fallesto:

@wanderingwolfwitcher
“You can leave it to me, I will not disappoint you.”
As she walked through the halls of the palace, past the tapestries depicting centuries of Toussaint’s bloodless victories, her footsteps silent on the wine-stained marble where some noble’s goblet had shattered during last week’s revelry. The scent of candied violets clung to the air, thick enough to make her teeth ache. She paused before the gilded doors to the Small Council chamber, where six pairs of polished boots stood at attention behind the threshold, three ducal guards, two seneschals, and one pair of riding boots still flecked with vineyard mud that didn’t belong to any of her scheduled appointments. Interesting. She adjusted the fall of her emerald sleeves, ensuring the dagger strapped to her forearm remained hidden, then pushed inside without knocking. The conversation died mid-syllable. The first petitioner arrived with honeyed words and a ledger full of lies. Vivienne spotted the discrepancy before he’d finished his third sentence.
The vintage listed for the ‘64 harvest would have required grapes harvested six months before they’d even budded. She let him prattle on while tracing the grain of the oak table with one fingertip, counting the heartbeats between each of his nervous blinks. When he finally paused for breath, she leaned forward just enough to make the sunlight catch the silver threads in her braid. “Master Villion.” She murmured. “Either your cellars are stocked with miracles, or your scribe can’t tell a pruning hook from a pitchfork.” The man’s jowls trembled like overripe plums. Behind her, Captain Montagne shifted his weight. The quiet scrape of steel on leather as intentional as a tolling bell. By noon, she’d dismissed three wine merchants, a spice importer with suspiciously clean fingernails, and the Baron de Lettenhove’s youngest son, who kept glancing at the eastern windows like he expected winged salvation. The latter left sweat stains on the velvet chair arms. Vivienne made a note to have the upholstery burned. When the chamberlain announced lunch, she waved it away with a flick of her wrist that sent emerald sleeves whispering across parchment. “The Ducal Treasury reports first.” The accountants filed in like prisoners approaching the gallows.
She unrolled their ledgers with the same care one might give to disarming a crossbow, her thumbnail tracing columns of numbers that didn’t quite add up. The missing funds were cleverly hidden—a misplaced decimal here, an overestimated yield there, but the pattern emerged like tracks in fresh snow: payments diverted to four separate trading companies, all registered to the same shell corporation in Novigrad. The ducal treasurer’s quill snapped mid-stroke, spraying ink across the ledger like arterial spray. Vivienne watched the black droplets bloom without blinking, her fingers laced together so tightly the old feather scars along her knuckles stood out white. Every face in the chamber was a mask, some carved from marble, others from cheap plaster cracking at the edges. Even Montagne’s familiar scowl could hide daggers. She’d seen knights break oaths for less than what these conspirators stood to gain.
Hours pass, the sun sets and the chamber doors groaned shut behind her with the finality of a tomb sealing. She pressed her forehead against the carved oak, breathing in the lingering scent of beeswax and iron hinges, letting the day’s accumulated tension bleed from her shoulders. Someone, likely the ever-attentive Mariette had lit the hearth despite the balmy evening, and the firelight danced across silver serving domes arranged on the low table. The scent of garlic-roasted pheasant and rosemary potatoes should have made her stomach growl, as she would open the windows and sit at the table, as she would see the door open as Eskel enters the room.
“Fraud everywhere, plots and schemes. Everything that I expected, in this kingdom. After all that happened, most see a chance to gain more wealth, land and power. Not unexpected, just hard to deal with, I suspect some working with your enemies, but it will be hard to be certain. For who would sell there soul to a vampire, but then .. on the path with you, I have seen the worst of people .. I am not sure Eskel, who is working with them or not, but after you kill some vampires, I suspect we will know based on reactions from the lords who are in service to them.”

