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Robert is a badass who treats killing gods and slaying demons like just another Thursday. Did you know it was inspired by Thairon, the protagonist of my original story, Arrival : Ruptures, long before I began to write it? Comments, likes and reviews are appreciated. Here are the links for : AO3, Spacebattles, Royal Road and Webnovel.
—
Velen's Swamps
His luck had turned around. When he landed outside the Crone's abode, he came across quite the interesting sight.
"Well, well, well. Would you look at this? I was going to kill two of you," he pointed at the Crones, "and torture the third to lure this bastard out," his finger slowly turning to the elves, "only for you all to be gathered here. Lady Fortune must be smiling at me."
"Who is this dh'oine?" Imlerith asked, anger seeping into his harsh tone.
The crown with the basket on her head hissed. "An intruder."
"Awww," he cooed, clenching his fists. His body grew in size, flames encapsulating him to reconstitute his armor. "That's not nice. Is this how you treat the man who is about to be really close to your hearts?" he asked.
The Wild Hunt and the Crones tensed, feeling the change in the air.
Robert burst forward like a coiled spring, appearing only as a streak of red and blue before a Wild Hunt rider found he had an arm going through his torso and his beating heart ripped out.
He crushed the organ in his hand, eyes glowing. The orange beams turned armor to molten slag and flesh to ash. The Crones screeched, running away, while Imlerith rallied his men to attack.
He raised his sword, bringing it to his left side and swung. The red, crescent wave bisected the elves in half. Imlerith barely threw himself to the ground. The elves froze in their places before falling apart like Jenga towers. The house and the forest behind it were reduced to nothingness.
When Imlerith tried to get up, a boot slammed on his head, forcing him on the dirt.
"Tut, tut, tut," Robert clicked his tongue, wagging a finger. "I was going to kill you, but I have a better idea," he said, raising his foot and bringing it down.
Imlerith's scream was cut short.
—
The sisters ran.
The beast, the anomaly, was not something they could kill. To preserve their lives, they fled their home. Though, something just as bad was waiting for them outside.
The moonlight reflected off its azure scales as two sharp, crimson eyes locked on them. The beast opened its mouth. The roar scared off everything within the swamp, and the sisters trembled, their ears ringing.
It raised its front leg. "My Father only needs one of you alive," it said, bringing down its claw. Weavess was quicker than her sisters. She flew back just in time to see Whispess and Brewess be crushed.
"Change of plans." The beast's father came out of the woods, dragging the Aen Elle by his leg. "I got what I wanted. No need for any of them."
She went to her knees to plead and beg, but it was for naught. The dragon's tail came swinging. The serrated scales met no resistance. The Crone's upper body splattered as blood and guts, her lower body getting rag-dolled into a tree.
"What about this creature, Father?" he asked, smelling the elf. He stank of death and cold, somehow.
"I was thinking of something along the lines of Walder the Whore."
Obelisk threw his head back, roaring in waves that shook the forest.
—
Novigrad
The dragon landed outside the Administrative Center, making sure to drop the elf first. The scene they came into was a chaotic one, with bodies strewn around. Sandor was currently beating answers out of one while Wun Weg held the man up by his legs.
"Boys, what's happening here?" he asked. He wasn't gone for that long, and already there were like twenty or so bodies.
The severed parts and the gore smears on the ground made it difficult to count.
"They were targeting the sorceresses," Sandor reported. Wun Weg grunted in affirmation, holding the man higher.
He flashed a thumbs-up. "Carry on."
"Who sent you?!" Sandor bellowed, bringing the man back into awareness. Who promptly started to cry.
He smiled, walking inside as he dragged Imlerith along. Sile and Margarita were inside his office, watching the commotion through the window.
"Ladies, no harm came to you, right?" he asked, dropping Imlerith on the corner of the room. Flames came down from his head to his boots, taking the armor away.
Sile shook her head. "They didn't even get the chance to approach."
"Excellent," he said, dusting off his head and moving to his seat.
"Is that?" Margarita stumbled, accidentally bumping her hip on the desk.
He turned back to the unconscious elf. "You know who this is?"
"Imlerith, a general of the Wild Hunt. How did you?" Sile asked. It wasn't a matter of strength, for Robert had that in spades, but a matter of finding Imlerith.
"I caught him talking to some crones about capturing the Child of the Elder Blood. There were also mentions of those ugly things wanting to eat the said child. I decided to intervene."
"What will you do with him?"
"You wouldn't happen to know where I could find a tailor and a makeup artist, would you?"
