Chapter Text
The stranger pushed the creaking tavern door open, his silent footsteps guiding him to the innkeeper. His dark, hooded cloak shrouded his body and almost all of his face. What was visible underneath the hood was a strong nose and a trail of a scar. It seemed as though his entrance sparked curiosity in the clientele, judging by the whispers and murmurs – and with curiosity came gossip. A merchant? No, no, he’s not carrying that many goods. Perchance he’s one of them messengers? Or just a traveler, maybe? This stranger, apparently unfazed by the background noise, turned to rest his elbows on the counter.
“Greetings, what will it be?” the innkeeper said, her eyes cautiously observing the new customer. It wasn’t often that the village received a guest like him. She saw her fair share of travelers, true, but most could be picked apart at a glance. “A room to stay for the night, and a stall for my horse, please.” The stranger’s manner of speaking intrigued the innkeeper further. Some may call it distinguished, or a noble’s accent, even. But most would agree that it did not belong to a scarred wanderer wearing a cloak with mud and tattered edges. “First room on your left upstairs. The stable is mostly empty, so you can pick a stall. That will be twenty crowns.*”
“Thank you kindly.”
“What do they call you?”
“Wyll of the Griffins, pleased to make your acquaintance.” The stranger, Wyll, lifted his hood, eliciting a small flinch from the innkeeper.
His face was that of a killer.
His left eye could only be described as golden with a vertical slit, much like that of a snake. It was his only good eye, apparently, as he wore a black eyepatch on the other side. The scar that was visible under the hood was not his only one. In fact, it was one of the smaller marks. His face was truly littered with mementos from previous foes and perils - all of which he survived, and no doubt defeated. The most impressive one tracked from his eyepatch to the angle of his jaws, probably from a large, clawed beast of some sort. A braver person (or someone with little regard for safety) may have asked the tale behind it.
His smile – no doubt an attempt to charm – did little to assuage the innkeeper of her fears.
She remembered Aunt Freda, who was the village hunter, and how she would regale the children with the stories of her most interesting encounters. A circle of wide, sparkling eyes would focus on her, absorbing every detail. She, too, was at one point one of the many youths attending these sessions. The particular story of the deer and the wolves came to mind. Aunt Freda, in more animated mannerisms, would describe how the deer was as frozen as a winter icicle, trapped by a pack of predators. As a child, she couldn’t help but question how silly the deer was - why stand still in the face of danger?
She now understood that she was the deer. Her jaws, her hands, and her feet had all frozen, it seemed, and there were no useful movements happening in those areas. Her heart, contrary to the rest of her body, continued to beat, to writhe. The beats emanated to the tips of her fingers, urging her to do something, anything. She couldn’t help but slump into the nearest seat, hand slowly wiping away whatever sweat that pooled on her face.
It had taken a few moments for her to notice that he had left a pouch of crowns on the counter.
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Wyll gently brushed his mare’s coat, making sure she would not miss him terribly in the stable. The horse, Firefly, looked at him with her soft, round eyes, occasionally swatting away insects with her tail.”Now we’ll both have a roof over our heads tonight, hm? Fingers crossed that we won’t be chased out like last time.” Wyll physically crossed his gloved fingers, adding a quick knock on the wooden beams of the stable for good measure. Firefly merely snorted.
The afternoon stroll through the village was mostly uneventful - a few lingering stares, a couple of murmured insults, nothing he wasn’t accustomed to already, really. He had come to expect the tinge of tension in the air. The village - Evermond was its name - was not all that different from the countless other settlements in the area. A healthy amount of suspicion. No overt signs of cult activity. Not a trace of unfamiliar magic. Wyll’s list of mental notes were basically a reflex at this point - after decades of this work, some things had to become ingrained into his psyche. His feet eventually stopped at a certain thatch-roofed house to conclude this ‘patrol’ and he knocked on the door. A gray-haired man slowly opened the door, his eyebrows pulled into a frown and his eyes squinting. “Can I help you?”
“I presume you are the ealdorman of this village? Your resident blacksmith directed me here. They call me Wyll of the Griffins, a witcher**.” Wyll spoke, making his best attempt at a polite smile. The last word seemed to interest the ealdorman a bit more - he made yet another mental note.
“So you heard, master witcher?”
“From a nearby village, yes. I understand you have a monster on the prowl?”
“Come inside, master witcher. ‘Tis not a story to be told whilst standing on the porch.”
The thick scent of cooked cabbage hit Wyll as soon as he entered the home. Another gray-haired, senior individual appeared from the direction of the scent’s origin, taking worried glances at the visitor while holding a wooden spoon. The ealdorman exchanged a few quick words with them and hurriedly directed his guest to the dining table. The well-used wooden furniture and carefully woven mats made for a cozy atmosphere; Wyll wouldn’t have minded staying for a long rest; if not for his monster-hunting business. His cloak, now fully off, found its place over the chair. “Where do I start?” The ealdorman let out a deep sigh, wiping his brow. “Must be a good few years now since our problem started. Animals… turning up on the forest floor, pale as bone, limp like life had been sucked out of them. We first thought they were being attacked by wild beasts, you see? Nothing unusual with bears and wolves attacking an unfortunate furball. Sure, never heard of a bear drinking every last drop of blood in its prey, but we had no reason to worry. Well, that is, until those damn beasts started attacking humanfolk.” He took another wipe of his brow. “Old Humphrey, may he rest in peace, was one of those who lost their lives to them. ‘Twas a feastin’ night, all the village folk were as drunk as they could be. Not a soul noticed that Humphrey was stumbling his way into the forest; come morning and we find his dead body, all the blood drained out of him. And with two small holes on his neck, just here.” The ealdorman gestured to a vague spot.
