The mires of Crookback Bog reeked of evil and rot, causing Yennefer to wrinkle her nose, her pretty mouth twisting in a discouraged line as she straightened her husband's armour. "Don't hesitate to contact me if something goes wrong," she told him, combing her fingers worriedly through his hair. "It's more important for you to live than to die performing these tasks."
Geralt nodded in understanding, patting the pouch at his belt where the xenovox weighed against his hip. "Got it," he said, smiling as he watched her fret over him. "Not planning on dying on the first task."
Yennefer huffed, looking up at him again, her unamused stare a stark foil to his playful grin. "Your sense of humour needs work," she told him, straightening his wolf medallion on its chain. She frowned, touching each buckle of his outfit in turn to make sure they were securely fastened, before she straightened his pauldrons with a heavy sigh, realizing she was only wasting time in an effort not to let him go. "I expect to hear from you by tomorrow," she told him, tapping a soft, scolding finger against his chest. "If I don't, I'll assume you've died. I'm not prepared to be a widow yet, so I would avoid that at all costs, if I were you."
"Wouldn't dream of tasking you with my funeral," Geralt answered, his grin widening as he teased her. "Just leave me to the drowners. More environmentally conscious."
"Stop it," Yennefer hissed, looking up at her husband again sharply. "I know what you're trying to do, but… allow me to be worried for you." She pursed her lips, brushing a bit of hair from his eyes that had fallen loose in the breeze, before letting out a soft sigh, moving her arms around his waist to hold him as she looked up into his face. "We've been married barely five months," she told him, as if the shortness of their time together had only just hit her. "I don't wish to lose you when I've barely had an opportunity to be your wife just yet."
Geralt nodded, reaching down to tuck a lock of dark hair behind her ear, before cupping her face softly in his gloved hand, running a leather-clad thumb across her cheek. "Don't intend to let anything happen," he assured her, his voice quieter, speaking sincerely this time. "Just killing a monster, collecting a trophy. Do this all the time."
Yennefer frowned, reaching up to cover the hand on her face with her own. "I love you, Geralt," she told him, softly, leaning into his palm with a weary sigh. Then, letting go of his hand again, she took a step back, opening a portal in the swamp, causing an eerie wind to whip Geralt's face as he watched his wife step through the swirling vortex, disappearing back to Toussaint.
The sudden silence of the Bog was nearly deafening in Yennefer's absence, and Geralt turned as the quiet enveloped him, unable to help feeling very alone without his wife's guiding presence to comfort him. Taking a few steps forward, he scanned the empty marsh for some sign of the Crone, knowing full well if she had left a trail of any kind, it would likely be long destroyed by now. It had been months since he had last been to the Bog, but not much had changed about it in that time; it was still as barren, repetitive, and unpleasant as it had always been, a wasteland of dying trees and overgrown grasses, with the stench of stagnant water and rot making him nearly sick to breathe.
There were bodies here, Geralt knew – not only the bodies of monsters he, himself had left behind, but also human bodies, slain by others, their corpses left to putrefy in the swamp where no one would think to look for them. He had come across the corpse of the Pellar's own father here not too long ago, he remembered, and he could not help wondering how many others had been left to decay here in obscurity. That thought was soon followed by another, an unconscious, morbid curiosity, and he found himself wondering if he might not become one of those corpses himself today, and if Yennefer would even be able to find him if he were to be killed out here in the swamp.
Shaking the gruesome thought from his mind, Geralt started forward on his path through the marsh, picking his way around muck-holes and warrens as he searched for some lingering trace of the Crone. He was sure she would not have returned to the cottages where Anna Strenger had kept her wards – the place was too known now, too dangerous, and would make her too much of a target for those seeking revenge for the pain and suffering she and her sisters had inflicted on the people of Downwarren. As it was, the landscape had no rhyme or reason, no tracks or scent for him to pick up and follow; it was overrun with animal bones, excrement, and the footprints of drowners running from mere to mere, pockmarking the mud with their grotesque webbed feet, making it impossible to see where anything else might have tread.
It felt like an eternity of searching, mostly in vain – until, suddenly, Geralt noticed an odd shape in the path, a bright, inorganically-moulded remnant of something floating in one of the many boggy puddles. Approaching the object, the witcher looked down at it, tilting his head to observe the unusual shape, before he suddenly recognized it as a heart-shaped cookie, similar to the ones he had found hanging along the original trail of treats. Crouching down to the treat, he picked it up, turning it over to inspect it, before making a face and crushing the spoiled cookie in his fist, dumping the maggoty crumbles back into the swamp.
If the Crone was still out here, this meant she was still trying to lure children to her for meat, and Geralt felt his stomach turn as he looked up again, noting the newly-laid trail of pastries leading deeper into the mire. The bloated, soggy forms of the cookies floated eerie and bright atop the sodden path, only to disappear after only a few more treats, the rest having clearly been eaten by bog creatures or dissolved by the rancid water where they had been left. Getting to his feet, the witcher kicked aside another half-liquefied treat in the path, before he quickly looked up towards the marsh again, listening as the mournful sound of a half-howl, half-growl reached his ears.
The sound was easily identifiable as a werewolf, though what a werewolf could be doing in the Bog was beyond him to guess; he had never known werewolves to inhabit this place, but he had been surprised by the resilience of monsters before. It would not be the first time he had found something living in a place it had no business to be, after all – he remembered well the kikimora nest he had purged from beneath a winery in Toussaint, but the memory was soon pushed from his mind by the sudden vibration of his medallion against his chest, the solid hum of the necklace making the hair on the back of his neck prickle with sensitivity.
Glancing around, Geralt narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out where the magical aura was coming from; while the idea of something with strong magical energy residing in the Bog was bad enough, the thought of it being intelligent enough to hide from him was somehow even worse. For a moment, he wondered if the magic was being concealed by some sort of illusory spell – until another moment later, when the medallion hummed again, this time accompanied by the sound of something approaching through the swamp; something large, with heavy, pounding feet and even heavier, ragged breath.
Looking up towards the coming sound, Geralt watched as the creature came bounding towards him, taking a step back as it finally emerged from the shadows of the Bog to stand before him. The beast pulled up short before reaching him, rearing up on its muscular hind legs to stand, before looking down at the witcher with bared, yellow teeth, watching as he stared, unflinchingly, back up into its face. The werewolf looked much less threatening than he had anticipated, now that he could see it up close; it was scrawny and sallow, as if it had not eaten a proper meal in quite some time, and dressed in the tattered remains of what he guessed had once been a human man's clothes. Looking the beast over, Geralt found his gaze suddenly drawn to a severed human ear tied to the side of the werewolf's head, and he felt his medallion give another hum, clearly recognizing the magical energy it had detected earlier from deeper in the swamp.
Geralt remembered too well the sacrifices the Crones had demanded from the frightened folk of Downwarren, the severed ears the Whispess had worn around her neck like a trophy, enchanted to allow her to hear all goings-on within the swamp. Leaning in for a better look, the witcher nearly winced as he examined the gruesome adornment, noting that the tightness with which it was knotted around the werewolf's skull had begun to slice deeply into the beast's tender flesh. The werewolf's skin beneath the twine was puffy and scarred, the fur around it matted with dried brown blood, and Geralt could plainly see where patches of fur had begun to rub off, spots where the string was tied particularly tightly around the werewolf's skull.
Taking another step closer, Geralt paused as the werewolf began to snarl softly, the fur on the back of its trunk-like neck standing on end as it faced off with its newfound foe. The witcher flexed his hand at his side, waiting for the werewolf to make the first move – but after a while of no response, he realized such a move was unlikely to come. The wolf was all bark and no bite, it seemed, and for a moment he could not help wondering if this was some kind of trap, a distraction set up by the remaining Crone to ensure threatening-looking visitors never made it to her doorstep. From the haggard, famished look of the werewolf, however, he figured the creature would not put up much of a fight, so it stood to reason that this was not an encounter orchestrated by the Crone for her protection. This was merely an act of desperation on the part of the werewolf, a creature who appeared just as afraid of the Bog and its residents as any unwitting visitor might be.
"Who are you?" the werewolf insisted, the lip of his muzzle lifting to reveal the first points of his yellowish teeth. His whiskers trembled as he spoke, his nervous eyes darting between the witcher and the path behind him, as if equally afraid of what might have followed him as he was of the man who stood before him.
