bialy_wilk | { pfsb } The Isle of Mists

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{ pfsb } The Isle of Mists

He'd had to force himself to slow down, to take their time as they traveled. First to Novigrad, to speak with Zoltan and Roche; then to board a ship to Skellige, where Ermion agreed to assist without hesitation and where Queen Cerys offered the aid of her finest knight – her brother, Hjalmar. He gets a message to Triss, does his best to do the same for Keira and Letho, somewhere in the wilderness.

Geralt sends them all to Kaer Morhen, and knows it won't be enough.

Lan Wangji is a quiet, reserved traveling companion. Geralt feels a pang at separating him from his husband, but it's not enough to make him want to send the cultivator back. Selfishly, he wants the man here, in case Ciri is in trouble. In case he needs to send her with her friend while he himself holds the path behind them.

They rise early, travel all the day, and camp at dark. On the ship to Skellige, Geralt meditates, his only other option to prowl the decks like the wolf of his name. And once they've reached the islands and found their allies, Cerys gives them a small sailing dinghy and sets them on their way.

Geralt steers them to the very edge of the archipelago, past looming, jagged rocks and endless tracts of gray, wavering sea, until they reach a place where the mists curl ethereal fingers along the edge of Lan Wangji's robes. The witcher heaves the little boat to, then reaches for the bottle he's stored in the qiankun bag Lan Wangji had gifted him what feels like a lifetime ago. "This had better work," he mutters, and uncorks the glass bottle to free the firefly spirit which Avallac'h had conjured. It flutters into the air, then describes a slightly wobbling path into the gray, hazy depths of the mists which stretch before them.

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It feels strange to visit the places that Ciri had spoken of, to meet the people that Geralt calls friend and ally and who agree to help, even as he and Wei Ying had done. (He hopes there will be a chance for Wei Ying, too, to see them someday; once Ciri is found and the Hunt is defeated, perhaps.) The witcher is far better than he himself is with people, Lan Wangji thinks, and does his best to support him in this odd recruitment with the same polite, attentive silence that he would use at his brother's side.

Outside of these essential meetings, their journey is largely a quiet one. Not silent, not entirely, but neither of them is much given to conversation for its own sake. They alternate in setting watch and guard as needed, meditate and plan and work and wait.

Until now. He watches as the spell-sphere lifts into the air and weaves unevenly into the mists ahead of them. "It seems aptly named," he observes; observing as well the bones of ships poking out of the waters. "With treacherous waters."

Geralt nods and steers the boat into the thick banks of fog, his yellow cat's eyes locked on the spell as it flits before them, casting a ghostly glow through the mist. "No wonder he hid her here," he mutters.

Without the spell, it would be impossible to navigate these waters. Wrecked ships litter the waves; jagged rocks climb like teeth out of the water. He can see the dark, swirling shapes of sirens circling like carrion birds, hears their haunting cries as they echo over the water. "The damn place is a graveyard."

"If we are fortunate, there will not be too many unquiet dead." From the tone of his voice, he does not expect that they will be fortunate in this. "Does this world have creatures like the waterborne abyss?"

"Yes," Geralt says, dry. "If we're lucky, we won't run into one. If we're not lucky, we'll run into something just as bad, plus all those sirens I can hear over there."

He gestures to where dark shapes swirl through the mist like unquiet ghosts. "Best to be ready, just in case."

He lifts Bichen, just slightly. It rattles and unsheathes itself a mere cun or two, gleaming ice-blue from its edge.

"I am," Lan Wangji says. "But I will endeavor not to draw their attention."

Ciri, after all, is the focus and the reason they are here.

"Probably for the best."

He lapses into silence, focusing on the firefly-spell ahead and letting Lan Wangji watch around them for anything that might attack.

Aside from the eerie wailing of the sirens, the world around them is muffled and silent. Water bubbles almost sullenly against the hull of the little boat as Geralt steers it through the murk, trusting the spell to show them the safest way. Finally, it illuminates a hulking darkness ahead, something more solid than the mist or the shattered wreckage of the lost ships around them. "I see a dock," Geralt says, quietly.

It's a generous term for the rickety structure which pokes into the water from a hazy shoreline, but he aims for it anyway, the spell-light hovering over the cracked and splintered wooden planks, waiting.

"Not often used," he concludes. Lan Wangji makes a small, graceful leap to land lightly on the rough wood, then pulls the front of the dinghy up against the dock to secure it as Geralt draws it alongside.

"There is a path, of sorts. There, see?"

Geralt nods and vaults from the dinghy to the dock, then casts a disgruntled eye at the banks of fog which drift over the shore and across the path. "Necrophage oil," he instructs Lan Wangji, slipping his silver sword from its sheath and applying the same. "Mist like this, we might run into foglets. Keep an eye out. They can become invisible and intangible before they strike."

"Mn," he says, as he coats Bichen's blade. "Good to know."

He glances at Geralt and offers, "I have seen mist like this carry a spell of confusion, before. Do you have such here?"

