Who'd ever heard of a Witcher who hated the sight and smell of blood, even their own? But then, Schrödinger had always been a mess of contradictions.
He'd marched into the Cats camp with his 'saviour' at eight years old. Bold as brass where others were gripping onto hands or hiding behind legs but turned as meek as a temple mouse the first time someone had only slightly raised their voice at him.
He had to be physically dragged out of hiding to run drills, such was his hatred of them and yet he excelled at them every single time, beating both older trainees and full Witchers to the point where they'd seriously been considering sending him out on The Path early (until it got pointed out that nobody would take a Witcher who couldn't even grow a proper beard yet seriously. He wouldn't last a year).
He was one of the smartest in his cohort but hadn't been able to even sign his own name up until two years ago when Axel had finally pieced things together and sat him down with a bunch of old contracts he'd found at the bottom of his pack to use as paper and an even older pencil before asking Schrödinger if he had any interest in learning how to also write his letters, not just read them. He still remembered the relief he'd felt when the older Cat had softly but firmly reassured him that no, this in no way meant he was stupid and was nothing to be embarrassed about and anyone who told him otherwise was talking out of their arse.
He fought down the rising bile as he crouched to check over the bodies. The rotten fish odour that accompanied the black ichor of a kikimore, or the earthy stench of a nekkers he could handle. The more humanoid monsters (and humans themselves; he was a Cat after all) though....
He wasn't sure if it was just a phobia he'd always had - like Aiden and his aversion to spiders - or if something about it was reminding some far off part of his brain of Before. Either way, every time he felt the warm red against his skin or smelt the telltale metal tang it made him want to wretch (small blessings that he didn't actually vomit anymore). He spat into the grass as he straightened up with his chosen trophy, wishing he had something stronger smelling to drive the scent of iron from out of his nose.