Geralt frowned at the strange question, wondering what importance his name served to anything going on in the Bog. "You know who I am," he answered after a moment, deciding to tread with caution. "And you know why I'm here."
The werewolf hesitated, his ragged ears flattening as a flicker of acceptance glinted through his dulled golden eyes – as strange as it seemed, he appeared neither afraid nor resentful of the witcher for his profession. It was an unusual mix, Geralt thought, and an eerie one, the idea of a creature so accepting of death he did not even seem to begrudge the one who had come with the intent to give it to him. "I do," the werewolf answered after a while, his voice stiff, as if merely conversing a change of guard duty. "You needn't worry… I'm no longer a threat. I starve, for the swamp is poisoned. I've no strength left to hunt humans."
Geralt grunted, his suspicions about the werewolf's failing health having been confirmed. "Crone summon you?" he asked, not risking changing the tone of the conversation.
The werewolf hummed, the sound coming out as a low, burbling growl, before he straightened on his strong hind legs, coming to tower at least a foot over the witcher. "In my sleep…" he answered, an odd, wistful tone entering his voice this time. Looking up past Geralt, he stared out towards the tops of the trees in the distance, the waning, marshy light of midday casting a watery glass over his sombre yellow eyes. "Once, I had wolf dreams," he added, his voice trailing, as if only half-aware of what he was saying. "Now I dream only hunger… pain, and blood."
Geralt's brow darkened at the words, and for a moment he had to resist turning to look at whatever the werewolf was staring at. From the creature's description, it seemed the Crone had used her power to get inside his head, corrupting him with visions, drawing him in with promises, and then sickening him, using her dark magic to force him to serve as her protector. The harsh conditions of Crookback Bog were no place for a werewolf to survive, he knew – the only things that could live here were amphibious monsters and those that fed on rot, not creatures intelligent enough to realize when they had been manipulated, but too frightened by the potential consequences to attempt escape. "Where is she?" he asked, drawing the werewolf back again, causing him to blink a few times, still lost in wistful thoughts.
The werewolf hesitated, staring at the witcher, as if deciding whether or not to trust him. Then, turning, he pointed back behind him. "Out there," he answered, simply. "In the swamp." Returning his gaze to Geralt again, the werewolf's ears pricked forward at the sound of a sword being drawn, before he dropped his gaze to the blade in Geralt's hand, his expression falling just as quickly to meet it. Looking up to the witcher's face again, the werewolf stared at him pleadingly, his expression wretched, a far cry from the defensive anger usually brought on by the sight of the silver sword. "Is there no other way?" the werewolf asked, his voice soft, clearly knowing the answer, and Geralt faltered at the question, surprised by the beast's resigned manner in light of his coming fate.
This werewolf was unlike any other the witcher had encountered over the years, as even the most remorseful of those usually turned feral at the sight of his silver sword. This one, however, seemed more concerned with retaining his humanity than his head, a thought which made Geralt's hand falter on his blade, readjusting his grip as he considered. "There's one," he finally decided, lowering the tip of his blade to the swamp. "Find the Crone. Guide me through the swamp— to her."
"And then?" the werewolf asked, still hardly daring to hope.
"Then I'll see," Geralt answered, knowing he could promise no more than that.
The werewolf snorted, seeming less than satisfied with the open-ended response, but he said nothing, clearly realizing it was likely the best he was going to get. "The Crone…" he spoke again after a moment, growing bolder in his conversation with the increasingly lenient witcher. "What's she done to you?"
"Stole my daughter's medallion," Geralt answered, simply.
The werewolf paused again, his whiskers twitching, seeming to be pondering what dangers waited for so simple a task. "If I may… why risk it?" he finally asked. "The Crone will fight – like a hundred wolverine, she'll fight. She may cripple, even kill you." Crouching lower to the swamp, he folded his clawed hands together, his ears flattening to his head, looking the world like a frightened puppy at the thought of what awaited at the last Crone's hut. "Find the girl a new pendant," he urged, his fear obvious in the tremor of his voice. "Her sorrow will pass, in time."
"I can't," Geralt answered, shaking his head.
"Why not?" the werewolf pressed, turning his yellow gaze up to meet the witcher's again.
Geralt frowned, absentmindedly testing the weight of his sword, before stashing it in the sheath on his back again with soft, frustrated exhale. "My reasons are my own," he said, quickly growing tired of the werewolf's stalling. He knew the wolf feared her – he had said so, himself – but his fear was only holding Geralt back from his task, and he jerked a hand towards the swamp, annoyed that he had to be so upfront about it. "Go."
The werewolf faltered, his ragged ears flattening for a moment, before he swallowed, turning away and waving a hand for Geralt to follow. To the witcher's disappointment, the wolf did not seem to know an easier path through the Bog, but he followed as closely as he could as the beast splashed through stagnant water and across muddy banks, not bothering to avoid knee-deep puddles or sinking mud-pits as he led Geralt on through the swamp. The witcher had to nearly run in an effort to keep up with the werewolf's four-legged pace, trying to ignore the soggy sensation in his leather boots and knowing well the ear-twisting he was likely to get when he arrived home reeking of a Velen bog. Still, the thought of seeing Yennefer again at all was enough to keep his heart light, even as he pulled his sole from the sucking mud, shaking it off before continuing after the werewolf through the swamp.
If Ciri were here, she would find the idea of him slogging through a bog in pursuit of a lost necklace hilarious, he realized, and he decided he would have to tell her all about this whenever he returned back home. Perhaps he could leave out a few details, he decided, particularly about the rancid sludge piling up in his expensive boots, though it occurred to him that it was bold to assume he would return from this at all. His last encounter with the Crones had seen him nearly gored on the antlers of a fiend one of the sisters had summoned, but the thought of anything besides success was not something he was willing to consider right now.
Shaking the dreary thought from his head, Geralt instead turned his attention to the werewolf again. "What's your name?" he asked, earning a surprised, fleeting glance back over the creature's shoulder.
"Berem," the werewolf answered, his voice solemn, as if he had not thought about it in quite some time.
Geralt nodded, edging his way around a nearly pitch-black pit of murky water, recognizing the sinkhole as a drowner's nest and not wanting to disturb any creatures of the swamp. "Good name," he said, earning a pleased flick of the werewolf's ears in response. "Lead me to the Crone, Berem."
The acknowledgement of his human name seemed to bolster the werewolf's enthusiasm, and he quickly picked up his pace, leading the witcher deeper into the swamp. The trees grew thicker around them as they continued, the sickly yellowed leaves strangling out the already-murky sunlight, but Berem seemed to know where he was going even without the sun, and he glanced back, making sure the witcher had not fallen behind. "Witcher…" he suddenly spoke again, causing Geralt to look up, surprised to hear the wolf addressing him. He sounded hesitant this time, as if afraid to breach the subject, not wanting to ask too much. "There's a wolf den nearby," Berem told him. "Wolf cubs inside. Please… carry them out of the swamp." His expression grew stern as he said this, turning his attention back to the marshy lands ahead, his whiskers quivering as he let out a low breath through his wet black nose, still thoughtful.
"They'll not survive here," Berem added, as if he had witnessed this too many times before. "They'll die, if left to the swamp's influences. Or they'll change into something… evil." Geralt faltered at the last addendum, wondering what wicked things Berem had seen, but he decided against asking, not wanting to risk further slowing their trek through the swamp. Pushing aside a low-hanging branch, he followed the wolf through the darkening trees, unable to help wondering what sort of man Berem had been before the lycanthropy had been put upon him. Even in this darkest of hours, his humanity still found ways to shine unexpectedly through – he was cursed, starving, being forced to act as a sentry for a cause he did not believe in, yet his first thoughts still went to the wolf and her cubs, his first plead to the witcher to save the young pups, rather than asking to save himself.
Unfortunately, the thought did not have long to linger before Geralt found their progress cut short, halted suddenly as Berem stopped in his tracks, standing again on his hind legs to sniff the breeze. Treading quietly through the muck to the wolf, Geralt came to stand patiently at his side, watching as Berem tested the air, his yellow eyes narrowing as he tried to identify the new smell. "I sense a wolf…" he reported after a moment, his voice low. "…And men."
