A Little Life

Geralt

Something is waking within Geralt.

It starts in Triss's still-smoldering village where the acrid smoke is rolling out like fog over a sea of gore and ash. Some slumbering darkness stirs as he leads Roach away, following the wide path of heavy bootprints all crowded together and overlapping where they press blood into the earth. When it veers off the road, they slip into a thicket of trees so he can secure her a good distance from the trampled path.

"It's alright," he soothes. She snorts at him.
Geralt is not in the habit of lying to his horse, but doesn't look too closely at why he chooses to start now. One too-wide russet eye, ringed in white, tracks him as he hefts his swords onto his back. Her ears flick at him and away, nearly in time with her puffing breath. He turns away from her, and the darkness tugs him onward.

The stench of steel and sweat fills the witcher's nostrils, even this close to the road - they must not be far from where he leaves Roach. He skirts the edges of their sprawling camp, avoiding the light of a dozen small fires - there can be no more than a hundred soldiers here, most of them still drunkenly celebrating the carnage if the raucous noise is any indication. The noise is obscene, out of place - laughter at a wake. It turns his stomach and the creature within him cracks a sleepy eye.

When Geralt completes his first circuit around the camp with no indication of where Jaskier might be, that sick unease turns to lead, hot and coiling in his gut. Jaskier is close, he must be. There is no other reality Geralt will allow. There are barbs around his spine now, claws in his mind that he hasn't felt since Blaviken. Cut them down, a voice calls to him - it is dripping horror, endless night, mindless brutality. End them all, it says.

Over the din, Geralt hears a conspicuous rustling and shifts out of sight as a black-clad soldier wanders out in front of him. He's drunkenly stomping through the brush like all the rest, but he smells...different. The stink of ale and sweat are permeated by sour adrenaline - it's new, stronger than what lingers in the rest of the camp - bitter malice, the last vestiges of arousal, and...blood. New, familiar blood.

Geralt doesn't make the decision to tackle the man to the ground - he is far beyond that now. His body springs, liquid shadow, while his mind is still working out the information flooding his senses. They crash to the ground together, rolling even as Geralt clamps a hand over his mouth, around his bloated neck. The soldier's eyes roll toward him, wide with fear. His face is pockmarked where it starts to turn colors, dotted with bumps and moles and more blood - his own, dribbling from his temple. Geralt's mind catalogs the injury, names it hope , moves on.

"Where is he?" Geralt seethes, crowding the soldier into the ground. Hands scrabble at his own where he pins the soldier by the throat. The man works his jaw uselessly, gawping like a fish as Geralt's vision turns hazy red. He hisses like an animal, close enough that the ends of his silver hair brush through the copper on the other man's cheek.

"Point."

He does, and Geralt squeezes at his throat anyway. The beast at his back says take your time and make him hurt and make him pay. But Jaskier is within his reach. He pulls a dagger from his boot and drags it across the flesh beneath his hands - the cut is shallow. It will take time to serve its purpose.

Geralt stays beside the gurgling man much longer than he should, staring down at the gore escaping under his fingers and pushing against himself. It isn't hesitation that stays him - weariness, perhaps - but Geralt is a weapon, and a weapon doesn't tire. Something curls in his stomach at that thought, tight and scorching, so he takes a few meditative breaths and lets the slow, sweet air calm him.

This is the game Geralt plays and never wins, but tonight he's at least got the upper hand – tonight, he knows, he can feed the beast.