"The defloration of a soul is a common concept, one that needs no explanation. So why does every man ask, 'why?'
T'is simple. It is simply human nature."

- Francesca Findabair, the Sorceress Elf-Queen of Dol Blathanna.

Valens stepped through the encampment with lazy strides, idly swinging his Dane axe in front of him experimentally. The Scoia'tael scout in front him seemed none too pleased to hear the sounds of an impossibly keen-edged, two-handed axe 'whooshing' around behind his neck; however, even though his brethren surrounded the man behind him, trying his luck was the furthest thing on his mind.

The Witcher, however, was having a blast. He could almost taste the tension in the air, he had strolled right into a wolves den; which would have been a terrible prospect… had it not been a dragon amongst pups. His mind whirring with strategy, there were quite a few archers, yet all of them were far too close to do any immediate damage. In this condensed space, they would simply end up shooting each other with his fleet of foot.

He made his way to the middle of the encampment, where a large campfire sat smouldering merrily before a curt whistle had the elf in front of him skid to a halt. Valens pushed him aside with a low rumbling growl of warning before making his way towards the she-elf who had just pushed back her tent flaps and stepped confidently into view, glaring him down with wary eyes. The reaction was almost immediate, he heard the sound of arrows scraping against wood as the elves around him drew and readied to loose at his back. It was a challenge.

Valens' footfall remained constant, arrogant, and apathetic. It was only when he found himself standing five feet from the she-elf did he finally halt his advance. Though he did not show it, he was impressed that the elf had yet to falter. Her predatory gaze remained stoic as she stepped out from the tent entrance, closing the distance by another foot. He was close enough to take in every scent, every lick of emotion that she was closely guarding. Valens cocked his head to the side in the slightest of inclinations, curious as to whether she would take initiative. She did not disappoint.

"D'yaebl den Esser? Why have you come, no monsters trouble us?" Her tone was inquisitive, yet her guard was not lowered. She had seen the way he had led one of her own by blade's edge, the Devil Witcher likely had less than good intentions.

Valens in response let his axe sink into the ground beside him as he made a show of identifying his surroundings, he spun slowly on the spot; taking in every little detail before spreading his arms in a mock-hurt gesture. "You would grant me with such hostility? Surely you do not believe anything to come of the toothpicks aimed at me by your cute little elflings?" He asked, his tone as sweet venom. "Especially not by the blonde with the fondness for Verbena essence, hiding in the fucking trees where the sun glints off of the stolen jewellery half embedded between her tits." He turned his head to glare at the densely leafed tree to his left, and was rewarded with a startled shuffle of branches as a young elf dropped from the canopy; arrow nocked and an angry flush gracing her cheeks. Valens let out a snort of steam, "You insult me with your incompetence." He looked away from her in disdain as the pink flush turned scarlet, and the limbs of her bow creaked as she drew back a few more inches.

"That's enough, Vatt'ghern." The elf mere feet from him demanded before her respectable glare lost a little of its lustre as the roaring golden-eyes swivelled back to leer at her. Leering not at her body, in fact, she would have felt leagues more comfortable with that, his gaze was instead gorging on her very intent. "What do you want from us?" She implored again, eager for something definitive to occur; the Wiedźmin's lack of stated purpose proved more unnerving than his presence itself.

Valens stared into her green eyes for a moment longer, before smirking wolfishly. "A friend of mine has come to me recently, woe to find that something of his had been stolen from him by attacks on a caravan. 'Likely from a terrible, ugly beast', he had said." The Dragon Witcher's smirk turned ruinous. "How peculiar, that I tracked this... 'beast' and found nothing more than a bunch of forest insects hiding away in the trees." He mused mockingly.

The she-elf's jaw tightened at the Witcher's blatant disregard for the situation he was in. He was attempting to rile her up, and it was working. "Mind your manners, mutant!" she hissed lowly, stepping forward with a hand on her dagger.

Valens' brow perked up as he leaned forwards slightly, close enough to smell the honeysuckle on her breath. "Oh? You seem to be a little flustered, shall we sit down for a drink. Perhaps I can alleviate your stress?" The she-elf watched as the man raised a hand clad in the clawed gauntlet that gave him his name, and began to idly conjure a flame that danced on his murderous fingertips. "These fingers can do so much more than scorch flesh from bone, after all." He whispered softly, leaning back slowly.

The she-elf's glare turned harrowing, before with a supreme effort; she calmed herself. She could call for her men to shoot the arrogant Witcher, yet she had made a mistake in allowing him to get so close. If such a call was made, she had no doubts towards her fate. She made to speak, before the Witcher suddenly clenched his fist, producing a hollow grinding sound that demanded her attention.

"I've had my fun," He interrupted. The playful danger in his eyes had vanished. Instead, there was only a malevolent spike of gravity that swam in his golden orbs. "I require an item you have stolen. A box made from Spriggan-wood, and stamped with the Koviri seal, give it to me and I will be on my way." He offered calmly.

The elf smirked, feeling control return to her for the first time throughout the entire confrontation. "And what, pray tell do you offer in return?" She piqued, an innocent smile playing on her lips.

And just like a leaf drifting in a breeze, before being ripped away in the gales of a storm. The feeling of control she had gained slipped away almost immediately. "I won't butcher all of you and bring your heads back to Oxenfurt for reward."

"I won't butcher all of you and bring your heads back to Oxenfurt for reward."

The man wasn't lying. There was no doubt in his voice, no hesitation; the confidence he exuded set them all on edge from the start and now she knew why. Yet still, she could not take the chance. Laughing in disbelief, she made a grand gesture; "You believe you can take twelve arrows to the back and survive, Witcher?"

