Chapter Text
Something that Raave had begun to take note of a long time ago was that Shane's domineering demeanor was consistent in all things. It was amusing the way he took charge, from tandem contracts to taking the lead on horseback and even to boudoir affairs now. That was fine; Raave was laid-back as far as Bear School witchers went, something he'd noticed became all the more pronounced as the years progressed. To let the little griffin that was becoming his take command, take the helm so decisively, was not a negative thing in the slightest.
Contracts were divided fairly between them when they traveled together. Every contract taken on was alternated between the two, leaving the one not on the job to procure supplies and a room at the inn. Exceptionally dangerous contracts were handled together to mitigate the risk of serious injury or overdosing on witcher potions, whenever those were deemed necessary. It was a comfortable arrangement, much like all their other arrangements. Beds were shared, as were meals and even coin purses.
It had seemed so easy for them to fall into such a routine with one another. Raave knew his fellow witchers would scoff at him if they found out. Shane had had the right of it when he'd said that bear witchers were solitary creatures. But was it so wrong to crave the close contact of another being? If Raave still had the normal human emotions he'd been born with, it would break his heart that his brothers closed themselves off from such a quiet comfort as this beautiful thing that he'd managed to cultivate. Witchers lived far too long a life to forsake such a connection — provided they were able to find it.
Perhaps that made him an anomaly amongst his brethren, but to ask Raave to stay away from this handsome witcher, with his dark skin and wild mane of curls that glistened like the dark feathers of a beautiful bird, would be like asking a drowner to stop killing folk.
There was a small hamlet up ahead, a hazy blur in the distance of the foggy evening. Millgate. Shane pulled his horse up short, ignored her snort of protest as he surveyed the area. Raave stopped his own horse beside and watched Shane as they listened intently. Even in this fog, beneath the hood of his cloak, he was quite a sight. He seemed to relax after a moment. No monsters could be heard, only the playful shouts of children and the barking of a dog.
"Let's stop here," Shane said at length. "If there's no notice posted, then we can simply rest and move on in the morning."
"Sounds fine."
Shane eyed him curiously, his bright green eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. "You are allowed to disagree with me."
Raave felt an eyebrow arch of its own accord. "Why should I? You have yet to lead us astray."
Another moment of scrutiny before Shane nudged his mare onward with a quiet click of his tongue and a tap of his heels against her flank. Raave urged his gelding to follow. As their horses moved into the torchlight along the path on the outskirts of the village, they heard the excited gasps of young humans. Soon enough they were being dogged by four of the little buggers and a hound.
"Are you soldiers?" one boy asked on Raave's right.
"They're witchers!" exclaimed a girl from Shane's left. "Look at their swords, Sam!"
A small girl reached out to touch Raave's boot, her curiosity getting the better of her. Raave merely glanced at her from the corner of his eye, unbothered, and she gave him a grin full of missing teeth. "Hullo, master witcher!"
She... didn't seem scared of him. That was new. He was used to being the big, scary witcher.
"Greetings," Raave returned with a gentle smile.
"Wow, witchers in our village!" the first boy shouted.
"Are you here to kill the griffin?" the little one asked.
From the corner of his eye, Raave saw a woman straighten from her washing. She had stern eyes and a grim expression on her pretty face. "Leave 'em alone, children! They's not 'ere to play with you!"
A grumble rose up from the gaggle of children and they reluctantly scampered off toward the woman. Raave heard Shane chuckle under his breath and he glanced over to see a rather amused smirk twisting Shane's lips. As though he'd just heard a joke that he'd found humorous.
"What?"
"Hm? Oh, just am always surprised when you don't frighten away children. Surprised parents don't tell them to stay away from the big, scary witcher with those jagged scars on his face."
"No, but they tend to tell their grown daughters as much, though I've never even implied that I would be doing anything with them."
Shane laughed softly. "Must be that reputation of ours."
"Undoubtedly. I've never had an interest in some farmer's daughter, nor would I in future. Not when the one I've set my sights on is already warming my bed."
"Soppy bastard," he scoffed with a roll of those pale eyes. "Come, let's see about this griffin."
"Ah, a griffin off to kill a griffin. Poetic."
As it would turn out, the innkeeper had put the contract up on the notice board about the griffin. "Too many dead travelers of late," he'd said, "and the damned thing tried to snatch up me sister not two days past!" Either the griffin was a bold one or a desperate one, and neither one a good thing. It always seemed to come from the hills north of the village, according to witnesses. Bunch of drunks who spent long afternoons in the tavern, sure, but it wouldn't hurt to check the area out. Could be they would find something of use.
