𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐌'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐘 | ❝ Great works are performed not by strength but by perseverance. ❞
A quest to complete a bestiary leads Ruselm to force the infamous witcher Geralt, of Rivia, to accompany him during his travels after many ins...
RUSELM'S BESTIARY CHAPTER NINE ─ THE TRIDAM ULTIMATUM, PART TWO DISCLAIMER: Much of this chapter is from Sapkowski himself, from The Last Wish, which I have edited and added my own touches to. Many Witcher fans haven't read the novels so if you like the writing in this chapter, I urge you to go give them a read! As with the last chapter, everything until Ruselm arrives is Sapkowski's work. After Ruselm's bit, it returns to Sapkowski yet again.
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THERE WAS SOMEONE in Geralt's little attic room. The witcher knew it before he even reached the door, sensing it through the barely perceptible vibration of his medallion which hung faithfully around his neck. It startled an awakeness in his heart and alerted him to the presence which could only be lurking in the darkness.
He blew out the oil lamp which had lit his path up the stairs, pulled the dagger from his boot, slipped it into the back of his belt and pressed the door handle with an exaggeratedly slow movement. The room was dark. But not for a witcher.
Geralt was deliberately cautious in crossing the threshold; he closed the door behind him carefully to avoid making noise. The next second, he dived at the person sitting on his bed, crushed them into the linen, forced his forearm under their chin as he reached for his dagger.
He didn't pull it out. Something wasn't right.
"Not a bad start," she said in a muffled voice, lying motionless beneath him. "I expected something like this, but I didn't think we'd both be in bed so quickly. Take your hand from my throat please."
"It's you."
"It's me. Now there are two possibilities. The first: you get off me and we talk. The second: we stay in this position, in which case I'd like to take my boots off, at least."
The witcher released the girl, who sighed, sat up and adjusted her hair and skirt with rough hands. "Light the candle," she commanded. "I can't see in the dark, unlike you, and I like to see who I'm talking to."
Geralt obeyed silently. The flame sparked up easily and light flooded the space between them. Renfri approached the table—tall, slim, agile—and sat down, stretching out her long legs in their high boots like a cat. She wasn't carrying any visible weapons. "Have you got anything to drink here?"
"No."
"Then it's a good thing I brought something," she laughed, placing a traveling wineskin and two leather tumblers on the table.
"It's nearly midnight," said Geralt coldly. "Shall we come to the point?"
"In a minute. Here, have a drink. Here's to you, Geralt."
"Likewise, Shrike."
"My name's Renfri, damnit." She raised her head. "I will permit you to omit my royal title, but stop calling me Shrike!"
"Be quiet or you'll wake the whole house." Geralt snapped. "Am I finally going to learn why you crept in here through the window?"
Renfri huffed as though she were disappointed. "You're slow-witted, witcher. I want to save Blaviken from slaughter. I crawled over the rooftops like a she-cat in March in order to talk to you about it. Appreciate my gesture."