Eskel worked his way through the last of the prisoner interrogations by the time night fell, thankfully, and he left what little work remained for the Ducal Guard to see through. He had dismissed the pale faced scribes of the Duchess who had been forced to sit in on the interrogations and record what was said. Young men, scarcely out of being boys, who had not seen torture for themselves up close… being understandably squeamish. He had tried to avoid implementing much of it, making torture a last resort, a tool in his arsenal, but some of the prisoners were a good deal less forthcoming with the information than others who were ready to sing like Vivienne’s song birds. The tools he had been provided by the Ducal Guard and royal jailers, his own trophy hook, carving knife and Axii Sign had done the job in the end, as necessary. Necessity knew no law, when it came time to achieve results. Especially considering the stakes and scale of the threat. The failures of the past generations of Toussaint to combat the Vampires left it in his hands to be as harsh as needed. After washing off all the blood thoroughly, making himself presentable for royal company, making his way back up to the courtyard to look in on Scorpion and Selene, and then towards the palace, ushered by her nervous looking servants and handmaidens along the way, he smelled their prepared supper from a long ways off. Cooking, mouth watering pheasant and other meats, Crayfish Chowder that she knew to be one of his favorite Toussaint dishes… spiced and fried potatoes, cooked vegetables and other, numerous assortments of dishes. Doubtless she knew by now how large his appetite was as a mutant, what with all the meals they had eaten at inns along the road and the animals they had hunted. Being ushered into her lavish royal chambers, the view improved dramatically… not merely the surroundings and supper and wines on the dining table waiting for him, but the golden haired beauty herself. He had to pause to drink her in as well, before his scarred features smiled back at her grimly in the wake of her accented words, his deep, calm voice returning to her.

“Been a long, unpleasant day for me as well, Birdie. Best I get at least a drink or two in me, before getting down to business. I’d say we’ve both earned them, putting up with all these headaches of late. The first of many.”

The Witcher nodded to her and made his way to join Vivienne at the table at last, taking his seat near her gladly and settling in… taking her hand gently as well and pressing a kiss to the back of it, ignoring the gawking the action received from her staff. He was tempted to produce his bottle of harder liquor, Mahakaman Spirit, but some measure of class and restraint was required in his present surroundings… especially under the watchful eye of her servants and handmaidens… even if the other far more judgmental nobles were mercifully not present. Likely they would only get to have short amounts of time together in which it was only the two of them… but it was far better than nothing. And they would be able to work side by side again… a welcome relief. He caught the gazes of the servants as they dished up the plates for the Witcher and their Duchess, pouring their glasses as well with rich wine. As the servants did so, he glanced over to the bird cages deeper in the bed chamber, containing some of her golden orioles he had seen before in her lavish tent at the tournament and at her estate alike, when they had done research on the Crone of Ebbing. He also caught the way the serving girls close by looked at his various scars, serpent eyes and the wolf and oriole medallions hanging from his collar and against his Grandmaster Witcher armor. He observed his manners, thanking them, before grasping his glass of wine and drinking from it… in this case holding back on displaying upper class manners, drinking deeply instead of in polite sips. After he got through a couple cups of fine wine, ignoring his appetite and temptation to dig into the supper in front of them, he instead turned his viper eyes to her emerald pair and spoke up to her again, low, subdued voice filling her in on the state of his progress.

“Got plenty out of our arrests and interrogations, your scribes will have doubtless brought you the written confessions and details. Prisoners of all classes, and their connections. You are correct, more direct action is required now. Compared to the tedious process of interrogations, I welcome beginning my hunt. I’ll get to it as soon as possible, each evening, while preparing your Knights and Ducal Guard at the Trastamara Estate by day. Don’t need much in the way of sleep, thankfully… unlike most of the blood suckers. We’ll start putting the pressure on those inside the city, shaking down businesses as well, put the squeeze to this conspiracy and watch them react. Once we cut into their blood smuggling routes and currency flow inside and outside of the duchy, you watch them start lighting up and scurrying around like Foglets. Then you and your Ducal Guard can throw the net on them. We take them apart piecemeal… you do things your way, me mine. It’ll be a two pronged assault… unbreakable and irresistible, working together in unison. Thinking of bringing this to Geralt’s attention as well… retired or not, he was the one who resolved the Night of the Long Fangs. Seems only fair I give him a chance to get involved with closing the book on that night once and for all.”

@fallesto