Ancient Wanderers - The Witcher

Chapter 7: The Witch in the Woods

*Unedited

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𝓦𝓮 arrive from the north, from Ropers Gate. Geralt and I travel on foot, leading our laden horses by the bridle. Jaskier had chosen to stay in the last town with his newest muse - despite my arguments.

The bard and I have grown rather close since our time in Posada. Words always flow between us, filling the silence should the Witcher be in a foul mood. And I find his humor and overall helpless disposition to be amusing. It has been a lifetime since I have smiled this much. Therefore, leaving Jaskier behind has weighed on my heart.

Though, the White Wolf seems more open to conversation now that it is solely us two. Which is not necessarily a good thing.

"Half-elf?"

His blunt question surprises me, "Pardon?"

"No," he grunts, "You don't smell Elven."

As I approach the front of the Fox Tavern, I ask, "Did that necrophage hit you over the head?"

I throw a leg across the saddle and gracefully fall to the ground.

Geralt follows suit, "Hm. You talk so much. Why not tell me what you are?"

My eyes narrow and I point a scolding finger at him, "First of all, rude. Second, we have been over this."

The man huffs and leans over to sniff the air around me, "You smell human enough."

I smile, it's clearly fake, before flicking his forehead, "This sniffing must cease. It truly is beginning to test my patience."

Glove-covered hands toss the doors a bit too aggressively. I saunter up to the innkeep and acquire two rooms and use of the horse stalls out front with the promise of payment the next morning.

The man's eyes shift to behind me, where Geralt clothed in a black coat no doubt lurks. He asks, "What will it be?"

"Two beers," replies the Witcher.

The innkeep wipes his hands on his canvas apron and fills two chipped earthenware tankards before sliding them to us. I snatch them up and venture to a table in the corner. My companion sits before me.

His smooth gravel voice resumes once we both have drawn from our tankards, "Fine. How old are you then?"

I almost choke on my beverage, "It is impolite to ask a lady such a question."

Geralt's piercing golden gaze does not stutter, "You aren't a lady."

My free hand flashes him an obscene gesture.

"Hm," his eyes sparkle with amusement. No doubt my actions cemented his opinion of me.

In the hopes of convincing him to drop the subject, I lean forward, "How old are you then?"

Broad shoulders shrug, "A century or so."

Great, now is one of the few moments he chooses to be open with me. My lips form a thin line, "I am older."

"And?"

The man seems to be expecting me to continue so I reply, "Hm."

Geralt huffs, "I do that. You are the one who talks from sunup to sundown."

"Well, I am tired," I respond as I finish my beer and rise, "If you so desperately want conversation, pay a lady of the night."

"Fine," he growls.