[ Lord brother — the head of the house, then, forced to keep up the appearance that nothing's wrong.
Geralt nods, voice low, but conversational: ]
Be relying on you, then, and I might need more than you think. Letter mentioned discretion — I'll do what I can, but I'll need to examine the location of every murder, and any notes your brother might have kept on what was found at the time. Also need your assurance that I have unrestricted access to the house — shouldn't need to see your quarters or your brother's, but crawlspaces, tunnels, cellars, locked rooms...
[ ...How very efficient. Sleipnir finds himself vaguely amused. Where the others they hired to confront this problem had seemed stymied by the mere prospect of revealing an invisible foe, this Geralt seems to already be devising a plan. It feels — ah, what is the feeling? It feels rather like hiring an exterminator of rats. ]
But of course. You will not find any door in the fortress locked, save those barring the entrances to Barnabas's office and my quarters.
[ He really does turn his head this time, angling a catlike smile over his shoulder in Geralt's direction. Is he impressed? No; he'll be impressed when this witcher secures results. But he likes the attitude. The act. ]
Your respect towards our privacy is much appreciated, Master Geralt. The skeletons in my closet express their utmost gratitude for your discretion.
[ Surely he jests, but Sleipnir does look awfully like a man who might have skeletons in his closet, at least in the flickering torchlights. ]
Ah, yes... I believe you will be staying for some time? Will it be... distasteful, I wonder, to have you in poor Alfr's quarters for now? We've not seen hide or hair of the beast since his body was cleared from the room, and he was our cousin. I thought his space might be more comfortable than the stables.
[ ...And surely he jests about making Geralt sleep in the stables, but. ]
[ A very funny jest, that first one: skeletons in closets are the best breeding grounds for curses and wraiths, Geralt doesn't say, turning his gaze to their surroundings to mask the way his jaw tightens. It could be almost anything, at this point — a garden-variety monster, a voidkin, a very creative servant with a chip on his shoulder — but a so-called noble house is a hundred times more likely than most to attract something like a curse. ]
Works perfectly.
[ There's no sarcasm in it; it's flat and factual. He turns back to Sleipnir, watching him. ]
If it's something that can be heard at night, then the closer I am to its hunting grounds, the better the chances I'll be able to keep it from killing anyone else.
[ ...Rather serious of him, no? Geralt seems much less inclined to treat this as a laughing matter than the man who has actually found his relatives murdered by this mysterious creature in the night. Then again, most things are a laughing matter to Sleipnir, and lots of people do not appreciate his sense of humor in Ishgard, so the young nobleman decides to put his japes and jabs to rest for now.
Briskly, he leads Geralt down a corridor and up a short set of stairs. This is to take him, of course, to the late Lord Alfr's quarters. Sleipnir opens the wooden door to the suite and gestures inward like a manservant, with another pleasant smile. ]
After you.
[ The room is nice enough, with a bed and a good set of shelves, if rather sparse in decor — such is the way of life on the Ishgardian front. Sleipnir doubts Geralt will mind. Most signs that a man was brutally maimed in the room have been scrubbed and cleaned away by now, though of course there's room for Geralt to find something the servants missed, with those bright golden eyes of his. ]
Your meals will be furnished thrice daily, all equipment and expenses paid for by the House. As I have nothing better to do, and Alfr is too dead to play a lively round of backgammon — [ okay, maybe he can't quite lay the jokes to rest ] — I will be on hand to assist with whatever you may need in your... hunt.
[ A slight bow. ]
Ever at your service! Think of me as your hound, if you wish.
[ That being said, when he straightens, he does lay his hand to rest on the sword that has been politely tucked into his waist sash this whole time. ]
[ Eccentricity in nobles isn't new, but this particular eccentricity is pointed. Geralt pauses, giving him a longer assessing look.
He's markedly pretty, undeniably. Takes care of himself; maybe searching for prospects, being the house's second son, or maybe just vain — but he's not wearing a scent, which might indicate pure vanity. He doesn't even smell like soap, Geralt realizes. He'd have to get too close for propriety to learn anything else.
Even Alfr's old quarters, clean as they are, carry a little of the scent of blood.
The silence is beginning to stretch into awkwardness. ]
Hunting hounds don't just answer questions and look pretty.
[ He's looking. How very amusing. Sleipnir rather likes being looked at. He tips his head to one side just slightly, still smiling, as if inviting Geralt's gaze still further.