Geralt frowned at the news, looking out towards the swamp, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the men Berem could smell on the breeze; the Pellar's warning about the villages nearest the Bog growing increasingly protective of the Crone was still fresh in his mind, and the thought of encountering any of her newfound extremists was not a pleasant one. "How many?" he asked, keeping his voice low as well.
Berem sniffed at the air again, his furry brow darkening. "Ten," he answered, solemnly. "No more."
Geralt let out a hard breath at the report, his hand itching at his side for his meteorite blade, but he clenched his fist instead, before holding out a hand to stop Berem from proceeding. "Stay out of it," he told the werewolf, before starting to walk in the direction of the camp, not bothering to look back at the worried face of the creature left standing behind him as he went.
Ten hunters had been at the camp when Geralt arrived, and now, ten corpses lay strewn across the mud at his feet. He had only taken out six on his own – the other four had been handled by Berem, who had turned up halfway through the fight despite the witcher warning him otherwise. Still, Geralt found he could not be too frustrated with the werewolf's protective instincts, and, turning to look for him again, he spotted the wolf at the edge of the camp, rolling over one of the hunters' corpses to stare at the fresh wound on the side of his head.
Geralt had noticed the wound as well, before the hunters had started what would be their last fight, and he wondered if the ear missing from the human man's head was the same one so gruesomely tied to Berem's. Berem had fared with only a single wound from the fight, a deep cut in his shoulder from a hunter's axe, but the evidence of his own actions were far more brutal: fresh blood covered his hands and muzzle, soaking through what little remained of his clothes, but Geralt knew he had no room to judge how the werewolf had turned out from the scuffle. Blood matted in clumps in the witcher's hair, drying in sticky patches to his face and beard, clinging to every inch of his clothes as he crossed the camp to the she-wolf at last.
The she-wolf stood at the edge of the encampment, her fur caked in mud and matted with fresh blood, whining and snarling as she attempted to yank her foreleg free from the bear-trap she was caught in. It was a wicked, rusty-looking contraption, much too large for an animal of her size, and Geralt could see that her leg was clearly broken by the trap's unforgiving teeth. The she-wolf snarled as he approached, yanking on her leg in the grisly snare, and he could see the look of fear and pain in her eyes as she stared up at him, baring her teeth in an act of defiance.
She had every right to fear him, just as she had every right to fear the hunters who had ensnared her – at first glance, she had no reason to think the witcher any different from them. To her, he was just another man, another threat to her life and her young, his golden eyes and silver hair no more a thought to her than the wolf-head medallion around his neck. Geralt watched for a moment as the she-wolf tried in vain to lick at a bone spur poking through her matted fur, feeling his stomach turn in pity at the sight of an animal in such distress; he realized now there was a reason witchers often hated men as much as most men hated witchers. The more he saw of men – their wickedness, their selfishness, their cruelty, their misplaced pride – the more he preferred to share common ground with animals like these instead.
The she-wolf snarled at him as he approached, recognizing the stench of blood on his clothes, and he stopped short again, realizing she was still afraid of him, despite all he had just done for her. She was only an animal after all, and as an animal she knew only trust and fear – and from what he had just shown her, she had every right to fear him more than anything. Turning to Berem again, Geralt ran a gloved hand over his sticky face, attempting to clear at least some of the blood still clinging to his lashes and beard. "Get her out," he instructed, pointing to the she-wolf, causing her to bristle at the gesture, before baring her reddened gums as Berem did as he was told, padding forward on cautious feet to unhinge the trap from around her leg.
"I mean you no harm, little mother," Berem told her, his voice deep with gentle vibrato. The softness of his tone seemed to calm the wolf down, and she hesitated, before she began to whine again, attempting once more to lick at the bone still sticking out of her wounded leg.
Werewolves were strong creatures, Geralt knew, but Berem was malnourished and gentle, and he could not help wondering if he would even be able to open the trap to release the mother wolf – but the sound of the latch-spring breaking in half was enough to dispel his worries, and he watched as the she-wolf let out a sharp yelp, before retreating back a few limping paces to finally lick her wounds. Berem shushed the she-wolf gently, trying to soothe her as he attempted to approach, but the sound of something from deeper in the swamp seemed to have most of her attention. The she-wolf howled, the sound almost piteous coming from a throat so dry, before she began to whine again, flattening her ears and laying her head down in the dirt.
"She hears her young," Berem informed Geralt, looking up at him again with solemn eyes. "They must be nearby. The den is not safe. Without the mother, the pups are unprotected."
Geralt nodded, turning his head to listen for the telltale sounds of pups deeper in the swamp. At first, he could only hear the sound of the she-wolf whining as Berem attempted to dress her wound – but, drawing on his training, he closed his eyes, concentrating hard to tune out the sounds of the closest distractions, until he slowly began to hear the high, sharp yips of several smaller creatures through the din of the bog. The pups' cries were faint at first, too faint to follow, but they grew steadily louder as he honed in on them, gradually isolating the sound of the cries from every other noise around him. Opening his eyes again, Geralt turned swiftly in the direction of the isolated sound, following the puppies' faint cries past a cluster of trees and through a dense, knee-high thicket of tall, yellowish grass.
The swamp worked well to mask any scent apart from the stench of stagnant water and rotting leaves, but he could still catch faint whiffs of wolf fur on the breeze as he followed the trail of the noise. The smell of wolf urine and rotting flesh grew stronger as he continued through the marsh, the pups' squeals growing gradually louder, eventually leading him in the direction of a nearby willow tree. The tree's skinny, sloping trunk was barely visible through the matted thicket of swamp-grass, its roots growing upward in serpentine coils, weaving together at the base to create what Geralt soon realized was the mouth of a tiny cave. Crouching down to the opening, he realized the smell of wolf urine and rotting meat was much stronger here, and, peering in through the darkness, he allowed his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light.
Three pairs of golden eyes stared back at him from the far wall of the den, and the pups began to whine as they spotted the witcher, terrified of the heavy-footed, blood-covered stranger. Geralt hummed softly in response to their whines, allowing a slight smile to curve the corners of his stoic lips, before he reached into his hip-satchel, starting to slowly pull out a chunk of smoke-dried beef. He had been looking forward to having it later that day, but he figured they would appreciate it more than he would, and, tearing off a few bite-sized pieces, he set them down gently outside the mouth of the cave. Then, kneeling in the muddy grass, he meditated lightly, half-watching the root formation, silent and patient as he waited for the pups to come out and investigate.
It took a few minutes of waiting before the first pup finally emerged from the den, his tiny black nose glittering wet in the swamp-light as he poked it cautiously from the shadow of the cave mouth. The pup sniffed curiously at the piece of jerky, nudging it once to see if it was safe for taking, before he quickly snatched it up, pulling it back inside the den, only to be greeted by the excited yips of his siblings as they inspected his brave spoils. Geralt could hear Berem approaching from behind him, the werewolf's usually heavy footfalls muted by the care he was taking, until he finally came to squat behind the witcher in the grass, squinting to peer in towards the darkened den as well.
"Are they in there?" Berem asked, quietly, not wanting to startle the pups.
"Three pups," Geralt answered, just as quietly. "The mother?"
"Wounded badly," Berem returned, solemnly, but there was less melancholy in his voice than before. "She is too weak and injured to hunt for her pups. She will not be able to make it out of the swamp on her own."
Geralt hummed, tearing another few chunks of dried meat from his lunch, before setting them out a bit further from the cave mouth, sitting back again to allow the pups time to emerge and investigate. It took only a few short moments this time before the first little black nose appeared from the cave, followed quickly by another, and then a third, all snuffling curiously at the tasty-smelling air. The first pup, the trailblazer, was again the first to emerge, bounding out to snatch a piece of meat before returning to the den, settling down just within the mouth to gnaw eagerly at his hard-won prize. The puppies appeared to be getting braver with each piece of jerky the first pup stole, and it did not take long before the second pup emerged as well, sniffing cautiously as she padded towards the dried meat.
The second pup took her time to approach, as if closing in on wily prey, and, tearing off another piece, Geralt held it out for her to investigate, feeling Berem's warm breath on his back as the cub crept closer. The wolf cub sniffed at the witcher's hand, before quickly grabbing the snack from his fingers, leaping back sharply towards the den and letting out a high-pitched growl before dropping down to enjoy her meat. Realizing the food was coming from the stranger, the first and third pups seemed to forget their gunshy disposition, padding out to join the second as she all but inhaled her hard-earned snack. The little girl growled at her siblings as they snuffled curiously at her prize, and so, thwarted, they turned their attention to the witcher's hip-pouch instead, where the smell of dried meat still lingered.
