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As Geralt's eyes groggily flickered open and then shut again, all he could see above him was stone.
Sharp stalactites hung above him ominously, looking poised to detach from their perch atop the ceiling and run him through at any moment. Yet, they were still. Stalwart in their placement, just as he was. The ground beneath the Witcher felt cold and hard - as though he were lying upon a cruel bed of stone.
Stone... was the first thought that crossed his mind. And as his gloved hands pressed against the floor and he began to sit up, the first sensation came; a horrible, throbbing pounding in his head. The feeling was all too familiar. For an instant, he'd questioned whether or not he'd been pounded across the skull by the fist of a Mountain Troll and dragged off haplessly to the creature's lair. But as his hand pressed against his temple and the ache in his head only thrummed with further intensity, he came to realize that it was a distinct sort of discomfort that he felt in his head.
"Portals..." Geralt growled lowly. a sharp wince coursing across his weathered features. "Always hated portals." Indeed, this headache wasn't an unusual occurrence for him in the past. Whenever Yennefer had deemed it fit to conjure a portal and usher him through, sometimes out of convenient necessity and other times the result of a domestic squabble and her stormy mood, he'd always felt that same pounding in his skull that he felt now. Only this seemed... different somehow, still. More intense than any side-effect of magical translocation he'd ever felt in his century of life. And when his mind raced like a game horse to try and pinpoint what happened to get him in this predicament, there was nary a damned thought that entered his mind. Simply put, his head felt empty and void.
Geralt slowly staggered to a weak stand as he began to take further stock of where he was. Even in a state of delirium, a brief deduction and a bit of intuition told him he stood in a pit at the bottom of some sort of cave. There was no light here, an absence of sun or torch - yet as he focused and centered himself, weary eyes narrowing into a squint, the darkness of his surroundings began to fade. Several meters away from him a coiling thread of vines dangled downward from an opening up above, no doubt leading unto the rest of the cavern. His only exit, he quickly realized, but he'd have to climb for his salvation. Listening in close, he could hear the trickling of water. It was faint and distant, like some far-off river or waterfall.
But as his mind swam back to the here and now, and how he ended up in whatever mess this was, he still couldn't conjure a single thought.
"What the hell..." He grumbles to himself in near disbelief, and then, it hits him. The pain in his head surged and intensified tenfold, a sharp grunt of discomfort escaping the Witcher as he found himself pressing a hand against one of the cavern walls to stop his knees from toppling. And then for the first time since awakening, scant hints of memory began to flood his brain, his ruminations coming slow and steady like a slithering serpent that was sizing up its potential prey.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Toussaint, 1274
It had all begun with a contract.
Since the death of Detlaff just over two years ago, Geralt's career had slowed down considerably. He was all but in his retirement age except in officiality. But life in the luxurious, idyllic manor of Corvo Bianco had grown dull as of late, and the vineyard alone wasn't covering the cost needed for further renovations. Shockingly to himself, and even more shocking to Yennefer, the next project in the works was a greenhouse. A few passing conversations with a local farmer who lived down the road had given Geralt somewhat of a passing interest in botany and gardening, and one thing led to another - he still remembered well how Yennefer had reacted when he'd presented the idea to her.
"You, a gardener?" She'd questioned in that teasingly snide voice of hers, looking entirely amused. "You'd best trade out those swords of yours for shovels and spades." That's how he knew she was pleased about it, in actuality. Shocked, but pleasantly surprised. He knew her far too well.
But in truth, he just needed something to alleviate the boredom. There's only so much day-drinking and lounging in the sun one can do before it turns from merry to maddening, and so here he was - miles away from home, up near the border where the Archduchy of Toussaint separated into the Empire of Nilfgaard.
