Chapter 1

The backwater tavern was scented with the aroma of stale beer, wood smoke and smoking herbs as various shades of patrons sat in their chairs and either drank away the pains of the day, or chatted in hushed tones about the monsters in their midst. Calling it a tavern was a technicality, as really the run down old place was little more than a shack with a couple of oil lanterns for light and a sputtering fire pit in the center of the room. A few tables and chairs, a single maid who ran the place and a cook qualified it as a tavern. The barkeep, a young half-elven woman, wiped a glass and rolled her eyes as another discussion broke out over the old lady that had moved into the village about a month ago.

"I'm telling you, I seen glowing eyes in her windows at night! She's hiding something. Bringing no good spirits and other types into our midst." Said one, an elderly man with a nasty scar running the length of his face.

"Aye, I saw her with a black cat too! You know those legends, black cats follow in the tracks of demons what say!" this time a stout dwarven fellow with his braided beard drenched in his fourth pint of ale spoke, then belched loudly.

"What about you, elf lass?" asked the first man to the barkeep, gesturing to her for another round. "Surely you've heard talk of this conjuror?"

Elyda Hemdyth pulled another pint for the men, and tossed auburn curls over her shoulder and smiled.

"The old one keeps to herself ya pack of ornery old coots. Let her alone I says. No use chasing tales of spirits. Besides, the real news is that a witcher is in town." She said, and every ear in the room turned to her, whilst voices went silent.

"A witcher ya says? Here? Well, doesn't that prove it then? Surely they've been sent to destroy this evil?" asked a nervous patron, his hand already beginning to tremble as he held his pint.

The she-elf shrugged. "Aye, that's a good point. But he ain't been to her house. Not what I seen. I did notice him spending a lot of time on the edge of town. Like a tracker or something. Why just the other day, I seen the old woman ya'll are fussing over going to the market. She passed right by the witcher and he didn't twitch, not even a second glance. But he was very interested in the herbalists shanty he was."

The patrons all glanced around at each other, each inventing a new story in their imaginations over what the old woman down the road must surely be doing in her house.

"What if she brings ghouls here? Or harvests our dead from the boneyard for her twisted experiments?" asked the town gravedigger, his hand resting on the handle of his shovel that'd clearly been used that day.

"Or worse." Said another in barely a whisper. "What if…"

"What if nothing." The elven woman interrupted. "Did ya not hear me? The witcher paid her no attention at all. He's here for something, but it ain't her. Why, what if it's you Gleb? I fancy you could be hiding faeries in that braided beard of yours!"

With that the crowd laughed and the air of fear was broken. The patrons all called for another round, and were grateful to stop talking about spirits, ghouls, old ladies and witchers.

However, down the street, in the finest home that village could boast of, was quite a different conversation altogether. And it did involve the witcher but no ghouls, spirits or faeries. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, graciously accepted a pint of home-brewed henbane beer and nodded thanks to his host and employer. A lithe elven man with hair so blonde it was almost as white as the Witchers' own, sat across from the renowned hunter and sipped wine from a crystal glass. His robes were the color of starlight and pale blue, lined with arcane symbols on the flowing, elegant sleeves and hem. He turned his golden eyes to the Witcher and Geralt knew it was time to get down to business.

"So tell me about the mark." Geralt said, getting straight to the point.

"Your target is a werewolf." Said the elf calmly.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. Werewolves were known to him of course, he'd hunted many. But usually werewolves left a swath of death, blood and gore in their wake. He'd not seen nor heard anything, no news of such a beast on his travels to meet his employer. And he'd stayed in several taverns along the trail.

"I see you are doubtful." The elf remarked, rightly ascertaining the Witcher's very thoughts. "But I know she's here. I've seen her."

"What are her crimes?" Geralt asked, taking a swig of the beer. It was good, he noted. And remembered his employer was of the aen aeidhe, with centuries to have learned the fine art of alcohol crafting and herbal infusions.

"Does that matter?" the elf asked, pouring more wine from a carafe. "You're not a lawman; you're a hunter of monsters are you not?"

Geralt bristled slightly at the jab. While he preferred to think of himself as administering justice when dispatching monsters, he was reminded in that moment that no, his kind, witchers, were created ages ago simply to hunt the dreads that other beings could not or would not.

