Chapter Text
Jaskier hums the beginnings of a new song while he leaves the village behind. His lute is in its case on his back, and his clothes are gratifyingly clean and dry. The town hadn’t had a bard pass through in a while, and they had been more than happy to receive him. He got a few nights in a comfortable bed, a few decent meals, his clothes washed, and more than a few coins to stash away, now softly clinking together in the pouch at his belt.
He’d almost gotten a roll in the hay with that beautiful brunette as well. The woman had unexpectedly slid into his lap after his last performance, and he’d thought himself lucky. But, the mayor’s wife had been trying to make her husband jealous more than she’d been trying to sleep with him. It had gotten him the first hostile looks since he’d arrived in town a few days prior, and Jaskier had quickly pulled his hands away from where he’d slid them around the woman’s waist, and decided the taste of her lips wasn’t really worth getting run out of town for.
It was time for him to go anyway, and he’s happy to be on the road again. He grins and thinks about the woman’s mischievous brown eyes and knowing smile as her husband stared at him with an impressive scowl on his face. She’d known exactly what she was doing. He hopes she’s gotten a good night, regardless he’s not the one who got to enjoy it with her. The situation is highly amusing in retrospect, and he thinks that maybe, he’ll be able to make it into a song. He hums again, and thinks of the positions of his fingers on the strings as he visualises the chords that make up the melody.
The mayor says he’s not of jealous constitution
His wife disagrees, offers her contribution
She is more than happy to demonstrate
Even decent men turn reprobate
When she sits on my thighs, and tells me sweet lies, he can no longer hide his true—
Jaskier cuts off when there is a sound from the forest next to the narrow path he’s traversing. He shifts his lute to have the leather strap a little more centred on his chest, and takes a quick glance forward and behind him. The path is empty, and he hasn’t come across a fellow traveller in hours. He looks toward the forest, trying to see through the dense underbrush of trees. It’s just after midday, the sun high in the sky, but it’s relatively dark under the canopy, and he tells himself he’s not curious enough what made the noise of snapping wood to go look.
“Okay,” he murmurs under his breath. “Time to put a little spring in my step, and keep silent while I’m at it.”
He can’t entirely remember how long it is to the next town, but he’s pretty sure it was at least two or three days' travel on foot. It means he’s going to be sleeping out in the open tonight. Though the sound could very well have been the old branch of a dead tree breaking off, there is an uncomfortable clench in the pit of his stomach, and he knows better than to ignore it. There are hours left until sunset, and he wants to use the time to get as far away from this dark patch of forest as possible.
He turns back in the direction he was going in, and starts walking at a quicker pace. He keeps an ear out for noises coming from the forest, but there is nothing more than the sound of leaves, quietly rustling in the wind.
After he’s practically speed-walked for an hour his feet are getting sore, and sweat is gathering at his temples. He hasn’t heard anything since that unexpected snapping noise, and he starts to feel a little ridiculous. Still, he’s been on the road a few seasons now, and he knows to be cautious. He’ll never be the most careful man, but he knows well enough to get out when something feels dodgy. So, he walks in silence for another hour at least, until he can’t help it any longer.
He starts humming under his breath, his voice getting louder the longer he walks without any strange noises or happenings. By the time the sun is creeping its way toward the horizon and light has gotten low, he has forgotten all about it.
—000—
When Jaskier wakes up, the light is uncommonly bright to his eyes, and he has to squint against it. He’s not sure he remembers going to sleep the previous night, and briefly accuses himself of gulping down the bottle of Toussainti wine he’d filched from the inn, leaving a few crowns in its place.
There is something moist and sticky around his mouth, and before he thinks better of it, he wipes it away with his sleeve. He grumbles a bit, blinking rapidly as he sits up. Now he’s going to be forced to find a stream to wash the wine out of his doublet before it stains.
Slowly but surely the world comes into focus in the low morning light, and he realises it’s strange for it to be so blinding, seeing as he’s under the cover of trees.
It must be the hangover.
