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π–Žπ–Ž. 𝔣𝔦𝔀π”₯𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱π”₯𝔒 π”΄π”žπ”―π”€ (π”­π”žπ”―π”± 𝔱𝔴𝔬)

RUSELM'S BESTIARY
CHAPTER TWO ─ FIGHT OF THE WARG, PART TWO



'SHIT' WAS POSSIBLY the only viable word running through Ruselm's mind. He knew there wasn't much else he could do once the warg was behind him, breathing the smell of death onto the back of his neck. As soon as he turned to look back over his shoulder, the young man would find himself in a fight for his life so he continued to stare forward, towards the river. He had no idea how long the warg would wait like this, in this little cat and mouse game of theirs, but Ruselm had to push himself to think.

What else could he do?

Ruselm was cornered. With the beast at his back, there was nowhere to go. The tree he took shelter behind was on his right, another tree at his left. Ahead was the now-torrential river, behind was the monster. Her soft growl grew in volume, a reminder of the danger he'd willingly walked into.

What was it he'd said to Luvrad and Ben? Congratulations on surviving, lads, wargs don't usually let their prey get away. How ironic. Just fantastic.

If he ran now, the warg would be upon him in a matter of seconds, if he even managed to get a few feet ahead. That was a matter of receiving Lady Luck's blessing. He wasn't feeling particularly blessed at the moment. Or the other option, if he turned, he'd come face-to-face with the she-beast and be devoured and that would be the end of the adventurer extraordinaire he so aspired to become. That's it! That was the unfortunate end.

He might as well accept his fate now.

Ruselm of Nazair, They'd say once he was gone. Dead because of his own foolishness! Though, now that the wheels in his mind were finally turning after their barrage of creative insults at his intelligence, Ruselm began to think more and more about his options. He knew how crazy this thought was in his head, but... what else could he do? Running meant dying. Staying meant dying. Turning meant dying. Facing, however?

Well, he'd find that out for himself.

As slowly as he could move, inch by inch, Ruselm turned his head to face the she-warg behind him. The beast's dark manlike eyes glittered with human malice, her canine fangs and dagger-sharp teeth were an ugly shade of pale yellow, as Ben had described, and the red stain of blood persisted even as saliva dripped from her teeth. Ruselm stared at the stains as rain continued to pour down on them, wondering briefly if his blood would soon mingle with the life-force of countless others this warg had killed.

She narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly and was unaffected by the water streaming in rivulets down her muzzle, hot breath fanning over Ruselm's face. And, for the moment, he was still alive. Somehow.

The Nazairian tried to make himself look bigger, puffing out his chest and rising to his feet. Even standing, his head only came to the height of the warg's massive brown shoulder. She towered ominously over him as a lion above his prey. Her growl ripped through the air and was the only thing he could hear over the constant drum of rain in Ruselm's ears.

Is this where I die?

They stared at each other, eye-to-eye.

Is this where it gets me?

The warg pounced, a movement that happened so fast Ruselm barely had time to roll out of the way and escape her outstretched claws. His left shoulder began to burn but he didn't dare take the time to look at it, for fear of slowing down and losing his life as a result. For once in his miserable life, Ruselm found himself scared of the mess he'd gotten into. Death was a real and imminent danger! If he didn't wise up soonβ€”

She slammed snout-first into the tree he'd been hiding behind, a pained yowl escaping her throat as Ruselm took off in the opposite direction as fast as he could. The young author knew this warg would only be stunned for a few moments, although it granted him precious time that he didn't previously possess. He had to think, and fast.

Legs pumping as fast as he could get them to move, Ruselm bounded away from the river's edge and deeper into the forest he'd come from; jumping over a fallen log as he not-so skillfully lost the foot trail the locals had steadily worn into the earth, losing all sense of direction as adrenaline rushed through his veins faster than the river surging downstream. His heart was racing in his chest. His mind turned over itself. His breath came in gasps. The textile feeling in Ruselm's fingers faded as he could only stare forward, everything beyond his peripheral vision fading to complete darkness.

He was panicking.

The beast howled somewhere behind him. It was a promise of vengeance for the ache in her snout, and if he listened hard enough he could hear the warg gaining on him as she tore violently through the forest after him. After her big game, her quarry.

That's what he was. Prey. And the hunter was hot on his heels.