Valens cocked his head to the side and smiled charmingly, "Depends on where they hit I guess, besides; I know for a fact that you cannot." He then shrugged, "I have reached the end of my pati-" There was a low slam of twine smacking wood, before a meaty thud of impact rang out through the clearing.

Valens turned slowly, before looking down at his thigh and seeing the fat crossbow bolt embedded in the skin of his quadriceps. There was a beat of silence, as flame began to spiral from his demonic fingertips; before the simultaneous cries of men charging into battle instigated mayhem.

Men clad in brown leather and studded leather armour, bearing the symbol of Redania charged into the clearing; two on horseback while most ran in with an assortment of reasonably high-quality weapons. Witch Hunters, Valens surmised. He watched as the initial charge decimated almost half of the Scoia'tael in the first few seconds, as every elf had been locked towards him, bows drawn.

Valens growled in fury, before catching himself. Letting out a slow, calming breath, he snatched his axe from where it had been embedded and snapped towards the she-elf, wrapping his clawed fingers around her throat before lifting her from the ground with monstrous strength and pulling her close to his face with a snarl. "The box, where is it?" He grunted.

Despite the heated metal searing her throat, the Scoia'tael squirmed as she watched her men die over the Witcher's shoulder. Turning a helpless gaze to the Devil Witcher, her look in her eyes turned pleading. "P-please! I'll gi-ah! I'll give it to you, just help us!" she begged, before screaming in horror as the blonde elf from the treetops was thrown roughly to the ground, short bow smashed to splinters as the hulking Witch Hunter above her began to unbuckle his breeches with a predatory chuckle.

Valens growled lowly at her, subconsciously grinding his forehead against hers roughly in both anger and contemplation... before hurling her to the ground; how he wanted to tear out her fucking throat, the conniving harlot.

Pivoting on his heels, the Dragon Witcher let out a condensed blast of Aard into the side of the big man above the blonde elf; watching in brutal satisfaction as the Witch Hunter was sent hurtling into a nearby tree with a strangled cry before his head bashed gruesomely against a knot in the wood. Stalking over to where three Scoia'tael stood facing down four Witch Hunters, one of which was on horseback; Valens shoved them all to the side before letting out a concussive blast of fire that engulfed the four leather-clad murderers.

He stepped forwards as the horse reared up on its hind legs, whinnying out in alarm as fire coated its front, and with a single cleave severed its head from its shoulders before blasting the decapitated head at the three still shouting out as they attempted to put out the flames, bowling them over onto the floor. Stepping back as the deceased horse toppled over, Valens found the Hunter with his legs still trapped beneath the saddle. Raising his axe, he silenced the man's pathetic wails of 'mercy!' before stepping over the corpse and hacking at the two still writhing around on the floor. The third was already dead, the feathered shaft of an arrow piercing out of his eye socket.

'Thunk!'

Valens' ears perked up, seconds before a bolt pierced through the ringmail on his torso and slipped cleanly into the muscle below his ribs. Letting out a hiss of pain, the Dragon Witcher spun towards the culprit, and akin to a laser he locked his gaze onto the second mounted Hunter; the crossbow that had been used to shoot him tossed aside as the man drew a giant serrated greatsword. His anger dulled minutely at the sight of the huge weapon, it was a Flamberge. The Northern Kingdom of Cintra awarded the legendary pieces of craftsmanship to their Knights of noble blood, how this oaf had managed to get his hands on one, Valens hadn't a clue. All he knew was that it wasn't going to belong to such a dullard for very long.

The Witch Hunter let out a savage roar before ruthlessly kicking and slapping his mount, urging the rouncey into a gallop that was lacking in rhythm. The Hunter had leaned over the right-hand side of his saddle far enough to lift his arse from where it was sat, telegraphing his intentions from thirty feet away. It was almost child's play.

It was clear from how the man handled his horse that he was not skilled in riding. Valens' assumptions proved correct as he leapt forwards and to the left, into the line of the greatsword before digging in his heels and pivoting to the right, hard. The juking manoeuvre caught the inexperienced rider off guard, who hurriedly began to saw his reins to the right as he struggled to right himself. The end result was catastrophic.

His failed dispersion of weight, his mount's unsteady gait from a forced acceleration, combined with its riders incessant jerking of the reins in a spontaneous direction collapsed the bay like a dilapidated wall of bricks. It tumbled head over rear for several rotations before crashing through a Scoia'tael tent and sliding to a stop. Valens righted himself from his crouched position and watched as the steed scrambled to its feet and skipped away in fright, seemingly unhurt. Its rider, however, judging by the grotesque sound of air wheezing through a twisted windpipe that made its way to Valens' keen ears, was nought as lucky.

Valens turned and surveyed the scene with a burning glare; the skirmish was all but over. Despite the initial ambush, the Scoia'tael had managed to defend themselves against lesser of Hunters, with their spears and leather tunics. Seeing the single, near raging individual slaughter two of their captains and four of their superiors; the three remaining men had surrendered. He shook his head at their idiocy, taking on twelve squirrels with nine men had been a bold move; despite being better equipped and having mounted riders. He then shrugged, feeling the frenzy of battle ease out of his veins. They would have likely won, had he not intervened. As it stood, the elves had six out of the twelve present; not including their apparent leader. Speaking of...

Valens swiftly stepped through the encampment, bowling over a Scoia'tael who had been leaning on his knees in recuperation as he crested over the she-elf who was currently comforting the blonde, who had been seconds from a specifically ghastly sexual assault if her ripped clothes and bloody face could attest to anything. He ignored the blonde, however, and instead grabbed his prey by the back of her neck, not unlike a wolf would with a rabbit. He dragged her, kicking and writhing over to her own tent before hurling her through the flaps as if she weighed nothing. Not one of her men moved to stop him.

