The cat medallion bounced and shifted with the plodding movements of the horse, beating rhythmically against the leather jerkin of its bearer. At the sight of the medallion, the handful of the residents of Oxenfurt passing through the darkened marketplace shrank away, turning their eyes from the necessary evil in their midst. Witchers might be undesirable, mutated freaks accused of an all manner of sins, but that didn't mean that a professional monster-killer should be turned away on principle. At least, when there were contracts available. The medallion came to an abrupt halt before a wooden board, upon which a patchwork of notices had been pinned. Swinging loosely as the witcher slid off his horse, the medallion jingled cheerily on its metal chain as he stepped up to the notice board. An all manner of things had been placed on the board: Lost: stone belonging to I. Kant; Selling: toboggan, see Mr. Kane of Rosebud Lane for details; Exchange: ten thousand spoons for one knife. The most prominent of these bore the mark of the W&J Printing Company, and proudly displayed the words: "WITCHER NEEDED." A hand encased in a black leather glove reached out and tugged the notice free of its nail, stuffed it into an empty pocket, and jerked the reins of the pale horse in the direction of the nearest inn.

The Cock And Bells was almost packed when the door was eased open. Those nearest the door squinted into the darkness, trying to pick out the newcomer. The witcher pulled down his hood and kicked the door closed with his heel. The torchlight picked out the sharp nose and jawline of the witcher, covered though it was by a shaggy, unkempt beard. From beneath dark locks of black hair – cut short at the sides and gathered into a rough ponytail at the back – two cat-like eyes surveyed the inn. He was taller than average, but broad-shouldered and lean. The leather armour fitted tightly to his body, leaving nothing exposed. His belt held a variety of items: by his right hip hung a small, one-handed crossbow; several vials protruded from a pouch, each containing the toxic potions that only witchers could tolerate, their contents sloshing as the witcher moved; and, most curiously of all, a cracked witcher's medallion in the shape of a screeching griffon hung limply by the crossbow. Across his left shoulder, the witcher held the tools of his trade – a pair of longswords, each stamped with the same cat emblem as the medallion around his neck. One blade for monsters; the other...

The witcher glanced at the peasants goggling at him.

The other for whoever happened to deserve it.

The inkeeper eyed the witcher warily as he stepped up to the bar. He was a stocky man who had once been well-built, but was now running to fat. His bald head shone with sweat as he moved over to serve him, the droplets leaking down into his thick red beard. "How can I help you, sir?"

"Bottle of vodka," he grunted. His voice was like crunching gravel. "And a room."

"Ten crowns for the vodka," the innkeeper fished underneath the counter and brought out a bottle and shot glass. "The room is twenty crowns per night. You get breakfast at sun-up, and dinner at sundown. Got a horse that needs stabled?"

"Tied up outside. White mare."

"Hod!" The innkeeper shouted towards the back of the bar, and a moment later, a halfling trotted out. "White mare outside needs stabled. See to it." He turned back to the witcher. "I'll need a name, for the ledger."

The witcher paused for a moment. "Lupus Grimm, of Cintra."

The innkeeper scrawled the name into a book beneath the counter. "Third door on the left. Hod will take your saddlebags up for you."

Lupus tipped a handful of Novigrad Crowns onto the bar, and slid them over to the innkeeper. Plucking the vodka and glass from the bar, he made his way through the throng of people towards a rickety seat in a small alcove, shielded from the glare of the torchlight. Leaning his two swords against the wall and balancing the vodka bottle on the windowsill, Lupus pulled out the notice he had pulled from the board, and two handwritten letters. The notice had been produced on the orders of Jon Kissige, Mayor of Oxenfurt. That loosely translated to "We have a fucking serious problem," Lupus mused. And a significant payment in gold. According to the notice, a beast had been terrorising the local citizens, killing four people of rank. Further information was to be given upon acceptance of the contract. That, Lupus thought grimly, spells: "We have a serious fucking problem and a witcher has already turned us down." Lupus liked desperate clients. They tended to pay him more. Taking a long draught of vodka, Lupus to the handwritten letters. He skimmed through the first one. It was written in a neat, flowing script, and bore a soft scent of pine needles.

Lupus,

Trouble is brewing in Oxenfurt. There's been four murders in the Merchant Quarter, all of them political opponents of the mayor. But the victims have reportedly been torn limb from limb – blood all over the walls, organs missing, and so on. It's a monster of some kind, that's for sure. Meet me in Oxenfurt as soon as you can. I fear this goes deeper than a handful of murders. I'll be staying at my townhouse. I trust you still know the way.

Triss.

As a witcher, Lupus tended to shy away from politics. In his opinion, remaining neutral was a fundamental part of keeping one's head firmly connected to one's neck, and crossbow bolts out of one's back. Rulers changed like the wind, but gold would always be around. That being said, if there was a contract available, Lupus was more than willing to take it up in spite of any possible political connections that Triss feared. The more public the murders, the more he was likely to be paid. In the two days it had taken him to travel to Oxenfurt, another two murders had taken place. Lupus could almost hear the delightful jingle of gold. He took another drink of vodka, and turned to the second letter. Before he could start reading, however, a slurred shout from across the inn drew his attention.

"Hey, freak!"

Sighing at the most common of the abusive insults hurled in his general direction on a near-daily basis, Lupus carefully slid the letter back into a thin pouch at his hip and searched for the ne'er-do-well that was so offended by the mere presence of another person. His eyes came to rest on a fat, balding man in roughly made clothes who appeared to be so unsteady that he was almost completely supported by his companions. The man stumbled over to Lupus, his friends looking on with sloppy, drunken grins. At a table nearby, a pair of dwarves and an elf sank into silence as the human staggered past. One of the dwarves - a particularly burly individual with yellowed, horse-like teeth – shifted his hand to a large hammer under the table, his dark eyes following the drunk across the room. The man stopped in front of Lupus, who, curious to see how this would end, set the letters aside and leaned forward, waiting patiently for the man to finish his sentence.

"I's wondering…" the man hiccupped. "I's wondering…"

"I am," Lupus corrected him. "It's said 'I am,' not 'I is.'"

"I's wondering," the man continued. Lupus sighed. If people wanted to curse him, they could at least do it using the correct grammar. "Why's you got two swords?"

"One for monsters," Lupus said calmly, leaning back in his chair. "The other for… butterflies."

"You kill… butterflies?"

"Menace to society that they are," Lupus nodded, tracing a short sign in the air. "Go home. Now."

The man's jaw slackened. His eyes slipped in and out of focus. He lumbered around, and wandered away. "Yeah, better go…"

Lupus turned back to the second handwritten letter, but before he could start reading it, there was a shout from across the room.

"Eh! That freak's cast a spell on Erik!"

Glancing up, Lupus saw the drunk's friends trying to shake the fat man out of his sign-imposed stupor. Lupus frowned. The man should have quietly gone to the door and left without a fuss. Instead, he had stopped dead in front of his friends, drooling and swaying on the spot. The witcher swore under his breath. The sign must have been too powerful. The fat man's friends lurched towards him, leaving their comrade gazing vapidly into space. Before Lupus could react, the burly, horse-toothed dwarf at the table swung his hammer into the nearest man. With a gasp, the human crumpled over the hammer like a sack of potatoes, and he sank to the ground clutching his stomach. The second dwarf, this one with a bright streak of orange hair gathered into a ridge of stiff peaks like a mountain range, leapt from his seat with a roar and collided with the other drunk. The dwarf's bony forehead smacked hard into the human's temple, and the pair tumbled to the floor next to the nearest bystanders, who had barely acknowledged the ongoing scuffle. The elf watched with an air of such boredom that Lupus gathered this was not a new experience to her. She brushed her long, dark hair behind one pointed ear and calmly emptied the mugs of her companions into her own tankard as they worked to extricate the orange-haired dwarf from beneath his now-unconscious prey.

Lupus looked on, astonished at this sudden turn of luck. He couldn't remember the last time he had successfully managed to avoid punching someone unconscious on account of someone else doing the punching for him. The situation normally went: Stupid Drunk says something stupid to the witcher; said witcher retorts with something witty and dark; Stupid Drunk stupidly tries to punch said witcher; aforementioned witcher beats the man unconscious; local innkeeper informs the witcher that the guards are coming; witcher escapes in daring fashion. Rarely, if ever, did the formula change. Certainly, no one had ever intervened on his behalf. At least, not since…

"By my beard, it's a fucking witcher!" The black-bearded dwarf had finally extricated his companion and now stood, arms folded, in front of Lupus. "And I thought these pricks were just being pricks for the sake of it."

"Know them well?" Lupus raised an eyebrow.

"Not in the slightest," The dwarf snorted. "Just don't like seeing people being cocks for no reason."

"Appreciate the help," the witcher nodded, he hesitated, eyeing the dwarf. He seemed completely guileless. "Lupus Grimm, of Cintra."

"Marlon Corona, professional arse-kicker," the dwarf stuck out a thick hand ridged with calluses. His grip nearly crushed Lupus' hand. He pointed to the orange-haired dwarf, who was busy sifting through the contents of the unconscious men's pockets, grinning inanely as he watched the firelight glinting on a handful of crowns. "And this is my brother, Max. He's somewhat touched in the head. Mad, some would say."

"Yeah, I see that," Lupus nodded, watching the dwarf play with the coins.

"Anyway," Marlon said, turning back to the witcher, "Come have a drink with us. I'm sure you could entertain us with a tale."

Lupus considered the offer. It was rare for anyone to speak to him outside of his professional capacity – and often not even then – without insulting him in some way. But to have someone stand up for him, and then offer to drink with him, was a true rarity. The last time Lupus had drunk with a companion… He instantly shook off that thought. It would do him no good to reminisce on her.

"Sure," Lupus nodded. "Why not."

"Excellent," Marlon grinned, exposing his yellowed, horse-like teeth. "Come on Max, you can play with those at the table."

Lupus slid into the seat across from the elf, who briefly smiled at him. Her large, dark eyes refused to meet his, instead staring into the depths of her tankard.

"Anatheline, this is Lupus," Marlon said, sitting down heavily on his stool, which groaned in protest at the dwarf's weight. "He's a –"

"I can see he's a witcher," the elf said sharply. "I'm not stupid."

"I know, kid, I know," Marlon scratched at the wiry bristles on his chin. "Polite to introduce new friends, that's all. Not that you're ever keen to make any."

"A friend?" The dark eyes finally locked with Lupus' cat-like ones. "Is that what he is?"

"Aye, he is," Marlon glowered at the elf. He glanced into his empty tankard. "I'm away for another round. Be nice to each other. Socialise. Converse!"

"Not a fan of witchers?" Lupus grimaced as the vodka burned its way down his throat. "Don't worry, you wouldn't be the first."

"Not a fan of murderers," the elf said coldly. "The School of the Cat has something of a reputation."

"The School does," Lupus folded his arms. The Witcher School that Lupus belonged to had acquired a distasteful reputation for being assassins-for-hire – a reputation that was sorely damaging the professional endeavours of those that didn't engage in such practices. "I don't. I'm a professional, and a fucking good one."

"Where did you get the other medallion, then?" Anatheline's eyes flicked to his belt, where the cracked griffon medallion swung sadly at his side.

"None of your business," the witcher bristled. "But no. I didn't… I didn't kill her."

Lupus' stomach twisted as he spoke. It wasn't entirely true. The elf's eyes caught the brief look of remorse that flitted across his face, and her expression appeared to soften. Silence shrouded them, broken only by the clink of coins as Max played quietly with his loot. After a painfully long period of time, Marlon reappeared, carrying four foaming mugs. The dwarf carefully laid them down on the table and slid one over to the witcher.