He'd arrived at a small village known as Campagnon at the behest of a passing merchant. The peddler had insisted that his cousin needed a Witcher's services, and so Geralt had told him to write to the man and had set out the next morning. Not even an hour away from the border, it had all the hallmarks of a quaint farming village tucked away in the golden Toussaint countryside. A windmill, acres of crops and wheat fields that'd prove for a bountiful harvest in the coming months, and several small townhouses and hovels littered the place, giving Campagnon a homely aura that only a rural hamlet can achieve. It almost reminded Geralt of White Orchard, only the people here were unburdened by the ravages of war and conflict, their spirits high and mirthful. It was a stark contrast to the sights he'd seen up North - villages and fields razed by the torches of foreign armies, their people beleaguered as the banner of the White Sun was hoisted high above their heads in further testament to their shame and defeat. War still ravaged up in the North, with rumors of an impending conflict brewing between Emperor Emhyr and King Radovid. It was an inevitability, Geralt supposed. Two tyrants stood at the precipice of ultimate power, and neither was the sort to set aside their grievances and rule their respective domains in peace. Such was the way of war, and such was the way of men. Neither Radovid nor Emhyr would know pain or suffering, but the people of the land and the soldiers conscripted to fight would witness horrors unspeakable.
It was just the way of things.
Geralt's hand grasped out for the handle of his mead tankard, sparing a glance about the inn as he raised it toward his lips. He was seated toward the back end of the tavern, in a squat and dusty booth. The place was a small affair, lined with several tables and garnished with banners of both the Toussaintian cavalryman and the Nilfgaardian sun hanging high above them. This early in the afternoon, it was a quiet affair here in the Quivering Lance. The only punters present were farmers and tradesmen on temporary reprieve from their duties and the youthful barmaid who stood behind the counter idly polishing at cups. Every so often, cautious and fearful looks were cast in Geralt's direction as they chattered hushedly amongst themselves. Geralt paid it little heed - he knew those estranged looks well enough. A century of dealing with that prejudice made him feel completely detached and unphased by it all. He lifted that tankard further to his lips, a sweet sigh escaping him as the honeyed mead trickled down his throat. They'd acquired this batch from a brewery in Vizima, the barmaid had kindly informed him earlier - top-shelf alcohol, and just as expensive to boot. Geralt mused in his head that this beverage would likely be one that the locals would have to work for months to afford. But if Nilfgaard knew how to do one thing right aside from conquest and committing deplorable acts during times of war, they knew how to brew a damn fine mead.
The front door to the tavern swung open then, and a newcomer made his entrance - a slender, older man with a prickly beard and long, shaggy brown hair. Most of the punters spared the man an almost empathetic look as he came in, though some only leaned further into their tables, their conversations growing more hushed as they spared him suspicious glances and quick looks. The man had a hollowed, almost nervous look about him, his eyes practically out on stalks.
The newcomer briskly rounded about the tables, gazing about frantically. As his tired-seeming eyes finally settled upon Geralt, he hastily made his way over to the Witcher's table.
"Excuse me, s-sir. You must be-."
"Geralt of Rivia. Witcher." Geralt cut him short from his stammering greeting, taking a firm sip of his mead. Geralt knew from the way the man looked at him like some beast that this was his first meeting with a Witcher. Best to keep the conversation flowing and give him a chance to relax, lest he ran the risk of making his client soil himself on the spot. "You must be Louis."
"Ay-Aye. That'd be I..."
Geralt's hand waved toward the seat opposite him. "Take a chair. I won't bite."
Louis's eye momentarily twitched as though he wasn't so certain, before skulking forth to lower himself upon the chair.
"Saw your cousin Pierre. He sends his regards."
"Aye... he wrote to me as such. Knew that I needed a Witcher, and sent me your way. I... I wasn't sure if you'd show...."
"A Witcher's word is his bond." Geralt speaks adamantly. "When I say I'm going to do something, I do it. How can I help?"
