Chapter 342 - My CO Stash #42 - Wayward Wolf by ekrolo2 (WitcherXASongofIce&Fire) (1/2)

-I'm just thankful that there'll be no law of surprise following Geralt to Westeros~

Synopsis: The year following the end of the war was the best he'd had in nearly a decade. Ciri was no longer hounded by men and elves, Yennefer's reputation was restored and Geralt was back to doing what he did best: simple Witcher's work. Kill the monster and get paid. No more conspiracies or prophecies to ensnare him. He should've known it wouldn't last. Post-Witcher 3 & Hearts of Stone, pre-Blood & Wine.

Rated: M

Words: 24K

Posted on: forums.spacebattles.com/threads/wayward-wolf-asoiaf-x-witcher.863942/ (ekrolo2)

PS: If you're not able to copy/paste the link, you have everything in here to find it, by simply searching the author and the story title. It sucks that you can't copy links on mobile (´ー｀)

-I'll be putting the chapter ones of all the fanfics mentioned, to give you guys a sample if you wan't more please do go to the website and support the author! (And maybe even convince them to start uploading chapters in here as well!)

Chapter 1-3 (exceptional)

A welcoming breeze swept through the pine forest of Groundcherry, not too warm or too cold. Perfect for the retreating winter, whose snowfall had already melted away and a sign of the spring to come. The healthy trees rose dozens of feet into the air, letting just enough of the comfortable early morning sunlight to slip through the cracks and pleasantly shine down. The migrating bird species already began their reclamation, singing cheerfully in every possible direction. The predators who could threaten or kill man were elsewhere, giving off the impression of a vast but safe forest.

Geralt knew better than to believe that. He'd spent most of his life traversing through such places, living there, sleeping, eating, and hunting. He knew full well of the dangers man, monster, and mother nature alike could prepare for any poor unsuspecting fool willing to lower his guard. In this case, it was a monster keeping him tense. Taking in his surroundings, examining their most minute details. Such as torn branches, stamped over grass, claw or boot prints, and most tellingly of all in this instance: droplets of blood. All of which were present in abundance.

Though, the Katakan had little reason to mask the trail back to its lair when one took account of all the facts. The nearby village of Zrinski, home to just under one hundred people, was not only situated along the northernmost edge of the former kingdom of Sodden and the Groundcherry forest but also very close to a long-abandoned mine of the same name. According to the village's alderman, the Zrinki Mine was built over a century past. For the first twenty years of its existence, it served as a lucrative source of iron deposits. That was when the village came very close to growing into a key trading post. Until the deposits ran out and with it, most interest in Groundcherry forest.

Occasionally, some entrepreneurs seeking to rekindle the mine would arrive, boast of having a surefire means of letting the iron run again only to quit weeks into the endeavor and never to return. The Nilfgaardians were, as far as the village people knew, the last force to attempt this and quickly realized there was naught to be found in the mine and promptly left the Zrinski people alone.

Yet as Geralt walked on foot, having already left Roche behind in the village lest the Katakan tries something to it, the closer he came to the entrance of the mine, the more he knew it recently acquired some other residence along with the vampire. Alongside the occasional claw marks standing prominently out, tracks belonging to people were present as well. A score of grown men wearing boots of varying quality and one of whom probably had a hole judging by how malformed his tracks were in contrast to his comrades.

These tracks were far older than the Katakan's, more worn out by time and exposure to the elements. According to the alderman, none from the village bothered to go to the mine. Venture far enough only to hunt game. Even when disaster and tragedy struck them, Geralt had arrived quickly by happenstance before any angry and foolish search party mob went into the forest to find the culprit.

The boot tracks in-question did not reach the village or come from it. Instead, they came from the direction of the mine, southeast of the only residence for miles and miles. Judging by the lack of horse hooves or cart tracks, Geralt doubted they were merchants. There were no women or children present with the party, he would've spotted their trails already. If Dandelion were present, the Witcher would no doubt hear of some extravagant, implausible, and vaguely amusing explanation to their identity.

Geralt guessed they were brigands, most likely fleeing from the Yaruga down south and whatever punishment the Nilfgaardian's were ready to impose upon them. And it mattered little anyway, for they were most assuredly dead. The scant but prominent droplets of blood, which went to the same place the boot prints came to and from left little room to interpret this band of strangers' fate differently. Katakan's, particularly long slumbering and recently awoken one's weren't about to pass over a meal. Even if their preference, in this case, skewed younger.

