Kovir, 1273
Winter: a cold death that spread across the land. The peasantry of Kovir held the belief that if theirs was a poor harvest, the gods had cursed them for their misdeeds; and now the punisher, old man winter, would come to take the souls of those who had offended the gods the most. Little food could be yielded from the snow covered mountains even with a blessing, nor from the ice-covered lakes; if hunger didn't kill you, the various beasts that came out during the winter would. If one did not brace themselves, winter would undo them.
Now, the harrowing winter was relenting. The first signs of green could be seen springing up from the snow. The sky cleared, and rays of sunlight warmed the frigid valleys. Animals which had slept through the deathly season were just beginning to stir and emerge from their caves and burrows, and the birds in the imposing oaks and redwoods had begun their endless sonnets, heralding spring.
And Gaël, master witcher, hated every last one of those damnable creatures.
"Should've brought a fuckin' bard," he grumbled to himself, hands forming fists, looking at the birdshit stained page. "Probably'd write a bloody good song 'bout these fuckin' birds."He attempted to clean the page, but it was too late; the page was ruined. He ripped it out so that the rest of the book would be spared. "Sent for this, all the way from fucking Vizima. Oobleck is going to be pissed." He eyed the birds up in the tree. "Who sent you?"
Most normal people would enjoy the sounds of the birds chirping, but they also didn't have to sit under them from dawn to noon. They also didn't have a witcher's hearing. Gaël seriously considered giving the tree, and in turn the birds, a good gust of aard, or a good scorching with igni. It wouldn't harm anyone, he reasoned; he was miles from the nearest city, and he doubted any annoying druids were near to scold him about not respecting nature. Despite this, Gaël chose to stay his hand. He could alert the beast he hunted.
The birds were forgotten as a primal bellow was heard. Fiends were distinct in their call; the untrained ear would likely think it a stag, but the difference was in the ending- a distinct click.
Gaël didn't like the fact that he had to do this. He was certain from its call that the fiend he hunted had lived in this portion of the wood for decades. Even as he laid out the means to lure the fiend, a bait that mocked the scent of a female in heat, he couldn't help but feel bad; it was unconscionable, it almost felt like an invasion. When an understandably angry nobleman and his grieving wife come to the court, however, and demand the head of a beast over the death of their son, the court witcher is called upon. Gaël attempted to reason with the family; he tried to explain that hunting in a fiend's territory, especially during mating season, is dangerous, and moreover stupid, but the family didn't take kindly to such wise words.
He heard the fiend's call again; it was growing closer. Gaël became tense; he had been sure of it before, but now in proximity the age of the beast, and subsequently the danger, was more than apparent. This was an elder fiend, and each warble and crack of its voice warned Gaël of the battle to come. Juveniles were predictable, and had not mastered the use of their third eye yet. Elders were different; they were seasoned hunters, and more than their third eye had fully matured, possessing powerful hypnotic magic.
Gaël looked over his panoply once more; everything must be perfect. His hand ran across the shaft of his spear; he gripped it briefly, bringing it up from the ground, pivoting it before him. Sitting it down carefully, Gaël checked over the potions he had brewed. Two swallows were in his pouch, hanging at his side. He added a slight bit of honey within the healing potions to make them more appetizing. It was a habit he had developed early in his profession; Gaël often vomited up the terribly bitter potions, especially swallow. The witcher had also prepared a katakan decoction, in case things got out of hand.
Gaël looked up to see the nearby trees shuffling. The birds above him fled from the oncoming path of the alpha predator. He gripped his spear firmly in hand, and slowly rose from his previous kneeling position to a low crouch. The fiend's heavy, lumbering, footfalls were now audible as it plodded through the wood. The medallion braided into Gaël's beard began to hum ever so quietly. The meadow, excepting those few cadences, was silent in the absence of the birds.
Its breath was steady, but the scent coming from the fiend was distinct; it was ready to mate. The witcher began to take deep, relaxing breaths. His mind was calm; all he thought of was the spear in hand, and the fiend coming towards him. The fiend called out again; the deafening bellow heralded its arrival into the meadow. It's black fur was marred by hundreds of scars and white stripes. Gaël studied the fiend; the stripes, and the more narrow shoulders told him it was a Kovirian sub breed. Hardy, well-adapted to the icy cold, its fur was so thick most men would struggle to cut through it even with the sharpest of blades. The long, pointed antlers told him it had to be at least fifty years old, and the various scars, which zig-zagged across its hide told him it was the dominate male in the region. Kovirian fiends were extremely territorial, killing most who entered their respective hunting grounds.