Louis's fingers began to twitch upon his lap, head bowing as a horrible wince of pain and fear ran across his wrinkled features. "It's my daughter Emmeline, Master Witcher. My sweet, innocent daughter. She's been missing for almost a week now. I fear... I fear that some creature might have got her. That she's in danger."
Geralt leant forth upon his chair, a moment spared for consideration. He needed more details. "I see. I'm going to need details. The more I know, the more likely I'll be able to find her. How'd she vanish?"
"It was during the night." Louis began to explain, his voice croaky and hoarse. He was in a great deal of mental pain, Geralt could tell it. But he needed to get him talking. "My wife Lucille and I had just snuffed out the candles, and gone up to bed. Wasn't even an hour that had passed before we heard her scream from her room. I... I ran up there as quick as I could, Master Witcher. But I weren't quick enough. By the time I'd gotten down the stairs, Emmeline was gone. Her window was open, and she never kept it open at night. Always said she was afraid of someone climbin' through durin' the night.." The old farmer reflects mournfully, his head bowing lower in shame and horror.
"And you're certain that it could have been a beast that took her?"
"As certain as I am the sky is blue! We'd been hearin'.... noises up in the hills for a few days before. Odd croaks and growls, like somethin'... monsterous. We thought it was just wolves or bears, then. Those ain't uncommon up in those forests. But if you heard the way she screamed..." Louis's eyes close over tightly. "You'd know it for certain."
"And there was nothing that could have caused her to run away? No disputes or disagreements?" Geralt's line of questioning continued, his voice monotone and neutral. He knew the pain of losing a daughter. When Ciri had went missing, the void he'd felt in his heart was indescribable. But this was business, and the more he knew now meant he more chance he'd find Emmeline. Dead or alive...
"N-no! My daughter ain't no runaway, Master Witcher! Emmeline's a good girl, a polite girl... always been well behaved! Aye, her mother and her were bickerin' here and there. Her heart was set on marrying a boy here in the village, a known scoundrel and charlatan, and we forbade it. She was angry at us, but she wouldn't do that! She wouldn't break her mother's heart!"
Geralt's lips thinned with doubt, a slow nod offered in Louis's direction. "Okay..." He sighs gently as he rises from his chair, lifting his tankard to drain off the mead that remains. "I need to take a look around your farmstead. Could be hints there that point us to wherever she was taken."
"What about your pay? I heard most Witcher's don't lift a finger without the promise of coin."
"We can talk about that later. I'm not most Witchers - and if she's been gone for this long, I should start working now."
Louis's face froze with dread for a moment, before a thankful little nod was offered. "Aye... thank you." He murmurs lowly as he stands to his feet, headed for the exit.
Geralt only followed, stepping out from the little tavern and out into the warm sunlight. His mind was already turning to make sense of the little information he had thus far.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Geralt's eyes shot back open, thrust back into the present. The swelling pain in his head had subsided from searing to only a mildly discomforting pressure that clouded his gaze with fatigue. He pushes himself from the wall, standing upright as he gazes upward - up over the length of the sprawling vines, and into the opening above. He could still hear the water trickling away in the distance, far-off yet distinct.
He began to orient himself properly. A hand lurched backward, feeling for the handles of his twin longswords - they were still there, sheathed within their worn leather scabbards just as always. His hands dipped downward for his pouch - devoid of potions and any further equipment, though there were a few food rations left to spare. A flask of water, a loaf of bread, a chunk of salted venison, a green apple, and a pack of trail-nuts. His medallion, steel carved into the shape of a wolf's head, still sat around his neck - Geralt's fingers trailed around it. It wasn't humming as it normally did when beasts or magic was near. That was a good sign.
"Great..." the White Wolf grumbled with chagrin as he reached out for the vines, making use of his upper-body strength to begin scaling upward. "What mess have I gotten myself into now?"
Wherever he was, whatever was happening, there was only one way forward. And he had to push on.
Maybe there's a still chance I'll get that greenhouse at the end of this... his mind mused as he dragged himself up those vines, bound for whatever obscure fate awaited him.
