Panting slightly in the oppressive dark, a white-haired man stood alone. He wiped his silver blade free of the sticky black blood and sheathed it next to the steel sword on his back. The witcher's Cat potion, taken earlier in anticipation of the cave's gloom, made his surroundings appear in a muted monochrome. His golden eyes to swept over the remains of the bat-like Katakan unhindered.
He knew the alderman would want some sort of proof of the monster's demise. They always did. The head. He thought grimly to himself. With it, there could be no denying the beast was dead. Geralt removed his hunting knife and set to work on the corpse, scavenging fangs, saliva, and the vampiric beast's rarer mutagens.
XxxxX
Almost finished the grisly work, he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. He continued cutting and hacking away at bone and sinew, congealing blood pooling in a black tarry mess around his knees. He coughed, the smell nearly unbearable, but he knew it was only a matter of seconds now. With a rip the head was free, the creature's impressive maw hanging ajar displaying the razor fangs within.
Rising to his feet, he turned towards the cave's mouth, but stopped when a metallic glint caught his eye. Wedged in the esophagus of the decapitated torso was a small ball no larger than Geralt's own eye. He bent over and plucked the object from the Katakan's throat. The silver wolf's head medallion vibrated softly against his chest as he rolled the line-etched bauble between his fingers. Some sort of magic?
If Geralt had still been on speaking terms with the raven-haired sorceress, Yennefer, he would have asked her for any wisdom pertaining to the small sphere he held; but as it were and always was when they grew apart, the witcher would have to rely on the knowledge of the next sorcerer or sorceress that he happened across. He sighed and pocketed the trinket in a small soft-leather pouch on his belt before walking to the exit.
XxxxX
The evening breeze greeted the witcher as he exited the cavern, lessening the cloying stench of gore that clung to him.
A short whistle summoned his horse from the nearby bushes. The bay nickered as it approached, eyeing the gruesome head Geralt carried. Using some rope from the horse's saddle bag, Geralt slung the Katakan's head across the horse's flank and attached it firmly. He gave the rope one last tug and, satisfied that the head was secure, swung up into the dark brown saddle.
XxxxX
The woods remained quiet on the way back to the village, save for the rustling leaves and occasional cricket. The wolves that would otherwise attack, shied from his approach, hesitant of the smell that wafted from both the witcher and his horse.
XxxxX
They arrived at the village's edge as the moon was nearing its zenith. The world had almost completely returned to a mixture of dark blues and greens as the last of the potion cleared his system. "Hold, Roach!" Geralt called, pulling back on the reins. The mare obeyed, content to munch the dewy grass surrounding the village.
His boots hit the dry dirt of the road and he moved to his horse's flank. After untangling the monster's head, Geralt headed towards the village's center square.
Nearby a grey tortoiseshell cat stretched and watched the witcher from atop a fence post, scampering away with the approach of his crunching footsteps. Typical of these villages, it appeared empty. Its residents were all safe and snug in their beds, blissfully unaware of the monsters that lurked beyond their wooden walls.
Smoke lazily floated from chimney stacks in the midsummer's night air, and a goose slept near a doorway with its long neck tucked under a white wing.
It wasn't hard to find the alderman's home, Geralt only had to look for the largest log-constructed building. The witcher rapped hard on the door, caring little about disturbing the stout man sleeping soundly inside.
"Ooooph… for gods' sake who is it at this ungodly hour." The voice may have been no more than a mumble but the witcher made it out well enough with his sharp hearing. Geralt knocked again, this time shaking dirt loose from the thatch-roofed dwelling. "Coming, coming." Came the voice again. The alderman finally opened the door with the foggy haze of sleep still evident on his aged features. A look a frustration turned immediately to a false smile the witcher was so often faced with. "Ah, Witcher…"
"I've solved your monster problem." Geralt interrupted, holding the door open with his free hand should the alderman try to shut it on him.
Catching a whiff of the smell that clung to Geralt, the alderman's nose wrinkled, making it harder for the man to keep up his friendly facade. "Well, yes. Do come back in the morning and…"
The witcher tossed the Katakan's head at the little man's feet. Droplets of the pungent black blood splattered along the hem of the alderman's nightgown. "I would rather we finish our business now, lest my evidence go up in smoke come sunrise."
Geralt knew that the head would last until sunrise and easily into the next - despite the superstitions of the common folk about the vampiric species. His urgency stemmed instead from his current lack of sleep and increasingly tightening stomach. He was still a good few days' ride from the next inn and, as he found, the nearby villages had been less than forthcoming with the idea of trading with the witcher. Even for a loaf of bread. Any pleasantry he possessed was quickly drying up, and Geralt had little to spare in the first place.