This interest... might it turn into something of use, later? Something fun. ]
Would you like to test my mettle? Oh, we could have a fine duel, you and I.
[ The young nobleman says this with a glint in his steely eyes and the barest lilt of dark excitement in his voice. That in itself should tell Geralt something. Men who are skilled in the arts of war may be plentiful, but men who enjoy war are lunatics of a different breed entirely. His eyes are steady as they rest on Gerald's handsomely grizzled features. ]
[ He hasn't known Sleipnir long enough to really feel exasperated, but here he is, staring flatly back. ]
Here to find out who or what's killing people in your house, not play with swords.
[ And he's free to read that full of innuendo: it won't change anything — partly because it would be a very stupid, very shit idea to even etertain whatever that look meant with the younger lord of the house paying him for this job, but even so.
He tips his chin at Sleipnir, turning away to indicate the conversation's end. ]
Would you mind getting those notes from your brother, or whoever might have them? I'm gonna look over the room.
[ Sleipnir sighs and makes a sound. You're no fun, the sigh implies, with an added dose of as you wish. Then, with a slightly jaunty wave and a nod of his head, the nobleman turns around to do as his brother's hunter has suggested.
The records of their past attempts at exterminating the thing haunting House Harbard are delivered via squire later that evening. Sleipnir, it seems, is nowhere to be found, and has left Geralt to get the lay of their fortress-estate by himself.
Geralt will have just as much time as he needs to get his bearings before something happens in the night.
It starts, in the classic way, with a knock at his door, but the sound that emerges is not from a grown man's fist but a boy's. The squire from earlier is rapping at Geralt's door, and he sounds somewhat anxious. Geralt might be up already, in all honesty; some rumbling of activity in the hallway started some minutes prior, but when he opens the door he'll get his explanation.
The young boy looks up at him, bites his lip. "M-Master Geralt," he stammers, "come this way? L-Lord Sleipnir was a-attacked, see, by the beast —"
He's holding himself together rather admirably, but clearly the child is shaken. A chirurgeon in a white robe goes running down the corridor; some maidservants hastily pulling on their overgarments follow after, less because they'll be immediately useful and more because they want to see what's happened.
Young Lord Sleipnir, it seems, is alive. Not too grievously injured — Geralt will be able to tell that much just by looking at him. It just looks bad, the way the blood has seeped through that loose white shirt of his — apparently he wore it to bed, too — but none of his injuries are life-threatening. The chirurgeon is already bent over him, healing his wounds.
Claw marks along his ribs, a gash below his eye. It makes him look sort of rakishly dangerous as his blue eyes swivel up at Geralt, somehow mocking in spite of the way he's crumpled against the wall and heaving slow breaths. ]
Geralt. [ He's dropped the "Master" quickly. ] Shouldn't you be on its trail?
[ Geralt stands in the doorway for a moment, still fully dressed — wearing a studded leather jerkin, even, with a sword strapped to his back — and his bright gaze, unsurprised and analytical, flicks from the healer to Sleipnir. ]
There won't be one.
[ He pauses, twisting over his shoulder: there are servants behind him, trying surreptitiously to peer into the room and catch a glimpse of their lord. Unceremoniously and without asking, Geralt shuts the door. ]
Rather talk to you about it in private.
[ He's still behind the healer's back, so he shoots a meaningful glance for Sleipnir's benefit at him: in private and alone.
The healer looks up in indignation as Geralt invites himself close to the bedside. ]
Need to examine the wounds.
[ "I beg your pardon," the healer snaps, "my lord's health is not work for a mercenary."
Geralt casts him an exasperated look, and then, going over his head, looks to Sleipnir. ]
I can tell if you'll need an antivenom, and what kind, faster than he can.
[ He gestures bluntly to the healer. ]
He can just leave one of them alone, for now. Won't take long.
[ Sleipnir is not immune to a touch of impatience in these matters. Postpone his healing? And in private — why? He very nearly rolls his eyes. It comes out as a slightly impatient flutter of his lashes as his gaze flicks idly from the chirurgeon's staff to his own hand gripping his arm white to staunch the bleeding.
Still, he supposes, if this is not some paltry parlor act of Geralt's, he does at least see the merit in analyzing the wounds left by the beast to determine what it might be, or where it may have gone. He heaves a sigh, waving his hand as if to affect a sense of noble indifference. ]
...Leave me be, Harlan. Let him earn his coin.
