Keeper of Kaer Morhen/The Kingslayer

She felt herself kissed, lifted, carried and laid down, not with the hurried hunger of men who'd pawed at her in courts, nor the perfumed reverence of nobles who feared the dragon beneath her skin. Eskel handled her as if she were both indestructible and infinitely precious, his fingers pressing into the softness of her thighs while avoiding the half-hidden scales along her hips, his mouth trailing fire down her neck that had nothing to do with her lineage.

When her back met the bedrolls, the wool rough against her bare skin, she arched instinctively, not from discomfort but from the sheer novelty of being handled. Kings had knelt before her; armies had shattered against her will. None had ever simply taken her like this, as if she were a thing to be claimed rather than a power to be appeased. She had heard the hymns, seen the altars built to dragons, temples where priests whispered her name like a prayer. But this was no supplication, no trembling devotee seeking blessings from the divine. Eskel worshipped her with the reverence of a man who knew exactly what she was, yet chose to touch her not as a goddess, but as a woman. His mouth moved over her breasts with a slow, deliberate hunger, his tongue tracing the curve of each before drawing a nipple between his teeth just enough to make her gasp. She arched into him, fingers knotting in his hair, her hips rolling against empty air.

“Hymh …”

It was greed, yes, the kind that coiled low in her belly, hot and insistent. But not the greed of hoarded gold or conquest. This was the avarice of touch, of discovering that the calloused hands of a witcher could map her body like uncharted territory, finding ridges of scar and scale with equal fascination. His lips travelled lower, kissing the taut muscle of her abdomen, pausing at the dip of her navel as if savouring the taste of her skin. She shuddered when his breath ghosted over the sensitive juncture of her thigh, her legs parting instinctively.

"Eskel …"

His name came out ragged, half-growl, half-plea. She could feel his smirk against her inner thigh, the scrape of stubble contrasting with the soft press of his lips. Then his tongue dragged a slow, molten stripe up her centre, and her thighs clamped around his head on reflex. He chuckled, the vibration sending another pulse of heat through her, and pinned her hips down with one broad hand while the other slid beneath her, fingers splaying against the small of her back to tilt her closer to his mouth. As she moaned, the sound twisting mid-breath into a dragon’s roar, raw, unbridled, shaking the earth beneath them. Birds erupted from the trees in a panicked cacophony of wings, rabbits bolted into the underbrush, and somewhere in the distance, Sabrina the mare stiffened, ears flattening against her skull. The firelight shuddered as though the air itself had trembled, casting jagged shadows across Eskel’s scarred back as he knelt between her thighs. His grip tightened on her hips, holding her steady as her claws, half-extended in the throes of pleasure, dug furrows into the bedroll beneath her.

She barely registered anythung. The world narrowed to the heat of Eskel’s mouth, the wicked precision of his tongue, the way he mapped her like a battlefield he intended to conquer. Another roar built in her chest, but this time she choked it back, teeth sinking into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The metallic tang bloomed across her tongue, a grounding counterpoint to the dizzying pleasure coiling tighter in her gut. As she arched against Eskel’s mouth, her spine bowing like a drawn bowstring, every muscle taut with pleasure so acute it bordered on pain. The paradox of it burned brighter than dragonfire, that a creature of scales and immolation could be reduced to this: trembling, gasping, utterly human in her vulnerability. His tongue circled her clit with a precision that spoke of decades honing his craft, not in killing, but in this, the art of unraveling her. She fisted her hands in the bedroll, fabric tearing beneath her claws that grew in, as another wave of sensation crested.

Could a witcher truly do this? Could mortal hands make a dragon forget her wings?

She had known conquest before, the crush of armies beneath her claws, the way kingdoms bent like saplings in her grip. But this was a surrender she had never fathomed. Eskel’s thumbs pressed into the hollows of her hips, holding her down as his tongue delved deeper, coaxing her toward a precipice she’d only ever glimpsed in solitude. The heat pooling in her belly was different from the furnace of her draconic heart; this was liquid, molten, seeping into her veins like honeyed poison. Her thighs trembled around his shoulders, not to cage him, but to anchor herself as the world tilted. Her teeth sharpened against her will, the points elongating like tiny daggers as pleasure coiled tighter in her belly. A growl vibrated in her chest, half warning, half surrender, as her claws fully unsheathed, shredding the bedroll beneath her. She barely noticed. Every nerve burned white-hot where Eskel’s mouth moved against her, his tongue tracing patterns no mortal had ever dared attempt. The scent of her own arousal mixed with woodsmoke and the musk of his skin, intoxicating as aged whisky.

