Multiverse: Deathstroke-Chapter 522: White Wolf

The troll twitched its nose—more like two holes in its face, whistling with each inhale.

"No, bird mine. Dance, make wife stop screaming."

It eyed the potion, hesitating. But its simple mind prioritized the bird over liquor, so it refused the trade.

"Your bird’s still screaming. She’ll scream the whole way, and your wife will scream at home. You really want more of that?" the white-haired man pressed, stepping between the troll and the net, holding the glass bottle closer.

The troll’s green eyes studied him, its face as big as a millstone.

Then it reached out, snatched the potion, and tossed it, bottle and all, into its mouth, crunching.

Glass shards and glowing liquid sprayed from its lips, the sound like iron boots on gravel.

"Vodka man right. Stonefoot no like screams. Bird yours. No follow."

The troll scratched its head, honorably turned, and lumbered off. Its gray form vanished into the forest, leaving deep footprints.

"Let me out! Quick!" The dark-haired woman in the net thrashed as the troll left.

But fishing nets tighten with struggle.

The white-haired man sighed, resigned. It was late; they wouldn’t leave the forest tonight. "Stand up slowly, then ease out."

The white-clad woman from the bushes approached, kindly helping the trapped woman escape.

The netted woman glanced gratefully at her but focused more on the white-haired man.

"Gods, you talked to a troll! I thought we were dead! It would’ve killed us!"

He stroked his beard, his wolf-head pendant still trembling, but the area was safe. "If you know it, it’s not so bad."

The white-clad woman smirked, hand on hip, mimicking a toast. "That’s because half your friends are drunks."

"More like all of them," he said, turning away as the netted woman freed herself.

They backtracked to a pine grove where three horses—brown, black, and white—were tethered, quietly grazing. The setting sun’s rays filtered through, signaling it was too late to travel.

The man unpacked camping gear, clearing a spot near a stream—a decent campsite.

Danger was the same everywhere in the forest; might as well be near water.

"I’m Geralt of Rivia. This is Ciri of Cintra. We’re witchers," he said.

"I could tell. Thank you—you saved my life. I’m Jane," the rescued woman said, showing no fear of witchers.

That marked her as likely noble. Among commoners, witchers were often seen as monsters.

Geralt nodded, gathering stones for a firepit. No fire, no night survival. "I’ll start the fire. Ciri, find food before the sun’s gone."

Ciri drew her steel sword and headed into the forest.

Luck wasn’t on their side. By dark, she’d caught only three rats.

Special forest rats, white-furred, like small earless rabbits or clouds in hand.

Extradimensional creatures, said to have arrived during the last Conjunction of the Spheres. Rat or squirrel? No one knew.

Their meat was bland, leathery, but Ciri returned, gutted them by the stream, and skewered them.

"Just these," she said, handing the skewers to Geralt, sitting by the fire as he set them over the flames.

The fire licked the white meat, water dripping onto the logs with a sizzle.

"Not bad. Decent size. This forest seems safe," Geralt said, his face red in the firelight, golden pupils brighter as dusk fell.

While the meat cooked, Jane shared her story. A rich farmer’s daughter, she’d run away, heading to Novigrad, the free city, hoping to find a new life.

Ciri eyed the rats turning golden.

She offered Jane to join them to Novigrad. With two witchers, the road would be safer.

Jane asked if they were seeking work in the Northern Pearl.

Geralt said they were already on a job—hunting a bruxa in Novigrad.

"A bruxa is a cursed woman, like a werewolf crossed with a warhound, but faster, stronger, and smells like a beggar’s rags," he said, passing out the skewers and eating with his dagger.

"Gods, sounds terrifying," Jane said, hesitant to bite into the meat.

"She’ll be tough to handle," Geralt admitted.

"Then why go?" Jane asked, puzzled.

Ciri mimicked Geralt, slicing rat meat with her dagger, smiling. "Someone’s gotta do it. If not us, another witcher."

After eating, Geralt laid out blankets. Two witchers meant they could take turns resting.

Meditation didn’t solve everything. Who’d choose kneeling all night over sleep?

He missed Vesemir, the old man who died for them. Geralt had avenged him.

Ciri chatted with Jane about past mishaps, like a troll peeping while she bathed.

"Trolls are like talking rocks. The dumbest rocks," she said.

They talked late. Jane fell asleep first. Ciri sidled up to Geralt, asking about the plan.

"If the intel’s right, we’ll find the bruxa soon. How do we kill it? I heard from Dandelion you took one down, but I want the witcher’s version, not the poet’s."

"Witcher’s version? Dodge farmers and their pitchforks," Geralt said, touching his chest.

Ciri swatted the ground, shaking the grass. "I’m serious."

"It was long ago. Involved Temeria and the late King Foltest. His niece, Adda, born dead, cursed by all, turned into a bruxa in her tomb. I tried to make her human again, but the blood curse was too strong. Years later, she died by my hand."

Geralt leaned his swords against a tree, hands behind his head as he lay down.

"You know the rest. Foltest lost his heir, bastard wars broke out, Letho assassinated him, then Nilfgaard’s Black Ones rolled in." 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Ciri grimaced. "Well, Emhyr’s dead now, and Nilfgaard’s succession’s not my problem. I like being a witcher."

"But the Wild Hunt’s still out there. Aen Elle lost Eredin, but we stay vigilant."

"Enough. I’m done with those crazy elves. No White Frost sightings lately," Ciri said, standing and brushing herself off to meditate in the dark, preferring a spring to a river.

Springs were cleaner, with fewer "impurities" like drowners or hags.

Geralt said no more, closing his eyes. They’d traveled far; even Roach seemed asleep.

Time passed, the fire dimmed, embers barely glowing.

In the dark, a furry hand reached from behind a tree, stealing Geralt’s swords, then grabbing Jane.

She woke, screaming, as her hair was yanked.

Geralt sprang up, spotting a burly werewolf across the fire.

Three meters tall, thick fur, no bloodstains—still hungry.

Strong and cunning, it had kept enough wits to steal both steel and silver swords.

"A witcher! My lucky day," it taunted, clutching Jane’s neck. "Shouldn’t have dropped your weapons. Now I’ll taste witcher meat."

Geralt stayed calm. His pendant had been buzzing wildly—he’d sensed it but wanted to know its intent. He didn’t kill needlessly, but this werewolf was lost to bloodlust. No saving it.

"Swords are just tools. A distraction. It’s the man or woman wielding them that matters."

Ciri was in the bushes behind, ready to blink in and skewer it with her oiled silver sword.

She was about to.

But before she could, a massive black greatsword fell from the sky, pinning the werewolf to the ground.

No silver, no oil—not a lethal blow. It dropped Jane, limbs flailing, trying to rise.

The sword had sunk deep, trapping it.

"Igni!" Geralt cast, unleashing a fiery arc. The werewolf’s fur blazed, but it thrashed harder.

Ciri circled to decapitate it, but smoke and stench stung her eyes.

A shadow dropped from a tree, landing on the burning beast, gripping the sword’s hilt, and stomping down.

The werewolf’s head flattened into the ground, silent.

"Not a woman, sorry to disappoint."

The figure yanked the sword free, stepping from the flames, voice raspy as he answered the witcher.