Sharp stalactites hung above him ominously, looking poised to detach from their perch atop the ceiling and run him through at any moment. Yet, they were still. Stalwart in their placement, just as he was. The ground beneath the Witcher felt cold and hard - as though he were lying upon a cruel bed of stone.
Stone... was the first thought that crossed his mind. And as his gloved hands pressed against the floor and he began to sit up, the first sensation came; a horrible, throbbing pounding in his head. The feeling was all too familiar. For an instant, he'd questioned whether or not he'd been pounded across the skull by the fist of a Mountain Troll and dragged off haplessly to the creature's lair. But as his hand pressed against his temple and the ache in his head only thrummed with further intensity, he came to realize that it was a distinct sort of discomfort that he felt in his head.
"Portals..." Geralt growled lowly. a sharp wince coursing across his weathered features. "Always hated portals." Indeed, this headache wasn't an unusual occurrence for him in the past. Whenever Yennefer had deemed it fit to conjure a portal and usher him through, sometimes out of convenient necessity and other times the result of a domestic squabble and her stormy mood, he'd always felt that same pounding in his skull that he felt now. Only this seemed... different somehow, still. More intense than any side-effect of magical translocation he'd ever felt in his century of life. And when his mind raced like a game horse to try and pinpoint what happened to get him in this predicament, there was nary a damned thought that entered his mind. Simply put, his head felt empty and void.
Geralt slowly staggered to a weak stand as he began to take further stock of where he was. Even in a state of delirium, a brief deduction and a bit of intuition told him he stood in a pit at the bottom of some sort of cave. There was no light here, an absence of sun or torch - yet as he focused and centered himself, weary eyes narrowing into a squint, the darkness of his surroundings began to fade. Several meters away from him a coiling thread of vines dangled downward from an opening up above, no doubt leading unto the rest of the cavern. His only exit, he quickly realized, but he'd have to climb for his salvation. Listening in close, he could hear the trickling of water. It was faint and distant, like some far-off river or waterfall.
But as his mind swam back to the here and now, and how he ended up in whatever mess this was, he still couldn't conjure a single thought.
"What the hell..." He grumbles to himself in near disbelief, and then, it hits him. The pain in his head surged and intensified tenfold, a sharp grunt of discomfort escaping the Witcher as he found himself pressing a hand against one of the cavern walls to stop his knees from toppling. And then for the first time since awakening, scant hints of memory began to flood his brain, his ruminations coming slow and steady like a slithering serpent that was sizing up its potential prey.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Toussaint, 1274
It had all begun with a contract.
Since the death of Detlaff just over two years ago, Geralt's career had slowed down considerably. He was all but in his retirement age except in officiality. But life in the luxurious, idyllic manor of Corvo Bianco had grown dull as of late, and the vineyard alone wasn't covering the cost needed for further renovations. Shockingly to himself, and even more shocking to Yennefer, the next project in the works was a greenhouse. A few passing conversations with a local farmer who lived down the road had given Geralt somewhat of a passing interest in botany and gardening, and one thing led to another - he still remembered well how Yennefer had reacted when he'd presented the idea to her.
"You, a gardener?" She'd questioned in that teasingly snide voice of hers, looking entirely amused. "You'd best trade out those swords of yours for shovels and spades." That's how he knew she was pleased about it, in actuality. Shocked, but pleasantly surprised. He knew her far too well.
But in truth, he just needed something to alleviate the boredom. There's only so much day-drinking and lounging in the sun one can do before it turns from merry to maddening, and so here he was - miles away from home, up near the border where the Archduchy of Toussaint separated into the Empire of Nilfgaard.