Like the gaping maw of a lumbering beast, the Zrinski Mine came to the view, the small clearing which once surrounded its entrance mostly reclaimed by nature with lumps of thick, healthy-looking grass scattered about it. The path connecting it to the village proper was barely identifiable, the remnants of its iron gate hung loosely to the side, croaking miserably from its rusted hinges left and right in the breeze.

It was also the spot where Geralt found the largest puddle of blood thus far. Just fifteen feet from the entrance, the substance most definitely came from a grown man, no child was abducted from the village. No child could bleed such an amount. From the crushed grass, finger-like trails clawed into the ground, the Witcher guessed one of the party managed to flee from the mine only for the Katakan to attack him from behind and drag him kicking and screaming back into its depths.

Geralt ascertained the sun's position and was pleased to see it was not yet noon. He had time to prepare still and promptly went about doing so. First, he rechecked the Moon Dust bombs hanging off his leather belt, within reach at all times, and capable of removing the vampire's invisibility. He didn't have any bombs to neutralize its regenerative properties or oil for his Cat School blade to carve its flesh away. However, the midday sun was fast approaching its zenith. Even a vampire hiding away in the depths of the Earth was weakened.

Next was his crossbow, capable of firing two shots before reloading and with a series of specially ordered, silver-tipped bolts also crafted by Hatori. The projectiles were capable of going in and out of a smaller monster with relative ease. A Katakan was made of sturdier stuff, which did not work to its advantage. The bolts would doubtlessly remain inside whatever body part Geralt fired them into, and the vampire would have to claw its own flesh to pieces just to remove them. Still, given the speed of his prey, reloading it wouldn't be possible. It was fortunate then that Geralt also had some silver, throwing daggers on hand.

Then came the more unpleasant part of his preparation: the Black Blood. Unlike many others, this one did not serve to enhance a Witcher's existing abilities. It was made to ensure that if a blood-s_u_c_k_i_n_g fiend won the battle, their next meal would be the last, poisoning them so severely death was certain.

Geralt had no intention of dying, of course, but he wasn't about to let this monstrosity terrorize the people of Zrinski any more than it already did. Perhaps it was finally getting Ciri and Yennefer back, though they were separated again for now, which made him empathize with the plight of the parents. The distraught mothers and wrathful fathers who went to sleep, thinking their sons and daughters were safe only to find them pale, cold, and drained of their blood the following morning.

Yes, he would enjoy killing this particular monster. If he couldn't accomplish that, get some satisfaction of making the bastard choke on his leftovers. The Black Blood left a sour, nauseating taste in his mouth. The effects of the second potion, the Blizzard, were far more potent. Though it tasted sweeter, it also left Geralt dazed for a few moments as though someone punched him hard across the face.

A steady series of deep, controlled breaths did away with the sensation, his heartbeat slowing down almost as much as his sensory perception did. All about, the world seemed to almost halt before his very eyes. The rustling of a single grass taking ages worth of time to sway in the wind, the shadows cast by the overhead sun freezing in place. To fight against a blindingly swift creature like the Katakan, with claws capable of carving through even the finest of armors in a single swipe, there was no better potion for a Witcher.

The Cat potion was the last he drank, dilating his pupils to such a degree his eyes resembled nothing but thick, black sockets. The world around Geralt changed again, becoming a grating, overly bright pestilence on his eyesight. Until he entered the cave that was, one hand wielding the silver blade and the other pulsating with the faintest of magical energy, ready to expel an Igni at a moment's notice.

Stepping into the cave with measured, quiet steps, Geralt took a moment to enjoy the welcoming pitch blackness inside and began his downward trek to the Katakan's lair. The unmistakable claw marks left behind by the poor sods it slaughtered were proof it was. All about, through the minutes upon minutes spent in the darkness, Geralt spotted bits of fresh, human flesh littering the ground. Weapons of decent enough craft lying abandoned on the floor, along with digging equipment which was not rotten from decades of abandonment and disuse.

Evidently, the bandits came for the cave, perhaps hoping to find some leftover means of earning coin. And if that didn't work, put the village to the sword. Fate had other plans for them. The settlement of Zrinski rarely saw anything worse than a bear or wolf pack come near it, so the Katakan was not an ever-present threat but a recent arrival. Or more likely, the beast arrived long ago. The new arrivals disturbed its lair, thus sealing their fate and of several children.

