"Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart."
― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
Magic and majesty have always gone hand in hand, or so Geralt believed. That was befor...
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"Ah. The Witch that Northwood spoke of, I presume?"
The knife never left his throat as the woman remained silent. Finally, a raspy whisper filled his ear, "Who wants to know?"
The Witcher was quick. Quicker than the Witch could ever be, and had her disarmed with a mere roll and a twist, grabbing the woman against him. "Drop the knife." He snarled in her ear as a chuckle escaped her throat. A shriek resounded through the old town as the Griffon, its wing still torn and its underside still torched from their last encounter, swayed across the ruined buildings. Geralt looked up to see where the creature had gone but only saw the dark sky above him.
"Are you sure you want to play this game, Witcher? Many have tried before you, I assure." Her voice reverberated. through her vocal cords, the rich, honeyed accent joined by a darker voice echoing through the air. "Let me go, and I'll call her off."
Geralt knew better than to fight a sorceress with a Griffon and reluctantly let her go. The woman spun away from him, finally looking at the woman since their encounter began. She was young, her tawny skin still firm from youth and tinged with a splash of pink. Her wild curls spilled behind her, unkempt and dirty from her time alone. However, it was her eyes that really unsettled the Witcher. Her pupils were gone, replaced a milky white film that slowly faded away as the Griffon's cries grew further away.
The two stood in uncomfortable silence, their eyes never wavering from the others. That's when Geralt noticed that she was still holding the knife, "Are you going to drop it?" He asked, his own sword still drawn, "Best not to fight a Witcher with a knife, girl."
The woman narrowed her eyes and let the knife fall into a puddle, "Are you going to kill me, then?" She demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. "May I at least know the name of my assailant?"
"Geralt of Rivera, at your service."
The woman's furrowed brow deepened, "The White Wolf? The Butcher of Blaviken? I'm surprised you would come all this way for a simple witch with a reputation such as yours."
"My reputation proceeds me...as does yours. The Witch of Fisherman's Reach with powers unlike any that I've ever come across. Your Griffon is intimidating."
The woman smirked, "That's Seraphina. She doesn't like you."
"I could only imagine why she doesn't," Geralt replied sarcastically, looking back up at the sky, "Can we get out of this rain?"