The first pup was quick to shove his whole head in the pouch, before realizing that the food was no longer there, and he turned his attention to Geralt's hands instead, climbing up into his lap and yipping insistently at his newfound provider. No longer afraid of the witcher, the puppies now barked and growled as they fought for control of his lap, howling their squeaky howls and nipping at his gloves in a bold attempt to pry the not-yet-broken-up spoils free. Geralt grinned as he watched them play, knowing he was losing precious sunlight to this endeavour, but he found he had less concern for that than he normally would have, somehow.
"You've earned their trust quickly," Berem remarked, chuckling at the observation.
"They're hungry," Geralt said, petting back the soft ears of one pup, before offering her another piece of dried meat to take. The pup snapped eagerly at the meat, yanking it hastily from Geralt's fingers, before she leaped back again with a high-pitched growl, too young and proud to acknowledge how small she was in comparison to the witcher.
Berem huffed at the dismissal, reaching out a clawed hand to scratch lightly under the chin of one of the pups. In response, the pup yipped fiercely, before flipping over in the dirt and wriggling on his back, kicking his little furry feet. "You give yourself no credit," Berem informed him, scratching lightly at the playful pup's exposed belly. "You have an empathy not often seen in your kind. You mustn't allow yourself to take that for granted." Finished scratching the pup's tummy, Berem retrieved his hand to his lap again, watching as the pups began to chase one another around the den, letting out a low chuckle as one tried to bury itself in Geralt's lap.
"Let me help you," the werewolf suddenly said, looking up at the witcher again, his golden eyes now determined; he was solemn this time, resolute, ready to fight whatever lay up ahead. His demeanour had changed at the sight of the pups, as if something inside him had been stirred – perhaps by the thought of Geralt slaughtering ten men so one mother wolf and her young could live. Even so, Geralt knew he could not take advantage of this momentary bolster of bravery, and he shook his head, scratching idly behind the ears of the pup now yawning in his lap.
"No," Geralt answered. "Go back to your wolf dreams, Berem. Save the she-wolf and her cubs. Leave the Bog and take them with you, somewhere far away from this place." It was a strange command, especially when coming from a witcher and speaking to a werewolf; a witcher more loyal to the code of his Path would have insisted the werewolf be killed, or at the very least be forced to stay in the swamp, as far away from decent civilization as possible. But Berem had done no wrong so far, and from the empathy he had shown for the she-wolf and her cubs, it seemed unlikely he had any intent to do such wrong in the future. Even the severed human ear attached to his head, as gruesome as it was, was not his own doing, being part of the ritual that kept folk in nearby towns terrified of the Crones and loyally tied to the Bog.
The sudden reminder of the ear on Berem's head was an unsettling one, and Geralt found he could not keep his eyes from returning to it, realizing for the first time the implication of allowing Berem to follow him on his path through the Bog. The ear around his head was undoubtedly charmed with the same magic as the ones the Whispess had wore around her neck, allowing her to hear goings-on throughout the swamp – which meant the Weavess was likely aware of his coming by now. Still, he found he could not be bothered to care whether she knew of his arrival or not. If she did, then she knew retribution for her wicked actions were close at hand – but if not, she would be in for a bloody surprise when he finally arrived on her doorstep.
Picking up the wolf cub from his lap, Geralt handed the squirming pup over to Berem, watching as the werewolf fumbled for a moment to find the most soothing way to hold the tiny creature. The pup took only a moment to adjust, wriggling a bit in Berem's meaty arms, before she buried her nose in the werewolf's chest, seeming soothed by the smell of another wolf-like creature. "Find yourself a comely wifewolf," Geralt told him, watching as the pup settled in against her new protector. "Use what you've learned to make a life for yourself. And live. All of you, live."
Berem hesitated at the command, his whiskers quivering as he blew soft bursts of air through his furry lips, gently petting back the ears of the now-sleeping pup in his arms as he thought of what to say. "Fine," he finally answered, still only sounding half-sure of his decision. "But… I will take you to the Crone first. It is the least I can do to help the witcher who took on ten men to save one she-wolf."
"Six," Geralt corrected him, turning his golden eyes to meet those of the werewolf again. "I killed six. You killed four."
"Numbers are not important," Berem returned, sounding a bit impatient. "You took them on before I arrived. Had I not joined you, you would have fought all ten. You were prepared to. Don't deny your good intentions, witcher." Looking down at the cub in his arms, he paused, his massive paw stopping halfway through petting it, before he let out a soft, weary-sounding sigh, resting his hand against the pup's warm back. "Most would not bother," he added, sadly, shaking his head at the thought. "Especially at the behest of a werewolf. Especially a witcher, most of whom think only to kill."
"Hm," Geralt answered, realizing Berem had a point, although a somewhat bleak one. It was true that most witchers had no interest in anything that did not offer coin, as that was how witchers were trained – as professionals, offering services in exchange for payment, as any professional might. He had been that way once, before Ciri had taught him that helping others could sometimes be its own reward. The concept was strange, counterintuitive at best, and almost entirely untrue in most instances, but it made Ciri proud of him, a fact which was more valuable to him than all the coin-purses in the Continent.
"We are more alike than you think, witcher," Berem told him, drawing his attention back again. "You and I."
"Don't know about that," Geralt answered, shortly, shaking his head at the thought. Pushing himself up from the marshy dirt, he brushed the mud from his armoured trousers, not even seeming to realize the irony in bothering when so much of him was still caked in half-dried blood. The two pups still on the ground whined as he straightened, taking a few wary bounds back towards their den, not seeming to have realized just how tall he was when they had only ever seen him sitting. Squatting down slowly to the pups again, Geralt clicked his tongue, holding out a hand towards the female, and after a moment, she began to approach again, sniffling curiously at the offered tips of his fingers. Berem hummed at the sight of the soft-hearted witcher, reaching out to nestle his sleepy pup with her siblings, before holding out a padded finger to rub the top of the first female's head in an affectionate circle.
"You will see, in time," Berem told him, chuckling softly, the sound like a warm roll of thunder in his throat.
"Hm," Geralt answered, standing again. "Take me to the Crone."
Had Geralt not had Berem to guide him to the Crone's hut, he would never have been able to find it on his own. The Weavess' hut, though sizeable, was nestled nearly imperceptibly in a cradle of yellowing trees and wild canterbury bells, its proud slats blunted and mouldering, seeming to decay before their very eyes in the moisture of the swamp. Geralt took a deep breath as they stared at the vile cottage from the shadow of the treeline, smelling the lingering aroma of every wicked creature that had ever set foot on this cursed ground. He had been anticipating this moment all day, playing it over like a megascope record in his head, but now that he was actually here, he found his feet planted like lead in the mud, unwilling to move from the safety of the trees.
He knew full well what lay ahead of him, just past the grotesquely bright and inviting clusters of bell-flowers, and his heart beat a steady rhythm in his chest as he stared up at the soaring rafters of the Crone's abode. Despite his resolve, he found himself suddenly drifting into thoughts outside the Bog—thoughts of Yennefer, covering her face with her hair as she tried not to let him see her cry. She always thought she had to be strong for him, to prove she could be his unflinching equal, but he loved her best in her quiet moments, the ones where their eyes met, and nothing needed to be said. He found himself wishing he had told her that, told her how much her love truly meant to him, anything before he had gone – but as always, he had shrugged it off with a joke, teasing her lightly before watching her vanish, perhaps for the last time.
"She's close," Berem said, lifting his nose to the wind, though the house before them was more than enough to indicate how close they were. Geralt looked up at the sharp reminder, before looking out towards the hut again, remembering quickly where he was. "Remember—like a hounded wolverine she'll fight. She could very well kill you."
"I know," Geralt answered, only half-listening to the words Berem was saying. Turning his attention to the werewolf again, he paused, his eyes falling once more on the bloodied ear, before he reached down, sliding his sleek beheading-knife from a loop at the back of his belt. Sensing motion from beside him, Berem turned, spotting the knife in the witcher's hand, and he leapt back a few startled feet towards the swamp, the motion causing a slosh of murky water to splash up over Geralt's feet. The witcher did not even react as the putrid water soaked through his already-sodden boots, only holding out the knife and reaching with his other hand towards Berem, inviting him to come in closer.
