Geralt's pride lasted longer than his legs.

By mid-day, a flush touched the witcher's pale skin and his unnatural pupils were dilated from exhaustion. Despite Geralt still managing to keep his breathing rhythmic, even Lambert could tell it was strained, as Geralt's nostrils flared with every breath. At the speed they were making, Geralt would more than likely collapse before they made it to the Garin Estate.

Lambert circled back twice, and each time Geralt glared him away. Watching the older witcher struggles to keep up with the horse's steady gait made Lambert a little more insistent by the third pass.

Slowing his horse's pace, Lambert pulled up beside Geralt. "Hold up. We're over halfway, let's rest a bit before you pass out… again."

"I'm…" fine. Was what Geralt was about to retort, but from his raspy tone, they both knew it would have been a lie. Instead, he grumbled and ended his brisk jog.

"Didn't think you could keep up for as long as you did." Lambert admitted, watching as Geralt bent at the waist.

Geralt looked up from his knees to briefly check Lambert for any hint of sarcasm. He didn't find any. The older witcher tried to laugh but it turned into more of a spluttering cough. "Didn't think I could either …"

"Need to switch?" asked Lambert, motioning to the horse's saddle and reins.

"No," Geralt shook his head. "Just give me time to catch my breath."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Hearing the irritation in Geralt's voice, Lambert let the conversation lie.

"I've got something I've been wondering for a while." Geralt said, accepting the waterskin Lambert handed him. "What makes you think the Garin Estate is still standing? Last I saw of it; it had burned to the ground." He finished speaking and took a small swig before passing the skin back.

"Come on. You think I'd blindly believe every tale you tell me." Lambert took a drink himself. "I did a little research …"

"You. Doing research?" Scepticism was thick in Geralt's voice.

"Oh, shut it. Fine. Keira was curious, so I followed up rumors to see if any of it was true."

"And…?"

"And, yes. The Garin Estate was burned to the ground, but it seems its current proprietor, one Olgeird von Everic, had a sudden change of heart and rebuilt the mansion."

"What makes you think that he's still there?"

"Don't know for sure, but apparently the Redanian Free Company has been put to work chasing off bandits and helping out with settling refugees."

"Can't see that lot being too happy with the changes."

"Yeah…" Commented Lambert as he leaned forward. "A group who refers to themselves as the Wild Ones going domestic … who knows how long that's going to last."

"Mmm."

"Regardless, it's on the way and we might as well stop by. Worst case, we'll just barter for a horse. Someone's bound to be offering." Lambert noted Geralt's usual pasty pallor was beginning to return. "You need some more time?"

"No. I've got my wind back. Let's go." Geralt pushed past the horse and started jogging again.

Lambert screwed his eyes up and weighed the options before him. "Wait up." He finally shouted.

"What?" The jingling of Geralt's armor and belts stopped once more, as he turned to face Lambert.

"Here." Lambert tossed Geralt a small vial of some vibrant ruby liquid. "It's Werewolf Decoction. Figure it'd be better than you running out of breath again."

"You've had this on you the whole time?"

A smug smile slid onto Lambert's face. "Yup."

"Bastard," muttered Geralt as he uncorked the vial. His nose wrinkled when he caught a whiff of the potion.

"You gonna gripe all day, or just drink the damn thing?"

Geralt shot him a withering glare, but drank the vile smelling concoction regardless.

Lambert didn't envy Geralt. He didn't envy the way an unnatural energy suddenly flooded Geralt's system. Didn't envy how the signs of Geralt's earlier exertion simply vanished. He knew.

Geralt fought the brief spasms that shook his body, the throbbing of his veins as they pushed the boundaries of his skin. His face freshly painted with streaks of purple and crimson. The pain eased, but the faint throbbing would remain. It would remain until his body inevitably overcame the decoction's toxins, as it would for any other witcher. For now, Geralt would have the limitless endurance of a werewolf. For now, he would benefit from being a witcher.

A large plume of smoke rose ahead of the pair and the wind blew its acrid smell toward the witchers. It was too early to grow wary, as it was still the season for summer festivals, it also wouldn't have been the first overzealous bonfire they came across. No, it wasn't until the frightened shrieks reached their ears did they bother to hurry.

XxxxX

Once more, the Estate was a sea of fire. The grandiose manor was a wailing pile of glowing timbers and snapping flames. Lambert had already dismounted and had hidden his horse nearby, safely away from the blaze.

"Ain't it be the witcher?" A man drawled slowly, tapping his back with the flat of his blade. Its edge dripping red as he approached the pair.

"And seems 'e brought a friend." Sneered a second, kicking a nearby corpse.

"You got no business 'ere, freaks." The first man stepped forward, puffing his chest out slightly. "Push off."

A familiar shout sounded in the distance, and Geralt's hand twitched towards his sword. "I'm here to see Olgierd." Geralt stated as calmly as the situation allowed.