[ "But, my lord —" ]
It is nothing I have not previously sustained.
[ The healer grumbles, but he relents after a moment, ceasing his work to take two paces away from Sleipnir's body. Then, seeming to recall that Geralt requested privacy, he turns on his heel. "I will be outside," the man says stiffly. "With the others," he adds after a pause, as if to threaten that he and the maidservants will burst in if they detect any hint of misbehavior.
Sleipnir waves his hand again impatiently, and then the man is gone.
There is — perhaps something of a story to be told here, in the way that Sleipnir seems very much the sort of arrogant lordling who has always been spoiled and doted upon and expected to produce nothing, and yet curiously knows Harlan by his name, and has affected that much loyalty from him and the other servants of their House. Ishgardian loyalties are often bought, yes, but to that degree...?
Regardless, it isn't the story that he needs to linger on in the moment.
The knight's gaze swivels back to Geralt's face as he, unprompted, loosens the collar of his shirt and pulls it apart for the "mercenary" to take a better look. Claw marks and blood; red lines through porcelain skin. No mottled blue or purple or green would suggest immediate signs of a toxin, but then Geralt would, ostensibly, have a better view of these things. ]
[ Geralt watches them, the way they interact: for all Sleipnir's theatrical mask of a lordling with a penchant for acrid mockery, he doesn't speak to the healer like one — and the healer, in turn, doesn't act like a man who's tired of petulance and mercurial demands.
That was all for him, then; a show, or a test, or plain old veiled hostility. Delightful. Great.
Geralt kneels beside him, not shy about leaving any polite space, and scrutinizes a red gash, bright eyes narrowed. There's obvious muscle tone with the shirt out of the way, as slender as Sleipnir's build is; combined with the offhand comment about injuries, it's likely he was an active knight for a time. Misses it, maybe, by his little challenge earlier. (No expensive scents, Geralt notes: vain in some ways, but markedly not in others.) ]
No venom.
[ He leans closer. His fingers, warm and callused, part the shallow cut just enough to examine the edges: unnaturally smooth. Not too deep, either, which is striking.
Geralt raises his eyes, straightening one one knee, and lifts his hand. ]
But there are traces of magic. Doesn't seem to be interfering with the healing, but it might have other effects.
[ He tips his chin at the door. ]
You obviously trust your healer. If you trust him enough not to repeat conversations, call him back in. He can finish while I tell you why I think you're dealing with a wraith.
[ Sleipnir sighs, scrunching his face up in a manner most unbecoming of the theatrical mask he was wearing before. A wraith. Excellent. Admittedly, Sleipnir has no knowledge of what one is, and has never had to see one, in a land normally besieged by dragons more so than ghouls. But it doesn't sound good, anyway. There is a side of him that vaguely wishes this could be Barnabas's problem instead.
The furrows between his brow soon return to their usual pristine neutrality. As Sleipnir opens his blue eyes, he lifts his voice just slightly, calling the conjurer back in: ]
Harlan, if you would?
[ The middle-aged Hyuran gentleman from earlier rushes back into the room with a bit of a frazzled fluttering of his robes, casting a curious glance between his lord and the newly hired mercenary before returning to the wounds he was attempting to treat.
Seemingly unbothered by either the healer's or the witcher's attentions, Sleipnir casts a lazy glance back towards Geralt, sighing. ]
Well, then. Describe to me the manner of beast we are facing.
[ Definitely a former knight, Geralt decides. He has his household's genuine respect.
He gets to his feet, pacing a little, gesturing as he explains. ]
Wraith — a type of ghost, but ghosts aren't necessarily harmful. Wraiths are, and they don't stop. Something anchors their souls here, a negative emotion — hatred, rage. Envy.
[ He turns back to the young lord, crouching on the balls of his feet in front of him, ignoring the healer as he works. ]
They can be dispelled, but only temporarily. Key to driving it away for good will be figuring out what binds it here and destroying that binding. Could be an object; could be something as abstract as an oath.
[ His eyes narrow a fraction, searching Sleipnir's hard. ]
Have to ask: how did you get away? Don't need to tell you that the rest of its victims so far were killed.