Shane volunteered to take on the role of the inquisitor while Raave went off to inspect the most recent location of the sightings. It would seem that they'd be splitting this one. So be it. They had figured out long ago how to adapt their vastly different fighting styles around one another. Shane was more than proficient with his signs — Raave would go as far as to say that he was showing off his adroitness — while Raave was more accurate with his crossbow and equipped with a plethora of different bolts for it.
Whereas Shane was fast and agile with his swords, Raave hit hard and heavy with his axes. Shane moved his swords sharp and precise during an encounter while Raave followed through with a hefty stroke or a weighty bludgeoning. Working in tandem hadn't come easily at first, but now they easily whirled and danced around one another when locked in combat. Outside of combat, following tracks and finding nests was preferable to the bear while asking questions and hunting down information was easier for the griffin.
It was a method that worked well for them, one that they had honed over time. Adjusting his style around another had been a strange experience for Raave but he felt as though he'd learned a lot from it. That was a skill that he could confidently say he had a leg up on over his brothers.
The gentle breeze blowing across the hill stirred Raave's hair, caressing his long ponytail like a fond lover. The fog swirled through the grasses, thick as milk curds, cloying to the senses. Raave shook himself from his thoughts as the chill air ghosted across his face. It would be difficult to track a beast in these conditions, let alone hunt one. But surely the beast wouldn't be out and about in this weather. He would merely gather what useful information he could find and the two witchers could talk their options over.
He discovered a large blue feather near some deep prints from a heavy beast, prints that led to a small puddle of congealing blood. The tracks seemed to vanish here, another feather dropped, but the blood trail continued on into the woods. Griffin must have hunted before the fog rolled in, snatched up a deer in its talons, and hauled it off to its nest. The deer was injured but alive, most likely. Or it had been when it was dragged off.
Following the trail into the woods led Raave to a short cliff where he lost it. He stopped, stood silent and still on the tips of his toes as he listened to the forest around himself. Blood stained the side of the cliff beside him. Sharp chirps reached his ears followed by a low growl of sorts, echoing down from the clifftop. More than one griffin, from the sounds of it. Babies, too. There would be another — likely it was the male who hunted the deer for his mate and offspring. Great. They would need to negotiate the rate on this contract.
Raave made a mental note of the nest's location before he quietly made his way back to the village. When the inn finally loomed through the fog up ahead, he saw Shane leaning comfortably against the wall by the door, the children from earlier gathered around him. He was telling them a story about a dragon and they were listening with wide eyes that sparkled with their curiosity. Raave listened passively as he approached and realized it was a story about a contract Shane himself had taken on for a dragon with at least one fellow brother of the Griffin School. A story Shane had told him before. He kept the details to a minimum this time, not wishing to traumatize the children. As Raave approached, Shane's bright eyes caught his and his smile grew just that much wider, just that little bit that made Raave's chest grow fuzzy with a familiar warmth.
"... And he felled the dragon with a sword in the back of its neck. I caught Tarsak as he leapt from the dead beast's back."
"Did you get the princess?" the smallest girl asked.
Shane shook his head. Raave stopped just behind the small circle the children made. "That's just a fairytale. There was no princess, just a village full of people that needed saving and a trophy to turn in."
A boy cocked his head. "Did you really fight a dragon?"
"Got the scar on my face to prove it," Shane said as he gestured to the scar that gouged its way across the left side of his cheek. "Very few witchers can claim that. Most of them refuse to do it. And speaking of witchers who don't kill dragons, my partner's back and I have work to do. Best run along before you get into trouble for talking to me."
The gaggle of children pouted and fussed as they slunk away into the fog from whence they came. That lazy smile was still gracing Shane's dark face, tugging just so at the scruff of hair on his chin. Raave folded his arms over his broad chest.
"Did you really just tell those kids that I'm not as great as you because I haven't fought a dragon?"
Shane shrugged, his mouth pulling down into an expression of indifference. "Children like to hear stories about dragons and other things they'll never see. I never said you were any less of a witcher because you haven't fought a dragon, I was merely telling them about the one I fought. Their opinions of you are their own and it doesn't reflect mine."
Heaving a sigh, Raave shook the thought away with a fond smile. There was still a job to do and they needed to start planning for when the fog lifted. "Did you find anything out?"
"A few people told me they'd seen a griffin, but it looked different sometimes. Sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller. Bigger mane sometimes. They weren't very helpful, but if I had to guess, it's a pair."