Ruselm slid under a half-rotten log that rested across another tree. The downpour of rain had turned the dirt soft and mushy underfoot by now. He slid quite easily, mud caking the bottom of his boots. Once he was clear of the log, Ruselm sprang upright and began running once more.

A resounding crack! echoed throughout the forest as the she-warg, confident and supercilious, charged into the log he'd managed to slip under. She barreled her way through it, unfazed, completely shattering the wood before the immense power and strength that rested within her very bones. If he weren't fearing for his life, Ruselm would admire how unbothered the warg was after such an act but with her feverish barks and howls growing in volume, he couldn't focus on anything else.

He was running out of places to go. If Ruselm kept pushing forward, the warg would catch up. She'd eat him. If he turned left or right, there was no telling what was in either direction.

The village was not an option. He couldn't endanger the people there.

Where could he go? Where could he hide? How could he escape? His mind pushed for answers, fear high in his throat and heart beating a drum only he could hear.

No village, no trees, no caves would stop her from pursuing him. She would track him to the ends of the earth because wargs don't usually let their prey get away. Running meant dying. Hiding meant dying. Staying meant dying. Options were running out.

Ruselm couldn't catch his breath. His limbs were becoming tired, aching from the sudden exertion of the chase. He dashed between a thicket of trees that had grown particularly close together, hoping at the very least that the warg would have to go around in order to get to him and follow the path.

The sounds the beast was making, her growls, barks, and panting suddenly became quiet. Only the sound of the rain on the canopy above and ground surrounding him was heard.

He found a thick tree to hide behind if only to catch his breath for a moment, leaning his back against the rough bark wearily. His head rolled back and Ruselm closed his eyes, still not able to catch his breath. Why couldn't he breathe? Gods above, why couldn't he breathe?

The forest had grown silent, the howling of the she-warg replaced by one long, mournful bay that echoed even over the euphony of the rainstorm. Ruselm didn't notice how silent it was at first, panting heavily, until he risked a glance behind him where the beast last was. And she was there all right; she was there and standing over her eerily limp body, blade of his sword coated in her sickly black blood, was a big lean, muscled man with unusually stark white hair who caught Ruselm's gaze immediately. He saw a traveler's black outfit of leather and light armor, two swords strapped to his back save for the one he held in his hand just now.

Ducking back behind the tree, he gulped for air. Ruselm still wasn't breathing properly. His head was spinning and buzzing at the same time, the sensation like an annoying fly near his ear that he couldn't shake away. He was acutely aware of the stranger's approaching footsteps, the rain beginning to lighten up to a small drizzle, and he didn't know what to do. Ruselm opened his mouth to form words from his racing thoughts but nothing came out.

His savior rounded the corner of the tree, amber catlike eyes narrowed into a hard scrutinization of Ruselm's disheveled appearance.

Startled, Ruselm reached out to push a hand between them. This stranger was unknown to the Nazairian, he didn't even know if he could be trusted. Right now, he desperately needed space. He needed time to recuperate if only his damned breath would catch!

As if sensing Ruselm's problem, the newcomer grabbed onto his outstretched hand, placing his own on Ruselm's right shoulder as if to steady him. The sky was darkening rapidly but in the dying light, the author caught sight of a wolf's head medallion hanging around this lovely stranger's neck; a witcher. He'd been saved by a witcher! He wanted to laugh at his luck but he quickly became dizzy and leaned further against the witcher.

"Breathe," the witcher instructed him. His voice was low-pitched and gruff as though it were rolled twice over in gravel and tough things like bark, or rocks. "You're hyperventilating. You need to calm down β€” I killed the warg. Breathe. You're safe now."

"Shit..." Ruselm tried to do as instructed. "My chest hurts!"

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the breathing. In and out, Ruselm, his mind was instructing. In and out. The air was coming into his lungs easier now as his racing heart finally slowed and weariness filled his limbs. The lightheaded feeling vanished and Ruselm opened his eyes again, staring directly into the witcher's darkly magnificent eyes which so vividly reminded him of his childhood cat, Bliska.

Words became suddenly easier. "I..." he started but stopped, suddenly unable to continue. What was he to say? Gratitude was in order, of course, although Ruselm was all too embarrassed about needing to be saved. Had the gods above granted him this miracle? "What's your name?"