“You truly are, the first.”

Were such a confession spoken by most who would dare to sleep with a Witcher, he would immediately doubt the sincerity of it, but from her lips he knew it to be true. She was not a human, flawed as they were, so few of them worthy of trusting... she was a wise, genuine being of honesty and ideals... not naive as he had feared she might be when he first met her. She had proven his concerns unfounded... and she had taught him a good deal more about her kind than he had learned at Kaer Morhen. And to think there was still much more they could and would learn and share, together. And were she an ordinary human girl, he would not wish to be the one to deflower her... to make her first time be with an outcast mutant, and risk bringing social shame and consequences down upon her. It was different with Saskia... as everything seemed to be. The Dragon who had saved a Witcher. This would be a consummation of equals... wherein they could both fully be themselves, without fear. Time seemed to suspend itself during their intimacy, the foreplay, but his senses told him after awhile how close she was. He held off just in time from sending her over the edge with his mouth, wanting to claim her and grant her first release the right way. As a man and a woman would... with love. Licking his scarred lips, rising back up to his knees again, he moved over top of her, joining her on the now slightly tattered bedroll, smile remaining on his visage, settling himself on her, leaning in and pressing a kiss to her mouth again soothingly, working to bring her down from how close to the edge she had been to releasing, undaunted by her draconic visage. A hand moving to her hair and gently stroking through it as he comforted her with his kisses and touches, her true razor teeth magically settling back down into human ones again, and her claws retracting back into her fingers, vanishing as the polymorphy relaxed. Then, aligning their bodies together, encouraging her to wrap her arms and legs around him as well, he slowly rubbed his manhood against her soaked heat, not yet pressing forward within her... wanting her prompting for when she was ready and certain, eyes not leaving hers, no words necessary.

#fallesto

She felt a lump in her throat as she watched Eskel come back, the torchlight illuminating the eerie shine of his eyes first, two slitted embers gliding toward her through the smoke-laden corridor. His steps were silent, not a whisper of boot on stone, only the slow drip of something dark from his gauntlets. The Ducal Guard moved aside for him like reeds yielding to a river's flow, their gleaming armour reflecting fragmented glimpses of his advance: a flash of silvered pauldron here, the hilt of a sword stained with blackened blood there. When he finally emerged into the full light, the reality struck her: the effects of the potion. His veins were starkly visible beneath his skin, as dark as ink spilled on parchment, his pupils reduced to mere pinpricks. A child whimpered behind her, pressing tiny fingers into the folds of her skirt.

As she embraced him fiercely, her fingers sinking into the worn leather of his armor as if she could penetrate it and connect with the heartbeat beneath. The scent of him, iron, sage, and the sharp tang of potions, overwhelmed her senses, a familiarity more intense than any blade. She didn’t recoil at the blood smeared across his chest or the way his breath caught when her grip tightened. For a fleeting moment, the orphanage, the children, the lingering odor of decay, it all faded away. There was only the solid presence of him against her, the undeniable proof that he had come back. Alive. Then she kissed him. Not a simple brush of gratitude, nor the superficial peck of nobility. Her lips found the hollow beneath his cheekbone, where the darkened veins pulsed with an unnatural warmth. A shiver coursed through him, surprise, fatigue, something undefined, and she stayed close, inhaling his scent. The act was raw, impulsive, a deed done before reason could step in. When she withdrew, her thumb swept away a line of dirt from his jaw, leaving a clean path behind. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice heavy. For the children. For returning. For the years he had dedicated to becoming the weapon that now stood guard between Toussaint and its horrors.

