Being a Witcher involves a lot unpleasant things and quite few perks. Some would think the latter to outshine the dirt, the days without food, the initiation with a high chance of death and overall, the life on the spectrum of life where each pair of eyes either wants to claim you for dinner in the most gruesome way or spit you between the eyes for being a mutant or worse so, an "emotionless" abomination.

And for what? An ode, a creed, a bag of coins from time to time.

Being a Witcher had to be more than that, otherwise there would be no Witchers at all, just madmen with too much power, weilding swords and becoming what they have been created to destroy. There... created to destroy, that is what being a Witcher was truly about.

The Continent was purged by monsters. Small, big, stinking of rotten flesh or oderless, eating fresh humans, dwelling in graves, the Witcher stood between those atrocious beings and the civilians. May the kingdom life be as corrupted as they wish, but monsters were the only common enemy for them all. On that very fine line between man and monster, the Witcher's roamed the land, homeless dark riders, with a reputation that made many brothels close the door in their face, many cities turn them away.

But one thing was certain, when a monster terrorized a town and dozens of their best men died trying to help, there was always a Witcher to be paid to do the job. Expensive, but effective, that's how they have always been and will never cease to be until their rare kind dies out in the ignorance of the people.

Being a Witcher meant one more thing though: expecting a sword will be hovering your shoulder, pressing bluntly to your neck, when your world was less unfortunate and the steam of a bath still clung to the atomsphere of a cheap room. Beads of cleaner sweat decorated his skin in crystal like spots, flickering by the rhythm of just three candle lights.

Geralt found himself holding nothing in his hand or on him. Naked, with his back to the danger, all he could do was growl in annoyance, warning whoever interrupted his night of quiet after days on horseback, might as well just kill themselves before he turns around. But the sword was not shaking and the blade was pressed to his neck's skin.

The true disarming act was hearing the voice behind him and the metallic threat. A woman's voice echoed the night trapped in old wood of an even older tavern. "You are here to hunt a monster, Witcher."

Her words were stating the very obvious so Geralt wasting no breath on words. A hum proved a sufficient enough answer, succumbed in sarcasm and the uncomfortable state he was in. Then, upon trying to look over his shoulder at this foolish maiden, the sword twisted and threatened to bring out blood by hiw firmly it remained against his skin. It was a warning to not turn around.

"That monster is mine," the woman continued, with a phrase very uncommon lately for him to hear from the fairer kind's lips. Some men were foolishly brave so to speak in hoping they would steal away a Witcher's bounty, but even rarer was the sight of spiteful-strong women taking this path to a public perdition.

Uninterested in speaking, Geralt did what he knew best after decades in the business: paid attention to his surroundings and the obvious. The fact that he did not hear her come in while he took a bath, and by the angle of the sword, he could already tell the woman was just a bit shorter than him, slender or underfed. A sheepish glance to the side, in the large couldron in which now brownish water lingered with the foam of an old soap on top, allowed him a distorted vision to a familiar face.

The challenge was remembering her name.

Azaras was taught court patience that died the second she left her kingdom and got faced with the darker corners of the world, the meaner side of things. The naked back of a silent Witcher was filling her with blinding rage, rather than nervousness, because it meant he would stand, ultimately, between her and her revenge, when she's only been so close. Her mouth opened and the words never left it.

"Azaras?"

His voice was more familiar than any bodily aspect. Faces change, people don't wear the same clothes each time paths cross, but his voice, Azaras was sure it was the same and all of sudden, she felt like quite the fool for not having recognized him sooner. The white hair may have been cleaner back in the day, but it was distinguishable even in the orange hue of dancing flames.

"Geralt," she breathed out a less strong acknowledgment. Her voice was sharp edged with her threats, but the punctuation left room for air in this last obviousness, when her sword left his neck and she lowered it down all the way, before an acquaintance from a past almost too old for her to remember.

Was he a ghost from another life?

Has there ever been another life before she sat on this journey?

It's been so long since the sun kissed her cheeks and she just sat down, letting it roam her skin with warmth, too much time has passed since the songs of the forests and the rivers have been reaching her ears without the noise of sorrow, grief, of regret and blood... And Geralt. Azaras forgot to remember him in her darkest hours until he spoke her name again.

In that moment, when he turned around, her mind has drifted off, back to the memory to which he belong. A night riddled with fireworks played again for her; a summer dream made flesh, with music sounding deep into the market of Arcapan, and in the midst of it, he was there, much too unbothered to wear one of their hay masks. Tipsy on ale... Azaras felt the tingle of spirits back on her tongue, though she had not tasted the refreshing release in a while.

"What are you doing here?" Geralt prompted the most relevant question for him to express. Behind his eyes, into his thoughts, a speck of color exploded. If he ever hoped to meet Azaras again, it was not this context he would have imagined for them.

There were plenty observations he was never going to voice straight away. For once, she looked tired. The nights have not been kind to her and her days must have been too long and tiresome to comprehend. There were weeks of travel from where they were now and Arcapan.

He did not remember Azaras ever holding a sword as firmly as she did before.

A more intuitive and sensitive question would have been of him to ask what truly happened for her to be there. But then again, once one hears the unanimous opinion of the world for too long, they start pretending to comply the description just to make the voices cease to bother. Witchers were emotionless.

"Hunting a monster." Azaras answered bluntly and almost as swiftly as he sword returned to her scabbard. "Have you not been paying attention?"

"To your nonsense of a threat there? I hoped you weren't serious."

His bitter sincerity was met by a lack of emotion from the woman whose eyes used ro reflect lights. Now, she looked at Geralt and he saw the lack of life in them. "I am serious. Step aside from this one, that monster is mine to kill. Once I am done with it though, since I know you Witchers love your coin, feel free to claim the bounty for it. Couldn't care less... Do we have a deal?"

