Ciri found her by chance, wandering down the street near the small stable where she's been housed, adjacent to their apartment building. The sun was nearly set, and the mare's fur was dirty with dried froth from sweat, dusty from the desert. She was still partially tacked up, saddle loosened and crooked on her back, the lead rope around her muzzle of the sort meant for tying up, not riding.
She was baring her teeth and tossing her head at someone on the street when Ciri found her, but it was Ciri herself who scared the stranger away -- not with words, but with a look, the way her expression became instantly like a storm, the sharp, quick movements that brought her to the horse's side. The darker spots splashed across the mare's flank looked suspiciously like blood.
Ciri's heart had hammered in her throat; the rest of the world had gone quiet.
No Geralt. Only a tired, thirsty, blood-splashed horse.
Jaskier might be the only person in all the Free Cities now who could have stopped Ciri, convinced her to wait until morning. She didn't want to listen. But, eventually, she had. And, for his part, Jaskier had insisted he not be left behind.
We leave at first light.
With the gray dawn still carrying the chill of desert night in the air, the horizon only barely lit enough to see by, Ciri and Jaskier had fresh horses, supplies enough for several days, and -- in Ciri's case -- a healthy number of weapons. For several hours, while the sun is rising, they ride quickly toward the area Geralt had mentioned he'd be hunting in. It's not until the heat is too strong and the sun is too high that they have to rest; and so, they stop off at a small rock formation with some dry, brittle-looking shrubs clinging to the earth around it.
Ciri sits with her back to the stone, knees up, pressed into the meager shade to wait out the high sun and eat. She does so without relish, mechanically shoving bread and dried meat into her mouth, her only goal to keep her strength up so she can keep going. Keep searching.
mid-november.
Ciri found her by chance, wandering down the street near the small stable where she's been housed, adjacent to their apartment building. The sun was nearly set, and the mare's fur was dirty with dried froth from sweat, dusty from the desert. She was still partially tacked up, saddle loosened and crooked on her back, the lead rope around her muzzle of the sort meant for tying up, not riding.
She was baring her teeth and tossing her head at someone on the street when Ciri found her, but it was Ciri herself who scared the stranger away -- not with words, but with a look, the way her expression became instantly like a storm, the sharp, quick movements that brought her to the horse's side. The darker spots splashed across the mare's flank looked suspiciously like blood.
Ciri's heart had hammered in her throat; the rest of the world had gone quiet.
No Geralt. Only a tired, thirsty, blood-splashed horse.
Jaskier might be the only person in all the Free Cities now who could have stopped Ciri, convinced her to wait until morning. She didn't want to listen. But, eventually, she had. And, for his part, Jaskier had insisted he not be left behind.
We leave at first light.
With the gray dawn still carrying the chill of desert night in the air, the horizon only barely lit enough to see by, Ciri and Jaskier had fresh horses, supplies enough for several days, and -- in Ciri's case -- a healthy number of weapons. For several hours, while the sun is rising, they ride quickly toward the area Geralt had mentioned he'd be hunting in. It's not until the heat is too strong and the sun is too high that they have to rest; and so, they stop off at a small rock formation with some dry, brittle-looking shrubs clinging to the earth around it.
Ciri sits with her back to the stone, knees up, pressed into the meager shade to wait out the high sun and eat. She does so without relish, mechanically shoving bread and dried meat into her mouth, her only goal to keep her strength up so she can keep going. Keep searching.
She's barely said a word since last night. ]