She thumb lingered on Eskel’s jaw a moment longer than necessary before she turned to the Ducal Guard, her voice cutting through the whispers like a knife through silk. "Reynard, take Ser Olivier and four others, bring up every child from the basement. Gently. They’ve endured enough fear tonight." The captain’s gauntlet struck his breastplate in salute, but his eyes darted to Eskel’s darkened veins, the way his shadow seemed to twist unnaturally against the torchlit walls. Vivienne stepped between them, her emerald skirts obscuring the view. "Now," she added, in a softer tone. The command wasn’t directed at Reynard. It was meant for the tremor in his fingers. As she watched her men depart, Reynard’s sturdy frame vanishing down the cellar stairs, his torchlight engulfed by the darkness, and turned her attention to Eskel. The effects of the potion lingered; his veins still throbbed black beneath his skin, his pupils narrowed like a serpent’s. He remained still, a figure sculpted from shadow and silver, yet she noticed the slight quiver in his fingers as they hovered near the hilt of his sword. It was exhaustion, not fear. Always exhaustion. She moved closer, the hem of her skirt brushing against his bloodstained boots. "You performed admirably," she said, her voice soft enough for only him to hear. Not a compliment, not flattery. A truth, as undeniable as the moon’s influence on the tides.

"You are indeed a man above all others; I am once again impressed. You always manage to assist others, saving countless lives. At this rate, I might run out of titles, medals, and gifts to bestow upon you. But for now, this is a victory in itself. The vampires that escaped, I have complete faith that you will track them down."

Eskel gladly returned the golden haired beauty's embrace the moment she drew in closer to him, covered arms rising and wrapping about her. He took note of some of the nearby children, understandably as put off by his appearance as the children downstairs had been... so he moved his viper eyes off them, so as not to further intimidate them. They would have enough nightmares going forward as it were, from what they had experienced in the monstrous orphanage... just as it had been for the children they had saved from the Crone of Ebbing. He could only hope they would manage to forget the trauma... but he knew the unlikelihood of that all too well, from experience. Though he was quickly distracted anyways when Vivienne suddenly kissed him openly, in front of the Ducal Guard and others alike, leaving him momentarily taken aback. He wasn't sure if it was simple relief of his survival that made her forget, or the Duchess deliberately casting aside social protocol... but either way, the taboo was broken and he adjusted quickly, kissing her right back without any shame. He had been wanting to be able to do this for awhile anyways... hadn't wanted to sneak around with her as he had been forced to do with numerous others in the past, as a Witcher, a mutant who might bring social shame and consequences to them if others knew. He supposed if anyone had the power and authority to quiet down the dissent on the matter, it was the Duchess of the land herself, the lovely face of the liberation from Sylvia Anna's cruel reign, at that. When their mouths drew apart again, at her words of gratitude, his bloodied, scarred, toxified features smiled back at her genuinely, inclining his head, deep, calm voice murmuring back to her as well, assuring her.

"Nobody and nothing I would sooner be taking these risks for, Vivienne."

The Witcher stepped back slightly, arms leaving her when she turned to address the visibly startled Ducal Guard, giving them their orders, to which they snapped to attention again and began to carry them out swiftly, doubtless eager for a quick withdrawal from the unexpected, awkward scene. He watched their departure, and looked about the surroundings of the orphanage now teeming with her troops, tearing the place apart for further evidence, as they doubtless would the lower levels. They had already possessed a good deal of material on the activities of the leeches, but it would all be beyond a doubt with the material collected at the orphanage. Nobody anywhere in the land would be able to deny it when shoved in their faces, including those among the nobility, merchants and others who were in league with the blood drinkers. Exposure was the best cure for any conspiracy at work... and this would do the job. Even so, a great deal of investigation, footwork and bloodletting remained ahead of them, and especially ahead of himself, the physical work of rooting out the problem before the land could be considered to be liberated once more. The Black Sun Princess had been straight forward and honest in her aims, at least... an honest tyrant could be toppled relatively easily, while the Vampires in the shadows were a much more embedded sort of problem, a rot lurking and spreading within the entire system. There was always a worse monster to be found, in this world of theirs. When Vivienne drew close to him again, her accented voice washing over him, he withdrew from his contemplation at once and looked back to her, absorbing it all... her praise, the smile on his unpleasant visage deepening within the shadows. Down at their sides, his hand took one of hers again gently, their fingers intertwining.