He nodded slowly. "It makes sense. I didn't get too close to the nest, but I followed a blood trail that led me close enough. I think it's a mated pair with cubs. That's what it sounded like, at least. The nest is on a small cliff in the woods. Which means we should probably negotiate on what we'll get for this one. It's a bit more to handle than the contract says."
Which wasn't to say that it was an impossible task for a single witcher, but it would mean a harder fight alone, more injuries to sustain and more supplies to exhaust. No witcher was invulnerable. A female griffin nursing cubs would be far more aggressive than a hunting male, and if the cubs were big enough, they could help defend the nest. They hadn't sounded capable of it, but Raave hadn't gotten any sort of look at them, either. Fuck. He should have been more thorough despite the fog.
Carding a hand through those glistening curls, Shane exhaled softly and pushed away from the wall. "Let's go talk to the innkeep, then."
The inn was warm and bright, a contrast from the chill dimness of the fog outside. There were some people inside but it was rather quiet. Great, yet again. That meant many curious ears to listen to their discussion. The portly innkeep was cleaning a mug with a rag of questionable cleanliness but that was hardly the most off-putting thing about this village. The false cheeriness, for one, was something that came to mind as the innkeep smiled at them.
People didn't tend to smile at witchers.
"Ah, witchers! What c'n I do for ye?"
Shane leaned amicably against the bartop, flashing a disarming smile. "You said you're the one who laid the contract?"
"Aye, I did. Tried to drag me kin off and I decided t'were enough for us. Why?"
"We need to discuss terms of payment. It's more than one griffin, unfortunately, and I'm afraid the current rate won't do to split between the two of us for such a grand job."
The innkeep's face paled as his eyes jumped between the two. His hands had stilled. "What d'ye mean, more than one?"
"A mated pair and at least two cubs," Raave grunted. He'd say, if he were more self aware, that he needed to work on his communication skills when it came to humans, but that was what he had Shane for.
"I'm afraid my business partner has the right of it. Everything points to a family of griffins. If it was a single one, the price would be fair, but we found their nest."
"And ye didn't kill 'em?!"
"Fog's too thick," offered Raave, though the man did not seem pleased with his gruff tone. That was about all he had to say on the matter. Shane was far more eloquent and charming, so Raave would simply remain quiet unless another question about the nests surfaced.
Shane puffed a soft chuckle. "Don't mind him, he's not good at talking. It's dangerous to fight one griffin in this weather, let alone a mated pair defending a nest. I am afraid we truly do require more pay for such work. A part of it can be negotiated in lodgings, food, and other sundries, but we'll need six hundred coins. And that's being generous on our part."
"Do we look like we c'n scrape together six hun'ed fuckin' coins?" snapped the innkeep.
Around the room, various men shifted on their benches, some rising to their feet as they reached for the measly steel swords secured at their hip. The air had grown a sharp, dangerous tang to it in the span of mere seconds. Bunch of jumpy cocksucking peasants. Raave kept a sharp eye on them all, his own hands twitching at his sides, but Shane seemed to sense the tension without breaking the eye contact with the man who ran the place. A display of dominance if the bear had ever seen one.
"What do you suggest then, sir?" Shane's tone was still friendly, but when Raave glanced down, he could see the fingers on the younger witcher's left hand twitching between them, invisible to everyone else. As though he were subconsciously groping for the blade at his thigh without actually allowing his fingers to close around the hilt.
Raave could appreciate the sentiment.
"Four and not a copper more."
Shane's eyes had hardened, those cat's eyes glinting in the candlelight, but that smile remained on his face and his posture remained lax. His voice still held a more determined edge to it when he spoke again. Raave knew from years of experience at Shane's side that the griffin witcher enjoyed negotiating contract prices, even if the one who'd taken it out seemed more stubborn than a mule, that was usually only surface level. Shane's stubbornness lay deeper than that. Letting Shane do his thing, Raave merely kept his eyes on the room around him, ready to reach for his crossbow the moment he needed it, should he need it. He hoped he wouldn't need it. They required this contract to work out in their favor or else the year would be off to a rough start.
"Five. But I must insist on this price. There will be repairs to our gear, supplies to replenish. We're more than happy to provide a trophy for each griffin killed, plus a torching of their nest. No one will be dragged off again when we're done, no more livestock lost. Not to mention the wild deer in the area wouldn't be slaughtered the same as they've been."
