The Witcher stood in front of a Temerian quartermaster. The quartermaster was no spring chicken, although he did have a full head of hair. His eyes were a dull brown, a stark contrast to the Witcher's piercing amber. He sat with a straight back, a contract on the table in front of him, and a quill and inkpot to the side. His face was wrinkled, and scarred on the cheek: A short gash, an injury made by a dagger, or poniard. Although he wasn't the typical Temerian, he did share one trait with the regular peasant: He was scared of the Witcher. It was the only explanation for why he leaned back in his chair, stammering as the Witcher stared into his eyes.

"50 crowns is not enough."

"S-ss-sir, it's all we can afford to p-pay you."

"Bullshit."

The Witcher leaned in further, and slammed his hands on the table. The quartermaster let out a yelp, and the Witcher inwardly smirked.

"W-we need to compensate the w-widows!"

"I don't fucking care about them. I want at least one hundred crowns, and your blacksmith will repair my armor, and do the same for my weapons as well as sharpen them."

"H-how about we add in a sword? Our captain was killed by this beast and we were able to recover his sword, as well as his armor."

The Witcher appeared to consider it, and then shook his head.

"I have a perfectly functional steel sword on by back. I don't need that sword. In fact, I'm tempted to show you just how functional my sword is if you don't pay me full price."

The quartermaster gulped.

"F-fine. You can take 100 crowns, as well as your armor and weapon repair and sharpening."

The Witcher took a step back, and the quartermaster breathed out for the first time. He then proceeded to fill out the form in front of him, and crossed out the 50, replacing it with a hundred.

"So tell me. Where did this monster attack?"

For the next five minutes the Witcher was told in detail about where the monster attacked, when it happened, and if there were any survivors. There were no survivors, the attack had happened at the foot of a nearby mountain, and it had occurred the last week. The sole casualty had been their captain, and the two men he had taken with him. The Witcher sighed.

He left the tent, and hopped onto Gale, his ever-faithful horse. Wasting no time he galloped off into woods. In the woods, he saw endregas and nekkers, but chose to ignore them. They weren't his contract. Any Witcher that slew random monsters, was merely taking away future work, or even worse, taking another Witcher's contract. So the Witcher continued to ride into the woods. Eventually he began to smell blood. It was faint, but definitely present. He followed it and eventually arrived at a nest.

Ghouls. He saw four of them huddled around the nest feasting on the remnants of a carcass, dressed in blue. A little away from them was a shield, with the typical Temerian insignia: The lilies. Due to the fact that there were no other, larger prints, the corpse and the blame for it's death, lay with them.

The Witcher drew his silver, and moved silently up to the ghouls. He approached the one closest to him and in one fell blow, removed it's head. While the others paused to realise that something was amiss, the Witcher's sword was already in motion. He cut another ghoul in half , and the last two dodged out of his swords path. He cursed, and got into his stance. Feet shoulder width apart, and evenly balanced, crouched to keep his center of gravity low, chest twisted right, away from the ghouls, and sword held approximately 30 centimeters away from his body, point tipped down to face the ghouls. The ghouls, being monsters, made the first move. They pounced at him. The Witcher ready for this sidestepped to the left, and held out his sword, letting one ghoul impale itself. Then he spun around, simultaneously throwing the ghoul's corpse off the blade. He came face to face with the second ghoul's claws, and only prior experience saved him from getting another scar. He ducked and thrust upwards, impaling the ghoul in the stomach. He threw the ghoul off his blade, and sheathed his sword. It was going to get repaired soon anyways. He then stalked over to the nest, picked up the shield, and signed Igni, watching the nest burst into flames. He stacked up the ghouls, and threw them into the fire.

Then he sat down on a rock and thought. There was no way he was going to get 100 crowns for four ghouls. They only went for 10 crowns a piece. Luckily, he had something prepared for moments like this. He whistled, and Gale trotted over, He reached into her saddlebags, and pulled out a Leshen's head. This was his insurance policy. Leshen's were dangerous and mean, and the perfect reason for the death of two guards and a captain. This wouldn't be the first time he fabricated a story. However, he typically didn't, only stooping that low when there weren't any loose ends. The last contract had been tempting, but the girl would've squealed. If there was one thing the Witcher did not enjoy doing, it was ruining his pay.

However the Witcher had realised something. Serious monsters, that fit into the categories of Ogroids, Draconids, Relicts, Hybrids, Elementa, Cursed Ones and some more dangerous Specters and Insectoids, were being seen less and less. By him at least. Instead he saw some lesser Specters and Insectoids, as well as Necrophages and Beasts. In short, the man-made monsters were becoming more common while the ones created by the Conjuction, were dwindling or hiding. And to the Witcher this was a serious problem. In some decade's time, he would have no choice but to become a bounty hunter, hunting down humans instead of monsters. That wasn't to say that bounty hunters didn't pull in a fair bit of money. Far from it. Typically, bounty hunters lived rich, exuberant lifestyles. But to the Witcher, it would mean deviating from the path, and that was far more serious, after all, he had already deviated significantly.

And so he began the reminiscing. It was a habit for him now, to reminisce after a particularly boring contract. About times when he was a young Witcher, fresh out of the keep. About a simpler time. When men were far less civilized. When they couldn't give two shits about the treatment of their fellows, and when education was only bestowed upon the extremely wealthy, instead of scholarships. But the Witcher broke himself out of his stupor. There would be time enough to reflect after the contract was finished. Maybe in the company of a whore. He was moving closer to Oxenfurt, and if there was one thing civilization had done right, it was paying for the company of women.

