And Toss a Marble, While You're at It
by Present Perfect
Geralt Witcherman gazed out across the forested plain, his long, gray hair blowing freely in the wind behind him, and scowled. Somewhere out there was a witch that hadn't been killed yet. His gaze turned into a scowl.
A burden weighed heavy on his shoulders, like when you've been helping a friend move and you finally get to sit down and realize just how much heavy shit you've been lifting all afternoon. Only instead of boxes filled with a lifelong collection of porn magazines, Geralt's burden was a lifelong quest for revenge.
Yes, after being cursed with the bowels of a rabbit, he had made it his sworn duty to rid the land of Witchtopia of every single witch, wizard, and other magical ne'er-do-well, or his name was not Geralt Witcherman. It was a burden that was his and his alone, and so he spent his days alone, stalking his quarry and sharpening his quadruple-bladed sword. (It was a double-bladed sword with a slot down the middle to make space for the two extra blades.)
No, there was no one in the world who would get to share nights of quiet contemplation and gross sobbing as he loosed rabbit raisins around his campfire. No one to marvel at the way his leather-strap armor wrapped so tightly around his man bod. No one to relish in the luxury that was his long, steely mane, flowing in that ever-present wind.
No one, that was, except whoever was foolish enough to try and sneak up on him at that very moment.
He had heard them coming from yards out. Just because an enemy wasn't trying to be stealthy didn't mean they weren't dangerous. Overconfidence bred danger. Danger was his middle name. Actually, his middle name was "The", which is where the show title came from, but he didn't usually share that. Y'know, with the tons of company he kept in his day-to-day life.
Overconfidence also bred carelessness, and so he kept still, pretending he had no notice of the approach, in the hope this newfound foe might make the first blow, a blow that he could catch with his sword and turn against his opponent. Breaking other people's swords with his was always really cool, he just never got over it. His fingers itched on the hilt of his sword, ready to enter the battle to come.
A set of hooves approached his rear and halted. So the enemy was mounted? Brave indeed. The horse would give them the high ground, but now that he knew what he was dealing with, there was no sense waiting. Making nary a sound, Geralt pivoted on his heels, standing from his crouch and swinging his sword at the neck-ish area of where the horse's rider would have been.
Only, there was no one there. His sword whistled through the air that had been behind him and was now in front of him. Like, seriously, it makes a cool "whoosh" noise when he swings it fast enough, because of that slot. Four blades really are better than two!
Confused, he glanced left and right, drawing his crossbow and clutching it to his chest like a favorite teddy bear. (It was, after all, his only companion other than his sword.) There was no one in sight!
How could this be? He had trained his hearing to the peak of human perfection, so that no mage-footed miscreant could ever catch him unawares. He woke in the night when flies buzzed near, that was how sensitive his hearing was! Nor was he prone to hearing things that weren't there. He stroked the crossbow strings; that always made him feel better when a situation was spiralling out of his control.
A soft gasp drew his iron gaze groundward. Suddenly, the situation was clear. There was a tiny gray horse, no taller at the shoulder than his knee, staring up at him, its face a picture of pure terror.
Strange, to see a human emotion so plain on the face of an animal. It had a picture of two rocks on either side of its flank; perhaps some unusual version of a brand? Geralt tucked his crossbow away and sheathed his sword. He held his hands out to show he was unarmed, and sank slowly to his knees. The horse didn't move, fright freezing it in place.
Carefully, gently, he removed the leather gauntlet from his sword hand. Then, ever so tediously, he crept that naked hand out to the horse's head. Said horse made a couple of squeaking noises and jerked a bit, too frightened to retreat properly. But eventually, his fingers landed atop the soft, grey mane, and he gave it a gentle pat. The fear melted away, especially when he started to stroke the plush ears.
"Hmm," he said, experiencing a sensation that he had no words for.
"Mm-hmm," said the horse.
He was too stunned by what he felt to question how a small horse could produce human-like speech. Something warm flickered to life in his dull, cold heart, which had hardened to lead decades ago when the evil witch's curse was laid upon him. Whatever that tiny flame was, it told him one thing, one single idea, with a clarity he had never before experienced in his life.
This was his pony.
Geralt Witcherman was not afraid of the dark, nor of tight places, but the further he and Marble travelled into this cave, the more he was starting to think that perhaps phobias such as those were meant to keep mankind safe from dangers unseen. The walls were just a little too close, the ceiling too low for him to stand fully, the darkness just a bit too much for his flickering torch.
