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Since The Iron Bull had wandered onto his camp in the woods, matters had only gotten worse.
It was as if the woods were twisting and rotting around Geralt, starting from one central location and feeding outward like a pestilence of reality itself. It affected nearly everything, but Geralt found himself more and more susceptible, more and more changed.
Soon enough, he told Nina to stop coming. That had been at about the time everything he ate had stopped satisfying. When he began looking at human flesh with needy and feral desires.
The witcher kept busy. He had to. That was the only small kindness in any of it, and even then, he felt sick and guilty at times about what he'd had to do, some of the things he'd had to put down. Geralt wasn't the only thing in the woods being twisted.
But the worst had just wrecked his camp, and nearly trampled Geralt with it. It was only luck and superior intuition which had woken him just in time.
Fleeing on wolf-swift feet, quiet as an owl, Geralt ran to the only place he thought he could turn for help. Possibly understanding.
The lights were still on at the farmhouse, though some eerie blanket of discomfort, of unnatural quiet, lay around the property. Geralt didn't know what it was, only that here, more than anywhere else, set the hairs on the back of his neck on end.
He made certain that his boots made a noise as he opened the barn door, peering inside. His eyes flashed in the dark, every glimmer of light reflecting out of them again. It was no problem to find the Bull in the dark with his yellow eyes, even if he hadn't been able to follow the smell to the man. Musky, almost draconid.
Geralt cleared his throat and called to Bull in the dark. His skin was paler than it had ever been, gone from a healthy pinkish alabaster to something closer to Regis' unnatural greyish palor. He still bore the outward manifestation of his mutations, dragged out by strange magic. Long canines, sharp black claws. The general appearance of a panther waiting to pounce.
"Hey. I need you."
It was as if the woods were twisting and rotting around Geralt, starting from one central location and feeding outward like a pestilence of reality itself. It affected nearly everything, but Geralt found himself more and more susceptible, more and more changed.
Soon enough, he told Nina to stop coming. That had been at about the time everything he ate had stopped satisfying. When he began looking at human flesh with needy and feral desires.
The witcher kept busy. He had to. That was the only small kindness in any of it, and even then, he felt sick and guilty at times about what he'd had to do, some of the things he'd had to put down. Geralt wasn't the only thing in the woods being twisted.
But the worst had just wrecked his camp, and nearly trampled Geralt with it. It was only luck and superior intuition which had woken him just in time.
Fleeing on wolf-swift feet, quiet as an owl, Geralt ran to the only place he thought he could turn for help. Possibly understanding.
The lights were still on at the farmhouse, though some eerie blanket of discomfort, of unnatural quiet, lay around the property. Geralt didn't know what it was, only that here, more than anywhere else, set the hairs on the back of his neck on end.
He made certain that his boots made a noise as he opened the barn door, peering inside. His eyes flashed in the dark, every glimmer of light reflecting out of them again. It was no problem to find the Bull in the dark with his yellow eyes, even if he hadn't been able to follow the smell to the man. Musky, almost draconid.
Geralt cleared his throat and called to Bull in the dark. His skin was paler than it had ever been, gone from a healthy pinkish alabaster to something closer to Regis' unnatural greyish palor. He still bore the outward manifestation of his mutations, dragged out by strange magic. Long canines, sharp black claws. The general appearance of a panther waiting to pounce.
"Hey. I need you."
no subject
It would make tracking much easier, especially if the thing didn't come for them as he hoped it might to save energy and time.
The witcher set out, long legs eating the countryside up beneath him. He kept a steady pace, a bit slower than usual. Krem was human. But Geralt made certain not to seem like he was being burdened. Largely because he wasn't.
He might be more used to working with another witcher, but he needed the other two to make this successful, without too great a risk to himself.
After a time, he spoke up again. His low voice carried well on the night air, even though it was soft-spoken.
"Scoia'tael. It means Squirrels, in the Elder Speech. They were a guerilla militia of non-humans, Elves mostly, and some Dwarves.
They were determined to kill as many humans as possible. Claimed it was time to reclaim their land. You realize you were in Squirrel territory, you were gonna have a bad day. You didn't realize, you were gonna have a worse one."
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"Some of the Dalish elves live that way, especially in some of the mountain passes," Bull said at last. "I can't blame them, knowing the history between them and humans. We avoided them. Or, if we had to use a pass they might be guarding, we kept me and Dalish out front."
Seeing a massive Qunari walking with other elves at least gave pause.
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"The Dwarves at least wanted basically nothing to do with anyone else," Krem said with a shrug. "If they were surface dwelling, they were integrated. If they were sub-dwelling, they probably hadn't seen a human or an elf before the last ten years, unless they traded with Tevinter. But the elves..."
Krem nodded a little. There were a lot of legitimate reasons for them to be as angry as they were. He had never begrudged Skinner or Dalish their anger, even when it got misdirected at him because he was the nearest one around.
The closer they got to the forest, the more unnerving it got. Krem murmured a quiet prayer to the Maker, and to his mother's spirits, and to anything else that might be listening, even Andraste. Even Hild's Christian Jesus, if he might be listening. They might need it.
