Wolfsbane

The sunhad set many hours ago. Instead of it, the moon illuminated the willows and the small waters that lay strewn about the moor like pieces of a broken mirror, glowing as if on their own. If someone walked through this humid landscape with closed eyes, merely listening to the sounds of its inhabitants, one would be perplexed to find that, at a particular point, the chittering and chirping, cooing and croaking suddenly subsided only to make place for the crackling of fire and the calm yet fully awake breath of two men and a horse grazing a bit further away. If one paid attention to the smell surrounding this scenery, one would unsurprisingly notice the tangy smell of smoke, however mixed with something earthy, bitter and numbing. Opening their eyes, one would see that the men were sitting next to each other: One hunched with his red-brown hair hiding his gaze like a curtain, the other, with long white hair, sitting on a tree trunk, resting his palms on his lap and observing the fire lash about with its many crimson tongues while throwing a blue-flowered herb into it from time to time. The white-hair looked up from the fire, right at the spot where that particular one’s eyes would be, who would probably be taken aback by his bright orange irises surrounding cat-like slits, contracted to the point that they resembled the two sharp swords lying at his side on the ground, lying on their scabbards and glistening. But the white-hair did not see or smell anyone, nor did he hear anyone in a radius of at least a mile around their camp. He would have been surprised to notice anyone on his journey through this region, for these moors were usually avoided even by refugees running for their dear lives. He looked at his companion, whose face, on the other hand, rather resembled the grass he was sitting on. He truly pitied him, and thus asked in the friendliest tone he could muster: “How do you feel?”

“Shite”, his companion murred.

The white-hair decided to try humour. “You do look shite”, he chuckled.

“Thanks a lot”, the other murred back, unamused.

In an attempt to interrupt the ensuing silence, the white-hair changed the topic.

“How did you get here?”, he asked.

“By horse”, the other answered. “Was on my way to the next village, but the horse got scared of something. Threw me off and ran away without me. Arse.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. Bloedzuiger’s stench can knock out most smaller animals.”

“That thing you slew?”, the other wondered with a hint of a smile. “Lucky that the wind blew the other way, looks like I’d have thrown up from the smell alone if it didn’t.”

“You still look pale, though.”

“That’s cause it didn’t look appetising, either.”

“Hm, true”, the white-hair chuckled. “What’s your name?”

“Viggo. And yours?”

“Geralt.”

Something about the way he said his name made Viggo’s eyes light up, as if the confident tone of his deep voice let him forget his nausea for a bit. He felt he found someone … trustworthy? Friendly? Someone deeply fascinating and … beautiful.

Yes, beautiful. “Sounds fitting”, he thought aloud.

“Why?”, Geralt asked.