(A story set approxitmately four months before the events of The Witcher 3.)
Chapter 1 – Booze, Piss and Blood
The waves of the ocean crashed violently against the harbour side of the Silverton District. A storm had engulfed Novigrad. It was late evening and the usually crowded harbour had become desolate; save for a few ships that were docked. They swayed in the storm like a drunk leaving a tavern, after hours of drowning his sorrows.
The harbour side tavern, The Golden Sturgeon, was one such place where the dockhands and other less fortunate locals came to drink away their woes and coin. Or to hit each other hard enough that they'd forget their own names. Its reputation for violent behaviour attracted the most undesirable of patrons. Thugs, bandits, thieves, even pirates drank and brawled at the tavern regularly.
Although the storm wreaked havoc outside, the tavern itself was eerily calm. People were engaged in quiet conversation, with the occasional cough or splutter here and there. The bard strummed lightly on his lute; his lack of enthusiasm further exaggerated the melancholy atmosphere of the inn. The barmaid breathed a sigh of contentment from behind the bar as she surveyed the tavern. A glass in one hand and cloth in the other. She knew better than most that a peaceful evening in this establishment was a rare blessing. One that never lasted long.
As if on cue, the front door swung open with the force of a gale. Those sat nearest the door silenced their conversation and turned their heads in unison. A hulking brute of a man stood in the open doorway; the rainstorm howling behind him. His boots squelched and the floorboards creaked as he lumbered in, reached for the wooden door and slammed it behind him. His ragged trousers and torn shirt were drenched from the rain, as if he had crawled out from the sea itself. They clung tightly to his colossal frame. A pair of angry blue eyes peered out from beneath dripping wet layers of unkempt black hair, that hung above his shoulders. He shook his body like a stray mongrel, ridding himself of excess water.
The man lifted up his head to reveal a strong jawline adorned by a thick beard, and a deep but precise diagonal scar decorating his right cheek. He took in several whiffs of air and exhaled with a guttural sound.
Booze, piss and blood. He thought to himself. A disgusting combination of smells that were all too familiar.
The locals shrank into their seats as he made his way towards the bar. A confident stride accompanied by heavy footsteps, leaving a trail of water drips behind. He sat down with a thud on a flimsy stool that creaked in pain under his weight. The barmaid, seemingly unfazed by the brutish man's entrance, smiled at him.
"Your usual, Valko?" She asked, already reaching for a bottle from under the counter.
Valko replied with a single nod as he searched his tattered and soggy trouser pockets for payment. Ten crowns were dropped on the bar in exchange for a bottle of vodka and glass. Valko wasted no time pouring his first drink; in silence and with concentration. He picked up the small glass, licked his lips, and downed the contents. He let out a throaty yet satisfied groan as the burn travelled down his throat. After pouring another glass full, Valko glanced over both of his shoulders to scour the tavern. It was crowded but painfully calm. Especially at such a late hour.
"Awful quiet in here tonight." He remarked in a gruff voice, as he turned back to face the barmaid.
"Wasn't earlier. Proper tavern brawl broke out just after midday. Some poor sod got his head smashed against the set of stairs behind ye. Brain dead for the rest of his miserable life I reckon, assuming he ain't completely dead come morn."
Valko grunted after downing his second drink.
"Sounds like I missed out."
He looked genuinely disappointed. Although, the permanent frown on his face made him a difficult man to read.
"Ha! That makes a first. I'd place good money on betting that every ploughing night you've come in here you've gotten into a scrap."
"I don't start them."
"True, true, I'll give you that. But you sure as hells end up finishing them."
"Only thing I'll be finishing tonight is this fucking bottle."
The barmaid chuckled and moved away to serve another man who had timidly approached the bar. A safe distance from its most recent patron.
Valko busied himself with pouring another drink; his only plan for the night was getting drunk. In peace. Undisturbed. Such was his wish for every night he came to the Sturgeon. He stopped mid pour as his nose began to twitch uncomfortably. Someone was approaching his right side. He grimaced. The smell of booze, sweat and sex; with an overpowering stench of cheap perfume attempting to mask the three former scents.
"Fancy buying me a drink handsome?" Said a sultry voice from the right.
Valko didn't need to look to know who, or what, was standing beside him.
"No." He reluctantly put down the bottle of vodka, harder than was necessary.
The woman moved into view as she leaned sideways on the bar. She tossed her dark, greasy hair and grinned flirtatiously, revealing a smile of rotten teeth and gums. Her eyes glided over the muscular body of her potential customer.
"How about some pleasant company?" She ran her finger delicately along one of the muscle lines of Valko's forearm.
"Piss off." He mumbled, glaring down at the sudden skin contact.
The woman, undeterred, placed her entire hand on his forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"Come on handsome. Big fella like you must need-"
Before she could finish, Valko pulled his arm away from her touch and slammed a clenched fist down onto the bar top. The whore shrieked and leapt backwards, knocking the bottle of vodka over in the process. Valko stood up with force and kicked his stool away. He towered over the frightened woman.
"Piss. Off."
This time she got the message, loud and clear; and scurried away without a second thought.
The barmaid casually finished serving the other gentleman and shook her head, holding back her amusement.
"You certainly have a way with the ladies."
Valko looked down at his now empty bottle of vodka. With a frustrated sigh, he picked it up.
"For fuck sake..." he mumbled and threw the bottle against the nearest wall. "Fucking whores!" He bellowed, in the direction the woman had ran to.
A couple of people looked over at his outburst but thought twice about responding in any way.