The witcher's expression remained stoic. "Geralt of Rivia." His answer was flawless, his Rivian accent authentic enough to fool anyone.

"Geralt..." Ruselm tested the name quietly before realizing he was still leaning against the witcher. He pulled back a step and noticed how his hands still shook from the excitement of the chase, his left shoulder beginning to throb and ache persistently. Ruselm tried not to let his eyes stray to the dead warg over Geralt's shoulder, though the curiosity to look burned itself into him. He kept his eyes on Geralt's. "Geralt, thank you. For saving my life. I owe you the deepest debt of gratitude."

"You owe me nothing," Geralt retracted his hand and sheathed his sword at his back in a single fluid movement.

"I owe you everything!" Ruselm effused assiduously as the witcher turned away from him. He followed. "I would be dead or, well, just dead! If you hadn't shown up when you did, ha-ha!" The laughter escaped Ruselm's lips effortlessly, tumbling from him in an excited manner which was due to the adrenaline that was still keeping him on his feet as they spoke. "Thank the gods for that splendiferous, serendipitous occurrence!"

Geralt's eyes scanned the warg laying dead in front of them. The sight of her made Ruselm pause, a glimmer of doubt running through his body. Such a majestic beast... dead. Even if she had nearly consumed him for her own driving hunger, the scene of her uncouth death made Ruselm hesitate.

The witcher picked up on his silence.

"Why were you out here?"

Ruselm swallowed thickly, half-tempted to lie and conceal the truth that he was an idiot. "I was, er, well you seeβ€”"

Geralt turned ever so slowly to look at him, fixing the Nazairian with an unamused gaze. He stood at least a whole head taller than Ruselm and his hulking mass was intimidating. The author suddenly began to question if it was wise to lie to such an unnerving presence; one that had saved his life, at that. The lie looked suddenly unappealing. What was he thinking?

"I came to see the warg."

The witcher scoffed once. Rolled his eyes. "That was moronic."

"Well, I know that now!" Ruselm retorted, heat rising up the back of his neck. He crossed his arms but winced when the cuts on his left shoulder protested at the movement, wailing in pain. "Ouch, shit!"

Geralt's rigid glare was focused on the author again as he looked down at his shoulder, attention drawn back onto him at the sound of Ruselm's discomfort. Blood oozed silently out of the wounds which were three long and jagged claw marks the warg had managed to carve into his olive skin. It looked, and felt, painful. Ruselm was prodding gingerly at his broken skin when Geralt approached and shoved a white cloth over the wounds.

He squeaked quietly but withered under the witcher's firm gaze and fell silent.

With the soft patter of the light drizzle on the canopy, the world itself was nearly noiseless between Geralt and Ruselm until the witcher opened his mouth to speak more than he had since he'd encountered the warg crashing through the trees to get to Ruselm. His voice was sharp and reprimanding, condescending in a way that the young Nazairian supposed he rightfully deserved, as Geralt kept the cloth pressed against his injured shoulder with unyielding pressure.

"You're lucky you've only gotten away with a scrape like this. Wargs don't stop!" Geralt snapped. He wouldn't look at Ruselm's face. "Wargs are relentless hunters who have no care if you live or die, they only hope it is they who be granted the pleasure to end your life. All for the better for them; they enjoy playing with live prey. I don't know if you're stupid or just plain idiotic but dying is easy! Living is harder. If you want to show your gratitude to me, do me a favor and keep yourself alive, will you? Accomplish something, I don't care, just stop being so damned foolish."

Ruselm ducked his head, unable to look anywhere near the witcher.

His cheeks burned. He knew exactly what Geralt was saying, and that it was true. The facts didn't comfort Ruselm, though, he still felt abashed that this absolute stranger was sitting here telling him these things when he already knew. The old saying among the elderly townswomen is that hindsight appears as near-perfect vision. Looking back, Ruselm could see how his actions were reckless and misguided.

Facing Death and staring into her black eyes had an unusual way of entirely changing the priorities of the aspirant.

"I'll be more careful in the future," Ruselm found himself saying. He looked up into Geralt's amber eyes, awed at their distinctive qualities. These were eyes he had seen in his dreams; the reminder bewildered him. "I'm Ruselm of Nazair."

Geralt raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall asking."

