Chapter 1

Geralt had spent far more time on An Skellige then he had originally intended. Hell, he had spent a lot more time in Skellige period. He had arrived just as winter was breaking. Not long after one of the hardest days in his life; the day Ciri told him she wouldn't be traveling with him to live the life of a witcher, but rather would be going back to Nilfgaard to assume her birthright. Compounding his anguish was his lover Yennefer's decision to go with her. It's not as though they left Geralt high and dry. She had begged him to come along…both had. But deep down both had to know he could never accept. As much as it pained him her reasoning made sense. More than that it made him proud. The Third Nordling War was over and Nilfgaard had accepted a near unconditional surrender from the North. Only Temeria had been left with some semblance of autonomy intact. Ciri knew as well as Geralt that there would never be peace in the North as long as this new status quo remained. Only Ciri could manage to give the North back some freedom while protecting the non-humans it routinely abused with its former absolute freedom. But all the reasoning in the world couldn't quell the ache in his core. So like he had everytime life was life, he headed for one of his favorite places; the Isles of Skellige.

The simplicity of its people and the freedom they bequeathed made it most attractive for a wandering witcher with no family or nation. Ostensibly he had arrived looking for the witcher gear hidden across the isles decades ago when Witchers were plentiful and routinely needed equipment when south of the Pontar without traveling back to northeastern Kaedwen.

He had sailed aboard a longship to Kaer Trolde, paying his respects to his good friends, Hjalmar and her sister, Queen Cerys. While Skellige may have been one of his favorite places to relax, it wasn't one of the best to find contracts. Skellige were proud and hardy folk who would just as soon wear a dress as they would hire a witcher to solve a monster problem. But in Rannvaig he came across one of those rare instances in the form of an old villager named Odhen, whose son Olve had run off with a group of Faroese treasure seekers to search through the ruins of an old fortress destroyed in a Nilfgaardian raid. There Geralt had found a body with the telltale signs of mauling by a large fiend. It was a giant of a beast named Morvuud, whom Geralt had chased to the Nilfgaardian destroyed village of Boxholm where he finally destroyed the ancient one in its lair. A lair that was littered with the bodies of Olve and some of his Faroese mates.

From there Geralt rented a small ship of his own at Fyresdal and sailed for Faroe, one of the two islands Vesemir believed his old mentor could've stashed the witcher gear. It took most of the day even with a good wind at his back as he had to stop at nearly every small patch of rocks to allow Roach to stretch his legs, before the rocky outcropping of the second smallest of the inhabited isles came into view. What it lacked in size it more than made up for in ferocity of spirt, as Faroese were known throughout the isles and even the continent as the fiercest fighters. That spirit was embodied by none better than their Jarl, Holger Blackhand, who was waiting outside the tavern as Geralt weaved his small schooner in between the massive longships berthed in the harbor.

"Geralt of Rivia? What the fuck are ye doing here?" the harsh looking Skelliger croaked as Geralt approached. The Jarl took his name from the reprecussions of a severe case of frostbite that had enveloped his right hand some winters back and had turned it black initially. Now it was more red, but the original name had stuck.

"Holger, it's good to see you again as well. How are things on Faroe?"

"Same as ever, it's a rock covered in scrub" the middle aged warrior spat, chewing on a twig of wood.

"I can see the pride bursting out of you" Geralt mocked sarcastically.

Holger didn't seem to notice the jest. "No sense in smearing honey on shit. We may not be able to grow food, but we can grow timber, enough to build longships so that we can go and take the food someone else has grown".

Geralt wasn't about the argue the morality of raiding and was glad when Holger changed the subject unbidden. "So what brings you to us white wolf?"

Geralt really did see something on the plateau overlooking the village to the east, but he also wanted a reason to not fivulge he was here looking for any kind of treasure the Faroese could be enticed to keep for themselves. "What's going on up there?" he asked instead.

Holger grunted. Skelligers respected privacy of thought as well as property. "That would be Jutta, showing some of our boys how a true Faroese duelist fights" he said without taking his eyes off Geralt.

Geralt grabbed Roach's reins and began walking absent-mindedly towards the twirling female on the rise.

