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The Iron Bull had given Geralt a decent lead, a possible way to find reasonable storage for a horse, over the winter, when he couldn't simply let her rest safely at camp. Every day that passed made Geralt more eager to gave an animal again, both for the convenience, and for the fact that every witcher -- whether he admitted it or not -- had spent an evening explaining the details of the coming hunt to his horse beneath a starry sky.

The directions sent him reliably in the right direction, and once Geralt was close enough, he caught first the scent of wood fire and cooked food, and then, soon after, a mixture of individuals, Cremisius Aclassi among them. It was easy to zero in on the property after that.

The evening light was gold, and the trees out in the country were already just starting to change their colors, losing enough of their leaves that the ground crackled with them, and the air was crisp with the smell. One, blowing in the breeze, fluttered into Geralt's face, and he batted it away.

Cresting over a low hill, he saw it, not very far at all in the distance. A cozy-looking white farmhouse, and a barn situated nearby.

He heard the sound of dogs barking. His hackles rose, unbidden, but he'd been warned to approach the house openly, visibly.
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Geralt of Rivia

October 2017

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