"Point taken." The White Wolf grumbled, rubbing the salt and pepper stubble from not having shaved in a week. "Fine. So what is it you want?"

The elven man raised the crystal goblet to his nose and scented the fine honey wine within. It had taken him two hundred years to perfect the mead infused with belladonna. He sipped and when he turned his gaze back to the Witcher, Geralt noticed the elven man's pupils had gotten enormous, the black almost filling the entire eye with a golden ring around the edge. An effect of the belladonna. It made the elven mage look at once frightening and yet, strangely, extremely attractive.

"I want her taken alive and brought back to me." Whispered the mage, gently setting his glass on the carved oak table.

Geralt remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"I have some powerful sedatives for you to use in order to make this as risk free as possible." Spoke the elf, and he slid onto the table a small bundle wrapped in supple leather. "It's taken me weeks to perfect the fletchings on these darts, and several more to get the dosage just right. You'll need to hit her with all three of these in order for it to properly dope the creature enough to bring back here. She'll sleep for at least three full days. I'm assuming that is enough time?"

The White Wolf was somewhat taken by surprise but masked it. A job was a job. But he did have questions.

"Why all the fuss over the darts? These are finely crafted pieces, not what you would expect for hunting monsters when a blow to the head would do just fine." Geralt said, holding up one of the darts and examining it.

The delicate projectile was indeed a wonder of artisanship. Made of pure silver and etched with arcane runes along the shaft, it must have indeed been intense work, not including the weeks of preparation for the poison coating their tips.

The elf was grossly offended by the Witchers' casual reference to violence. But he calmed himself and smiled.

"Let me make this very clear. I do not want her harmed. Not one bruise, not one wound, save the entry marks of the darts. Not one single hair is to be harmed or you will not be fully paid. Are we clear?" he said, his near black eyes boring into the Witcher's.

Geralt set his pint down on the table and leaned forward, returning the intense stare.

"This is a very strange request, elf. And while money is money, I'm a witcher, not a kidnapper. I beat up monsters, and I cut their heads off for whoever pays me. Tell me why in the name of anything would you call on someone like me for this kind of bloodless work?" Geralt said, his voice deep and gravelly with age, with not a little bit of annoyance.

The elf rose and walked across the room, his movements so quiet that he made hardly a sound, like wind passing over pines. Only the train of his robe made the slightest rustle as the fabric trailed behind him. Geralt leaned back and watched the sorcerer.

Falithe aen Caem, eldest of the Aen Seidhe in that region, stood at the window overlooking the garden as the light of the waxing moon shone through the windowpane, making his pale features shimmer. The summer breeze blew through the opening, bringing with it the scent of hawthorn, honeysuckle, jasmine and his beloved belladonna, and tossed his long, blonde hair about his shoulders. Inhaling, he lowered his head and turned slowly to face the Witcher, whose hand had lazily drifted to the medallion around his neck, watching for any sign that the elf was casting a spell.

"Forgive me. I am not accustomed to being questioned. I understand you are hesitant to take on this task, and I am aware of the regular customs of your profession. However, I believe I can make this amply rewarding enough for you to make an exception." Falithe said, returning to the table.

The elf brought forth a small bag made of soft leather and passed it to Geralt, who took it in his gloved hand. Upon opening the cinctured top, the White Wolf gasped, for inside was a small mound of the purest cut diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires.

"From the dwarven mountain stronghold itself, Geralt of Rivia. And that is half your payment, given upfront, as an assurance of my goodwill and a reminder of how dear this job is to me. Upon delivery of the creature, in the manner I specified, you will receive an additional bag that is a match to the one you are holding and your choice of a steed from my own stable. A purebred horse of elven lineage, White Wolf. Dare you refuse me?" spoke the elf, his golden-rimmed black eyes piercing the Witcher even as his voice never was more than a whisper.

Of course, Geralt could not refuse. That kind of money would feed and shelter him for months. And an elven steed, legendary for their speed and endurance, how could he refuse? The Witcher nodded his ascent and slipped the leather bundle with the precious drugged darts into his travelling bag. The elf smiled, sipped his mead and Geralt felt a shiver run up his spine looking into those golden eyes.