"No more games." He growled lowly as he stepped through the entrance, baring his fangs as the wicked edge of his axe popped a single layer of skin open as he levelled it against her throat.

The she-elf, from her slumped position on her side, gazed up at him with fearful, wet eyes. Leaning back slightly, so as to not cut her own throat open when she spoke, she gestured behind her to the horde of supplies nestled in the back of the tent. "T-there! We could not open it, it's perfectly fine! Pl-please don't!" She stammered, feeling her resolve crack as tears began to spill from her eyes anew.

Valens glared at her for a few second longer, ingraining into her that he was very much ready to start hacking away again should she try anything, before he slung his axe onto his back and stepped over her to the pile of... well, junk.

To him, most of it was garbage. Tables, chairs, fancy chalices and some sacks of grain. What he sought after, was the small, hand sized, deep green wooden box that sat atop an upturned table. The runes around the edges of the Koviri court seal stamped into the lid glowing ever so faintly. Taking it with his clawed fingertips, the Witcher ripped some fabric from the tent and wrapped it up hurriedly, before stuffing the parcel under his arm.

He stopped as he levelled alongside the now weeping elf on his way out. Turning a stony gaze to her, he caught her eyes, the charcoal around them smudged and made runny with tears. "I should kill you all. There are starving women and children in the city that cannot afford to pay the increased prices for food because of you savages." He paused for a moment, watching as the realisation of what consequences her actions had wrought kicked in. He crouched down and reached out slowly, grabbing her chin with surprisingly tender fingers before gently rotating her head in order to force her gaze upon him. "Did you think you were inconveniencing the soldiers? The lords with their cellars full of wine and food? The King who would simply steal what he needed from his people?" He inquired gently. His gaze then suddenly turned Arctic as his clawed fingers tightened around her jaw; digging into the delicate facial muscles painfully. "You're killing infants, driving children from their family homes because their fathers cannot feed them; forcing young girls to be sold off to pleasure fat, old men so that their parents can put the meat of rats into the mouths of their other children! You idiotic scum." He threw her by his grip back down to the dirt. "Leave. Never return, or I will scorch the skin from your body and feed what remains of you to those who starve." He spat before stalking out of the tent. His forefinger twitched forwards as the entrance to the large tent was suddenly ripped open with a weak Aard, he managed barely five paces before his ears pricked to attention.

"I'm so sorry..."

Valens stopped. His fingers automatically jerked for his silver knife before with a supreme effort, he quelled his fury. Shaking his head slowly, he snorted in contempt before stalking out amidst the wounded Scoia'tael. "I'm not the one grovelling on the streets."

He meant it to be his final parting word before he made his exit, however, a pained groan made his ears twitch in recognition. Despite the widely varying context, he recognised the tone.

Almost robotically, his direction slowly homed into the last surviving Witch Hunter. He passed through the surviving Scoia'tael, who were all watching him with subdued silence, before stepping through the wreckage of the small yurt like tent the inexperienced rider had crashed through. And there, amongst the debris lay a broken man. The Hunter's chest seemed to be sunken, likely cracked inwards from the descent, while his leg was twisted at an odd angle at the knee. The wheezing he had been hearing before was more prominent now; it was a harrowing experience... well, for a normal man at least. Valens could, and if memory serves correct, had watched the gruesome display over dinner.

A quick scan revealed the item he was looking for, embedded into the dirt a good ten paces away lay the flame-bladed greatsword of Cintra. Pulling it out of the ground, the Witcher's brows rose slightly at the weight of the weapon he was holding. It was wickedly light for its sheer size and length, why the fool had been rearing back so far to strike him, Valens had no idea.

Marvelling over the craftsmanship of the art piece he held in his hands, he idly made his way back to the Redanian fascist. He rolled the man over with his foot roughly, forcing out an agonised shriek from the man as his cracked ribs jostled in his chest, before ripping the scabbard from his back. Sheathing the beautiful sword, Valens rolled the man over again and crouched down.

"Where did you find this?" He asked curiously, tone deceptively pleasant.

The man merely stared up at him, tears of pain running down his eyes as spit accumulated in his mouth. His attempt at defiance barely made it out of his mouth before dribbling back down his chin, mingling with the blood. "F-fuck-" He never finished, as with a sigh Valens stood and raised his booted foot, before sending it back down in a brutal curb-stomp. The Draconian mutagen enhanced muscle fibres sending his heel through the man's skull to dig a groove into the dirt below. He sighed as he shook his foot free of the gore.

"Why do I even bother?"

"Oh my, that does look to be an arrow embedded in your leg does it not, sir?"

Valens glanced down at Antarus' observation and grimaced slightly. He had forgotten about that. One hand reached down to gouge at the bolt in his thigh, while the other extended a small parcel wrapped in hide.

Antarus, still seated atop his horse, reached down with hands clad in expensive riding gloves and gingerly accepted the package. Unfurling the tanned leather wrapped roughshod over the object within, Antarus tossed the material to the side before digging into his neckline and pulling out a small monocle hung on a leather necklace. Raising it to his eye, he scanned nearly every inch of the box with meticulous precision all while Valens finished yanking the splinters from his thigh and began to swap out his axe for his new toy. After securing his axe to Tug's saddle, Valens took a few paces away, urging Tug to step back when the inquisitive horse made to follow, and began to swing the Auburn tinged blade slowly.

