Grey mist crawled across the boggy marshlands, wisp-like fingers stretching across the damp earth as the sun's light faded. A few errant zephyrs tugged at the pale strands, twisting them in unusual patterns as the leaves rustled in the trees overhead. Through it all, a lone path wound its way, marked by a few fence-posts and the occasional haphazard bridge. Mostly, though, the trail was just a line of trampled grass and worn earth, a somewhat dry passage through the wetlands. This was the main through-way between two villages, and in the more wintry months it was rarely travelled, often giving way to the beasts of the land as darker nights encroached on what weak sunlight found its way into the damp, bleak air.
A horse trudged its way along this roadway, an unusual sight even at the best of times on the remote trail. The grey steed, adorned with simple but sturdy tack, bore a weary figure, hunched over the saddle as he tried to shut out the chill of the darkening night.
The man astride the mare sighed, stifling a yawn as he glanced up at his surroundings. He reached up to scratch at the thick, dark brown beard that covered his chin, while piercing yellow eyes glared out from over hardened, stern features. At his breast, resting gently against the thick leather armour, a silver Cat's head medallion glistened in the light of the rising moon. A Witcher's medallion, matched by the two swords that had been strapped to the saddle.
Brass of Tridam, until recently a student of the School of the Cat, now a fully fledged Witcher, had taken the old trail in the hopes of cutting a few days off his travels as he made his way back to his home, the ancient castle of Kaer Marter. As the winter months closed in, travel would become more difficult, and it would be easier for him to pass the cold months in the comfort of the castle, gathering supplies and sharing news with other Witchers. He'd already passed through the village of Boggevrieg some three days' past, and now only the hamlet of Reslien lay before him, after which he could follow the banks of the Pontar all the way back to Kaer Marter.
The Witcher was looking forward to returning home. The kitchens, while hardly a match for the finer taverns of cities such as Novigrad or Oxenfurt, still provided many a sumptuous meal, and he'd seen little more than a few crusts of bread these past few weeks. Clearing out Nekker nests and hunting the occasional rabid wolf rarely provided the kind of coin that could buy rich meats and quality ale. And, if he was lucky, then perhaps he'd get to see-
The thought was abruptly cut off as a faint tremor from the chain around his neck drew Brass' attention. He glanced down to see the fierce Cat's head shiver, jumping on its chain as though it had a mind of its own. In the same instant, the Witcher felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, a crawling sensation teasing its way down his spine. Pupils surrounded by feral amber narrowed into thin slits, his gaze darting about as he looked for the danger that his instincts told him was close. Almost as if attuned to her master's unease, the Witcher's steed halted, snorting anxiously as she glanced about.
Not far ahead of the Witcher, another horse crested a low hillock, outline lit by the rising moon. The steed was pitch black, unnaturally so. Even in the gloom of the night, the beast's hide seemed to draw in all possible light, absorbing it and somehow becoming all the darker for it. Two eyes, red as the setting sun, burned fiercely in its skull.
Brass knew immediately that this was no mere animal. His pulse quickening, muscles tensing under his armour, the Witcher quietly reached towards his blades, gloved hand finding the pommel of his silvered blade.
The beast let out a shrill cry, the noise cutting through the night like a scythe. Its scored across the Witcher's very core, eliciting a shiver of what could have been called pain. The terrible, ethereal cry ripped at Brass' innards as he suppressed a groan, clenching his teeth. His steed, however, was not so resolute. She whinnied in fear, jolting underneath the Witcher as she twisted to run from the beast, in spite of his attempts to keep her under control. With a frustrated grunt, the Witcher raised a hand, fingers twisting in the gesture of the magical sign of Axii as he channelled calming thoughts into the mare's mind. The horse stilled under him, allowing Brass to turn his gaze back towards the strange beast.
A rider now sat astride the creature. Whether the figure had mounted the beast, or emerged from it, Brass couldn't tell. It merely sat there, clad in gleaming leather armour the colour of onyx. A greenish-brown cape fluttered in the wind, torn, ragged, fastened with a pair of silver clasps upon its shoulders. These details were soon lost on the Witcher, however, as his gaze came to rest on the collar of the figure's breastplate, and the lack of anything above it. There was no neck, no head, nothing at all. And yet, even with no apparent features, the creature still seemed to be looking at him. Some dread intelligence fixated its attention upon the Witcher, sending icy shivers racing through his bones.
A hand clad in a leather glove tightened upon the reins that bound the monstrous horse, while a second hand rose, revealing that it clutched a grisly burden. A head, severed from its body, dangled in the figure's grasp, held by long, pale hair. It was hard for the Witcher to be certain at this distance, but he could have sworn that the features of the disembodied skull were too soft to be those of a man, far more slender and graceful. As Brass' eyes narrowed to take in more details, the head suddenly twitched. Eyelids fluttered, opening to reveal, not the eyes of any mortal creature, but rather two blazing azure orbs, shining like lanterns. The mouth, previously clamped closed, now gaped open to reveal the same ghostly light emanating from within.
The sound that followed, Brass would remember for the rest of his days. A scream, but not like anything a living creature could unleash. No lungs or vocal chords of flesh and blood lurked behind the terrible, soul-rending shriek. In it, Brass felt as though he could sense the screams of countless dead and dying, trapped without rest. It felt as though the very air around him had turned to shards of glass, and now several of those shards were piercing him, driving their way through his chest, his muscles, his ears. Then, with a sharp kick to its steed's flanks, the creature surged forth, down the hill.
The Witcher's horse, already barely holding onto its wits, finally broke free of the influence of the Axii sign, twisting to bolt away from the terrifying apparition. Brass clung to the mare's back as she raced down the trail, heedless of footing or low-hanging branches in her efforts to escape. Twigs and thorns whipped at the Witcher's face as he tried to lean forward, pressing his cheek into his steed's mane.
He glanced back, only to see the mysterious horse and rider giving chase, the monstrous pair seemingly unimpeded by uneven ground, low branches or twists and turns in the trail. The pair were slowly gaining on their quarry. The head still dangled from one outstretched arm, while the other hand now clutched at what looked like a long, white whip that, Brass soon realised, was a spine. Human, from the looks of it. With a sickening rattle, the whip cracked backwards, then lashed forwards, licking at the haunch of the Witcher's horse.
Brass' steed let loose a screech of agony as the bones raked at her flesh, scoring several long, deep gashes in the muscle. The stench of blood filled the Witcher's nostrils as the mare stumbled a little, struggling to stay upright.
The Witcher glanced back again, stretching one hand out in a desperate motion, summoning forth the energies of the Aard sign. A bolt of pure, invisible force leapt from his palm, striking the ground underneath his pursuer's hooves in an explosion of dirt, moss and loose stones. The beast surged through the attack, heedless of any damage the earthy shrapnel might inflict. Astride the creature, its rider drew back the whip for another strike.
Brass had no time to steer his mount out of the way, no way to counter the vicious attack as the bony whip lashed out again, this time ripping through the poor horse's hide along its flank and exposing ribs and twitching muscles. The horse, pushed beyond its limits, screamed again, bucking reflexively.
The Witcher tried his best, but the pained frenzy of his steed was too much, hurling her rider clear as she squirmed and tossed her head back in agony. Brass barely had a moment to realised the weightlessness that seized him before he hit the dirt, rolling head over heels through mud and loose leaf litter under, with a loud splash, he came to rest in a shin-deep pond some meters from the trail.
Brass was on his knees immediately, spluttering as muddy water rushed into his throat. He reached up to wipe at his eyes, squinting as his vision slowly returned, and the dizziness that spun within his skull subsided. Somewhere, growing more distant with every second, the sounds of his fleeing horse echoed through the forest.
The monstrous rider, whatever it was, had come to a halt on the edge of the pond. The beastly steed glared at the Witcher with its scarlet eyes, pawing at the mud. Still astride its mount, the rider turned its attention to the Witcher, the hand holding the head now shifting to turn its gaze towards him. The bone whip rattled in its other hand.
Now that he could get a closer look, the Witcher picked out a few more details of his attacker. The body that sat atop the horse was slight, a slim frame hidden well by layers upon layers of armour and clothing. Where skin was exposed, at the wrists, ankles, and what remained of the neck, rot had clearly set in. The flesh mouldered like a weeks-dead corpse, the bloody stump or its neck now pitch black with dried blood. The head, which had doubtless belonged to the body, was similarly decayed, lips pulled tight over teeth the colour of rotten wood, cheeks sunken and sallow, eye sockets deep and hollow. The hair, wispy and pale silver in colour, was streaked through with mud. Still those gleaming blue lights burned where the eyes should have been, making it hard to see whether the eyes actually remained, or had been replaced by some sinister magical force instead. The head moved, turning this way and that as it studied the Witcher. As it did so, Brass caught a detail that made his innards twitch. Pointed ears, to match the narrow face that may once have been beautiful. A she-Elf.
The Witcher instinctively reached for his belt, drawing a long, wickedly sharp hunting knife. His swords, gone with his horse, would be of no use to him now. He readied himself for the monster's next attack.
"Come on then, you ugly bitch." He growled, a deep, menacing tone that sparked somewhere deep beneath his rib-cage. "Come get some!"
The monster continued to regard him, not moving to attack. Brass' brows furrowed, before he noticed the way the beastly horse moved under its rider, teasing at the bank of the pond, then backing away a fraction, pawing at the damp soil in frustration. The Witcher glanced down to the grimy muck that surrounded him, almost reaching up to his knees.
"Ah, don't like the water, do yeh?" He suppressed a grin. "Afraid to get a little wet, or do you just not like taking a bath? Come on, I'm right here, fight me!"
The beast and its rider didn't respond to his words, still clinging to the edge of the water. The duo emanated… not fear, Brass realised, but something else, more akin to frustration. Not a threat, then, just a limitation? Only one way to find out...
"Alright." He shrugged. "If you won't come to the water, then maybe… the water should come to YOU!"
With that last shout, the Witcher thrust his free hand down, casting an Aard sign at his feet. The water around him surged out in a sudden tide, waves splashing up to spatter the two monsters.
The horse-like creature reared up on its hind legs, bellowing loudly as water splashed across its form, summoning wisps of thick, black smoke where it made contact. The rider, almost as if on instinct, lashed out with her bone whip, the rattler of clacking bones loud on the night air. Brass reacted with lightning speed, hand rising to cast the sign of Quen as a shimmering yellow barrier rippled into existence around him, absorbing some of the blow, although what force remained was still enough to knock the Witcher from his feet.
Brass gasped as he was once again submerged in the water, struggling back to his feet. He glanced back to his foe to see her raising the whip once more, making to strike at him a final time. The Witcher instantly knew that he could not block another attack, his personal reserves of magic used up. He braced himself for the incoming blow.
The rider froze, body seizing up as the whip suddenly dangled slack from its grip. The head, swinging from its hand, fixed the Witcher with a terrible, piercing gaze, eyes suddenly far wider than they had ever been. A sudden, sharp shriek tore loose from its withered lips, equal parts pain, fear and fury that struck Brass' ears like a hammer blow.
Then, in a blink, the rider grasped a hold of her reins and, with another terrible snarl, wheeled her mount around. The monstrous steed broke into a gallop, mud churning under its hooves as it loosed a frustrated scream. Then, in moments, the pair were gone, lost among the trees and the mist. A faint echoing cry warned of their flight, but they were nowhere to be seen.
Brass remained still, uncertain of what had just happened. After a moment or two of silence, the Witcher sagged, heedless of the cold water that surrounded him. He breathed a low sigh of relief, returning his knife to its sheath.
As the Witcher glanced down to stow his weapon, a flash of white against his chest caught his eye. A small figurine shaped from white clay dangled from a leather thong, shaped in the crude imitation of a human form. He felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards in the ghost of a smile as he regarded the tiny trinket, a gift from an old friend. It must have been knocked loose from where he normally stowed it away at some point during the fight.
With a swift motion, he tucked the little figure back into his armour and stood again. He glanced about, cursing the loss of his horse. This late at night, in the mist, and with dangerous beasts about, he would be hard pressed to track her. Better to search in the light of day. He looked to the road, still close by. The village of Reslien was very near, if he remembered rightly. He couldn't be sure that wooden walls and the fires of a hearth would keep the beasts at bay, but it had to be better than skulking about in marshland until whatever that rider and her steed was found him again. With no swords and little energy left after the fight, he would not be so lucky a second time.
The Witcher let out a weary sigh as he clambered out of the water, trudging up to the pathway. He glanced back to the mists again, curious about whatever it was he had just encountered. Whatever this monster was, it was dangerous, and he didn't know nearly enough to fight it. Perhaps Reslien would be useful for more than just a dry place to sleep. And, if the monster was enough of a threat, perhaps there was some coin to be earned.