"I-I thought—you said you would let me go!" Berem insisted, his voice high, his ragged chest pumping fiercely. The werewolf's fear was so potent that Geralt could hear the vibrations of his heart against his barrel chest, but he said nothing, only staring at the wolf, hand outstretched, knife held motionless at his shoulder. "I helped you, witcher," Berem reminded him, his golden eyes flicking anxiously between Geralt's face and the knife. "You said there was another way! You said you would allow me to take the she-wolf and leave the swamp!"
"Come here," Geralt told him, in no mood to answer questions. "Let me get that thing off."
Berem's ears flicked at the command, his whiskers quivering as he looked between Geralt and the knife again. "I've tried, witcher," he finally answered, seeming to realize at last what he intended to do with the blade. "She's enchanted it. It won't come off. The twine only grows tighter with every attempt." Geralt frowned at the answer, but said nothing, only returning his knife to his belt with a soft exhale. It did not surprise him that the Crone had enchanted her bauble from being removed so easily, but it still frustrated him to not be able to help the werewolf who had assisted him in his time of need. A werewolf's skull was a hardy opponent, but the thought of an unbreakable twine slicing through the thick bone and into Berem's brain was enough to make even the witcher's usually steadfast expression draw for a moment in revulsion.
"Are you certain you wouldn't like my help?" Berem asked again, causing Geralt to look up, shaken from the gruesome imagery that had previously filled his mind's eye. "I can help you to fight. I can do it, witcher."
"No," Geralt answered, shortly. "Listen, Berem. Hide out in the Bog for a while. Don't try to leave yet. Once some time has passed… try to remove the ear again." At this, Berem's ears darted back again, his big wet nose flaring with uncertainty, but he said nothing, only listening intently as the witcher laid out his plan. "If it comes off, that means the Crone is dead," Geralt continued, watching as Berem's expression began to lift, hardly daring to hope. It was barely enough to notice, given his wolfish features, but there was something particularly expressive about Berem, something that endeared and humanized him in ways the witcher had never seen in other werewolves.
"Once you get the ear off, go to Downwarren under cover of darkness," Geralt went on. "Leave it in the middle of town, but don't let anyone see you. Hang it on the notice board. Somewhere it'll be seen. Doesn't really matter where, so long as the townfolk will be sure to find it. They'll know what it means."
"And if it does not come off?" Berem asked, his voice still hesitant, despite his hope.
Geralt hummed at the thought. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he finally answered, solemnly.
Berem nodded, understanding his instructions, his whiskers giving another tremor as he watched the witcher pass from the cover of the trees, before the werewolf took a step back, his ears giving another anxious flick as he willed himself not to follow. Every sound in the swamp grew deathly silent as Geralt stepped onto the path to the cottage door, feeling the rotten slats of the walkway starting to sink into the mud beneath his feet as he moved. The hut, no longer hidden by the trees, was now entirely visible to his eye – it was a shack, much like Anna Strenger's had been, but wider and taller, ringed on all sides by greenery. The oversized bell-flowers hugging the sides made the building almost pleasant to behold at first glance, but the animal skulls on wooden stakes ringing the property made it hard to stay deceived for long.
Bones and feathers from various wildlife had been strung around the hut's perimeter, keeping a watchful vigil, likely more totems fashioned by the Weavess and her sisters for their protection. The cottage loomed gnarled and sinister as Geralt approached, its lofty clocktower shape backlit by a bloody, jaundiced sunset, and as he came in closer, he began to hear the sound of a voice whispering inside his head. It was low at first, but grew with more ferocity, nipping at his ears and causing his blood to run cold; the Weavess' nasally sneer was just as chilling now as the first time he had heard it, and he clenched his jaw against the sound, drawing his sword as he passed a patch of dried blood on the ground, the smell of it distinctly human. There had clearly been others before him, others who had tried and failed to bring an end to the beast, but he would not allow himself to become one of them, one more sad tale to be told around the campfires of Downwarren.
"Patience, sisters…" the Weavess hissed, her voice burrowing into Geralt's brain like a feeding tick. He shook his head at the sound, trying to force it out, but he found he had little sway against the Crone's magic. "I sense him… he comes," the Weavess keened, this time sounding disturbingly pleased. "You shall yet have his soul… His pain, his icy suffering will be yours… and you will feast on him. Soon, sisters… very soon!"
He should have known the Weavess would sense him coming – she had eyes everywhere in the Bog, and ears besides, with the ear she had tied to Berem's head her most obvious clue to the witcher's intentions. Even so, he found he could not be bothered as to whether she knew he was coming or not, and he weighed his sword at his side, watching as the door of the hut began to creak slowly open at his presence. The door was still some ways across the clearing, but its opening sent a gust of warm, wet air to rush over him, clinging to his skin like a coat of monster entrails as the Crone's scornful voice grew louder all around him. The opening of the door seemed to magnify the sound, escalating in intensity until it was no longer just in his head, but coming from everywhere, assaulting him from all sides, causing him to grit his teeth as it echoed across the Bog to envelop him.
"Fear!" the Weavess howled, the sound pricking at Geralt's senses like the rake of ragged fingernails across his skull. "So much fear! Fear of what…? Of the unknown? Fear of new life? How are you to take care of a new life when you can barely take care of your own?" Geralt could see the Weavess inside the hut now, standing with her gruesome, misshapen back to the open door, the tatters of her ragged dress sweeping the floor as she tottered like a fleshy crab across the boards. "Doubt!" she shrieked, her voice echoing in the clearing, the sound warped, as if shouted through a mouthful of water. "I can smell it—oh, I can see it! A wolf, frightened of his cub! You can always send your cub to me, wolf—I will take good care of it."
"Come out!" Geralt demanded, feeling his blood start to boil at the creature's taunting. He had no idea how the Crone had known about Shani's child, but he was in no mood to stand around and find out. The Weavess turned as she heard him call for her, her legs and arms seeming to move almost on different axes, and he watched as she began to shuffle towards him out the door, walking nearly sideways as she edged across the clearing to meet him. Her gait was awkward, inhuman and unsettling, her knees spread wide to make room for the heavy burlap sack she carried around her waist, and Geralt felt his stomach turn as he watched the small legs swinging from its tethered mouth, the blackened blood congealing at the bottom a testament to the young lives sacrificed to its depths.
The Weavess' head jerked as she walked towards him, her gnarled fingers curling and uncurling as she sidled in close, and Geralt could smell the stench of decay and rotten flesh on her as she leaned in, inspecting him with her insectoid eye. He had never been this close to the Crone before – to any of them – and he grimaced as he stared back into the pockmarked pustule of her eye, the buzzing of insects around her growing nearly deafening as she parted her lips, showing her blackened, mossy teeth. "I sense your pain…" the Weavess told him, the sound now coming from her mouth alone, though he could still hear faint whispers of an echo from the Bog around him as she spoke. As he watched, a black fly climbed from her mouth and across her sunken cheek, settling for a moment on her hornet's-nest eye before taking off with a low buzz, making him nearly want to vomit at the sight.
"I see your fear…" the Weavess jeered, jerking her head to get a better look at his face. Her fetid grin widened as she took a step closer, all but challenging him to take a swing at her with his blade, and as she moved, he began to hear the faint sound of rustling from the Bog all around him. He could hear the sounds of something waking and stirring, drawn instinctively towards the source of the disturbance—the sounds of webbed and clawed feet against the soggy earth, before other telltale sounds began to join a moment later: the gurgling of drowners, the snarling of ghouls, the chilling screech of a water hag. The swamp was alive with hatred, closing in on the hut, but Geralt dared not take his eyes from the Crone, even as his medallion began to hum in warning.
"Look about you!" the Weavess shrieked, gurgling as she stretched out her neck towards him like a bloated snapping turtle. "Feel their hatred? You slaughtered their brethren for a fistful of coin. They would see you suffer, while you've lost your claws, wolf." Geralt gritted his teeth at the insult, willing his feet to stay planted as she took another step closer, her jowls quivering as another black fly crawled across her hooked nose and disappeared into her ear. "You've gone soft, wolf," she jeered, baring her rotten teeth at the witcher. "Soft! Toothless! The prophecies do not lie… you cannot survive this struggle."
