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- This is disgusting! Disgusting and sinful, Master Huvenagel! To use a building that was once a Temple for such a dishonest, inhumane, and repulsive spectacle! Animals feel too, Master Huvenagel! They have their own dignity! It is a crime to incite them against each other for the amusement of the mob for profit!
- Calm down, holy father! And don't interfere with my private enterprise! Besides, today they won't be inciting animals here. Not a single beast! Only people!
- Oh, is that so? Well, then I apologize.
***
- Aha! - cried Kayleigh. - Now I understand! This is what amnesty looks like! They give you a choice: here's a sharp stake, here are the imperial colors. Either a stake in the ass, or colors on your back. And then off to war, to die for the empire.
***
They wander around the country, brazen and insolent, calling themselves destroyers of evil, exterminators of werewolves, and poisoners of ghouls, swindling gullible people out of money, and then moving on to the next town to repeat the scam. They infiltrate the homes of honest, simple people who are unaware of what's happening, and who readily attribute all misfortunes and troubles to spells, unnatural creatures, and vile monsters, or to the actions of sorcerers or evil spirits. Instead of praying to the gods and making rich offerings at the Temple, this simpleton is ready to give his last shirt to a dirty sorcerer, believing that the sorcerer, this godless degenerate, will be able to improve his fate and avert misfortune.
Anonymous. "The Monster, or a Description of a Sorcerer."
***
- A certain Geralt, known as Geralt of Rivia, - he boomed, sizing up the skipper with his gaze. - Is there one on board?
- No.
- It's me. - The Witcher stepped over the bags and bundles, and approached. - I am Geralt, known as Geralt. What's the matter?
***
We know little about love. Love is like a pear. It is sweet and has a certain shape. But try to define the shape of a pear!
Dandelion. Half a Century of Poetry
("Cat-like" - note by SandroXXL)
***
- Your name?
"Oh, what the hell," thought Geralt. "Seven troubles, one answer. I won't lie."
- Geralt.
- Geralt from where?
- Nowhere.
- Not initiated? Not circumcised? - Meva decorated the sand under her feet with red splashes of saliva mixed with blood.
- I don't understand. Oh, no, no. Not initiated... Your Royal Majesty. Meva drew her sword.
- On your knees.
He obeyed, still unable to believe what was happening, and continuing to think about Yennefer and the road he had chosen for her, fearing the swamps and bogs of Ysgith.
The Queen turned to the Violet.
- Pvoivnefi fovmulu. I have no fuobs.
- For unparalleled courage in battle for a just cause, - the Violet proclaimed solemnly, - for demonstrating valor and honor, for loyalty to the crown, I, Meva, by the will of the gods, Queen of Lyria and Rivia, by my right and privilege, knight you. Serve faithfully. Endure this blow, and no more.
Geralt felt a light tap on his shoulder with the blade. He looked into the Queen's light green eyes. Meva spat a thick wad of red saliva, held a handkerchief to her face, and winked at him over the lace.
The Violet approached the monarch and whispered something. The Witcher heard the words: "designation," "Rivian diamonds," "standard," and "honor."
- Spravedlivo, - Meva nodded. She spoke more clearly, overcoming the pain, and stuck her tongue into the gap left where her teeth had been knocked out. - You fought alongside the warriors of Rivia, valiant Geralt from nowhere... So, how about I give you this designation: Geralt of Rivia. Ha-ha!
- Bow, noble knight, - hissed the Violet.
The newly-minted Knight Geralt of Rivia bowed so deeply that Queen Meva, his suzerain, could not see the bitter smile that Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, could not suppress.