The witcher purposefully narrowed his pupils to amplify their unnerving cat-like appearance.
The alderman's smile quivered as he struggled internally. His means of escape from the witcher - namely slamming the door - was gone as Geralt held it firmly open. "And I-I would be assuming that you expect your payment now then?" He squeaked, his eyes darting from door to witcher.
The witcher followed the alderman's gaze to his arm on the door and smiled wickedly at the coward's transparency. "You would be assuming right."
With whatever remaining dignity the man possessed, the alderman used it to recompose himself. "Very well. I'll go fetch your payment." Geralt crossed his arms and leaned in the doorframe, watching as the man scampered deeper inside.
The alderman glanced once over his shoulder in false hope that either the witcher, or the evidence of the witcher's work, had vanished. "What ill luck." He muttered when no such thing had occurred. The man returned, having retrieved a large sack from a locked chest at the end of an exceptionally large bed, and reluctantly held it out to the witcher. "Here you are. Eighty Novigrad crowns."
The witcher raised an eyebrow. "The contract was for a hundred twenty."
"Yes, well. I said you would have what we could give you. Had you killed the monster the first night, you would have gotten your hundred and twenty crowns. But as it stands we could only spare eighty. Had to buy replacement cattle you see."
"I see." The corner of the witcher's lip twitched as he took the bag of coins. Geralt straightened and moved away from the door.
The alderman stopped him from leaving completely. "Ah. Witcher, ser." He said, wringing his hands and eyeing the head with mild disgust. "You may however take your hard-won prize and see if it couldn't fetch a price elsewhere. I hear sorcerers are always looking for… interesting specimens."
"How generous," Geralt responded dryly, retrieving the Katakan head from the expanding sticky puddle in the entranceway.
He heard the door slam behind him as he made his way back to the awaiting Roach.
Geralt tossed the head into the nearby ditch, where it bounced twice before stopping against a rock. While the sun would do little to it, the local carrion birds were not picky eaters. Geralt divided the disappointing sack of coins between his person and the saddle bags.
With an ease learned from constant repetition, the witcher swung a leg over his horse's back and settled his feet in the stirrups. Clicking his tongue, Geralt spurred Roach forwards. Hopefully, the weather would hold long enough to quickly reduce the distance between here and the nearest meal and, more desperately, a warm bath.
XxxxX
It was late morning when the first storm clouds loomed overhead, and by late afternoon it was pouring. A dilapidated shack by the wayside proved an adequate rest stop for the weary pair.
Roach shook the water from her coat while Geralt peeled back his wet leather armor and gloves, leaving on his knee-high boots and dark pants. He piled debatably dry wreckage from his surroundings, and lit it with a complex finger sign of Igni. The wood sputtered and hissed as the enchanted flame tried to find purchase. Eventually, with a bit of coaxing, the fire roared to a self-sustaining height. The witcher leaned back to enjoy the sudden warmth upon his bare chest - bare, save for the multitude of old scars and the wolf medallion that rested on it. He lay his swords down on the dirt encrusted floor, still within his reach should the need arise.
The storm raging outside the leaky shelter would remain for a few more hours and despite his enhanced stamina, exhaustion was starting to take its toll. He stretched and closed his eyes and within seconds found himself in a light sleep.
It didn't last long.
His eyes snapped open immediately in response to his medallion shaking. Geralt's arm moved to the hilt of the silver sword at his side as his piercing eyes scanned his surroundings. Nothing stirred, save for his horse pawing at the ground, impatiently waiting for the rain to stop. He strained his ears trying to listen for anything unusual past the soft patter of rain. Anything. A rustle of leaves from the nearby brush or the snap of a breaking branch. Anything. But he waited, and waited. With muscles tense as coiled springs he continued to hear … nothing. He loosened his iron grip around his sword, but remained upright, unsure of what to make of his still-vibrating medallion.
It was as the witcher started settling down again that he saw it. The metallic ball he had found earlier - which now appeared golden without the influence of the witcher's potion affecting his vision. It had somehow fallen out of the bag where he had kept it.
His medallion pulled harder on his neck as he reached out for the sphere. The ball rolled away from his fingers and into the pouring rain outside. Geralt tentatively chased after the ball, silver sword in hand.
XxxxX
The rain slicked his hair to his pale face as his boots squished through the mud. He squinted against the unrelenting downpour looking for signs of the golden sphere.
A sudden lurch of his medallion was the only warning he had before it whizzed by his head.