Antarus looked up at this and raised a bushy brow, "Now that, is a weapon fit for a Knight." He commented in appreciation.

Valens glanced up and grinned at him cheerfully, the Flamberge handled beautifully. "I must train with it, it will not do to hack and slash at people like I would with my great axe." He answered, still glancing up at the blade.

Antarus grunted in assent, "I have seen a few blades like that in the Royal treasury, which should mean something, considering they aren't being held in the Royal armoury." He supplied with a smile. "What name does it take?"

Valens frowned at this, a quick scan of the weapon found no markings; which was highly unusual for such brilliantly forged steel. Its make was of greater quality than his own favoured weapon, he was sad to admit. Valens shook his head, before strapping the scabbard to his back and testing the fit. It would be too long to draw from his back, and too cumbersome to wear at his hip. The maker was apparently aware of this, however, as the gilded leather sheath itself could be detached from the harness; meaning he was to pull the sheathed sword from his back, draw, and throw the sheath aside. Not the nimblest of choices in weaponry for his profession, yet he could only hope it wouldn't trouble him too dearly. "It doesn't have one." He answered.

Antarus hummed in thought, before stowing the small box away and in turn producing a hefty sack of coin. "You should give it a name, Master Witcher. It deserves one." He advised gently as Valens cautiously accepted the coin.

Testing the weight, Valens raised a brow at his employer. "This is a hefty sum, Lord Antarus; however I am afraid I must decline. I require passage through Oxenfurt more than I do coin." He admitted, holding out the sack.

Antarus shook his head, "That shall also be addressed as your pay, Mister Valens."

Pursing his lips slightly, the Witcher shrugged and placed the five-hundred odd sack of gold into one of the saddlebags. "Generous of you." He commented, before sheathing the sword and mounting up. Staring at the sheathed Flamberge in his hands, Valens grunted as the moonlight flashed off of the red-hued steel lacing the jewelled pommel. "Dreyrug'r." He announced, smirking at the name.

Antarus squinted in thought, "The Blood-stained?" He then sat back with a wide smile, nodding slightly. "I had always thought Skellige's tongue to be ugly in nature." He glanced at the blade once more as Valens clipped it onto his back. "I have been dismayed in my judgement it seems.

Valens merely grinned, before looking up to the moon resting high in the sky. "It's getting late, we should move."

With Niellan...

Settled in the clearing found Niellan, currently securing the horse the Baron had given to him to a nearby tree when his head twitched as the woman's breathing pattern shifted. She was awake.

Standing up from his crouch beside the campfire, he dusted off his front and stepped over to where the woman lay huddled on his bedroll, furs wrapped around her snugly while the crackling flames warmed her face. She had lost some blood, not enough to be fatal, simply enough to become problematic; the wound, while deep had cut through what little fatty flesh she possessed and abstained from rupturing arteries.

Her eyes cracked open, and Niellan watched as the pale blue peeked out from half lidded orbs. She stirred for a moment before she awoke fully and took in her surroundings with an unfamiliar confusion. Upon seeing him crouching beside her, memory seemed to flood back into her as she recoiled away from him in fear and alarm.

Niellan raised his hands in a placating gesture, "You're going to reopen your wounds miss! Calm yourself!" He hissed.

The Huntress opened her mouth, yet stumbled on the words before tossing aside the furs to find her torso bare; however, it wasn't that which caught her attention. It was the singed, streak stinging red flesh that was burned close in a gash that stretched from her left breast down to just below her stomach. "W-what..." She muttered before trying to rise, only to collapse back down with a fierce hiss of pain as a section of the cauterised wound stretched tormentingly. She struggled with the instinctive decision between covering her wound, or her modesty. The pain won in the end as the stinging ache peaked and her hand shot to her side.

Niellan threw caution to the wind and pushed her back down, holding her in place with ease as he pulled the furs back over her. "Miss I did what I had to do, it was either that or let you bleed to death." He informed, glaring at her as she still struggled against his hand.

Seemingly coming to the realisation that struggling against him was a ridiculous notion, she settled before mustering the most hateful scowl she could. "Why would you care? Monster!" She spat, though her voice was more of a whisper at this point.

Niellan frowned at this, before pulling back and standing. "I saved your life lady." He pointed out, his tone guarded.

The Skellige woman seemed to falter at this, her scowl slipped, and a look of distrust replaced it. "W-why would you do such a thing?" The emphasis on the word 'you' not lost on the Werewolf.

Niellan pursed his lips and made a face of confusion, "Because you would have probably died otherwise, I believe?" He then shrugged, "You also saved my life, after I saved yours in the first place. So technically, you just repaid the favour by saving my life, but then I just saved you again so there's that." He rattled off, absentmindedly stroking his stubble in thought.

The Skellige woman merely stared at him with owlish, baffled eyes before a wave of nausea struck her like a Clan Brokvar Warhammer.

Niellan was snapped out of his childish musings by a dull thud, he snapped his head back to his 'patient' to see her slumped to the side, unconscious once again. Letting out a hefty sigh, the Hunter let out a curt whistle. He turned as Atlas bounded from the brush behind him after a few moments. "Oi keep watch you. Wake me up when that dies." He ordered, pointing to the crackling fire. It had roughly two and half hours left of burn time in the logs, more than enough sleep to recuperate from the day's activities along with the full shift; just another perk of being a cursed Lycanthrope. Atlas bumped his hard head against Niellan's leg in acknowledgement, thumping his tail on the floor happily as his master ruffled his ears before taking off, back into the darkness.

