Philippa was quiet the ride back to the orphanage; Geralt could only hear her breathing through her nose, and the low thump of her heartbeat, steady, but elevated.
He didn't push the issue of her discomfort, knowing that she'd just lock up and shut him out. Instead, he readied himself to protect both of them if he had to.
They had completed all their tasks and errands, and now they were meeting the hands behind the curtain - The Crones.
Really, Geralt didn't know what to expect from them. Everything about them screamed danger, but he wasn't new to that. Deals were situational circumstantial. Would they betray them? Maybe - probably, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. Right now, they had to take any clue to Ciri's whereabouts they could get, even if it was coming from Ancient witches.
"We're almost at the village." Geralt said.
"I know that." Philippa responded curtly.
"I just want you - us to be ready, for whatever this is." He offered softly. Philippa snorted.
"You worried?" She asked.
"You aren't?" He returned.
They fell silent after that.
As they rode up to the village, there was a distinct lack of sounds of children, which disconcerted Philippa.
"No one's here?" She commented.
Geralt shook his head. "Yes there is."
They dismounted, and walked to the center of the village, just as Gran stumbled out of the Crone's 'church'.
"Ye came back." She said, It wasn't a question, and she didn't actually sound surprised, but sad. "Ye shouldn't have come back."
Geralt shook his head. "I didn't come here for your cryptic messages. We've done as we were told. It's time to meet your masters."
"Where are the children?" Philippa blurted from behind him.
Gran seemed surprised by that question, her thin eyebrows ticking up.
"They're…not here. I'm not their Gran no more. Something...something came and got them, something I ain't never seen." She stepped forward, voice getting quiet. "They don't have them."
Philippa swallowed. It seemed the tree spirit was true to its word, whatever it's word entailed.
"If yer back, you must have it." Gran said, looking at Geralt. He had a good idea of what 'it' was. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the Ealdorman's ear, the blood drying and becoming dark along where it was severed
"Over 'ere, bring it 'ere" Gran instructed, beckoning Geralt on, pointing to a large stone that sat next to the church. Geralt and Philippa walked up to it - the boulder was stained with blood, like a place one would cut the head off of chickens, but they both guessed the blood came from somewhere else. Geralt looked over to Gran, who didn't say anything. Using his best guessing abilities, he placed the ear upon the stone, and took a step back.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then, Geralt's ears perked up, and the hairs on his neck stood. For Philippa, it felt like they were going to pop out of their follicles. The wind blew unnaturally, full of whispers and voices. They looked at each other a moment, trepidation clear on Philippa's face, and preparedness on Geralt's. Slowly, they turned around, to face the Crones.
The three sisters, appearing out of nowhere.
The Ladies of the Woods, The Crones - Whispess, Brewess, and Weavess, standing side by side in that order. The wind blew again, and suddenly it smelled like death and rot. They looked far from their depiction on the tapestry, they didn't even look human.
Whispess had unnaturally long limbs, hands that could envelop a man's whole head, with long black fingernails that looked like they could pierce skin. Her dry and cracked skin was pale and vascular, with warts and cysts being as common as freckles. She was the tallest of the three - if she wasn't hunched over in her hobbled walk, she would be eight feet tall, and even in her bent over form, she was a full head taller than Geralt and Philippa. 'Her' face was covered with a black hood, and an opaque red veil, obscuring her face, and neither Geralt nor Philippa thought they wanted to see what was underneath. On her body, she wore a rough dress of animal hide, brown and filthy, and around her torso she wore a sash of human ears, dozens of them, horrid accessories.
Next to her was Brewess, who was shorter than Whispess, but still taller than Geralt; she made up for that lost height in other places. She was horrifically fat, flabs and folds, stacked like piles of meat in her rugged clothes. Her skin was pink and covered with scabs and sores, like a few layers of outer skin had been removed and what was underneath was allowed to bubble and cook in the sun. She didn't have fingers - she had claws; three on each hand which resembled fat fleshy talons more than they did hands. She wore what looked like a butcher's apron, and around her vast waist was a simple strong belt that held several dead rabbits and chickens, some skinned, some not. Her face was also obscured, a hood drawn up and tied tight, with a wicker face mask, like a bee-keeper would wear. On the top of her hood was a split, which her reddish scalp and gnarled remnants of hair was sticking out.
Finally, there was Weavess, who in a strange way would've looked the most human of the three, if just barely. She was more akin to what general folklore and superstition conjured up when discussing witches. Hunched over, horrid blemished skin, and a pointy hat, though hers was much more gnome like. She was the only of the three sisters who did not have her face obscured, letting her rather wretched features, pointy chin and hooked nose. Her lips were thin and crusty, and the teeth showing were misshapen with many gaps. There were bandages around the crown of her head, which wrapped to cover one eye - the other was left uncovered, but there wasn't an actual eye in the socket. Instead, there was a large cyst - it looked infected, and on closer inspection, was filled with maggots and things crawling. She wore the same kind of tattered rags as her sister, but accessorized it with a noose man's rope that hung around her neck and wrapped around her arms. Still, this would've made her the most human looking of the trio…if it weren't for the extra set of legs that hung from dangling from her stomach.
On instinct, Geralt drew his sword, and Philippa began to think of whatever spells she could that would incinerate them as quickly as possible.
"Sheathe your weapon, young man." Weaves said; to Geralt's surprise, she had a nasally High Temarian accent.
"They're even lovelier in real life." Brewess added. The compliment made Philippa want to shed her skin. She felt clammy all over, stuck in a sea of impending dread as she stood in front of dark, ancient magic.
"In real life you're…different than you were in the tapestry." Geralt commented, obviously.
Gran stepped from behind the witches, eyes cast downward submissively. Whispess snatched at her arm, yanking her forward and pushing her towards the ritual stone.
"Well? Bring it here!"
Gran stumbled forward to the makeshift altar, and slowly picked up the severed ear. She examined it for a moment, which apparently was too long for The Crones - Whispess took her long thumbnail, and cut across the palm of her other wrinkled hand. The palm of Gran's own hand smoked and glew orange, as if she had grabbed hot coals. A strange symbol appeared on her hand. She screeched in pain, and looked back at her mistresses.
"You were to bring it, not ogle it." Brewess stated. Gran quickly returned to Whispess' side and gave her the ear. Whispess in turn pushed her aside harshly, and added the ear to her sash.
"You disobeyed us once more." The tall witch hissed over her shoulder.
"We are forgiving creatures, but you - you allowed the children to escape." Brewess added.
"They never wanted to flee." Gran said, almost sounding sorry by the fact. "They liked it here. They played."
"Your punishment must be harsh. Now silence." Weaves ordered. "We must speak to the White-Haired One and the Sorceress."
Gran gave Geralt and Philippa one last look, before walking away and towards her shack.
"Geralt. That mark on her hand-" Philippa began.