"Be careful Witcher, you'll need all your…enhancements, to handle Jutta" the Jarl called after him with the laugh of someone who drank far too much last night.

He crested the top of the path to the fighting ring just as Jutta floored another fighter with a spinning back kick after knocking his blade from his hands.

She smiled devilishly and then reached out a hand to pick up her defeated foe. As she pulled him from the ground she looked to Geralt, doing a quick double take before talking with her opponent a moment longer. Finally the young man parted with a smile that faded as he locked eyes with Geralt.

"Nice disarm".

"Thanks" she answered brusquely, returning her sword to its scabbard and gathering up her water pouch.

"But you left your front foot out too long. Could've been turned back on you be a…more worthy opponent".

Still not looking at Geralt she threw her head back and forced a barking laugh. "And I take it you're a more worthy opponent?"

"Care to find out?"

"My time is valuable, and I don't duel just anyone…especially continentals" she picked up a tunic off the ground and turned to face Geralt, who was now just a meter from her.

He could always tell when someone just noticed his eyes for the first time as their's always widened as their head invariably cocked slightly to the side.

"You're a witcher?"

"I am" Geralt replied, his hands still resting on his belt.

"And what's your name…I won't duel just anyone"

"Geralt of Rivia"

"…Never heard of you" she said but her pause was enough to let Geralt know that was a lie.

"And since I've never head of you or your deeds you will need to perform one before I duel you"

"And what feat would you like to see from me? Wrestle a bear? Kill a nest of drowners?"

She played as though she were thinking long and hard about a suitable test when Geralt knew she had had something specific in mind since she realized he was a witcher. "A ship went down two winters back in the deep waters off the western cliffs. There is a sword on board that's a relic. Bring it to me and I will duel you".

It wasn't much of a job, but then again Geralt didn't have much of a life right now. Besides, if he was honest Jutta had a hard beauty that reminded him of Yen. Plus, finding a woman that could best him at swordplay was a closely held fantasy of his. "Alright, I'll get your sword…and I'll get my duel".

"Be careful what you wish for" she called after him mockingly.

Geralt got to the Western cliffs without too much trouble. 'Too much' being a small nest of harpies. The sword was even less trouble. 'Less trouble' being that it was far too deep for anyone who hadn't undergone the Trial of the Grasses to get to it…even a Skelliger.

He returned to Jutta just a couple hours after he had left her. She tried to hide just how she impressed she was at his quick return.

"I guess it's true what they say about you" she called, finishing a riposte of the air in front of her and returning her well made blade to its scabbard.

"I thought you hadn't heard of me" he replied with a half smile as he held the balde out in front of him.

She took it gently. "I meant witchers in general of course".

"Of course".

She bit down on a smile of her own and stabbed the sword into the ground, before pulling out her own. "Shall we?"

Geralt replied with a predatory grin.

"Oh! Oh! Oh my gods" Jutta cried as Geralt stopped thrusting and held himself above her for a moment longer before collapsing in the sweat dampened sheets next to her.

The fire crackled in the pit below her bed as the hard Faroese rains pelted the wood roof above their heads.

"So whose sword was that?"

"…my fathers" she huffed, still winded from their carnal exertion.

As they lay in silence the rain picked up even more. "Is that roof gonna hold?" Geralt asked. He got no verbal response so turned his head to see a withering stare that old him not to question Faroese craftsmanship…or maybe her own.

"The weather has been unusual this year" she said, relenting a bit.

"Some say the gods weep for King Bran" she added when Geralt did not respond. "…Still others say they weep for the ascent of Queen Cerys".

"Do you?" he asked still staring at the thatched roof overhead.

His aloofness must have finally got to her as he felt her nestle into the nook of his shoulder.

"Do I what?" she said playfully from the top of his chest.

Now Geralt did finally turn his eyes back to the beautiful Skelliger rubbing slowly against him.

"Do you weep for a queen?"

She flashed a deadly smile. Tiring of Geralt's lack of reciprocation she climbed on top of him. She grabbed hold of him and began to lower herself down. "Hardly. If a woman can be the best duelist on Faroe, one can surely manage the lower clans of the lesser isles". The last word was stifled by a moan as wind buffeted the tiny beachhouse.