And then the tunnel came to an end.
There hadn't been any branches leading off from the path they'd taken. It had been the only one available. Had this entire excursion been an exercise in futility?
He glowered at the rocks before him. Obviously, there had been some kind of cave-in, blocking off what had once been a tunnel through this mountain. It had been their best bet to make it through; now they would either have to pick their way around the mountain's foot or, worse, attempt to scale it.
Geralt crossed the arm that wasn't holding a torch over his chest and stroked his slim, grey, flowing beard. "Hmm."
Marble seemed to perk up at this. She looked up at him, cocked her head, then pointed to the rock fall with a hoof. Geralt shrugged at her, sighed, and started trying to turn himself around in the small space.
"Hnn-nn," she said, shaking her head. She trotted up to the cave-in and began tapping on it, her ear up against the rocky surface.
A minute or two passed as she carefully tapped her way across the rocks. Geralt watched, fascinated by her movements. Eventually, Marble drew a little X on one of the rocks. Nodding to herself, she spun around, lined her hindquarters up with the X, and kicked out sharply.
There was a deafening crack! and a cloud of rock dust that extinguished Geralt's torch. He coughed and sputtered, waving his hands to try and clear his vision.
He was amazed when it finally did. The path was clear! Even better, he could see light up ahead! The torch fell to the ground, its purpose fulfilled.
Marble gestured at the opening with one hoof, a tiny smile blossoming across her face. "Mm-hmm!"
He tried and failed to return it as he stepped through the rubble, heading for the exit. It was the thought that counted.
Vampire witches were exactly the kind of monster Geralt Witcherman carried a quadruple-bladed sword for.
Not only were they fierce combatants, able to draw blood at sight distance through dark and terrible magics, but to defeat them required beheading them twice. Geralt had fought enough to have this down to a science, but getting one into a position where it could be killed was still a challenge.
It had taken every ounce of his all-too-mortal strength, every part of his carefully-collected arsenal of witch-fighting powders, salves and potions to keep this monster at bay. Worse, protecting Marble had made the fight more difficult. They might not have run into this particular witch if she hadn't gotten caught in that trap, and now she hung, paralyzed by fright, watching Geralt whittle himself to the bone to defend her.
Not that he would have it any other way.
The witch sent tendrils of flame streaking through the sickening swamp waters. He parried two that had split off after the pony, which put him in the way of a third. He fell to his knees with a loud "Hmm!" as the arcane flame burnt through his leather armor and singed his manly, flowing chest hairs.
"Have a soft spot for the pony, do you?" the fiend cackled. "That makes this all too easy!"
Geralt's eyes, which had been locked in a permanent battle-squint, flared open. In one swift motion, he stood, shook off the pain, and lopped off the vampire witch's hands. While it screeched in pain and horror, he kick-flip-McTwisted off a nearby tree, swinging his sword and neatly severing his opponent's head from its body.
The doubly headless corpse hit the water and exploded. But he didn't see it, because he was a cool guy.
Calmly, he walked over to the trapped pony, severed her bindings, and helped her gently down to her hooves. Then he knelt and gave her a hug, which she returned with a grateful, "Mm-hmm." He squeezed tighter, relishing in the knowledge that she was safe at last.
If anything had happened to Marble, Geralt would have killed everything in that swamp and then himself.
That evening, Geralt lay on his back by a modest campfire. His armor had been stripped off, and Marble was applying a poultice to his burn. He kept his teeth clenched, lest he hiss at the pain of the healing and startle her.
When she was done, she wrapped the wound in gauze -- all using only her mouth, an impressive feat -- then lay down beside him with a soft, "Mm-hmm."
He stroked her head and gazed upon her for a while. Apart from being quiet, unassuming and infinitely cute, she had quickly proven herself a stalwart and useful companion. She hadn't even made a fuss when he dropped a load of rabbit raisins in his trousers; she just swept them up and out of the campsite.
She smiled at him. He almost returned it, having lost the ability to smile ages ago on his lonely, gritty trek. But they had made a connection. A rapport. It was like he knew what she was thinking, and she him.
So long as they worked together as a team, the witches didn't stand a chance. Not that they ever stood a chance to begin with.
Witches came in all shapes and sizes. Some were huge monstrosities covered in writhing tentacles. Some were bony vampire hags living in swamps. And some were dragons.
Why did they have to be dragons?
