had hardly been touched, if ever at all. Geralt, himself had been more than content to leave those events in the past, but it seemed that any conversation with Yennefer anymore eventually devolved into one he hoped he might never be forced to address, and he sighed, unable to help feeling a bit annoyed at her inopportune choice of timing.

"Not sure why you're bringing this up now," he told her, gruffly, turning his golden eyes up to her again. "Haven't done anything wrong recently. Haven't even talked to Fringilla since the fight with the Hunt, and then only to discuss tactics." Resting a hand against his hip, he thinned his lips, his scowl deepening. "Just got back from a difficult contract," he added, more frustrated. "Just wanted to come home, have a nice meal. Talk it over with my wife. Get a little sympathy for a change. Guess it was stupid to hope."

"Oh, don't play woe is me," Yennefer returned, coldly, folding her arms across her chest. She stayed that way for a moment, poised, rigid, violet eyes flashing, before her indignation began to slowly drain away, her righteous energy leaving her slight frame as quickly as she had gained it. As Geralt watched, the sorceress appeared to deflate before his very eyes, dwindling in size from a ruffled predator to a solemn, weary songbird, until her shoulders fell resignedly to her sides, and she sighed, softly, looking down to her boots. "What are we doing, Geralt?" she asked, quietly, the words surprising him as much as her tone. "Why do we keep fighting like this? I'm not upset with you. I love you. You're my husband. And I'm not upset with Triss either, or Shani, or Ciri. Especially not Ciri. They've done nothing wrong. I don't know why…"

Trailing off, Yennefer fell silent again, pausing another moment before turning to stare out towards the garden, her pristine brow furrowing, her expression a soft, defeated melancholy Geralt had only seen from her a few times in his life. It was not an objectionable expression, only an incredibly human one, but for some reason he found it much more unsettling than anything else he might have expected from the sorceress at a time like this. A solemn quietude fell across the path as Geralt waited for her to say something more, and for an instant he wondered if he should leave, allowing Yennefer some time alone without his presence there to distress her – but she seemed to realize his intention, as a second later she looked up at him again, her expression thoughtful, striking eyes soft and weary as she took another breath, preparing to speak.

"Something feels off," Yennefer admitted, softly, making Geralt's brow furrow at the observation. "I don't know what it is. But something feels wrong. It's been like this ever since Shani moved in." She paused at the thought, thinning her lips. "It's nothing to do with her," she added, quickly. "It's something in the air. An energy. A shift of some sort. Have you felt it? Something is changing, and I don't know what. And I don't like that I don't know."

"Been feeling it, too," Geralt admitted, relieved that Yennefer had said something about it first. "Thought it was just me. Just having trouble adjusting. But things have been weirder than usual lately." Reaching up to his wolf's head medallion, he frowned, wrapping his fingers around the resting, jagged shape. "Medallion keeps going off," he added, thoughtfully. "Thought it was you, but… went off today, too. Down in the sewer. Some kind of strange magic. Don't like when I don't know what I'm up against."

"Neither do I," Yennefer agreed, frowning. "Which is why all of this frightens me so much, Geralt. If this monster was really what you say it was…"

"It was," Geralt answered, solemnly. "Wouldn't lie to you, Yen. Monster was what I said. Wouldn't make that up."

"And what if it was?" Yennefer returned, more distressed. "What am I to think then? Knowing hybrid abominations prowl the streets, and my husband is the one called on to deal with them? You, who've never fought this type of beast in your entire life?" Pacing back a few steps, she held out a hand to him, indicative. "You've nearly died twice now, Geralt," she told him. "Simply from going down the road into town. Simple contracts, you said they were – nothing too worrisome – and they both nearly got you killed."

"Didn't know what they entailed," Geralt countered, frankly. "Thought they'd be easy. Necrophages usually are."

"And why wouldn't you think that?" Yennefer asked. "You had no reason to know otherwise. No one is looking out for your best interest. Then along comes Ciri with this new mysterious contract, one she won't even tell you what it is— and you, of course, jump at the opportunity, because it's Ciri and adventure and the unknown. But what of me, Geralt? Do you expect me to smile, to cheer, knowing I nearly lost you twice already? Having no idea what waits out there in Temeria, or if I'd even learn of your death if you never came back?"

"That's—" Geralt started to say, but quickly stopped himself, thinking, before dropping his head. "That's… fair," he admitted. "Sorry, Yen. Didn't think about that."

"Of course you didn't," Yennefer told him, folding her arms to her chest again. "Because you're a witcher. You don't think about these things. But it's all I think about, left here alone. Something is wrong, Geralt, but you're too stubborn to see it— too blinded by Ciri, and your need for adventure, and your desire to be anywhere but here with me. But I…" She stopped, trailing off again, before turning her violet eyes to stare down at the cobbled walk instead. "You said we would come out here to be happy," she told him, quietly. "But I didn't come here for the house, Geralt. Not for the vineyard, or the sunshine… I came here so I could be with you. When you said we could be happy, in spite of what we'd always been told, I believed you. I still believe you. Because my happiness is you."

Geralt faltered at the admission, having not expected to hear it so plainly, but Yennefer did not waver in her conviction, looking up to stare at him again across the garden walk. "I know you'll always love Ciri, Geralt," she told him, her gaze never leaving his. "I love Ciri. I wouldn't want to live without her in our lives, in some way. And I know how important Shani is to you, and I'm happy to have her here. I am." Taking another deep breath, she stopped, going quiet for a while as she watched him, intently. "I've done everything I can to make you happy," she told him. "But… my happiness has to count for something, too."

Geralt said nothing, feeling his heart sink heavy like a stone in his chest at her words. He had no comfort to give her, no pretty words to ease her mind; she was right, and he deserved to hear it, as little as he might want to. Taking a few steps across to his wife, he rested his hands on her slender shoulders, before moving to cup her face lovingly in his palm, running his thumb across her pale cheek. "You're my wife," he told her, softly. "Your happiness is the only thing that counts." Brushing her raven hair back from her face, he tucked a lock of it behind her ear, smiling as she stared up into his face, her violet eyes earnest as they searched his cat-like gaze. "Won't tell Ciri where the plate came from," he compromised. "Just say I found it in town. Ask if she has any information about it. That way she doesn't think I'm in any trouble. Won't alert her that something is wrong. Just one witcher asking for help from another."

Resting his palm against her cheek again, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, breathing in the soothing scent of lilac and gooseberries as he leaned back again, looking down once more into her solemn face. "We'll get through this, Yen," he told her, gently. "Just like we've gotten through everything else."

Yennefer paused, staring up at her husband, waiting for a moment after he finished speaking; her expression was half weary, half hopeful as she watched him, as if looking for some shift, some sign, something that wavered, anything that might break the illusion of truth she so desperately wanted to believe. Then, reaching up to him, she took hold of his calloused hand, bringing it down to her lips for a soft kiss on the back of his worn knuckles. "I believe you," she told him, quietly. "I always do."