Their disturbance must have been quite egregious indeed. Katakan's do not mutilate their victims, preferring to target specific spots in the body and are even known to frequently let their weakened victims live. More than likely the men dug their way into the vampire's lair and began prodding around its inevitable treasure trove, laughing like idiots, grabbing any coin, jewel, or other trinkets to bolster their pockets. In so doing delivering a deadly insult to its owner.

Katakan's greed and love for all things shiny rivaled their d_e_s_i_r_e for blood. Once, during his early years, Geralt managed to gain the upper hand against his first by slicing off its beard, adorned with countless jiggling, blindingly dazzling rubes, sapphires, and expensive earrings. The vampire was so stunned it let its guard down and in so doing, lost its head moments after.

The brief reminiscing of days gone halted the instant Geralt's eyes spotted something just fifteen feet ahead. The mine's ceiling gradually shrunk, and he resorted to moving in a half-crouch because of it. It didn't matter, because soon enough his available room to maneuver would grow substantially. On the other side of a freshly dug hole at the tail end of the mine, was an Elven ruin.

Even squinting from a distance, Geralt recognized the stonework inside. Still looking strong and sturdy, defiant to the encroachment of nature as it was to man's centuries ago. Pillars, standing and broken, stood out prominently against the floor, as it did the c_h_e_s_ts of riches collected by the Katakan before it went into hibernation. Much of the loot was, annoyingly, scattered about the ground. What caught Geralt's attention the most was at the center of the lair: a portal.

Or rather, a construction about what must've been the place for a portal. He'd seen enough of those during the trip across worlds with Avalla'ach to spot one right away. The chance of it turning on was relatively small, Ciri already performed a smaller, second Conjunction in her bid to disperse the White Frost. Even so, just being close to a remotely possible spot for a portal to appear got on Geralt's nerves worse than a broken tooth.

Putting his distaste aside, he carefully and slowly crouched down, passing under the recently formed hole and felt his mood substantially improve when not so much as a single pebble resounded through the seemingly empty room. What betrayed the Katakan's location wasn't sound or poor concealment from the creature. It was the faintest but distinct odor of blood coming from the ceiling.

Peering upward, his free hand reaching for the crossbow attached to his left side belt, Geralt squinted and spotted the creature sleeping amongst a slew of man-sized stalactites adorning the ceiling by the dozens if not hundreds. It did not so much as move the faintest muscle, nor did it let out a single sound. But as it was so often the case, the beast's nature betrayed it.

Geralt would have to act swiftly. If he aimed true and the beast's instincts were too slow, a single bolt through its head could end the fight in a moment. And so he prepared to do just that. Slowly, agonizingly, the Witcher took the crossbow off his belt and gently pressed against the trigger. His knees were bent, his sword hand clutching the hilt and ready to attack.

With the distinct thump, the crossbows mechanisms cut through the silence. The bolt flew through the air and for a moment, it seemed as though the fight was already done. A fraction of an instant before the bolt fired, a pair of black, predatory eyes snapped open and the Katakan tried to flee. Unsuccessfully. The bolt didn't pierce its head, but there was an unmistakable crunching sound of steel piercing metal and the blood-freezing chill of a monster renowned for feeding on it.

The beast landed about twenty feet north of Geralt, the impact reverberating through the ground and sending c_h_e_s_ts worth of gold and other riches to scatter about all over the place. While it was busy trying to claw out the bolt, Geralt was already on the move, anticipating its landing spot and slashing at it with a swift, overhead blow.

The Katakan abandoned its attempt of ridding itself of the bolt and darted to left. Another deafening screech came from it as it tried clawing at Geralt instead, hitting nothing but air when the Witcher leaped gracefully to the side and opened fire before his feet even touched the ground again. It missed, hitting some far off wall while the Katakan's body shimmered then vanished into nothingness.

Not that he didn't know where the beast was. The Katakan's blood stood out most prominently against that of men and children, and since he hadn't heard any more flesh being rent or a bolt clanking against the floor, Geralt knew it was choosing to suffer the pain in silence. There, over to the western side of the room, where the portal construct stood between them.

The Witcher decided not to let the beast know what he knew. Instead, he did something sure to anger it. With a few furtive steps to his right, Geralt spotted a golden goblet adorned with sparkling white jewels and other stones. It was fit for any king or queen. It was probably worth more than the last three dozen contracts he'd taken up combined.

Without hesitation, Geralt's foot stomped on the goblet and though his foot already hurt, the gold bent with a satisfying, metallic w_h_i_n_e. The Katakan was on him almost immediately and this time, the Witcher saw its claws flash mere inches from his face as he leaped backward. His arms moved on pure instinct and struck back, rewarding him with a clash across the Katakan's right abdomen.

It yelled again, unquestionably feeling the searing of silver carving it and the oil acting as the cherry on top, as Dandelion was fond of saying. Geralt pressed his advantage, delivering two more cuts, one to its knee and another cutting off its smallest claw. Then he purposefully stopped and diverted all his energies into a pirouette, avoiding a returning claw strike which would've carved his c_h_e_s_t into two pieces, at least.

He tried to use the momentum to perhaps cut into the back of the Katakan's neck but the beast leaped forward, avoiding death for the time being. They circled one another for a few, tense heartbeats, the vampire too wounded or bloody furious to bother turning invisible again and the Witcher, glaring back with his black pits for eyes and smiling nastily.

That was when it happened. When the tense silence was broken not by the snarl of the beast or the blow of a mutant, but by the activation of a portal. One connecting this place to who knew where or what and the vampire wasted not a moment going for it. With a dramatic series of leaps betraying how much strength the monster still possessed, it went for it.

And as was so frequently the case, Geralt's mind told him to let it go, that there was no knowing what awaited either of them on the other side. A wasteland where they would burn or freeze in moments, a strange alien world as the ones Ciri spoke to him off where both would be even less welcome than the world they called home. And as was so frequently the case, Geralt did not let it go.

With a snarl from the very deepest recess' of his throat that he would come to regret the morning after, if he lived that long, the Witcher leaped as well and drove his blade right through the Katakan's c_h_e_s_t, his other hand gripping tightly to its left horn. For a moment, the two stood there, on the precipice of the portal and Geralt almost thought he'd stopped the disaster. Until the vampire lurched forward, then he felt the distinct, horrifying nothingness of every portal crossing.

Then, there was the suffocation of water, of being deep, deep underwater in what was likely some lake or sea. Neither Geralt nor the Katakan was prepared for it, the two of them awkwardly shouting and swaying left, right and then spinning in circles like some mad, drunk Dwarves tumbling in the middle of a tavern brawl. Every so often, Geralt's eyes caught sight of the portal and it's remaining active gave him hope. Hope that if he killed the beast quickly, he could still make it back home from wherever the Hell he was then.

Despite his arms already aching from the exertion and wanting to let go, Geralt managed to hold on to the vampire even as their spinning grew worse and worse. Somehow, in this calamity of madness and drowning, the Witcher removed a silver blade from his belt and wildly, like a man completely lost of his senses, began stabbing the Katakan. Over, and over again in and eventually through the throat.

In its last moments, the vampire managed to reach the surface of the water, letting out a pained, gurgling screech which prem_a_t_u_r_ely ended when Geralt's own snarl overtook it and the knife removed the monsters head. It floated on the surface, almost comically bobbing up and down against the light swaying waves of the darkening pool of blood and water about it.

Geralt ignored it for the time being, instead, letting his body go limb and rest against the Katakan's body, using it as a disgusting raft of flesh and bone. The battle frenzy took a while to abate, leaving him already feeling tired and beaten when he was quite certain there was nary a scratch on him. Though, a flesh wound was preferable to what was already clear.

It wasn't simply the fact Geralt and his contract ended up in the middle of the ocean, at night when it was midday before. It wasn't merely that Geralt spun the corpse about and spotted a massive city off in the distance, the likes of which he'd never seen before with a monstrous fortress of a dozen towers looming over it atop a nearby hill. No, the detail that told the Witcher he'd gone somewhere very far away came from the stars.

He couldn't recognize a single constellation.

A single curse came out of him, quiet and snarling. Then it was accompanied by a score, then two scores of others. Each louder and more blasphemous than the last. It wasn't until his throat became sore that Geralt finally stopped and let some good sense dictate his next course of action. Well, good sense and a d_e_s_i_r_e to vent his frustrations in another way: by removing every useful thing the Katakan had to offer him then setting the bastards leftovers on fire.

---

Chapter 2

The next difference between home and this other world became clear to Geralt while he still swam. Getting the corpse out to shore was to be a difficult task. The Katakan was over a head taller than him. Its body mass was several pounds greater than the Witchers. The vampire had caused him enough trouble, and the sooner it ended, the sooner he could focus on other matters.

His bad luck made itself known again when the Aard, which was supposed to blast the body and head faster to shore, amounted to almost nothing. The water barely rippled, as though a child slapped it. A belch from Zoltan would've done more.

”What the devil...?” He said, staring at his left hand. Again, he thrust, and the result was no better. His potions had yet to run out, nor had he exerted himself by casting too many signs beforehand. Therefore the problem was elsewhere.

Though he was no great sorcerer, to use even a simple sign required a fundamental understanding of how magic functioned. To wield it, one must focus the force around oneself through concentration and varying exertions of their own will. Through said will and no small amount of practice, one could perform many incredible feats.

And so Geralt closed his eyes, nearly halting his own slowed heartbeat and enjoyed the cooling feel of the ocean about him. Letting his senses perceive the force as best he could. It was a practice many young Witchers did early in their sign training. One only tolerated for a short while.

It was here Geralt found the root cause of his diminished sign power: the force of this world was weak. This ocean alone held less of it than a small lake back home. Each scrap was like trying to grab a spilled water between his fingers. Was this world always so starved, or did something weaken it?

Whatever the cause, the effect on Geralt's sign strength remained even after spending up to a minute concentrating. The Aard, though more powerful than before, still nudged the Katakan half the distance it should have.

About fifteen minutes later, the corpse and Witcher finally reached the shore. First, Geralt removed his sword still inside the vampire's body, meeting little resistance. With more force than necessary, he kicked the corpse so that its c_h_e_s_t faced the sky.

He stared at it, wondering whether or not to bother removing its bones, heart, and any other useful parts. Just carrying the head around with no horse was troublesome given its size and weight. Yet the vampire owed him much for the misfortune it wrought. If this world lacked some ingredients required for Witcher potions, Geralt would rob himself of a useful, finite resource. He could not afford it, not with his diminished signs.

His practicality won out. Kneeling at the beast's left side, Geralt put his sword onto the ground. With the silver dagger in-hand, he began carving off the Katakan's claws. Ordinarily, taking off their limbs and extracting from them wholesale was the wiser option. Without Roach around and the saddlebag to place all of those bones in, this would have to suffice.

Luckily, the flesh about the claws showed little resistance. In a few minutes, most of them were off. Through the next hour, there were eight useful bones for alchemy. Geralt wrapped them in a cloth and placed them inside one of the two leather bags of his bandolier. Inside the other, he put the heart after cleaning it in the ocean and wrapping a cloth around it as well.

Knowing he couldn't burn the corpse with a single Igni, Geralt decided a more inventive approach. With a series of sword swings, he removed the vampire's limbs and stuffed them inside its open c_h_e_s_t cavity. Next, oil got applied to the lump of blood, mutilated flesh. Even the weakened fire blast found ample fuel with its flame resembling the inside of a furnace.

He remained by the body, watching its flesh peel away, crack and turn black. Though Geralt was tired from the battle, the shock of being on another world and riping the body to pieces, he was mostly satisfied. Though they did not know it, and likely thought him dead, the families of Magdalena, Zvone, Igor, and Petar had received justice. No more sons or daughters of Zrinski would die to the blood-s_u_c_k_i_n_g fiend.

The shred of bitterness dulling his sense of accomplishment came from the fact he could not tell them so, not yet. Then there was the fact he took the small bits of jewelry adorning the Katakan. Two golden bracelets, a single ruby ring and some earrings from the head.

Though he had a coin purse, it was unlikely the sentient creatures inhabiting the castle would take them. Ciri and Yennefer would find him, that was beyond question, but how soon wasn't. So, he would have to sell the Katakan's treasures to acquire whatever passed for currency.

It was hard to say who or what inhabited the city looming so distinctly against the moonlight. Save for the seven-massive drum towers, little else besides its impressive size was certain. It didn't help his Cat's potion was wearing off, leaving his Nightvision dulled. Earlier, he spotted lights there, perhaps torches or whatever else they used for illumination.

