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"Fuck, this is new," is the only thought he can think before they attack. He swings his sword over his head and in front of his face, spins around like a humming top on fisstech, but they are everywhere. There must be millions of them, a huge, buzzing cloud of yellow and black, and they seem to mean business. Or buzzingness. Ouch!
"Flee, you fools!" Geralt shouts when he sees his companions dash into the glade, toward him and the enormous swarm of insects. Of course, like always, they ignore his warning. Cahir has already drawn his sword and Milva's bow is ready, yet, how do you shoot at something that is no bigger than a fingernail and flying through the air at the speed of light? Not even his blade seems to make any difference at all, and his is much sharper and lighter than Cahir's.
"How very peculiar," somebody suddenly says behind him. Regis has materialised out of thin air, staring at the murderous insects intensively. "It would seem that something is not right with these bees. In my almost five-hundred years on this continent, I have never seen Apis mellifera attack anybody without being provoked first."
"You think?" Geralt scoffs through gritted teeth so he would not swallow one of the stingy insects. "Fuck, Regis, can't you—"
"— do something?" the higher vampire and barber-surgeon finishes his sentence, as so often. "I've been trying to hypnotically put them to sleep, however, mysteriously, it appears not to work."
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Geralt curses as another bee sting hits a particularly sensitive spot. He must look like a streuselkuchen already with bumps everywhere. And it fucking hurts!
Strangely enough, the bees seem to mostly attack him, not the others although Cahir is swinging his sword and swearing at them much like he is only a few paces to the left while Milva is trying to shoo the insects away into the forest with the help of her leather belt and a plethora of colourful curses. Both their efforts are completely in vain, but so are his own. Regis, on the other hand, is still staring at the bees, not affected by them at all. Do they perhaps not like his herbaceous scent? Jaskier he cannot see. Hopefully the bard has taken cover somewhere behind a tree or under a stone or wherever at a safe distance as he used to do during their "normal" monster hunts of the past. However, this here is definitely not normal. Firstly, he is not a Witcher anymore and second, no person in their right mind would claim that bees are monsters. They are extremely useful, harmless and peace-loving creatures that pollinate plants and produce the gold of the forest. Never in his life would he have dreamt of taking up his sword against any of them. Yet here he is, fighting for his life. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
"Geralt, what if it's not the bees?" Regis finally says with a frown. "I believe something is controlling them with ancient magic, something that does not like Witchers in particular."
Right, this makes sense, Geralt has to admit, as everything Regis says. While ineffectually slashing at the bees, he goes through a mental list of forest-dwelling creatures. Which ones of them would have the power to make a swarm of bees do their bidding? After a moment of feverish thinking, Geralt arrives at the only possible solution to the puzzle, and he does not like it one bit.
"Fuck, must be—"
"— a Leshy," Regis continues and gestures toward the trees. And there it stands between the shadows, far taller than a human, with tree-like limbs and a pale, whitish deer skull as a head. Fuck! Even with his Witcher elixirs, dimeritium bombs and Igni, these powerful and evil creatures are almost impossible to kill. Without them, attacking it would be suicide. But what else can he do if he does not want to be stung to death by the bees?
"Don't worry, Geralt, let me take care of her," Regis says with a strange smile. Then he is gone in a whirl of black smoke.
Geralt has no time to watch what happens as the bees launch another vicious attack at him. Fuckety fuck!
Then, suddenly, like on a secret command, they all disappear into the darkness of the wild forests of Riverdell. Geralt draws in a deep sigh of relief and flops down on the leaf-covered forest floor. He is huffing and puffing like a dying mammoth from the pointless fight and hurting all over, much as if somebody had stuck a hundred red-hot needles into his skin. Next to him, he can hear Cahir's heavy panting and Milva gasping for air. They also have sunk to the ground, exhausted and bewildered.
"You two alright?" Geralt addresses his comrades when he has recovered his breath.
"What the bloody hell was that?" Cahir asks, scratching at a large, angry-red bee sting on his cheek.
"Don't!" Milva admonishes and slaps her companion's hand. "Every baby knows not to scratch, you'll only make it worse! Do you learn nothing in Nilfgaard?"
"I'm not—" Cahir begins but is interrupted by Jaskier popping up from behind a big boulder not far from them.
"Ah, like always, monster dead, all is good?" he asks cheerfully and pulls out a piece of parchment and a quill, ready to write down these newest events in his Half a Century of Poetry.
"We don't know that yet," Geralt grumbles. Judging by the lack of remote-controlled bees, Jaskier might not be wrong, but Regis has not returned yet. Besides, how can all be good when he is covered in a billion hurting and itching bee bites?
"Uh, Geralt, I believe you've got a little bee sting on the tip of your nose. And several on both your cheeks. There's one on your chin, too, and your neck looks like covered in bee bites. You should put some ointment on those bumps."
"What an ingenious idea, bard," Geralt scoffs. "Unfortunately, I've just run out of bee sting salve."
"How fortunate then that I haven't," Regis says, suddenly materialising among them. For a few seconds, he rummages in the bag he is always carrying with him. Then he produces a big jar filled with a yellowish cream. "Here, help yourselves. And each other, I'd propose. I'll be back." He smiles at them through pursed lips, then he vanishes. Whereto the vampire does not say.
