You've lived your entire life in Lavrag. The sea, the village itself and the hills that border its easternmost front are all you've ever known. Sure, it may not be the most bustling of settlements, and, sure, it may lack certain—some would argue—basic accommodations, but do you know what else it lacks? That's right, there's a distinct absence of Black Ones snooping about, sticking their powdered noses into honest folk's affairs. Even if the Nilfgaardians are to subjugate the whole of Verden, they are unlikely to ever set foot in these parts. Why would they? Most of the maps you've seen don't even have Lavrag on them, which is exactly how everyone here prefers it.

That isn't to say that you don't have your own set of issues. While your seclusion may spare you from the conflicts of men, the same can't be said for the various other creatures that too call these shores home. Just this morning a fisherman got ambushed by some sort of deformed, blue-skinned monster that tried to drag him below the waves. Thankfully, there were enough people around to help chase the ragged abomination back into the water, yet its next victim may not be so lucky. Now everyone is looking to you and your brother as the village's last remaining hunters to do something about this. But what exactly are you meant to do? You're no monster slayers. You hunt deer and keep foxes out of people's coops and pens; you aren't exactly qualified to deal with whatever sodden horrors dwell in the murky depths.

"Suppose we could try n' lure it." your brother suggests.

You snort, pick up a stone and throw it at a dead log. It produces a hollow thunk. You lay back down on your bed of moss and squint upwards at the sun. Its dying rays scrape against the gradually dimming sky. Dusk approaches fast, and you really should be heading home before the mosquitos start biting.

"And how do you suggest we do that?" You inquire and look over at your older sibling who is sharpening his knife absentmindedly. He shrugs.

"We know when it likes to strike. I could pose as a fisherman while you lie in wait in the bushes. Whatever we're dealin' with, I doubt it can survive a few dozen arrows through the skull ."

You casually reach over and smack Rurik upside the head.

"Since when are you an expert? What happens if it does? Fuck that, you're not dyin' on me too."

He glares at you while simultaneously rubbing the spot where you struck him, then goes back to inspecting his handiwork. Nearby, a pair of squirrels are rummaging through the soil. You follow them with the corner of your eye, watching as they squabble over every unearthed nut as though there aren't plenty more scattered around. Just then, a larger squirrel leaps down from the branches and gets in the middle of their most recent fight. It pulls them apart and runs them off in opposite directions. You sigh:

"If pa was here, he'd know what to do."

"Aye, well..." You brother grumbles as he rises to his feet "Lotsa things would've been different if pa was here. Let's get goin'. We'll worry about it in the morn."

Following your brother's lead, you cut straight through the woods and back towards the coastline. As you reach the abandoned logging camp that marks the end of the forest, you are greeted by a sight that you have witnessed countless times but have yet to grow tired of. The sea stretches endlessly before you. Its mighty waves beat against the steep, cliff-backed shore. Further inland sits Lavrag, your home, comfortably nestled between the rocky beach and an expansive chain of hills. You emerge from behind Rurik and take a deep breath. You can practically taste the salt on your lips. As you glance over your shoulder, you notice that he is squinting, as though trying to make something out in the distance.

"Who in the 'ell is the elder talkin' to?"

There indeed appears to be a larger than usual crowd gathered by the longhouse. At the center of it stands the village's elder. He is addressing a mysterious hooded figure donned in dark clothing. You exchange brow raises and quickly descend down the rocks. Soon you and your brother are standing alongside the rest, silently observing as the scene unfolds.

"I beseech thee, good sir, we've nay much to spare. Our village is small 'n we've little use for coin."

You can scarcely recall the last time you saw Goran this animated. Usually an exemplar of stoicism, he was there when the settlement was originally founded, or so he claims anyway. Your father never believed him, but even he couldn't deny that the old man has a knack for leadership. You hear the stranger grumble something in response. From where you're standing, you can only see the back of his cloak. He is tall, certainly taller than shriveled old Goran, and broad-shouldered. You squeeze through, and are now standing at the very front of the crowd. You can actually make out what the stranger is saying. His voice is quite gravelly, but what stands out to you more is his accent. You obviously can't place it; your knowledge of regional dialects is limited at best. All you know is that it is quite different from what you are used to.