[ The question seems to take Sleipnir by surprise. It would be difficult to tell if Geralt were not keenly observant, but the young noble reacts with extremely, extremely mild consternation, and a slight curl of his fingers. The issue isn't deep; it's just that he's been asking himself the same question, and it chafes him to not have something witty to say in response. ]
I don't know.
[ He says this flatly, with no real intonation or sentiment behind the words. The amusement laid bare, for once. ]
It would be very amusing to say that it fled after I struck it. I did — once, and then a second time. But, nor being possessed of a corporeal form, the beast was unperturbed. I daresay it was rather unimpressed by my steel.
[ A wraith... a creature with some manner of grudge? Towards who, or what? House Harbard? Something else? ]
I can find no sense in it. [ Was there a specific thing that he did? He frowns as Harlan mends the broken skin over his chest; his eyes settle on the gleam in Geralt's catlike eyes. The young man looks younger with an almost-childish pout on his lips. ] I recall I shifted my sword stance. Perhaps that was it?
Somehow, I don't think a different stance would've changed much.
[ But he isn't lying, pretty clearly — which presents a new and maybe important twist. Geralt gets to his feet, pacing away, arms crossed. ]
Wraith like this wouldn't have been dissuaded by an audience, either — you would've just ended up with more bodies. Probably lucky for your house that nobody interrupted.
[ He pauses, jogging his leg in thought, staring at the wall, and pivots back to them. ]
Your death isn't its objective — but your torment might be. Any major decisions, lately? Call off any engagements, otherwise make any enemies? Lose any servants to... [ He makes a delicate motion, eyes sharp on Sleipnir's face. ] Unusual circumstances? Need to know the truth about all of this, or I can't help you. Keep in mind: could be about your older brother, too.
[ Sleipnir pauses. His steely blue eyes have turned distant, sifting through memories he thought long since forgotten and pushed to the wayside; it is plain to see, despite some attempt to remain casual and disconcerted, that Geralt's suggestions have found some mark. He is thinking of something, and something specific.
At length, when the conjurer has healed the young lord's wounds to a ruddy pink, Sleipnir lifts his hand in final dismissal. ]
Harlan, I have had enough. That will be all.
[ The requisite loyal servant's protestations must come forthwith. "But, milord —" ]
Please.
[ Sleipnir's tone is different then — again, no longer sly and teasing, but genuine and serious and solemn. Again, the House servants seem to know more about their lord than Geralt does; after a hefty pause, Harlan sighs, stands, and excuses himself, this time without the pointed judgment in Geralt's direction.
Once the door has closed behind the healer, Sleipnir begins again, though he doesn't, himself, rise from his bed. ]
Master Geralt. For the sake of your investigation, I will be frank with you, but — to use a very clichéd and hackneyed line, indeed an unrivaled classic —
[ As he speaks, he beckons the witcher closer. If he is humored, he leans close enough to Geralt's lips to taste his breath, and whispers: ]
— you are not to breathe a word of this to anyone else.
[ It's an imperious gesture, but Geralt expects no pleases or I pray yous or if you woulds from the second son of a house this steeped in wealth. He steps close to the side of the bed, plants a hand on one of the carved-wood columns, and leans down, at least outwardly willing to indulge.
Then Sleipnir moves in, more brazen and presumptuous than he's been yet. He could have tilted his chin up, beckoned again for the usual conspicuous whisper in the ear — but he chose to let his breath hit Geralt's rough jaw, instead, a teasing taste of intimacy. He's aware of how pretty he is, patently, and how to use it. On someone less experienced, less used to this particular kind of bullshit, it might have even worked.
Geralt tilts his head mildly toward him, meeting his eyes and calling his bluff in the same motion. Now their lips could brush with an accidental shift, an adjustment of Geralt's footing or Sleipnir's position against his pillows. Geralt keeps very still, eyes flatly calm and sharp. ]
Wouldn't get much work if I had a reputation for talking after jobs like this.
[ He tips his chin, a prompt that briefly changes the air in the scant distance between them. ]
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no subject
Geralt nods, voice low, but conversational: ]
Be relying on you, then, and I might need more than you think. Letter mentioned discretion — I'll do what I can, but I'll need to examine the location of every murder, and any notes your brother might have kept on what was found at the time. Also need your assurance that I have unrestricted access to the house — shouldn't need to see your quarters or your brother's, but crawlspaces, tunnels, cellars, locked rooms...