After a few terse moments of contemplation, eyes attempting to bore past Shane's unwavering gaze, some of the tension in the innkeeper's shoulders finally seemed to bleed out of him. He nodded slowly, his bald head catching the flicker of flame. "Very well, five it is. And lodgin's 'til it's done, plus a night after. None of us'd see our wives or sisters dragged off. Gods forbid those monsters take a child."
With a satisfied smile, Shane offered his gauntleted left hand. The innkeep grasped his forearm and they both nodded solemnly. "As soon as the fog clears, we will deal with your griffin problem, sir."
The tension in the rest of the tavern hadn't dissipated completely, but hands were off of blades and everyone had uneasily returned to their conversations. Sliding coin across the bar, Shane ordered a preferred beverage for each of them and they settled into a far corner to discuss a plan.
A bright morning had finally descended upon Millgate two days later. The villagefolk seemed almost hesitant to get about their daily tasks but still they persevered, feeding livestock and washing laundry and the like. But birds chirped in the trees, insects buzzed about, and even the domestic animals seemed to go about their business with ease. It was a beautiful day despite the looming threat of the griffins nearby.
During their time lying in wait for the foul weather to lift, the witchers had kept themselves busy. Shane had taken the time to brew potions and decoctions, gathering any of the scant ingredients they had been missing if he could find them, setting up his weirdly portable alchemical kit in the sparse room that the inn begrudgingly provided them. It was a luxury that neither of them had quite anticipated but Raave would be damned if he didn't acknowledge that Shane was quite the charismatic bastard.
As for his part, Raave had spent his time crafting other such sundries that would be effective against griffins and trying not to stare as he watched Shane work. Northern Wind bombs and exploding crossbow bolts. Samum and poisonous bolts. Raave wanted to cover as many bases as he could. Besides, crafting seemed to be about the only reprieve that the two had from the growing tensions in the village. It would seem that the atmosphere had been slowly shifting, hour by hour, into a far more apprehensive air. Nearly fetid with the scent of it. The sooner done, the sooner they could move on from here.
The day after they had negotiated their price, Raave had made one more attempt to get close enough to the nest in an effort to discern the cubs' maturity. An effort that had proven to be fruitless in the end. Damn the fog to hell, it had only gotten thicker and he wasn't able to see much of anything. He had approached the nest from the opposite side than the previous afternoon but all he'd been able to make out were dark silhouettes in the veil of swirling mist and nothing more. Locating some buckthorn had proven to be a lost cause later that evening, something he had hoped for to lure the male to fields rather than wait him out. So he'd skulked about their inn room and did whatever else he could do; sharpen their weapons, aid Shane in his alchemy if needed. There wasn't much to do at that point.
As the warm sun shone down on the hills, the witchers emerged from their shared room close to midday. The innkeep shot them what was supposed to be a meaningful look, but for two witchers, it merely screamed a rather passive aggressive, "Do right by us, freaks." Shane politely sent a singular nod the man's way as they left. It would seem that the peasants had been discussing the near altercation from a couple of nights ago at the tavern based on the uneasy glances directed at Raave and Shane. The small group of children were being clasped close by their respective parents as the two men passed. The smallest girl waved, but her hand was slapped away in the next moment by her father, a stern faced man who looked ready to spit in their direction. Raave recognized him as one of the men who had drawn a sword during contract negotiations.
Raave led Shane to the rolling hills north of Millgate and the two took a silent moment to breathe the fresh air that was untainted by the rank scents of livestock and the stink of despair. The aroma of fresh grass and wildflowers filled their lungs for a few peaceful moments, before the breeze caught on stale blood and carried the scent to their noses. Still, it was lovely out here. The bright rays of the sun bathed everything in a cozy glow that Raave always found himself missing during the unforgiving winter months he spent in the mountains. It was an image that he always took a moment to burn into his memory when he had the chance; rolling fields and delightful sunshine and the sounds of animals carrying on somewhere nearby.
The clear weather and warm rays of the spring sun could only mean they wouldn't have to wait long. Two days of low visibility and offspring to feed meant that the male griffin would be raring to hunt. And the two witchers would be ready for him. Even if it meant that they would have to wait in the field for a few hours. At least they weren't in the village now, being glared at like the pitchforks were going to be brought out any moment.
"Damn shame I couldn't find any buckthorn," Raave sighed.
"We'll make do," Shane replied as he settled into the grass on his knees.