"There is one who fits both criteria," Margarita said. Whatever fate awaited Imlerith was going to be a humiliating one, it seemed.
"Great. Since it's getting late, why don't you two retire for the night? All your accommodations in Rosemary and Thyme are covered while you are working for me. Oh, and Ra can escort you two if you wish."
"Your generosity is enough. We'll just take a portal to the inn," Margarita said.
"Good night then," he said, dragging Imlerith out of the room. He would keep him locked up in one of the vacant rooms and hand him to Elihal tomorrow.
Imlerith the Impotent sounded catchy.
—
Rosemary and Thyme
"He did what?!" Geralt leaped from his seat, palms on the table pushing him up. His gravelly voice broke into a high-pitched squeal at the end.
"Captured Imlerith. I didn't have the mental fortitude to ask for details, but he was in league with some Crones. They were talking about eating Ciri while Imlerith wanted her caught. He decided to intervene."
With that, Sile reached for the wine, leaving the rest to Margarita.
"What's he going to do with him?" he asked. Imlerith's capture was great news. The Wild Hunt was deprived of one of its generals and greatest warriors. They would not be able to pursue Ciri so easily anymore.
He definitely would get Robert a gift.
"He asked for a make-up artist and a tailor. Make what you will out of that." Either Robert was a pervert, which she didn't think was the case, or he wanted to humiliate Imlerith.
Margarita was certain it would be a sight to behold.
Geralt sat down. "I have to see this tomorrow."
—
Administrative Center
"My lord," Elihal bowed deeply, dressed in his usual clothes, thankfully. You wouldn't know what his hobby was from the brown doublet over a white shirt and those gray trousers. "How may I be of service?"
"I need an elf dressed and prettied up with an image that will scream 'impotent.' It is a bit abstract, but can you do it?" He explained his request. Even if it wasn't up to his standards, it still would be funny.
Elihal looked down for a second before meeting his eyes. "Who is the elf in question, if I may ask?"
"Sandor, bring him in," he called out. The door swung open. Sandor brought Imlerith, holding him by the scruff of his neck like a puppy, still in his armor.
"Goodness," Elihal took a step back. He didn't know the Aen Elle, but if he was important enough to be taken prisoner, then he was a high-ranking member of the Wild Hunt.
"Don't worry; he is knocked out to keep your identity a secret. What do you say? Think you can handle it?"
The tailor gave a deep, slow nod. "Well, this will certainly be a masterpiece. Though, what do you intend to do with him?"
Robert smiled from ear to ear. "Tie him to a post in the Hierarch's Square as an attraction."
The elf doubled down in laughter. "My lord, I assure you, when I am done with him, no one will even know he ever was a male."
—
While Elihal worked on Imlerith, he was meeting with Sile and Margarita. They had mapped everything related to the task he had given out. Their previous knowledge of the city's inner workings, combined with the glass candle, revealed the secrets of the underworld bosses.
"Wun Weg, you'll take the bathhouse. Wreck them all and make sure no one survives," he said, crossing the bathhouse on the map with an X.
The giant shouldered his hammer. "Understood."
"Sandor, you have Bedlam. His network needs to be dismantled quickly. No runners, no mercy." Sandor would chase and eliminate every single one before they could even comprehend it.
"As you command," Sandor said, lightning flashing on the maws of the infernal hound-shaped pauldrons.
"I'll handle Cleaver and his forces, as well as this fighting ring," he said. Since the dwarf had his little army, he would be the most entertaining enemy to fight.
"Who will deal with Whoreson Junior?" Sile asked. He was, perhaps, the one most out in the open. The dragons could simply burn his assets to the ground.
Robert crossed his arms.
Someone knocked on the door.
"My lord, it's Geralt of Rivia. May I come in?" the Witcher's voice came.
"Sure," he said. Perhaps Geralt could be useful in that regard. He didn't expect the Witcher to bring in a barrel, though. From the smell, it was heavy, sweet, and fruity.
Mead.
"To what do I owe this barrel?" he asked as Geralt put it near the corner.
"To thank you. It's rare for anyone to receive so much help from a noble without them expecting anything in return," the Witcher explained. Given that the Red Baron wanted him to save his family after driving them off, Emhyr and Radovid were masterclasses in being cunts, and his usual run-ins with nobility tended to be messy; he couldn't fault the White Wolf.
"You are welcome."
He approached closer. "There was also another matter. Ciri was seen with Cyprian Wiley. I wanted to go and interrogate him but didn't want to cause trouble in your city."
