"Four knocks, three flowers. Two shall wilt, one shall bloom."
For a century, Esmeralda Device's family has been charged with the duty of protecting and deciphering the prophecies of their ancestor, Agnes Nutter. As Esmeralda continues the work of h...
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"When The Witcher readeth these words of mine, in the shoppe of mine descendant, then the final days are certes upon us. Open thine eyes to understand. Open thine eyes and rede, I do say, for thy ward doth grow strong." - Prophecy 3819
Silver trails of burning incense twirled into the air and filled Jasmine cottage with a calming aroma. It was almost enough to mask the stench of the Witcher sprawled across her cot. Esmeralda's dress sleeves rolled to the elbow, her arms soaked with bloodied water.
The Witcher was nearly bare before her, his clothes discarded in a heap on the stone floor. It was necessary to gain access to his wounds, and as she dabbed at the raw skin around his wound, she had to refrain from grimacing. The Devourer had nearly ripped out his liver with its snapping maw, and it would no doubt take more than mortal medicine to save his life. Had he been entirely mortal, his spirit would have flickered out like a candle in the wind long before he'd reached her.
It was good that Esmeralda sent the children home, for this was a sight that could make even the most experienced healer queasy. Running through his wound was a substance as dark as midnight and thick as molasses. It oozed from every jagged teeth mark and exposed muscle.
Geralt was out cold, the only sign of life the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his claw-marked chest. The unbearable pit in Esmeralda's stomach that came only when a soul was slipping away had thankfully abated. Geralt would survive his wounds, and she knew that this was likely not the closest brush with death The Witcher experienced, nor would it be his last.
The truth was etched across his skin with every jagged scar. His marks would likely only be seen by a lover or a healer, as most were concealed by heavy armor. But now, bare save for undergarments, and a thin sheet pulled over his legs, Esmeralda saw the puzzle that was Geralt of Rivia. With every swipe of the cloth across his skin, he became more a man and less a beast. His long hair splayed about the pillow, soaked through with mud to the point that there could've been any color beneath.
He was handsome, but not in the way storybooks painted the clean-cut and pretty prince. Geralt was a sort of beauty that had been lived in and worn. The sort of beauty that came from pain, suffering, and perseverance. He reminded her of the carved statues depicting heroes of old -- strong and bold, imperfect, and all the more exquisite for it.