He paused. How much money did he have? He reached into the pockets of his horse and pulled out his coin purse. 150 from the last contract, plus another 200 from the last winter, which he hadn't spent. Another 80 which he had gathered from the keep, during his winter, and another 100 from his current contract. 530 crowns. 1470 short. Why did he need the money? Well it was a simple answer. And one that many would not expect.

The Witcher was not a noble man. Nor was he a nobleman. He didn't have consorts, but he did have whores. Winters at the keep were extremely lonely. And on one of his frequent visits to an Oxenfurt brothel, the Madame had approached him with an offer he couldn't refuse.

The Witcher had just spent another 100 crowns for a night with his favourite whore: Sarah. She was the most beautiful woman in the entire brothel, with her luscious brown hair, her eyes made of lapis lazuli, the face of a goddess, with high cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose, and most importantly, phenomenal dental hygiene. Not to mention a body that every customer wanted to ravish. As he was making his way out, he felt a hand grasp his right shoulder. Tensing, he turned around. It was the madame of the brothel. She smiled at him, and he stared at her. Her smile growing wider, she dragged him over to a table and made him sit down.

"So, you've been visiting this brothel a lot lately." She said, and it was a fact. Every winter before the Witcher left for the keep he would spend all of his remaining funds at the brothel, spending time with Sarah.

"In fact, I've noticed that this is a pattern. Every year, right before winter, you show up and spend 400-500 crowns on 5 nights with Sarah."

The Witcher raised an eyebrow. She had noticed? The madame laughed at his expression.

"I'm not blind. And you have been a constant customer at this brothel. So I want to make a deal with you. Business is dismal here during winter. We don't pull in much money. People prefer the warmth of their homes over the warmth of a whore. Who knew? So, why don't you pay me 2000 crowns, and I'll let you have the winter with Sarah. You can take her to your keep."

The Witcher was shocked, and ecstatic. He was about to take the deal, when he came to a stop. He didn't have enough money. In fact his total monetary balance at that point in time was a grand total of 25 crowns. He cursed.

"Don't have enough?"

"Yeah. Can you keep the deal open for me? Until next winter?"

"By all means, take your time. IIt's not like business ever changes here. But do hurry up, Sarah is only getting older after all."

The Witcher could not agree more.

Suddenly the Witcher heard a growl. He looked around and saw a lone wolf emerge into the clearing. The pack leader. The Witcher glanced it's way out of boredom, and used the Axii sign to send the wolf away. Then he got up. That was a sign of overstaying his welcome in the forest. He stretched out, and got on Gale. He galloped towards the camp.

As he arrived, he noticed the bustle of the camp. They were sharpening their swords eagerly, grinning and cracking jokes. Clearly a fight was on the horizon. There were approximately 19 people in the rest must have been gone on a raid, or a skirmish. Or….

The Witcher dismounted and led Gale behind him into the tent of the Quartermaster. When he entered he saw a man who wasn't the Quartermaster, standing at the ready, expecting his presence. The Witcher shook his head, and threw the head of the Leshen on the table.

"It was a Leshen. I'm going to need more money."

The man shook his head.

"Don't matter anymore. We've decided to, erm, withhold payment, for the time-being. You don't have a problem with that do you?"

The Witcher sighed.

"Figured as much."

And with that he signed Axii, and watched as the man stumbled around. He drew steel, walked up to him, and the man was decapitated.

Then he whirled around, in time to see a pike stab into his thigh. He cursed, and drew a bomb from his pouch. Covering his eyes, he threw it on the ground. An explosion went off, and suddenly people were shouting: They had been blinded by the effects of Samum. He quickly pulled his hand away from his face, stabbed through the heart of one man, cut through the jugular of another, and thrust through the abdomen of the last. Reaching into Gale's saddlebag, he pulled out a Swallow, and gulped it down, feeling the effects healing the artery the pike had cut through. Then he did some basic arithmetic. 19 men overall, 4 men had died in here, it meant that 15 were still outside. Reaching into Gale's saddlebags a second time, he retrieved a Dancing Star and a Dragon's Dream. Not wasting a second, he glanced outside, and saw the other 15 making their way towards the tent. He threw the Dancing Star at their feet, and ducked back inside the tent. Soon enough he heard an explosion, and smelled the charred flesh.

Running outside, he saw that there were only 12 men left, prancing around like marionettes trying to put out the fires. In quick succession he threw the Dragon's Dream. Another explosion, and more screams were heard. He quickly did another head count. Only 4 left. A more reasonable amount. He marched towards them, his steel sword still in his hand, although he stopped short and used an Aard to dispel the fire. Once again he moved forward, and as the men stopped their dancing, he was on them hacking through each one, like a knife carving through butter, their blood spurting onto his black leather armor, turning it into a canvas, straight out of hell.

Then he stopped. And looked around. Not a single person was left in the camp, and it was silent. Not even a bird could be heard. The Witcher then attuned himself to his surroundings, looking for something that he could sell off in Oxenfurt.

He found an ornate dagger on the corpse of one man, a chestplate and gauntlets in the quartermaster's chamber, obviously not the captain's, which were inlaid with rubies and embossed in gold, the man in the quartermaster's chamber had a grand total of 20 Crowns on him, and the others had anywhere between 5-12 crowns on their person as well. Overall, 125 crowns, the armor set was worth at least 1000 crowns, and the dagger another 200 crowns. Needless to say, the Witcher was in a good mood. A mood that was quickly soured as he left the camp on Gale, and saw the corpses. Just another event to add to the stigma against Witchers. Sighing, he moved on to the next town.

Perhaps hearts didn't harden with age after all, for he knew that there was once a time when he would've not looked back, and felt no remorse. But as of late his actions had begun to weigh upon him, and he questioned every decision he made. Perhaps hearts didn't harden with age, but instead grew weak, much like a sword.