Season of Storms (The Witcher, #8)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster; for if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes back into you. Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

Geralt, who always maintained there was no such thing as an ugly woman, suddenly felt compelled to revise this opinion.

Guard against disappointments, because appearances can deceive. Things that are really as they seem are rare. And a woman is never as she seems. Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry

“Lytta…” “You may call me Coral. And you may do that to me again.”

“So forget it. Because it’s poppycock.”

Sending matter is an elaborate, sophisticated and subtle thing, hence before setting about teleporting, one must without fail defecate and empty the bladder.

Which was why he knew that declarations about their safety could be classified along with such statements as: “my little dog doesn’t bite,” “my son’s a good boy,” “this stew’s fresh,” “I’ll give you the money back the day after tomorrow at the latest,” “he was only getting something out of my eye,” “the good of the fatherland comes before everything,” and “just answer a few questions and you’re free to go.”

People and animals belong to various species, while foxes live among people and animals. The quick and the dead wander along various roads, while foxes move between the quick and the dead. Deities and monsters march down various paths, while foxes walk between deities and monsters. The paths of the light and the darkness never join up or cross; vulpine ghosts lurk between them. The immortal and demons tread their own ways—vulpine ghosts are somewhere between.

“No offence, but your explanations are as foggy as urine from an infected bladder,”

“Now,” the dwarf told him bluntly, “we’re well and truly fucked.”

“A storm’s coming,” said the dwarf. “We’ll get bloody soaked.” Geralt snorted. And then began to laugh. Heartily and sincerely. And infectiously. Because a moment later they were both laughing.

“You row as though you’ve been doing it all your life,” said Geralt, wiping his eyes, wet with tears. “I thought dwarves didn’t know how to sail or swim…” “You’re succumbing to stereotypes.”

There is an engraving on the rim in dwarven runes, reading: ‘Why are you ringing it, you twat?’

With it, you look quite simply like a man with a serious hangover, who to cap it all has got food poisoning and doesn’t remember when he broke a tooth and on what, or how he got the semen stains on his britches.

“Friend.” The door opened noiselessly on oiled hinges.

The large black cat appeared from nowhere. It rubbed itself against Degerlund’s body. Licked his motionless hand. Meowed and cried mournfully. It lay down beside the corpse, cuddling up against its side. And looked at the Witcher with its wide-open golden eyes. “I had to,” said the Witcher. “It was necessary. If anyone, you ought to understand.” The cat narrowed its eyes. To indicate it did.

Mozaïk shook her head. And linked her arm through Geralt’s. Coral snorted.

“Because you didn’t know him, Coral,” Yennefer replied calmly. “You didn’t know him at all.”

Dubhenn haern am glândeal, morc’h am fhean aiesin. My gleam penetrates the darkness, my brightness disperses the gloom.

She had been pricked by a spindle and consigned to eternal sleep. The poor thing, so the rumour goes, is lying in a coffin in a castle overrun with hawthorn. According to another rumour the coffin is made of glass and was placed at the top of a glass mountain.

“Lately everything that could have gone wrong has gone wrong. And it seems to me that I’ve fucked everything up. Whatever I’ve touched lately I’ve botched.” “Do you think so?” “Yes, I do.” “It must be so, then. Don’t expect a comment. I’m tired of commenting. And now go and feel sorry for yourself in silence, if you would. I’m composing at the moment and your laments are distracting me.”

“Illusion.” He heard the aguara’s voice. “Everything is illusion.”

“Time to ride, Dandelion.” “Oh, yes? Where to?” “Isn’t it all the same?” “Yes, by and large. Let’s go.”

You were sleeping, I tell you—” “—like a log,” Nimue sighed. “I know. I was weary and fell asleep. And what’s more, I had—” “Yes? What did you have?” She looked back. Behind her was the black forest. Before her was the road, running between an avenue of willows. A road towards destiny. The story goes on, she thought. The story never ends. “—a very strange dream.”