He'd arrived at a small village known as Campagnon at the behest of a passing merchant. The peddler had insisted that his cousin needed a Witcher's services, and so Geralt had told him to write to the man and had set out the next morning. Not even an hour away from the border, it had all the hallmarks of a quaint farming village tucked away in the golden Toussaint countryside. A windmill, acres of crops and wheat fields that'd prove for a bountiful harvest in the coming months, and several small townhouses and hovels littered the place, giving Campagnon a homely aura that only a rural hamlet can achieve. It almost reminded Geralt of White Orchard, only the people here were unburdened by the ravages of war and conflict, their spirits high and mirthful. It was a stark contrast to the sights he'd seen up North - villages and fields razed by the torches of foreign armies, their people beleaguered as the banner of the White Sun was hoisted high above their heads in further testament to their shame and defeat. War still ravaged up in the North, with rumors of an impending conflict brewing between Emperor Emhyr and King Radovid. It was an inevitability, Geralt supposed. Two tyrants stood at the precipice of ultimate power, and neither was the sort to set aside their grievances and rule their respective domains in peace. Such was the way of war, and such was the way of men. Neither Radovid nor Emhyr would know pain or suffering, but the people of the land and the soldiers conscripted to fight would witness horrors unspeakable.
It was just the way of things.
Geralt's hand grasped out for the handle of his mead tankard, sparing a glance about the inn as he raised it toward his lips. He was seated toward the back end of the tavern, in a squat and dusty booth. The place was a small affair, lined with several tables and garnished with banners of both the Toussaintian cavalryman and the Nilfgaardian sun hanging high above them. This early in the afternoon, it was a quiet affair here in the Quivering Lance. The only punters present were farmers and tradesmen on temporary reprieve from their duties and the youthful barmaid who stood behind the counter idly polishing at cups. Every so often, cautious and fearful looks were cast in Geralt's direction as they chattered hushedly amongst themselves. Geralt paid it little heed - he knew those estranged looks well enough. A century of dealing with that prejudice made him feel completely detached and unphased by it all. He lifted that tankard further to his lips, a sweet sigh escaping him as the honeyed mead trickled down his throat. They'd acquired this batch from a brewery in Vizima, the barmaid had kindly informed him earlier - top-shelf alcohol, and just as expensive to boot. Geralt mused in his head that this beverage would likely be one that the locals would have to work for months to afford. But if Nilfgaard knew how to do one thing right aside from conquest and committing deplorable acts during times of war, they knew how to brew a damn fine mead.
The front door to the tavern swung open then, and a newcomer made his entrance - a slender, older man with a prickly beard and long, shaggy brown hair. Most of the punters spared the man an almost empathetic look as he came in, though some only leaned further into their tables, their conversations growing more hushed as they spared him suspicious glances and quick looks. The man had a hollowed, almost nervous look about him, his eyes practically out on stalks.
The newcomer briskly rounded about the tables, gazing about frantically. As his tired-seeming eyes finally settled upon Geralt, he hastily made his way over to the Witcher's table.
"Excuse me, s-sir. You must be-."
"Geralt of Rivia. Witcher." Geralt cut him short from his stammering greeting, taking a firm sip of his mead. Geralt knew from the way the man looked at him like some beast that this was his first meeting with a Witcher. Best to keep the conversation flowing and give him a chance to relax, lest he ran the risk of making his client soil himself on the spot. "You must be Louis."
"Ay-Aye. That'd be I..."
Geralt's hand waved toward the seat opposite him. "Take a chair. I won't bite."
Louis's eye momentarily twitched as though he wasn't so certain, before skulking forth to lower himself upon the chair.
"Saw your cousin Pierre. He sends his regards."
"Aye... he wrote to me as such. Knew that I needed a Witcher, and sent me your way. I... I wasn't sure if you'd show...."
"A Witcher's word is his bond." Geralt speaks adamantly. "When I say I'm going to do something, I do it. How can I help?"
Louis's fingers began to twitch upon his lap, head bowing as a horrible wince of pain and fear ran across his wrinkled features. "It's my daughter Emmeline, Master Witcher. My sweet, innocent daughter. She's been missing for almost a week now. I fear... I fear that some creature might have got her. That she's in danger."
