murder : my muse walks in on your muse committing a gruesome murder. continued from x
Whatever Ves had been expecting upon entering the cave, it probably wasn’t this. The place was in disarray, tables overturned and belongings strewn everywhere. Not one, not two, but three men lay scattered about, their black armor marking them as decidedly not Temerian, and the lack of limbs on at least two marking them as decidedly not alive either. Clearly, there had been a struggle, but what was less clear was how things had got to this point: Regis, the kind, elderly barber-surgeon of whom Geralt had been so fond, standing in the centre of the cave with the last man dangling from one hand, kicking his feet as he struggled to breathe. The barber-surgeon looked somewhat annoyed and rather bored, very much at odds to the two black arrows sprouting out of his chest.
Regis shifted his grip a little, the man’s dangling feet dancing about in a fruitless attempt to get free, and he gave a put-upon sigh. “ Do forgive my poor manners - and the mess. Regrettably there has been quite the pest problem while you were gone. ” His black eyes narrowed, never once moving from the struggling man’s face, and then, with a sudden and sickening crunch, Geralt’s strange friend squeezed, crushing the man’s windpipe into pulp. He let the man drop, dead before he hit the ground.
“ Nothing I cannot handle, however. ”
She’d been tracking the Nilfgaardian for most of the day, and he was not without company. Three of them in total, it was enough that she probably should have returned to base and brought back one of the lads for back up, but it had been a long fucking day already and by the time she got back, who knew if the target would even still be here. No, she wanted this job over and done with. As it was, she’d be up half the night questioning the man.
A weary sound escaped her as she pulled her blade from its sheath before venturing into the depths of the cave. Upon entering, she could hear the sounds of a struggle just ahead -- and a man’s whimpering. Had the black ones met trouble within the cave? A bear, perhaps, or trolls? Gods damn it, nothing was ever simple anymore.
If it’s trolls, I’m getting the fuck out of here -- Roche can say what he wants, but I’m a soldier, not a fucking monster hunter.
She crept ahead with caution, and as she emerged from the dark tunnel into the high ceilinged cavern, she saw a familiar face lit by the flickering torches that lined the walls.
It was Geralt’s friend, Regis -- the one she’d met at the fancy do in Beauclair. The kindly barber-surgeon had been a pleasure to converse with over dinner -- his eloquent manners a welcome change after Roche’s take-no-prisoners sort of charm. She blinked, taking in the gruesome scene. It took her a moment to make sense of just what she was looking at -- figuring out which body parts belonged to who, and such.
Regis didn’t seem overly bothered by his current circumstances -- he wasn’t even holding a weapon as far as Ves could see. The man whose neck was so firmly encased in Regis’ hand was her target, she realized.
“Wait--” she started but then the older man’s hand closed, crushing the Nilfgaardian’s throat with a sickening crunch.
Fucking hell. Fucking Geralt. For being a Witcher, Geralt sure seemed to call a lot of monsters friend. It seemed like she and Roche were the most normal of the whole lot, and that wasn’t saying much.
She stayed where she was, close to the exit -- just in case, just until she made sure Regis was done ... whatever he was doing here.
“Don’t ‘spose he’ll be answering too many questions now....”
