Vilgefortz: Exquisite work. [inaudible name]?

Person: Corathion. [Note: spelling might not be right]

Vilgefortz: You were a slave.

Person: The wine is sweeter in the North.

Vilgefortz: It’s nothing to be ashamed about, a slave tattoo. You know, I was taken as a boy, forced to do things that…that no boy should have to imagine. Shaped forcefully to be someone I wasn’t. I understand.

Person: But how?

Vilgefortz: How did I get set free? I didn’t. You see, someone bought me. Someone who knew…exactly who I was.

Person: A mage?

Vilgefortz: Ha. You’re sweet. No. A brigand. A brigand isn’t something to be ashamed of, you see, brigands and whores are quite alike. They’re merely just individuals with a capacity to survive. Really brave souls that just spit in the face of destiny and shout, “We will not die quietly.”

Person: I thought I was bedding a mage.

Vilgefortz: Indeed, you did, and I must add that your carnal capacities are extraordinary! You can be proud. But you must know that I am a mage because, well, it suits me to be so right now.

The truth is, I despised the magic. It was like this gnawing itch that just kept interrupting me at the most inopportune of times. See, and I had a plan, and this plan was working out nicely- progressing so well. I had progressed from young-run-around-brigand-who-was-stealing-for-his-master, to cut-throat-killing-said-master-taking-his-sword-and-assuming-his-identity.

From then on, it was a hop, skip, and a stab before I became a sellsword– someone who kills for coin. But then magic. That magic! It just it wouldn’t stop. It was roaring inside of me, just rising up, gnawing at the back of my throat like acid, until one day…One day, I found that my fate caught up with me and I found my handsome head on an executioner’s block. And then, it happened.

Person: What happened?

Vilgefortz: Well, the magic, of course. The magic won. I saw a beam of light just before that axe fell. My bonds burnt up in flames and fell to the floor, and as I stood up, I just saw mountains of people around me [their eyes seared from their sockets]. The executioner, gone. Aldermen, dead. Crowds just… mutilated. And that’s when I knew, I needed to give into this power, this beautiful energy flowing through my veins. I let it think for me, I let it speak for me, until I had worlds bowing at my feet. It was simply joyous!

Oh, oh, don’t worry! It won’t take that long. Oh, you want your assassin friends to help you out? I’m sorry, I’m afraid not. You see, while you and I were going at it, I maybe might have melted their eyes in the back of their skulls. Perhaps you didn’t hear them falling in the hallway when you were– ah, yes– having your throes of ecstasy. Very understandable.

You were right. Very, very right. Wine is certainly far tastier in the North. Far sweeter, too, with added basilisk spleen, I must add. Do cheer up, we all know that no one leaves this world alive!




*Through the brush, Geralt spies a young girl. Her ashen hair disheveled and her green eyes locked in a suspicious glare. She can't be any older than eleven. This ls Ciri.*

Ciri: Who're you?

*Geralt reaches out his hand, as if summoning an animal.*

Geralt: Don't be afraid.

*Ciri crinkles her nose. Affronted.*

Ciri: I'm not afraid. And I'm not a farm animal, so don't beckon at me like that.

*She scampers out of the brush, dusts herself, and makes to walk on. Geralt stops her, snatching the tiny girl by the scruff. She SMACKS his hand away.*

Ciri: Hey!

Geralt: Ow!

Ciri: Do you know who you're grabbinq at? I'll tell my grandmama about your filthy fingers, and she'll have the guards chop them right off!

*Geralt holds back a smirk. Crouches to the girl's level.*

Geralt: A princess, then. You won't last a night alone in these woods.

Ciri: I'll make it just fine, thank you.

Geralt: I'm sure you're right. The Brokilon werewolves normally make a nice meal of little girls' intestines, but perhaps they've already fed toniqht. Perhaps.

*Ciri looks pale. Geralt gives a wave, begins to walk off.*




Isaac: Technically it’s not a spell, it’s more of an incantation, but you can’t just utter it. You’re pulling from the purest form of sorcery there is. There’s a reason why I will spend centuries weaving intricate webs between the ancient powers of the past. You see, practice is like this- go back to-

Fergus: Please

Isaac: What?

Fergus: You’re doing it again.

Isaac: Oh sorry. You’re pronouncing it wrong. That’s the reason why your hands turned into wood.

Fergus: Can you turn it back?

Isaac: You want to turn it back?

Fergus: Isaac!

Isaac: I’m only kidding with you, of course I can! And you could too if you paid a brain cell’s worth of attention in class. You’re lucky the rector doesn’t turn you into a toadstool by now.

Fergus: I’m still standing, aren’t I?

Isaac: Barely.

Fergus: Your girl performed quite well I heard.

Isaac: Yes, she did.

Fergus: What’s that like?