"I recognize it." Geralt finished for her. "I know that mark. This is Anna, the wife of the baron of Crow's Perch."
"She belongs to no man." Weavess laughed horridly
"She's a debt to pay." Whispess stated. "She is here by choice."
Philippa doubted that "choice" meant anything in regards to the Crones. A wave of pity washed over her for Gran.
"A fruit ripened in her womb. A fruit sprouted from seed sown by a man she detested." Brewess added. Geralt certainly thought that sounded like the Baron.
"She bears the mark. She is ours. Come, it is another woman who interests you. Speak, White-Haired One."
Geralt considered arguing further, but they were in a hurry, and Philippa didn't want to be near the Crones any longer than she needed to be.
"Our deal - I did my part. Now you do yours." Geralt demanded.
"Did you destroy the evil powers? Have you brought peace to our domain?" Weavess asked. There was nothing peaceful about their domain.
"I freed the spirit trapped in the tree." Geralt answered honestly.
"Hear that, sisters?" Whispess gasped.
"Traitor!" Weavess seethed.
"She took the children! 'Twas her!" Brewess accused.
"We made a deal. I was supposed to help the villagers. I held up my end of the bargain. They're safe now." Geralt stated. Philippa took a small pleasure in the Crones realizing they weren't getting exactly what they wanted.
"So, a mockery, you chose to outwit." Whispess scoffed.
"Enough. Time to tell us what we want to know." Geralt said firmly.
"Oh! So demanding. So forward." Brewess laughed. "Oh, I'd suck every last drop out of you!"
"Ah, to be woven together with you!" Weavess added in ribald fashion.
"I'd be your best - and last." Whispess said, the seduction sounding more like a threat.
"Hm, not what I came for." Geralt replied dryly.
"And what of you, young lass?" Whispess said, turning her attention to Philippa. The sorceress went rigid at being addressed, suddenly feeling like a cornered animal.
"Yes, I know a woman who's fallen between the legs of another when I see one." Brewess drawled. "I'm certain you're just 'Magical' at it"
Philippa might have been sick if Geralt hadn't stepped closer to her, in a defensive gesture.
"Don't talk to her. Talk to me."
Philippa might've given Geralt a grateful smile if it weren't for all the dread coursing through her. Saved her from attempting to incinerate them, or herself.
"So testy." Weavess commented. "But very well. We're bound to honor our dealings, as all on this land are. The girl... Mousy blonde - that's what they call it."
The Crones began to speak, telling their tale of coming into contact with Ciri. In all honesty, Philippa wasn't much listening. It felt like her whole body was engulfed in a beehive, everything feeling like it was moving all around her, and her stomach flipped and rolled, aching. Her head was killing her, like the very presence of the crones was causing her skull to get tighter.
The magic the three witches were excluding felt both wholly unnatural and antediluvian at the same time, like it was from a time that existed long ago but was meant to be left behind. Her head was buzzing, and it was as if she couldn't hear the conversation.
Wait - she COULDN'T hear the conversation.
Pulling herself from her immense discomfort, Philippa realized she could see the Crones and Geralt speaking, but no words seemed to come past their lips, as if she had been suddenly struck deaf.
He spoke nothingness, and at the same time, the world around her seemed to slow down and lose its color, Geralt's already pale faced becoming almost grayscale, and the surrounding nature dulling like faded paint, his mouth kept moving, but only at a quarter, if that, speed. The wind blew the trees and grass around them, which now waved slowly and unnaturally.
"What in the name of-" Philippa began, confusion and disorientation over taking her. She tried to do something, what something was uncertain, but she tried to react to what was happening, but she couldn't - she felt utterly disconnected from her magic; a ship severed from its anchor. Panic began to fill her; she didn't know what was going on, and she HATED not knowing what was going on.
"Geralt? Geralt, can you hear me?" She tried desperately, turning fully to face the Witcher. He just continued to look ahead, talking in slow motion - she didn't exist to him. She reached out to Geralt, but as she tried to touch him, her hand passed right through him, like he was nothing but an apparition.
"Don't mind him deary. He's engrossed in our conversation."
Philippa's head snapped to the side, looking at The Crones.
They were all staring back at her.
"W-what is this?" Philippa demanded. "Where am I?"
"Why, it's just some clever spell work." Weavess informed simply.
"Allows us girls to have the important conversation while still keeping the White Haired one entertained." Brewess continued.
"And you should know where we are." Whispess stated. "It's hardly a new place. We're in your head."
Philippa brough a hand up to her crown on instinct.
"My head…" She repeated.
"Surely you've heard our whispers, ever since you stepped into our domain." Whispess said. The Crones appeared to have gotten closer to her, but they hadn't moved. Philippa swallowed thickly. They had been there the whole time, in her head, talking to her, trying to poison her.
"Yes, you tried to push us out, ignore our calls." Brewess told her.
"But in the end, you ended up where you were meant to be." Weavess laughed horridly. "As we saw in our cauldron - it was as inevitable as the sun setting.
Philippa thought she was going to be sick, and she took a shaky step back.
"Now-" Brewess began. "We must."
Philippa didn't wait for her to finish her sentence before she took off running. Turning and springing out from the village into the trees. She had no destination besides AWAY from them. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the only one she had. She ran as fast as she could, through the trees, that somehow felt more numerous and opaque. She ran through the brush, until she reached another clearing.
"Really." Came Brewess' voice. Philippa looked around, and realized she was right back where started. "Quite difficult to escape your own head, no?"
"You'll find that you won't rid yourself of us so easily." Weavess added. "We are tethered. Your destiny is-"
Philippa once again wasn't listening, as she picked up a stone from the ground, and hurled it at Brewesses face with all her might. The stone sailed through the air, aimed at Brewess' head. The large witch didn't so much as flinch as the stone came within inches of her face, before stopping instantaneously, floating in the air for a moment, before dropping to the ground.
"Now that's just rude." Brewess chastised.
"Well, I suppose this is what we get for trying to be polite." Weavess sighed, almost sounding as if she was disappointed.
"Yes, let us just begin." Whispess stated. The lanky witch lifted a long arm, and pointed a finger at Philippa. The movement was minute, barely a flick of her wrist, but her hand twitched, and her finger tilted downward ever so slightly.
Suddenly, Philippa was off her feet, thrust backwards like she was hit by some powerful invisible force. She flew through the air, jettisoned back at a seemingly impossible speed. She tried to scream, or at least she thought she did, but no sound came out. The forest around her became nothing but a blur, and Philippa felt as if her stomach was going to crawl up her throat. Then almost as quickly as it started, she stopped. She was no longer in the woods, she was no longer anywhere - she was floating in a void, black and edgeless. She kicked her limbs about, trying to gain purchase on something, ANYTHING, but she just floated there, not knowing which way was up, if up even mattered in a place like this.
