The Witcher The Swallow and The Monster

The Black Bat

(F/N) sat staring at his face in a puddle in the woods. He still couldn't get over it. His skin was grey beyond belief, and his hair was as white as Geralts. He looked like a 60 year old man with some form of the plague. His master had essentially told him to get over his appearance. As if he had gained a scar. He had expected as much. He wasn't much in terms of emotional advice, no witcher was.

Geralt was currently sitting with Dandelion, that Nilfgaardian who claimed he wasn't a Nilfgaardian, and the half-dryad they had met when Geralt had nearly gotten beaten to death by Vilgefortz. That was the company they were keeping. The young witcher sat a long distance away from the rest of the group. He didn't feel like being with them. (F/N) rubbed his hands together, he heard someone approaching. His new senses were good at sensing others, he turned his head, his red eyes picked up the crystal clear image of Regis. The last member of their party.

"Hey..."

The older vampire leaned against a tree, "Vanity is a sin. You're a smart lad. I'm surprised you'd violate that tenent so easily."

(F/N) laughed, "It's hard not to look at yourself when you look as I do."

Regis shrugged as he sat next to the young witcher, "I would disagree. I've looked at my reflection and seen only horror...internally and otherwise...if anything it's made it harder to look at myself."

The witcher remained silent, "Why are you here? Is it because I'm part vampire? You feel some connection to me? You feel the need to tell me how to be a true vampire?"

Regis laughed, he felt a connection to the teenager, just not for the reasons he assumed, "Oh, no, no, no. What is a true vampire? If I might ask."

"One that drinks blood. One that kills for sport. A monster...No offense."

"None taken. Is that either of us?"

(F/N) shook his head, "You're different, you're better...or at least try to be. And I haven't done anything...yet."

The older vampire gave him a look, "That doesn't mean you will do anything."

The pair sat in silence, neither having anything to say to the other. Until the witcher took a deep breath, he was so curious, he finally sat in front of a vampire. One that could answer his questions. He swallowed, "Is it normal? The thirst?"

Regis nodded, his expression grave, he knew of it, he felt it now, even as he spoke to the witcher. He felt a powerful urge to taste the sweet crimson liquid, "Yes...the consistent scratch in your throat. The dizziness. The feeling of pure bliss when just a drop of that forbidden substance touches your lips. Every individual like us feels the same urges. The same cumpulsions."

(F/N) shuddered, he could hear the blood rushing through the veins of his companions as they sat around the campfire. Even from this distance. It was disgusting, the urges he had. Ever since his trial. That's nearly all that consumed his thoughts. He hadn't drank any blood. At least none that he had recalled. His hand started to shake. He wanted more than anything to drink the one thing that all vampires wanted. But he couldn't he knew he couldn't, that was a line, he could never cross, never, "When does it stop?"

"It doesn't."

The witcher stood, his anger flared, his thirst fueling the fire in his stomach, "Then how do you conquer it? How do you lessen it? I must know."

Regis smiled slightly, not deterred in the slightest, "You learn to live with it. Very few do anything else other than indulge it...I knew of a man...someone like us...who struggled with many things."

"Blood?"

"Amoung other things. They called him the Fang. He was consumed with hatred...but he wasn't uncaring...quite the opposite. He would do anything for the people he loved. Anything. He sacrificed everything for someone he cared for. You remind me of him."