He rubs his hands over his face, and realises that as he does so, the strange metallic scent that hangs in the air gets stronger. When he pulls his hands away to look at his palms, he stiffens. There are red stains on the skin, some of it dried and flaking in the creases.
It’s very definitely not wine.
Now that he’s identified it, the scent of blood is overwhelmingly present, sharp and spicy in his nose and on his tongue. To his horror, saliva floods his mouth, and when he licks his lips the metallic tang of it is a pleasant sensation, one that has warmth rushing through his limbs.
Panicked, he slides his hands over his arms, chest and legs, trying to find the wound he’s bleeding from. All he finds is a tender spot on his lower left abdomen, and he realises if it’s his blood, he really should hurt more. He doesn’t hurt at all, in fact.
Gone are the aches in his feet and legs from long days of walking. Gone is the dull throbbing of the bruise at his ribs where one of the mayor’s men had shoved him out of the inn a little too roughly. If this is in fact part of a hangover, the accompanying headache is strangely absent too.
When he examines the tender spot on his belly a little more closely, he finds there is a rip in his doublet and the chemise underneath it. The edges are cut sharply, as if with a knife. Underneath it, his skin is whole, and unblemished.
Only when he’s made sure he is, in fact, totally fine and unharmed, except maybe a little unhinged right now for enjoying the lingering taste of iron on his tongue, does he take in his surroundings.
What he sees has a strange, dual effect on him. On the one hand he wants to hurl in disgust and horror at the tableau before him. On the other, it makes him so very, very hungry.
—000—
He’s in a clearing in the forest, the remnants of a fire he doesn’t remember making in the middle of it. It’s a good place to rest, far away enough from the path it can’t be seen. He doesn’t remember picking it, but the way the fire is lined with rocks and some of his clothes are hung on branches to air out, tells him he clearly made camp here last night.
The scene wouldn’t be different from any other morning, his camp simple, the forest as undisturbed as possible, if it weren’t for the fact there are bodies. Jaskier tries to breathe through his mouth so as not to smell the blood as he takes in the sight, but he can taste it in the air.
There’s five of them, and they aren’t moving. Their faces are pale and lifeless, and their rib cages do not rise and fall. The one that’s closest lies face down, and the forest floor below him is dark and damp, soaked with what gave him life. One is sat against a tree, his back to it, legs stretched out in front of him, his head lolling to the side. Jaskier chokes on air a little when he sees the way the man’s jugular has been ripped open. There are dark stains all down his front, and one of his slack hands is still curled around a dagger made of some dark, shining metal. The others seem to have collapsed in random places, their bodies contorted, as if they haven’t moved after hitting the ground. As if they've been killed where they stood. The man that has fallen closest to the edge of the clearing is the youngest of them. The ground around him is disturbed, as if there has been a struggle, and like the one at the tree, this one has his throat ripped open, eyes wide and staring upwards.
Jaskier leans to the side and dry heaves a couple of times. How is this possible? What happened here? How can it be that there are five dead men, who by the looks of them are the rough sort, who clearly perished through horrific wounds inflicted on them, draining them of blood. How can they be dead, and it’s him still alive and unharmed?
Slowly, he lets his eyes drag over the clearing again, trying to get his panic back under control. The more he calms, the more he becomes aware of that secondary sensation that has been present all along, but momentarily overwhelmed by panic and horror. His stomach doesn’t feel empty, but still there is something gnawing inside of him, and it can only be hunger. When he looks at the closest body again, he licks his lips before he realises.
Again, the coppery flavour bursts forth on his tongue, and that’s only possible if what he’d thought was wine around his mouth, is in fact blood. He notices something else, too. When he runs his tongue across his teeth, chasing the taste, it catches on his incisors. They are pointed, far more pronounced than Jaskier remembers them being, and the edges of them are sharp in a way only a predator’s are.
“Well, fuck,” he says, his voice tight, finally scrabbling up from his seated position.