"Prophecies have been wrong before," Geralt answered, tightening his grip on his sword. He could hear the bog creatures coming closer, but he kept his gaze fixed on the Crone, not letting her out of his sight. Ciri had already made the mistake of turning away from her prematurely once, and he was not about to allow her to escape so easily again.
"No," the Weavess jeered, her head jerking like a wasp's. "You are afraid. You feel fear."
Geralt shook his head. "Just here to finish the job," he answered, before lifting his blade to bring it down across the Weavess' neck. He did not have time to swing, however, before he found himself suddenly grabbed from behind, a heavy weight latching onto him, ripping at his hair and dragging him back towards the mud. He could hear the gurgling squeal of a drowner behind him as he whipped back an elbow, jabbing it in the ribs, causing the creature to gag for breath as he next reached back a hand to jam it into the monster's gill-slits. The drowner screeched as the witcher's gloved fingers rammed brutally into its neck, before he ripped upward with all his might, tearing the gill-slits open along the side of the drowner's throat. The drowner howled as a spray of blood fountained out of the side of its neck, wheezing for breath as Geralt shook it off, before delivering a stab to its brain that stopped its suffering once and for all.
Looking up from the drowner, Geralt realized that a water hag had run up close in his distraction, its legs spread wide on its crooked hips, burgeoning belly swinging freely past its bare breasts as it swiped out at him with long, deadly claws. The witcher jumped back easily to avoid the attack, holding out a hand to douse the hag with a burst of Igni, and she screeched as her bare skin was singed, slapping her face in an attempt to put out the flames. Taking advantage of her distraction, Geralt moved forward again, swinging his sword to attack, and he heard the cold splatter of intestines hitting the mud as his blade found purchase in her stomach. The hag gave a bone-chilling scream as she tried to hold in her intestines with one massive hand, before using the other to swipe blindly for the witcher as she stumbled towards him across the bloodied mud.
Geralt bared his teeth at the monster, taking another leap back, before coming back with another strike, this time slicing the attacking arm from its shoulder with a single upward swipe, and the hag gave an ear-shattering screech as she watched her arm fly into the air, landing with a muddy thunk behind her. She screamed at the witcher, using her remaining arm to attack as she leapt forward, slashing out at him again, but the instant she let go of her intestines, they began to slide out again, falling to the mud in a gruesome splatter. The hag gave a squawk as she slipped on the longest of them, losing her balance into the mud, and, drawing up his sword again, Geralt wound it back, before slicing through the hag, separating her upper and lower body in two.
The Crone hissed as she watched the water hag collapse into the mud in two pieces, before she rushed forward to claw at the witcher, lashing out with ragged nails at his face and chest, slashing at whatever she could reach. She was fast when she moved in crow form, he realized, and he jumped back, raising his sword to defend from her talons, before swinging out at her in a counterattack, catching her satchel with the tip of his blade. He could hear the bone-chilling rip of the burlap as a tumble of arms and legs spilled out into the mud, and he found himself nearly sick at the sight of the mutilated bodies falling from its depths.
The flesh of what he guessed had once been three children was rotten, blackened, and picked apart, with two of them nothing more than disembodied limbs, though the one that still had his head and torso seemed significantly less lucky in that regard. His eyes had been hollowed out, his fingers devoured until only palms remained, and the legs that had stuck out from the top of the bag had been his, riddled with gnaw-marks where she had idly chewed on him. Geralt fought back the urge to vomit as he looked up at the Crone again, hearing as she shrieked, growling an almost ghoul-like growl as she lashed out at him again in anger. He blocked her again with his sword, before stabbing out towards her, hoping to run her through, but the Crone was too fast for him, dissipating into a flock of crows and flapping across the clearing to safety.
Geralt turned to follow her, but was stopped as he felt something grab onto him from behind again, this time digging its claws into his armour and biting down hard on his neck. The rot-coated needles latched tightly to his throat as the smell of drowner assaulted his senses, and he gave a sharp shout, reaching back behind him to grab the beast by its slippery neck. He made sure to avoid the drowner's poisoned spines as he flipped it over his shoulder and into the mud, and the drowner screeched as it fought to right itself, only to have his sword driven through its heart, stilling its struggling.
"Fucking thing," Geralt spat, pressing a hand to his neck to see how deeply the drowner had bitten him; it was a bad bite, but nowhere as bad as some he had fought through easily before. Looking up towards the Crone again, Geralt swore, realizing she was now several paces away, and he picked up his blade, rushing forward to take another swing at her. He cut through the air with a mighty slice, tearing the edge of her sleeve as she raised an arm to defend herself, earning an inhuman hiss from the beast as she lashed back with hooked, blackened nails. The Weavess gurgled deep in her chest, before throwing out her hands, dissipating once more into a burst of crows, cawing and clawing at his face and neck as they took off towards the far side of the clearing again.
Geralt shielded his eyes from the corvids' claws, gritting his teeth as the musky smell of death assaulted him, before he whipped around to face the Crone again, feeling a muscle twitch in his jaw at the dirty trick. "Come back and fight, you bitch," he hissed, starting again across the clearing towards her, only to this time be pulled back from both sides, with a water hag grabbing one arm and a ghoul sinking its teeth into the other. The ghoul's bite sent a shock through his arm, making him drop his sword as the venom raced through him, and he let out a shout, pulling back on his arm, only to have the hag yank back just as roughly from her end. Her long fingers were wrapped around his forearm like a vice, and she shrieked with glee as she dragged him down to the mud, seeming to be trying to rip him in half with ample help from the ghoul.
Geralt felt his head bounce off the dirt as he fell, taking a split second to realize he had barely missed hitting a sharp rock, before he thrashed as the hag pounced on top of him, pinning him, sitting on his chest and using her claws to slash him open from cheek to collar-bone. He howled in pain as her claws raked his skin, and she shrieked in delight as she slashed him again, this time tearing through the mail on his chest as if slicing a hot knife through butter. The witcher kicked helplessly at the grappling monsters, trying in vain to shake them off, only to next feel as something grabbed hold of his leg, sinking the same needle-like teeth as before deep into his calf.
Geralt gritted his teeth as he felt the combined weight of the monsters burgeoning on top of him, seeing spots start to form in his eyes from blood loss, before he suddenly remembered what Yennefer had said. She had barely had time to be his wife just yet, but the same was true the other way around, he realized. He had barely had time to be her husband yet either – and he was not about to let some drowner to be what prevented him from coming home to her.
Shaking the darkness from his vision, Geralt balled his free hand into a fist at his side, and he thrashed, kicking out at the drowner with his free leg, before turning to deliver a bone-shattering punch to the face of the ghoul still chewing on his arm. The ghoul gave a shriek of pain as it pulled its jaws free from his arm with some missing teeth, and the witcher grabbed for his dropped sword, snatching it up and driving it up through the face of the water hag above him. The hag screamed as the sword pierced her brain, before her screams turned instead to a dying gurgle, her eyes rolling back in her skull as black fluid began to dribble down the blade onto the witcher's chest. Geralt braced his arms as she collapsed on top of him, catching her body before her dead weight could crush him, and he let out a grunt as he pushed it forward again, sending it flying back towards the drowner still attached to his leg.
The drowner jumped back as the corpse flew towards it, hissing in surprise at the interruption, and Geralt pulled his legs back from the monster's reach, before pushing himself shakily to his feet again and swinging his sword at the drowner's head. The creature's head separated easily from its body, flung across the dell to land with a satisfying splatter, and the witcher stumbled forward, turning next to slice the head of the wounded ghoul in two. The ghoul went down with a whine, its head split nearly evenly down the middle, the two halves of its tongue still wriggling in its skull as it bled out crimson on the patchy earth.
Wiping his face with a muddy glove, Geralt turned to find the Weavess' hut again, shaking a film of black haze from his vision once more as he realized she had moved again, and was now nearly to the door. "No you fucking don't," he growled, stabbing his sword into the marshy earth, before he pulled his second blade from his back, winding back and throwing it forward with all his might.