Niellan meanwhile spent a minute looking for his bedroll, before his eye began to twitch in realisation, resisting the urge to slap himself; the Hunter pulled out a fur cloak and set it by the fire before effectively 'bedding' down for the night. His eyes glanced over to the woman, and found her form still; for a second, he had thought her lifeless, before her substantially graced chest rose once more in a shaky breath.

She had impressed him, between Valens and himself, wounds and injuries barely needed tending to with both of their natural regeneration; his being far superior in case. He had grown familiar with judging the severity of combat-wounds and would be surprised if she survived the night. His brows knotted at the thought, she was going to stink up his bedroll.

With Valens…

The Black Witcher raised a brow at the small rolled up parchment he was given, it was a signed and stamped statement of diplomatic entry permissions. Barring direct orders from the Redanian seat, or perhaps locations forbidden to even politicians; the little note would get him practically all across the city, including the noble's district.

He looked up to the smiling Koviri and dipped his head in thanks, "There is something else you require of me, isn't there?" He wanted to kick himself, while the man was likeable and intelligent; he was still a diplomat of high calibre. There wasn't a simpleton's chance in a library that his substantial rewards came from the one task.

Antarus' smile grew a little wider as he nodded, yet it still remained pleasant. "Yes, sir; I had figured you would be suspicious." He made a vague gesture towards the sealed box he had just chained to the hand of one of his Koviri guards. "I require your loyalty." At Valens' frown, the man raised his hands in a placating gesture. "You misunderstand, while I would leap at the chance towards securing your services…" He paused before pursing his lips, "-Would you, by chance be open to recruitment?" He asked hopefully.

Valens shook his head, "Court Witchers get fat, arrogant and lazy. No thank you, Lord Antarus." He replied smoothly.

There was a flash of disappointment before the nobleman soldiered on, "Unfortunate… Nevertheless, I understand how mercenaries work. I would merely like to leave you with a good impression, so should an enemy of Kovir and Poviss seek your information and or skill-set to use against us, they will instead be met with refusal from an honourable man." He explained stoically, his tone wholeheartedly expecting Valens to agree.

The Dragon Witcher couldn't contain his smirk; he could definitely believe that Antarus was a master of his craft. He had attempted to befriend, bribe, deceive, guilt, and provide open truths all at once in the past thirty seconds alone. A flicker of recognition passed through Antarus' eye before he opened his mouth to respond, the Koviri knew that his veil had been seen through. "Should they come, they will be." He replied. Not in a boisterous, reassuring tone; merely one of stoic resolve, anything else would give the Koviri the wrong impression.

Antarus, after a moment, smiled at him; a genuine one this time that crinkled his eyes, which were filled with unabashed amusement. "I thank you, Valens. Should you require aid, know that Kovir favours you for your efforts." He stated before extending his hand.

Valens' eyes widened slightly at the near literal olive branch offered to him as he shook Antarus' outstretched hand. An offered alliance…

He recovered admirably, however, and grinned back easily. "While I cannot speak for a nation as you can, know that my services are always open to the court of Kovir and Poviss." He paused before shrugging lightly, "I may even take you up on that offer in the distant future. Farewell." He bid before stepping back, and at Antarus' nod he turned and left.

He mounted and rode for the middle-class, water-front residential district by the western side of Oxenfurt, according to Geralt, the fisherman who had sent Tamara here had a brother who lived in a brown house with decorated windows and a small library in the area. The city was rather straightforward in design, which only helped his nose locate the long vacated fish markets that would inevitably still be ripe with the scent of fish from the early day peddling. Thankfully, due to how high the moon already rested in the sky, the streets were mostly empty save for a few guards, who waved him on after seeing the letter, and the odd shady looking individual, who quickly lost any notion of skulduggery upon noting the lean mount and giant greatsword.

Ducking down as he passed under a small stone archway to the waterside streets, Valens urged Tug into a trot with a nudge of his toe and quickly scanned the houses on his left as he rode, terribly keen eyes piercing through the windows in search of a library, which in a middle-class district was quite unique, while observing the windows themselves. Eventually, he gently slowed to a halt upon spotting a well-kept home, its wood stained dark and the windows blemished with beautiful colours. Dismounting, he tossed the reins back over Tug's neck, stepped up to the door, and knocked with a matt black, steel encased finger.

There was a muffled sound of surprise before a shuffling as whoever was on the other side made their way to the door. After the click of a lock being undone, the door swung inwards to admit a plain looking middle-aged man in brown breeches and a simple blue cotton jerkin, a smouldering pipe hanging from his mouth, which he just now removed. Valens raised a brow at the sight of the iron poker the man was attempting to hide behind his leg, regardless; he extended a hand in greeting. "Forgive the late disturbance, I am here looking for Tamara Strenger." He announced amiably.

The man placed the pipe back in his mouth to shake his hand uncertainly; his eyes took in the elegant features, the glowing slitted eyes, the lightweight yet battle-ready armour and the handle of a rather large greatsword peeking out from the stranger's right shoulder. A Witcher, a left-handed one it seems. "Voytek sent you then?" He asked with a frown, his voice was very slightly skewed with an imperious lilt as if he deemed himself an intelligent man above others.

Valens merely flashed him a dazzling smile, baring gleaming ivory fangs in the process. "How else would I know she was here?" He asked in a tone bordering admonishment.

The man tightened his lips slightly at the rebuke and stepped back, permitting Valens inside. "Wait a moment then, I'll fetch her." At Valens' nod, the man replaced the iron poker back by the fire and made his way up the stairs.