"What for? 'E call fer 'elp or somethin'?" The second asked, earning a jab in the ribs from his apparent friend.

"He's busy at the moment."

Geralt glanced back at Lambert. "That right?" Lambert nodded. Whatever Geralt was going to do Lambert was ready to follow through.

"Tha's right." The second parroted, unaware of the exchange that had just occurred.

The first wasn't as dense. His sword now rested at his side, its ominous tip pointed towards the pair of witchers. "Olgierd don't 'ave time ta deal wit' yah now, so fuck off before I need to stop asking nice-like." He tapped his calf with the blade, making it blatantly obvious where the conversation was heading.

Another shout and Geralt had drawn his steel sword, temporarily forgetting its toll. He sliced downwards on the first man, cleaving him from right collar bone to left hip as if he were made of butter. There had been no resistance. No push back against Geralt's enchanted blade. The sabre didn't even slow as it cut through bone, through the leather armor that clothed the man, nor on the steel he held to block Geralt's strike.

Alongside Geralt, Lambert had drawn his own blade and gave chase to the second man who ran screaming into the depths of the Estate after witnessing the death of his comrade.

Geralt followed shortly after, his sabre leaving a glowing trail of red in the air.


"Olgierd!" Came a throaty call. He knew that voice. Knew the man it belonged to, or at least he thought he did. No longer did Olgierd von Everic see looks of admiration from his men. Those had long since faded when he turned his back on banditry.

He ran quick fingers through his orange coif of hair and rolled up the sleeves covering his tattoo and scar-laced arms. Olgierd had seen this coming, how could he not? Even a blind man could have seen the storm brewing. It had been only a matter of time before the mutiny occurred.

The once-immortal man turned to face his men, nay they weren't his men anymore. He faced the Wild Ones, no shred of the Redanian Free Army remaining.

Olgierd drew his blade. He may have been reliant on his immortality, but it hadn't gotten him the rank of Ataman. That he got through skill, skill and an iron will. He was still a soldier and they would come to know what that meant. "Well come then you bastards." Olgierd taunted the crowd. "Which one of you will finally still my heart!"

A murmur rose amid the sea of hungry eyes, and the crowd parted for a young woman with short cropped black hair and a jangle of hammered bronze earrings.

"Even you, Adela?"

She ignored his question, approaching him with cat-like grace, dual daggers drawn. Adela stopped at his shoulder, no hint of betrayal in her dark eyes, much unlike those surrounding them. "I will stand with Olgierd!" She pronounced proudly, her right dagger raised defiantly to the jeering crowd.

A small smile quirked Olgierd's lips, and then all hell broke loose.

XxxxX

The manor was the first to fall to the mayhem. Its once-rowdy halls and booze-soaked carpets, burning yet again. All the work of half a year, undone in a matter of hours.

What the Wild Ones lacked in training and discipline, they made up for in numbers and tenacity. The eager died quickly, falling to a well-timed blade to the ribs or throat. Now they came more slowly, more carefully. Each taking their time, trying to wear them out. Each hoping for Olgierd and Adela to make a fatal mistake.

Olgierd wiped his brow smearing it with the soot that caked his body and hands. The movement cracked open a just-formed clot on his forehead and blood trickled down from the small gash. Breathing was becoming a chore - what with the thick smoke that hung in the air and the exertion he demanded of his muscles.

To his left stood Adela, albeit a little shakily. Her loose red blouse was shredded to ribbons and a nasty cut ran across her shoulder. Under all the soot, blood, and dirt covering her body, it was hard to tell how many other wounds she was sporting. Olgierd imagined he didn't look much better from the cringing once-over she gave him.

He wondered what the bards would sing of this day. Would he finally be painted as a hero? Would he be facing off against hundreds of foes, instead of the couple of dozens that he actually faced? Or would he just be remembered as the stone-hearted monster he once was? Not that it mattered. Any of the non-combatants ran off in a flurry of skirts and shrieks at the first sign of trouble. No one dared to stay to witness the inevitable battle.

Unwilling to give the satisfaction of looking weak, Olgierd spat a bloody wad, sneering at the thug that stood before him.

"You will die here," stated the thug.

"Maybe so, but it won't be to the likes of you." Shot back Olgierd. Adela snorted at the comment as her own victim stepped out from the shrinking ring of hostile faces.

A snarl ripped from Olgierd's opponent as the thug ran towards him, spurred by the insult. Olgierd roared his challenge as the blades locked hilts, his hazel eyes glaring daggers into the man he had once shared drink with. They separated briefly before clashing again.

Embers popped in the background and rafters groaned before finally collapsing inward, but it went unnoticed. All eyes were fixed on the fight before them.

Olgierd's footing slid backwards in the blood-soaked earth, a bit of entrails tugging on his boot. He ducked away from a wide swing, and struck out with his sabre. Blocked. He tried a feint followed by a forward thrust. Deflected. Olgierd twisted away and brought up his sword to block a downward strike. His blade stopped the blow, but at a cost. Caught at an awkward angle, pain lanced through his wrist as it shuddered under his opponent's weight. Hopefully, it was only a sprain. He switched hands, his sabre now in his less dominant, but uninjured, hand.