"So much for a quiet night. Not to worry, I'll clear that up...and get you another bottle."
Several minutes later the barmaid returned to the bar; an unopened bottle of vodka in hand. Her short tempered regular appeared to be sulking, though his eyes lit up at the sight of more alcohol. No sooner was the bottle was placed on the bar, did Valko grab hold of it, mumbling and grunting. The barmaid offered him a clean glass but Valko shook his head to refuse.
"I'll drink from the bottle. Ain't letting go of this one, lest some other cunt knocks it over and wastes my coin." He took a large swig. "I just want to drink in peace. Is that too damn much to ask for?"
"Must be that friendly looking face of yours. All that positive energy you give off." The barmaid's sarcasm failed to amuse Valko but thankfully it also failed to irritate him.
An hour had gone by and Valko had not moved from his seat. He sat in thoughtful silence, staring emotionlessly at the wall in front of him. Occasionally he glanced at the gradually emptying bottle he held tightly in his large hand. The tavern had also emptied out a considerable amount. The hour was late and there were few remaining drunks dotted about. One or two of them were slumped over their tables, knocked out cold.
The barmaid cast her eyes to the only man sat at the bar. Feeling it was now an appropriate time to start a more private conversation.
"I've been meaning to ask ye. Thought it best to wait for the crowds to die down..."
"What is it Bea?" Valko replied, not lifting his gaze.
"How'd that job go?"
"What fucking job?"
"The one you were on about the last time you were here." Bea moved closer, placed both hands on the bar and leaned in. "You know...for the King of Beggars." She whispered.
Valko scoffed, shifted on his stool and scratched the hair on his chin.
"He ain't no fucking king. Just a bald headed, self-proclaimed, idealistic prick who thinks he's someone important."
"Alright, so you don't like him. Somehow that don't surprise me one bit; but he can't be all bad. He's helping all those mages ain't he?"
"He pays well. That's all I give a shit about. Job was easy enough. I'll go get the coin he owes me tomorrow." Valko emptied the bottle of its remaining contents. He paused for a moment after the vodka hit his stomach. "And how the fuck would you know about the mages? That's not exactly common knowledge."
"I work in a tavern. I hear things. Especially in this tavern. You think the blokes who drink in here are common? Plenty of 'em work for the King of Beggars. Or for one of the Big Four."
Valko shrugged off Bea's response as if he'd already known.
"He's got fucking loads of them mages hoarded away in the Putrid Grove. Offered 'em safe haven...for a price. It's a sorry fucking sight." Valko pushed the empty bottle away. "They're like cornered rats. Scared shitless and desperate, fighting among themselves for scraps of food and stinking of filth. How the mighty have fallen."
Bea nodded slowly, taking the empty bottle from the bar.
"Well they've got good reason to be scared. Not too long ago they were living normal lives. Folk respected them for their talents. Went to them for aid. Now they're being hunted down like dogs, tortured and burned alive in the streets. And the people they helped in the past are likely the ones who're handing them over to the witch hunters."
"Almost sounds like you feel sorry for them. I say let the fuckers burn. They're getting exactly what they deserve."
The barmaid's warm expression faded as Valko's harsh words sank in. She took several steps away from the bar, leaned backwards against the wall and crossed her arms.
"I do feel sorry for them. After seeing a young girl burned alive with my own eyes...it's downright awful. She was no older than I am."
"Awful, yeah, but so what? Don't see how it's any concern of mine what happens to those magic-wielding bastards. They've had it easy for far too fucking long."
"Suppose it ain't your concern, or mine for that matter. But still, many who're being killed are good folk. Genuine folk. They've done no harm to anyone."
"Good folk...if you say so. Mores the pity when they'll go up in flames then."
It was clear by the troubled expression on her face that Bea was bothered by the topic at hand; and Valko's disregard for the innocent lives being taken.
"Have you always been so heartless?" She said, temporarily forgetting her place. "With that attitude it's no wonder why you're always alone and no one likes you."
Valko did not respond. He sat silent and still; the only noticeable change was his increasingly deep and precise breaths. Bea realised what she had said and how offensive it sounded. Not only was it unprofessional but she should have known by now. The man she was talking to was a loner who cared for nothing but himself. It was a waste of time getting agitated by his lack of compassion for others.
"Valko, I didn't-"
She couldn't tell if she'd angered the man or upset him. Or both. When Valko got to his feet, the barmaid braced herself for a verbal battering. Expecting inanimate objects to be thrown around and broken in the process. But to her surprise there was no outburst. No foul language. Not even eye contact. Valko simply made his way out of the Sturgeon in silence; back into the storm from which he'd come.
The crescent moon was his only guiding light home, and even that was poor due to the amount of rain falling. Valko's house was not even a five-minute walk from the Sturgeon. It was situated on the docks, with his front door facing the water's edge. He gave the door, that always jammed, a firm shove to force it open. Now inside his home, it somehow felt colder than the rain had felt outside.
He chose not to light the fireplace, nor any candles. He moved in the darkness, finding his way upstairs by memory. At the top of the stairs were two doors. The door on the left opened into his modestly sized bedroom. A large bed in the far-left corner, a bedside table, a wardrobe and a desk with a cracked mirror on the wall above.
The moonlight shone through his small bedroom window and highlighted a single item. The reflective shine caught Valko's eye. He walked over to the desk, taking the small, blood-stained silver medallion into his palm. He clenched the medallion tightly within his fist, gritting his teeth as if he were in pain.
The barmaid was right. He was always alone. For good reason.
It's better this way.