"So tell me," Marlon said, taking a long draught of his beer. "Are you here for the Beast of the Merchant Quarter?"

"Depends on the pay," Lupus shrugged. "So long as they pay me well, I'll look into it."

"One already turned down the contract," the dwarf nodded. "Heard he took one look at one of the victims and was riding out of the city within the hour."

"In which case, my fee just shot up," Lupus smiled.

"You'd let people die for a handful of coins?" Anatheline scowled at him. "Thought you were a professional."

"If a whore refuses a client because he won't pay up," Lupus shot back, "Is it her problem if he doesn't get a fuck that night?"

"Equating yourself with whores," the elf's eyes glittered maliciously. "How appropriate."

"Like I said," Lupus shrugged. "I'm a professional. Say what you like, people need witchers."

"And you make sure they know it," Anatheline spat. "Even if it means they'll starve, you'll take their last coin."

"Not my concern," the witcher said shortly. He turned back to the dwarf. "What do you know about this beast?"

"Only the bare details," the dwarf said, twirling his moustache pensively. "The City Guard is doing fuck-all about it though. Saying they can't determine who is at risk, so they're not protecting anyone. Bullshit, I say."

"Why bullshit?" Lupus raised an eyebrow.

"Everyone that's died so far spoke out against Kissige. The whole city knows he's got the fucking captain of the guard in his pocket. Cock that he is."

"Not a fan of the local government?"

"Too fucking right," Marlon slammed a fist on the table, making the tankards jump. "Kissige spends half the time trying to blame all the city's problems on the non-humans. Man can't govern for shit, but he's got enough money to pay off the guard and half the voters in the city."

"Sounds absolutely charming," Lupus nodded. He'd met many such people during his travels. They might hate him. They might call him scum, a freak, a mutant. But when it came down to it, they would still pay him to do his job.

They talked for some time, until the inn began to empty and the patrons filed out. Lupus swapped the occasional tale of one of his past deeds for information on the city and the mood of the people, occasionally broken by brief spats over his personal and professional ethics with Anathline. While the serving girls scrubbed the tables, the bouncers dragged out any individuals that lacked the ability to leave the establishment on their own two feet, including the two slumped on the ground by Lupus' feet, and their still-drooling friend.

"We should go," Marlon nudged Max, who swept his coins into one hand and stuffed them into a pocket. He nodded to Lupus. "You're staying here?"

"I am," the witcher said, slinging his swords across one shoulder.

"Well, if you haven't scarpered like the last one, I'd be happy to share a drink with you again."

"Likewise," he nodded courteously. He caught Anatheline's eyes. "Maybe you'll like me more next time. I've been told that I grow on people."

"Stick to killing monsters," the elf said dismissively as she stood up. "Making friends clearly isn't your forte."

"Bitch!" Lupus called after her.

"Dick!" Anatheline shouted back.

Lupus smiled, his pointed white teeth glittering in the sputtering candlelight. As he moved away from the wall and up to his room, the witcher's shadow seemed to linger. A horned head tilted in the direction of the witcher, then swept up the stairs alongside him. The witcher paused, his medallion trembling. Out of the corner of his eye, Lupus saw the shadow shift very slightly, though he himself stood completely still. Shaking his head in disbelief, Lupus swept into the room, quiet as the shadow that followed him. He laid his swords down by his bed, and slid a hunting knife under the pillow. He kicked off his boots, unbuttoned his leather jerkin, and hung it on the bedstead, then slipped into the bed. The witcher savoured the feeling of clean sheets and fresh linen. He had been on The Path for some years now, sporadically returning to winter at the School of the Cat's fortress in Kovir, and every now and then spending a winter in better company than his witcher brothers. Lupus turned restlessly in his bed. He knew what sleep would bring. He knew the Hym was watching him, trying to break through the witcher's iron-hard resolve. His dreams no longer brought him any joy. They only showed him death.

Her death.