As a witcher, Geralt has spent fifty years within the Northern Kingdoms, excluding his ten years of training at Kaer Morhen. His long life at the societal margins has allowed him to encounter many individuals of noble character, but far more who are despicable and shameless, lacking any moral compass. This isn't entirely their fault. After all, in such a chaotic and unforgiving environment, even if you can refrain from harming others, you have no control over others' actions.
Survival often necessitates resorting to viciousness or brutality for your own protection. Those who are overly kind have often been utterly consumed by others. He has become accustomed to all manner of abuse, ridicule, and provocation. These rotten people are like filth on the ground. Engaging with them, stepping on them, would only splatter the filth all over him, causing him nothing but discomfort.
Thus, Geralt disregarded the taunts of Yarpen's dwarven squad and the Crinfrid Reavers. He led his steed, Roach, and Yennefer's black mare to the temporary stable, providing them with water and fodder.
However, as the saying goes, sometimes colleagues become enemies. While Geralt ignored them, the dragon-hunting team wouldn't let him be.
The youngest of the Crinfrid Reavers approached Geralt, spat on the ground, and spoke: "White-haired witcher, you'd better warn your sorceress lover that dragon hunting is best left to professionals. Otherwise, she will offend many people."
Unfazed, Geralt turned around, his steel sword held firmly in his hand. With his amber cat-like eyes fixed on Boholt, he spoke nonchalantly:
"Dividing the spoils before we even set off? Slaying Dragon is no easy feat. A single blast of dragonfire will char your bones."
"Certainly, you can choose to offend a powerful sorceress and a witcher with a sharp sword before we embark. This world sees no shortage of fools, and you seem eager to join their ranks. My sole purpose here is to ensure Yennefer's safety. Your clandestine activities hold no interest for me."
"However, should you attempt to harm this lady, test the mettle of my blade and see if your necks can withstand its bite."
Had Geralt been alone, he wouldn't have bothered with such a blunt warning, nor would he have participated in this hunter operation at all. But this was about Yennefer. He wouldn't allow anyone to harm her, no matter the cost.
Notorious for their ruthlessness across Redania, the three Crinfrid Reavers brothers were no strangers to trouble. Driven by avarice, they dabbled in the shadows, engaging in activities akin to banditry and worse.
Boholt exchanged a quick glance with his siblings. The unspoken message received, Gar, the second-born, discreetly retrieved a crossbow from their luggage, and loaded it with a bolt, while the youngest, Kennet the Ripper, already had a honed bone-eviscerating knife drawn, concealed behind Geralt.
Geralt frowned, surprised by their brazenness and audacity to attempt such a move here. They were mere feet from the king's tent. Any misstep could brand them as assassins, inciting the wrath of the dozens of heavily armed soldiers surrounding them.
Despite facing the notorious brothers, Geralt remained fearless. He grounded the scabbard of his steel sword and, with a slow, deliberate motion, used his right hand to draw the hilt, revealing the gleaming blade within.
One of the North's most formidable swordsmen, Geralt held immense confidence in his swordsmanship.
Geralt narrowed his amber cat eyes at the three brothers circling him with predatory intent. While facing multiple attackers was disadvantageous, his blade needed only a single opening to claim a life.
Yarpen and his dwarf companions retreated a few paces, silently conveying their neutrality. These bearded onlookers seemed rather pleased by the sudden skirmish. Whether it was the witcher or the predators, any casualties would mean one less competitor in the dragon hunt, increasing their own potential gains.
Just as the tension between Geralt and the three brothers threatened to erupt, a booming voice echoed through the air.
"A despicable siege! To outnumber and ambush a lone warrior violates all principles of chivalry! Witness the gods and the holy scriptures of knights! If you vile predators intend to bully that cursed mutant, I shall not stand idle!"
The speaker, clad in gleaming silver full-plate armor, held a hefty two-handed sword. Though the helmet concealed his face, everyone present recognized him as Eyck of Denesel, a valiant knight renowned for his unwavering idealism, bordering on fanaticism in his pursuit of justice.
Seeing his intervention, Yarpen spat on the ground in disgust, knowing the fight was over. Even if the Predator brothers harbored a sliver of hope against the witcher, the addition of this ironclad knight guaranteed their demise.
True to Yarpen's prediction, Boholt, the leader of the predators, exchanged a knowing glance with his brothers upon seeing Eyck. He then let out a booming laugh and declared, "Sir Eyck, what misunderstandings! We could never stoop to such brutish acts! We, too, are righteous warriors, inspired by the king's call to slay the evil dragon!"
"The witcher's tone was certainly abrasive," Boholt conceded, "but perhaps dialogue could suffice instead of aggression."
Knight Eyck, however, lacked the awareness to save face for others, his idealism bordering on zealotry. "Spare us your deceitful words!" he boomed. "Justice is a concept far removed from your kind!"
"It's this very world, rife with self-serving liars like yourselves, that has become so corrupted!" Eyck continued, his voice laced with righteous fury. "While I may view witchers as aberrations, creatures twisted against the divine will, they at least hold some semblance of morality, some capacity to discern right from wrong."
He turned his scathing gaze upon the brothers. "You, however, are nothing but mercenary scum. Loyalty, honor, mercy – these noble concepts are mere garbage to you, filthy and worthless. The sight of you twists my stomach. Be gone from my sight! Were it not for the king's decree, I wouldn't share the same ground as you foul creatures!"
Even the predators, notorious for their lack of shame, bristled under Eyck's scathing tirade. But arguing with him was futile. He was like a boulder in a cesspool – immovable, reeking, and utterly impervious to reason.
Their current mission, they reminded themselves, wasn't about lining their pockets. It was supposedly about a twisted sense of justice, about protecting the nearby townsfolk from the dragon's wrath. The sheer absurdity of it all rankled.
With muttered curses under their breath, the brothers gathered their weapons and slunk away from the temporary stable, seeking solace in the shadows. The official dragon hunt wouldn't commence until King Niedamir gave the order tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, the reconnaissance team from Holobur had already embarked on their mission. These seasoned guides, hired by the king, would lead the dragon hunting party to the beast's lair.