"Fine, I'll take a look around. But if your monster turns out to be anything bigger than a drowner, I'm not lifting a finger until you pay me what I'm worth."

Goran opens his mouth but nothing comes out of it. Instead, he just nods. The crowd gradually begins to disperse. You overhear a husband and wife say something about the mysterious man's eyes, and how just looking at them gave them shivers. Curiosity finally gets the better of you. To Rurik's protest, you march up to the flustered elder and stand alongside him. Your confidence fades almost immediately. The newcomer looks down at you through yellow, cat-like eyes. His face is weathered and adorned by scars—some faded, others not so much. A cascade of white hair spills forth from his hood, despite him appearing not much older than your brother.

"Blimey, the ol' coot brought us a bleedin' witcher..." Rurik chimes in after you force him to chase after you.

"He didn't" The white-haired man remarks on the elder's behalf. "A different contract led me to the area. I was just looking for a place to spend the night and buy some provisions ."

"Goodness..." Goran exclaims while gnawing on his calloused knuckles. The wrinkles on his forehead deepen. "So you're sayin' there's more than one monster prowlin' aboot?"

"There was." The stranger clarifies, much to the old man's relief.

Witcher. You have heard the term used before, even if you can't remember the exact context. By what you manage to gather from the men's brief exchange, a witcher appears to be some sort of mercenary that specializes in dealing with monsters, although doesn't appear to be entirely human himself. There's a litany of additional questions already brewing inside your skull, yet the white-haired man doesn't strike you as somebody who has the patience to humor your child-like curiosity. That said, you can't help but notice that his feline eyes do occasionally shift back to you, their lingering gaze causing something in your chest to stir. Perhaps aware of the interest you're being spared, Rurik offers to show the so-called witcher to his temporary lodging, thus leaving you alone with Goran.

"I'm entrustin' ye two to keep an eye on our... guest. I've heard wit' me own ears what his lot are capable of. Can butcher whole villages if ye so much as slight em. Folk are right to be worried. He kills our monster, we pay em and send em on his merry way."

You nod absentmindedly, but your thoughts are elsewhere. The rugged outsider took them with him. Even as you make your way back to your family's humble log cabin, the pressure in your chest has yet to dissipate. If anything, it's only gotten worse, spreading throughout your body. You touch your cheeks and feel them burning. What is this? In your twenty-something years of life, a man has never made you feel quite like this before. You have been in love, you have experienced attraction, but this particular sensation is wholly new to you. It's something more... primal. It's less an emotion and more like an urge you never even knew you had before.

You are greeted by Philippa, your brother's wife, as soon as you step through the door. The delightful scent of her cooking fills your nostrils. Your stomach growls in response. As she places the bowl of steaming stew in front of you, she inevitably inquires about Rurik's whereabouts, prompting you to recount today's events in full. A grimace of concern cuts through her otherwise youthful features. Noticing this, you assure her that he won't be long. She wipes her hands on her apron and sits opposite from you. The crackling of the fire mixes with the chirping of the crickets coming from the tall grass outside.

"I've heard stories about witchers." She starts, her voice meek and laced with worry. "I know better than to trust everythin' people tell me, but if even some of it is true... I just pray he doesn't linger too long."

You flash her a comforting smile, yet you cannot wholly share her sentiment. This man, this outsider, has piqued your interest greatly. The last thing you want is to see him go before you've had the chance to learn more about him...


Author's note: Thanks for reading! I hope you found the concept interesting. As the series progresses and assuming there's enough interest, I plan on adding the option for readers to vote on what the main character does at the end of certain chapters. Feel free to comment and let me know what you think C: