Adult-FanFiction.org : Games

Philippa's Grace	By : ArizonaIceT Category: +S through Z > Witcher 3: Wild Hunt Views: 8358 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Witcher, this is purely for fun, and not profit

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
“Well, that’s just lovely.” Philippa commented sarcastically.
“I guess that means we’re on the right path.” Geralt said, looking at the hanged men swaying in the wind from the branches of the tree.
“Right is a poor choice of words.”
Geralt couldn’t disagree with that.
This was Velen.
The war torn region of Northern Temaria. Geralt could already feel that nothing good could come from being there. He hoped that Ciri wasn’t still here, and if she was, she was safe somewhere, but he knew that wasn’t likely with the Wild Hunt on her trail.
Not wanting to linger under a tree of dead men, Geralt and Philippa continued down the road. They had a destination: The Inn at the Crossroads. Common place for travelers in the region. One of the few safe places, and even then it was barely that. The pair rode on the muddy, disheveled road. This was swampland, so Roach treaded slowly in the terrain.
It only took them a half hour to reach the inn. When they entered, it was sparsely populated by a half dozen patrons, drinking in silence. None of them looked happy to be there; Geralt couldn’t think of a reason they should be. They all looked pale, dreary, and underfed.
Geralt and Philippa walked to the bar where the inkeep was cleaning a mug. He didn’t even spare them a glance.
“Look for a man. Goes by Hendrik.” Geralt stated bluntly.
“What you want with ‘im?” The inkeep asked, casually continuing to clean the mug.
“Wanna talk to him.”
“What about?”
Geralt knew this game. Inkeepers, barmen, tavern wenches; they were the eyes and ears of the country. Need directions, need to find someone, need info of the mood of the region? These were the men and women to ask. Sometimes they didn’t know anything. Sometimes they told you to fuck off. It was all in your approach. And rule of thumb - don’t approach with no intention of buying something.
“Give me a bottle of something strong,” Geralt ordered, “And something a bit gentler for the lady.”
The inkeep looked the two over. He figured they were strange, but harmless compared to what’s rolled through recently. He reached behind the bar, and pulled out a bottle of strong liquor for Geralt, and a mild mead for Philippa. He poured Geralt a small shot of the liquor, and The Witcher downed it like it was nothing. Philippa took a sniff of her mead, and nearly gagged, pushing it to the side.
Outside, the sound of several horses arriving could be heard. The patrons of the inn all looked at each other, and without a word, they all stood, and filtered out the door. The inkeep looked worried, glancing between the door and the pair.
“You two gotta go.” He said urgently. “I’ll open the back way for ya.”
“We haven’t finished our drinks yet.” Geralt replied, glancing at the door as it opened. In walked several men, wearing a mixture of steel curiasses and mail. By the look of the fit, it wasn’t meant for them - likely scavenged.
“Inkeep. Vodka!” Ordered one of the men in a hood. He looks at Philippa and Geralt, eyeing them disdainfully.
“Who's this 'un?” He asked, referring to Geralt. Geralt doesn’t look up from the bar. Philippa glances at him, raising an eyebrow. She figured he was more experienced with running into miscreants, so she waited for his move.
“Brave warrior, looks like. Got two swords, see?” Said the mustached of the men.
“Oi, gray boy! What's the point of havin' two swords?”
“Wonder if he keeps an extra prick in his trousers, too.”
You fuckin' deaf? Gonna say who you are, or do I need to loosen your tongue with me knife?
Geralt found these threats to be tedious. You’d think they’d come up with better insults or threats if they were gonna be belligerent.
“I don’t care about some gray haired twat,” Commented the man with a bald head. He let his eyes roam lecherously to Philippa. “I’m interested in who this pretty tart is here.”
The hooded man perked up, and stepped closer. Geralt figured he’d give the man another step and a half before he’d cut him two.
“What’s with the feathers and the blindfold?” Asked the mustached man. “You some kinda freaky foreign whore? This part of your act, eh?”
“I wonder if she got feathers up her ass too.” Laughed the bald fat man.
Philippa didn’t seem to be phased by their harassment, it wouldn't be the first time a man made the mistake of talking to her like she was some common wench, but Geralt could feel the magic crackling off of her from his proximity. The inkeep seemed to notice it too, taking a step back from the pair. Not wanting Philippa to draw attention to them by painting this lovely inn with their entrails, Geralt decided to step in.
“I’m a Witcher.”
As quickly as they started, the laughing and jeers of the men stopped. They all visually paled, and the hooded man took a step back. Geralt loved when they did that, when they deflated. Men loved to talk big, talk out there ass, all they way up until they got knocked back onto it.
“Heard you wondering about my swords. Well, one's for monsters, the other -- for humans. Only got one prick, though. In case you're wondering about that, too.” Geralrt said, standing to his full height, and turning to face the men. “Another thing about Witchers. We don’t like it when others talk rudely to their women.”
“Don't touch 'im. Don't even look at 'im. Worse than lepers, that lot. And any bitch mad enough to hang around them is probably nothing but trouble”
“Saw one in action once. Killed a half dozen, blood everywhere -- freak didn't even show a drop of sweat.”
“Got the stench o' corpses on 'im.”
The men all sat down, as far from Philippa and Geralt as they could be. Geralt turned back to the bar, and looked at Philippa, who looked highly amused, biting her lip a bit.
“Your woman, am I?” she teased lightly.
“Had to get the point across.” Geralt responded shrugging
“Oh you certainly did that.” Philippa said, voice with a hint of huskiness in it. “You’ve any idea how much I want to jump you right now?”
“Down girl.” Geralt chided playfully.
“Ahem.” The inkeep cleared his throat, interrupting their moment. “If you wanna rest, come with me. I've a bench you can use.”
The inkeep walks from behind the bar to the back of the room. Geralt and Philippa follow.
“Thanks for not startin' a row with those swine.” The inkeep said.
“Geralt: I don't generally poke my nose into other people's business.” Geralt stated. Philippa mentally scoffed at that.
“Looking to stay the night?”
“No. Looking for a man named Hendrik”
“Man lives in Heatherton.”
“Don't know where that is.”
“Other side of the hill. Looked thataway this morn and saw a strange glow. Imperials on the raid, perhaps, but who knows…”
Philippa looked at Geralt. Strange glows were generally not good signs in both their experiences.
“Anything else you can tell me about Hendrik?” Geralt inquired.
“Aye, an' he stays out o' their way. Always seems to know when they're comin', always manages to disappear.” The inkeep answered.
‘Wouldn’t be a very good spy if he didn’t’ Philippa thought.
“That it?” Geralt asked, seeing what else he could get out of the innkeep
“Aye, that’s it.”
“Right, we’ll be off then.”
“You wouldn’t appen to be a witch would ya?” The inkeep asked, looking at Philippa. Philippa arched an eyebrow and pursed her lips a bit.
“What makes you say that?” She asked.
“Well back there, you weren’t scared of them boys a bit. Most women…. Well anyway, any lady who ain worried about that lot must got some weird powers of some kind. Reminds me of the other witch who came through a few weeks back.”
“Hmm, well keep your astute observation to yourself.” Philippa declared. The inkeep nodded, and bid them farewell as they left. They now had a location for Hendrik.
Heatherton.
_________________________________________________________________________
They rode over the hill as instructed, taking the road following the signs to Heatheron. The road was ragged, clearly having many people and horses trample over it recently. Besides a few burned or abandoned farm houses or huts, their path seemed devoid of life.
“What do you think that light the barkeep mentioned was?” Philippa asked from behind Geralt.
“I’m not sure. Probably nothing good.” Geralt answered.
As they continued to ride, there was a gradual drop in temperature as they got closer and closer to the village. Only slightly at first, but as they went, it was enough to make Philippa shiver and rub her exposed arms. It was May and weather this cold was very uncommon, and so suddenly- this wasn’t normal
Geralt looked up, and saw that the trees at the edge of the village were lightly frosted in white. Philippa noticed it too.
“Is that-’
“-snow.
Something unnatural happened here. Something unnatural and horrid.
The village came into clear view.
It was covered in ice and snow. Geralt could see his breath. It was as if they walked into a cellar on a hot winter day.
The village was in ruins. Houses burned, but covered in ice. Strangely, there weren’t any bodies. There were obvious signs of a struggle, but there wasn’t a soul, a corpse in sight. It was like the whole village just up and vanished.
Philippa felt a great sense of unease in the pit of her stomach. The unnatural cold, the mysterious disappearances. This felt like some dark magic to her. She could sense it. Geralt could sense the natural world, but she could sense outside of it. And her sense was telling her that they shouldn't be there long
“Back! Get back!” Came a man’s voice in distress. Geralt and Philippa quickly dismounted Roach, and went to investigate. At the edge of a village stood a man, his back pressed against the door of a house. He was surrounded by several hounds, no doubt finding the village as an easy meal. The man waved a torch at the beasts, trying to defend himself. Geralt went to grab his sword to handle the hounds, but Philippa stepped forward. With a wave of her hand, the dogs bursts into flames. They yelped in agony, and scattered, attempting to put themselves out. Efficient.
The man didn’t calm down however. Even with the dogs gone, he still waved the torch around wildly. He stumbled over his own feet, falling to his side, cowering away from them.
“Begone! Leave me be, whoever you is! Get away!” He shouted
Geralt took a step forward. The man flinched as Gestalt brought his hand up. “Calm yourself. It’s over.” He instructed, signing Axii with his hands. The sign worked as intended, and the man relaxed, just a bit, but enough to talk. He was still strung as tight as a bow, rocking as he sat.
“Aye, it's over... All's past, never to be restored. I'll not forget that ever.” The man said solemnly, looking at his feet.
“What happened?” Geralt asked. The man looked at him with a pained face.
“I dunno... I don't wanna know. They came for Hendrik...and they got 'im.” The main said Geralt looked over his shoulder at Phillipa, who frowned. This wasn’t good. Something got to Hendrik before them. Something terrible. “They nabbed 'im in that hut. If you'd o' heard the cries, sir...if you'd o' heard how a man can scream...how he can suffer-
“Hey, I need you to focus for me, okay? Tell me what happened here.”
So he did.
The man recounted the story of how the Wild Hunt rode into the village like specters of death. They slaughtered the inhabitants, taking their bodies...somewhere. Hendrik, they tortured until his screams turned into nothing more than gurgles and whimpers. How he had only survived because he hid...how his wife and daughter hadn’t.
“Dammit!” Geralt exclaimed.
“Weren't here long, the terrors. Yet the village froze like the heart of winter..” Said the man as he shivered. Philippa cast a slight warming charm on him, feeling sympathetic. Philippa had never taken the Wild Hunt seriously. For most of her life, she considered them and their exploits to be somewhere between a myth, and none of her concern. But now, seeing what they could do...well she couldn’t deny what was right in front of her.
“You in that hut when they rode off?”
“No. And I'll not set foot there. Never.”
The man rocked anxiously. Geralt figured this was all they were gonna get out of him. He’d leave him be. Wish he had some words to console the man, but nothing came to mind, so he did the second best thing and stayed silent. Geralt looked towards Hendrik’s hut. He could smell the corpse.
“What now?” Philippa asked. Geralt thought for a minute. None of this was going smoothly. He figured that was about right for his life.
“Dammit.” He repeated. “Let’s get this over with.”
Geralt and Phillpa walked to the hut. There was no door, it was ribbe from the hinges. Lying in the middle of the floor was Hendrik. His clothes were soaked through with blood, as if they were dyed burgundy. His skin was purple and bloated. Bones protruded from his skin where they had been snapped. His face was scorched, as if held to a fire. They didn’t know what he had looked like before, but they knew he was unrecognizable in this state.
Philippa covered her nose in disgust.
“Do you need to step outside?” Geralt asked, not taking his eyes of Hendriks body
“No...no. I’m fine.”
Geralt dropped to one knee next to Hendrik. Removing his gauntlets, he patted down his body, searching for a clue, anything that could help them. He was cold as ice, clothes stiff as if left to dry mid winter. Geralt didn’t find anything in his pants or shirt. He even checked under his hat.
“Check his boots.” Philippa suddenly said. Geralt looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Dijkstra used to hide things in the heel of his boot. Instructed his men to as well. You pick up a thing or two when you lie with a spymaster.”
The thought of Dijkstra and Philippa made Geralt frown a bit, but he couldn’t think of that now. He did as instructed, pulling off Hendrik’s boots. He checked the right heel - nothing. Then he checked the left, and the heel popped off, revealing a small indentation, with a key inside.
“Hrm. A key.” Geralt stated. Philippa smiled in self satisfaction. She looked around the hut, seeing what the key could be to. In the next room, there was a VERY conspicuous looking fur, laid across the floor of the hut.
“Geralt, do you think this fur is a design choice?” She asked facetiously.
“There’s a draft coming from it. Step back.”
Geralt lifted the rug, and under it was a trap door.
“Looks like we found where our key goes.” Philippa stated.
“Guess so.” He agreed. He bent down, unlocking the door and opening the hatch. They climbed down into the cellar; it was dark. Philippa cast a spell that lit every available candle in the room, giving them some light. The cellar appeared to be a mixture of a storage space and workspace. There was a large cabinet at the far end of the room, a desk, along with various valuables and goods.
“All his unlocked. On display almost.” Geralt noted. “Lost his mind, or-”
“Maybe he was trying to throw off the scent of the real valuables.” Phillipa finished for him.
The pair looked around the room. This was a spy, so they needed to look for any hidden doors, false bottoms, or...levers. A candle stick on the wall. Geralt didn’t know why, but it looked off to him. Reaching his hand, he grabbed it. He felt a mechanism behind it, turning it sideways.
The cabinet made a clicking noise, and swung open sideways, revealing a shelf with a a small chest on it
“A hole in the wall?” Philippa commented. “Really? Lack of creativity for a spy.”
“He kept it out of the hands of the Wild Hunt.” Geralt countered. “That counts for something.”
“I’m just saying, I would’ve disillusioned it. Hide it in a pocket dimension. Something like that.”
“He’s not really in a position to defend himself.” Geralt said sarcastically. He went to the newly revealed shelf and opened the safe.
“What’s in it?” Philippa asked.
“ Hmm...interesting. A ledger...payment for a sack of grain...amount due for a charcoal shipment... Hendrik was masquerading as a merchant.” Concluded Geralt.
“Means he’d be able to move around the area without raising much suspicion.” Philippa commented. “Great way to keep tabs on people.”
“Hm, what's this? Notes among the ledger entries -- clever. Interesting headings… ‘Missing and Wanted.’ Subject appeared in Skellige. Also sighted in Novigrad. Appearance unchanged. Ashen hair. Scar on her face. Avoid contact with others.’ Geralt read. Sounded like his Ciri. Always the survivor. He was glad she was avoiding making a spectacle of herself. Safer that way.
'Drunken Swine. So-called baron hosted subject at his castle, or should I say, illegally-appropriated fort..."Reason unknown. Talk to baron at Crow's Perch.'
So Ciri encountered the Baron. Seemed that they’d stop and see him after all. He was glad he didn’t kill his men in the inn. That might have needlessly complicated things. Geralt carried on reading. 'Clashed with a Witch. Subject landed in a swamp, encountered a witch. Conflict ensued. Cause unknown. Find the witch. Talk to the peasantry -- village of Midcopse.'
>
‘Teleported into a swamp and ran into a witch, hm?’ Geralt thought.
“Know of any sorceresses or witches in the area?” Geralt asked Philippa.
“What, am I supposed to know of every woman who brews homemade cold medicine and fancies herself a witch?” Philippa asked snippely. Geralt gave her a look and she sighed. “The war scattered and displaced a lot of people. Any tabs I had on magic users are long rendered outdated.”
“Well we might have to pay this witch a visit. See what she knows.”
Geralt flipped through the pages, seeing if there was anything else of note. Nothing. Geralt placed the book in his pocket.
“So a witch and a baron.” Philippa stated. “Which should we pursue first?”
“The baron is our closest lead.” Geralt answered. “Though from what I’ve heard, he’s not the most hospitable.”
“Never stopped you before.”
“It sure hasn’t.”
__________________________________________________________________
The pair headed to Crow’s Perch, the home of Philip Stenger, aka the Bloody Baron.
From the brief rundown the Ambassador gave them, the Baron is a Nilfgaardian defector by circumstance. He fought against the empire at the beginning of the war and was soundly defeated. He and his surviving men took up residence at the abandoned fort of Crow’s Perch, and instilled themselves as new power. They joined Nilfgaard not out of any loyalty to them, but rather a realization that they couldn’t fight them. Path of least resistance. Nilfgaard wasn’t going to turn down a rooted presence in the area, so they recognized the Baron as the lord and ‘protector’ of the area.
In reality, he and his men ran Crow’s Perch and the surrounding area with little more discipline or care than a gang. A gang with the empire of the south behind them. That’s why the local populace feared them. They were ruthless, callous, and they held a chokehold on the citizens.
Good thing Philippa and Geralt weren’t citizens.
They rode for a while, likely no more than a half hour to reach the village, when suddenly, Philippa was hit with a wave of unease. Her stomach rolled, but not in nausea, rather like something was trying to enter her body. Trying to touch her from the inside.
And then, everything went black.
The world around her disappeared and She was in a void. She had no voice, no sense of her surroundings. Then a voice, no voices reached out to her.
“Come to us….. Come to us.” They chanted from nowhere and everywhere at once. The voices sounded pleasant, beckoning her toward them. Yet unease ran through her. She couldn’t move if she wanted to, but she didn’t want to go to the voices.
“Come to us….. Come to us!” The voices demanded, all softness gone. She felt her limbs being pulled at, holding her in place. Multiple invisible appendages all over her body
“We will have it. We will have her.”
Philippa…
“Philippa!”
Philippa came back to the world with a start.
“You’re squeezing me pretty tight there. You alright?” Geralt asked, concern creeping into his voice.
“I-I think so.”
Geralt wasn’t sure he liked that answer. “You feeling sick again? You’re not going to accidentally turn me into a frog are you?”
Philippa was a bit shaken by what just happened. A few seconds felt like an hour. Another vision maybe, but none of her visions before were so...unpleasant Geralt looked over his shoulder waiting for her to respond.
“Just feeling a little sick. Let’s keep moving.”
“If we need to stop-”
“NO...We’re so close to our goal. And we’ve already lost enough time because of me as it is. I know you don’t want to stop when we’re right at the gate.”
Geralt opened his mouth to argue, but Philippa was right. He didn’t want to stop. They were so close to their first breakthrough on finding Ciri. And with knowledge of how close the Wild Hunt is, well Geralt wasn’t in a mood to take things slowly. Still though, he worried about Philippa's health and safety, even more so than he outwardly showed.
“But-” He began, before Philippa pinched him. “Ow!”
“Geralt, argue again and I WILL turn you into a frog, on PURPOSE.” She threatened. We’ll soon be at Crow’s Perch behind high walls. You can fret over me once we’re there and find out what this Baron knows about. Cirillia.”
Geralt gave her one more withering look, and then nodded, turning back to look at the road.
“Stop worrying so much. Nothing I haven’t felt before.”
That was a lie. She had never felt anything like that before. And she didn’t want to feel it again anytime soon.
____________________________________________________________________________
The pair arrived at Crow Perch soon after; a wood and brick fortress on a hill, surrounded by a village below. It was sparsely populated, maybe 50 or so inhabitants in total, but it was larger and more intact than any village or hamlet they’ve encountered since they’d left Vizima. Geralt supposed this place was safer than most places in Velen. An iron-fist is hearty. The Baron’s men eyed them suspiciously as they moved through the village, but otherwise left them be.
They climbed the hill, and approached the front gate of the fort, which was manned by two guards standing in front of it.
“Halt! Who goes there?!” A guard demanded.
“Baron home?” Geralt asked.
“Depends who's askin.” Said the second guard.
“A Witcher and his companion. We wanna talk to him.”
“ Hmph, yeah. And I wanna plough the lovely Queen Cerro.”
“Lovely.” Philippa said dryly.
“Wait, you think these two are the same pair from the inn who had them boys pissing their pants.” The first guard asked the second.
“Lot of white haired Witchers coming through this area?” Philippa asked sarcastically.
“Oi! Watch your cheek woman!” The first guard barked. “I’ve little incentive to let in mouthy wenches, and mutants who threaten our men.”
“I didn’t threaten your men.” Geralt stated. “I just told them who I was. If they felt threatened, that’s on them.”
“Still doesn’t give me much reason to let you lot in here.”
“Hold on now.” The second guard interjected. “I’m sure we can work out some kind of...arrangement.”
Geralt rolled his eyes at the euphemism. He knew what that meant.
“How much?” He asked with a sigh.
“Thirty gold.”
“Fuck off. For that much, I can find my own way in. I’ll give you five.”
“Five?! Why I should whip you for that insult. We’re risking our necks by letting you two in. You could be spies. YOU could carry diseases. Twenty-five.”
“Ten.
“Twenty.”
“Fifteen.”
The guard looked at his companion, who just shrugged. “All right. Fifteen.”
Geralt reached into his pouch and counted out fifteen gold. They weren’t out, but they were running low. Hopefully this wouldn’t take too long. He handed the gold through the holes in the gate, and the guard counted, and pocketed it.
“Lodrin, let 'im in. If he makes any trouble...well, we outnumber 'em.” The first guard said. After a second, the gate slowly opened for the two. The first guard then turned and called out to a man standing next to some training equipment. “Sergeant! Ardal! Witcher to see the baron!”
The Sergeant looked toward the gate, and walked over. He walked directly in front of Geralt and Philippa, eyeing them. He looked older. It could’ve been from age, or just world weariness. His hair was a mop of brown, greasy and balding. His eyes were a bit sunken in, giving him a ghoulish look. The Sergeant turned to the second guard and held out his palm.
“What-“ The guard began.
“Hand it over.” Sergeant Ardal ordered the man.
“Hand what-”
“The gold you just got from these two. Hand it over.” The Sergeant opened and closed his hand expectantly “Don’t make me ask again.”
The implicit threat in his voice made the guard relent, reaching into his pocket and giving the Sergeant the gold he just extorted from Geralt and Philippa. They thought the Sergeant was going to return the gold, until he put it in his own pocket. Chain of command.
“Come on then.” He said as he spun around and started walking back toward the center of the fort. Geralt and Philippa followed behind the Sergeant closely, taking in the fort. There were perhaps 3 dozen guards within the walls, the others were likely at other stations and checkpoints, and patrolling the area. Geralt watched as the men sat around, drank, and sloppily trained. These weren’t soldiers; they might have been at one point, but now- just a bunch of thugs with armor. Though Geralt supposed that could accurately describe soldiers as well.
“Guard called you a sergeant. You a Temerian soldier?” Geralt asked Sergeant Ardal. He seemed to bristle at that, but didn’t turn around or stop walking.
“Not your concern, mate.” Geralt could tell he was annoyed by the question. Nevertheless, Geralt continued to push.
“Deserter?”
“Nothing to desert. Temerian army don't exist no more.”
“Yet you’re all here?” Philippa added.
“Had a choice after the Black Ones thrashed us -- let it lie and try to lead normal lives...or continue to resist, join the guerillas and fight for our beloved Temeria till death do us part. We chose the former.”
“And the baron your commander?” Geralt pressed.
“I’m sure he fancies himself one.” The Sergeant grumbled.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning- you ask to many questions. Your business is with the Baron. Pester him with questions. There he is over there.”
Ardal pointed to a small garden a few meters away. Sat a table were several Nilfgaardian soldiers, and a middle aged, portly, bearded man in red. That had to be the Baron.
“ In Vizima -- now those were balls!” Exclaimed the Baron boastfully. His Nilfgaardian guests looked rather annoyed. “Attended a few, me and my Annie! Oh, how we danced! How we twirled! Hahaha!”
The Baron stood, and grabbed an old maid who was tidying up the area. He began to spin her around in a sudden waltz.
“One, two, three -- one, two, three -- wayhey!”
The Nilfgaardians had enough of his antics, and their leader stood abruptly. “Enough! I don't care how you do it, but the deliveries must be weekly.” The Black One barked. The Baron let the maid go back to his duties, and eyed the Nilfgaardians disdainfully, obviously not liking their curtness.
“Won’t you stay for tea?”
“No. Besides, you've another guest.”
The Baron looked over to Geralt and Philippa as the Nilfgaardians departed. He stood with his hands on his hips, making a large presence of himself.
“Well, if it isn't the pair who had some of my boys shaking in their boots.” The Baron said, sounding almost impressed. “You know, usually people who cause disturbances in my realm I have brought to me. I’d have them flogged.”
“Didn’t know we caused a disturbance.” Geralt said dryly.
“Ha! Way they described it, you basically threatened to kill their bloodline. Exaggeration I’m sure. But I figure anyone who can make my boys shake in their boots are some people I’d like to meet. Might prove to be useful.”
“Sorry, I’m not here looking for a job. I’m-”
“I know who you are.”
Geralt arched a white eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Oh? And how do you know that exactly.”
“You kidding? Yer a spitting image of her. White hair. Walking into a fort full of armed men without the slightest bit of worry. Hell, you even got similar scars.” The Baron explained. Geralt stiffened a bit, and the Baron knew he had him. “You’re here about Ciri.”
Geralt didn’t bother to confirm it. The Baron already read him well. Better than he was comfortable with. Taking Geralt’s silence as all the answer he needed and smiled.

“Looks like we have much to discuss. We’ll continue this inside.”
- 7
- 8
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Philippa's Grace