Isaac: Have you ever looked at somebody and seen the whole world in their eyes, and when she smiles, the whole earth comes on fire, and when she laughs the skies lift up and…they’re sparkling? It’s like nothing else, not magic, or knowledge, it’s something you can’t pick apart, something un-claimable.

Fergus: That’s good for fairytales, but I mean, beyond your eyes?

Isaac: What?

Fergus: You know…what her-

Isaac: Don't.

Fergus: I'm just saying she should make a pretty one when they're done with her. With huge improvement. Monstrous improvement.

Isaac: Fergus.

Fergus: Whale of an improvement. Get it? Humpback whale?

Isaac: And here I was thinking your magic was the worst thing about you. Turns out you’re more cold and unfeeling than you are stupid. Which is fine, because years from now when I'm enjoying my life with this amazing girl you have so many opinions about, you'll still be alone, and my guess is it'll be forever. So you can keep your wooden hands. Just be careful of splinter dick.


Man: Well hello, love. Does she talk? Come, sit on my knee and I will buy you a pint.

Renfri: I can smell it on you just fine from over here.

Man: Oh, you smell me? Interested in a hot taste?

Renfri: Step. Away. My fight isn’t with you, although you’ve decided we will become intimate right now. I’m patient.

Man: Not half bad! Do you wear the crest of Creyden on your finger?

Renfri: What is it? I stole it.

Man: Aren’t you a bit too old for tantrums, princess?

Renfri: I see your grandma told you the stories. I’m surprised you still believe in fairytales.

Man: No, I’m paid to know my mark.

Renfri: Better change your source.

Man: You can change your name, but you keep the airs.

Renfri: Are you here to distract me so the wizard can take his getaway? If so, I wanted to make you aware that I tracked him myself and I will track him again!

Man: There won’t be a next time, Renfri. But I wish I didn’t have to kill you so quickly. The evening is so, so boring!

Renfri: I see he told you the stories. I wonder which version did he tell you? Maybe the one that I’m just a mutant that murdered all the animals?

Man: And people. But you can tell it to me again, love.

Renfri: I know. On your knee, right? Typically, I’m getting paid to fuck someone’s life, not to fuck with someone. But I like you, and I wonder how much did he pay you? Because with me, you will get three times more. We will get on the road together and we will rob all the merchants on our way. Are you with me? Would you like to fuck him over with me?

Man: Well now, this is a little less boring. Is it all true?

Renfri: If it would be a judgment day, I would say I didn’t have a choice. Although the story of my revenge was still not written.

Once upon a time, I escaped a rat prison. Then after, I survived a man’s hand with my life- if not my virginity. Then I held not a poison apple to my stepmother. I joined the army of rats, and then after, I led the army of rats – and yes, I killed everyone who was in my way.

But now we are here, and you need to make your choice: would you like to join me or would you like to die?

Man: That’s a lot to consider, after how many pints? But I’ve decided- I don’t like sorcerers.

Renfri: Let’s get the pints. Sir, how many can I get for this…ring?




Man: You’re a man of considerable talent.

Geralt: I’m not a man, and I’m not that talented.

Man: Don’t underestimate yourself, Witcher.

Geralt: When it comes to work, I estimate my worth quite well. You owe me forty Orens.

Man: And fair price that was for taking care of the Basilisk.

Geralt: So why isn’t your purse opening instead of your mouth?

Man: Because you caused considerable damage to my town! I’ll deduct the repairs from your bill. Eight Orens seems more than fair.

Geralt: Well, what’s to stop me from mounting your head next to the Basilisk in the town square?

Man: Your reputation. I did my research on you. They call you a Butcher, but you don’t harm humans, especially not the ones who hire you.

Geralt: There’s always a first time.

Man: I have the power to help rehabilitate your name, spread the word that you are a rare Witcher who can be trusted.

Geralt: How about you bank your gratitude and pay me in coin?

Man: I’m trying to help you, Witcher! Most of the Council sees you as a scourge, hardly better than the creatures you kill.

Geralt: Those creatures kill because that’s all they can do. You wake up every morning and decide to be a shithead.

Man: Now, now! No need for insults. The next town is so full of soft beds and soft women. Go enjoy yourself.

Geralt: I’m tired of towns and the people in them. I’m going to spend the night under the stars with the Basilisks, and the next one I find, I’m going to spare it.

Man: You have an odd connection with them, don’t you?

Geralt: You misread me. I’m going to spare it so I can wrap it up and deliver it to your bedchamber. Because you’re right. I won’t harm the ones who hire me, but a monster will.



Geralt: If you want out, go.

Yennefer: It’s not that easy.

Geralt: Of course it is. Your shoes are in good shape, that is the path...I’m not keeping you here.

Yennefer: Oh, bullshit! You bound me to you- not by marriage but by magic!

Geralt: And you’re the magician. Find a way to reverse it.

Yennefer: By gods, you are an idiot!