“My deepest sympathies.” The smell of heated onion and various herbs started wafting from the kitchen. The ealdorman, after gathering his emotions, gave Wyll an acknowledging nod. His voice, though maintaining a steady tone, was clearly taking a great amount of effort. Nevertheless, he carried on. “He was not our only loss. It was merely the beginning. Martha, Robyn, Julita, Terrance…” As the list of names continued, the ealdorman’s voice began wavering. He took many moments to pause; Wyll kept his silence. “Master witcher, terror had its grip on us. Anyone with a lick of sense was too scared to step outside their homes at night.”
“Has anyone seen what killed these victims? Any brave souls who ventured out into the woods to put an end to the tragedies?”
“Nay, but now that master witcher mentioned brave souls, last month a knight errant and her squire came to us. They even offered to rid us of the beasts as part of their duties to these lands! It would mean a return to our peaceful lives - children gathered around bonfires, berry-picking deep in the forests, village festivals that run late into the night… Anyhow, our knight managed to follow tracks and such, and found their lair. The Szarr Manor, hidden in the heart of the woods, she said. A mansion big and mighty. Wasn’t long till she set off with her squire with wooden stakes and a wreath of garlic - the best remedies for a vampire***.”
Wyll hummed, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table’s surface. A manor. A vampire. Or perhaps multiple? Clearly not an everyday dingy monster den. “...And I assume they were not successful in their endeavors?”
Another sigh left the ealdorman’s lips. “Well… ‘Tis not that simple master witcher. True, we’ve not had any more human victims since,” his jaw stood open for a second, as if he was unable to produce any sound, before continuing. “But the knight and her squire never returned. And just a few days ago -” the ealdorman softened his voice, “we found a deer, drained of blood.”
Wyll hummed yet again. Must have been weakened at least. Not attempting to go after humans just yet. Perhaps it wishes to lay low for a while. The situation, as the ealdorman described, was clearly still not that simple . The account, although useful, gave rise to many questions, none of which could be answered easily. Only one thing was clear - as left, the situation could become dangerous, nigh catastrophic. There was only one path.
To act.
To become the blade of the people, to cut down creatures borne of evil and terror. To serve the purpose he was forged for - in the fires of pain and lament. After all these years, he still felt the burning throbs, the flames coursing through his body, urging him to draw his sword.
After all these years, he still heard the screams of those for whom the swing of the blade was a moment too late.
“I shall investigate, my good sir.” Wyll spoke with as much determination he could express, putting his fist down on the table. The reward, if present, mattered not.
“Truly?” The ealdorman spoke softly, “We… we thank you deeply, ah… master witcher.”
Wyll tilted his head slightly. He waited, and yet the silence was not broken. “It seems you still have something to say, my good sir.”
“Master witcher, I don't want to offend, but… Would this… Would this truly put an end? Our village has suffered enough, master witcher. This beast has taken far too many lives. I'm… I'm afraid only its death will bring justice." He paused, taking a poorly-maintained look at the witcher's eyes. It was there for only a second, but Wyll caught the shard of doubt in the other man’s eyes. He had no blame for the ealdorman; only sympathy.
“Do you see the scar on my nose?” Wyll asked. The other man simply nodded. “It was a gift from a particularly tenacious foglet.” He chuckled, his emotions an equal blend of nostalgia and pride. “A farmer in Tretogor put out a contract after it started slaughtering his livestock. Ha, I remember that battle - it was my first time fighting a creature that could cast quite complex illusions at will.” He then pointed to a different marking, this time on his forehead. “Ah, and this one. I received this from a ghoul when I was but a fledgling witcher. I believe it was occupying a cemetery in Gors Velen, exacerbating the local folk’s grief. A single corpse-eater may not be much of a threat to me now, but at the time, it was a hard–earned victory.” His hand moved to stroke the most prominent scar, the one tracing from his eyepatch to his jaw. “And this - my greatest mistake - was from the most foul creature of them all.” Wyll smiled yet again, his lips tightly drawn. “There are many more stories carved into my body, good sir, but I fear that if I were to tell them all, we would be here till our bones become dust. My point is: all of them were bestowed upon me by a monster. I faced each one in a battle, and though it was not always easy, my silver sword granted them all death. I never -” his voice became a whisper, “ever - let them go.”
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Wyll knelt amidst the greenery of the forest - his eyes closed and his breathing following a regular rhythm - keeping a good distance from the isolated manor. The witcher filled his mind with the sound of rustling leaves and birdsong, until the rising sun eventually spread its warmth on his face, signaling dawn. He rose steadily, inspecting his silver sword that lay in front of him. The blade was sharpened and oiled to satisfaction at the inn the previous night, and still maintained pristine condition - a witcher’s life depended on their sword, after all. Whatever monster lurking in the mansion, vampire or not, would feel the sting of the silver. He then took a vial from his satchel, its contents brewed from all sorts of potent herbs. He drank it without hesitation, feeling the liquid course throughout his system. The average human would surely have perished upon imbibing such a mixture.
The day had begun.