In his panic and desperation, one of the men had cut across the boggy fields in the hopes that the creatures pursuing his comrades would go for the easier targets. Panting hard, all but blind with terror, he slipped and blundered his way over sodden corpses and the shattered remains of weaponry. If he could get clear, get to the pathway leading back towards Blackbough, he could-
He ran headlong into the sturdy frame of a now-disgruntled horse and its white-haired rider.
“Ploughin’ monsters! You can all’ve yer fuck off!” Almost knocked off his his feet, the man didn’t waste time spitting or cursing further, instead continuing his headlong plunge for safety.
Geralt, expression immobile as he soothed Roach in the wake of the panicked man, would not have given the words any thought if not for the terror with which they had been delivered. Battlefields were notorious for necrophages, and sure enough it was only a moment longer before an echo of guttural burbling reached his ears, followed soon after by the acrid tang of burning flesh. Someone was using fire.
“Come on, Roach.” A nudge with his heels and he spurred his horse into a canter, silver sword in hand.
Those ghouls remaining out on the battlefield had not expected a Witcher to ride past, and were summarily dispatched in passing. Riding through, quick yellow eyes and heightened senses took in all he could: the fire had been used before someone cut into the woodlands, and if the stranger’s earlier comment suggested anything…there could be another Witcher abroad. Probably wouldn’t take too well to sharing a contract, but he wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to check in with a Wolf in these times. Leaving Roach at the edge of the trees, Geralt chose an angle to head them off and loped through in pursuit.
He burst onto the scene with all customary enthusiasm, casting aard to flatten the first ghoul which had turned to pounce upon him before the sword descended in a glittering arc upon it before whirling into the next. It was a short confrontation, leaving Geralt to forego pleasantries and ask the most pertinent of questions: “Is that all of them?”
Any disappointment to note that the man he had tracked down was a stranger and did not carry the scent of a Witcher was quickly overcome. They were white-haired, like himself, but dressed more akin to Dandelion and certainly not clothed in the usual attire for Velen. Presuming they had money, what the hell were they doing this far off the roads?
Several questions rattled through his mind, and yet for all of his innate curiosity there was something which made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Stood too far to yet see the colour of the other’s eyes, he trained his senses instead on remaining alert for any more monsters in the area.
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