Geralt leant forth upon his chair, a moment spared for consideration. He needed more details. "I see. I'm going to need details. The more I know, the more likely I'll be able to find her. How'd she vanish?"
"It was during the night." Louis began to explain, his voice croaky and hoarse. He was in a great deal of mental pain, Geralt could tell it. But he needed to get him talking. "My wife Lucille and I had just snuffed out the candles, and gone up to bed. Wasn't even an hour that had passed before we heard her scream from her room. I... I ran up there as quick as I could, Master Witcher. But I weren't quick enough. By the time I'd gotten down the stairs, Emmeline was gone. Her window was open, and she never kept it open at night. Always said she was afraid of someone climbin' through durin' the night.." The old farmer reflects mournfully, his head bowing lower in shame and horror.
"And you're certain that it could have been a beast that took her?"
"As certain as I am the sky is blue! We'd been hearin'.... noises up in the hills for a few days before. Odd croaks and growls, like somethin'... monsterous. We thought it was just wolves or bears, then. Those ain't uncommon up in those forests. But if you heard the way she screamed..." Louis's eyes close over tightly. "You'd know it for certain."
"And there was nothing that could have caused her to run away? No disputes or disagreements?" Geralt's line of questioning continued, his voice monotone and neutral. He knew the pain of losing a daughter. When Ciri had went missing, the void he'd felt in his heart was indescribable. But this was business, and the more he knew now meant he more chance he'd find Emmeline. Dead or alive...
"N-no! My daughter ain't no runaway, Master Witcher! Emmeline's a good girl, a polite girl... always been well behaved! Aye, her mother and her were bickerin' here and there. Her heart was set on marrying a boy here in the village, a known scoundrel and charlatan, and we forbade it. She was angry at us, but she wouldn't do that! She wouldn't break her mother's heart!"
Geralt's lips thinned with doubt, a slow nod offered in Louis's direction. "Okay..." He sighs gently as he rises from his chair, lifting his tankard to drain off the mead that remains. "I need to take a look around your farmstead. Could be hints there that point us to wherever she was taken."
"What about your pay? I heard most Witcher's don't lift a finger without the promise of coin."
"We can talk about that later. I'm not most Witchers - and if she's been gone for this long, I should start working now."
Louis's face froze with dread for a moment, before a thankful little nod was offered. "Aye... thank you." He murmurs lowly as he stands to his feet, headed for the exit.
Geralt only followed, stepping out from the little tavern and out into the warm sunlight. His mind was already turning to make sense of the little information he had thus far.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Geralt's eyes shot back open, thrust back into the present. The swelling pain in his head had subsided from searing to only a mildly discomforting pressure that clouded his gaze with fatigue. He pushes himself from the wall, standing upright as he gazes upward - up over the length of the sprawling vines, and into the opening above. He could still hear the water trickling away in the distance, far-off yet distinct.
He began to orient himself properly. A hand lurched backward, feeling for the handles of his twin longswords - they were still there, sheathed within their worn leather scabbards just as always. His hands dipped downward for his pouch - devoid of potions and any further equipment, though there were a few food rations left to spare. A flask of water, a loaf of bread, a chunk of salted venison, a green apple, and a pack of trail-nuts. His medallion, steel carved into the shape of a wolf's head, still sat around his neck - Geralt's fingers trailed around it. It wasn't humming as it normally did when beasts or magic was near. That was a good sign.
"Great..." the White Wolf grumbled with chagrin as he reached out for the vines, making use of his upper-body strength to begin scaling upward. "What mess have I gotten myself into now?"
Wherever he was, whatever was happening, there was only one way forward. And he had to push on.
Maybe there's a still chance I'll get that greenhouse at the end of this... his mind mused as he dragged himself up those vines, bound for whatever obscure fate awaited him.
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