The darkness was endless and engulfing, but then Philippa saw a slight sliver of light, right "above" her. Her slight moment of relief slowly transformed into horror as the slivers of lights widened, and Philippa realized she wasn't seeing light, but the whites of a pair of eyes as they slowly opened, eyes that floated in the black void like a pair of moons, eyes peering down at her
Her eyes. She had spent 400 years looking at them, she'd recognize them anywhere. The yellow hue of them shining down on her in the void. She hated looking at them, a reminder of their absence. Philippa covered her face with her hands, wanting whatever the hell this was to be over.
"This is your mind." She told herself. "You are the master of it. This is your mind. You are the master of it."
She repeated the statement over and over, trying to will herself out of this horrible ensnarement.
Maybe it was her words, maybe it was something else, but Philippa felt her feet hit some kind of ground, and she was standing again.
After a long moment, she uncovered her face, and she was no longer in an endless black void.
She was in a room - a study to be exact. One that was all too familiar, books along one wall, a fireplace on the opposite, one that was a bit crooked from shoddy brickwork. Books aligned three of the four walls, and on the far side of the room there was a desk.
She hadn't thought about that desk in hundreds of years - she wondered if it still had the markings she had left. She hadn't thought about ANY of this in hundreds of years. She HATED this room.
"Nostalgia, it can be so warming…Or so frigid."
Weavess's voice. Philippa looked around, but she was alone, the sound of the Witch in her head as an unwanted consciousness.
"Going home can always be so hard." Whispess' voice mocked.
"All the things we leave behind, some stay there, some fade away." Brewess added, as if she was telling a nursery rhyme.
Left behind was an understatement.
Her father's study - she had spent so many hours here, sitting as her father worked.
Despite general belief, Philippa was not always the lady of Montecalvo. Being 400 years old had the practical effect of allowing one to live past remembrance between generations.
Truth was, Philippa wasn't even nobility by birth, something she wouldn't admit if asked. No, her father was the legal advisor to the lord who had held the seat of Montecalvo all those centuries ago. A boorish man, Philippa remembered, one who was known for running afoul of other lords in Redania, merchants, and even the king. It had behooved him to have someone under him who could help sort out his numerous legal matters, Philippa's father, Frederich Eilhart. The lord had given Frederich a chamber for his family within the castle, and a study where he could do his work while he was under his employ. Philippa's mother didn't want her wandering the castle - not a noble woman, but she fancied herself one. She didn't want Philippa interacting with the servants of the keep, so she often spent days either cooped up in the room, or study, unless some courtier or a visiting lord was present, then she was carted out, like an accessory to her mother.
All of a sudden, Philippa didn't want to be in the room anymore, she felt clammy, sick.
"What's wrong?" Brewess' voice rang in her ear. "Home sick?"
Philippa tried to ignore it, stumbling towards the door, throwing her shoulder into it and bursting into the corridor. A large corridor, she remembered how her feet used to echo when she would run down it. Across it was the bedchamber they all shared. It was spacious, and more comfortable than most would ever have, but Philippa would always complain that she wanted her own room.
"Quite spacious." Whispess stated. "A perfect place for a young girl to grow up."
"What is this?" Philippa said through gritted teeth. "Why am I back HERE?"
"Why, we're here to get to know you of course." Weavess exclaimed.
"It's in our best interest to know who we're dealing with." Brewess added.
Oh, she'd show them who they were dealing with, when she got out of whatever THIS was, she'd show them exactly who they were dealing with.
Philippa hadn't been in this part of the castle in almost 300 years - when she came into possession of the keep, she had the entire section walled off.
"A bit of a dramatic gesture if you ask me?" Weavess opined.
"Get. Out. Of my head!" Philippa screamed. With no other options or ideas, she ran, her feet echoing in the corridor.
The running may have been futile, she was in a manifestation of her own head, but she ran all the same, down the corridor that seemed to stretch endlessly.
"Why do you run?" Weavess asked mockingly, "We do not chase you."
Her voice in her head only made her run faster, lungs burning as she tried to escape an unseeable foe.
She saw a large wooden door in the distance, one she swore wasn't there a half second ago, but she didn't much have reason on her side at the moment. She barreled towards the door, throwing herself into it. To her surprise, it was as if the door had no weight to it, and she stumbled through, falling over herself and rolling. Even if they were inside her head, it had hurt. She landed hard on her side, groaning on the stone floor.
"Well that's no way to make an entrance." Whispess commented like a gnat in her ear.
'Shut. UP.' Philippa thought angrily. She considered just lying there, to not partake in the game.
"Straighten yourself up, girl." Brewess chastised. "This is no way to greet a king."
King?
Despite her better judgment, Philippa rolled to her back and sat up. She was in another hauntingly familiar place. She had spent enough time there to know every crevice of Redania's Royal Palace. She looked down, seeing herself in the reflection of the marble floor, which was always polished twice a day. Large support pillars align the edge of the floor, the Redania banner hanging from them - they looked worn. Courtiers would often slot themselves between the pillars, a natural hierarchy forming, those with more influence and the ear of the king towards the front, and lesser lords and merchants in the back. The throne room was famous for the lathe stained-glass windows portraying the history of Redania on the royal lineage. During the daylight would shine through, lighting the marble floor up with color - no light shown through them now; they looked gray.
At the front of the room was what anyone who entered actually cared about - the throne, sitting on a small elevated platform three steps tall. Gaudy of course, made to resemble the colors of the Redanian sigil: white, red and gold. Fine oak dyed white with gold trims, and rubies studded up its sides. Philippa never liked to stand TOO close to it - light would often reflect off of it and bounce into Phlippa's eyes. Not a problem she had now.
It had taken Philippa thirty years to get to that spot, standing beside the king. She arrived in the capital in a permanent capacity when she was still young, in her 70s, after decades in Oxenfurt. She disliked the capital really, never really got used to it. She found the city to be dreary, compared to Novigrad or Oxenfurt and the magical using community was miniscule at best. But she could sacrifice comfort for influence. Influence she held over several kings was a more than fair trade off.
But something was off - besides the obvious.
The throne was backwards, facing away from the entrance.
She didn't know if it was her own unbearable curiosity, or the influence of the Crones, but Philippa found herself walking towards the throne, her feet moving naturally silently along the marble floor. Memories of her time at court flooded to her, the many times she walked the length of the throne room - miles walked.
When she got to the steps to the throne, she sensed that someone was in the chair - or perhaps something, seeing it for herself was the only clarity she could have. Slowly, she climbed the steps, and came around the left side of the chair.
In it, was an immaculately ornate corpse. Dressed in the finest robes and jewelry, and a crown upon its withered head. Its features were mangled by decay, but the lack of eyes and 7 inch blade sticking out from its chest made it plain as day who it was.