While the younger witcher might have been content to meditate, Raave was not. He was far too restless to quiet his mind. He itched within his own skin to just get away from this village. He was certain that the peasants there wouldn't hesitate to begin hurling stones at them upon their return, contract completed or not. It always unnerved him how Shane was so apathetic towards this aspect of their existence. A witcher coming from a different school might see such a thing as being normal, and so be it, but Raave could not so easily fall to his knees for humans. Humans who had always treated him the same as the monsters that he hunted. It chafed his pride.
The stillness of the fields permeated his every sense, though the potential sounds of any creatures were always on the edges of his senses. Raave prowled about in slow, vigilant circles around Shane while they waited. He intended to keep his friend safe, and while he had learned long ago that Shane was more than capable of listening to his surroundings while in a meditative state, Raave had also decided long ago that he would be the barrier between Shane and true danger.
It didn't matter how often Shane proclaimed to be observant of his surroundings, Raave would still post guard for him. No matter how many times that Shane had proclaimed Raave to be something of a glass trebuchet, the bear would charge into battle with no preparation if it meant that he could be the last line of defense between death and the griffin he longed to call his own. There was a strange thought that drove him to do so, something that he hesitated to call an instinct. But it drove him none the less. Shane didn't need his protection, but whatever gods that had forsaken him as his witnesses, he would still provide it.
Prowling about in silence had always been a form of meditation for Raave, only used when the tang of approaching battle was nearly palpable on the air. Kneeling and quieting his thoughts was useful at times, but there were still others where it made more sense to think about why he was doing this. Fighting monsters was in his nature, yes, but having another reason for it never hurt. Sometimes that reason was simply to prolong his existence; food, repairs to his equipment, new shoes for Lightning, a bed. Other times it was more sentimental reasons than he truly had any right to have; the rare brother that he could claim a closeness to, the desire to keep breathing despite how much life beat him down, seeing Shane every year.
A near deafening screech abruptly rent the air then. A sound that ripped Raave from his thoughts like ripping a bandage from a wound. A large griffin wheeled about overhead, sharp eyes focused on the two witchers. How long had it been? An hour? Two? They each downed their own cocktail of potions — as he rose to his feet, Shane popped a Griffin Decoction and a superior Petri's Philter in quick succession, followed by a boost of Blizzard; Raave swallowed down his own blend of a Chort Decoction and superior Thunderbolt, keeping a dose of White Raffard's within reach. He refused to let Shane take the brunt of combat because of his own personal values.
The cocktail of potions scorched his veins and pulled an involuntary rumble from his chest, while Shane snarled quietly beside him, stalking through the tall grass to position himself to flank. The griffin landed mere feet away with a resounding thud, piercing eyes honed in on Raave's hulking form, attempting to swipe out with a taloned wing when Raave dove in to slash at it. He just about managed to dodge the worst of the attack, but he felt a talon shred through the back of a glove. Fuck. Deal with it later. At least it wasn't his throat.
Years of fighting by Shane's side told him that Shane would be slinking around into the beast's blind spot. So he continued to draw the attention of the monster with his voice and broad swings to allow Shane to position himself. And a well placed Northern Wind never hurt. He closed his eyes just before the bomb detonated, hearing a satisfying shriek following the boom of the explosion. Raave swung his greataxe at the stunned griffin. The blade cut deep into the monster's flank and it roared in its agony. A large wing darted out at him with a blow that he barely managed to heave his weapon up to block.
And that was when the griffin howled in pain once again as Shane's blade raked deep across its spine near the shoulder blades. Raave took the opportunity to sever a wing before it could lift itself back into the sky. Prohibit flight, keep it grounded. The griffin made a pitiful chirruping sound but it continued to lash out with its other wing, eyes still fierce and desperately fighting. It had a family to return to, after all. Shane leapt out of the way, narrowly avoiding those talons, while Raave threw up a strong Quen. The sign barely shimmered into existence before those talons would have slashed a deep wound, but the golden shield more than forced the monster back into Shane's range when he allowed it to shatter.
A powerful Axii from Shane abruptly stilled the beast before a sharp sword thrust into the griffin's throat left it shrieking weakly. With a heavy thud, it went completely lax against the grass, eyes staring at the bright sky as the life faded from them. The way the shorter witcher cast his signs was strangely beautiful to Raave, graceful and deadly in equal turns. It was something that had always seemed to draw him towards Shane despite their rocky meeting all those years ago.
He was reminded then of the first time that he'd met Shane. Hopped up on potions, fighting under the heated rays of the sun, he'd been slashing at and dodging a forktail when the beast had suddenly reared back with a similar howl. It whirled and, through the haze of his potions, Raave had caught a momentary glimpse of another witcher. A witcher that he didn't know. One that he had had no desire to know at the time.