"Best to save the titles, medals and gifts for these knights who earn them. This is their land they are fighting for, after all... I'm merely the hired tip of the spear and a tracking bloodhound. I'll have to assess the grounds, then head to the woods and follow their trails. Doubtless they have tunnels leading out to them on the surface. Caverns out there as well. I can mark the positions down on a map for your troops to follow up on, and thin the herd as much as I can. Topple some of the caverns. Still, this place is a total loss for the leeches... the first of many, if I have anything to say about it. None of your naysayers will be able to close their eyes over this. You'll probably want to haul the entire aristocracy into your court, and sort out who can be trusted."

@fallesto

@wanderingwolfwitcher { as discussed }

The music swells around her as she remains seated upon the dais, overlooking the sea of guests all hiding behind their masks. She’d never heard of such a tradition before, hiding one’s face at a feast. Robert had told her that he’d heard the tale from an Essosi woman, no doubt one of his whores, and he had thought it a fascinating theme for his nameday feast. And so, here she sits, face concealed by an elegant golden mask adorned with carvings of each great house’s sigil. Her golden tresses are expertly concealed by a flowing auburn wig. She intends to remain completely anonymous tonight.

Emeralds instantly fall upon him seated alone across the room. Despite the wolf’s head mask he wears, she knows it is him. She knows not his name, nor had she spoken to him since his arrival in court three weeks ago. But there is something alluring about him and the mysterious air that surrounds him. Even with that hideous scar that marrs his face.

It does not take her long to spot her husband, who is leaving the hall with a woman on each arm. She knows he will be gone for the rest of the night. And so, she rises, approaching the man in the wolf mask.

“For a man wearing such an elegant mask, you seem to be far from enjoying yourself,” she says as she settles beside him. “You aren’t from here, are you? I’m sensing that feasts are not truly your idea of fun.”

@wanderingwolfwitcher

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#gcldenlioness

@wanderingwolfwitcher [as discussed]

A hand sharply swats the serving girl away once the goblet at the Empress’ side is filled. The girl tended to linger too long after completing her duties, particularly when Jaime was present.

Cersei detested anyone looking at him.

Her irritation, however, is swiftly dulled by the loud voice of the master of ceremonies, announcing that the day’s games are about to commence. The Empress sits up in her throne then, a jolt of excitement rushing through her at the prospect of what is to come.

It has been three years since father had passed, leaving the rule of Nilfgaard to Cersei and Jaime. Never before had the empire been ruled by two, let alone by a woman. But she and Jaime were one being…Jaime had refused to rule unless she had been crowned alongside him. Of course, Jaime’s position was far more respected, the organisers of the games seeking his counsel each year. But Cersei was bored, and the organisers was incredibly easy to manipulate. Most men were, her brother most of all.

The manticore had not been an easy thing to acquire, many of her men dying in the attempt. And yet finally, mere days ago, a brave soul had captured one, the man rewarded with a visit to the Empress’ bedchamber. And now, she sits upon her throne above the arena, watching eagerly as the gladiators for the day line up, staring in horror as the creature emerges from the gate. She hears Jaime curse under his breath, causing her to roll her eyes. She would sway him later.

Emerald eyes watch in awe as man after man makes an attempt upon the Manticore’s life. And man after man soon falls to the sand, in varying degrees of dismemberment. All except one.

He had piqued her interest on the first day of the games. A fierce warrior, covered in scars with exquisite, cat-like eyes. She had heard him speak once or twice, yet she could not place his accent.

She watches on as he steps towards the creature. He raises his hand and in an instant, the creature is upon its back, the lone gladiator swiftly mounting it and slashing open its belly, guts spilling to the sand beneath it. Cersei had never seen anything like it.

After the day’s game, she excuses herself from Jaime’s company, immediately making her way down into the bowels of the amphitheater where the gladiators resided. The guards eye her curiously, but quickly obey her request to speak with the day’s victor.