"Vizimir-" Philippa said quietly. Her king, her ascension, her handiwork. Despite what some thought, Philippa wasn't a SADIST. When the elven assassin came under her control, she had hoped it would've been quick, a slip of something in Vizimir's tea, or a smothering with pillow - 3 stab wounds to the torso got the job done, but was hardly what she had envisioned
"Some of your best work." Brewess' voice rang. Philippa had almost forgotten they were there for a moment.
"Good to see a young lady put her schemes into motion." Weavess added.
"Reminds me of us in our younger days."
"So what is this?" Philippa spat loudly, looking around at no one but everything. "This some kind of trip down memory lane?"
The cackles of the Crones' laughter rang through the air, their mockery buzzing in her ears.
"We just want to get to know you, Philippa Eilhart." Weavess said - Philippa didn't understand. They seemed to know everything already.
"Your highs-" Brewess croaked. "And your lows."
The ground underneath Philippa's feet disappeared - one second it was there and the next it was gone - and she's falling.
When she hits solidness again, she lands feet first, falling down to her knees and then to her side, knocking the wind out of her and rattling her head. If this was the real world, her legs might have been broken, but since this was all in her head, it just hurt like nothing else. The ground was hard, stone and uneven - there was something else as well, the floor was littered. Philippa rolled to her back, trying to get her bearings, her arms spread out, the back of a hand pressing up against something spongy - fleshy. It felt like a cheek. Philippa sat up.
Bodies. Some mostly intact, others just parts: limbs, heads, fingers, scattered on the ground, and Philippa was in the middle of them. This team Philippa could hear herself scream, along with the screams of others - this wasn't quiet like the other places. It was loud, deafeningly so, the sound of a battle. The sound of a massacre.
The sound of Loc Muinne
Philippa's sense came back to her like an explosion, and realization like a guillotine. She could hear herself scream this time, alongside the sounds of everyone else screaming, pleading, and dying. She could smell the blood and gunpowder in the air - and the smell of flesh burning.
She hadn't seen any of this - she had been imprisoned by the time the purge had started, and blinded when it was in its full swing, before she escaped. Either the Crones somehow knew what happened at Loc Muinne, or this was just a conjuration of their imagination - both prospects utterly terrifying.
They were on the main bridge that led to the large gates of the fortress. It made sense that those without any other means of transportation would try and escape this way - it was the only way most could hope to get back to the main roads and paths down the mountains - and Radovid knew that.
The mages were sandwiched on both sides - Redanian troops pushing them outwards from inside the city, and The Order of Flaming Rose from their encampment on the other side of the bridge.
Philippa thought the bridge would collapse; a unit of soldiers clamoring down on about 50 mages. They never stood a chance really - most of them weren't warriors, any time in battle was spent in the back echelon, casting spells from afar, never up close like this, in the reach of a pike or a sword. Those who tried to fight - tried to defend themselves couldn't get their spells out fast enough before a blade came and mangled their fingers, took off hands. Most weren't fighting though, they were just trying to flee for their lives, a mass of bodies trying to push through each other. Philippa saw a young looking sorceress lose her footing and fall over - the others stepped atop of her, and she didn't get back up.
The pike men were doing the most damage - stabbing and cutting from a far, piercing those who ran towards them, hoping to get past, but never did.
Then came the swords, the knives, slashing, splattering blood, taking off limbs and heads. Philippa could only see a horrid mass, not knowing what was what direction. She spun around, and looked into the face of a horrid looking member of the order, with his sword raised above his head. Philippa covered her face with her arms, for whatever good it would've done, as the man's blade swung downwards - but the impact never came. The sword had passed right through her, like she was an apparition - she wasn't really there. She was just a spectator, and the blade did no harm to her. The same couldn't be said for the mage standing behind her; the sword came down on his collar bone, nearly cleaving him in two, the sword got stuck in his lower rib cage. Philippa might not have felt the sword, but she felt the mage blood spurt against her back, the wet warmness soaking into her clothes and running down the back of her neck.
Philippa had to get out of there, it was too much - she thought she'd go mad from despair. The voice of the Crones were silent, watching from wherever they resided as the atrocity played out with Philippa in the middle. Bringing her back there, it was evil, horrible, an abominable act, and she could do nothing about it. More and more people died around her. People crawling on their hands and knees, just to get a sword to the back, begging with their hands up, just to lose them.
This wasn't real
She needed to escape
This wasn't real
Everyone was dying, screaming and dying.
This wasn't real.
Philippa's heart felt like it was going to explode, her head felt like it was going to leak from her ears. An escape, any escape. No way forward. No way back. One way.
Over the side.
Philippa didn't think about it, she couldn't be there any longer. She flung herself over the side of the bridge.
It's not real. It's all in my head. It's not real. It's all in my head. It's not real. It's all in my head
Philippa's mind chanted it over and over as she free fell into the chasm under the bridge. She didn't know what would happen when she hit bottom, but anything was better than staying on the bridge.
There were others falling besides here, either thrown off or jumping themselves - a solution more permanent than Philippa's. There was nothing under the bridge, just blackness that swallowed her up. She didn't flail as she descended, falling limply to escape the horrors of Loc Muinne.
She fell for a few uncounted moments.
"You truly are a woman of many talents."
The voice of one of the Crones - Philippa wasn't sure which one. She wasn't falling anymore. There was no ground beneath her, but she was kneeling, hunched over, feeling sick - she didn't think she could vomit in her own head, but her stomach was certainly trying. Her head was killing her, and she hoped the Crones could feel it.
"Schemes and schemes." That was the voice of Weavess. "Oh how they unfold. Discord in the North, The South invades, all the little mages and magettes dead or scattered - and you, at the center of it all."
Philippa might have cried if she was able to. The Crones, horrid as they were, spoke the frank truth - Philippa's part in everything that had happened, that WAS happening. Her plans, her schemes - so many dead, people who had been her colleagues, massacred while she scurried off. Her mistakes had shockwaves that rocked the whole continent - perhaps Nilfgaard's invasion was inevitable, perhaps magic users falling out of favor was as well, but Philippa sped up the process.
Guilt perhaps wasn't the right word - after all guilt was interpersonal; but a deep regret for everyone caught in the headwind of her conspiracies and her failures. Perhaps she wasn't alone in her blame - others went along with her freely for her own agendas, others went directly against her and played a part in the destruction at hand, but she was the tip of a broken spear.
When she finally managed to lift her head, the Crones were standing around her, at least some sort of corporeal form of them.
"What's the matter, deary?" Weaves asked, sounding sickeningly sweet and sinister at the same time. "You look ill."
"What is this?" Philippa asked again, dejectedly this time. "Why are you doing this to me? Is this…is this punishment?"
It sounded pathetic once she asked, but she had to know. But they didn't answer her.
Instead, they laughed.
Cackling was a more appropriate, loud and horrid sounding, crows squawking in different octaves and pitches, echoing in the blackness to make it sound like there were a dozen of them. They laughed fully, as if Philippa had just spun the most amusing of yarns. Philippa's dejection turned to confusion, and then vexation - it wasn't enough that they were psychologically torturing her, they were MOCKING her as well.
