First attempt at fanfic for over 10 years. Back then it was Star Trek, now it's The Witcher. I am excited! :)
My story is about a relatively inexperienced, brazen but kind female witcher; it's more a coming-of-age thing than a story about a legend like Geralt. The title isn't a diminuitive, but a play on "suffragette".
I love Andrzej Sapkowski's work, but I am trying to give it a feminist (are you scared yet?), inclusive spin. There will be strong, facetted female characters with normal bust sizes (look closely!), LGBT people, people with disabilities and men who can cry, too. My story is set in the same world as Geralt and takes place a short while after the second game, but it will only include references to the established characters and events; they will not appear prominently in my story. This is not a fangirly Mary-Sue plot.
It also includes violence and strong language, and some steamy content, thus the M rating right away. (I don't think The Witcher works for a K... lol) I also tried to include some nods to other favorite franchises of mine, as well as some tongue-in-cheek stuff about the RPG genre per se, as I became a fan of The Witcher through the computer games.
Sapkowski's creations are, as far as I know, his intellectual property alone, but Projekt Red and the other licensees may have contributed to some parts I'm using here. Speaking of which: I have played both games on PC and read The Last Wish, ordered Blood of Elves. Please don't judge me on things I can't know that are established in the other books; I don't speak Polish, so I will have to wait.
Would love your feedback! And hope you enjoy!
„What is it?" she asked impatiently.
"I expected a Witcher", the hooded man said quietly.
"And you got one."
The hooded man looked around. The backstreet, if one could even call it a street, was dark and quiet, except for a dog barking at the moon or who-knows-what. "Where is he? Don't play games with me, woman, or I will find someone else for the job!"
Elora cursed under her breath. "I am the Witcher you seek."
"You?" He was surprised, but his voice didn't betray anything else. Maybe a well-versed speaker? Elora tried to gauge his expression as he spoke, but his hood was pulled far into his face, and he was looking down. Infravision was nice, but only when it could be applied to the things that mattered. What did not matter, but was plainly visible was a badly stitched-up hole in the cloak and his tattered old boots. "I didn't know there were female Witchers… wait, does that not make you a Witch?"
Elora half-turned around, pointing at two swords strapped on her back – one made of silver with an adorned hilt, one a delicate looking blade of a lesser metal. "See a fucking broomstick?"
Her potential client snorted. "I have no need of a woman."
The Witcher raised a brow. "What kind of contract could only be fulfilled by a male Witcher?" she said slowly, while thinking it over. Then she blurted out, getting ahead of herself: "You know that females can deal with strigas or bruxae too!" (She did, however, hope it was not about either.)
The hooded man waved his hand dismissively "You can't help me." He turned around to leave.
Elora felt a rumble in her stomach. She was not giving up so easily. "Wait! Why would you not say what you need, and I say what I can do about it?"
The man turned around. His tone had taken on a nasty quality. "Is that so? Can you harass the blacksmith's daughter so I can step in and win a swordfight against you to save her honor? Frighten her enough to make her stay with me gladly? Hah! I thought not. I will find other ways." He mounted his horse and disappeared quickly into the night.
"You should be ashamed of yourself! Filthy bastard… pig." She growled and called after him: "You should also know that Witchers never lose on purpose!" That was only half true. She had once feigned defeat to win something else. Something precious. Not that it mattered now. She kicked a stone off the dirt path angrily and felt her pocket for what little coin was left in it. After all the time she had waited for this bastard, it was already too dark to look for another contract. In Vizima, or Lyria, or… but not here. She pondered whether it had been the right choice to let him go, but it was too late anyway. Quick strokes of a sword were her forte, but quick decisions weren't. They said that came with experience, so there wasn't anything to be done about it in the short term.
She made her way back to the Waclaw Farmstead. She had hoped to move to the inn after receiving the promised earnest, but it seemed like she had another day as farm hand ahead of her. At least it was unlikely that her acquaintances would not hear from her "work" in such a remote hamlet. It wasn't the first time, either, that she had killed chickens, rescued kittens or chopped wood for a few Orens, either. Eléanor de Drakenborg, at your service, she thought grimly.
At one such time, she had required a few rare ingredients and had put her steel sword in pawn to purchase them. This was also the time when she realized that silver killed Humans just fine, if need be. And for a woman travelling Temeria on her own, there often was need.
She knocked at the farmstead's door, and entered… after cleaning her boots. The landlady, Ladva Waclawa, seemed a kind soul but an obsessive cleaner; taking into account the house was thatched and only a small part had wooden floors, it must have been tedious. Ladva was still up, fixing bait, murmuring prayers to Melitele. She looked up as Elora stood before her, nodding a silent greeting.