He could hear the satisfying keen of the Crone as the meteorite blade hit its mark, and he watched as she collapsed forward onto the floor, her bony legs and arms splayed helplessly as she shrieked in agony. Three dusky crows burst from the gash on her back as she fell, flapping in a wounded panic, but they did not manage to get more than a few paces from the door before they fell to the mud of the swamp, dead. Pulling his silver sword from the mud, Geralt started for the hut, making sure to step on every dead crow, watching as the Weavess struggled in the doorway, clawing at the floorboards in a vain attempt to right herself. She was still alive, but wounded, with his sword pierced through her from spine to breast, and he grabbed the abomination by her shoulder as he reached her, turning her over to splay her roughly on her back.
Geralt grimaced as he watched blackish blood and other unknown fluids start to dribble down her face from her shrivelled lips, and she bared her mossy teeth as she wheezed, their jagged edges cracked, brittle and rotten as the logs of her house. The Weavess hissed as she stared up at the witcher, spraying a film of black blood as she spat up at him in defiance, but Geralt only steeled his lips at the insult, wiping his face again with a solemn pass of his glove. "Zireael… that little whore," the Weavess gasped, another spurt of what looked like swamp water bubbling from her lips. "Her accursed blood… She slew my sisters! I am alone – 'tis your doing!"
She coughed, and Geralt watched as two black flies crawled from the darkness at the back of her throat, lighting for a moment on her ragged hat before taking off into the rafters. "Fear devours you, witcher," the Crone choked, staring up at him with her revolting eye, and Geralt could see, now that he was close enough, that each one had a small black pupil, moving independently like a nightmare chameleon. "Like maggots devour a corpse! Your flesh, cured with toxins… sweet with pain. Do you wish to die, witcher? Do you wish your suffering to end?"
Geralt made a face, finding it ironic that the dying Crone was still trying to threaten him, but he shook his head, ignoring the sounds of another wave of monsters closing in from the depths of the Bog. "Didn't come here to die," he answered. "Came to get Ciri's medallion you stole."
"No…" the Crone hissed, trying to raise a shaking hand to point, only to have it fall back to the floor again. "There is more. Though you lie to yourself, witcher, there is more. I see… you would rather face death than face your wife. Rather than face the mistakes you made… face how you've hurt her, so terribly." She wheezed, the sound rattling in her chest, before she coughed again, spraying black blood over her chin. "You would rather lie, and die lying," she told him, baring her blackened teeth again as she spoke. "Die, rather than face the truth of how you failed her… her, and Zireael, and the young doctor… failed them all with the decisions you made. Decisions you could have avoided."
Geralt gritted his teeth as the taunting continued, but he said nothing, only lifting his silver blade, tilting it into the marshy light so the Crone could see what was coming. The Crone wheezed in fright as she saw the blade, her abscessed tongue jutting out over her blackened lips, and she rocked in his grasp, trying her hardest to wrest free from the hand still pinning her to the floor. "Sisters… save me…!" she croaked, gurgling again as blood filled her throat, spilling over her lips as she begged.
"No one's gonna save you," Geralt growled, coldly. "Gonna get what you deserve."
Pinning her to the floor with his boot, the witcher stood, raising his silver sword, hearing as one last scream passed her rancid lips before he drove the blade through her mouth and out the back of her skull. He felt the solid thunk of the blade against the floorboards, driven into the wood until he was sure it stuck, before listening as the Crone gave one last rattle, a horrible croaking sound, followed by blessed silence.
He could smell the foul stench of her bodily fluids leaking out as he leaned on his sword to catch his breath, but he lifted his head quickly, realizing he did not have time to waste until his task was complete. Dropping to his knees, he rummaged through the Weavess' robes, checking every pouch and pocket for the medallion, but he could not find the trophy anywhere on her, and he looked up, realizing she must had hidden it somewhere in her hut. "Fuck," he hissed, turning towards the door as the sound of approaching monsters began to reach his ears again – their slapping footfalls, their hisses and screams, the stench of their fishy-smelling skin on the breeze. The witcher growled in frustration as he jumped to his feet again, fighting dizziness as he yanked his swords from the Crone's face and belly, before he kicked the bloated corpse out of the way of the door, slamming it quickly closed against the approaching hoard.
He had managed to catch a glimpse out the door as he closed it, and he realized the second wave would be far worse than the first – he had killed their protector, their patron, their queen, and now they were going to make him pay for it. Spotting a bookcase across the hut, he rushed over to it, dragging it out from the wall, before pushing it in front of the door just as something heavy smashed against it, splintering the wood. Geralt jumped back at the sound, knowing that even that would not hold the beasts for long; monsters were crafty, and many were deathly strong, but if it bought him time to find the medallion, that was all that mattered.
Looking around the hut again, he leapt forward, starting to search frantically for the stolen medallion once more, pushing over table-settings and dumping out cabinets in his wild search for the necklace. He shouted in anger as he turned up empty, before dropping to his knees in desperation, feeling the wood crack and splinter between his fingers as he ripped up the floorboards in his frantic search. He wondered how long it would take before some other creature broke through the wall just as easily – the hut was nearly rotting on its supports, and he heard it give a fatal creak and rustle as something began to climb up its sides. Another loud whump on the door made him look up again, watching as the bookcase rocked precariously on its feet, barely holding its ground as the flimsy door splintered behind it from the impact of the ghoul's body.
Geralt could feel a cold chill on the back of his neck as the sound of hissing and screeching seeped through the rotting walls, and he growled as he pushed himself to his feet again, feeling lightheaded once more as blood poured down his chest from his neck-wounds. "Shit," he swore, throwing open the clay oven to check inside, only to be met with the stench of burned and rotten flesh, making him nearly gag as he closed the furnace again to stanch the terrible odour. Looking up in frustration to the racks above the furnace, he found his eyes suddenly drawn a lock-box on one of the shelves, tucked away among the pots of alchemical herbs where he supposed she thought no one would think to look for it. Standing a bit too quickly again, he grabbed the lock-box off the shelf, trying for a moment to pry it open before he finally turned, smashing it against the floor in frustration.
The box shattered easily as it hit the floor, its pieces scattering across the boards in splintered shards, and Geralt kicked the biggest of the pieces aside, before bending down to fish the prized necklace from the pile of debris. He brushed the medallion gently as he picked it up, clearing its surface of residue, before he let out a long breath, kissing the silver face and draping the chain around his neck, not wanting to lose it again. Vesemir's medallion was different from his own – a bit rounder, more worn on its face, the teeth of the wolf a bit more blunted, the mark of a necklace well worn and well loved, a treasure for any who valued such things.
Gripping the medallion tightly in his fist, Geralt reached next into his belt pouch for the xenovox, pulling it out just as another snarling form slapped a bloody hand against one of the hut's dirty windows. "Yen?" he called, tilting the xenovox so he was speaking into the side furthest from the string; he had no idea how these things worked, having only used one once to communicate with Keira Metz on an unwanted mission. "Yen, you gotta open a portal," he insisted. "Need you to get me out of here, NOW."
The xenovox hummed, letting out a low buzz, and Geralt wondered if he might have used the damn thing wrong – before the sound of Yennefer's voice crackled through, fuzzy and distorted with static. "What?" Yennefer asked, her concern clear despite the poor connection. "Geralt? I thought you hated portals—"
"I do," Geralt answered, gritting his teeth. "But I still need you to open one and get me out of here!" As he spoke, the door gave another loud crash, causing the bookcase to flip forward onto its face, and he swore as he looked up towards the splintering door, hearing the sound of multiple monsters gathering just outside it. He could see their ugly faces plastered in the windows, their rancid breath fogging the dirty glass, and he wondered if they knew how easily they could break it, or if it was so filthy it simply looked like part of the wood from outside.
"Geralt, where are you?" Yennefer insisted, her voice crackling in and out with the static. "What is that sound? I can't open a portal if I don't know where you a—" Her voice was cut short by the sound of something slamming itself against the side of the hut, something much larger than a ghoul, causing a rain of silt and straw to filter down from the rafters into his hair. Geralt clenched his teeth at the sound, hearing the low bugle of a massive creature from outside, and he crouched down low to the floor, pressing a hand to his bleeding neck as the hut began to shake around him.