"Punishment?" Whispess asked in amusement. "Why would we punish art?"
Philippa was back to confusion.
"You have a talent that most can never even dream of." Brewess said in strange praise. "The ability, the drive to shape the world around them, history - so much beautiful chaos in such a short time."
The lumbering legs of Whispess stepped forward, standing right in front of Philippa, "This isn't a punishment - this is an initiation."
Philippa found the energy to push herself to her feet, perhaps driven by the questions she had. "What are you talking about? What initiation?"
"We pride ourselves in seeing one's potential." Weavess stated a matter-of-factly. "So many people in this land - boring, Just taking up space as they skitter through their little lives."
"Kings of the lands think they're any different." Brewess added in disgust. "Just cattle wearing crowns."
"Individuals worth more than the dirt they stand on come only once in a milenia." Weavess noted. She moved around Philippa, joining Weavess at her side. Her maggot filled eye, squinted, and her arm extended, pointing at Philippa, right at her chest. "YOU are that individual. Someone who stood on her two legs, above the cattle and rats. Someone that shapes the world as they see fit, like us."
Their praise made Philippa's stomach flip again.
"We're nothing alike." Philippa bit out.
"Yes, we tend to stay out of politics." Whispess mocked. "But we make the world ours, as do you."
"But you made a mistake - you did it alone." Brewess chastised.
"I wasn't alone." Philippa shot back.
"Yes, your little lodge." Whispess observed. Philippa hated how she was some kind of book for them, her life just chapters on a page. "They never had the same drive you did - you know it as well as us."
"They weren't your real allies." Brewess sneered. "They weren't your real sister…but we can be."
"ENOUGH!" Philippa shouted, her own voice echoing in the blackness. "Tell me what it is you want, or leave me alone in this damned abyss."
"Why, we want you to join us, of course." Whispess stated simply.
The fire that had sparked inside of Philippa was extinguished just as quickly as it came, caught completely off guard by the response. She took a half step back, suddenly feeling surrounded on all sides.
"You what?" She found herself asking, barely above a whisper.
"We want you to join us in our sisterhood." Brewess repeated. "A truly generous offer."
"You're powerful, but you're alone - Alone and ultimately MORTAL." Weavess said. Her voice dripping with contempt at the word 'mortal'
"That is why your ambitions are doomed to fail." Brewess added. "But with us - you'll be protected, aided, as a sister should be."
"Why would I ever want to be kin with YOU." Philippa hissed. A wave of disgust and shame shot through her body; disgust at the idea of having anything to do with the Crones, and shame that they saw her life, her history and BELIEVED she'd have anything to do with them
"Think of the power you'll have!" Whispess continued on. "We could have anything we wanted. The people of this land don't have many uses, but they can be wrangled, organized. They could be an army, or at least canon fodder - there wouldn't be a place on the continent we couldn't reach. You'd discover deep magic, magic that could make you live millennia, magic that could give you whatever you desire - bring your eyes back with a snap of your fingers."
"This is not something we offer lightly." Weavess remarked. "Many have spoken to us, but none have been offered a place at our side. For that, we'd of course expect - payment."
"I have nothing to give you." Philippa croaked, both a statement of rebellion and a statement of fact - she had nothing to her name, but she remembered the kinds of payment the Crones preferred. "Perhaps you want one of my ears, or is that too common a payment? My eyes are otherwise indisposed, so perhaps my liver!"
When she spat the final word, she hadn't realized she was panting.
The Crones cackled again, stepping towards her in an unnatural unison.
"Oh, but you have something much more interesting to give us." Weavess assured.
"Something that you've been preparing for us this whole time." Whispess added just as cryptically.
"Baking for us." Brewess joined. "Like bread in an oven."
Even through their riddled words, that statement came out clear, disambiguous, and horrific. An unknown but powerful maternal instinct made Philippa cover her stomach with both her arms, and step back into nothingness.
"No…" She gasped immediately.
No, no no.
"The Spawn of a Witcher and a Sorceress - a rare delicacy." Weavess said, almost licking her chapped blemished lips. "Who knows what little benefits it might have."
"The white haired one, with elder blood, too difficult." Brewess stated. "The girlie wouldn't even let us have a wee arm! Selfish"
"But your spawn, much more agreeable." Whispess croaked. "Small and delicious. Still baking within you. She will be our gift - your offering to join our ranks in immortality."
Philippa wasn't listening - she couldn't listen. Her whole body was trying to reject their vile words, their vile presence. Her heartbeat thumped muffled in her ears, as if trying to protect itself from the poison the Crones spewed, the very idea of -
She didn't really listen to them, except for one word, one word that pierced through everything else like a spear.
"She?" Philippa asked, almost a whisper.
"Don't you know?" Weavess laugh. "You're having a delicious little girl!"
She.
A little girl.
Philippa's little girl. That made it all so real, realer than it had been. Made it - present.
She.
Philippa was having a daughter. Her daughter, Geralt's daughter. Their daughter.
And these Crones, the horrid, wretched CUNTS, talked of her as if she was a pastry. Fear and disgust remained in Philippa, but it was superseded by a fire of maternal rage that threatened to burn the whole planet to its core.
"No." Philippa said again, voice stronger, and rage seeping in.
"We are not ones to say no to." Brewess warned.
"NO!"
Suddenly, the false politeness the Crones had been putting on up until now vanished, and the fullness of their wretchedness was on display. Philippa found herself pushed off her feet by some unseen force, knocking her onto her back, and almost as instantaneously, the Crones were over her, standing around her like vultures around a half dead animal.
"Make no mistake, bitch, we may be benevolent, but our patience is not infinite!" Weavess said, baring the few horrible and rotten teeth she had.
"You and that Witcher freed the forest spirit - took our little plump children away from us." Brewess added. "We'd have the right to TEAR your brood from inside of you, if we chose."
"We do not make our offer to you lightly." Whispess said, attempting to sound like a mediator. "That child inside you will be ours, it is woven in our destiny, but it would be a waste to take it from you in…less than pleasant manners. Think of the power we are offering you - you can get your eyes back, you can get all the eyes you want, you'll have hordes willing to pluck their own out and give them to you as offerings."
Philippa swallowed thickly. They had her on all sides, a horrible ultimatum - not even an ultimatum. They made it clear what they wanted, and they planned to get it by any means. Philippa knew what power hungry was, she knew it well. But the Crones, well they weren't that complicated, they cared little for political power, or the future beyond their noses. They were akin to beasts, they wanted things to devour, and an abundance of it, whether that be Velen, or the whole continent. And they had Philippa at their mercy, looming over her, wanting to take what they should never have a right to.
She.
This was all in her head. They had her surrounded, isolated, but it was just in her head. She was still there standing next to Geralt, at least she hoped she was, not knowing how much time had really passed. But it was HER head. Her mind. It was her prison, but also her only weapon.