The orb landed in the muck behind him. Long spindly legs unwrapped and held a slightly smaller sphere above the mud like a golden spider. It scuttled towards him in quick unpredictable zigzags.
As it jumped for him again, he moved his fingers to form Aard and caught the ball in a quick blast of magic that repelled it back into the sludge. The mechanical device was not dissuaded and continued its assault.
Geralt caught its next leap with the edge of his rune-lined sword, severing one of its eight limbs. The leg nicked his cheek on its way to the ground, causing a bead of red to form. He tsked at his own carelessness. The witcher thrust the blade's tip towards the spider, but it managed to skitter out of the way of his strike.
A growl snuck its way out of Geralt's lips, a result of his tired frustration bubbling to the surface. The ball pounced at him, undeterred by Geralt's utterance.
He cast Aard again as it hurtled towards him, but this time the sign had no effect. A grimace slipped onto his face as Geralt twisted his body away from the golden projectile. Its arms clawing the air as it passed, drew blood as it grazed the surface of his chest with razor-tipped appendages.
The slick mud made footing difficult as he charged the ball. He swiped at it with his sword, missing by a hair's breadth. He pirouetted and struck again. This time catching it against the flat of the blade. The blow launched it into the brush, startling the nearby Roach who whinnied in reproach.
The distance gave Geralt enough time to cast Yrden on the ground in front of him, with no way of knowing if the trapping sign would have any effect on the mechanical creature.
The witcher allowed himself a moment to breath as he waited for the golden spider to re-emerge from the undergrowth. White mist billowed from his nostrils as he breathed in and out in slow controlled breaths. Rain slapped the nearby roof, and stirred growing puddles. Even Roach had grown quiet in apprehension.
Leaves rustled and Geralt edged himself backwards. With luck he could lure the orb onto the trap. It erupted from the brush seemingly unhindered by the muck. Geralt readied himself for its inevitable leap. On queue, the mechanical creature jumped for him, but its attack was short-lived. It spasmed midair as it soared over the Yrden trap and fell to the ground in a twitching heap.
In seconds, the witcher was over the ball. He held his silver sword with two hands and brought the blade down over the prone device.
In the last possible instant, the spider tucked in its legs and rolled to the side of the oncoming strike. It unfurled again as the blade cut into the ground and wrapped its legs around the sword as Geralt was raising the silver to attempt another strike. Geralt flicked his wrist, hoping to dislodge the unwanted hitchhiker. The ball wobbled but held on, letting go only to jump at him again. He saw it coming at him and barely managed to cast the shield sign, Quen. The orange translucent barrier shattered as the gold orb came into contact with it, holding just long enough for Geralt to twist his throat away from the ball's attack.
Instead, it latched greedily onto his right shoulder. Its seven remaining limbs clamping down hard and digging deep grooves into his flesh, drawing a roar of pain from the witcher. Instinctively, Geralt reached for it with his left hand and, in a mess of blood and gore, he tore the device from his shoulder. It wriggled and squirmed in his grip, clawing at his hand for freedom. He winced as each stroke of its slender legs sliced through weathered skin.
Still holding onto the flailing ball, the witcher dropped to his knees. With the silver sword in his right hand, he held it over his left, gritting his teeth at what was to come next. Downwards the blade plunged, cutting first into skin, then muscle, and finally stilling the mechanical menace below. A bolt of energy lanced up his arm, spasming his muscles and further wrecking his hand against the sword that impaled it. He grunted, biting down the urge to scream.
Geralt was spent and he knew it. Blood flowed freely down his right side, and his hand would be useless until it healed, that is, if it healed. He gingerly removed the sword, but would not cast the precious blade aside despite how heavy it currently felt. Cradling his injured hand close to his side, he stumbled his way back to the shelter.
He barely managed to cast Axii to calm Roach before the horse panicked at the smell and sight of his blood. He was losing consciousness faster than he predicted, and nearly collapsed trying to dig the glass vial containing Swallow from Roach's saddle bag. After removing the vial's cork with his teeth, Geralt drank down the red liquid. The witcher could feel its effects almost immediately but was alarmed when he didn't start healing as fast as he needed to for a wound of this severity. Was there some sort of magical residue hindering his healing? He didn't have the luxury of pondering. His vision was fading along the edges and it would be mere moments before he passed out. He grabbed his still rain-wet shirt and tore strips off of it. A few he wrapped around his injured hand, the rest he bundled and pressed against the injury on his shoulder. Geralt felt consciousness slipping from him, and he used the nearby wall to ease his slide to the floor before he fell to it instead. His sight was narrowing and the world was turning hazy. Before he went under completely, Geralt had but one thought: Ciri.