Geralt saw her determination but did not get over the doubt, the stoicism and the overall reputation which made out his surface personality. A brutal protective position defined him most of the times.

"Do you at least know the name of the beast you are hunting?" He chose the superiority play as an approach, until he understood the judgment or the lack of it, hidden behind Azaras actions.

"No," Azaras answered without hesitation. Shameless she was, for in her vision, she didn't need to know more about a monster than the fact that they exist in order to drive her sword, or arrows, for Geralt notice the quiver too, through their skull.

But there was the trick: sometimes, stabbing a monster would not be enough. Some monsters can survive that basic maneuver and they require far more elaborate processes to be extinguished. To know how to kill a monster, one must know their name and have an overall knowledge of the monster compendium.

"You want to kill a monster, but you don't even know what it is?" Geralt was quick to bring his tone lower, criticize and forget all about their positions, their posture, their appearance. It wasn't until then, when Azaras' eyes glanced down his body, that Geralt became aware truly of his nakedness. With a grunt, he complied to her dominantly wordless answer and turned around, walking to the creaky low bed he left his dirty clothes on.

He had in plan to wash them, but now, that had to be scratched off his possibilities for the stay in this forgotten small village, border with a rocky valley, once a mine. Paths led him there from the word of rumors. The people of this village stopped working in the mines a couple of years ago as they have lost founding. Recently though, almost everyone's been reporting weird sounds coming from those parts and all who have been sent down there never returned. The chosen leader of the village was going to pay a handful to Geralt for going down into the valley with the mines himself, not only to report back if there are bodies to be buried, but also slay whatever inhumane beast laid its nest there when they weren't looking.

Good money.

Coins he'll do either way, according to Azaras' deal. He simply disliked anything else but working alone.

A part of him highly doubted this frail version of a cheerful royalty he once knew could ever make it out of those mine alone too.

"Fine," Azaras was not discouraged by his abrasive facade. She followed after him, leaving just enough space for the massive man to dress comfortably and not stumble over her presence, otherwise already loud. "Then what sort of monster is this? What is it called, oh, great Witcher?"

To mockery, Geralt could only stiffen a laugh into a huff. "I don't know," he admitted. "But when I will see it, I will be able to tell, unlike you. Whatever are you even doing all the way across the Continent, hunting monsters!" Desperation finally reached him clarity after pulling on his pants. Tying them got him raisig his golden gaze and narrowing it on the woman, again assertive, "Was the court duty not enough for you, so you thought you'd cause some drama?"

It left a bitter taste for Azaras to hear that so rasping.

Discomfort colored her in a grimace and loss of any sort of variables in her tonality. "It's personal. That monster crippled Sylvain."

Geralt took a moment to process, to try and remember any relevant people in her life that could fit the name. Their history together was not too vast, but it was meaningful enough for his hum to get his head to lower in a nod, "Your brother."

"Ate both his legs, right in front of me. I may not know that thing's name, but I sure as Hell know how it looks."

Geralt pulled on his shirt, but he left it unbuttoned for current comfort, just so he may concentrate on concealing feeling a discomfort to know the reason of her current appearance be so violent. "And this happened when... a month ago?"

His guess was far off.

Azaras managed a little smile, ironic and pained. "Two years ago."

Only the orange flicker burning away yellow wax was a sound left to whimper in the distance between them.

"I've been hunting this thing for two years, Geralt and I am certain this is it. Do not take it from me."

Their eyes were locked to stare. He knew enough about Azaras of Arcapan to remember her father's obsession with having a son. And by tradition, if the son of the family was not a first born and it has been incapacitated tremendously, then they are no longer heir, but the role moves on to the first born, be them a woman.

He knew now that he was looking in the eyes of someone who had no choice but to move on from the lands of her home, find refuge in revenge. Were she to have stayed, her parents would have found a way to kill her in their obsession.

Azaras was aware she had been born, seemingly, unlucky.

What Geralt also knew was that there were ppenty rumors which passed the ears of Witchers as part of their job. "You've been hunting other monsters too," he noted, hoping for both their sakes she had been lucky enough latelt for her answer to be negative.

"No, Geralt, of course not, because travelling the Continent as a woman wearing even the slightest visible armour is definitely not going to draw out wretched men and filthy creatures of the night."

Unappreciative of her bitter sarcasm, Geralt lifted his gaze and Azaras could finally tell, for some reason, he was angered. "The Garkain near Hagge?" Azaras nodded, slightest bit suspicious and her confirmation flipped the switch to truer rage in the Witcher. "That was another Witcher's bounty. For two years, we've been having hunts gets swiped from under our noses. You have a death on sight sentence on your head."

Initially, there was shock. Azaras never meant to steal from anybody, though circumstances have pushed her to swipe some bread in markets when there was time. Similarly, the only reason for her ever stealing a hunt from a Witcher was a need for self-defense. She gained practice out of it, sure, but mainly, all she ever did was survive.

Last she remembered, this was the first time a Witcher got to a scene before her, which is why she even planned to give him the opportunity of an introduction of the situation.

Finally, after getting switched with anger too along the way, her expression was netural. Azaras sighed, "Do we have a deal or not, Geralt? I am going aftet that monster either way, I just need to know you will not stand between me and my quest."

"Did you not hear me, woman?" He took a step closer, barely keeping his frustration locked in place. "I should be killing you right now..." It was almost too obvious that he too knew he was not capable of doing that. Not then, not ever. Because even Geralt knew Azaras could have become many things, but she was not stupid enough to deliberately provoke the entire wrath of his kind.

"Then do it," Azaras voiced, "just let me kill that thing first."