Her stomach, however, was less silent. Ladva shook her head. "Girl, you need to eat something. I have all sorts of things to do for you while I go fishing tomorrow. Gronar made Warg stew – don't look at me like that. He's a good cook, but Warg is Warg and I can't afford anything else right now." She got up, but Elora had already reached the fireplace to help herself. She had indeed smiled when Ladva had called her Girl (the times a Witcher was called something without a derogatory connotation were few), but her grin turned sour at the mention of Warg. But if anyone could make anything edible from that meat, it was Gronar, Ladva's husband from Skellige. He was, however, much better at preparing fish, so perhaps there was hope for tomorrow.
Elora started to eat greedily. Ladva poured her a mug of ale and continued her work. "Your blacksmith's daughter…" Elora said when the worst hunger was sated, "tell me about her." The middle-aged woman gave her a curious look, but complied. "Name is Roos. Prettiest girl in a day's reach. On horseback." Ladva nodded vividly. She had never been far outside the Hamlet, but was well-informed on many things within two days' reach. On horseback. "Her mother was taken by a wyvern when they were going to the market in Ellander many years ago. Poor girl. She takes after her father. He's quite something to look at, you'll see." Ladva laughed, and continued to tell some more tales; it appeared she had been a friend of Roos' mother, but none were of particular interest to the Witcher. She also had no intentions of mentioning the hooded man. It was not Ladva's affair. Was it even her own? Eventually, as she was finishing up the baits, Ladva gave Elora some tasks for the next day.
"Thank you, kind Ladva." Elora got up, cleaned the plate and filled up her mug. "Good night, and good luck with the fishing".
Ladva smiled. "Ohhh, you! Just filled your belly and already thinking of the next meal. You're just like my son."
Elora walked up to her little room, which had once belonged to Ladva's daughter who had married another farmer. The closet was half full with children's clothing, as none of Ladva's grandchildren were old enough to wear them yet. There were still a few girl's items in the room, like a doll made of cloth. It faintly, very faintly reminded the Witcher of her childhood, before the Law of Surprise had been invoked and she had been taken away. Away from her parents, her home, her childhood. And away from the place that burned to the ground just a short time later – Elora blamed this event for her skepticism of thatched roofs, even though she had not been present. It had not exactly been fun mastering the Igni sign for a girl afraid of the element that had killed her parents. She hung her cloak on the door and put both swords on the nightstand. (Ladva's carefully and completely unobtrusively placed book about Melitele had found its temporary storage in the lowermost drawer of the closet, but Elora respected all books and had taken care not to put any creases in it.)
There was an old, dull mirror on the wall above a little table with a bowl of water. Elora shrugged away the thoughts of fire and death from seconds before, and inscribed a very weak Igni sign into the cold air, aiming at the bowl. She took off her karwasz, leather vambraces, and rolled up her sleeves above her elbows. She splashed the now warm water in her face and rubbed it clean ("clean" on the Elora scale, probably not on the Ladva scale). She looked in the mirror while twirling the end of her right braid. There was nothing to twirl on the other side, that braid had been cut off in a swordfight few days ago, and she could not decide whether to cut off the other or wait until it grew back. It looked weird, but as long as she had no official business in the cities, it didn't matter. She thought back to before that lamentable accident, when she had taken a bath in an affluence of the Pontar River. A young shepherd had seen her, he had blushed when she winked at him, and ran away.
Her Witcher's medallion that was shaped like a cat's head reflected in the mirror, catching her eyes. Her gaze lingered on her mirror image, a pale face surrounded by a terrible straw blonde mess of hair. Catlike eyes and nose that was a bit long, above pale pink lips. A long scar across her left cheek… it was from her first battle. It's just a wolf, her young foolish self had thought. It taught her an essential lesson quickly: Never underestimate your enemy, especially when he, she, it or they are almost dead. That wolf's white pelt was still in her possession, sewed tightly, but in amateurish fashion, to the collar of her cloak. It served not only as a warming bit of garment, but also as a reminder of how mistakes allow oneself to improve. And of who prevails, and she hoped it would continue to be her for a much longer while.
The bed was cold, but Elora recalled with a smirk that a merchant in Vizima had once told her that only traditional dwarven stone beds withstood even the faintest Igni Sign. Of course, it had been Geralt of Rivia to try it out. The famed White Wolf was known for amicable relations to the dwarves and elves alike, even if he had never sided with any party officially. As was the Witchers' way. She had, in fact, only met him once when she was undergoing the Trial of Grasses, the most painful ritual in the Witchers' training. He had watched the ceremonies solemnly and parted soon afterwards. And like this trial had turned the White Wolf's hair white, it had turned her skin white. However, it would probably take much longer until anyone would call her the White Cat, she would always say when explaining the matter. Occasionally, when a greater bit of anonymity than she had anyway was needed, she would give her name as Eléanor Blanchard, or Le Blanc, which both meant "white". Her first name was eerily apt in the first place, meaning something like "the other one" or "the foreign one". And that, like "Girl", was one of the nicer things people said to Witchers.
She fell asleep fairly quickly, and dreamt about kittens to be rescued, punching hooded bastards and shepherds that sometimes needed baths, too.