Perhaps he would encounter humans, from what Ciri told him, they were present in other worlds. The Elves and Dwarves certainly liked to say they arrived back home with the Conjunction. Perhaps this was a domain of the Elves, judging by one of their ruins being present. Or the native species was something else entirely, closer to the Vodyanoy. One of his great regrets from all of the Salamandra business was never visiting their city.

Much as he liked to complain about Dandelion's curiosity, on account of him being unable to control it, Geralt shared it. As often as it led him to danger, it also provided him with many unforgettable experiences. Unlike the places he'd visited during his trip with Avalla'ach, this world wasn't immediately hostile to him either.

Should a great danger present itself, it might hasten his return home more than anything. The bond between Geralt and Ciri was strong, for when one fell into peril, the other became aware of it through dreams and nightmares.

His mind made up, Geralt grabbed the hook he'd ran through the Katakan's head, hoisted it off the ground over a shoulder and made his way into the forest. Lunch or rather, a late-night snack, was due. Keeping an ear out, Geralt already recognized a slew of familiar noises.

From the branches of the tall trees came the distinct hoots of owls, and the screeching of bats. Crickets were abuzz everywhere, chirping unceasingly in a chorus numbering in the dozens or hundreds. Fireflies buzzed through the air, providing illumination the deeper he ventured.

On the ground, Geralt detected the soft rustling of leaves and bushes from mice, hedgehogs, and even foxes. Though he heard no bears prowling the area, the Witcher picked up the distinct huffing of a wolf pack some ways off. What had already picked up his scent, or the Katakan's was a wild boar.

Geralt unsheathed his steel blade with the slow softness of a lovers c_a_r_e_s_s. His lunch to be rumbled and hastened its step, each one reverberating through the ground with increasing frequency. Imperceptibly, Geralt bent his knees and tensed the fingers about the hilt. A few heartbeats later, he leaped to the right just as the boar came at him. The sword flashed, blood spurt across the nearby bushes, the boar slammed headfirst into the nearest tree. A moment later, the top of its skull finally landed.

Putting the vampire head down, Geralt grabbed hold of the boars back leg, dragging it away from the tree with some effort. Luckily, they'd run into one another in a small clearing, just big enough for him to set a fire without burning the whole forest down.

The Witcher gathered branches and other pieces of wood lying about in the clearing center. Once they were set aflame from a diminutive Igni, he went about sharping one of the longer, sturdier branches with his dagger. Lastly, came skinning the board. It was an impressive beast at full height, nearly reaching Geralt's t_h_i_g_hs. Its weight was well over thirty stones, at least. He couldn't hope to eat it all, however. The forest would have to take care of his leftovers.

Judging by its teeth, the animal was perhaps two or three years old. That meant good meat from it. Carving about its necks, Geralt removed a few good-sized chunks and pierced them through with the sharpened stick. Now he simply had to wait a while until it was good and ready to eat. In his youth, the process was a slog Geralt made tolerable through sword fighting practice. Now, with nearly a century of life at his back, there was a mundane p_l_e_a_s_u_r_e from preparing a meal. It was a practice in its own right.

So he watched and listened as the minutes passed by, the forest life continued despite his presence. One group he noticed earlier and fully expected to visit him did so eventually. They numbered five pack members, quietly they prowled through the forest, sniffing and salivating the smell of cooked and uncooked meat. Geralt watched them without moving, taking note of their yellow eyes watching him at the edges of the campfire.

He didn't feel like fighting anymore for today. So, Geralt rose slowly to his feet, grabbing the boar with both hands, heaving it off into the forest where three of the wolves stood. They snarled and bared their fangs at him but made no move to attack. Their free dinner was waiting. By the time Geralt sat back down, his meal was ready as well.

And so for a while, the six wolves ate together.

Eventually, the pack left, devouring a sizable portion of the boar and with enough left over for later. Geralt listened to them go, sitting down with his back pressed against the nearest tree. Under one arm was the Katakan head, in another the steel sword.

He chose neither to travel further into the forest or sleep. Instead, Geralt closed his eyes, let his breathing fall into a practiced pattern, slowing his heartbeat. The meditation left him relaxed and alert, capable of resting and springing into action at a moment's notice. Unmovingly, he laid there, still as a corpse until hours later, when the early morning sunshine warmed his face.