Now in the meadow, the monster halted for a moment. Its third eye scanned the tree line, pausing right on the witcher. Gaël knew he had been spotted, the third eye could see through any camouflage; it viewed a man's very soul, or so the druids claimed. Though exposed, the witcher did not panic; all was going according to plan. The fiend let out a roar, and stomped its forward leg, a clear 'get the fuck off my land' in the fiend vernacular. Gaël knew he would only be given one chance. He simply smirked.
"I ain't moving, you oversized stag."
The fiend must've heard the witcher's response, because it replied soon after with another deafening roar. Gaël braced himself; he rose from his low crouch, and stepped out into the open, spear held in one hand, the tip towards the snow and the aft held up and behind him. The fiend's stride quickened upon the witcher revealing himself fully. It moved faster, and faster, it moved so fast-
It didn't see the trap Gaël had placed onto the ground.
Gaël watched, impartial, as the fiend's front right leg fell into a pit of wooden pikes, trapping it. The fiend let out cries of pain as it struggled to free itself. Gaël knew it would not be an easy task, he had made it that way. The pit not only had pikes on the bottom, but along the sides as well; if the fiend attempted to pull out its leg, it would damage its limb even more. To make matters worse for the beast, Gaël had coated the pikes in an anticoagulant; by the time it pulled itself free, if it ever managed to, the witcher wouldn't have to overpower the creature- he only needed to make it bleed. Gaël stood before the fiend for several moments, waiting. The trap was somewhat underhanded, and he knew it. He would later feel guilty for setting it, but only slightly. The witcher stepped into the meadow to finish the task, before the fiend was able to free itself. He was hardly out of the thicket in which he waited before this occurred.
"Shit."
The fiend roared as it raised its bloody stump of a paw out of the trap. The air was thick with the smell of blood. That stench, that iron in the air; it always put Gaël on the edge. He smiled darkly, made a quick hand gesture, and soon his form was lightly covered in an orange glow, which seemed to collect into an orb, circling around his torso. He brought the spear into both hands, pointing it towards the fiend.
Despite its injured paw, the fiend did not relent. It charged dauntlessly toward the witcher; Gaël was surprised by its speed. The distance between hunter and prey was quickly closed as the beast held its head low, aiming to gore the witcher. Its horns swept violently upwards, but only caught thin air and bits of melting snow as Gaël expertly evaded the blow. The fiend had anticipated this, and slammed its good paw where the witcher ought to have been. It only succeeded in throwing snow into the air, and burying its good paw into the dirt. The witcher answered with a quick jab where the fiend's forearm and upper arm met. He got lucky; the witcher removed his spear and barrelled back, as the fiend's punctured artery poured thin red blood onto its leg.
The fiend stepped forward again, wildly clawing at the witcher, who only continued to reply with quick, precise jabs of his spear. The fight was not a quick one; it was long, drawn out, and bloody. The sun begun to hang low in the mid afternoon sky as Gaël dodged yet another strike from the fiend, and awaited the next. He watched as it stood, panting heavily; it had grown pale in the face, and the meadow, and his armor, was now deeply stained with it's thinned, wet blood. It's breaths were slow, and ragged, and its eyes were downcast and bloodshot; it was on its last leg, almost literally. Gaël on the other hand hadn't even broken a sweat; while not as fast as their continental cousins, ursine witchers had one thing the other schools didn't- endurance. If necessary, Gaël could've fought the fiend well into the night.
However, things then became complicated.
From the surrounding treeline, Gaël had missed a new challenger coming into the fight: ghouls. His attention was finally drawn to them as the creature whom he guessed to be the alpha of the pack leapt onto the back of the fiend, clawing, ripping and tearing into it. Gaël turned and saw at least ten of the corpse eaters scurrying out from the treeline, some joining in on the feast of the fiend, while the others looked to Gaël. He barely dodged the first ghoul's strike; ducking at the very last moment, he blasted the passing ghoul with aard, and sent it hurtling into the tree line, a wet snap sounding its impact with a nearby tree.
The next ghoul attempted to pounce the witcher like its packmate had; Gaël decided to make this one an example. Plunging his spear into its chest, he brought it back down, impaling it into the ground. The ghoul did not die so easily; it still clawed and reached toward the witcher from underneath its pinning. Gaël ignored it and drew the silver sword at his hip, its various runes glowing a dull red as he brought it into a 'strong' position.
"Knew we had a problem with ghouls," he murmured as he cleaved through an advancing monster. "Had no idea it was THIS bad."
A growl from behind told him another ghoul intended to strike. Spinning around, Gaël's mailed fist made contact with the ghoul's skull. A wet snap could be heard as his ursine strength was demonstrated; skull shattered, the ghoul fell limp in the snow. A breaking of his quen shield sent a more clever ghoul back, along with another one of its packmates. Gaël wasted no time with these two; dashing forward, he slammed a sabaton into the first dazed ghoul's head. The other lept to avenge his packmate, only to be cleaved by the witcher in mid air, sending it tumbling to the ground.
