Oh, hello everyone. Here's something completely different than my usual stuff! I'm almost ashamed that I stopped in the middle of writing Dragon Ball Super: Different Feelings, but I've been hard at work on my own, original story so that fanfic has been put on hold indefinitely. As for this, it was based on a conversation I had with a cousin a few weeks back. I hope you all like it!
It was midday in Velen and the sun was high in the sky, its dry heat nearly suffocating travelers as it had suffocated most of the land. What little crops were left grew in the company of barren farmland and dead grass that slumped over stiff and petrified. A stray ember from a campfire could set the dry fields ablaze. It was possible it had already happened, contributing to the famine, but so far as the witcher could tell, it hadn't happened anywhere on the roads he'd traveled to reach the Inn by the Crossroads.
Geralt rode atop his horse, keeping the mare at a modest trot as he entered the small gated community with a few straw-roofed houses and the inn where the baron's personal guard liked to meet for drinks. The dry heat had made the witcher thirsty as well, and without his cloak, he'd be picked out of the crowd for his ashen hair and the two swords—one steel, the other silver—on his back, but as parched as he was, he'd risk the foul words and resentment surely awaiting him as he stepped into the inn.
Ignoring the few anxious looks he received from villagers passing by, he slowed his horse to a stop at the stable outside the inn and hitched her there. He ran a gloved hand along her mane and dismounted. He left the stable and entered the inn to see it was less crowded than he had been expecting, which suited him just fine. He stepped up to the counter and took a short look around the torch and candlelit establishment.
It wasn't anything fancy, with wooden benches and tables so dry and warped they had likely seen many dry summers. It was a wonder anyone survived in this part of the world. The counter he stood at was set in the middle of the room, and the innkeep, a mustached man, was busy tending to the patrons on the other side of the bar. There was nothing else of note, beyond the smell of whatever was being cooked in the pot by the woman near the back. Geralt didn't wrinkle his nose at the smell, but it wasn't entirely pleasant.
Eventually, the innkeep was no longer busy and turned to see his new customer. His eyes went wide, but he regained his composure and took a cautious step toward the witcher.
"Give me a beer," Geralt said, his voice unpleasant, sounding particularly hoarse due to the dryness.
"Aye, sir," the innkeep said and swiftly poured the witcher a beer and set it before him.
Geralt nodded his thanks and drank in silence, offering no conversation and getting none from the innkeeper or the other patrons who seemed to stand a few feet away on either side of him.
He didn't notice an elderly man walk into the inn, as he focused on his drink and nothing else, but the elderly man sure took notice of him. He walked right up to the witcher and tugged on his jerkin.
"Pardon my asking," he said quickly, "but you're a witcher, ain'tcha?"
"Mm-mm" Geralt nodded and only bothered to glance at the elderly man.
He had an ugly brown hat with bespectacled eyes staring out from beneath the brim, the wire frame resting over a hooked nose. He had no teeth to speak of and his jaw jutted forward with a slight under-bite.
"I knew it! Two swords, that's what my pa used to say."
Geralt was silent and continued to drink his beer.
"I need your help," the old man said, "ain't nobody willing to help me even if they believe what I says."
The witcher turned his cat-eyed gaze on the old man then, finally interested. "If they believe what you say? What's the problem?"
"I gots a big problem," the old man said. "I gots a farm a ways from here out near Crookback Bog, hardly a fuckin' thing grows there anymore, but it's still a farm. But, anyway, my wife'd been complaining about our bed, said we needed to get one of them beds the folk in Novigrad use.
"Look, I'm not rich. I ain't made a good living since this damn famine took root, so I'm not looking to buy some rich man's bed. So I sees a notice on a notice board saying this guy is getting rid of a bed at a fair price, claiming he'll deliver it himself on his wagon and even saying he'd help move it in to the house. Who wouldn't take that offer?
"So I find the guy, pay him the crowns and we head back to my farm. My dog was acting daft when we arrived, howling and whining and cowering away from the guy when we brought the bed in. But the fuckin' dog is always fussing about something, so I didn't think a thing of it.