"There was no need." He shrugged with only his right shoulder, being careful not to move his left while the stalwart witcher lifted the edge of the blood-soaked cloth to peer at his wounds beneath. The bleeding had lessened but Ruselm's head still spun. The sight of his own blood wasn't helping, either.

"Hmm." The witcher hummed but remained otherwise mute.

Ruselm wondered briefly if the conversation with Geralt was always this one-sided and dry. He decided to try again for his curiosity about this witcher, this savior of his, was growing tenfold with every second that passed between them. He wanted to learn everything he could about this mysterious figure who kept his eyes averted.

"You're a witcher."

A statement, not a question. Geralt only nodded once.

"So you must know everything there is to know about monsters, then." Another nod. "And beasts."

Geralt sighed deeply through his nose, taking a controlled breath. "Where are you going with this?"

Ruselm grinned slightly, the action a suspicious little thing to the witcher that promised trouble to come. He tilted his head to the side and ran a hand through his shoulder-length black hair. "I'm a writer," he explained to Geralt, watching as understanding dawned in his eyes. "I wasn't entirely foolish when I had the mind to come out here. It wasn't for entertainment, it was for research."

"You're writing a bestiary." Geralt pieced the clues together easily, eyes flickering down to Ruselm's hands. His olive fingers were slim and elegant, fingers that were used to wielding a quill and writing faster than should be humanly possible. The witcher's own curiosity was making an appearance now. "Why?"

"I have very good reason," Ruselm inclined his head. "You've surely read the common folk's bestiary?"

"Of course."

"To put it politely: it's shit." This comment earned a small snort of amusement from Geralt. Ruselm's grin only grew at the encouragement. "It is! You find it funny because it's true. Well, not mine. Mine will be nothing like that, just you wait, Geralt of Rivia. Someday you will pick up my bestiary and you will realize you've saved me for a good reason!"

Geralt checked his shoulder again, listening mutely before pulling away from the wound. Blood had stopped gushing out but the gashes were deep enough that stitches would be a necessary precaution. The witcher pointed a finger at his shoulder. "Go back to the village and see a healer. The warg cut you deeply."

Ruselm shifted slightly, glancing back at the dead warg. "I can't leave now!" He protested. "I have to draw her, examine her more closely. There's more to learn than what's on the surface."

The white-haired man crossed his arms cynically. "You'll pass out before that happens."

"Then maybe you should stay with me to make sure I don't die."

"That's not my responsibility." Geralt frowned slightly, the corners of his lips being pulled downward with displeasure.

Ruselm shrugged but walked unsteadily towards the warg where she lay. He leaned down and reached out a hand to rest on her unmoving side, admiring with appreciation how soft but tough her handsome russet coat of fur was against his palm. What a gorgeous creature.

Her passing was a loss to the world that only few could see. Ruselm felt as if he would be the only one saddened by her passing. After all, hadn't he been trespassing onto her territory? Hadn't he been the one, and not the warg, who was poking his nose where it didn't belong? Isn't that what the villagers and travelers were doing, too? He sighed softly and sank to his knees.

She knew no other way of life, Ruselm's mind whispered. And now she'll rest. She will know peace; no hunger, no anger, no fear. Only peace.

At least now the she-warg could harm no more innocent villagers or guarded men like Ben and Luvrad, who had managed to escape her wrath but had inevitably brought about her death. If Ruselm had not gone out to seek the wolf-like creature, then the gods above would not have been made to send Geralt to save him; thus, her life would not have been so violently vanquished.

Either way, the warg would end up inside of the bestiary.

Ruselm, being careful of his shoulder, pulled his leather-bound journal from the depths of his brown coat, half-surprised to see that it was still with him even after the running and jumping and sliding about he'd had to do in order to escape the jaws of death. Behind him, Geralt groaned slightly and walked closer to stand just behind the olive-skinned Nazairian. He stopped behind Ruselm's shoulder, staring down at the pages as he flipped through them.

"You're really going to sit here and draw the beast?"

Without a word, Ruselm nodded and, with a flourish, produced his white quill and ink well. When the witcher opened his mouth to speak, he abruptly closed it and uncrossed his arms. He leaned on a tree beside them, watching in silence as Ruselm crafted the most intricately detailed and delicate depiction of a warg that he had ever laid eyes on.

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