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Geralt was, somehow, comforted that non-integrated elves were arrogant wherever they came from. They were a proud people. It was irritating, but it also deserved a certain kind of distant respect.
The mention of dwarves living underground though, that was a bit weirder. Maybe they'd done that millennia ago, before the arrival of elves and men, but in Geralt's time they'd lived in their above-ground cities in Mahakam like anyone else, and plied their trades in every blacksmith and bank on the continent.
Once they entered the forest, Geralt felt the hush that fell over the group, especially from Krem. The man was whispering prayers under his breath. That was good. Geralt didn't believe in gods, but he always remembered Nenneke's words.
If your lack of faith made any difference, it would be the first proof I've ever heard of that a lack of faith had any power at all.
Let him pray for all of them.
From somewhere in the wood came a deep, disturbing, booming noise. It reverberated in Geralt's bones and made his hackles rise. It was followed by strange, wooden knocking, which echoed in the dark trees. He followed it, and the smell of fiend dung, as well as he could.
The trees blocked most of the breeze. The trees were eerily still.
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He could smell the fiend, because it didn't smell like anything else he'd encountered in the woods here. The noise it made shivered through his bones and Bull stood straighter, his good eye focused and gleaming in the moonlight.
Something in him roiled, eager for violence; eager to hurt and be hurt. In the stillness of the forest, the fiend's movement and noise seemed loud, projected.
"Best approach?" he asked low. Geralt had experience, and Bull would defer to it.
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He unsheathed the sword for now, leaving Smash slung across his back. It felt more practical, while they were still making their way through the forest.
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"From behind. It's mostly immune to magic, including fire, but they can be disoriented by bright lights and loud noises. So if I shout 'down,' get down and cover your eyes. It's got sharp teeth, sharper claws out front, and a pair of horns wider than a king's mantelpiece, but it's slow and bad at protecting its flanks."
Catching sight of it moving through the distance, Geralt froze behind a tree. It had poor vision, they were safe at this distance.
"Fiends have a third eye in the middle of their forehead, I mentioned before. It can hypnotize you. You get caught out front and hypnotized, all you're gonna see is a red eye in darkness. You focus on that eye and when it starts to move closer, you get the hell out of the way. Just worry about saving your own skin; evade. Let the other two worry about everything else for the time being."
The fiend lurked in the distance. It was a huge bulk, twelve feet tall, with a span of antlers even wider, like a massive elk. It was black-furred, shaggy around the neck like a lion's mane, but the flanks had jagged pale cream bars. It was a creature made to hide among the trees, despite its size.
It rooted at the base of a large pine in front of it with its horns, seemingly in some great pain. Geralt had seen the strange, oozing tumors around its mouth and neck when it attacked his camp before.
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He slid his maul off his shoulder, held it ready, focusing for a moment on the lighter stripes on the fiend's flanks. Good thing to aim for. He looked at Krem and looked at the fiend's flanks again, hoping Krem would notice the same thing. Safest place to hit, easiest to spot.
It acted like a sick animal and Bull felt kind of sorry for it, wondered if they'd even be here if it was't corrupted. But they were here, and they couldn't just let it go around tearing things apart. Nor was it kind to let it live and suffer.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's make it quick."
The last thing he wanted was to draw this particular fight out. He moved away from their group, flanking the fiend to the other side. For a man of his size, Bull could be quick, and he could be quiet. That striped flank was his aim with the first heavy swing of his maul: immobilize it, then kill it.
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Bull split off, and Krem went the opposite way, keeping an eye on the way that the fiend rooted about at the trees. Noises felt muted. More muted than they ought to have, even in the thickness of the forest. Something stank of rot, different than the usual molder of the forest floor, and Krem wasn't sure if it was the fiend, or something else.
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It stunned the creature for a half a second -- the witcher as well. Geralt paused to shake his head and rid himself of the ringing.
It turned its great horns on the Bull, ready to make a charge for him. Geralt made a grab for the silver sword on his back, grateful for gloved fingers. He wasn't certain he could handle the blade, under the circumstances, without pain. Silver for monsters. The thought was stomach-churningly ironic.
He leaped for it, turning a fast pirouette, thin sword a razor.
The smell of death pressed in on him.
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He saw Geralt move, saw Krem, smelled blood.
Bull went low. He couldn't take those antlers, but the fiend's chest was broad and open, if he could just get to it. In his urge for blood, he forgot the fiend had claws, forget it was capable of swiping at him. Bull roared frustration when claws caught his side, but he spun to get out of their grip, didn't go down.
He stepped back, eye on the fiend as he reached to feel how bad the injury was. Not too deep, but it was going to hurt the next time he went to swing the maul. The fiend was turning on Geralt and Bull tried to find Krem, tried to make sure he wasn't in the thing's line of sight.
"Watch it, Geralt," he barked, though the witcher would have a hard time missing the large creature's movement. Maybe it was slow, maybe it telegraphed its movements, but it was strong. "Krem. Krem."
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Dodge, something in him said, the warning from Geralt, the instinct. Dodge. Move. You have to move.
He does the best that he can, almost an afterthought of a motion, a shuffle of things when he can manage to convince his body and mind to work in sync enough to do that for him at least.