The Crones were simple: hunger and power.
Using all her self-control to push down her fear and rage, she forced herself to look afraid, to look like she had submitted, ultimately what The Crones wanted.
"Okay." She said, making her voice waver a bit. "Okay, I understand."
The Crones eyed her in natural distrust, but moved back enough for her to sit up. An inch, which was all she needed to take a league.
"...I want Radovid" She said. "I want that worm all to myself."
A little truth. Something for them to latch on to, a base desire of revenge, something she was sure the Crones understood, and fed on. They looked at her for a moment, before cackling.
"Sorceress, you'll have much more than one measly king." Whispess laughed
"You can have the head of every king in the land, if you see fit." Brewess offered.
Dangerous and malevolent, but the Crones were simple, the id of magic of desire. Selfishness. Philippa was allowed to stand - another inch. She placed her hand on her stomach and swallowed once, maintaining her composure, and staving off the bile that she thought might somehow materialize and escaper her mouth,
"My…offering." She said, feeling horrid saying that. "My token into your ranks - who gets it?"
The Crones looked at her in pause, the first sign of uncertainty since Philippa had met them.
"What nonsense do you speak girl?" Whispess demanded after a moment.
"It's just…well, an infant is such a small thing." Philippa explained, sounding neutral. "Surely you three didn't plan to SHARE."
And at that, the Crones fully STOPPED, halted in surprise, and it was then that Philippa knew she had them. They looked at each other, the three sisters, who had moved in union until now all of a sudden, looked less united. None of them spoke, but glanced back and forth between each other - Philippa didn't have sisters, but she knew a thing or two about selfishness, wanting something all to yourself, and she knew a thing or two about playing people, something she was sure The Crones were masters in themselves - but ultimately not immune to. See, scarcity plus want, equals conflict.
And conflict could be exploited.
"I shall take the child." Whispess announced, the first showing their true greed.
"Why should you get the morsel?" Weaves hissed.
"I am the eldest!"
"And thus it would be wasted on you." Brewess added, turning to her lanky sister. "I should get the child.
"Ha!" Weavess laughed horridly. "You talk of waste, a tiny thing like a baby would have no effect on your morbid form. It'd be like giving an elephant a single sunflower."
"You are the youngest! You do not speak!" Brewess growled.
"I may be the youngest, but I am the wisest." Weavess barked. "It should be mine!"
The three sisters, arguing like spoiled children and hissing and spitting like rats over scraps - for the first time, unfocused on Philippa. She needed to act quickly, to try something while they bickered. She looked within herself, trying to reconnect to her magic. Whatever the Crones were doing was blocking her, a barrier to hew own mind and magic - but she suspected it was an act of unison, some kind of hex that required the combined efforts of all three of them, like a stool with three legs - all 3 are needed to stand, otherwise it will come crashing down.
"Bitch!"
"Cunt"
"Whore!"
This sisters' animosity were turned on each other, selfishness clouding their sense and turning the ugliness and hate they poisoned the world with, inward.
They didn't know they were falling on their own swords.
Philippa concentrated and concentrated, looking for the spark she needed, she only needed one.
It was Weavess who noticed what was happening first, turning her head and seeing Philippa, her hands together in front of her in deep concentration.
"Sisters-" Weavess tried to warn
"I'll rip out your entrails, use them in my soup!" Brewess threatened.
"I'll have a thousand rats feast on your fat carcass!" Whispess threatened back.
"Sisters!" Weavess urged again, but it was too late.
"Przepadnij!" Philippa screamed
The spark.
Suddenly, the void of blackness they were in shined bright white, and the Crones hissed in surprise. The purging light enveloped them.
And like that, the Crones scheme came crashing down. They fought to take back control, but Philippa's spark set off a chain reaction in her magic, and she was going to remind them who she was, and why they wanted her to begin with.
"Listen to me, and Listen well!" Philippa spoke, her voice reverbing and powerful. "My mind, my body, my SPIRIT, are my own, and you will never ever have a piece of it as long as I stand breathing."
She felt The Crones - they felt SCARED.
Good.
"Now get the fuck out of my head!"
"AAAAAYYYGHHH!"
Geralt almost jumped, his hand automatically grabbing for the hilt of his sword.
Whispess was in the middle of talking, when she let out a loud and pained scream. The other two sisters made noises as well, stepping back as if they were suddenly assaulted by an unseen force. Whispess dropped to her hands and knees, and Geralt looked over to Philippa. He had noticed that she hadn't spoken in a while, but attributed it to her just listening - and having nothing to say to the Crones, but in an instant, she seemed to snap to attention, like she was just coming back from a dream. Her head turned quickly to the side, looking at him.
"Geralt." She said, almost like a gasp of relief. Then the next moment her face fell, she looked to the Crones, and then back at him.
"Run!"
In Geralt's experience, he never needed to be told twice to run. He wasn't sure what was happening, but he was sure that Philippa was sure. They spun on their heels, and sprinted from the village. Geralt grabbed Philippa by her hand, pulling her along to run faster.
Whipsess pushed herself up to one knee, and pointed a long, dangerous finger at the fleeing pair.
"Get them!" She shrieked.
They got to Roach, who was stomping his feet and breathing heavily, ready to go. Geralt pulled Philippa to him body and grabbed her around the waist, and THREW her up. She landed on Roach, who was already in half a stride when Geralt leapt onto him. He snapped the reigns, and Roach broke into a full gallop.
"What-" Geralt began to ask, but Philippa slapped him on the shoulder.
"I'll explain later! Just ride!"
Philippa looked back, and if she still had eyes, they would've been bulging out of her head. Weavess was FLYING at them. Untethered from the ground, and barreling through the air in an unnaturally straight line, she was aimed at the fleeing pair.
"Geralt-" Philippa warned. Geralt looked over his shoulder, his brow raising.
Geralt looked back and let out a wolf-like snarl.
"Keep her off of us!"
Philippa lifted her arm, and shot a blast of fire from her hand! Weavess dodged it swiftly, and kept flying after them. Philippa shot more blasts, it was hard for her to aim at a moving target while Roach was barrelling away, missing several more times. Weavess was still coming, and coming fast.
"Fuck this." Philippa cursed. Getting creative, she stopped aiming at Weavess, but at the ground in front of her. Focusing, she chanted "Kamienna ściana!", and a large block of stone rose from the ground, right in front of Weavess. The Crone hit the wall at a high speed, screeching as she broke through it, and fell crashing and rolling on the ground. Philippa smiled, a small victory and what the bitched deserved.
"Philippa!" Geralt yelled, getting her attention. Around them, the trees seemed to be moving and shifting. Brewess' handiwork; her magic over plant life , turning them to a weapon at a whim.
Ahead in the road, a wall of vines and branches emerged from the trees on both sides, linking and entwining together to make a wall, and blocking their path.