[ He turns over his palm. ]
All places something might come from at night.
no subject
But of course. You will not find any door in the fortress locked, save those barring the entrances to Barnabas's office and my quarters.
[ He really does turn his head this time, angling a catlike smile over his shoulder in Geralt's direction. Is he impressed? No; he'll be impressed when this witcher secures results. But he likes the attitude. The act. ]
Your respect towards our privacy is much appreciated, Master Geralt. The skeletons in my closet express their utmost gratitude for your discretion.
[ Surely he jests, but Sleipnir does look awfully like a man who might have skeletons in his closet, at least in the flickering torchlights. ]
Ah, yes... I believe you will be staying for some time? Will it be... distasteful, I wonder, to have you in poor Alfr's quarters for now? We've not seen hide or hair of the beast since his body was cleared from the room, and he was our cousin. I thought his space might be more comfortable than the stables.
[ ...And surely he jests about making Geralt sleep in the stables, but. ]
no subject
Works perfectly.
[ There's no sarcasm in it; it's flat and factual. He turns back to Sleipnir, watching him. ]
If it's something that can be heard at night, then the closer I am to its hunting grounds, the better the chances I'll be able to keep it from killing anyone else.
no subject
Briskly, he leads Geralt down a corridor and up a short set of stairs. This is to take him, of course, to the late Lord Alfr's quarters. Sleipnir opens the wooden door to the suite and gestures inward like a manservant, with another pleasant smile. ]
After you.
[ The room is nice enough, with a bed and a good set of shelves, if rather sparse in decor — such is the way of life on the Ishgardian front. Sleipnir doubts Geralt will mind. Most signs that a man was brutally maimed in the room have been scrubbed and cleaned away by now, though of course there's room for Geralt to find something the servants missed, with those bright golden eyes of his. ]
Your meals will be furnished thrice daily, all equipment and expenses paid for by the House. As I have nothing better to do, and Alfr is too dead to play a lively round of backgammon — [ okay, maybe he can't quite lay the jokes to rest ] — I will be on hand to assist with whatever you may need in your... hunt.
[ A slight bow. ]
Ever at your service! Think of me as your hound, if you wish.
[ That being said, when he straightens, he does lay his hand to rest on the sword that has been politely tucked into his waist sash this whole time. ]
no subject
He's markedly pretty, undeniably. Takes care of himself; maybe searching for prospects, being the house's second son, or maybe just vain — but he's not wearing a scent, which might indicate pure vanity. He doesn't even smell like soap, Geralt realizes. He'd have to get too close for propriety to learn anything else.
Even Alfr's old quarters, clean as they are, carry a little of the scent of blood.
The silence is beginning to stretch into awkwardness. ]
Hunting hounds don't just answer questions and look pretty.
[ He tips his chin toward the sword. ]
You know how to use that, or is it decoration?
no subject
This interest... might it turn into something of use, later? Something fun. ]
Would you like to test my mettle? Oh, we could have a fine duel, you and I.
[ The young nobleman says this with a glint in his steely eyes and the barest lilt of dark excitement in his voice. That in itself should tell Geralt something. Men who are skilled in the arts of war may be plentiful, but men who enjoy war are lunatics of a different breed entirely. His eyes are steady as they rest on Gerald's handsomely grizzled features. ]
no subject
Here to find out who or what's killing people in your house, not play with swords.
[ And he's free to read that full of innuendo: it won't change anything — partly because it would be a very stupid, very shit idea to even etertain whatever that look meant with the younger lord of the house paying him for this job, but even so.
He tips his chin at Sleipnir, turning away to indicate the conversation's end. ]
Would you mind getting those notes from your brother, or whoever might have them? I'm gonna look over the room.
no subject
The records of their past attempts at exterminating the thing haunting House Harbard are delivered via squire later that evening. Sleipnir, it seems, is nowhere to be found, and has left Geralt to get the lay of their fortress-estate by himself.
Geralt will have just as much time as he needs to get his bearings before something happens in the night.
It starts, in the classic way, with a knock at his door, but the sound that emerges is not from a grown man's fist but a boy's. The squire from earlier is rapping at Geralt's door, and he sounds somewhat anxious. Geralt might be up already, in all honesty; some rumbling of activity in the hallway started some minutes prior, but when he opens the door he'll get his explanation.
