The market square of Dillingen bustled with activity, hundreds of merchants, townsfolk and beggars all going about their daily business. Fishmongers hacked up their wares, while barkers sang of the quality of their goods. Countless deals were brokered for silks, spices and dried meats, vast sums of coin passing through just as many hands. Arguments would break out here and there, displays of power between business partners that would quickly resolve in favour of one party or the other. Through it all the Yaruga, the broad river that marked the border between Cintra and Brugge, flowed sluggishly, almost at the end of its course, its estuary and the open sea only a few leagues west.
Berva wandered through the crowd, making her way to the riverside. Under her arm, a basket brimmed with clothing, grubby from use. She approached a small knot of women waiting by the docksides, washerwomen. A quickly whispered conversation and a few coins passed between them, before the young woman turned to face the crowd.
She was young, just out of her teens. A tangled mess of greasy black hair framed her jawline, while her skin was pale, freckles adorning her small, rounded nose. She dusted down her simple brown smock, hazel eyes taking in her surroundings.
It was a rare occasion when the maiden had time to herself. The demands of her work at the Kingfisher often filled her entire day. Now, with nothing to do but wait for the washer-women to finish their work, she had a few moments. Following her whim, she strolled into the throng, curious to see what could be seen.
She clutched hold of her satchel, a small canvas bag that held her few personal possessions. The bag was embroidered with the pattern of two golden roses, entwined with one another. It was her most valued belonging, a gift from her mother, before the plague had taken her village.
She quickly banished the memory, instead focusing on the market. She walked by a stall sporting dozens of bolts of cloth in an array of vibrant colours. She browsed the wares, fingertips brushing at the exotic fabrics in wonder.
"Did you hear? Baron Veremen hired a Witchman."
Berva turned at the comments, spotting two older women, aged peasants in simple garb leaning over a stewing pot of meaty broth, talking with one another. They doled out small bowls to passers-by, small copper coins their payment as they continued to add tom the soup. Berva strayed closer as the pair continued to gossip.
"I 'eard that 'e were one o' those raiders from Skellige." One woman muttered. "'Tis said that they're half bear, half man, an' filled with a wicked thirst fer gold an' women."
"I 'eard tell 'e was responsible fer that fire that burned down Boggevrieg, up in the Pontar Valley." Her friend answered. "Th' Ealdorman refused to pay 'im for 'is services, an' so he butchered the whole village."
"Nay, nay!" The first woman dismissed. "'Twas another that done that. The Pyromaniac o' the Pontar, Vester o' Oxenfurt! This un be a different Witchman."
"Ach, what's it matter? All them freaks're the same. Monsters, inside an' out!" She spat, a gobbet of phlegm landing wetly in the mud at her feet.
"Aye, yer right there. Did ye hear about the girl that one of 'em snatched from the Duke's chambers in Rozrog? Silent as a whisper, 'e was. Took the girl with nary a whimper. By the time the Duke's men found her, the beasts had turned her into one o' them, through their dark rituals."]
"I 'eard that the Witchers drink blood 'n' eat the flesh o' children, when the fancy takes 'em." The second woman sniffed dismissively. "They're nowt but beasts that walk on two legs. A pox on the lot of 'em!"
Berva found herself transfixed by the conversation, images leaping unbidden into her head. She'd heard many a tale of the legendary monster hunters, some good, some just as dark as those the two women described. A twinge of fear plucked at her breast. If one of those infamous monster hunters was here, in Dillingen, then there must have been some frightful beast that needed dealing with. She couldn't imagine any other reason that the city's council would allow the frightful creature within the city's walls. Instinctively, the young woman clutched at her satchel, anxiety building in her mind.
"You looking for a bowl, dearie?" The old woman's voice cut through her thoughts, bringing her back to reality. She looked around to see the woman offer her a ladle of the rich-smelling concoction. Stammering an apology, Berva politely refused, turning to walk away.
And stumbled straight into what felt like a brick wall. The young girl let out a gasp of surprise as she tumbled backwards, landing on the grimy cobblestones with a thump. Disoriented, she looked up at what she had run into, hazy eyes slowly focusing to reveal a sight that made her heart leap into her throat.