"Nest," Shane growled, suddenly at his elbow, prodding him out of the memory before it could truly manifest.
Right. Later then. He really picked a bad time to reminisce, didn't he?
Without a word, Raave led Shane into the woods, following the long congealed blood trail that he had followed mere days ago. As they approached, faint infantile griffin chirps could be heard up ahead of them, high and oblivious to the imminent danger. The two witchers made eye contact there for a brief moment, black eyes on black eyes, before Shane began to scale the cliff as silently as possible. Raave bit back a snarl as he followed behind, teeth biting into his lower lip hard enough that he tasted the metallic sapidity of blood. He was keen to finish this, nearly as keen as his partner seemed to be. The female likely had no idea her mate was dead, let alone that she was being hunted. The element of surprise was on their side for the time being.
Above him, Raave heard an indignant growl echo out over the trees, one that came from a larger chest cavity than Shane possessed. Glancing up, he saw that Shane was no longer scaling the cliff face ahead of him. He pushed himself harder to climb faster, one thought rising through the fog in his mind: he refused to let Shane face a protective female griffin alone. She was postured between the cliff's edge and her nest, her wings spread wide, stance as much a warning as her sharp call. A call for a mate whose blood was already beginning to cool down in the hills below.
Shane swiftly darted beneath one of those wings to slash at the throat of an offspring, instantly and painlessly ending its young life as its head fell into the nest, lopped off with a clean strike. Raave was upon the female before she had the chance to register what had happened. His axe, aimed at her throat, merely slashed deep at her shoulder as she reared to the side. The blow gave Shane plenty of time to leap onto her back, gripping tight to her mane as she attempted to buck him off with harsh screams. Despite her attempts, Shane held tight with his right hand, gritting his teeth as he tried to properly position his sword with his southpaw. In an endeavor to keep the griffin distracted, Raave took a rather petty swing at her forelegs, aiming to buckle her.
The griffin screeched, high and pained, her forelegs collapsing beneath her as the blade collided with her tendons, bringing her down to slide in the damp earth that was becoming slicker with blood by the second. An answering chirp, tiny and fragile, responded to her frantic squawking. Shane's silver sword found purchase then in the back of her skull and, with a twist of the blade and one final thrash, the beast stilled. There was still one cub alive in the nest, making soft noises of curiosity until Raave silenced it with an easy, heavy flourish of his axe at its throat.
How they managed to avoid more than a simple scratch was beyond Raave but he wouldn't begin to question their luck. Especially not in his addled state. They had completed this gods-damned contract, earning the five hundred coins that Shane had previously negotiated. He could finally repair his fucking greaves when they blundered into the next town, not to mention replace that sliced glove. Fuck, they could eat good meals and sleep in a real bed for a little while.
They stood there panting for a moment before Shane moved to collect the heads of the cubs. Tossed a samum bomb into the center of the nest. There was blood on Shane's shoulder, oozing slowly from a tear in his gambeson. Raave blinked owlishly at it; when had he been injured? The world around had already begun to fade somewhat into the background long ago. The potions always made Raave feel near to insanity, the adrenaline overriding his senses to an almost dangerous degree. Sounds were too loud but the edges of his vision blurred. His skin crawled with the intensity of it, but he had long since learned to hold onto his discipline and keep himself in check. Trying to wrangle the feral nature that overtook his mind in this state required him to fall into a near trance. Lost in a way but alert all the same.
He followed Shane in silence after a gentle nudge, watching the other witcher harvest their trophies with a blank stare and pliable hands. Without a word or sound, he removed the heads of the grown griffins with his heavy axe upon a request from a voice that bordered on a growl, the squelch of the axehead as it cleaved through muscle and bone almost too loud in his ears. And then he was carrying the head of a cub and the head of the male, the weight barely registering in his mind, while Shane himself wielded the heads of the other cub and the female.
Finally outside of the inn once more, the rural folk long since returned to their normal routines and no longer keeping an eye out for their mutated guests, Shane carefully took the heads from Raave's hands. Two to each hand. He let Shane pry them from his grip, forced himself through the haze to remember that this was his griffin and that Shane was not a threat. Don't bite. Shane was not a threat.
"Head up," Shane said, his voice roughened from the doses he'd taken. When Raave finally met his gaze, he nodded once. "I will see to what we're owed. Just... go."
