White Wolves

Dogged Determination and Hopefully Not a Stupid Decision

A game of Grandmother's Footsteps followed (where every time Geralt looked back to see if the little beast was still following, it would stop, or disappear, and then when he turned around to walk again, he could hear those mud stained paws come after him) for what felt like an eternity. He attempted to shoo the animal off more than once, and stamped a foot, tossed a stone to a side of it, and Roach even threw up her head, a frustrated neigh at her rider's weird behaviour (weirder than usual) heard from the mare. Still, this game continued until.... Well, until it suddenly didn't. He didn't need another mouth to feed, he couldn't provide for the creature, and although he knew it was destined for death out here alone, that was better for it, that was just nature after all, was it not? It was the way things worked. The white haired man had been stubbornly ignoring the damn creature, and they trampled through the undergrowth, finding the trail they'd followed to get here in the first place, and he knew that the main road couldn't be too far. He wasn't sure what had made him turn around once more, maybe some sense of guilt? It didn't matter, because the scrap of a wolf was gone.
"Looks like we lost it." He told the horse, and surprised himself with a sensation that was twisting inside of him - regret? Maybe he should have given in. Roach didn't give him a response, just glad to have her own feet out of the wetness of the swamp they had been in just a short while ago.

Checking he still had everything, he then swung up onto the back of the horse, getting himself comfortable, taking a moment to check the girth of the saddle was still tight, before he sat back up, and took the reins up. He couldn't spend too long thinking about the strange little wolf who had appeared, and then disappeared, because he had other things to think about. That bath, and that actual bed were definitely driving forces here, and, so, with one last look back towards the forest behind them, he nudged Roach into a trot, and they moved out from the woodland trail, and onto the dirt path which would lead them onto the main road and towards the next town. As they rode, he didn't think about much. Unless there was something worth thinking deeply about, Geralt was not often one for anything too profound in his mind. He was just glad that it wasn't raining, that it wasn't too cold, because his damp clothes, and soiled hair would be sticking to him, and he'd be even more miserable. As it was, the horrendous mood that had been threatening him up until this point had near enough dissipated, and he settled into just being a little disgruntled. He liked to be clean, and it was something that he had been teased about growing up from his brothers, and father figure, even to this day. He just didn't see the fun in rolling around in filth, if you had the option for the opposite. Of course, he was not often given the option of a long soak in a tub, and had to make do with the clothes he had. For wanting to be clean, he certainly did not have much issue smelling of horse, or being covered in hair. That was a different kind of dirt, though, he'd argue.

He'd be far better once he could stop for the night. He had the feeling his horse would be the same - she was dragging her feet a little, not as forward as she could well be. The white haired man ran a hand over her neck, readjusting his position in the saddle to get more comfortable, vaguely aware of the ache of his hunting, and of the last few days riding, catching up with him. Witchers were also not immune to aches and pains, after all, and although he was used to being in the saddle, the familiar ache of saddle soreness came for every man eventually. A soft huff escaped the mare, almost as if she was acknowledging being patted, and he hummed "We'll get you something decent to eat, and I'll see if I can find you a warm stall for the night. The next town should be big enough." He told her "Or maybe a nice field with a few other horses and fresh grass?" He offered instead. Roach was a horse that was used to being out, after all, sometimes the likes of a stable actually did her worse than being out in the wilds.

That new, more optimistic mood did not last all that long, however, as they only made it a short way up the path, and just onto the main road, before the mare threw up her head up, sidestepping as she moved from the smooth canter he put her in while thinking, to a more scrambled trot. Used to her scattiness, and the easy (and quite frankly sometimes ridiculous) spooking of horses, Geralt sat as if the beast beneath him hadn't just leapt to a side "Roachie," He cooed, voice soft, hand coming down to her neck once more, ready to cast another well used Sign that his kind were renowned for to calm her if needed, but then she came to a halt, snorting, tail flicking, ears twitching, and looking to where she'd decided the terrifying spot was "it's okay, it's fine.... C'mon, you've seen worse...." He soothed, but then saw what had worried her.