Beside him, Adela was facing similar difficulty. Faced with opponents that easily dwarfed her small frame she had to move farther, move faster than them to prove more deadly. She was growing tired and with it, clumsy. The new injury on her thigh was proof enough.

One misstep was all it took. Too much weight on her injured leg made her miss the strike that sent her sprawling. Olgierd shouted, but there was no way he could get to her on time to be of any help.

A scream from one of the Wild Ones, proved to be a blessing. For the briefest of moments Adela's opponent looked away, giving her the time needed to find her feet. She sprang at her enemy plunging the steel fangs into his chest. He fell back with Adela still straddling his torso and repeatedly sliding her daggers in and out of his body in a desperate frenzy. Adela sat on her knees panting, and looked up when no else stepped forward to challenge her. At the same time, Olgierd had taken his own advantage and skewered his distracted opponent, a spray of artery fluid spotted his patterned gambeson as he retracted his blade.

No longer were Olgierd and Adela the center of attention, another seemed to have claimed that. The screams of the Wild One finally silenced when an auburn haired man expertly sliced his jugular. Olgierd swore he caught a glimpse of cat-eyes, but the man quickly spun, taking out another individual who dared challenge the newcomer.

"I don' fuckin' believe it." Came Adela's voice, and Olgierd turned to see the second individual who had caught her attention. "It's fuckin' Puss Peepers…" Olgierd didn't recognize the nickname, but he did recognize the white-haired witcher, even with the splattering of fresh blood and viscera.

A short bark of a laugh escaped his throat, and a newly awakened vigor filled his aching body. What a sight it was to watch the pair of witchers cutting down the remaining rebellion as if hacking through a field of daffodils. What a sight to witness Iris in the hands of a master, the sabre singing through the air in a whirlwind of enchanted red and splashing crimson.


The fight didn't last more than a few more minutes. With the tides turned, a hesitant few turned tail, while those that stayed fell to one of the five blades.

"Geralt," said Olgierd, as he approached the witcher. Geralt quickly wiped the blade clean on a pant-leg and sheathed it. The energy the sword gave him during the fight quenched and now he felt weakened as a result. "It is good to see you."

"Likewise." Geralt answered, accepting Olgierd's firm handshake.

"It's been far too long. I hope you haven't come because of our… mutual acquaintance." The distaste in Olgierd's voice didn't go unnoticed, as his grip lingered momentarily.

"No… We're here hoping to get a mount, but I can see you yourself are in no state for handouts."

Olgierd chuckled, sheathing his sword. "Geralt, this is twice now that I am in your debt. Should I only have the clothes on my back, I would still offer them to you. Come." The man gestured to a distant circle of laundry basins, abandoned when the fray began. "You and your friend should get cleaned up. I would offer a bath, but..." He looked sadly to the smoldering building. "I'm afraid the water might be a little on the hot side right now."

Geralt smiled weakly at the attempted joke. "We will gladly take what you can offer us."

Nodding, Olgierd led them a short ways. Behind them, Lambert had offered to help Adela walk, but one quick glare was enough for him to know what she thought of the idea.

"Fortunately for you and me both, those turncoats left the stables untouched," continued Olgierd. "Seems Vlodimir's love of horses managed to rub off on that lot at least." Olgierd passed Geralt a slightly damp linen he plucked from a clothesline. Grabbing another for himself, he dipped a corner into the nearby basins of soapy water and used it to clean the grime from his face.

Grateful for the chance to clean the recent carnage from his body, Geralt followed suit.

"It sure is something else watching you witchers fight." Olgierd muttered, dragging the cloth down his neck and wiping over his shoulder. "I assume the other one is a witcher… if those eyes of his is any indication."

Geralt's eyes followed Olgierd's gaze. "His name is Lambert, and yes, he's a witcher."

"Thought as much, though while I'm grateful you two showed up… seeing two witchers together is never a good omen. You gotten yourself into more trouble?"

"More than what you got me in last time?" Joked Geralt, returning his attention to cleaning the blood from his front.

"If that is true, then you have my sympathies," laughed Olgierd. "Speaking of which, you may want to wash that blood out of your hair sooner rather than later. Would hate to see it dye those white locks of yours pink…"

Geralt touched his head, his fingers coming away suspiciously dry. He bent over to peer into the basin, his reflection looking back through the still water. A dark shade of vermillion stained the roots of his hair, and despite the thorough rinsing he gave it, the color wouldn't lessen.

An eerie sense of dread began to fill him. It was a color he'd seen for just the briefest of moments on a traveling healer who had once saved him, and one he barely remembered on himself before he underwent the second set of the witcher trials.

His natural hair color was returning… and he had no idea why.