Raave hardly heard the snarl he responded with, though he did do what Shane had said. He couldn't remember the blurred walk up to their room, nor the removal of the heavier pieces of his armor, but eventually, he was lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling in silence. Blessed silence. Anything else made his head pound worse than it had any right to during the fade out of potions. Being alone was the best thing for him during such a time. He would have rather laid in the fields outside of the village while he waited for the fucking toxicity to abate, but he had such a hard time saying no to Shane when he was sober, let alone like this.
Shane would be back eventually, provided the trading of trophies for their reward wouldn't take too long. The innkeeper didn't seem the type to keep his word, let alone anyone else in this backwater hole. But Shane was a persuasive bastard. If either of them could claim the agreed upon reward, it would be Shane. Afterwards, he would probably curl up on the other side of the room and aggressively oil his swords, something to keep trembling hands occupied while he came off of his own high. He knew by now, even if he was of a different mind, that Raave didn't welcome touch when his blood felt like fire and the world was too loud. It had taken a couple of years just for him to be okay with Shane being in the same room during this phase.
A memory came to him unbidden then, the memory that had found him earlier that day, floating and far away, yet it felt so close at the same time. Nearly tangible with how close it was now. He latched onto it. Needed to lose his mind in something while he waited this out.
A simple contract. A beast that had been plaguing the lowlands of Velen, something with a sharp beak and a wicked tail. It had only taken a handful of hours before Raave had discovered the source of the attacks, and far less time to prepare himself. It was all fairly straightforward; a forktail that was terrorizing the townsfolk and snatching desperately needed livestock. He had been expecting a griffin, perhaps a cockatrice, but this was simpler. Decent coin in such a contract, enough for some food and booze and a stable for his horse at the time. What more could he want?
He faced the beast in the late afternoon, sunlight beating down on his back. A forktail was easy game, as far as he was concerned. Meat near to rotting for bait, kneeling in the underbrush nearby to sneak up on it as it slurped up its disgusting meal, his usual Thunderbolt and Chort Decoction ready at hand. A hundred twenty crowns. He could make that stretch until he found his next contract further east somewhere. He had always been able to make do on little coin. Not to mention that parts from rare or difficult creatures fetched hefty prices in the right circles. Bigger monsters were always a good opportunity to earn coin.
The stupid forktail had been so engrossed in its gifted meal that it hadn't registered Raave's presence until an axe was near about driving into its flank. The beast didn't have the slightest chance to lift itself into the air before the heavy swing of his axe hampered its escape as it cleaved through the tendon of a wing. An ear-splitting shriek echoed through the air and Raave barely kept his wits about himself, forcing himself not to stumble as the sound rattled around in his skull, too loud and echoing off of the nearby rocks. He retaliated with another strike, pushing through the ringing in his ears. The monster slashed back with its own attack, talons clawing into his left bicep as he attempted to evade it.
But the draconid was losing far more blood than he was. It had been an easy fight from the start, and the draconid oil slathering his axehead dealt even more damage, but Raave wasn't one to get cocky. That got plenty a man killed, witcher or not. He wasn't one to lose his head to his confidence. The only surety lay in his weapons and the heavy strikes behind them.
A loud growl rippled through the air, answered by one of Raave's own, before he slashed at the newly exposed throat. It connected and a garbled screech tore through the air as it reeled back. But then the forktail whirled about, turning its tail to Raave, voicing its protest at... something. When the beast shuffled across the grass, Raave caught a fleeting glimpse, through the haze of potions and adrenaline, of a shorter man on the opposite end of the draconid. And then, against all odds, another sword plunged into the spine of the beast, ripping one last shriek from it.
The forktail collapsed, dead before it hit the ground, and Raave immediately snapped his attention and aggression to the other witcher. A smaller, leaner man who sheathed his sword even as Raave advanced on the man with the shiny black curls, curls like a raven's feather and skin like the toasted sands of the Korath desert, with his greataxe dragging a long trail behind him. He could feel his nostrils flaring in anger as the other lifted his hands in a placating gesture. He stopped mere inches from the other man, staring down at him with an intense anger flaring in his gut.
"Whoa, easy there, big guy. You can collect the pay on the contract. I wasn't trying to interfere."
"You stole my kill," Raave growled, eyes dangerously narrowed. "I don't like people who steal from me."
To his credit, the stranger didn't seem disturbed in the slightest by Raave's unnerving presence. And then he saw it through the haze: those inhuman celadon eyes. Eyes that almost seemed to mock him with their depth of humor. It made him angrier, in a way. Another witcher stealing his kill incensed him more than the nonchalance.