He heard the sound of knuckles rapping on a door before the slightest of shifts beside him caught his attention. Looking down, he spied a black and white cat staring up at him with inquisitive, ice-blue eyes. Its eyes narrowed into slits upon seeing his slitted eyes, and its look changed from mildly curious to fully interested. The little feline padded up to the table closer to him, and Valens, in turn, shifted to face it. Crouching down to eye level with the cat, he raised a brow… along with the other one when the creature mirrored his facial expression. He reeled back slightly, "What the fuck?" He muttered in suspicion.

"You're looking for me? And who might you be? My father sends you?"

Valens blinked in surprise at the feminine voice, he had been too busy surprised by the brow-raising cat. Standing up from his crouch with a spry athleticism, Valens turned to greet the Baron's daughter; and cocked his head to the side upon seeing her.

She was young a lady, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties, and looked absolutely nothing like her father. The Baron's wife must have been quite the bombshell in her youth, for the girl before him was an attractive, short-haired brunette to say the least. Though her figure was slight, and her facial structure was a little angular as were the standards of northern women, Tamara Strenger's appearance was not one he had expected.

He was a swashbuckling slayer of men and monsters alike for a reason, however, Valens reminded himself firmly as he flashed her with a cordial, aristocratic smile. "Good evening to you as well, my lady." He replied wryly. The only answer he received in response was the barest dusting of pink on her pale cheeks before she exhaled from her nose in an unimpressed scoff. His smile turned into a grin, "In answer to your question, yes. In answer to your second question, I am Valens of the Sky-reaching Peaks, and in answer to your third, yes." He replied smoothly, leaning against the table as he crossed his arms in front of his chest in a nonchalant manner.

Tamara's dusting of pink grew a shade darker as she frowned at him, "I don't wish to play games of tongues with you, Valens of the Sky-reaching Peaks." She sneered back at him.

However, Valens merely shrugged infuriatingly; "A pity, I was curious to see how skilled your tongue was." He mused absently, loud enough for her to hear. He then turned his golden gaze of molten fire back onto her with an intensity that made her knees buckle. "I was sent here by your father to check on you, see whether you were still alive and well." He made a show of dissecting her entire figure with his beaming eyes before curling a lip up in indifference. "I see that you are alive, are you well?" He finished with a note of obviously forced intrigue.

The shift in tone seemed to throw Tamara from her high perch just as he had intended if her sudden stammering and nervous fidgeting had anything to say about it. She managed to compose herself, however, which was made all the more embarrassing as the man's piercing eyes never left her. "I- Yes, I am alive and better than I ever have been in this terrible life of mine, and now that you have seen me, I bid you farewell." She rattled out heatedly, she made to turn and leave before a hand gently, yet firmly held her still by her shoulder. She recoiled in shock to see the golden-eyed warrior stood barely two feet from her, 'I only blinked!'

"We have more to discuss."

Tamara felt her ire drown in response to the subtle shift of pitch in Valens' voice, his voice, as much as she hated to admit it, was pleasant to listen to and alluring in its efforts to grab her attention. It hadn't changed much, yet the growl of danger that laced the words was primal; it no longer grabbed at her attention, more so that it dominated and mauled it into shreds. The hand left her shoulder, as the man stepped back, and she found herself breathing a sigh of relief. Trust her father to find such a terrifying man to 'check up on her'.

However she was surprised yet again, for the fire in the Witcher's eyes seemed to simmer into something warmer as he stepped towards the window, observing the water gliding through the river that was the Pontar Delta. "I understand your malcontent with my presence," He began. Tamara suppressed the urge to scoff at him as if her father's lackey could ever under- "-your father's a vile man, you're enraged and estranged, I cannot, without lying condemn you for that." He said, his reverting voice back to the calming crescendo it had been before, yet empathic.

Just like that, Tamara's illusions about the man before her were shattered. Frustration pooled in her chest as she stomped forwards, "You knew? Why do you help him then?" She hissed loudly. "Why would take this job?"

"He has information I dearly need, about some close to me; swore to embolden me with this information if I helped him find you and your mother." Was his levelled response.

Tamara felt her frustration slip slightly at this, and she sighed sadly. This, she could understand. "Ah, blackmail then- just his style." She muttered spitefully.

Valens looked back to her and shrugged, "Not exactly, more of a trade of sorts. I could have simply tortured it from him, yet I prefer to stick to the Witcher code." He offered congenially.

Tamara smirked at him, yet it didn't reach her eyes. "You should have done so, he doesn't deserve your services." She had to admit, the man was skilled. They had given every hunter in Crow's Perch the slip, yet he had simply waltzed and found her like she had been hiding in the shitters a stone's throw away.

Valens smiled faintly at her, "That's very kind of you." He intoned, smiling again as her cheeks flushed with heat. "You certainly do loathe that man, don't you?" He mumbled quietly.

The question was rhetorical, yet she felt the need to answer anyway. "You haven't the faintest idea, Valens. Like you said, that man is vile." She wanted to spit at this, yet it would make her look uncouth and she was indoors. "My earliest memories of my father consist of him lying under the stairs with the bottle, caked in mud. The next dozen years, completely identical. Father would drink, come home in a rage and sent furniture flying!" Her tone grew hot again before the fear of alienating the one man who cared enough to listen, forced subdued her attitude. She looked up and saw understanding eyes gazing back at her, the ocean of molten gold comforting instead of terrorising like it had been. "I thanked the gods for war. I was so glad every time he left. The quarrels between mother and him were ghastly; I could hear the thuds as he beat her from under the bed where I hid in my room. Multiply that by nineteen, and you have the life of Tamara Strenger laid out before you." She concluded with an empty laugh.

