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Vesemir had seen many things before in his long, long life. He had seen sharp ladies taking the forms of dragons before they flew off after being freed from a mountain of cursed thorns; wooden puppets pulling their strings to influence whole households, and shadows of fae dragging boys away from their cribs into a realm where they can never grow old.
Vesemir also did a great many unbelievable acts before - mostly in his younger years, yes, but still. He had been an esteemed guest for a singing competition among merfolk under the sea. (After the amount of Killer Whale he had taken, oh gods, he still finds himself cringing at even the mere thought of the potion.) During an especially dry year, he had joined a merry band of bandits for a short while who made a habit of emptying the travelling wealthy’s carriages and distributing the goods within the local peasantries. He had even shared a pipe and many laughs with an intelligent insectoid being at that one time…
The point is that Vesemir is a man who’s very hard to surprise.
So imagine his stunned, bewildered expression as he sees the inscription on the gate:
“HERE LIVES THE ALDERMAN OF THE VILLAGE WITH NO TROUBLE OR CARE.”
Strange.
Such a small thing, but Vesemir has never seen a human in his whole life who would so deliberately state that no ailments and problems are darkening their days. Especially here, in this Redanian backwater little settlement, so close to a hill with an archgriffin nesting (Vesemir was lucky he could swiftly ride away before the beast saw him), and the nearby river that had sustained at least a dozen drowners.
That’s why he’s here, in fact.
He holds a few drowner heads as proof of his kill to demand payment - perhaps he’ll go back later and harvest some more brains for his potions - and now he sees this? What kind of alderman is this? The village is not on the verge of destruction just now, yes, and people look healthy enough. But danger is constant and a leader of all things should always be on high alert!
“No trouble or care,” Vesemir snorts softly under his moustache in disbelief. “Humans are so weird.”
He enters the yard and knocks once before stepping in. Vesemir’s age, experience and keen senses all allow him this much liberty: he’ll gather his coin even if he took care of the problem well before technically taking on a contract. (He’ll never tell this to his pups, though, no. They are much too young to learn about acts of such carelessness.)
The alderman squeaks with surprise as he steps in - but he doesn’t smell of fear at all, Vesemir notes. He’s a small, ageing, balding man, with a curling thick, dark moustache, a round belly and many lines along his eyes that mean he had smiled more throughout his life than frowned. Strange.
Even more curious is that he’s gaping like a fish, looking Vesemir up and down; his yellow eyes, his twin swords, bloodstained armour and the couple drowner heads he had tied into a neat row of a trophy; yet he still doesn’t smell at all like fear or apprehension.
“Oh,” the alderman says in wonder. “Welcome, Master Witcher.”
“Well met,” Vesemir says, narrowing his eyes with suspicion. He doesn’t find anything off about this man, but… that in itself is rather strange. Here’s an alderman with no trouble or care and he isn’t even scared when a stranger enters his house? One, who’s armed to the teeth as a matter of fact!
“Oh, I see you took care of that little unpleasant business down by the river,” the alderman chirps, smiling brightly.
Vesemir would find that smile charming if not for the strangeness of the whole inscription on the gate and this man’s utterly friendly nonchalance toward dangerous strangers. Should he… should he be worried for this man? Is he alright in the head? If not so, why is he the alderman?
“I cleared out their nest,” Vesemir says slowly, his senses straining to catch anything that would give away why this alderman is so weird. “River should be safe until the next spring thaw - or until something dies upstream and attracts necrophages again.”
“Oh, goodie,” the alderman claps his hands with glee and grins bright like the sun. “I just wish we had some money to pay for your services. Well, let me see what I have, and-”
To Vesemir’s astonishment, the man grabs one of his boots and while hopping on one foot, he drags it off. A few silver and copper coins drop out and roll around on the wooden floor. The man quickly takes his boot back on and drops to the floor to gather the handful of coins and hold it out to Vesemir with open palms and an eager grin. Vesemir looks at the silver and copper pieces with a raised eyebrow; it’s barely enough to cover even a single pint of beer at the local tavern.
“It’s not a lot,” the alderman says. “The last taxing season dried us all out of money. This is all the village currently has.”
“‘Tis what you call no trouble or care?” Vesemir’s eyebrow has perhaps already disappeared under his hairline; he's so stunned.
The alderman giggles, his hand not even shaking with the meagre offering of coins, “We get by. That’s what’s important. Go to the Raven, Master Witcher.”
“The Raven?”
“The Raven Inn,” the alderman nods. Then, apparently getting impatient, he gently grabs Vesemir’s free hand and deposits the coins in his palms with a warm smile and a friendly pat on his arm. “Lenore will serve you drinks and a meal, and she’ll lend you a bed for the night for free. I’ll go some rounds to find some extra funds for you. Surely, I have a few more coins somewhere… perhaps in my feathered hat!”
“Who are you?” Vesemir couldn’t hold the question any longer. Who is this man who’s so carefree and happy even on the precipice of financial ruin?
“Me?” The alderman chuckles warmly, and it’s so novel, a human man being so honest and friendly that Vesemir feels that smile infecting his Witcher-slow heart and carving a hidden little grin onto his face. “I’m Poe. I’m the alderman, till the village chooses another.”
“Poe,” Vesemir nods in greeting. “Vesemir of the Wolf School. Leave the fundraising and search for coins for another day. The free meal and bed cover my services for the drowners.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Poe objected with a delighted grin and wide gestures. “I insist. I’ve heard stories, you know, about folks who don’t pay what they owe to professional services. Could you imagine such a thing?”
“What a wild concept,” Vesemir says dryly.
“Right? Anyways, Master Vesemir, I have to insist on paying my dues. How much does a downer kill cost in today’s economy?”
“Fifty crowns,” Vesemir says and raises his eyebrow as the man seems to lose his earnest smile and healthy colours from his cheeks. No trouble or care, huh? “I killed a dozen.”
If Poe had been an especially unpleasant, slimy, cheating alderman perhaps his sudden paleness at the quick maths and the faint scent of desperation around him might entertain Vesemir. However, he finds he doesn’t want to become a problem for a man who’s so proud of living without trouble or care.
“Meal and bed at the Raven Inn sound just fine,” Vesemir smirks a bit, taking pity on the faltering man desperately counting on his fingers and mumbling under his moustache, mentally going through all his earthly possessions he could make into money within a day. He’s sweet. “Perhaps some fun too.”
“Some fun?” Poe looks at him with tentative hope.
“You seem like an interesting person,” Vesemir shrugs. A tankard, a table, a bed and pleasant company sound just nice enough if people around here are so amicable. “How about some pleasure? A bit of a game?”
“Game?” Poe cocks his head to the side with a bit of confusion, and Vesemir feels the sudden need to protect this silly man with his life. And stab anything that would ever make him sad. “As payment?”
Vesemir chuckles and rolls his eyes, “No. Only if you want to.” He looks at Poe with a smouldering look and raises his eyebrow in question.
Surely, the drowner heads lessen his seductive prowess, but perhaps Vesemir has just enough charm to pull it off. Poe seems like a very kind, cheery person and he can definitely surprise Vesemir despite his age and worldliness. Why, he had jumped to bed for far worse reasons.
“Right,” Poe claps his hand, his charming smile is back on his face, and Vesemir silently pats himself on his back. He still has it. “A game of riddles! What a great idea!”
Or not.
“Go to the Raven and enjoy your evening, Master Vesemir,” Poe bounces on the balls of his feet with excitement, and it is so easy to be charmed by his childish enthusiasm. Vesemir’s not even half offended he didn’t take his blatant offering, no. “Send me your riddles when you think of them. If I can answer all of them, my debt will be paid. If I can’t solve even a single one, well…”
“How about you take that sign off your gate,” Vesemir huffs with amusement.
“Alright then,” Poe agrees, grinning. “If I can’t solve even a single riddle, I shall declare myself living without trouble or care nevermore.”
Vesemir’s amused. And he finds himself being respected. His job is appreciated even if it can’t be properly compensated (and truly, that’s on him for taking care of an infestation before taking on a paying contract for it - but as long as his pups don’t know about it, he can afford so much.)
The Raven Inn is a dark little thing at the centre of the village. It should be bright with so many lanterns and candle holders around, but it seems, the village has no money for oil for their lanterns anymore and they are very sparse with their candles, even in the evening hours. But the tavern maid, Lenore, is not spitting in his beer neither in secret nor in front of him. The drink is pleasantly cool, and the simple hearty stew fills Vesemir with new vigour and vitality.
In the dim light, he sees a painting above the hearth. It shows a bright snowy area with a single black raven perching atop a pole. What a strange painting in a strange little village at a strangely named inn, Vesemir thinks.
He takes his time and just enjoys the novelty of all this weirdness - it’s a pleasant thing for once instead of unnerving. He listens and hears a pair of twin siblings argue about the structure of their house and the possibility of it ever being swallowed up by the earth. He sees a young man nursing a pint, and also being sweet on a black cat, feeding the creature under the table with a few cuts of cooked venison from his stew.
“Annabel Lee,” Lenore calls at one point, and Vesemir sees a little girl running in from the backdoor with a huge grin, dirty clothes and holding a bucket of water triumphantly. Lenore takes the bucket from her before the girl falls over and says softly, “Go, get your hands clean and then sit by the fire. I don’t want you to catch a cold.”
“Master Witcher,” a little boy steps close to Vesemir’s table.
He could be barely old enough to be taken as a Witcher trainee if they would still do things like that - if he would ever claim the Law of Surprise. The wee little thing is all messy hair, glinting eyes and bright grin, and his scent is utterly devoid of fear of Witchers.
Come to think of it… nobody in this village seems to be even remotely unnerved by Vesemir’s presence.
“Master Witcher, I’m Prospero,” the boy grins and puffs his chest in a certain way that makes Vesemir think he’ll be a great bard once he grows up. “Master Poe sent me, so you can tell me your riddle. I’m very good at remembering things, Master Witcher. I can memorise a hundred songs and each carving in a brick in a wall, so I can remember if you send a riddle with me.”
“Alright then,” Vesemir frowns deep in thought but still thoroughly amused. This is indeed a very strange place.
He looks around quickly and his eyes land on an old stone jug in a dark corner. “Tell Alderman Poe this, lad,” Vesemir grins slowly. “Here’s a stone jug at the Raven Inn. I see the hole in it even from here. He should take it and mend it.”
“Mend it?” Prospero looked at him with huge eyes.
“Aye,” Vesemir nods sagely. “Alderman Poe should mend this stone jug in here.”
The boy shrugs a bit and runs away with his message. It doesn’t even take half an hour for him to return with his messy hair, glinting eyes and bright grin.
“Master Vesemir,” he giggles a bit, and Vesemir’s old, Witcher-slow heart warms at that sound. “Master Poe says you should turn the jug inside out first.” The boy cracks up and laughs a little more. “All mending should be done on the other side of any material.”
Vesemir chuckles both at the boy’s joy and at Poe’s clever answer.
“Alright then,” he looks around in the dimly lit tavern. The Raven is dark with very few candles and a humble fire burning at the hearth, but Vesemir’s eye catches on a deep grey stone in a corner. “How about this then; have Poe skin that millstone over there.”
“Skin a millstone?” Prospero giggles at the sheer impossibility of his words, and Vesemir shamelessly enjoys himself.
It has been a long while since he had so much fun and was so thoroughly surprised over and over again without getting injured. Prospero runs away with his message, and Vesemir has only finished his latest pint of beer when the boy returns. He grins like a boy who had heard the greatest joke in his lifetime and Vesemir’s instantly reminded of two little heads pushed together over a jug and a tethered bumblebee.
“Master Poe says, you should first slaughter the millstone. All beasts should have their throats cut and their blood let out before they are skinned.”
Vesemir laughs like he hadn’t done in at least a century. He bends over the table and slams his fist over the wood as laughter ripples through him and tickles his heart and lungs just to remind him they are still there. It’s a shame his flirting went over Poe’s head because he’s so eager to take someone as clever as him to bed!
Prospero giggles beside him, clearly pleased with his work.
“What is up with your alderman?” Vesemir says once he gathers his senses, ribs aching pleasantly as he gasps for air. Perhaps he’ll go and take care of that archgriffin tomorrow - payment be damned, if this weird little village could give him one more laugh like this, he takes down a mated pair!
“Oh, it’s not him,” Prospero grins with the certain air of someone who knows a secret and can’t wait to share it. Vesemir curiously perks up at that. “Master Poe’s daughter is the smartest person in the whole village. That’s why Master Poe’s the alderman. Da’ says he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed but has a good heart and a bit of smart advice always.”
“A daughter, you say?” Vesemir wonders aloud.
“Aye,” Prospero swings his arms and rolls eagerly from toe to heel and back to toe as he speaks. “Mistress Mignole is very kind and clever as a raven. She helps Master Poe run the village.”
“Is that so?” Vesemir chuckles. “All right then, this is the last riddle. Have Mignole come here. She should wear no dress but not be naked. She should not ride, not come by carriage or by foot. She also should, but should not bring me a gift.”
Prospero looks at him with wide eyes. His lips move mutely, forming the words and committing them to memory, and Vesemir wonders if this will be the moment everything turns tits up. It isn’t because Prospero doesn’t smell like fear or apprehension at all, and after a long moment he runs away to take his message.
Vesemir’s thoroughly entertained. If the silly alderman insists again that his debt needs further payment, Vesemir will have him make another one of those outlandish signs just to hang it above his mantle. Poe might be an eccentric figure here, but the villagers all seem to respect him well enough. Vesemir looks up at the painting of the raven again, its dark eyes glimmering even in the darkness with mischief and wisdom.
Clever people try to lead their communities, Vesemir thinks. Wise men ask for advice from those who have more knowledge than themselves, no matter where that advice comes from. Even if Poe has no idea how much a Witcher contract costs, or what an obvious proposition sounds like, and might be the most trusting, most foolishly careless man on the whole Continent; he’s wise enough to ask for help.
A man like this will have no trouble nor care in the world, Vesemir smiles idly under his moustache.
A few minutes later there’s some ruckus on the streets. Vesemir hears screams and gasps, but before he can reach for his sword; he also hears laughter. And he can smell no blood or smoke or fear, only stunned bewilderment. Right before he would stand and march outside to see what in Melitele’s name goes on, the Raven Inn’s door slams open, and in comes… a vision.
Surely, this is not happening in real life, is it?
A young woman, somewhere between her twenties and thirties (Vesemir’s not the greatest with assuming human ages), comes in with long, dark hair around her shoulders and almost completely naked. Almost, because both her legs are covered with soft white stockings, tied with bright blue garters around her thighs. She shivers a bit, Vesemir can see gooseflesh rising along her pale arms and soft belly caused by the chilly autumn evening winds, but she doesn’t cover herself.
Her right knee is resting on the back of a billy goat, her left foot is on the flooring, and she holds a cawing, docile raven by its legs securely in her hand. She grins a bit; something slightly smug and all-knowing, and Vesemir can’t even blame her. She has surprised him! The young woman raises one dark eyebrow expectantly at Vesemir, as she clicks her tongue and the billy goat takes a few more steps forward.
“Good evening, Master Witcher,” the girl says smugly, her stocking-covered foot on the ground takes a step as the billy goat gets closer. “I heard you’re in search of a gift. May this pay my father’s debt.”
She holds out the cawing raven, and Vesemir is just stunned enough to dumbly reach for it. However, the moment the girl lets the raven go, it flaps its dark wings, flies away slightly offended, and perches itself atop a bust above the doorway, puffing its feathery chest and watching them with a smart but condescending look.
Vesemir had lived a long and eventful life. He had seen the world many times over, explored long-forgotten elven ruins, and learned ancient languages to read their carvings just out of sheer curiosity. He had once led at least a hundred yapping dogs away from a fur maker who was famous for skinning their prey alive and found himself spending a good few weeks looking for people who would take the dogs in and wouldn’t hurt them. Once he had even seen a huge beast with four legs, a long trunk of a nose and enormous ears used as wings peacefully soar through the air like an eagle.
He had never experienced anything like this before, though.
“Did I answer your riddle well, Master Witcher?” Mignole asks sweet as honey, her dark eyes sharp and so deeply intelligent that they humble even a worldly Witcher like him.
“You are dressed, and not,” Vesemir says weakly. “You came and you didn’t. You brought a present, and you didn't,” he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief.
He thought the girl would send him a drawing of herself or something. What a marvellous, clever woman!
“Lady Mignole, if I’m correct?” Vesemir asks, his cheeks aching from all the stunned joy and smiling.
He also shrugs off his gambeson to offer it to her shoulders against the chilly evening. Vesemir secretly revels in the fact that after so many years and so many hardships and hurt… there are still things out in the world surprising him and not at all causing any problems in the process, only a chance to meet a wondrously beautiful woman with a sharp mind and sweet smile.
The raven stays perched atop the bust over the doorway and watches them from there curiously.