There was nothing special about this village. It was a small, sleepy settlement somewhere west of Attre. The year had been dry, and so the roads were dusty, people moved sluggishly, and a haze of weariness hung about the air.

In a yard of a hut at the edge of the village, two boys took turns climbing and jumping from a bare-leafed tree. One clambered up, as sure-footed as a cat, and shaded his eyes with a dusty hand. His eyes focused on something in the distance. Down below, his playmate impatiently yelled for him to jump.

"Hurry up Sammy, what you dawdlin' for?"

Sammy pointed. "There's a man! Someone's coming!" He leaped down, stumbling in his excitement, and ran toward the hut. He called through a window.

"Ma! Look ma! A stranger!"

The other boy, who was now perched up the tree, shouted down, "He's on a horse! Think it might be a postman? Or tinker?"

The woman came out, brushing her floured hands on her apron. She squinted down the road and frowned. "No, Ron. Look, he's carrying two swords. 'Tis the witcher. Go tell the men. Quickly now!"

By the time the witcher arrived, the villagers had gathered around the village center. Men spoke quietly to each other, their eyes darting quickly to and from the stranger. Children peeked curiously around the women's aprons. The women quieted the children while exchanging fearful, yet hopeful glances.

One of the men stepped forward. The village was too small for a governor or mayor – but this man was well-regarded for his honesty, fair judgment, and hard work. He had his neighbors' trust, and it was he who had sent for the witcher. "Welcome to the humble village of Caledon, witcher. I presume you're here to handle our request?"

The witcher nodded, and dismounted his horse. "Heard you got a werewolf bothering you," he said.

"You heard rightly, good sir," said the man. "My name's Owen Stewart. I got a farm and do a little blacksmithing on the side. My brother Ricky – Richard – was killed three months ago by the werewolf. And this here is my neighbor, Maria. She's our seamstress. Her husband was also- "

"I am sorry for your losses," the witcher interrupted gently. "But let me tend to my horse. Then we talk."

Owen flushed. "Oh yes, of course sir. My apologies, we do not get many travelers, the inn is right this way- "

The witcher glanced around casually as he led his horse across the village center. His strange, golden eyes only glanced briefly at each person, but Sammy got the feeling that those eyes absorbed every detail. He clutched for his mother's skirt, but then let go as he saw Ron sneer at him. As the witcher disappeared from view, the villagers visibly relaxed. Two young maidens twittered excitedly.

"Did you see that terrible scar on his face? He must've got that fighting a monster. Shame, he'd be so handsome otherwise."

"I like the scar! He looks wonderfully dangerous. And I hain't never seen hair white like that before. Oh, what I would give to run my fingers through it!"

A woman with an infant hefted on her hip grinned at her neighbor. "Best keep your pretty daughter away from the inn, she looks positively dazzled. Don't want any mutant spawn in nine months!"

"You shush about my Sally! And anyways, everyone knows those mutants can't breed. That's why they steal babies and feed 'em poisons to change 'em. Nine out of ten die in the process. You better hold on tight to your Caleb!"

The inn saw more traffic than it had in years as people found excuses in an attempt to get a closer look at the witcher. Their efforts were fruitless, for the witcher had retired to his room upstairs.

"D'you think I'll have a chance to tell him about my husband?" Maria asked Owen, her speech slurred. She already had two empty tankards in front of her. She was young, but her prettiness was diminished by tiredness and anxiety and the reek of alcohol that haunted her breath.

Owen did not reply. He nervously drummed his fingers against the table, his own tankard barely touched. After caring for his horse, the witcher and Owen had haggled. Witchers never worked for free, and this particular man drove a hard bargain. Eighty gold pieces was the price for taking care of the werewolf. Eighty gold pieces could feed and clothe the entire village for a season! Still, it was twenty less than the hundred the villagers had managed to scrape together. And the villagers did not want to lose any more neighbors.

But when he had tried to direct the witcher's attention to the events of the past few months, the witcher had politely excused himself, citing a need for rest. Owen found this disturbing. Did the witcher not care for details? Was this stranger a real witcher, a slayer of monsters? The golden eyes, double swords, wolf medallion and wicked scar seemed real enough, but Owen had never met a witcher before. How could he know that he wasn't being scammed?

The witcher had promised that the werewolf would be gone by the following morning. Owen certainly hoped so.

Far away, an elvish scholar unrolled a map of Cintra.

"Toluvienn? Please read me the coordinates again."

"Yes Mistress Seralla," her assistant said, then obediently repeated a series of numbers. Seralla's slim fingers danced over the map, then came to rest on a dot, marked by a set of runes.

Caledon, it read.

"Ah ha! This is where the portal will open. Alas, there is a human village in the way. We will have to wait for the next one, Toluvienn. No need to fret, the reverberations are becoming stronger and more frequent. It will not be long… "

The two elves bent back over their work.

As night fell, the villagers retreated to their homes, bolting their doors and sprinkling salt across thresholds. In his room, Geralt sat on a wobbly stool with a silver sword across his knees. He pulled on a worn and stained glove made of thick dragon hide. With his other hand, he uncorked a small brown bottle and allowed a few drops on the sword's surface. He carefully spread the cursed oil over the blade with his gloved hand. After a few moments, he held the blade up and examined it. Satisfied, he slipped it back in its scabbard.