Valens stepped a little closer to her, while earlier, he had found the girl to be grating. He now realised that she had a right to be, her life had been horrible. He would take being burned, beaten, and trained into the dirt and snow by his Grandmaster, up on the summit of a mountain so high that he couldn't breathe properly any day. "You're a smart girl; you know words of comfort don't mean shit." Tamara smiled weakly, yet genuinely at this. "I don't understand how you feel, I have never had parents to hate or love. But I understand why you feel that way. Sometimes talking is the best medicine, so let's continue shall we?" He asked gently.

Tamara glanced up at him and frowned lightly, she didn't know when the Witcher had turned into a cleric; yet she found that she didn't quite care. He was right, venting to someone who listened felt good, even if it made little difference. She nodded meekly, accepting the hand offered to her as she was led to the table and seated. She resisted the urge to laugh and blush at the same time, she was a Baron's daughter, yes, but no one had ever pulled a chair out for her. It was kind of him. She was unsure of what else to say, yet it seemed that the Witcher was on top of that as well.

"-And when did you two finally decide it was the breaking point? Why did you run?" He probed lightly. Valens was surprised to say that he was truly interested in the girl's story, despite his intent being that of garnering information from her; for once, a sob story had managed to capture the attention of Valens the Dragon Witcher.

She seemed to latch onto the topic like a fish to shoddy lure, simultaneously eager and reluctant to speak. "It… it was after the miscarriage. He crossed the line that night. We didn't know what to do, so we fled." She said in a voice that was barely above a whisper. Valens didn't mind, she could attempt to mime the words and he would still hear them at this distance.

He nodded solemnly, "I heard about this, dealt with it too."

If she was surprised by his knowledge, she didn't state it. "-His doing! He shoved her and she fell, that's how it started. We were completely alone in the dead of night, no one was there to help… there was blood everywhere." She clenched her eyes shut at this. "Worst night of my life." She intoned in a moment of perfect clarity.

Valens sighed, and reached out with his hand. It was lucky her eyes were shut, for she didn't notice the light glow as the Dragon's Reach receded into the runes carved into his skin just before his fingers snaked into her clenched fist. He raised his brow as her grip slackened, and her eyes opened to just stare at their hands before she smiled as his thumb stroked the back of her hand with the barest feather of a touch. He had expected at least some surprise. Meanwhile, Tamara entertained thoughts of both her mother and father as the Witcher stole the unease away from her, replacing it with warmth with but his mere touch. No one had ever done that for her either.

"You two deserved better than that." He stated grimly.

Tamara blinked, squeezing out a tear that fell to the table. "Mother was in shock, raving about how she never wanted the child, must have been the blood loss." She decided bitterly, however, looked up as Valens grunted in disparity. "What is it?" She asked, frowning as he halted his ministrations on her hand.

Valens frowned, before shrugging lightly. "I realise that your father always took it too far, that he was a raging drunk who hadn't a clue towards being a father or a husband; but I doubt it was just him causing trouble." He supplied slowly.

Tamara leaned back slightly, the implications confusing. "What are you getting at?"

"Phillip has never struck you, has he?"

After a moment, she shook her head.

"He treats his soldiers well; his villagers are poor, but fed. He treats his guest well, and he gave us half the information when we completed half the task." He paused, and squeezed Tamara's hand gently, "Why would he mistreat only his wife? Unless…" He trailed off.

And Tamara picked up on it, "Unless mother was the one sta- that can't be right!"

Valens only shook his head, "His treatment of her doesn't add up, your vision of him is skewed by his stupidity and drunken rage, mine isn't. Discrepancies like this, especially to a Witcher a glaringly obvious." He explained. His mind then cracked to the marks the Baron's wife had on her hands. He squeezed her hand again to draw her attention, "Perhaps what Voytek had been saying played a part in this mess? Those marks on her hands, do you know anything about them?" He quizzed.

She was obviously still stunned by the implications, yet she perked up at this. "We were on horseback; we had just barely passed the swamp and were riding to the river. Suddenly mother doubled over screaming, almost fell off her horse. I rode up behind and saw that, saw that her hands- were on fire." She looked troubled at her own words, seemingly not believing them as she spoke. Then her features turned aghast, "- Then that monster came from the trees, roaring so loud it made my ears bleed. It was bathed in shadow so I didn't make anything out but it toppled trees like toothpicks! I've never felt fear like that before." She whispered sullenly.

Valens frowned, "Did it kill her?" He asked plainly.

Tamara looked pained at this, "No… I, I don't know. It carried her off, I wanted to go after her but the horses-" She paused, and another tear trailed down her pale cheek. "-I, panicked."

Valens tutted admonishingly, "It's good that you did, you would have been dead had you not." Internally he was frowning. Some giant creature capable of tearing the head from a horse had carried the Baron's wife into the damned swamp, allegedly. He looked up and saw Tamara staring hard at the table. "What will you do now?" He had gotten what he came for, but perhaps she needed his aid. After all this, he was willing to give it to the poor woman.

She looked up at this, a rare glint of steel in her eye. "I'm going to find mother."

Valens raised a brow, "Forgive me, but you know it's not exactly going to be easy?" He questioned, unaware whether if she was speaking from emotion or pre-planned decision.

Tamara merely scoffed at this, taking to lacing her fingers with Valens' idly as she wiped her cheeks dry. "Don't be daft, I'm not stupid. I know I won't get anywhere alone, but I have friends now; powerful friends who can help me." She looked forwards upon watching Valens' fingers close firmly around hers. Melitele was he warm to the touch…

"I hope you aren't consorting with the wrong sort, who are these friends of yours?" He inquired carefully.