"My wife decides to give the bed a try, break it in, you know how it is. The dog goes to check on her and he goes fuckin' nuts, barking his head off and howling. He flies out of the room barking and cowering. So, finally, I go to see what's the matter and see my wife sitting in bed, eyes all red, hair all red and her skin all green. I ain't never seen a thing like it. She starts speaking some nonsense, screaming about something and mocking me and cursin' at me and spittin' at me. I been sleeping outside with the dog since, but I go back in to check on her whenever I work up the nerve and she's always just as green and as foul-mouthed."
Geralt listened to all of this intently, taking in every bit of the farmer's story. "Your wife," he said, "how long has she been like this?"
"Weeks. Well over a month."
"Sounds like you bought a cursed bed. It took possession of your wife." Geralt said and finished his beer, setting his payment on the counter.
"Is she doomed? Can you lift the curse?" the bespectacled old man asked pleadingly.
"I might be able to, but I need to take a look at your wife first. You ride here on horseback?"
"Yessir, I did. And before we go, I know you witchers don't work for free, but I've scrounged up two-hundred and thirty-three crowns in order to pay whoever helps. I hope it's enough."
"Mm, it should be fine. Lead the way."
Upon horseback they rode, traveling south of the Inn by the Crossroads to Crookback Bog. As the old man, Eustace, had said, his farm had hardly any crops growing, just like the rest of Velen. He had a modest home, built on a strong foundation of wood, with a wooden roof and a canopied porch out front and a windmill nearby that hardly moved in the soft, dry breeze. The marsh was miles away, but the region Eustace's farm was built on resided in Crookback.
Geralt and the farmer hitched their horses in the stable and they walked through dry dirt until they reached the porch and entered the house. It was nondescript, save for the two chairs resting in the middle of the front room, likely where Eustace and his wife would sit together during the day. There was a staircase leading up to the second floor and as Geralt looked up at it, he could feel his wolf head medallion humming.
"There's definitely something wrong here," he said and gestured to the stairs as he looked at Eustace, "is your wife up there?"
The farmer nodded, "Yessir, been there since she decided to take that nap."
When the witcher started for the stairs, a dog came out of the kitchen to growl at him. It was a white mutt with dark ears and a spot on his back, his tail seemed to have been cut or bitten off. The dog lowered his drooping ears almost immediately at the sight of Geralt and made a wide circle around him before darting behind Eustace's legs.
"Bah! Stupid dog! He's a witcher here to help us."
"Don't worry about it," Geralt said with a shake of his head and started up the stairs.
Even without the hum of the medallion, Geralt could have easily guessed something on the second floor was cursed. There was an eerie fog hanging in the dark hallway and a glow beneath the door he assumed was the door to the bedroom. With little hesitation, he crossed the hall in a few strides and pushed the door open.
Inside, sitting up in a glowing green bed, was Eustace's portly wife, her originally white curly hair was now a deep red, flowing in some otherworldly wind that Geralt could not feel. Her skin, like the bed, was green, only it didn't glow and was covered in boils and a layer of slime. The eyes behind her wire-framed glasses were red and slit, much akin to Geralt's own cat-eyes, but very different all the same.
She sneered at him.
"A witcher," she said, her voice deep and echoed by whispers, "Eustace, the useless farmer brought a formidable foe into my lair."
"This isn't your lair," Geralt said, "this is the home of the woman you're possessing."
"My lair is wherever this bed rests. 'Home is where you hang your hat' as they say."
"Sure, only you've taken this innocent woman's body as your own."
"Don't act like you care about the farmer and his wife, witcher, you're here to do a job and get paid for it. But I can assure you, it won't be easy to rid of me."
Geralt was aware of that. He knew the risks involved in lifting the curse and ending the possession. Without another word to Eustace's possessed wife, the witcher left the room, ignoring her taunts and jeering.
He returned to the front room to see a hopeful Eustace, but the farmer's spirits were dampened when his wife didn't come down the steps with him.
"Don't worry," Geralt said, "I know what it is that possesses your wife and it's very dangerous. I need you to take the dog and stay outside in the stable with the horses while I lift the curse. There is a specific incantation I need to say in order to lift the curse, and I know what's possessing her isn't going to go without a fight. It'll try to distract me, to fight me, but so long as the incantation is said in full without a break in my concentration, your wife will be free."