Geralt removed the dragon hide glove and rewrapped it in a protective layer of more dragon hide. He stuffed it back in his traveler's pack, and then turned back to the small wooden chest resting on the floor beside him. Inside, packed tightly in compartments lined in dry grass, stood hundreds of small vials. He placed the small brown bottle among its companions, then selected two others. Geralt closed his eyes, whispered an incantation, and downed the contents of the vials, one after the other. He gestured toward the lone candle lighting up the room, and with a quick sign, extinguished the flame. The room plunged into darkness.

He sat back to wait for the potions to take effect, his mind wandering as he waited. Geralt had been a witcher for fifteen years. Fifteen years, he thought, of manticores, wyverns, foglers, chimeras, vampires, ghouls, strigas, vyppers, giant scorpions, harpies, basilisks…so many I have killed. Some said that these monsters were being hunted to extinction. But as far as Geralt was concerned, he would work as long as people were willing to pay.

He thought of returning home. Back to Kaer Morhen, the witchers' stronghold. It was a cold, unwelcome place, where hundreds of boys have lost their lives in training. Where Geralt himself had endured the painful mutations that came with witcher training. Where he had found a family, of sorts. Home. Perhaps he should pay a visit soon.

He stood and strode to the window, his actions abnormally quick. His cat-like pupils dilated. Although the potion leeched colors and everything appeared grey, he could see as clearly as though it were day - even clearer, in fact. Geralt smiled wolfishly, ready for the hunt. He gathered all his equipment into his traveler's pack, fastened it around his body, and swung himself out the window. Behind him, the room looked so untouched that the next morning, the innkeeper would wonder if the witcher had stayed there at all.

He landed lightly, then jogged to the entrance of the inn. Owen's scent was easy to pick up; the man positively stank of werewolf.

Owen's home was not far from the village center. Geralt peered through a tiny window. There was no one inside. But the witcher's hearing, sharpened by the potions, could sense someone...something...breathing nearby. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He was being watched. Where was it?

A rustle. Geralt leapt aside as a dark shadow flashed by. It had been hiding on the roof! Geralt's right hand rose, fast as lightning, above his right shoulder while his left hand jerked the belt across his chest, making the sword hilt jump into his palm. He spun around, the silver blade flashing in a luminous arc, grazing the beast. The wound, though slight, hissed as the cursed oil worked its way into the flesh. The beast howled in pain.

In their huts, people huddled together in fear, knowing the witcher was at work.

The man and the beast circled each other.

"Greetings, Owen Stewart," Geralt whispered. The werewolf hesitated, confusion in its bloodshot eyes. The witcher lunged forward. The werewolf dodged at the last moment, then backed away, whimpering, its tail between its legs. Geralt almost felt sorry for the beast. He stepped forward, sword raised.

Another sound! Behind him?! It was pure reflex that saved him. Geralt spun in a half-circle to the right, inhumanly fast, his sword whistling through the air. The silver blade sliced cleanly through the throat of a second werewolf. A fountain of blood followed, then quickly subsided as the monster fell heavily to the ground. The momentum carried the Geralt to complete the circle, just in time for his blade to knock aside the first beast, its gaping mouth a tenth of a second away from closing on the witcher.

The werewolf snarled and scrambled to its feet. It stared in pure hatred at the man who had slain its companion.

"Was that your brother?" Geralt sneered. "Quite clever of the two of you, pretending that Richard had been slain-" Confusion once again clouded the werewolf's eyes, and it shook its head as though in pain. It raised a paw and attempted to claw itself, as though fighting an internal struggle. Ah, so that's how it is, thought Geralt. He changed tactics, his voice becoming soft and gentle.

"Owen, you are a new werewolf, aren't you? Your human side still hasn't quite realized what you are. It must hurt. Being unable to control yourself, seeing the fear in your neighbors' eyes."

The werewolf whined.

"Would you like me to end it?"

The beast's bloodshot eyes suddenly looked very, very human. It laid on the ground, resigned to its fate.

As Geralt stepped forward, the ground beneath him suddenly disappeared. The werewolf bolted upright, but it slipped, its paws paddling comically. Geralt flailed in midair, but it was as though nothing around him was real. The world twisted strangely, and then his senses seemed to shut down. He couldn't see, hear, or feel anything. The only feeling he could register was cold. Penetrating cold. There was absolute nothingness.

Then suddenly he could feel again. Grass prickled the back of his neck. How had he ended up on the ground? He opened his eyes and raised his neck to look around. His view was partially obscured by a large plant. An unfamiliar courtyard, surrounded by high walls of pure white. He sniffed. Flowers, nighttime dew, and manicured lawn. Geralt sniffed again. No sign of the werewolf. Or at least he couldn't smell it.

He slowly climbed to his feet, and looked around in astonishment. A majestic white tower loomed before him.

Where the hell was he?

Please review! I am quite excited to be writing this story. Hope you enjoy!