Tamara merely smirked, her mood lightening for once. "No, they're the good sort, a very good sort. Heard of the Church of the Eternal Fire? They helped me contact the Witch Hunters of Redania, strong, righteous men who can aid me." She said in a buoyant tone. She did not miss Valens' scowl. "W-what is that look for?" She asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

Valens shook his head, "The Eternal Fire has made habits of stretching too far in their 'cleansing of humanity through flame'. And the Witch Hunters, well, only half of them are good, righteous men. The other half is comprised of savage mercenaries."

Tamara frowned at him, "You lie-"

"Why would I lie? I'm no witch; I have nothing to fear from them." He then took in Tamara's unease, and shrugged placatingly. "Granted, you may have met the good half. They are decent men and able warriors."

She nodded slightly at this, yet the fact that her conviction had been shattered twice now, once regarding her mother, and the second time regarding her faith had noticeably dampened her frame of mind.

Sighing, the Witcher clicked his tongue. "Well, I guess that you definitely are not going back to your father?" His statements were affirmed with the glare he received. He merely chuckled as he raised Tamara's delicate hands still intertwined with his hand waved her concerns off with his other. "Don't worry, your decisions are yours to make. I won't make them for you." He reassured, smiling at Tamara's doe-eyed expression. He then stood, "Very well, it seems I have some work to do." He stated before turning to leave.

Tamara's eyes widened at this, 'Wait! Is he just leaving? He can't!'

Valens paused. She hadn't let go of his hand yet. He turned back to her, head cocked to the side curiously.

Tamara blushed up a storm as she struggled to meet his eyes, "D-do you have to leave? I mean it's so late!" she squeaked hurriedly. Stifling an amused smirk, he crouched down and gently turned her chin, urging her to look at him. He stared deep into her chocolate brown eyes, before opening his mouth to speak. Words of grave importance sat on the tip of his tongue, words of time and the wise use of it... before he shrugged. 'Fuck it.'

His lips met hers in the barest feather of kisses, teasing, goading her to seize it for herself; and seize it she did. She leaned forwards with barely a moment's hesitation, giving herself fully into the scorching, blissful heat as her other hand reached out tentatively, cupping the breathtaking Witcher's chiselled jawline as his tongue snaked into her mouth deviously. And suddenly, it was over; leaving her chasing his lips and mewling in loss as the man withdrew. He looked up at her with those molten, slitted eyes, and in an almost beastly purr, he spoke.

"Not unless you don't want me to."

Words completely and utterly abandoned her, her thoughts were filled with nothing but his alluring gaze, her breath was heavy and laboured, her fingers aching to touch and feel while the heat between her legs threatened to set her core on fire. She shook her head; and whimpered in need as she was pulled down from her chair and into his muscular arms, before being effortlessly picked up as he stood from his crouch. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctually as her lips sought out his with a desperation; her hands combed through his raven black hair, while he tore the clothes from her body after laying her on the table.

Valens shivered in a primal lust as his golden eyes narrowed, the slits growing thinner and thinner as he lost himself in the throes; his hands expertly weaved across her pale skin even as hers fumbled for his belt. Suddenly, a flicker of black invaded his vision; and the hunger to gorge himself deep within her suddenly multiplied as he pushed her back down roughly. His mouth breaking from hers as his tongue trailed down her chin; skirting down her neck and collarbones in teasing, snaking patterns before crisscrossing over the hand-sized mound of flesh, and finally circling around the rosy pink, painfully hard buds. His fanged teeth barely brushed over the diamond hard nub, and he was rewarded with a strangled gasp.

The feeling of something wet against his front made him glance down from his ministrations, distracting him from his red haze of overpowering lust. Her legs were folded up tightly, shaking ever so slightly and glistened with moisture. He looked up and found the young lady in an almost catatonic state of bliss, mindlessly breathing for the sheer reason of staying alive as she drooled in ecstasy. It made him pause.

She was troubled… hurt. She sought comfort, acceptance; something to remind her that she was still human. The mewling mess of a lust-addled woman was not how he wanted to leave her. Pulling back, he retracted his aura; he reigned in his desires and calmed himself. The primal pheromones released dwindled and died as the Dragon emerging was forcefully subdued.

Tamara's eyes rolled back into focus as the overwhelming pleasure stifled to a gentle heat as her shuddering body slowly recovered. She glanced up with utterly confused and fatigued eyes and saw Valens staring back at her comfortingly, his golden orbs now radiating security and luxury, instead of the dominating lust they had been spewing. His hands intertwined with her limp ones as he pulled her arms above her head, pinning them there ever so gently as something heavenly set a flame in between her thighs, pushing deeper and deeper until there was a sudden stab of stinging pain. Her cry was silenced, swallowed entirely as her lips were captured in a warm embrace. The pain faded almost as quickly as it came as she lost herself in his features, it was again replaced by the divine paradise pulsating through her body as her insides stretched to accommodate. It was nothing close to the mind-numbing pleasure she had been bathed in previously, yet it was steady, constant, warm. It was strangely preferable, in this moment.

She closed her eyes, and for the first time in nineteen years, she felt safe; happy. No one had done that for her either.

Neither of them noticed the pair of slitted, icy blue eyes watching them from atop the stairs; the intelligence swimming within them sparkling with both amusement and intrigue…

AN: Heyo, sorry for the wait. I've been bulk writing chapters in preparation for my departure. Hopefully, I can get a friend or something to release them while I'm gone. As for the raunchy scene above, I can't seem to decide between pulling it into the category of a full blown lemon or leaving it as is. I guess time, and my confidence in writing will tell. Keep in mind; Valens' pairing is with Ciri, that ain't changing.