"I wouldn't put it past this mist." He re-sheathes his sword and starts moving towards the waiting spell-light, every sense on alert. "There's something unnatural about it."

"Indeed." He keeps pace with Geralt, watching around them for any sign of danger as the path winds upward. Another faint light gleams ahead of them, and Lan Wangji narrows his eyes at the tiny lantern on its post beside the trail.

"Someone maintains this."

Geralt grunts agreement as they climb the winding trail. The faint glow of the spell floats ahead, then pauses, illuminating a door beyond. As they come closer, the shape of a hut emerges from the gloom, the spell hovering at the door.

"Firefly's stopped at the hut. Oughta look inside."

He approaches the door, ruthlessly shoving down on the hope that wants to bubble up in his chest. Just past that door, Ciri could be waiting.

It seems reasonably well kept and sturdy, which is probably just as well in a place as dangerous and uncertain as this. Lan Wangji takes up position to Geralt's side to remain on guard as the older man tries the door, which appears to be locked.

"One only locks things which need to be secured," he murmurs.

He nods, and thumps a gauntleted fist against the door. "Anybody in there?"

No answer comes to his question, and he's casting a grim glance at Lan Wangji, when there's a soft shuffling sound followed by -- "Ah-choo!"

The witcher turns back to the door, swallowing his disappointment -- that wasn't Ciri. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he says. "Open up."

"Ach!" exclaims an angry, muffled voice. "Ye blew our fuckin' cover!"

Lan Wangji's eyebrows rise infinitesimally at that. The angry voice demands, "Who are you, and what d'ye want?"

"We wish to speak with you," he says, clear and carrying and calm. "No harm is intended."

"I'm Geralt, a witcher," Geralt says. "This is my colleague, Lan Wangji."

"How cares?" asks the rude voice. "Go away!"

Geralt takes a deep breath, counting until he's sure he can refrain from blowing the door down with Aard. "Looking for a young woman," he grits out, aiming for patient and landing somewhere in the vicinity of exasperated. "Ashen hair, scar on her face. Will you let us in?"

There's a pause, as if the people inside are thinking, and then the voice sounds again. "No!"

His eyes narrow, and he regards the door with cool assessment. One chord, and he could have it open, he is sure, and is equally certain that Geralt must be thinking the same about either Signs or the strength of a blow.

"Have you seen a woman like that?" he asks. Not that it is likely to keep them from needing to search, but perhaps these men will not be fools.

"Mebbe," says the voice, cannily. "Mebbe no'."

Geralt grits his teeth. "How many of you are in there?"

"Why d'ye need to know?" the voice asks, sharp. "Ye takin' a bloody census?"

He keeps hold of his patience, but it takes more effort than he would like. Before he can answer, another person speaks.

"By my mum's beard, get yourselves together, lads." The man raises his voice. "You there, outside the door! Geralt, that right?"

"Yeah," says the witcher, annoyed. "Geralt."

"Listen, Geralt," says the new voice. "Let's cut to the thick of it."

The witcher listens as the voice details their woes: the shipwreck they'd survived, the mates they'd lost. He glances at Lan Wangji as the voice suggests he feel a little more sympathy for their predicament, asks them to understand why they might be so distrustful. "Got nothing to fear from me," Geralt tries to convince them, but the voice scoffs.

"Said the fox to the gaggle o'geese. I've lost too many mates already. I won't risk it. I can't."

Geralt grimaces and exchanges another look with Lan Wangji. "Say we find your mates. Will you believe we mean no harm?"

He lets out a small sigh. Everything is driving him to find Ciri as quickly as possible, and he is certain Geralt even more so, but if these men are innocent of any harm to her and suffering tribulations of their own, the right path calls for them to give aid.

And in doing so they may get closer to Ciri's trail.

"Aye," admits the speaker, "but I'd not count on either coming too easy."

Lan Wangji gives the door a flat look. Of course it would not be easy.

Geralt heaves a sigh. "How many are there?"

There are three: Ivo, Gaspard, and Ferenc. He presses the voice for details on where they can find the three. One's on a high peak, looking for ships, another planned to explore some caves to the east, and the last had gone to try and find a boat.

The witcher glances at Lan Wangji. "All right," he mutters. "See if we can't find all threee."

It seems to him that the three who were willing to brave the unknown dangers of the island to save their friends and themselves would have been far wiser to do so together rather than in isolation from each other. Lan Wangji's opinion of these men is not especially high.

Still, he nods to Geralt, confirming his own willing assistance. Neither of them is a fool, after all.

Geralt gives the door a last glare. If they break the damn thing down, they might hurt someone inside – maybe even Ciri, if she's there.

(He tries not to think about why she wouldn't have called out, if she were.)

"We'll look for Ivo first," he says, and tips his head toward the trail. "Head down to the shoreline. Let's see if we can find whatever rock he's climbed to try and spot a ship."

"One wonders how the ship would be expected to spot him in turn," Lan Wangji mutters, moving past Geralt toward the narrow, rocky trail that leads down to the shore.

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