"We have to go around." Geralt stated.
"Into the forest?" Philippa questioned. "We'll be torn apart! We have to go through!"
Philippa grabbed Geralt by his forearm, and lifted his arm up, pointing it straight ahead."
"Cast Igni." She instructed.
"Igni!" Geralt yelled.
Włócznia ognia!" Philippa cast at the same time.
Rather than a typical Igni, a wall of fire formed in front of Roach, moving as he did. Roach picked up speed, and the fire picked up heat, like a meteor burning through the atmosphere. The heat was almost too much to bear, but they only needed it for a moment longer. Without slowing down, Roach galloped to the vines, and Philippa and Geralt braced themselves. The blasted through the barrier like a burning battering ram, sending bits of charred foliage and wood scattering. Immediately, they dispelled the spell, feeling as if they would melt if they kept it up even a moment longer.
Philippa looked back, and the village was becoming a distant image. They just had to ride a bit further and harder, and they'd be away from the horrid Crones.
But The Ladies of the Woods didn't let go so easily.
A single vine, sneaky and unseen, slithered from the burnt remnants, and wrapped itself around Philippa's arm. She barely knew what was happening before she was being pulled off of Roach. Geralt reacted, but not quickly enough, Roach was moving too fast. The vine snapped from tension, but Philippa was pulled back off the mount; Geralt reached out, trying to grab her, to reach for her. Philippa's hand was stretched out, grasping for purchase, but it was a finger's length too far. Geralt's eyes widened in horror as she fell backwards. His lips mouthed "No-" but Philippa couldn't hear it.
Immediately, her arms wrapped around her middle, trying to protect her stomach the best she could.
She was moving in slow motion in her head, and expected the ground to come with aching suspense.
But it never did.
She thought perhaps she hit it already, and she was already unconscious, or dead.
But she wasn't.
She was moving, bouncing up and down slightly.
"Settle yourself, Sorceress." A familiar voice said. "We must make our escape."
Philippa realized she wasn't in fact dead. But laying across the back of a galloping horse, a horse black as midnight - the spirit of the tree.
Philippa didn't take the time to think about how her life was saved or where the spirit came from, she just adjusted herself carefully to straddle the horse. When she sat up, she saw Geralt ahead of her, looking back in shock and relief, but mostly shock.
"Ride Witcher!" The spirit said, and Geralt didn't need to be told twice. He looked ahead and snapped Roach's reins.
"No!" Philippa heard Weavess screech. "NOOO!"
Seemed they realized what just came to Philippa and Geralt's aid - the thing they had just tried to kill earlier in the day. Good, Philippa thought. Anything that caused them despair was music to her ears. She grabbed The spirit by what she could grab on to and hunkered down and rode like hell.
They rode hard for close to an hour - The spirit seemed to have unlimited stamina, but Roach less so - he needed to rest.
They took to a small clearing in the trees, a place to dismount, and regroup. Roach got a chance to rest and graze, and Philippa got the chance to explain what the hell just happened - everything.
Geralt paced back and forth as Philippa recounted the events in her head - minutes for him, what felt like hours for her. His expression danced back and forth between anger, confusion, and dismay. Philippa thought he might walk a hole in the ground with how he walked back and forth.
"-And I was just standing there, doing nothing." Geralt lamented angrily, more to himself than a conversation.
"You couldn't have known what they were planning." Philppa said, shaking her head.
"You had been wary the whole time." Geralt continued on. "Basically screaming for us not to trust them."
"We DIDN'T trust them. We were playing the hand we were dealt."
"They HURT you" Growled Geralt, stopping right in front of Philippa to look at her. "They tried to eat Ciri. Tried to eat -"
Geralt couldn't even finish the words, just grimacing in a way that made his age show. He clenched his hands, hard enough to make the material of his gauntlets creak.
"Enough of that." Philippa said firmly, stepping forward and grabbing Geralt by his scruffy chin. His head tilted into the touch of her hand, an involuntary but comforting move. I know rage - I really do. I know how all encompassing it can be - but right now, it is no use to Ciri, me or yourself. We've a road ahead of us, a direction, and right now we need you clear-headed to lead us down it."
Geralt looked at her for a long moment, his yellow eyes looking to where he wished Philippa's were. He closed his, breathing raggedly through his nose. He took a minute to collect himself, breathing through his nose in a meditative fashion, and Philippa just continued to caress his face. When his eyes did open again, they were calm and driven, as they should've been.
"Alright." He said slowly.
"Alright." Philippa repeated.
He looked over Phillippa's shoulder, at the interloper, at the Spirit of the forest in horse form.
"Why did you save us?" He asked.
"You saved me." The Spirit replied simply.
"We were sent to kill you."
"And yet you did not." The spirit almost sounded amused. "You did not, and you saw the true faces of The Crones."
"Are we supposed to believe yours is any different?"
"Geralt." Philippa said, cutting him off. "I'll handle this."
Geralt gave her a confused look as she walked up to the Spirit, standing right in front of their long face. She looked at them, and they looked back. They stared at each other in a silent confrontation.
After a few minutes, Philippa turned back to Geralt.
"I trust it." She stated.
Geralt's eyebrows shot up.
"Just like that?" He questioned.
"I told you, I know rage. And this is one rageful spirit. I think they want to see the Crones fail as much as we do."
The spirit gave an affirmative bray. Geralt was of course skeptical after everything.
"But right now, Ciri is the goal." Philippa said, turning back to the spirit.
"Yes, the girl of Elder Blood." The Spirit said. "Fled the bog. But it's not only the Crones who want her-"
"And we need to find her before anyone else." Geralt said, walking up to the two. "We need to be able to move through Velen without the Crones being on our backs."
The Spirit let out a neigh that almost sounded like a laugh. "The Crones overstate their control over the land. They claim to see all, hear all, yet I can move in silence and in the dark. I can shield you from their gaze."
Geralt considered their options for a moment, looking between The Spirit, and Philippa. He let out another deep sigh.
"Okay." He said. "Next steps - looks like we stumbled upon the info The Baron was looking for. Anna "
A tinge of guilt shot through Philippa - they had left Anna there, a servant of the Crones. She wondered if she'd suffer for the commotion they caused, but pushed it down, not wanting to think about it.
"So back to the perch?" Philippa asked.
"Hmh, might be a waste of time. His daughter is still 'missing' too. His damn stubbornness might just send us back out empty-handed."
"So what next then?"
Geralt took another moment to think. "Where are we on money, supplies?"
"That a joke?" Philippa snorted. "We had what Kiera gifted us, but other than that, we're near destitute."
"As I figured." Geralt groaned. "But perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone here. We're closer to Oxenfurt than anywhere else of note. We can go find his daughter-"
"She won't want to go back." Philippa stated.
