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To know the lay of the land was vital when planning an ambush, and the reason why Vernon Roche was studying a map spread out on the table before him.
The cave system and great cavern beyond the small space he had requisitioned for himself was near quiet. A whetstone on steel, bursting logs spitting embers in the fireplaces, snoring. His men were resting, except for a few guards, and Ves, who had taken it upon herself to inspect their supplies.
As expected, they were dwindling, as was morale and local support.
People who had helped and concealed them were now too afraid to take any active part in their continuing fight for a free Temeria. Vernon could not find it in himself to blame them, not having seen first-hand the kind of punishment that awaited those the Black Dogs suspected of collaboration.
More than enough corpses were battered by Velen's harsh east wind, swinging from ropes or had fallen to the ground, where crows, wild dogs, and necrophages tore them apart, leaving only scraps of clothes, bones and grieving families.
All their hopes rested now on the success of Thaler's mission...
"Fuck!" Vernon cursed, as his last candle guttered in a pool of wax.
Fingers snapped, and Vernon spied slitted and golden eyes before the sudden burst of a flame blinded him temporarily. He sighed, not about to hide his frustration, knowing well it would do no good.
"Geralt."
"Careless," the witcher chided mildly, placing a new candle on the table. "I walked right in."
"You're the only unexpected visitor not to end up riddled with arrows," Vernon stated matter-of-fact, signaling for Ves to lower her bow. She did, yet not without a suggestive wink and smirk. "I would applaud any assassin to make it this far."
"You sure would."
Frowning at the hoarse tone of Geralt's voice, Vernon squinted in the feeble light to get a closer look at the witcher. His skin was pale, near translucent, the veins shining through in dark, branching lines. All signs that indicated the heavy use of potions.
"You look like shit."
"Flatterer." Geralt took a small vial out of a pouch and downed its syrupy contents with a shudder. "Accepted a contract to deal with a nest of nekkers. Only matters got more complicated when it turned out that the real threat was --"
"A wyvern," Vernon finished for him. "You should have stopped by before going on the hunt. I would have warned you."
Geralt shrugged, not one to ponder what might have been after the milk was spilled, or to get worked up over a close brush with death. "How did you know?"
"Found one of its feathers on a reconnaissance run." Vernon gestured to a neat stack of reports. Misused as a bookmark, a bit of quill and down peeked out between sheets of parchment. "Some of your rambling must have sunken in."
"Those are valuable lessons," Geralt said; a token protest. "Secret witcher lore and knowledge. Wouldn't share it with just anyone."
Vernon decided against pointing out that at least part of that generous sharing had happened while Geralt had been fast asleep, his head a warm weight on his shoulder. "Then I guess I'm honored."
"Hm. Ves seems to think you should be."
"Ves' opinion on the matter has not changed ever since Flotsam. In fact, the novelty of her ribbing has worn off." Even though this was a pleasant interruption, Vernon had not forgotten that a high toxin level was best slept off, and as for himself, there was work to be done. "But enough of that. - You need rest. You're welcome to use my cot."
Geralt eyed the makeshift bed, a simple wooden construct with a straw mattress and blanket. Better than the hard ground, but not ideal in a cave covered in lichen and moss, where rivulets of moisture ran along the rugged walls.
"What about you?"
"I don't see myself needing it tonight," Vernon muttered, already back to studying his map, where a neat line of black markers indicated the route a contingent of Nilfgaardian soldiers was expected to take in two days time.
Despite his best intentions to review his plan for the ambush, he kept track of Geralt by ear as the witcher moved around, shedding his equipment and swords. Hearing finally the soft rustle of clothes, Vernon was not surprised to find himself crowded against the table, with a naked body pressed against his back.
"We could share."
Holding perfectly still, which proved no easy task with Geralt's hand finding its way into his uniform to pinch a nipple, Vernon growled, "Do not try my patience, Witcher."
"You mean 'don't tempt me', right?"
Geralt tried to open his belt one-handed but Vernon grabbed his wrist. Knowing exactly where to dig his thumb into tender flesh and muscles to cause the greatest amount of pain, the searching fingers immediately stilled with a grunt.
"Vernon --"
It was almost a whine, more feral than pleading, and Roche felt an answering rush of hot blood that flushed his skin and made his pulse pound. "Five minutes." Vernon let go after one last warning squeeze. "Now leave me be."
"Fine."
Geralt swallowed his protest and went, settling on the mattress to wait. - And of course he fell asleep, the White Honey taking its toll, breaking down the poison in his mutated body and bloodstream.
Vernon ignored his own discomfort that would abate with time, and smiled to himself. If only they were not confined to an echoing cavern, filled with his men. - He would have enjoyed making the White Wolf howl.
Perhaps another time.