The light is bright in his eyes, and his skin is paler than he remembers. Now that he considers it, his vision is sharper despite the light, his sense of smell more sensitive when he’s able to focus on something other than the tang of iron, and his hearing picks up the noise of a squirrel he realises is yards away once he swings his gaze around to spot it. He brings up a thumb to his mouth, and presses the pad of it against his sharpened teeth.
He’s not dense. He might not remember what happened here, but he’s perfectly able to interpret the picture that’s laid out before him.
The clearing looks like a predator raged through it, ripping five men apart who look to be a group of common bandits. They might have been pursuing him, but Jaskier knows he’s the hunter in what happened here. He just doesn’t know what made him so.
He twirls around in the clearing, and only feels slightly guilty with relief when he spots his lute case leant against a tree, undamaged and whole.
“There you are, my friend,” he murmurs, and picks it up, careful to not get blood smeared on the leather.
He tries to wipe his hands with some leaves from the forest floor, and then takes a handful of ash from the fire and rubs it between his palms. He wipes his face as best he can, and rubs more ash into the dark red stains on his clothes. At least if he encounters anyone right now, they will just think he’s a bard who’s accidentally rolled around in his campfire, instead of one who’s just killed five people.
Jaskier breathes deeply, fighting the wave of nausea that hits him, and tries to remind himself it was very likely self defense. He studiously ignores the fact he thinks he actually drank the blood of at least two of them. He gathers his hanging clothes into his pack with a minimum of ashy prints to the fabric, and looks over his shoulder as he’s about to exit the clearing. His eyes are pulled toward the man leaning against the tree. To the blade in his hand, more specifically.
The metal glints in the light dappling through the canopy, and Jaskier thinks the weapon has to be made of some unusual material he’s never seen before. It’s so dark it’s nearly black, but the light reveals edges of crimson where it reflects. The bandit holds the blade as if he’d fought with it, but despite the red sheen, there is no blood on it. He brings his hand up to his abdomen, and sticks his fingers through the cut in his doublet and undershirt, pressing against his tender belly.
He thinks he’s been stabbed, and he’s quite sure it was with that strange weapon. He resists the urge to just, run away and never look back, and quickly retrieves the dagger. The bandit’s hand is slack, and the blade falls out of his grip easily. Jaskier has to do his best to keep his gaze averted from the man’s torn jugular, as he stashes it away in his pack.
As he leaves the clearing behind, he can hear someone traversing the path in the distance, telling him which direction to go. He walks toward it with an ease that reminds him he doesn’t feel any of the fatigue of travel in his body.
Maybe, if he manages to forget about what he’s leaving behind in the forest, this won’t be so bad.
Maybe.
He realises he’s not having a normal reaction, and thinks he’s actually gone beyond panicked, leaving him numb. He decides to ignore that, too.
—000—
Jaskier takes it back. He takes everything back. He can't forget the images of that clearing and the dead within it. He can admit this is the single, most horrid thing to have ever happened to him, and every time he fails to distract himself while he walks, panic threatens.
He takes the opportunity to bathe in the first stream he encounters, opting to just walk in wearing the clothes on his back. He dunks himself and scrubs, first at his face and hands, and then his clothes. He eventually has to take them off to give them a proper clean. He thinks the blood and ash won’t come out entirely, but at least he can make it better.
When the sun hits his bare skin while he works it doesn’t burn him, not like in the few songs and legends he knows that deal with vampires. He’d already figured that’d be the case, since he’d been perfectly fine walking around in the low morning light of the rising sun. It is midday now though, and the sun is bright and hot overhead. There is no smoke rising off him, there are no blisters forming, and it doesn’t hurt, exactly. What it does do, is sting. It’s a low grade pain, an annoyance really. Like the sting of a nettle that’s on the verge of disappearing. It’s enough to rattle him, and he lets himself sink under the water for a moment, letting the cool relief soothe him, trying his best to keep a tight grip on his rising dread.
He resurfaces, even though he feels like he could have stayed under the water indefinitely, his urge to breathe diminished to almost nothing. He immediately knows he’s not alone anymore, and slowly turns where he’s standing in the creek. Now that he thinks of it, he supposes he’s heard the man coming for a while.