“You fought well today,” she says once she is inside his cell, having waved the guards away. “You’re a Witcher, aren’t you? I’ve been waiting for a man of your standing to enter the games…it’s been three years since we lifted the restrictions and you’re the first to set foot here.”

@wanderingwolfwitcher

The empress barely notices the Witcher lying quite awake beside her, the sensation of Rhaena driving her so forcefully into the bed beneath her having taken over all of her senses in that moment.

Cersei is the first to lose control, writhing and trembling beneath the handmaiden as her drawn-out climax washes over her. Rhaena follows not far behind, slipping the toy out of both herself and Cersei, letting Letho watch the arousal spill from both of them. Before long, Rhaena collapses atop Cersei, kissing her deeply as they both recover.

“Mm…” Cersei sighs. “If only you were a man…I would wed you right this moment…”

Rhaena smirks softly, nuzzling her before she turns her attention to Letho.

“I’ve come to ready the empress for the masquerade ball this evening,” she says.

Cersei smirks at Letho as she slowly sits up, though still tangled in Rhaena’s embrace.

“Your task tonight is to find warriors worthy of me amongst the guests. I shall entertain them privately once the ball comes to an end.”

#gcldenlioness

@wanderingwolfwitcher liked for a starter (as discussed).

Skeletal hands claw at silks, at bare skin. Each time the queen swats one away, another takes its place. Soon enough, all she can do is lie back, accept her face, accept the fate of the babe as it is torn from her.

She sits bolt upright, nightdress drenched in sweat as reality slowly returns to her. She is in her chambers, alone. Yet one horrid truth remains. A hand pressed to the flat of her belly confirms it. She had lost the babe two moons ago, the final piece of Jaime that she clung to.

Her nightmares had grown worse since and now, most nights, the dead came for her. Jaime had left to fight them but…what if the living lost and the dead march south?

When Jon Snow had came to King’s Landing to tell Cersei of the threat, Qyburn had insisted on finding a Witcher for court. She had heard tales of Witchers, both good and bad. Still, he might be of use, especially as her fears are beginning to worsen.

And so, later that day, she sends for him, giving him audience in her chambers. When he does arrive, she rises from her seat, holding out a hand so that he might kiss it.

“Eskel,” she offers a smile. “I’m thankful you could join me. We have much to discuss.”

@wanderingwolfwitcher

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#gcldenlioness

rhaenaofmyr

@wanderingwolfwitcher [as discussed]

She clutches the cloak tighter about her frame, drawing the hood up over her head to at least try to keep the snow out of her eyes.

Rhaena had thought she would grow used to the chills that winters on The Continent brought. It had been near four years since she had fled from Westeros, where she had been condemned to a life of poverty in King’s Landing. She’d had no clue where she would end up when she stole away into the belly of a merchant ship, and it would seem that had the crew- she would later learn that their original destination had been Essos, but wild storms had sent them adrift and now here she was.

She’d traversed her way through this strange new world, eventually settling in a small village close to the mountains of Kaedwen. Of course, without a coin to her name, she had had to find work quickly, but the village’s pleasure house had employed her the moment they had laid eyes upon her. It was not something she particularly enjoyed, but it earned her enough to purchase a small homestead on the outskirts of the village.

The storm had set in as she was returning home and quickly, she had lost her bearings in the blizzard. She’d ended up in the forest that circled the village, entirely blind to the true way home. She paused for a moment, dark eyes casting this way and that to look for something familiar. But so thick was the snow that she could scarcely see her hand in front of her face. And she did not see the creature until it had knocked her to the ground, sharp claws pressing into her chest as it pins her down. All she can see now is teeth, growing ever closer as it leans down to take the death bite-

Suddenly, she hears the swing of the sword through the icy air, the thud of the creatures head as it lands close to hers, and feels the warm spray of blood across her face. Eyes remain shut for several moments before she slowly opens them, gaze falling upon the man in the dark red cloak, who stands above her.

Eyes wide with fear, she scrambles to her feet. Beneath the hood, she can make out yellow eyes and a large scar that marrs his face. She’s seen him around the village from time to time- she cannot recall his name, but she knows he is one of the elusive Witchers who spend their winters nearby.

