C1-Sun Shaped Scars
I'm trying something new here, I will attempt to explain as it goes along I cannot guarantee regular updates or a timeline. I'm not sure of where I want to take this as I am reluctant to follow the exact story of W3-WH but I do have a rough story for the primary character. Hope you enjoy.
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Thunder rolled across the treetops, wind howling through the trunks and leaves causing branches to crack and fall randomly. The rain pissed down forming small puddles at first but quickly these swelled into large pools inches in depth only getting deeper as the mud and crap in the road between the houses became saturated. The thatching on the roofs of the huts glistened with the reflective water coating, men rushed below their settlement ensuring all was battened down before retreating inside to avoid the savage storm gripping province. Water from the roads drained rapidly into the crags and ditches of the land causing streams to form between buildings leading all the way to the river not too far outside the village, through thick mudded track.
The light of the candles dances through the rain appearing to give life to what had quickly become a ghost town, in the wake of the deluge. Only the tavern appeared to contain any sign of life even if it was the rats. Groups of men sat along the dark wood benches each man clutching a tankard of mead, ale or spirit, whatever took their fancy. The large room which was the main focus of the tavern with a circular bar in the centre and a lit fire pit on the northern wall, all the benches were in a fan pattern around the bar with those on the north edge arranged against the fire pit.
All in the tavern were essentially silent; the harvest had not been a good one. Rain had cause rot in most of the crops all in the tavern knew it would be a hard winter without the grain to feed their families. No one dared break the uneasy tone of the lyre being played by one of the chamber maids in the corner of the large beer house, she was hardly rushed off her feet with no money there was little trade. Due to the weak harvest many of the townsmen had gone to seek their fortune in the service of Redainia or Nilfgaard, both in need of men to slaughter.
One figure in the room stood out most, their dirty damp dark green cloaked ran over their head down the shoulders sitting on the bench either side of them, only visible was their hands clutching the same horn and metal tankard as every other stiff in the tavern. Their grip on the tankard was tight, knuckles were white fingertips red with the iron grip they had on the vessel, the back of their hands had a series of old scars running along their length and breadth, between the fingers was cracked and red. What work could be found in the village was tough backbreaking everyone chipped in man, woman, old and sick, they would starve otherwise. The figures cloak was darkened by the damp from the outside they hadn't been sat long.
The water still ran from their boots, they were leather, sturdy, hobnailed in the base, expensive? How could a farm hand afford such a thing? Scuffs and a slice ran down the side of the left boot like it had been struck by a sharpened sickle or scythe, maybe? Stripes ran down the length of the trousers they had ties at the waist with a simple rope it had started to wear through rubbing raw against their flesh. The trousers were tattered from the work in the field, muddied knees with brush marks on thighs and back where dirties hands had been rubbed clean. The fabric covering their upper torso was soaked through ripped partially down the front where they had attempted to cut ventilation for the hard field work, even in the wet it can be hot and horrid work. The shirt had been rolled up to just below the elbow, it still resembled some of the white cotton look it once had but it had been dirtied by days or possibly weeks in the field.
After some time drying by the fire the figure gently pulled their cloak from their shoulders placing it down on the table in front of themselves, their long greasy pony tail hung behind their head almost to their broad shoulders, a blue grey pattern was peeking over the top of their shirt running up the neck it looked like a strange form of writing. Runic? A silver chain hung around their neck with something hung onto it but it was just out of view down their shirt. Their lips were deeply cracked and flaked with the centre of the bottom lip being split from inside the mouth to be very edge of the lip. From the left corner of their mouth a deep scar ran all the way over the top of the left ear running behind the head, the top portion of left ear was missing in line with the scar suggesting it was caused by the same slash. Their left eye was a deep brown colour with a highly constricted circular pupil; a shallow faded scar ran up towards their hairline where it became invisible amongst the thick brown hair. Their nose was broken and off centre like they had been struck across the face with a blunt object, the right nostril was cut through from the outside. It followed from a vast scar running around their right cheek over the right eye in what looked like the Great Sun of Nilfgaard yet they did not carry any marks of Nilfgaard no black ribbons or seals, just the scar on the cheek. The huge scar ran from their bottom jaw to their hairline at the top and across from their nose to the tragus of the right ear. Whatever had placed the scar on their face had destroyed the right eye, there was no ball in the socket just a black hole in their face with the saggy wrinkled scar tissue burned over the lids. A small array of stubble had begun to sprout across their strong jawline they had shaved regularly despite it being rough around the scars.
