the angels hidden blade

FOURTY FIVE

The riverbank was adorned with a tranquil beauty that mirrored the delicate balance between nature and the supernatural. 

Jaskier and Nefeli found themselves ensconced in a cocoon of anticipation as they sat side by side on the moss-covered rocks, their eyes unwaveringly fixed upon the enigmatic figure of the Witcher.

Sunlight, like liquid gold, cascaded through the rustling leaves overhead, creating a mesmerizing dance of shadows and light upon the rippling surface of the river. 

The air was infused with the soothing melody of chirping birds and the gentle rustling of leaves, a stark contrast to the intensity that hung in the atmosphere.

At the water's edge, the Witcher stood. His chiselled features bathed in sunlight, yet the weariness etched upon his face spoke of countless battles and untold hardships. 

Pallor clung to his skin like a spectral shroud, evidence of the ceaseless demands of his perilous profession.

Nefeli's gaze was drawn to his hands, weathered and calloused from a lifetime of wielding swords and grappling with monsters.

 In a choreography of precision, the Witcher cast a finely woven net into the glistening water, each movement a testament to his years of honed skill. 

The net danced upon the surface like a fleeting waltz, capturing glimmers of sunlight with each undulation.

As the net weaved its intricate patterns through the river's embrace, Jaskier and Nefeli were entranced by the rhythmic dance.

The Witcher's arms, sinewy and powerful, pulled the net back and forth with a fluidity that belied the heaviness of his burdened soul. 

Beads of sweat adorned his forehead like ephemeral jewels, glistening in the dappled sunlight.

Nefeli, her senses heightened by a night of restless sleep, leaned closer to her companion. 

The perplexity etched across her features mirrored the curiosity that lingered in her voice, a whisper that melded seamlessly with the symphony of nature around them.

"What is he doing?" she breathed, her words laden with a cocktail of curiosity and the weariness that clung to her bones. 

The question hung in the air, an invitation for Jaskier to unravel the mystery that unfolded before them. 

It seemed the Witcher had been at this arcane ritual since the break of dawn, a fact that lingered in the fatigue that shadowed his every move.

Jaskier's breath escaped in a weary sigh, a subtle acknowledgment of the weight carried by the Witcher's quest. 

His piercing blue eyes, filled with a combination of understanding and a hint of mystery, turned to meet Nefeli's gaze as if sharing a secret. 

"He claims he's searching for a Djinn," Jaskier confessed, his voice a mere breath, a conspiratorial tone that added an air of intrigue to the already mysterious atmosphere. 

Nefeli blinked in surprise, her eyes widening at the revelation. 

The word "Djinn" hung in the air, carrying with it a sense of ancient magic and unexplored realms.

"Really?" she muttered, her attention torn between the cryptic explanation and the muscular figure labouring at the river's edge. 

The Witcher, beads of water clinging to his hair, heaved the net from the depths with a grunt.

"He said his dreams were plagued by visions of a beautiful sorceress with purple eyes," Jaskier shared, his words carrying the weight of Geralt's dream.