Chapter Text
It’s just a rumor. Whispers in the streets, tales they tell to kids to frighten them into compliance. That’s what Geralt tells himself the first time he hears about it. But then when it is time to go back to Kaer Morhen for winter and sleep the year away, Vesemir is the one to expose his concerns. Eskel confesses he met one of them, wicked creatures slaying beasts as efficiently as them, wearing silver medallions around their neck, eyes glowing in the darkness as they leave nothing but a trail of dead monsters and expired contracts behind. A new batch of Witchers.
Lambert flies into a rage when he hears about it. Everybody knows what he thinks of the way they turn kids into mutants. He still resents Vesemir for it. No choices are left for the children brought to the Witchers, forced to endure the trials or die before their first decade of life. So when he learns that a new school has formed to fight the sudden sprout of monsters these past years has brought, he yells and breaks things and drinks himself into a stupor.
Geralt has always seen himself as a big brother to Lambert, but it’s Eskel who calms him down and dries the tears that they were all deprived of. They end up sleeping in the guest room, bundled up like when they were still younglings. They promise each other to investigate in the incoming spring, and Vesemir doesn’t protest. He wishes them good luck on the Path when they leave, hoping that his wolves will return alive and well for the next winter.
Geralt travels to Oxenfurt first. He has heard about griffins sprouting like weed in the city’s surroundings and tells himself that good coin will come out of these hunts. He doesn’t expect to find that most of the contracts have been taken already. When he asks the elder who posted the notice, the man mentions a witcher already promised to take care of it, and that he can’t afford to pay for two of them. Geralt frowns and asks if he’s sure it was a witcher who took the contract, and not some wannabe adventurer, but the man is positive.
« I’m sure, master Witcher! He had cat-eyes, just like yours, except his were bright blue and he wore a different medallion around his neck. »
Geralt has never heard of a blue-eyed witcher, but the man is so certain of what he saw, it makes him doubt. He promises he won’t ask for extra coin if he decides to team up with this strange Witcher, and goes after the so-called mutant. Maybe it’s the rumors that have gone to his head, and a little bit of paranoia, but he suspects that this might lead it to « the new batch » of witchers they discussed back in Kaer Morhen. If not, then at least he can try to save a fool from dying trying to be a hero.
He heads to the crossroad where the griffin was last seen, and finds the remains of an attack there. Old, the bodies were moved a while back, probably already buried by some villagers brave enough to venture to the monster’s territory. It’s not hard to follow the trails from here, feathers and blood tracing the way back to the nest that’s leaning precariously on the remains of an old guard tower. The beast is nowhere to be seen, but Geralt has no trouble finding clues of a fight here. It looks like he’s too late, deep marks in the ground from where the so-called Witcher has been thrown by the griffin’s powerful wings, hints of blood and venom staining the earth. Archgriffin then. The poor lad is probably already dead. Still, Geralt decides to climb the rumbles of what appears to have been stairs once, and makes it to the top of the tower. The stench is stronger there. Excrements, venom and the distinctive smell of a monster’s nest. When he makes it to the top, he is surprised to find the nest already destroyed. He has to sniffs at the remains to make sure, but it’s hard to ignore the well known taste of powder. A makeshift bomb, just like the ones some Witchers use.
From up here, he can gaze upon the hills, foolishly hoping to find something that will lead him to the beast or its carcass. All he sees is a grey horse, grazing at the edge of the forest. On his rump is resting the bloody head of an arch-griffin. Well, fuck.
He hurries back down and grabs Roach’s reins, dragging her along despite her furious protesting. The grey mount is very obviously a stallion, already preening when Geralt’s mare approaches with reluctance. A bad choice for a Witcher, to bother himself with an animal whose mind is sorely focused on mating and fighting, and not into being an agreeable companion. Yet, the animal has a strong rump and an even stronger neck, and seems to bear with its stack as if the heavy head of an arch griffin resting on his back weighted nothing to it. It neighs to Roach whose ears are flat on her neck, daring the other horse to take a step closer, and Geralt is too focused on the display to notice the man that seems to appear out of nowhere, leaning against a nearby tree with a cocky smile on his face.
« Not gonna try to steal my hunt, I hope. »
If he weren’t a Witcher, Geralt would have jumped from the surprise. The man seems to notice it nonetheless and chuckles, only amusement and not a single hint of mockery tainting his voice.
He carries two swords in his back, still wet from the quick dip in the nearby river, probably to rid himself from all the blood that’s been staining his skin and armor.
But what strikes Geralt the most are the two bright, blue eyes that are staring straight at him. Horizontal slits splits them in halves, like a cat gazing into the sun.
« You’re a Witcher? » Geralt asks, gruff and confused.
