Fifty-Three (The Witcher Fanfiction)

Fifty-Three (The Witcher Fanfiction)

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WpMetadataReadMatureOngoing59m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Wed, Dec 14, 2022
Geralt and Jaskier were walking down a road in a small town about to turn in the dead carcass of a basilisk they (well Geralt) had killed. As they were about to turn a corner a woman appeared in front of them, she had not womanly clothes on, but clothes you would see men wearing, her hair was long, dark brown, and a little curly. Her eyes were an unusual but beautiful green and she greeted them with a smiling face. As she kind of swiftly moved around them telling them how much she like Jaskier's songs, she got close really close and Geralt got suspicious but he ignored it. Suddenly she stopped talking, she still smiled but she started to walk away, "Thank you for you time, here is a coin for it." She flipped a coin in the air and towards them. Jaskier caught it and smiled, at that point Geralt knew something was wrong. As Geralt checked for the coin bag he had on his person, he realized both the coins and his necklace was gone.
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  • His Dark Mercy

"If we are to use you as bait to lure our possessed Witcher here to Kaer Morhen, do you understand what that entails?" Jaskier nods, but he remains quiet. A slight tremor works its way into his right hand, and Yennefer smirks at its appearance. The sorceress scoffs faintly, and she approaches him. There is something in her violet eyes, like a spark that proceeds the wildfire it causes as she comes close, her voice growing low and sharp. "He will hunt you," Yennefer whispers, as though she is reciting some sort of spell, bewitching as she is sardonic, "You cannot hide from him. You cannot outrun him. You cannot overpower him." Jaskier swallows, but he does not waiver. Not even as Yennefer begins to circle him. Despite the tears in her dress and the dirt that clings to her form, she remains as entrancing as ever. It's as though she's a fever dream Jaskier can only spot from the corners of his eyes. Her words come to Jaskier like a mirage, a silhouette muddled in fog. The only solid sensation coming from her being the race her words bring to his heart. "You will be at the Witcher's mercy." That should scare Jaskier. But it doesn't.

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