Turning back to look at the fiend, he saw that the alpha predator was still struggling. Several ghouls were on its back, ripping and tearing into its flesh. Judging by how thin the ghouls looked, this attack was out of desperation; they were starving. The beast crushed a ghoul with one of its paws, then rolled over in the snow, crushing two more under its weight that were too stupid, or too hungry, to get off.
Casting quen upon himself again, Gaël turned and faced the remaining ghouls. By now, most had already fled the failed attempt to down the wounded fiend, however one other joined the fight even as it seemed to be ending: an aghoul. The spikes on its back grown to a fearsome full size, it was likely around eight years old- still young, and hungry. Alghouls usually followed ghoul packs and took whatever they had killed or found. In keeping with this behavior, it barrelled through the smaller ghouls and towards the fiend.
"Oh fucking no you don't."
Forming a odd shape with his hand, fire spewed forth from Gaël's fingertips, engulfing the alghoul in flame. Gaël knew one thing that would scare the shit out of any breed of ghoul: fire. It's what he told every elderman from Vezima to Kovir, if you don't ever want to deal with ghouls of any type, keep a fire going. The bigger, the brighter, the hotter, the better. As such, the alghoul reeled back from its charge as it was covered in flame. The smell of scorching alghoul flesh filled the air as it joined its cousins in retreat.
"Right," he said catching his breath, a sign as intense as igni took a lot out of him.
"Now for why I'm here."
Gaël's attention turned to the fiend, and right in time. The fiend had finished the last of the ghouls, and had now refocused on the witcher. Hate- that is what Gaël saw in its eyes, and that's when he felt it; the world around him seemed to narrow as darkness enveloped his senses. For a moment, Gaël was actually frightened- then realized it was only the fiend's third eye. He crossed his wrists over his chest in the sign of the heliotrope; the anti-hex broke him from the fiend's hypnotizing gaze just as it was about slam into the witcher.
Barrelling out of the fiend's path, the witcher made haste to the spear from before. Gaël felt the fiend upon him, he chanced a glance to see that it was now charging towards him as fast as its three good legs could move. The ursine witcher's one flaw was his general speed; he was never a particularly fast man, but he could get out of the way of most things. This time, that would not do; he needed that spear. He made a snap judgement. Drawing from what strength remained in him, the witcher formed an aard sign and held it, waiting for just the right moment. Right as the fiend was about to close in, he turned and let loose. A bright flash followed by a gust of wind halted the fiend long enough for Gaël to recover his spear from the still writhing ghoul pinned underneath it.
"Now, where were we?"
The fiend attempted to slash at Gaël with its claws, however this time it was a faint. The witcher was barely able to avoid the downstroking antlers attempting to gore him. Gaël repaid the fiend with a quick jab to its jugular as it brought its head back up. Blood poured onto the white snow, but the fiend was now too tired, and too enraged, to care. Its strikes were becoming easier and easier to dodge, but maintained a level of ferocity; Gaël knew it wouldn't be long, yet he still needed to be careful. He kept his distance from the now panting stationery fiend, its legs wobbling; it had even rested its bloody stump of a paw back onto the ground.
Finally, it lifted itself as high as it could with its torn and bloodied legs, let out one last deafening roar, and attempted to pounce on the witcher. Gaël repeated the same tactic as he had before, yet the fiend anticipated this; as it landed, the fiend lashed out with its antlers, smashing against Gaël and breaking his quen shield. An orange glow covered him for the briefest of moments before he was sent back flying. Landing on his back, he let out a curse.
"Fucking fiend!"
Gaël hurried up to his feet, spear ready, only to find the fiend had not yet gotten up. Laying in a growing pool of its blood, it seemed finally spent, panting, groaning in agony. Slowly now, the witcher approached the beast, looking it over; its third eye was held lazily open in one last attempt to spite the witcher. Its effort was thwarted by the witcher crossing his wrists over one another once again, a blue glow faintly enveloping him as he did so.
"Heliotrope- it's a bitch," he mumbled as he stood before the fiend.
At that it seemed to sigh, its face now white as the snow it laid in. The witcher could hear its heartbeat slow; this was the end. The sky was overcast as Gaël looked over the fiend with an almost sympathetic look on his face.
"I didn't want this, y'know," he began as his gaze met the fiend's head. He knew it would do nothing more now; it had accepted its fate. "Some snotty brat walks onto your land, kills your game and tries to kill you, all you did was return the favor." He placed his sabaton onto the fiend's head, with his spear ready to be plunged into the fiend's third eye.
"You didn't deserve this."