“Th-thank you, Ser…” she says with as much bravery as she can muster, words heavily accented. “Forgive me but…I have no coin for you…”

rhaenaofmyr

@wanderingwolfwitcher

She keeps her movements slow yet passionate, making love to him right there in the heated water. The pleasure of his magical aura as strong as ever, continuing to send her into climaxes every few minutes. She recalled when first they had fucked after her transformation, she had feared the effects would wear off, that she would grow accustomed to the powerful vibrations. And yet now, she knew she never would, each intimacy only seeming to surprise her with the intensity of climax he would bring her too.

And right now, she needed the distraction more than ever.

Breaking their kiss to gaze into his eyes, she finds his hand with hers and slowly guides it down between her parted legs, pressing his fingers to her clit. Cursing in Myrish at the powerful sensation that immediately increased her pleasure tenfold.

“Eskel…fuck…”

#eskel x saskia #eskel x vivienne

#rhaenaofmyr

cactusique

women with swords? awesome.

dragon women with swords? even better.

@fallesto

@wanderingwolfwitcher

She arched into Eskel’s hands as his fingers found the laces of her tunic, the leather ties yielding with a series of soft, deliberate snaps. The firelight painted her skin in molten gold where it spilled between them, across the ridge of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the taut plane of her stomach. She inhaled sharply when his palms skimmed her ribs, callouses catching on the fine scales that shimmered just beneath the surface like buried treasure. The tunic pooled around her hips before Eskel tugged it free, tossing it aside where it landed half-folded over a saddlebag. His breath hitched when she shifted, straddling him more firmly, the heat of her thighs pressing against his own. Her hands, usually so sure in battle or diplomacy, trembled slightly as she traced the old scar that bisected his chest, a relic from some long-forgotten contract.

#fallesto

She remained outside as the children were brought out, their small bodies swaddled in borrowed cloaks that pooled around their feet like spilled ink. The first child, a girl no older than six, clung to Reynard’s arm, her knuckles white against his silvered pauldron. Her eyes were too wide, too hollow, as if someone had scooped out the laughter and left only the husk. Vivienne knelt, the damp earth seeping through her emerald skirts, and reached for her. The girl flinched. "Easy now." She murmured, loosening the clasp of her own cloak, brocade lined with fox fur, and draping it over the child's trembling shoulders. The girl stared at the embroidered ducal crest, fingers tracing the stitching as if it were a spell. "You're safe." A lie, perhaps. Safety was a fragile thing, easily shattered. But the weight of the cloak seemed to steady her. One by one, the others emerged, some stumbling, some carried, their faces smudged with dirt and something darker. Vivienne counted them under her breath, matching each to the orphanage’s ledger she’d memorized. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Where were the rest? Reynard’s grip tightened on his sword as a boy, older, maybe twelve, lurched forward, his nightshirt streaked with rust-colored handprints. "They took the little ones downstairs." He rasped, his voice raw from screaming or silence.

"Before the yelling started. The, the lady with the red hair, she said …"

His throat worked, the words clotting. Herdagger was in her hand before she registered drawing it, the wyvern-blood-stained edge catching the moonlight. The boy flinched again, but not from her. From the memory. "She said they were going to a party." As she breathed out, pressing her fingers against the vial in her pocket until the glass threatened to leave crescent-shaped marks on her palm. Faith wasn't something she'd ever worn comfortably, faith was for temple-goers clutching prayer beads, for peasants whispering to roadside shrines. Faith meant surrendering control, and control was the only armor she'd ever known. Yet here she stood, silk skirts muddied at the hem, watching the orphanage's shadowed maw swallow Eskel whole. The thought of him descending into that darkness alone made her ribs ache.

“Eskel …”

She had to trust Eskel would be able to handle this as the children were gathered and moved away, with her guards protecting them as she had orders some to go inside to offer aid to Eskel, as she could hear them, the old house groaning with movements, Eskel was deep in it now, and there was little she could do, if she want in, she would not aid, she would distract, and her captain and men would only throw themselves before her and pull her back, she had to wait then, tend to the children, hoping the men she had sent inside would find Eskel and offer him the aid that he needed to solve this mess, she needed all the children and anyone innocent to make it out of this alive and in one piece.