"No time to explain," he hissed. "Just—" But he stopped as another unwelcome sound caught his attention, and he felt his heart skip a beat, listening as a shuffling and snarling began to echo down the blackened shaft of the chimney. He had heard the monsters get up on the roof, but he had completely forgotten to block the flue, and he cursed his distracted mind as he pulled up the xenovox again, nearly pressing it to his lips as he looked around for something to use. "Just open a portal and get me out of here!" he insisted, wondering for a moment if he could fit the Crone's corpse up the chimney – but there were too many factors, too much at stake, and he was not sure he could drag that much weight with so much blood already lost.
"There's no need to shout," Yennefer returned, affronted. "It's not that easy, you know—"
"JUST DO IT!"
Another pause followed from Yennefer's end as the weight of the situation seemed to hit her at last, and she took a sharp breath, hesitating a moment to consider before answering again. "Alright, I suppose—" She stopped, and Geralt could almost see her sucking her lip in worry. "I can cast a discerning spell using the link from the xenovoxes," she suggested after another moment. "Some kind of twin positioning spell, with this one determining the location of its counterpart through sustained connection. I don't know how quickly I can complete the spell, as it would be entirely provisional, but…" She went silent again, before letting out an anxious huff. "How long do you think you have?" she asked.
"Not long," Geralt answered, turning and spotting the tapestry from Anna Strenger's hut hanging against the wall. He had missed it before, too distracted by the monsters outside, but now he rushed forward to grab it, ripping it hastily from its perch. The weaving was heavy, and he felt both medallions give a strong vibration against his chest as he dragged it across the floor, but he ignored the unsettling sensation as he shoved the tapestry unceremoniously up inside the blackened flue. He panted as he took a step back, feeling dizziness starting to take over again, and he blinked a dark haze from his vision, forcing himself to stay conscious until help could arrive. He could count on Yennefer, he told himself – she had never let him down, and he had no reason to doubt her – but the sound of the massive creature bellowing from outside made him swallow hard, wondering if he was being foolish.
Yennefer had never let him down, that was true – but she had never been forced to deal with a situation like this before, a situation that tested the utmost limits of her skills, coming down to a race against the forces of nature. Lifting the xenovox to his lips again, Geralt hesitated, hearing the Weavess' vicious last words echoing in his head: he had come here to escape his own failings, to die rather than face how he had treated Yennefer. Letting out a hard sigh, he pressed the xenovox to his lips, closing his eyes as he concentrated on the device, using his witcher training to tune out the sounds of the monsters howling outside.
"Yen…" he said, softly. "In case I don't get out of this… just want you to know, I love you. Loved you since the first time I saw you. And… I'm sorry. For everything I did to you." Another loud thud from the side of the house sent the jars of alchemy ingredients rolling, and Geralt winced as he heard them shatter to the floor as another rain of silt filtered down from the patchy ceiling. He could hear something moving inside the chimney now, something large, with claws that scraped heavily against the sides of the flue, and he heard the soft scratching of the bundled tapestry being pushed down, the crackling of soot being chipped into the fireplace like thunder in his ears.
"Yen—" Geralt started to say again, only to be quickly interrupted by the xenovox giving a loud squeal, and he moved the communicator away from his face, wincing as the sound drilled his honed senses like an icepick.
"Geralt… I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm a bit busy at the moment to talk about this…!" Yennefer finally answered, her voice crackling even more patchily than before through the magical interference.
Geralt let out a breath as she answered, relieved she had heard him, but a bit disappointed by the response. "I know," he told her. "But… just need you to know—" But he did not get a chance to finish before the sound of shattering glass caused him to jump, and he turned to look, watching as a massive pronged antler burst through the hut's dirty window. The fiend outside howled angrily as it rattled the window-frame, its mesmeric third eye wide and bloodshot as it stared in through the broken glass; Geralt could hear its second antler pounding the side of the house, with the beast fighting to free itself or break inside, whichever came first. Taking a step back, he shielded his eyes, watching as the rotten wood splintered with the impact, punctured through by the second set of the monster's mighty prongs.
The fiend gave a howl as its antlers stuck, pulling back on both racks now wedged in the frame, the creaking of the structure growing nearly deafening in Geralt's ears as the house began to shudder and strain. He realized he was going to die here – that wall would come down, and the support beams with it, and if he did not die from the hut collapsing on top of him, he would certainly die from the monsters rushing in to ambush him. Without the walls to protect him, he was exposed, bleeding and barely conscious, and with an angered fiend in their numbers, the monsters would easily overpower him without much of a fight.
He could feel his knees growing weak beneath him, though it was hard to tell what was causing it now; blood loss was his first, most obvious thought, though he realized that was not the only thing causing his heart to beat faster. The thought of death had never frightened him before, but he had had much less to lose back then – he had Yennefer now, and Shani's child on the way, and friends like Dandelion who needed him to come home. He had Ciri, who would never know what happened to him after he left Vizima so abruptly. He had Regis, who needed his support in a time when even Regis did not know what to say.
A loud crack interrupted his train of thought, and he turned, watching in horror as the nearest support beam began to fracture, a long, dark ribbon spiderwebbing up its length as it began to bend towards the fiend's mighty pull. A moment later, the sound of reality being torn by its threads made him jump nearly out of his skin, the rumbling and humming of a point of great magical focus all but deafening him in its unexpected closeness. He had heard portals opening near him before, but he had never been as surprised by them as he was by this one, and he stared at the misshapen oval in a slight daze, feeling the warm, sucking breeze whipping at his bloodied hair.
"THE PORTAL!" Yennefer's voice was nearly unintelligible through the static of the xenovox, but Geralt shook his head at the sobering sound, clearing the haze from his mind as he was pulled quickly back to reality. He turned, staring into the portal again, gritting his teeth as he prepared to jump through, already dreading the sensation of formlessness and the mighty pull of the void as soon as he stepped inside. It was nothing compared to the feeling of being ripped limb from limb by monsters, he was sure, but he still found his feet resisting his brain as he willed himself to step forward and escape.
As he stared at the portal, he heard another loud crash, and he looked over to see three long, clawed arms jutting through a hole in the door, lashing and clambering to claw their way through the brittle wood as the head of a water hag shoved its way through as well, baring its grisly teeth. "QUICKLY, GERALT!" Yennefer shouted, her voice pushing his legs to move in ways his own mind could not. "I can't hold it open much longer—this hybridized locating and retrieval spell is very unstable as it is!"
"Fuck, I hate portals," Geralt growled, before closing his eyes and jumping through, hearing the sound of the support beam snapping in half just as the portal sealed tightly behind him. He could feel himself being pulled through space and time by the vortex, the sensation much longer and bumpier than he was used to, likely due to the spell having been improvised on the spot – but he soon found his path opening up again, dispelling him through to the other side, and he stumbled to gain his balance as he found his feet once more on the soft carpeted floor of Corvo Bianco's day-room. It did not take long for his feet to fail him, and he felt his knees give out beneath him almost immediately, sending him toppling to the floor as the soft sunlit red of the furniture swam in his vision.
He coughed, feeling the urge to vomit, but found he did not have the strength to dispel anything, and he groaned as the sound of muffled footfalls came to find him, before someone turned him onto his back, pulling his head into a soft, warm lap. It was Shani's lap, he realized, looking up at her through lashes crusted with blood, and as soon as he did, he felt Vesemir's medallion give a hum against his chest. He could feel Shani's hands on his wounds, hovering worriedly over the bite from the drowner, before next moving to inspect the long, ragged claw-marks where the water hag had mauled him from cheek to collar-bone.
"Shani," Geralt coughed, wetting his lips. "Where's… where's—"
"I'm here, Geralt." Yennefer knelt down beside him, taking his hand from his side, before pulling his glove off and raising his knuckles to her lips for a soft, relieved kiss. He could feel her lips trembling against his skin, her warm breath shuddering as she tried not to cry; she looked exhausted, likely from the amount of magic she had had to pour into her improvised spell, he realized, and he groaned again, reaching up with his free hand to slide Vesemir's medallion from around his neck. He could feel the wolf's head trembling faintly in his palm still as he held it out towards Yennefer, and he watched the surprised look in her eyes as she accepted the necklace from his bloody hand, before she looked up at him again, just as stunned, as if amazed he had managed to find it.
"One… down," Geralt told her, letting out another soft cough as he watched her press it protectively to her chest. Then, home and safe at last, he closed his eyes, succumbing to warm darkness in Shani's arms.