They were male from the features with the strong jawline, broad shoulders and muscular frame, a human male, nothing special despite the scars, why was the room drawn to him?
He slowly sipped the tankard empty placing it back down carefully as if he did not want to damage the old stained oak on the table. A barmaid came across seeing he had finished scooping up the tankard in one swoop like a harpy attacking a lonely wanderer.
"Another love?" She asked the man turning away expecting the same answer of no she'd been getting all night.
"Aye, I'll take one," The man nodded staring into the fire which roared in the centre of the tavern. His accent was strange both familiar to the barmaid yet also foreign, she could not place it.
"I'll be right back." She scuttled back behind the bar where a large man draped in bearskins with his arms crossed glaring at the scarred man, his right hand folded under the other clutching the hilt of a dagger. The large man whispered something to the barmaid and nodded for her to return to the scarred man, without the tankard. "Me' master wants you to leave…" She shook looking down at her feet and not the scarred man.
"Why should I leave?" The scarred man piped up aiming at the large man yet still fixated on the fire.
The large man puffed his chest out taking in a large breath, "B'cause I don't want your like in 'ere, you're the scum of the earth, the rat shit I find under the floor boards." He bellowed breaking the flow of the lyre playing barmaid.
The scarred man simply turned to the large man looking him directly in the eye, cradling something in his lap, "I don't know what ya' mean, pal." He paused for a second before continuing, still gripping an object in his lap, "I have the coin so bring me another drink…. Please." The scarred man placed a small coin purse on the table making sure several coins fell out.
The large man exhaled slowly, unfolding his arms his filled a tankard with a golden liquid, it frothed against the dry tankard pouring down the sides of the tankard. Walking slowly towards the scarred man he slammed the tankard down spilling much of the liquid across the table eventually being soaked up by the scarred man's cloak. "There. Now I'll take this." The large man declared proudly as he snatched the coin purse leaving only the loose coins on the table. The scarred man just shook his head and began to partake in what was left of his drink.
Several sips later the man took his cloak by the sleeve and reached inside. He jumbled around for a few seconds before pulling out two small vials one contained a clear liquid the other a black thick gel like liquid. The scarred man uncorked both of the vials and drank them in series, shaking his head after each, the liquids burnt the inside of his throat causing his throat to go dry instantly but nothing a slog of the mead couldn't solve. The large man scuffed at the sight of the empty vials taking one in his paw like hand examining it closely the residue of the black liquid.
"You might want to put that back down," The scarred man told the larger sternly.
The large man's eyes remained firmly stuck on the vial; a small droplet was still present on the lip of the vial. The large man dabbed his index fingertip into the liquid, it collected just under his nail dying the skin black as it caressed every divot and crevice. The potent smell of burning skin filled the large man's nostrils shortly before he let out an almighty yell; his finger slowly started becoming blacker and blacker before he pulled the tankard from the scarred man's hands tipping what little liquid was left at the base over his finger.
The large man continued to bend over in pain, the barmaid ducked behind the counter whilst the scarred man just watched on, silently. Once the large man had reached the floor, the scarred man stood up wrapping his cloak over his shoulders, "I did warn ye'." He stated boldly before tucking an object beneath his cloak and heading for the door.
Unbeknown to him until now other patrons of the tavern had stood up looking at the fray that they had been so unfortunate to be caught up in. The large man continued to squirm on the floor letting out a cry every few seconds as the liquid burnt further into the large man's flesh by now possibly burning into the bone by now.
The scarred man continued pacing towards the exit, his boots thudded against the hardwood floor with every pace, he walked in an almost club footed manner like he was injured but there was no other sign of this injury, no blood or bandage. His left foot dragged with every few steps, he was taking his time in heading for the exit knowing all in the room knew he was on top like a cat teasing the mouse. He came to within ten feet of the door before the large man let out another bellowing scream.
Outside footsteps could be heard running away from the tavern before the thundering of hooves, freshly shoed hooves slopped in the mud outside. Three white horses were pulled to a halt outside the tavern, their backs covered by a thick black woollen matt bearing a gold Great Sun decorated to the edge with a gold trim. The front and rear corners had golden tassels dangling slightly muddied by the swampland that the riders had passed through. The horses' heads were encased in a black leather case with two horn like plates passed down past the bit, which all the horses clutched tightly between their teeth, continuing the black reins running up to the three riders.
All three were clad in black knee high greaves with checker hose peering over, a black tunic was situated under a large convex breast plate the same Great Sun was protruding from under the shoulder plates on all three men, all three had water running down the outside of the plate the rain had slowed slightly as twilight beckoned yet it still had the power to make their tunics sodden. The one who rode in the centre of them had a winged black helmet, where the others had a plain black studded rimmed leather helmet. Pitching their horses just outside the tavern they dismounted in unison; they had been alerted to a disturbance in the town by a passing merchant, once their feet touched the floor they scanned the area hoping to catch whatever the merchant had been on about.
After a few seconds of waiting listening for the slightest of sounds, they heard nothing; Winged Helmet nodded and spoke a strange tongue. Evidently they were given an order as they began to fan out in an attempt to search the nearby buildings but as they moved slowly and deliberately they couldn't help their armour clanging loudly particularly the shoulders against the breast plate. Yet merely a couple of steps later a loud cry emanated from the tavern causing the soldiers to draw their weapons and edge slowly towards the entrance of the tavern. The water now ran down their arms onto the grip of their swords making them slippery, the water interfered with the wax of the grip creating a coating which made it difficult to hold in a correct manner.
The three riders slowly approached the door as there were no windows either side they could not be sure what caused the shouting. There was a patch of wood outside the door with a drain underneath in which water had collected and now pouring onto the road above just creating a slippery surface on which it was hard to stand. They collected on the drain none the less nodding in synchronisation before barging through into the room.
Upon entry into the tavern they spotted the scarred man standing off kilter a few feet from the door and the heap of the large man covered in his bearskins. Winged helmet took the forward step, "Wat is er gebeurd?" He demanded, their voice possessed lilt it fell and rose in pitch like he was reading poetry.
The large man piped up briefly pointing and bellowing, "Him, a haela!"
The scarred man attempted to cover his face from the soldiers, their shoulder plates gleamed in the dancing light from the fire. The central soldier quickly realised his free hand towards the scarred man whose face was nearly completely covered, "visse voe'rle!" He declared loudly. The scarred man attempted to move towards the door but he was met with a long silver blade, its bevel only a few inches from his throat, he could read the writing leading down the fuller towards the cross guard.
He raised his hands just above his shoulders, the soldier on the left of winged helmet moved closer to the scarred man, whilst winged helmet kept his sword pointed at him. The soldier reached for the cloak around the man's face but before his face being revealed the scarred man grabbed the soldier's hand pulling him in close whilst simultaneously ripping a short axe from his trousers clutching it tightly in his right hand. The axe had a similar light scattering effect to the soldiers' shoulders only it was mottled steel etched in an elaborate random pattern, its shaft was covered in a crossed leather straps with a strange carving down to the knob which was capped in a copper with a purple stone held embedded within.
"In de naam van ceas'raet, laat gaan!" Winged helmet demanded thrusting his sword between the axe and his soldier. "Drop him, in the name of Ker'zaer Emyhr var Emreis. Emperor of Nilfgaard!" He continued in a slow broken accent, clearly not well versed in the language native to Velen, attempting to diffuse the situation.
The scarred man lowered his axe slowly keeping his eye fixed on Winged Helmet, still holding the soldier hostage. Winged Helmet swiftly and forcefully knocked the sword from his soldier's hand, it crashed to the floor, the blade rung out as it bounced back with a violent vibration, and he then proceeded to lower his own sword. The third soldier lowered his sword at the same time.
After the sword had stopped vibrating the room was engulfed in an eerie silence, the scarred man and Winged Helmet were still locked in a seemingly endless staring contest; even the large man was silent on the floor not wanting to attract attention to his self. It was seemingly endless until with a sudden and frantic jerk the hostage soldier threw his head backwards into the scarred man's face, the polished black studded helmet crashed into the skull of the scarred man forcing his nose to one side, under his cloak the cartilage cracked loudly under the sudden pressure. The scarred man jolted backwards dropping the soldier in the process, looking back up the scarred man's cloak had already become saturated with blood. His vision blurred stopping him from focusing on any of the individual soldiers the began to crawl around the man, there were three just seconds before but now appeared to number in the tens they span in an unworldly way seeming to leave the ground before swirling back under the floor boards.
The scarred man staggered around holding his nose attempting to keep it in place, it had clearly been broken by the helmet of the hostage, it had also taken a great affect on the man's left eye every second that past it became more and more difficult to see from it. Moving his left hind slightly to cover his eye he smeared the blood across his face like he was applying war paint. With his right hand he gripped the handle of his axe the leather wrapping dug into his hand, the blade of the axe pointed towards the floor its bevel reflected the light onto his boots simply exposing their many flaws.
His vision slowly began to clear his focus shifted to one of the soldiers who had moved to his right side, they swiftly swiped at his axe wielding hand. The scarred man quick as a whip barged forwards, keeping his eye covered, smashing his left shoulder into the Winged Helmet soldier who stood before him knocking him backwards. With the same movement he dug the crook of his axe into the neck of the soldier who made the grab attempt pulling him off balance with a single movement delivering a kick behind his calf sending the soldier cascading to the floor with an apocalyptic crash flying though one of the hard-oak tables which lined the tavern, the wood splitters coated the scarred man's clothes and the surrounding several feet of tavern. The soldier on the scarred man's left jumped clear of his tumbling comrade, seeing the scarred man's axe, he went for his sword however he hesitated when the scarred man glared at him.
The Winged Helmet regained his balance behind the scarred man drawing his sword, but he was badly winded by the tackle from the scarred man. He paused for a second drawing in the deepest breath he could before launching his attack. A slash. His highly decorated sword looked like it belonged at the palace gates in Vizima or Nilfgaard than pulling guard duty in the armpit of the northern kingdoms. The sword tore into the cloak around the scarred man's head, it cascaded down over the scarred man's shoulders exposing his face to the nilfgaardians for the first time.
Winged Helmet paused refraining from a second final strike looking deeply into the large faded sun shaped scar on the man's face. "Your one of ours?" He asked keeping his sword raised to the scarred man's neck.
"I've never been one of yours!" The scarred man shouted tensing all his core muscles and moving his feet in an almost dance like manner, swinging his axe in the same motion ducking under the blade of the sword he used the blunt side of his axe to strike the side of the winged helmet. The connecting of axe and helmet sent the man crashing down a noise that would normally be reserved for steel being struck to an anvil. The force of the blow also knocked the scarred man off balance stumbling several paces before regaining his footing, the rush of blood to his upper body caused him to feel exceptionally faint he couldn't see the third soldier. Had he fled?
Suddenly the scarred man felt a sharp pain in the left side of the back of his head letting out a blood curdling scream the man dropped to the floor, his left palm still covered his right eye but as his head hit the floor it jolted his eye backwards leaving him with more pain. Stood behind the man was the third soldier who had sent his pommel with intent into the scarred man's head. Whilst lying on the floor the scarred man felt his hands being forced behind his back, he faced Winged Helmet on the floor who was still out cold, one of the wings had been knocked clear of the side of his helmet, it couldn't be seen in the tavern. The blood from his nose had slowed slightly but it had begun to saturate his pony tail which now dripped into the puddle forming around his face.
The scarred man was barely conscious his concoction that he had consumed earlier was wearing off, it always felt this way he felt faint always, the surge of tainted blood started he could feel it, his eyes hurt the most as they were the most dramatic. He could hear the soldiers talking once again but Winged Helmet was still out cold on the floor, their language nilfgaardian was melodic in tone like they spoke in constant verse. He hated the language, but it was unfortunately his forced mother tongue. 'Bollocks' he thought, 'it's coming back'. He knew he would ned a shot soon or else, he remembered having one stored in his boot maybe he could take it when the soldiers scooped him up.
When he felt the soldier take his weight the pain surged through him his heart rate shot through the roof like a bolt from a crossbow, he could feel his consciousness waning once again he could barely keep his head up. After he had been placed over a saddle he could see that Winged Helmet was up on a horse behind one of the soldiers, he was still out cold. After a few minutes of the soldiers checking the horses and reassuring the tavern owner that he would be reimbursed for the damage.
Before they set of a new voice appeared he could hear the raspy gruff broad accent it was typically Velanish, it struck a cord deep inside him. He attempted to raise his head, but it felt like his hair was tied down with lead. He saw the man who had arrive his long white hair and scar running across his left eye more striking were those eyes like a cat but twisted they were yellow in colour with the slit in the middle. It was at his moment gazing at his eyes that the scarred man knew who he was looking at, he dropped his head hoping not to be notice, this was difficult bearing his current situation.
There was a flurry of yelling before a glow of bright purple flashed, the scarred man knew what had happened but before he could think he face was plunged into the thick bog that had be created by the heavy rain. He hoped he would just be left there just a drunk not wanting to be seen. This was not the case.
He felt his arms become unbound, with the rain-soaked rope his wrists had become red raw, it stung like hell but nothing like the pain that was continuing to rise within him from the re-emergence of his taint. His head was forcefully lifted from the mud.
"Ivar the Red, what are doing back in Velen?" The white-haired man asked the scarred man.
"Fuck off Geralt!" was the simple response. Geralt let the scarred man's head go allowing him to adopt a foetal position on his knees, he tried to catch his breath remembering that he had the vial still in his boot. Reaching down his left boot he felt the hard glass vial and gently removed it.
After slurping down the black liquid he held the vial tightly in his hand, he could feel his blood cooling down and the pain slowly subsided. Clearing his face, the scarred man found his feet still shaky from the ordeal of the concoction almost wearing off.
"Again, why are you here?" Geralt barked at the scarred man, who was glazing over from the euphoria. "IVAR!" Geralt snatched the empty vial from the scarred man's hand, sniffing the rim and rubbing some fo the black liquid between his gloved fingers in the same way as the large tavern oven however this time the liquid was quickly washed away by the pouring rain. "Aconitum, hyoscyamus, white lead and…" taking another sniff, more deeply this time.
"Erythroxylon with a splash of silver nitrate." The scarred man continued the sentence breathing heavily before smoothly brushing the mud from his face and shirt before facing Geralt.
"Where did you get this?" Geralt asked.
"Why ask when you already know?" The scarred man evidentially named Ivar asked, "Why would anyone come to this armpit of Velen if not for Keira?"
"I might be here for the mud baths, its good for the skin." Geralt paused observing the scars riddling Ivar's face and neck, "You look like shit. What happened to you?"
"Would it be too cliché to just tell you long story and you fuck off?"
"No chance." The white-haired cat-eyed man shot back, "Take me to Keira and I'll reconsider the questioning."
Grumbling to himself in what sounded like a mad circle Ivar threw his tattered cloak over his shoulders and head, "Fine." Ivar began pressing towards a track that led out of the village. The start of the soaked track was marked by a decrepit looking omen, it was a large stake stained with blood like a goat had been sacrificed against it. This was bad enough, but it appeared the goat's skull had been mounted on top with its flesh left to rot off with its teeth and hooves had been tied and draped down the pole. It must have once been an offering to a good harvest or the survival of the livestock but now it just left a symbol of death made worse by the pissing rain running through the skull atop the pole.
Geralt frowned at the idol as he rode past astride his huge dark coloured hunter horse whilst Ivar walked the track plodding deep into the pine trees following a faded track.
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Let me know what you think. Thanks.