Chapter Text
“Geralt,” he panted deeply as he was finally able to collapse onto a crate, the stench of rotting flesh, blood, and gore nearly making him puke. He took a moment to catch himself, his sword being dug into the dirt as he braced himself on it, before finally he spoke again. “What the hell are these things?”
Geralt didn’t look much better, though he wasn’t gagging or near vomiting. He merely tore off part of the Redanian flag that lay over a turned over table and used it to wipe his face. The splattering of blood having gotten into his hair. “Rotfiends.”
“What?”
“Rotfiends,” he explained again. “They’re a type of scavenger of battlefields, graves, and, well, leftover monster attacks.”
“I’ve never known a monster to explode,” he complained as he wiped at his gambeson, the stench making him gag again. Geralt nodded sympathetically.
“That’s one of their specialties when they die. Along with…” he waved his hand around flippantly. “…The smell.”
He couldn’t believe it wasn’t bothering him so much, but then again, he was a Witcher. He probably inhaled worse things over the years, just as he could recall a few particular places in his memory that stuck out due to the horrendous nature of what he had sensed and experiences. Sighing, he motioned to Geralt, pointing to the flag, and Geralt took his knife to it, breaking it into strips as he handed him two.
He wiped off his face and medallion, stuffing the used cloth underneath the crate after. Just in case any Redanian saw and decided to start a fight with them over desecrating the flag.
“We need to burn the bodies,” Geralt pointed back toward the sight of the massacre. Easier said than done. “Do you have any oil?”
“Just blade oils,” he admitted. “Not very high quality ones either.”
“I’ll pay you back for them.”
“Aren’t you generous,” he said wryly, but he knew he should be grateful to be compensated at all. “Is that all?”
“No,” Geralt turned back towards the heaps of bodies. “We’ll probably have to remove the soldier’s armor to get their flesh to burn better. And gather some loose brush to make a better pyre.”
“Is this what you do all day?” he had to honestly ask, the realization of more work coming making his limbs feel heavy. He was starting to understand why Witchers were trained so vigorously. He was used to reconnaissance missions and cleaning up any body disposal, but not on the scale of an entire unit with monster parts on top. Hell, anytime the Blue Stripes had decimated a Scoia’tael unit, they left them to rot on purpose.
Geralt didn’t seem to take offense at his question, at least. “If I’d rather not be back here killing more monsters, then yeah. I do this a lot.”
“I hope you get paid well for it,” he said as he finally stood to sheathe his sword, his lower back aching as he did. Geralt let out a soft, dry laugh before he grimaced.
“Not even close,” Geralt said quietly. He didn’t let the words hang for long before he was sliding his silver sword back into its sheathe. “Come on. I’ll start removing some of the armor.”
“Sure.”