Geralt took cover behind a rocky outcropping, Marble at his side, clutching his chest as the rocks heated from the fiery blast. He knew far too well what happened when one was caught by fire, and the dragon witch was putting out a lot of it. This might or might not have had something to do with it being a dragon.
Staring deep into Marble's lavender eyes, Geralt saw a gripping, unabiding fear, a little twinge of which reflected in his own steely orbs. But there was also something else there: a hint of determination, of the flawless confidence that is bred from a formerly timid creature who understands that there will always be someone by their side, through thick and thin, to protect them when the chips are all down.
Geralt grasped onto that confidence and felt the fires of his own power burning within his chest. He couldn't carry out his sworn duty while cowering behind a pile of rocks that would be turned into slag if that dragon witch came around for a second pass!
He stood, hefting his sword as the dragon witch soared overhead, preparing to do just that. A glance down at Marble told him that she, too, was ready and willing to face their mighty foe.
"Hmm," he said, though he didn't need to. He knew what she would say in return.
Marble's head bobbed. "Mm-hmm."
With a wordless shout, Geralt vaulted onto Marble's back. She used her immense strength to catapult him into the sky. He met the dragon witch head on, pressing X a whole bunch of times to execute a six-slash midair combo. It looked really cool, and the dragon reeled, its health bar depleting.
He threw out a hand and grasped its wing as it hurtled through the air, going on a speedy joyride that was really a ride of, like, zero joy if we're being honest. He drove his sword into the dragon witch's ribs again and again, and it let out cries of pain with each strike.
Geralt narrowed his eyes. He drove his feet against the dragon witch's side, using his mighty man-muscles to pull on the outstretched wing and guide the monster's flight. He engaged his eye lasers, burning long strips of char into the golden scales.
Below, Marble watched him intently from behind that one flap of mane that always hung adorably over her face. She did not flinch or falter. She was as ready to face down this challenge as he was, as ready to give her life in order to rid the world of one more evil. So he drove the dragon witch straight into her, feeling the righteousness of his cause building, her determination lending him the strength and tenacity he needed to hold on.
Closer and closer they came on a nose-first plunge toward the rocky ground, man and dragon locked in a duel to the death, with only a tiny grey horse as witness. When there was but a few dragon-lengths left in their doomed dive, she turned, crouched forward on her forelegs, and kicked out with her back legs.
Geralt leapt from the beast, landing in a crouching roll as her hooves caught the dragon witch square on its ugly snout. With one final cry, it lurched backwards, bending in half before crashing to the ground in an earth-shattering blow that flung dirt and rocks skyward for miles. Geralt did an awesome front flip, and with a flick of his sword, he beheaded the dragon witch twice.
It burst into flames.
Geralt landed and sheathed his sword, bathed in the light of the burning dragon. Marble smiled up at him, and he, too, smiled, although it wasn't a very good smile, because he had definitely forgotten how, but it was a start.
And it was okay, because he wasn't lonely anymore.
Slowly, then swiftly, the two galloped to each other, one of them literally. Marble jumped into Geralt's arms, and he hugged her fiercely. Sparks from the fire reflected in her eyes like fireflies, and he found himself lost within them.
"Hmm," he said, that same half-baked pseudo-smile on his blood-smeared face.
"Mm-hmm," she replied, eyelids closing as she leaned up toward him.
In an explosion of passion (which neither of them looked at), their lips met, the taste of fiery Whoa there, Pinkie, hold the fuck up
Pinkie pouted at her older sister, whose tough grey hoof held down the pages in front of her. "Aww, I was just getting to the best part!"
Limestone snorted and scowled, which was the only real expression she could make. "Yeah, and you're making Marble upset. Knock this shit off."
Marble hid behind her mane, which was the only real expression she could make, and made what might have been a little sound. What the sound meant, literally no one could tell.
Pinkie flailed her hooves at her younger twin. "But you're always saying how you want a boyfriend! Geralt Witcherman only says, 'Hmm'! You two are practically made for each other! Plus, he's Superman! Didn't you notice the eye lasers?"
"Save it," growled Limestone. She grabbed at the papers, and though Pinkie resisted, Limestone's strength won out as it always did. She balled the story up, shoved it in her mouth, and began chewing, all the while glaring Pinkie Pie right in the eyes, daring her to do anything.
"N'aww," Pinkie moaned, slumping over the table she had been working at. "That was some of my best work, too."
"Hnn-nn," said Marble, shaking her head.
Limestone said nothing, because her Mama had raised her not to talk with her mouth full.
THE END