Eskel met the baying horde of assorted blood suckers with fire and silver, dancing in their midst, throwing out Aard Signs as well to break through their ranks, dodging their claws and fangs alike. Time suspended itself during the battle, to his enhanced perceptions... he knew it went a lot faster than it felt, in the midst of his focus. One after another he slashed his way among their diminishing numbers, blood and limbs flying about and against his armor and features, thinning the herd... and at a certain point, even being closer to animals than sentient, the lower tier Vampires began to realize the battle was turning against them, that they could not bring him down and he remained tireless. Screeching to one another in their inhuman language, they broke off the faltering attack on him in the basement chamber, and he watched as the survivors began to flee him, rushing into various darkened tunnels around the chamber, or deeper into it, leaving the burning and bleeding remnants of their ranks he had slaughtered in their wake. He rapidly drew his crossbow and loosed silvered bolts after them, striking a few of the retreating Vampires and putting them down, preventing their escape or injuring them, making blood trails he could track down. The echoes of their screeches, feet and beating wings faded off in the distance gradually, and he tucked away his crossbow again. Standing amid the carnage silently in the wake of their retreat, he moved to pursue them... but paused, looking to some of the nearby cages... noting that not all of them contained corpses. Frightened, pale, starving children watched him from them with terrified eyes... and he looked between them and into the distant tunnels, sending out his heightened senses, extending their range for miles. The Vampires were long gone by now... a direct pursuit would be pointless. They had a head start, and he would have to track them again anyways... so it would be best to secure the orphanage first. Make the most of the victory they had managed to achieve here, in taking the leeches by surprise as they had.

Turning his attention to the various metal cages, he slid his bloodied silver sword back in its sheath and made his way to them, lighting up nearby torches with an Igni Sign to illuminate the basement, watching the remaining children within the cages cower as his shadow fell over them. One after another he grasped each lock and cast a light Aard Sign upon them, shattering the locks and watching them fall to the floor, and breaking various chains. When he was done with each cage, he opened them... but the children retreated back fearfully out of his reach, recoiling with horror at the sight of him. Ignoring his attempts to verbally coax them out of their cages. Instantly, he understood... even if he weren't toxified and looking like a creature of the night after drinking the potion, they would be afraid of him... never mind now, with a deathly pale face, black snake eyes and black veins on a scarred and blood stained visage. He drew back from the cages... and focusing his senses upwards, heard that the main level of the orphanage had been secured, along with the children there, that the Ducal Guard were all over up there. Looking back to the children, he ordered them to stay put, before turning on his boot, walking among the carnage of the lower levels and returning to the stairs he had come through, ascending them again and returning up to the orphanage. He took in the view of the place when he reached it, the mess, the prisoners, the freed children and golden armored guards milling about. As he moved among them, he saw the alarm even on the faces of grown, disciplined knights at the sight of him under the influence of the potion... never mind how he must have looked to the children. Ignoring them all, he sought out the one among them that mattered the most, to the land and to himself alike. He felt a silent undercurrent of relief to see that she was safe, breathing in her familiar scent. At last, reaching the golden haired beauty's position, he came to a stop near Vivienne, deep, calm voice murmuring to her for her alone to hear, squeezing her hand reassuringly at her side and updating her on what had transpired beneath the orphanage... his viper eyes looking about their surroundings and back to her emerald pair.

"Orianna flew the coop... if she was even here. Just as well, Geralt said he would hunt her down himself when the time came. Killed a fair few of the Vampires down there at least, the rest scattered. There are more children in the cages below, where they were being drained of blood... some of them survived. Broke their locks, but they were too frightened to leave with me. Took me for one of their blood drinking captors, understandably. Best you and some of the Ducal Guard head down there and see to that. There are notes, records and books down there as well, doubtless more evidence around this place. Doubt they had time to take or burn it all. I'll secure the grounds and start tracking the Vampires who escaped. Lower tier Vampires tend to care less about covering their tracks, easier to hunt down... and I injured a few of them. They can lead us to other nests and establishments."

@fallesto

#fallesto