A mountain of a man stood before her, his huge, muscular frame blocking out most of the sky. Easily over seven feet in height, his shoulders were broad. Thick leather covered his chest, marked and scratched from many a battle. A black gambeson could be seen under the leather chestpiece, the long garment reaching down to his knees while the sleeves covered his arms. Under that, a simple green shirt, only the slightest part of its collar visible, and a small portion of the lower hem visible under his gambeson. Heavy leather bracers adorned his wrists, the buckles of their straps glistening in the daylight. A pair of smooth steel pauldrons was strapped to his shoulders, their many plates beaten by years of use, long having lost their polished sheen to the rigours of combat. The hilts of two swords could be seen protruding over his shoulder, their grips bound tightly in leather, their pommels shiny and smooth from repeated use. Black fur, some unsuspecting woodland creature, no doubt. formed his collar, while a myriad straps criss-crossed his chest, holding various pieces of equipment in place, from hunting knives to a coin purse. Around his neck, a silver medallion with the visage of a snarling bear dangled, its eyes gleaming blue like sapphires.
The towering beast of a man looked down at Berva with yellow eyes, their slitted pupils narrow in the daylight. The fearsome stare filled her with dread, communicating an animalistic ferocity she had never seen before. His hair was shorn close to the sides of his head, while a small braid adorned his crown in the traditional Skelligan style. His beard was short, neatly maintained, in contrast to his rugged, bestial build. Tightly shut lips formed a straight line across his features, neither scowling nor smiling. he stared down at the woman, motionless for a moment. Not a sound escaped from him.
Berva felt a chilling cold grip her. It was him. The Witchman. He was every bit as terrifying as the women had said. The young maiden felt her stomach drop as she scrabbled back on the cobblestones, fingers leaving shallow troughs in the dirt of the street.
"I- I- I'm sorry!" She stammered.
The giant merely continued to stare at her, his fiery eyes blazing with inscrutable thoughts. Berva could sense nothing from them. No emotion of any kind. No humanity.
One booted foot rose, then dropped down on cobblestone with dreadful weight. Berva imagined that she could feel the powerful tread shiver through the ground, as though the street itself were afraid of the titanic monster hunter. She pushed herself back further, struggling to get her feet under herself.
"I didn't... I didn't mean to..." She couldn't look away from those amber eyes, that inhuman stare.
Panic seized her throat as the giant stepped forward again, raising a hand. His knees began to bend as he reached down towards her, hand outstretched. She felt the terror rise. This was it. He was going to snatch her away, just like the stories she'd heard as a child. Fear and urgency seized her.
"Get away from me!" She cried as she scrambled to her feet.
With all the effort she could muster, Berva turned away from that monstrous stare, darting off into the crowd with frenzied urgency. She bumped into several folks, eliciting shouts of indignation and anger, but she cared not. All she could think about was getting away from those blazing eyes.
She heard some kind of commotion behind her, some voice shouting, but she didn't stay to listen. She needed to get away, before the Witchman caught her. She bulled her way through the crowd until, finally, she emerged on the other side, darting down an alleyway to vanish from view.
The young woman didn't stop for a few streets, until at last the hubbub of the market square had finally faded behind her. Once she felt safe at last, the girl turned one last corner, then leaned against a wall, panting as she struggled to catch her breath. She leaned back, feeling the chill of the bricks against her back. After a moment or two, the girl finally relaxed. She'd escaped. The Witchman would not take her this day.
Her relief was only short-lived, however, when she turned to look to her hip, thinking to get a kerchief from her satchel to wipe some of the dirt from her clothes. Her heart stopped when she spotted the empty spot where her prized bag had once sat. Frantically, she searched the ground around her, but the bag was nowhere to be seen.
She must have dropped it when she fell, she concluded. Perhaps the strap had snapped when she hit the ground. It may even still be there. She could try to go back and-
The image of the monstrous Witcher rose unbidden in her mind, with his frightening amber stare. No. She could not go back. Not while that beast might still lurk there.
With a long, low sigh, the woman dusted herself off. There was nothing else for it, the bag was lost to her, for now. A pang of regret in her chest, Berva sagged a little, before straightening and turning to walk away.
Behind her, in the market square, curious eyes looked off in the direction she had run, then down to the dirt, where an abandoned satchel lay. The towering man knelt down, scooping up the orphaned bag, before the Witcher known as Jaeger of Undvik stood again, returning to his business.