"Alright then," Jaskier grins, "let's paint the White Wolf yellow like a dandelion." He grabs the jar and lavishly spreads the salve all over Geralt's face. The Witcher growls, however, the ointment has an instant cooling effect and without a mirror, Jaskier can far better see where the worst stings are. His musician's fingers are a lot softer, too, than his callused ones, and nimble from all his lute playing. It actually feels quite nice having him apply the salve. After his face, Jaskier tackles Geralt's neck, forearms and hands while Milva and Cahir are doing the same for each other. Having a lot less stings than the Witcher - which is very fortunate as, for a normal human, the amount of bee venom he was injected with would have been quite lethal - they are done a lot sooner and start to set up camp. It is a bit early still and they could go on riding for an hour or so, but everybody is thoroughly knackered from their little bee adventure. Everybody except for Jaskier, of course.
"Now Geralt, where else did those little buggers get you? Perhaps you should take off your shirt and let me have a look? Ah, right, that looks, well—"
"Looks like what?"
"Like you have the bubonic plague. A mild case of it, yes, but still, if I didn't know that it's not contagious, I'd make the quickest getaway you've ever seen, even quicker than this once when—"
"Don't talk, bard, get on with that yellow stuff. It's actually not half bad."
"Alright, alright, I'll shut up," Jaskier concedes, rolling his eyes at the Witcher who, according to himself, has given up his Witchering. Then he proceeds with the application of the salve, humming a little tune to himself.
Geralt closes his eyes. The golden afternoon sun is shining down on him, the birds are chirping in the distance, Milva and Cahir are softly talking while preparing something to eat and Jaskier is skilfully treating what, according to the bard, looks like plague-spots. All in all, things could have gone much worse for them without the higher vampire. With Regis's ointment, the bee stings will soon be forgotten, he assumes. And Jaskier's new tune sounds quite jolly.
"Butt."
"What but?" Geralt asks, startled from his semi-sleep.
"Your butt, of course," Jaskier says with a grin. "Don't tell me the bees did not insert the one or other sting in its most tender, rosy skin. 'Cause that's what I'd definitely do if I were a bee."
"You're an idiot, bard, you know that?" Geralt grumbles, but opens his belt buckle nonetheless. The bees did indeed not steer clear of this area and the itch there is particularly annoying. Almost as if—
"Oh, what have we got here? One, two, no, three still alive bees! Those clever creepy crawlies know where it's nice. Come here, little one, come to uncle Jaskier—"
"Gods, Jask, just whisk them off," Geralt groans, exasperated. "They're not bloody pets. Those crazy bees tried to kill me!"
"And you, Witcher, tried to kill them back although it wasn't their fault," Jaskier says, letting the last of the three bees crawl onto his finger. Then he holds his finger up into the air and blows softly. "Yes, here you go, little friend," he says as the bee takes off, "find your beehive with your buddies. Or your bee box or tree hole or wherever you live."
"A-One, A-Two, A-Three Bee, Bee" he then starts to intone while plastering Geralt's butt with salve in the rhythm of his new song.
"You see a bee climb on a tree
They love to sting your butt, your knee.
You love your life? Then better flee!
No thanks, no honey in the tea for me.
From sea to sea, beware the bee
It's out to get you in a killing spree."
"Are you done yet?" Geralt groans, not specifying whether he means Jaskier rubbing his butt with ointment or his singing, or both.
"Hm, I don't know," Jaskier says, furrowing his brow. "The song might need a second stanza. What else rhymes with bee? Free, glee, we, debris—"
"I need to pee," Geralt mutters with another groan of exasperation.
"Ah, yes, thank you, Geralt, that rhymes and is extremely poetic to be sure." Jaskier rolls his eyes at his friend once more, as so often. "Thanks indeed for the mental image. Now I—"
Unfortunately - or is it, perhaps, a rather lucky coincidence? - none of the Hansa gets to know what Jaskier intended to say as Regis reappears in the glade, out of thin air as usual, but with an unusually smug smile plastered all across his face.
"Ah, Regis, you're back! How did you kill the leshy?" Geralt asks, not a little curious. A higher vampire is actually the only creature he can think of that might be powerful enough to end a monster like this, and Regis's satisfied expression seems to indicate just this.
However, Geralt's assumption could not be more wrong.
"Oh, the Leshy's still alive, Geralt, very much alive." Regis winks at the Witcher conspiratorially.
"Then, why the heck did the bees leave me alone? I don't understand—"
"Let's say, my dear friend," Regis grins at the perplexed former Witcher, the white enamel of his pointy fangs gleaming in the sunshine, "that I convinced her with my mind-boggling charm and overall attractiveness that we are peaceful travellers who did not intentionally trespass onto her territory. Making her believe that you, dear Geralt, are quite harmless, was a bit tricky, but I am extraordinarily excellent at the art of persuasion." He winks at Geralt again, smiling from ear to ear like the cat that ate the pudding.
Right, now he gets it. Gods, as grateful as Geralt is for the save, he does not really wish to ever find out more about what transpired between the Leshy and the higher vampire, no, thank you very much. Darn, from now on he will probably think of it whenever he sees or hears a bee. Fuck!
Lucky for Geralt, autumn is approaching quickly and all the bees are safely tucked away to winter in their hives. Not a single one will be seen before next spring. Until then, he might have forgotten about the incident.