The young boy looks up at him, bites his lip. "M-Master Geralt," he stammers, "come this way? L-Lord Sleipnir was a-attacked, see, by the beast —"
He's holding himself together rather admirably, but clearly the child is shaken. A chirurgeon in a white robe goes running down the corridor; some maidservants hastily pulling on their overgarments follow after, less because they'll be immediately useful and more because they want to see what's happened.
Young Lord Sleipnir, it seems, is alive. Not too grievously injured — Geralt will be able to tell that much just by looking at him. It just looks bad, the way the blood has seeped through that loose white shirt of his — apparently he wore it to bed, too — but none of his injuries are life-threatening. The chirurgeon is already bent over him, healing his wounds.
Claw marks along his ribs, a gash below his eye. It makes him look sort of rakishly dangerous as his blue eyes swivel up at Geralt, somehow mocking in spite of the way he's crumpled against the wall and heaving slow breaths. ]
Geralt. [ He's dropped the "Master" quickly. ] Shouldn't you be on its trail?
no subject
There won't be one.
[ He pauses, twisting over his shoulder: there are servants behind him, trying surreptitiously to peer into the room and catch a glimpse of their lord. Unceremoniously and without asking, Geralt shuts the door. ]
Rather talk to you about it in private.
[ He's still behind the healer's back, so he shoots a meaningful glance for Sleipnir's benefit at him: in private and alone.
The healer looks up in indignation as Geralt invites himself close to the bedside. ]
Need to examine the wounds.
[ "I beg your pardon," the healer snaps, "my lord's health is not work for a mercenary."
Geralt casts him an exasperated look, and then, going over his head, looks to Sleipnir. ]
I can tell if you'll need an antivenom, and what kind, faster than he can.
[ He gestures bluntly to the healer. ]
He can just leave one of them alone, for now. Won't take long.
no subject
Still, he supposes, if this is not some paltry parlor act of Geralt's, he does at least see the merit in analyzing the wounds left by the beast to determine what it might be, or where it may have gone. He heaves a sigh, waving his hand as if to affect a sense of noble indifference. ]
...Leave me be, Harlan. Let him earn his coin.
[ "But, my lord —" ]
It is nothing I have not previously sustained.
[ The healer grumbles, but he relents after a moment, ceasing his work to take two paces away from Sleipnir's body. Then, seeming to recall that Geralt requested privacy, he turns on his heel. "I will be outside," the man says stiffly. "With the others," he adds after a pause, as if to threaten that he and the maidservants will burst in if they detect any hint of misbehavior.
Sleipnir waves his hand again impatiently, and then the man is gone.
There is — perhaps something of a story to be told here, in the way that Sleipnir seems very much the sort of arrogant lordling who has always been spoiled and doted upon and expected to produce nothing, and yet curiously knows Harlan by his name, and has affected that much loyalty from him and the other servants of their House. Ishgardian loyalties are often bought, yes, but to that degree...?
Regardless, it isn't the story that he needs to linger on in the moment.
The knight's gaze swivels back to Geralt's face as he, unprompted, loosens the collar of his shirt and pulls it apart for the "mercenary" to take a better look. Claw marks and blood; red lines through porcelain skin. No mottled blue or purple or green would suggest immediate signs of a toxin, but then Geralt would, ostensibly, have a better view of these things. ]
Well? Your verdict?
no subject
That was all for him, then; a show, or a test, or plain old veiled hostility. Delightful. Great.
Geralt kneels beside him, not shy about leaving any polite space, and scrutinizes a red gash, bright eyes narrowed. There's obvious muscle tone with the shirt out of the way, as slender as Sleipnir's build is; combined with the offhand comment about injuries, it's likely he was an active knight for a time. Misses it, maybe, by his little challenge earlier. (No expensive scents, Geralt notes: vain in some ways, but markedly not in others.) ]
No venom.
[ He leans closer. His fingers, warm and callused, part the shallow cut just enough to examine the edges: unnaturally smooth. Not too deep, either, which is striking.
Geralt raises his eyes, straightening one one knee, and lifts his hand. ]
But there are traces of magic. Doesn't seem to be interfering with the healing, but it might have other effects.
[ He tips his chin at the door. ]
You obviously trust your healer. If you trust him enough not to repeat conversations, call him back in. He can finish while I tell you why I think you're dealing with a wraith.
no subject
The furrows between his brow soon return to their usual pristine neutrality. As Sleipnir opens his blue eyes, he lifts his voice just slightly, calling the conjurer back in: ]
Harlan, if you would?
