The Witcher: Lover's Decoction
The flutter of firefly wings dampened the sound of the Witcher slowly stepping thru the wet brush. The only remaining trace of moonlight, a shimmer trapped in his long white hair. His cat-like gaze transfixed between the tall blades of grass on his unsuspecting prey. It's wretched coughing and slurping ringing across the glade. Sometimes the Witcher's hearing was too good. And his smell. He could tell the age of the Water Hag just by its stink. Damn thing must've killed a Kikimore recently and was feeding. Now was the perfect time.
He reached inside a small satchel on his belt and fetched a glowing vial, and drank from it. Sharply, he inhaled to mask the sting of electricity as it jolted thru his veins. His yellow eyes dilated, and muscles grew tense. A lowly wolven growl echoed thru his head before giving way to the distant creature's foul heartbeat. A stretching, percolating sound.
Then all at once, from fifty paces away, Geralt sprung and bound thru the grass in a series of perfectly executed leaps. His quickness so barely perceptible it only just allowed the Water Hag time to turn and rear.
With a great sweeping wave from the Witcher's hand – a blizzard erupted, instantly encapsulating all but one of the Hag's flailing arms in crackling ice. Frozen but frantically clawing with it's still-exposed hand, the monster's once piercing shriek was now muted inside a cold glassy prison. The Witcher calmly stepped forward and locked eyes with the beast, inhaling it's stench, standing just an inch from it's scrambling reach. He unsheathed his sword and with one motion pivoted and drove it downward, cutting the arm away – leaving a howling glacier, with blood seeping thru its cracks.
“How do you like that silver?”
The Witcher smirked, and snapped his fingers. The frozen blades of grass underneath the glacier then swooned and caught fire, igniting the Hag's incendiary blood in an instant, and at once it began to boil. It's muted shriek bellowed, cracking the ice further. But as the ice melted, the flames grew hotter, and the shrieks louder. The fire grew until an eventual pop, and sizzle that drowned out the beast's final gurgle as it emulsified into a cackling pool of dripping black sludge.
Geralt whistled for his horse and unfastened an empty flask from his belt. He knelt down and carefully collected the sludge, then capped it and placed it in a saddlebag filled with herbs and flowers strapped to his trusty steed, Roach.
“Just don't tell Yen where her favorite perfume comes from,” he confided to Roach, who assuringly brayed as he mounted.
“Strange to think that something so foul can create such an intoxicating aroma… “
The morning sun began to crest over the distant ridge of Toussaint.
“… think I'm finally starting to understand why she likes me.”
Geralt clicked his tongue and away they rode, destined for Yennefer's fragrant embrace. Another day plucked from the wind, the Witcher bade the world of monsters farewell for now, but promised his return again, come nightfall.
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