Chapter Text
Geralt wanted to scream. He'd been dealing with a cockatrice nest for the entirety of three days, finally managing to take out the last. It had been more difficult than it should have been. Lack of sleep and Ornithosaur Oil made the creatures much harder to deal with than was necessary.
The Witcher's plan for the day had been to collect his payment and then to sleep. While he could certainly survive longer without sleep than any human, go longer before symptoms of sleep deprivation set in, it was still a real risk. And a Witcher who's reaction time was slower than normal wouldn't survive very long.
By the time he’d returned from his hunt, the bard had been strumming his lute, the sound grating on Geralt. In small doses, he really didn't mind the singing necessarily. It came down to lyrics. Every song made him seem like a hero at the expense of another, sometimes worse off species. Toss a Coin especially hurt him. He understood the elves' plight in a way no human could.
Yet his bard, even after he voiced his grievance, chose to ignore the fact he wanted an accurate telling.
And unfortunately, he never stopped fucking doing it. If there's a song about the White Wolf, it's always a tale of a heroic Witcher running headfirst into danger to save humans from a terrible beast or creature. Even if it weren't the truth. Even if Geralt never wants his situation improved at the cost of an entire species'. But the bard had shown that his opinions didn't matter. It would be written either way. So the Witcher did the one thing he could.
Minimize the damage and not share details. If there isn't enough for a ballad, the bard can't write one.
Of course, he couldn't always do that. Sometimes the bard followed and went places he shouldn't, sometimes rumors were enough. Geralt felt guilty on those days, both for the risk the man was putting himself in...and the consequences for the ones in his ballads. Toss a Coin didn't do anything other than spit on an already horribly misrepresented species, all to boost Geralt's reputation.
The Scoia'tael were terrorists and would kill innocent, but that extremism hadn't come from nowhere. A fact Geralt understood all too well. And most elves weren’t Scoia’tael in the first place.
What's worse was making Geralt a hero for killing the elves in the song. Calling the sylvan a devil. It’s just...he could never stand to have his reputation boosted at someone else's expense. Especially those he can feel such kinship with.
So hearing the song for what felt like the millionth time this month, after returning from a long hunt where he just wanted to get paid and go to sleep, didn't exactly become soothing. Sore, tired, and with potions still causing a bit of an overload for his senses. Not wanting to lose one of the few who tolerated him, even when he snapped, Geralt dropped the cockatrice heads on the ground before leaving. The bard looked concerned, and a bit miffed, but let him leave.
He walked for about an hour, heading deeper into a beautiful forest, as the Sun began to set. Just...he knew someone he needed to see. And as he heard the caws of multiple birds, he knew she was near. Not drawing his sword, but prepared for a fight, he could sense the fast moving individual.
Even as a Witcher, it was difficult to track the movement. Quickness had always been her strongsuit. And soon, she was face to face with him. Fangs and chin dripping with blood, eyes similar to that of a corpse, she grinned. And only spoke four simple words.
"Good to see you."