[ The middle-aged Hyuran gentleman from earlier rushes back into the room with a bit of a frazzled fluttering of his robes, casting a curious glance between his lord and the newly hired mercenary before returning to the wounds he was attempting to treat.
Seemingly unbothered by either the healer's or the witcher's attentions, Sleipnir casts a lazy glance back towards Geralt, sighing. ]
Well, then. Describe to me the manner of beast we are facing.
no subject
He gets to his feet, pacing a little, gesturing as he explains. ]
Wraith — a type of ghost, but ghosts aren't necessarily harmful. Wraiths are, and they don't stop. Something anchors their souls here, a negative emotion — hatred, rage. Envy.
[ He turns back to the young lord, crouching on the balls of his feet in front of him, ignoring the healer as he works. ]
They can be dispelled, but only temporarily. Key to driving it away for good will be figuring out what binds it here and destroying that binding. Could be an object; could be something as abstract as an oath.
[ His eyes narrow a fraction, searching Sleipnir's hard. ]
Have to ask: how did you get away? Don't need to tell you that the rest of its victims so far were killed.
no subject
I don't know.
[ He says this flatly, with no real intonation or sentiment behind the words. The amusement laid bare, for once. ]
It would be very amusing to say that it fled after I struck it. I did — once, and then a second time. But, nor being possessed of a corporeal form, the beast was unperturbed. I daresay it was rather unimpressed by my steel.
[ A wraith... a creature with some manner of grudge? Towards who, or what? House Harbard? Something else? ]
I can find no sense in it. [ Was there a specific thing that he did? He frowns as Harlan mends the broken skin over his chest; his eyes settle on the gleam in Geralt's catlike eyes. The young man looks younger with an almost-childish pout on his lips. ] I recall I shifted my sword stance. Perhaps that was it?
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Somehow, I don't think a different stance would've changed much.
[ But he isn't lying, pretty clearly — which presents a new and maybe important twist. Geralt gets to his feet, pacing away, arms crossed. ]
Wraith like this wouldn't have been dissuaded by an audience, either — you would've just ended up with more bodies. Probably lucky for your house that nobody interrupted.
[ He pauses, jogging his leg in thought, staring at the wall, and pivots back to them. ]
Your death isn't its objective — but your torment might be. Any major decisions, lately? Call off any engagements, otherwise make any enemies? Lose any servants to... [ He makes a delicate motion, eyes sharp on Sleipnir's face. ] Unusual circumstances? Need to know the truth about all of this, or I can't help you. Keep in mind: could be about your older brother, too.
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At length, when the conjurer has healed the young lord's wounds to a ruddy pink, Sleipnir lifts his hand in final dismissal. ]
Harlan, I have had enough. That will be all.
[ The requisite loyal servant's protestations must come forthwith. "But, milord —" ]
Please.
[ Sleipnir's tone is different then — again, no longer sly and teasing, but genuine and serious and solemn. Again, the House servants seem to know more about their lord than Geralt does; after a hefty pause, Harlan sighs, stands, and excuses himself, this time without the pointed judgment in Geralt's direction.
Once the door has closed behind the healer, Sleipnir begins again, though he doesn't, himself, rise from his bed. ]
Master Geralt. For the sake of your investigation, I will be frank with you, but — to use a very clichéd and hackneyed line, indeed an unrivaled classic —
[ As he speaks, he beckons the witcher closer. If he is humored, he leans close enough to Geralt's lips to taste his breath, and whispers: ]
— you are not to breathe a word of this to anyone else.
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Then Sleipnir moves in, more brazen and presumptuous than he's been yet. He could have tilted his chin up, beckoned again for the usual conspicuous whisper in the ear — but he chose to let his breath hit Geralt's rough jaw, instead, a teasing taste of intimacy. He's aware of how pretty he is, patently, and how to use it. On someone less experienced, less used to this particular kind of bullshit, it might have even worked.
Geralt tilts his head mildly toward him, meeting his eyes and calling his bluff in the same motion. Now their lips could brush with an accidental shift, an adjustment of Geralt's footing or Sleipnir's position against his pillows. Geralt keeps very still, eyes flatly calm and sharp. ]
Wouldn't get much work if I had a reputation for talking after jobs like this.
[ He tips his chin, a prompt that briefly changes the air in the scant distance between them. ]
Go on.