Geralt: Well, then maybe we should ask him. I know you’re also with the sorcerer. I smell him every time I get into bed.

Yennefer: Istredd and I have a history.

Geralt: History means in the past.

Yennefer: You sound like some cladding boy from the provinces. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.

Geralt: You don’t suit me. Not anymore. Now that’s why I’m trying to rid us both of this curse.

Yennefer: That’s how you see our relationship?

Geralt: Don’t act like this. This is what you want. So if you want him, I won’t stand in your way.

Yennefer: Oh, as if you could! If I wanted to, I could twitch an eyebrow and send you to Bremervoord.

Geralt: I really miss your sweet pillow talk.

Yennefer: What do you want from me? What? You want me to admit I’m with you, body and spirit, by my choice? Because I am!

Geralt: I know. Me too. With him, at least you have a chance.

Yennefer: At what? He’s as warped as I am!

Geralt: But he’s still—

Yennefer: Don’t.

Geralt: Anything I have from before the mutation—

Yennefer: Stop it.

Geralt: Human emotion? No. That died on the vine when they turned me into this.

Yennefer: And yet you love me. So where does that leave us?

Geralt: Together…and cursed.




King: Just this once?

Yennefer: It is against policy, your highness.

King: It’ll be our secret then. The Brotherhood will never know.

Yennefer: It’s against my policy.

King: Surely you can make an exception? For me? Pretty please?

Yennefer: No thank you. [Casts spell]

Do you feel weightless? Or do you feel every one of your fatty, repulsive pounds pulling you to your death? Not that your feelings matter, really, since I am the one holding you up. And I am the one who is going to drop you. As soon as I am done telling you my feelings.

The way you eat your breakfast is revolting. Cream in your whiskers, and the people who hate you most, everyone in your kingdom it’s safe to say, don’t even see that side of you. They all hate you for their own reasons. How you’ve abandoned their needs while gilding your gates.

None of that bothers me, by the way. Really, it’s about the cream in your whiskers- and the way muffin crumbs get stuck in there that truly makes me want to vomit.

Then there’s the creeping. Always creeping into the beds of chambermaids who do not want to clean your dick with their bodies. Creep. Creep. Creep. And on top of that, you’re very, very dumb.

Bear in mind that I have no qualms with any of that, really. Again, creamy whiskers.

But then while taking a walk, that I may advise your feeble mind on acts of war, you ask if you can touch my breast. The answer was a polite, “No thank you,” but the takeaway, your highness, is that you are in the palm of my hand.

[Ends spell] I’m going back to work.



Yennefer: Stop! Stop it! You’re fidgeting like a child. Have you never put on a jacket before?

Geralt: Not one this tight.

Yennefer: If the coat is a problem, flesh is always a good color on you.

Geralt: The Council would love that.

Yennefer: Seriously, consider your scars quite the conversation piece. “This one I got from a feisty, young Basilisk. That one from the fangs of a Bruxa. And this one I gave myself, to fill in the unmarred space in my pectoral region- thought I should even it out a bit, you know?”

Geralt: That one is from you. You bit me.

Yennefer: I know…[Inspects coat] Damn. It is tight.

Geralt: It doesn’t matter. I’m not feeling well at all.

Yennefer: Can you even get sick?

Geralt: Witchers get colds, same as you.

Yennefer: You really don’t want to go, do you?

Geralt: I’m not meant for balls.

Yennefer: And you think I am? Marauding around a room full of mages that can’t wait to see me fail. Ready to pounce at a moment’s weakness. All my friends want to fuck you.

Geralt: Well, you should’ve led with that!

Yennefer: We’ll be lucky if Sabrina is wearing part of a shirt. My guess is that she’ll sport an illusion designed to blur just her nipples. You can trust Triss will be stealing looks at you all night, and I’ll let her, because that girl deserves some happiness. I like to think even Vilgefortz will ogle your pronounced posterior, all while parading his elven minx just to appear shocking. And let’s face it, so last century!

Geralt: And what of you? Parading around your Witcher?

Yennefer: I don’t parade you for shock value, I parade you because you are ridiculously attractive! I trust you’d say the same for me.

Geralt: Is that all we are to each other?

Yennefer: Of course not! Look at us. We’re a power couple.

Geralt: Right…I kill monsters and you make them.

Yennefer: You know it’s been years since I dabbled in mutations! How long will you hold that against me?

Geralt: Just right now- when I don’t want to go to a ball.

Yennefer: But I’m one of the good ones!

Geralt: Sure, in a sea of disgraceful ninnies who bend nature to their will.

Yennefer: You don’t have to talk to those people.

Geralt: Can I get drunk and punch them?

Yennefer: Would you shut up and put on your ill-fitting coat?

Geralt: Yes.

Yennefer: Then you may drunk-punch my colleagues. Just do it outside and make sure it’s someone I don’t care for. Shouldn’t be difficult. I hate everyone except you.