Robert turned to Sile and Margarita, who threw curious glances at him.
That was lucky.
"Then we are both in luck," he said. The Witcher raised an eyebrow, waiting.
"We were just discussing who would kill Whoreson Junior and take out his forces," he explained, gesturing at the map.
Geralt smiled. The barrel felt lacking as a gift now. "Oh?"
"I believe we found our fourth man. Take a seat, Geralt," Robert said, pulling another seat closer. The Witcher sat down, inspecting the map.
"I am getting rid of the four bosses of the underworld tonight. The three of us will handle Sigismund Dijkstra, Francis Bedlam, and Carlo Varese. Since you want Cyprian, you can have him as long as his neck is relieved of the burden of his head," he said, gesturing at where Sile and Margarita had located Whoreson down in Oxenfurt.
"That's what I am here for."
"Sandor, you'll have Obelisk providing air support for you. Geralt, Ra will follow you just the same." Since the bath house and Cleaver's headquarters were closed spaces, air support was not necessary.
He turned to the sorceresses. "Ladies, you'll be our eyes and ears, watching the enemy and sending out messages in case we miss anyone."
If anyone tried to burn the industrial areas as part of Dijkstra's scorched earth policy, they would die quickly.
"As you wish."
"Any questions?" he asked, receiving none in return.
"Good. We'll meet back here once the sun is down. Until then, you are all free." He dismissed them while leaning back on his seat.
—
The Golden Sturgeon
Sandor walked in, and the whole inn fell silent. His target, the ringleader of the fools who had gathered together to hunt Sile and Margarita, was gathered here. At least that's what the man had revealed after losing half his teeth.
He seemed to be in the right place.
"Is there a problem here?" he asked the red-haired waitress, who smirked at the men harassing her and crossed her arms.
"Aye. These ruffians are threatening me, telling me I can't let nonhumans in."
He put his hand on the first man's shoulder, pushing him towards the door. "Come with me."
"But…"
"Come with me, or I will rip your heads off."
The bandit-looking fools fell behind him in a line. They didn't go too far, just to the alley near the inn. One of them opened his mouth, perhaps to excuse their actions, but it was too late. One swing of his blade and the alley was bathed in blue, followed by red.
Whoever was using these fools wouldn't have the chance again.
"Thank you for that. Those bastards have been harassing me for weeks. And the guards are no use," the rough-around-the-edges voice of the barmaid called out.
He gave a nod and turned around. "You are welcome."
"Why don't you come in and I'll get you a mug of ale?" she offered. He stopped, finding the offer quite interesting. She knew he had just turned half a dozen men to ash in the blink of an eye.
Yet she was offering him ale.
"No need, I have things to do," he said. He shuddered, as if feeling a disappointed glare, and turned around, seeing Robert on the other end of the street. He was shaking his head, a frown on his face.
"On second thought, why not?" he muttered.
She smiled, her freckled face stretching. "I'm Bea; nice to meet you."
"Sandor," he said, shuddering again. "You too." He followed her along, feeling the glare on the back of his head disappear.
—
Hierarch's Square
The citizens of Novigrad thought the new lord had changed his mind. That he would be burning someone, either a witch or someone else.
Instead, they were treated to the sight of the ugliest elven woman they had seen. Her mouth was bound, stopping her from speaking. Her pink, lacy dress was an eyesore, as was the exposed bra over her flat chest. The stockings strained to contain her legs, and her makeup started to run down her face.
The gathered mass was confused.
A bard appeared near the woman, a harp in his hand.
"Imlerith of the Wild Hunt,
He was bold and mighty.
But he had a secret.
One shameful and ghastly,
His little birdie doesn't fly.
He has no choice but to cry.
And wear what fits his state,
Dance in your velvet and lace,
The paint cannot hide your face.
Traded his armor for bright pink,
He traded his boots for stockings.
Cry, Imlerith, cry.
For you will be known as the Impotent."
Imlerith screamed, but the crowd's screams of bellyaching laughter drowned it out.
—
Tir na Lia
"Where is Imlerith?"
"Unknown. He had left to parley with the Vran Certa. They are dead, as well as the troops Imlerith had taken. No sign of him."
"Find him. This is not the time. Not when we can find no sign of Zirael."
"As you command."
—
In the next chapter:
His eyes locked on the bald man, Dijkstra. He was just leaving the hot waters and stood there with a towel around his waist. His flaming hammer cut through the dimly lit baths like a falling star.
"Ah shit," Dijkstra closed his eyes as his shoulders sagged. He knew it was the end for him.
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