Despite the obvious clues, the man doesn’t look like a witcher. He’s as lean as an elf, so thin a faint breeze would take him away. Devoid of visible scars, he wears a medallion too different from the ones that Witchers usually carry. This one is shaped like a golden bird, hanging around his neck like cheap jewelry.
« What, don’t I look the part? »
The stranger spins on himself, a dramatic pirouette as he approaches Geralt to greet him properly. His steps are light, so silent it’s like he’s not even touching the ground. The swords on his back are very real though, one made entirely of silver, short and slims. Probably custom made, judging by the bird that’s engraved in the handle and the way they fit the man’s height and size. The younger witcher offers Geralt his hand and grins. Geralt doesn’t take it.
« I’m Jaskier. School of the shrike. Nice to meet you, wolf. »
Geralt grunts, always short on words when it comes to making friends. The other Witcher seems to understand that pretty quickly because he doesn’t take offense in the lack of answer, and smiles even brighter. There are two fangs biting at his lower lips, a result of the mutations. Geralt knows that because he had the same when he was nothing but a young pup. After decades of shaming and biting, the canines had trimmed themselves into dull sharpness. Jaskier’s look as if the boy had never used them.
« Never heard of a school of the shrike. » He mumbles, worried that the rumors about newly made Witchers might be true.
« That’s because we’ve just been taught how to fly. »
The kid (because he can’t be older than twenty, not with these teeth and that unblemished skin) chuckles again and hums something as he heads towards his horse, pinching the stallion’s neck when it tries to take a step towards the mare.
« Now now Dandy, the lady is obviously not interested, be courteous. »
The grey mount snorts and acknowledges its owner by pressing its lips to his shoulder pads and nipping at the turquoise shirt underneath. That’s when Geralt notices the wound on the Witcher’s flank. A claw mark, it seems, barely deep enough to be hurtful- Yet, something in his chest makes him react and he is already looking through the satchels that are hanging on Roach’s saddle. He tosses the roll of bandages to Jaskier who catches it without even looking, reflexes as sharp as a cat’s. He seems surprised by Geralt’s sudden generosity and literally beams at the older man when he realizes what it is he’s holding.
« Oh. Thank you. »
There’s something in this smile, in the innocence Jaskier is giving off that makes Geralt act like he is. The bird reminds him of a younger self, barely out to discover the world, still thinking it holds many wonders. He aches from the hatred and horror the boy is about to find instead.
He grunts an acknowledgement and mounts Roach, ready to depart. He needs to write to Vesemir, tell him the rumors of a new school are actually true and that a flock of birds of prey fly now above the lands. Very efficient predators, it seems, as he glances back at the arch griffin’s head.
He doesn’t expect Jaskier to follow him back to the village, babbling about the weather and of his fight with the beast as if both were of the same importance.
—
It’s at least a thirty minutes ride back to White Orchard, and Jaskier hasn’t stopped talking ever since they left the Griffin’s den. He keeps asking questions about Geralt’s personal life, his witcher’s records, begging for interesting stories of wild hunts and dangerous battles, about how he got the scar on his face, all which Geralt ignores by popping questions back at him.
« - and then, Ogfried, my brother, he got all mad and punched our instructor in the face! Man, that was pricele- »
Geralt interrupts him, not really caring for the childhood stories and more interested in this mysterious School of the Shrike.
« Is there many of you left? »
Jaskier throws him a questioning look, probably surprised by Geralt’s sudden intervention.
« What do you mean? »
« I mean, is there a lot of Witchers from your school out there? »
« Hmm. Yeah, I guess there is. More than your kind, that’s for sure. But we’re brand new, so the numbers should thin out along the years. »
Geralt hums and goes back to being completely silent. This time, Jaskier joins him.
He knows the lack of Witchers still alive played a major role in the reappearance of monsters across the land, but creating a whole new school to remedy this ? That’s - forbidden. Taboo. Dangerous, even. Surely the people won’t welcome the news with thunderous applause, once the word spreads.
He takes a good look at the boy riding alongside him, and he can’t help but feel pity for him. Jaskier radiates carelessness and eagerness to please. It reads as if written in fine letters across his face. The way he smiles at the few merchants they meet on the road, the way he carries himself to appear as human as can be, hiding his monstrous eyes behind carefully placed strand of wavy brown hair. He’s still bare to the world, too inexperienced to build walls and comply to the fact that Witchers aren’t supposed to feel anything.
« Should I buy you a drink as a way to thank you? » Jaskier asks as they approach the village.
« Thank me for what? »
« For checking in on me, in case I was an errand knight looking for glory. »
Geralt carefully avoids looking at the smile Jaskier throws in his direction and hums his answer.
« Sure. Why not. »