The man is in his late middle age, with a well kept salt and pepper beard. He has a large pack on his back and a hat with a wide brim to keep the sun out of his eyes. His face and forearms are tanned and the skin around his eyes wrinkles as he smiles while raising his hand in greeting.
“That looks refreshing!” the man says. “Mind if I join you?”
There is that uncomfortable clench in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach again, warning him. This time, he’s quite sure it’s the man who needs to be warned away. Away from him. Suddenly all he can hear is the strong heartbeat that beats in the chest of the human across from him, pumping around his lifeblood. His vision seems to change somewhat, and it’s rather disconcerting to realise the man’s veins and arteries suddenly stand out in stark relief under his skin. Against his will, Jaskier’s eyes are drawn to the places blood thrums closest under the surface, ending at the man’s neck. He drags his tongue over his teeth, catching on his newly sharp incisors.
He’d been relieved he’d left the hunger behind when he’d left the clearing. It’s back now, and it’s more insistent than it was before.
“Melitele have mercy on me,” Jaskier mutters, and sees the man’s smile slide off his face.
—000—
It’s a simple contract. The town isn’t overly large, but despite it, it has an inn, and the mayor pays well. The man has a beautiful wife who, surprisingly enough, eyes him with hesitant interest for a moment. When Geralt scowls and the mayor lays a cautioning hand on her shoulder, she quickly disappears. He looks at the handful of crowns the man offers, and raises his brows.
“Can we count on you to take them out?”
“Mhm,” he grunts, inclining his head.
“Good, it’s been a little over a month now, and several travellers have been accosted. It’s bad for trade,” the mayor says, nervously eyeing the black clad witcher in front of him.
“Anything else you can tell me?” Geralt asks, irritated at the lack of information.
“They come from the woods, maybe a day’s travel from here. The next town over is three days on foot, less than one on horseback. You should be there and back in no time.”
He resists growling, smelling the anxious fear wafting off the man. It’s information, but not the kind he’s looking for. “What do they look like?”
The mayor shrugs. “Not all have lived to tell. But it’s your job to find out, isn’t it?”
Geralt frowns, and hears the man’s heartbeat increase. The mayor is lucky some of the townspeople have been more forthcoming, or he might have passed this contract over to begin with. He’s found out enough to know that between this town and the next, there is something undead in the forest, snatching travellers off the road. It’s not something he can ignore.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” he growls. “A hundred crowns is the minimum. The price doubles if there’s more than one.”
The mayor looks like he wants to protest, and Geralt just waits him out. Eventually, the man nods in agreement, and he’s on his way.
—000—
He finds the clearing easily enough by following his nose. It’s indeed around a day’s walk away from the town, but Roach takes him there in no time. There is the smell of old blood overlaying something else, something faded he can’t immediately identify.
Getting rid of the rotters is easy work, and he doesn’t need to delve into his stash of potions. When he takes a closer look at the clearing after he’s done, he identifies the bones of several bodies. Some of them might have been here before, the original reason for the rotters’ presence. Some of them have come after, the rotters going after travellers on the road once their easy meal had run out.
Curiously, there is a chemise that hangs on a branch of one of the trees. It seems to have gotten stuck in a fork and it’s slightly ripped, as if someone had tried to pull it down. When Geralt steps closer, he notices sooty fingerprints, faded on the linen fabric. He flares his nostrils on an inhale, and realises the prints aren’t just made in ash, the rusted scent of blood barely detectable through it.
The shirt itself barely smells of anything anymore, but he thinks he gets a hint of lavender and wildflowers from it. Whoever wore this likes their scented oils. Geralt pulls it from the tree and runs it between his fingers for a moment. He looks around the clearing again, and takes another deep breath.
In the back of his mind, his instincts click. “Vampire,” he growls, baring his teeth. Judging by the fact its kill had been enough to attract rotters, a newly made one at that.
One that’s going to be hungry, even after a month has gone by.