"Sounds simple enough," Eustace said, "but why do the dog and I have to go to the stable?"
"Firstly, I'd much rather not have more distractions if you're in the house with me. Secondly, as soon as your wife is free, that's not the end of it. The wraith that's taken your wife's body will also be free and it'll be seeking a new host. Naturally, it'll try for me, but I'll be able keep it at bay and rid of it for good."
"And what about Muriel? Will she be okay?"
Geralt nodded, "She'll be weak, but with some food and water and some time to heal, she'll be as healthy as she was before the possession."
"Oh, thank you witcher! Thank you, thank you!" Eustace was grateful and he looked as if he could run over and hug Geralt, but he didn't. He went to the door and pulled it open. He started out and looked back to see the dog still sitting in the house, staring warily at the witcher. "Courage! Get your ass over here and leave the witcher to his business!"
The mutt whimpered and scurried off after Eustace, his tail bent downwards. Surely it would have been between his legs had it been long enough. Geralt smirked at the irony of the cowardly dog's name before heading back up the stairs when he was sure the farmer and his dog were safe in the stable.
He faced the possessed Muriel again, with his silver sword drawn this time.
"Back again, witcher?" she asked.
"Yes, and when I leave this time, you won't be here."
"Bold talk. I won't let you finish the incantation."
"Mmm." Geralt readied his blade, his eyes fixated on the possessed Muriel.
She floated out of bed, her fat arms and legs dangling a few feet off the bed as she glared at the witcher.
"Hullaballoo and howdy-doo!" Geralt chanted, "Musty prawns and Timbuktu!"
Muriel howled hauntingly and charged at the witcher, her long, grotesque tongue punching out at him, but he twirled away once and then again when the portly body of the farmer's wife swooped down at him.
"Yeltzy bye, hippity hoo!"
The possessed Muriel let out a sickening inward belch and swooped down at Geralt once more, vomiting a harsh gush of green slime at him, but the witcher ducked and rolled away, leaving a pool of sludge in his wake.
He came up to his feet nimbly and readied his blade again, reciting the last line of the incantation: "Kick him in the dishpan! Hoo, hoo, hoo!"
It was at first as if nothing happened, but then Muriel dropped to the wooden floor, the boils on her skin retracting, the sickening green color gave way to a pale (but normal) color. Her red hair curled again and turned white. But Geralt knew better than to relax and he kept his eyes on the farmer's wife. Green mist suddenly released from the unconscious Muriel's mouth and it formed into the solid body of a wraith with red hair and necrotic skin. It charged at Geralt and went to swerve at the last minute, seeking to escape through the open door, but the witcher's mutations made him fast and he spun, slashing his silver sword through the wraith's solid body and she howled and crumbled into nothingness.
Geralt sheathed his blade and knelt at Muriel's side. She was breathing weakly, but she would live.
"She's back? My Muriel is really back?" Eustace asked after the witcher had told him the job was done.
"Yeah, a little weary, but she'll be okay."
"What about the bed? Is it free of the curse? Is it safe?"
Geralt shook his head, "a cursed or haunted object is never safe, even after the curse or haunting is lifted. It could be the bed is just a regular bed, or you'll be due for another haunting in the future. Your safest bet would be to burn the bed and bury the ashes deep somewhere. Preferably away from your home."
Eustace nodded, "Oh, witcher, I ain't soon to forget this! I don't care I gotsta pay you for your service, I'm still grateful!" The old farmer hurried into the house and returned with a small pouch. "Two-hundred and thirty-three crowns, just like I promised. If it's a crown short, you can come back and give me a kick in the ass until I pay."
"That won't be necessary," Geralt said as he took the pouch and put it away. "Thank you for the business. I hope your wife recovers fast."
"Me and the dog'll take good care of her."
"See that you do," the witcher said and turned to go retrieve his horse, but as he went, he looked down to see the mutt staring up at him, no longer fearful. Only for a moment Geralt thought the dog looked grateful, but the mutt scurried off to the house after Eustace called to him.
Geralt entered the stable, unhitched his mare and mounted her. He gave her neck a pat before pulling her out onto the dirt road leading away from the farm, and he was soon on his way.