"In my defense, I didn't see you until I was already closing in. Otherwise, I would've just watched."
"Horseshit. Do you make a habit of this?"
"Not at all." Those inhumanly green eyes fell to the medallion around Raave's neck and a dark eyebrow cocked. "Bear School, huh? Never met one of you before."
A low snarl was rising in his throat. Raave wasn't one for conversation at the best of times, and with the toxicity of potions coursing through his veins, this was a far cry from the best of times. He wanted to punch that easy smile right off of the other witcher's face. His addled mind vaguely registered the griffin medallion dangling from a neck but that was low on his list of priorities at the moment.
"Piss off," he snapped as he turned back to the forktail. He would just claim a trophy and return to his camp to wait out the effects of the potions before collecting his coin. He'd learned long ago that allowing humans to see him like this was an easy way to get himself chased out of towns with stones or pitchforks. He'd rather get paid before that happened, at the very least.
"Fine, have it your way. I'll see you later, big bear."
That nickname grated on his nerves but he refused to acknowledge it beyond a low rumble of annoyance. He most certainly would not be seeing the other witcher later. Not if he had any say in it. And if he did see him later, potions or not, he would punch him in the face. Punch him in the face and break his nose and—
"Still with me, big bear?"
When had things changed?
Raave let out a slow breath, his eyes opening to flit around the room that seemed somewhat blurred. When had he closed his eyes? And then he actually registered Shane's words. That nickname no longer rubbed him the wrong way. Now it was said with such a fondness that made his chest feel warm. "Yeah."
"I got us paid," Shane murmured as he nodded at a sack of coins on the table.
Both of their weapons sat, polished and gleaming, against the wall. How long had Shane been in the room? Why hadn't Raave heard him enter? Was he truly that lost in the memory of their first encounter? That was dangerous. Perhaps there had been a shift in his breathing that had caused Shane to speak up.
He forced himself to roll up onto an elbow. Those thoughts were not important. The after effects of the potions were finally starting to leave him with only a slight throbbing in his temples. The black veins were already fading from Shane's face, the inky darkness slowly bleeding from his eyes. He tried in vain to blink the blur away from the edges of his vision. "Even with your face like that?"
The griffin snorted out a laugh. "Yeah. I find it works to get me paid what was agreed upon when they might be reluctant. Humans are less likely to cross a witcher who looks fucked up like that." Shane's eyes met his and he cocked his head. "Do you want me to leave you alone again?"
Earlier in the fadeout, Raave would have said yes, but he was at the point that he wanted something heavy to settle his stomach. The stout he so preferred would do wonders to stabilize his mind and slow his vision right now. To help ground him with the bitter taste that was so different to the potions he had consumed. He shook his head sharply, the strands of his ponytail that had been loosened by combat swaying with the motion. He hadn't retied his hair after the fight. Perhaps he ought to retie it now that he was more coherent.
"No. I want you to go have a pint with me."
Shane chuckled. "Wasn't sure if I was getting pissy Raave or soft Raave this time."
He watched Raave shove his feet into his boots with an almost appraising flicker of his gaze over Raave's somewhat exposed form. The glint in his eyes was of an almost sexual nature, but Raave had long since made it known that he didn't welcome touch of any kind when he was riding the aftermath of potions. Even now, when the edges were softening into something normal, Raave knew he was still likely to break a bone if Shane were to try and initiate anything.
"Shut up, I'm not soft," he said harshly.
"Mm, not pissy this time, but you're still prickly."
His gambeson was heavy as he shrugged into it, a familiar and comfortable weight. "You're reminding me why I wanted to punch you in the face when we first met."
Shane cocked his head curiously to the left. "Are you telling me that feeling isn't a constant one? I refuse to believe that. You love punching stuff."
Sure, he did love punching stuff, that would be a lie if he denied it, but it had been a long time since he'd actually wanted to punch Shane. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when that feeling had dissipated but he did know that it persisted for at least the first five years or so that they knew one another. Especially because he was a solitary creature while Shane had been insistent on finding him and traveling with him for a few weeks. But his insistence had laid the groundwork for a comfortable friendship that had evolved into... whatever it was they had now.
"I haven't wanted to punch you in a long time," he sighed as they began to make their way out into the inn's main room, weapons returned to their backs. Anything could happen in the space of one more evening.
Shane playfully bumped his shoulder into Raave's arm. "Aw, and you say you aren't soft. I like you soft."
Oh. Well, wasn't that something? Maybe allowing himself to be soft sometimes wouldn't be the worst decision he'd ever made.