"She won't, and she shouldn't." Geralt agreed, "but perhaps hearing of her mother will at least prompt her to come home, if just temporarily. And then the Baron will have no choice but to tell us everything of Ciri - plus a city, not just some country village, opportunities for contracts, to rebuild our resources. It would save us the trip of having to go back and forth from Crow's Perch, limits our time in this damn swamp-"
"Radovid is in Oxenfurt." Philippa said strangely. Geralt paused at that for a moment.
"Will that be a problem?" Geralt asked seriously.
Philippa didn't answer.
It was Geralt's turn to place his hand on Philippa's cheek.
"You just told me you knew rage, but that it wouldn't be helpful." He pointed out. "I need you to be focused on what we have to do."
Philippa's lips went to a thin line for a moment, before she nodded her head.
"Alright." She said slowly.
"Alright" Geralt repeated
Oxenfurt was a risk, so close to the Redanian powers, so close to Oxenfurt, but it was the best next move, better than continuing to wade in the swamplands. Plus, the chance of getting back to some form of civilized lands was worth the risk for Philippa.
Geralt looked at The Spirit, and said, "If you're going to ride with us, you'll need a name."
"I am beyond names." The Spirit responded.
"Which is exactly why you need one." Geralt retorted.
The Spirit seemed a bit confused by that, but nodded its head after a moment. "What do you suggest?"
Geralt looked back to Philippa and nodded. "I already named Roach. Wouldn't be right for me to name another horse."
Philippa stepped forward, and ran a hand across The Spirit's crest, black as the void.
"How about Spirit?" She offered.
"Hm, simple name." Geralt said, nodding his head.
"The name is…acceptable." Spirit said. "Witcher, I have something to give you as well."
Geralt arched an eyebrow at Spirit. The Horse tilted its head forward, and opened its mouth. It made a retching noise that made Philippa jump back.
"What are you-" She began to ask, but Spirit retched again. On a third retch, and completely inexplicably, Spirit spat out a sword, sliding from its mouth like a reverse sword swallower.
"Good Gods!" Philippa recoiled in disgust, and Geralt's eyebrows were in the middle of his forehead.
The Spirit smacked its horse lips, and shook its head side to side.
"Your silver, Witcher."
Geralt moved to the sword hesitantly, before picking it up off the ground. A bastard sword, a bit shorter than a typical longsword, and its hilt was shorter, meant for one or two hands. The hilt was a dark, sturdy wood, wrapped in darker leather, not quite black, but getting there. The pommel was square, like an elongated cube, with ridges on the very bottom that would be unpleasant to be struck with. The cross guard curved upward, not quite the V-shape of Geralt's usual silver swords, but more like a wide U, and in its center was a ruby that resembled Spirit's red eyes. The blade was thin, tapering to a narrow tip, a bit too wide to quite be a Tuck, but made mainly for piercing and stabbing. Geralt gave the sword a once over, looking at it a bit appreciatively. He looked at Spirit, and nodded without a word. Spirit nodded back.
He felt like a full Witcher again.
Benek; a small village, north of the Bog, East of Downwarren, far and enough from the Crones, and quiet enough. A place to stay for the night, to rest the aches. There was a tavern that had one spare room, a meal, drink and lodging cost Geralt and Philippa their remaining gold, but it was worth it just to lay down. The bed was small, clearly meant for a single traveler, but the two made it work. Geralt removed everything besides his trousers, and laid on the bed, and Philippa half laid on top of him, her head on his chest. They stayed like that for a while.
"It's been a long fucking day." Geralt said.
"Mhm" Philippa sounded in agreement.
"No money, The Crones want us dead, We still don't know where Ciri is, and for all we know the Hunt could have her exact location."
"Mmh."
"And there's a war going on around us-"
"Hm-"
"Philippa, are you even listening to me?"
She wasn't. She had found interest in drawing small circles on Geralt's chest with her fingers. He had quite a nice chest. She tilted her head, and pressed her lips to his right peck. Geralt hissed out a breath, and shifted on the bed."
"Philippa-" He groaned.
"Yes?" She asked innocently, before peppering more kisses on his torso.
"We haven't even bathed yet." He tried to reason as the crotch of his pants got tight.
"After." Philippa said between kisses, now having worked her way up to his collar and neck. Geralt opened his mouth to raise another argument, but Philippa squeezing him over his pants shut it down quickly as it came. He growled, and flipped them over so that she was pressed against the mattress, and his mouth mashed against hers, She moaned and threw his arms around his neck, and her legs around his hips.
He made quick work of her clothes, and even quicker work of his trousers.
They were banged up: Philippa had a bruise on her hip from being tackled by Geralt to avoid the Leshen, and scratches and cuts on her face and neck from the crows attacking her, Geralt had rings of bruises and lacerations from the Leshen's vines wrapping around him, and patches of dirt, grime and dried blood covered them both, but neither particularly cared. They wanted - needed a release from the day, one they could find with each other.
Geralt entered her swiftly, filling her in a way she still found delicious.
"Fuck - Geralt." She moaned, her toes curling, and her ankles locking together around his back. His thrusts were hard, but controlled, fucking into her with long strokes, snapping his hips just as he completely filled her. The wild intensity of their first romps had been honed, a wordless agreement between the two, Geralt angling and shifting his hips to hit Philippa in all the right spots, Philippa lifting hers to meet his thrusts, clenching around him, mouths all over the place, leaving marks and hickies, licking sucking, kissing.
Philippa's hands clawed at Geralt's back, but he grabbed them, and pinned them to the sides of her head. There was a point where the fun was to fight Geralt a bit, fight for control, two bull-headed people in heat, but now she's come to appreciate, to crave the control he takes. Holding her down to drive into her fully, each thrust shaking her whole body, making her tits bounce, and the bed shake. Philippa liked giving into him, opening up for him, her cunt pulsing and clenching around him.
She handed him control - until she didn't.
With a smirk and a silent spell, Philippa pushed Geralt back. He was caught off-guard, falling onto his back, which gave Philippa enough time to mount him, bouncing herself on his cock. Geralt sat back up, wrapping her arms around her back, and hers went back around his neck. Their lips met again, Philippa grinding and bouncing on Geralt's lap, his arms around her to guide her.
"Oh fuck, Oh ah, OH!" She moaned into his mouth between kisses. Geralt groaned, and occasionally let out breathy gasps, gasps that were like finding gold for Philippa. The bed creaked, the sound of flesh meeting, their gasps and moans, a wanton symphony that they've mastered at performing, crescendoing when Geralt buried himself deep into Philippa and went over the edge, and Philippa's shriek that came as her own orgasm shook her.
Then their pants and breathing, a hushed epilogue.
Then the quiet, sitting in comfort in each other's embrace, a comfort that weeks ago would've been completely foreign, completely unthinkable.
Philippa was the first to speak, her chin resting on his shoulder,
"Geralt." She said breathily.
"Hm?" Geralt responded, his hands rubbing circles on her sweaty back.
"We're having a girl."
"…WHAT?"