Wiping away the caterpillar which decided to crawl across his brow, Geralt let out a long m_o_a_n, stretching the muscles of his neck then shoulders. Just as with his world, the sun was bright orange, piercing the retreating night, turning the sky into a collection of purple and blue hues. Assuming it functioned positionally the same, Geralt could finally discern where east and west were.

The large city he spotted was, relative to his position, further west. It would no doubt take him perhaps another day or so to get there. Without delay, he did so. The owls and bats of the woods gave way to seagulls and chirping morning birds. Squirrels and rabbits abandoned their domains to begin foraging for food. They were indistinguishable from the species of his world. As did the trees with many of the plants he came across as well, Mistletoes, Allspice, White Mertle, Fools Parsley to name but a few.

Other he did not see, perhaps because they did not grow there or did not exist at all. He would not use the recognizable herbs for potions without testing them first. Just because they looked and smelled the same didn't mean there weren't differences. Ones he couldn't know of and could turn even a simple Cat potion into an alchemical bomb ready to backfire on him.

Some hours later, Geralt stopped walking. Firstly to let his feet rest for a bit and secondly to spot any water around. Besides seawater, he hadn't drunk a thing since the day before, the thirst was beginning to annoy him. After a few minutes of listening, the Witcher heard a creek flowing.

The firstly faint rush of water grew as he traversed the forest southward. Yet his attention on it gave away to another sound Geralt was all too familiar with: the pounding of horse hooves. Several, moving at a leisure pace, accompanied by the creaking and swaying of what seemed a large, heavy wooden carriage.

Moving toward the sound, hastening his speed in turn, Geralt hoped his presence wouldn't elicit violence to erupt. Still, the Witcher would take a long, hard look at whoever rode those horses before revealing himself. The closer he got to the horses, the more it became clear he was not the only one to converge on their location.

As all violence did, it happened suddenly and without warning to the recipient. The distinctive cry of a man in pain echoed through the woods soon joined by the neighing of horses, the shouting of commands, and the steel pounding against steel.

Geralt's blade was out in an instant, his body rushing past the trees as fast as his legs could manage. The noise of battle grew stronger: men were dying, a woman screamed, a burst of bone-chilling laughter drowned it all out.

Soon enough, he came upon what was a road, the site of the battle. Before he could join it, Geralt took spotted one of the ambushers keeping a safe distance, striking his targets with a bow and arrow. From a glance, he was an older man with white hair tied into a ponytail, wearing a green jerkin, moving with a precision Milva would've found impressive.

He was also alert, for when Geralt snapped a twig on the ground, the brigand spun around, unleashing an arrow intended for someone else the intruder. Geralt deflected it with a circular motion of his sword. The archer stared, opening his mouth to curse before his head came off following another swing.

Reaching for a silver dagger, Geralt emerged from the forest to the carriages right. Inside it, a woman screamed, trying to fight off another archer clad in black at the door, her tan arms vainly keeping him at bay.

A bit further away, two of his companions fought against a pair of men in black armor adorned with golden cloaks.

With a single knife toss, Geralt attacked the archer harassing the woman, driving the blade clear through the back of his head. The brigand to the Witcher's left, wearing a distinct red scarf around his neck, took notice of his fallen comrade first. He even managed to spot Geralt himself a moment before he was beheaded as well.

”Oswyn!” The largest of them so far, a bearded bear of a man with a head wrapped in chainmail, wielding a Warhammer roared. With a single backhand, he knocked the gold cloak to the ground, charging at Geralt.

With an impressive grace and speed to his technique, the bearded bear swung, intending to take Geralt's head off. He struck nothing for the Witcher ducked, already launching his counter-attack. With an upward sword swing, the steel blade split the bandits head in two from chin to brow.

A momentary lull fell over the battle, Geralt staring at the dead man falling to his feet, the gold cloaks staring at the Witcher as though he were some phantasm. But only for a moment, until the laughter from before came back. From the front of the carriage, clad in black armor, a round shield and fresh blood dripping down his blade, came the ugliest man Geralt had ever seen.

He was without question uglier than Vilgerfortz. His receding hairline exposed a ghastly pale skin rivaling Geralt's own. His eyes had red bags under them, emphasizing the tiny black hateful orbs in their sockets. His teeth were jagged, rotten yellow, eternally fixed into a smile capable of making a drowner piss itself.