A small fluffy form that had clearly once been white beneath the grime it kept on it's pelt.

The wolf cub.

"If you're preying on my guilty conscience, it's not going to work." He told it, and having made his mind up, and being quite a stubborn man, the witcher urged his steed on once more, her trot becoming a steady movement, the only sound on the quiet tree lined road was hooves kicking up the dirt. Roach's ears still flicked, however, and she seemed bothered still. He ignored it. The sooner he could get to town the better, surely a wolf was not going to risk a built up area unless it had to?

The answer was yes, apparently, because what could only be called a frustrated bark escaped the small creature, and when Geralt glanced back, he could see it doggedly attempting to chase them down, little legs scrambling over the dusty path, falling into the grooves where the horse had already trod. Just as hard headed, the white haired man carried on, and did his best not to look round. When he finally gave in, and did, once more, the determined little creature had disappeared. "Got bored. Good riddance." He murmured to himself, more than anything, only to look ahead of him again, through his mare's ears. Guess what was before him once more?

The wolf cub. It was laying, patient, as if it were waiting for him to catch up. It was not out of breath, and blue-green eyes stared up at him, as if querying what had taken him so long to reach it. How did it get there? There was no way it had outrun them. Geralt knew at that point, he could not just ignore it, those eyes set something strange off in him - yet his medallion, usually very good at picking up magic, power, lay flat against his chest. "What do you want?" He queried the beast, easing Roach into a halt. The wolf did not move, and the mare bent her neck, nose coming down to the much smaller animal, giving it a proper sniff now that they were in no danger. He was just glad this road was empty. The wolf stayed still, letting the equine huff and puff at it inquisitively, and when she brought her head up, she looked round at her rider. It was then that Geralt knew he had no choice, and he sighed, sliding from the saddle, boots squelching as they hit the hard floor. He pulled a face, but then approached the wolf once again. It was either very unwell, or was simply not scared of him. A hand came out, and he was glad he was wearing gloves, because this was all kinds of stupid. It brought him back to a day he and one of his brothers had tried to befriend a stray wolf cub when they were meant to be out hunting while training. 

The pup had been caught in a trap they'd set out for rabbits, and the boys had attempted to free the poor soul. It had wriggled and whined, and once they had let it go, it had come running up to them, likely because it panicked, looking back on it, but both he and Eskel had managed to pet the creature, and a murmur of the idea of taking it back up to the Keep with them passed between the pair, as they were often wont to do (they had had a lot of other failed pets, but that was a story to think of another time). However, the choice was taken from them, as a mother wolf had come barrelling forwards. Geralt had thought that in that moment, they were going to come under attack. You did not mess with a mother of any kind, after all. She had snarled, showing rows of moist teeth, white, sharp, and they had stayed ever so still. However, she then just looked at the pair, picked up the cub, and wandered off. She'd looked at them, and lowered her head as she turned, and Geralt liked to think even to this day that it had been a sign of thanks. Eskel was not here now, though, and he was nearly certain that no mother was coming for this pitiful looking creature. 

He knelt, movement slow, keeping his gaze impossibly soft (which not many would witness from him), and not trained on the animal. He waited, holding a breath he hadn't even realised that had got caught in his throat. Roach huffed her own breath behind him, but she seemed strangely okay with this, and that spurred him forward, kept him in place. A wet nose touched his fingertips first, and although he did not feel the moisture through his gloves, it left a soft imprint in the leather, glistening in the sunlight when he ever so carefully brought his hand back. He stayed knelt there, and probably looked mad as anything - still dirty, damp. A man most feared, scarred, weaponised, with the head of a drowner in a bag tied to his saddle, but here he was in front of a baby. Letting out that breath, he thought the wolf was going to bolt. It didn't, it came forward. And that was how the bedraggled witcher ended up with an equally bedraggled wolf pup tucked in his shirt, and, clutching it's small body to his chest, he was soon riding to the town. Maybe they could both have a bath?