White Wolves

More of the Same (and Soggy Feet)/Collecting the Spoils... Is That a Dog?

What could be considered an unusual day for most became routine to a witcher. When things became unusual for a witcher, it meant that the occurrence really was something extraordinary.

Monsters were his bread and butter, they were infinitely more dull the longer you did this as a living, and he lived for the more dangerous beasts, if they were ever found. It really was a luck of the draw, but something that was more likely to kill him at least sent a little shiver of excitement up his spine. Not that every battle was a dull affair, because it wasn't, and there was something to be said for the adrenaline, and the addition of various potions when needed. When you went out of your way to find any scrap of a monster possible, in hopes of bringing in a few extra coins, however, then it became tedious.

That was what the white haired man was doing today. He was knee deep in a swamp, he could feel the water seeping into his boot from being out here too long, the left one, and he made a note to try and get it looked at when he could. He was muddy, covered in muck already, and he hadn't even managed to kill the fucking thing yet. Things, even.
Drowners and water hags tended to co-exist, after all, whereas the former tended to like swarming, akin to nekkers, and ghouls, the latter worked with that chaos, and slotted in nicely with their supreme mud throwing skills and general enjoyment of damp things, popping up if you were unawares just to cover you in whatever gunk they'd collected from the depths of the pools they hung out in. He'd already been dunked into the filthy water, and he could feel a scratch that might be more than that starting to sting down his side, but still, this was nothing he couldn't handle.

Slice. Pirouette. Dodge - dodge again, duck. Bring the sword down, and one by one he'd get them.

The man had beheaded, sliced open, and got a good stab in to the beings that were trying to drag him into the deeper water, the liquid spraying through the air as they thrashed, and he moved, the sound of them was just as gut wrenching as the smell of his surroundings, and probably of him. Maybe he'd have a bath when he got to town? Surely if he collected some parts here, they'd pay him?
Don't distract yourself, Geralt.
Something came up behind him, and he felt a slick hand, if it could be called a hand, tickle his shoulder. In a movement that would be quite beautiful, if the turn wasn't so deadly, the witcher focused, hand coming up, fingers spreading in an easy movement, and casting Igni - the flames licking from the man's hand, forwards. Soon, the damn water hag was lying before him, gladly finished off with the smell of burnt swamp flesh filling the air, and causing Geralt to wrinkle his nose. Witchers had sensitive senses, after all, and such a foul smell would have gagged even a pig in muck, he was sure. Out the corner of his eye, he spotted one last drowner that he had honestly thought had already been dead - the creature was sluggish, swinging a blow that never landed, because it's hand came clear off as silver came swinging through the air, an easy arc, almost not really thought about. The man turned towards the monster, who was clearly surprised, blood spurting from the wound, making the murky bogginess even more of an odd colour around their ankles "Nice try, buddy." the witcher murmured, and the sword in his hand came down one final time.

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What could be considered an unusual day for most became routine to a witcher. When things became unusual for a witcher, it meant that the occurrence really was something extraordinary.

Monsters were his bread and butter, they were infinitely more dull the longer you did this as a living, and he lived for the more dangerous beasts, if they were ever found. It really was a luck of the draw, but something that was more likely to kill him at least sent a little shiver of excitement up his spine. Not that every battle was a dull affair, because it wasn't, and there was something to be said for the adrenaline, and the addition of various potions when needed. When you went out of your way to find any scrap of a monster possible, in hopes of bringing in a few extra coins, however, then it became tedious.

That was what the white haired man was doing today. He was knee deep in a swamp, he could feel the water seeping into his boot from being out here too long, the left one, and he made a note to try and get it looked at when he could. He was muddy, covered in muck already, and he hadn't even managed to kill the fucking thing yet. Things, even.
Drowners and water hags tended to co-exist, after all, whereas the former tended to like swarming, akin to nekkers, and ghouls, the latter worked with that chaos, and slotted in nicely with their supreme mud throwing skills and general enjoyment of damp things, popping up if you were unawares just to cover you in whatever gunk they'd collected from the depths of the pools they hung out in. He'd already been dunked into the filthy water, and he could feel a scratch that might be more than that starting to sting down his side, but still, this was nothing he couldn't handle.

Slice. Pirouette. Dodge - dodge again, duck. Bring the sword down, and one by one he'd get them.

The man had beheaded, sliced open, and got a good stab in to the beings that were trying to drag him into the deeper water, the liquid spraying through the air as they thrashed, and he moved, the sound of them was just as gut wrenching as the smell of his surroundings, and probably of him. Maybe he'd have a bath when he got to town? Surely if he collected some parts here, they'd pay him?
Don't distract yourself, Geralt.
Something came up behind him, and he felt a slick hand, if it could be called a hand, tickle his shoulder. In a movement that would be quite beautiful, if the turn wasn't so deadly, the witcher focused, hand coming up, fingers spreading in an easy movement, and casting Igni - the flames licking from the man's hand, forwards. Soon, the damn water hag was lying before him, gladly finished off with the smell of burnt swamp flesh filling the air, and causing Geralt to wrinkle his nose. Witchers had sensitive senses, after all, and such a foul smell would have gagged even a pig in muck, he was sure. Out the corner of his eye, he spotted one last drowner that he had honestly thought had already been dead - the creature was sluggish, swinging a blow that never landed, because it's hand came clear off as silver came swinging through the air, an easy arc, almost not really thought about. The man turned towards the monster, who was clearly surprised, blood spurting from the wound, making the murky bogginess even more of an odd colour around their ankles "Nice try, buddy." the witcher murmured, and the sword in his hand came down one final time.