.XIII. A Tale of the Raven.
Far, far from any of the usual places he would call home, in a place in which no one even thought he'd be at that moment...
As through the rags, shirts and trousers hanged on a rope near the bridge passing over the Velda waving in the breeze, one would easily spot his figure laying on the river's southern bank, much alike a corpse would, on his right side with his head resting on his arm, surrounded here and there by algae, rocks and dead fishes. For not long after, with a few mutters he rolled on his back, and then rose up from the ground with a couple of grunts, moving the rags aside with his left hand. From afar one could notice the marks on his hand, wounds, old and recent, some fresh, around his knuckles, who were marked with a spice of dried blood. He was bare feet and wore nothing but his trousers. Stank of booze from meters away, even if you didn't get the stench that the occasional breeze would bring around, due the rotten fish miasma which was covering the area for a few days now.
On one side of the river stood Ebbing and on the other Maecht, two independent kingdoms at that time, free of Nilfgaard.
Not a day away on a horse ride west was the part where the river unites with The Great Sea.
As he was walking towards the road, away from Velda's northern bank, to a place where a group of merchants made camp.
It was midday, the men and women in the camp made preparations for their midday meal. One old man was already steering the pot, heating their lunch, stew.
'Aha !', shouted the man tending to the pot of stew atop the fire. 'We thought you were dead...'.
The stranger scoffed, scratching his unshaven cheek. 'That's why you didn't fuss to get me to shore ? I mean why bother, when the floods will soon come...'.
'Exactly. You do know the way we think, northling...', answered the merchant, grabbing a bowl.
'I'm from Vicovaro, by the way.', the dark haired individual said, sitting on a stump, a mere few steps from the fire.
'Is that so...', the merchant smiled, handing the individual a bowl of stew. 'Here...'. The old man had a charm around him, of a man that was passed his life's summer, seemed wiser than he let on.
'Thanks.'.
'No need to be polite, It is not needed. I'm happy to help. As you did, last night...', said the merchant, looking at the man hailed from Vicovaro. 'It is us who should thank you...'.
'I did what I thought to be fair.', responded the man.
'You stopped them, but at what risk ?', asked the merchant. 'The wounds they got you are not fatal, but why care ? We don't mean anything to you. We, are strangers...'.
'It was the right thing to do. I couldn't let you be robbed by some pricks...'.
'You have a good heart. Few have nowadays...'.
'I was just drunk...'.
'Most would've just left us to our fate. But, you stayed and fought them, even chased after them...'.
'And look where that got me. I have no gear, no swords and no coin.'.
'We'll help you son. Stay with us 'till we reach Nazair, as protection along the way, we sure need one like you. What do you say ? Five hundred ducats ? Come with us, we will tend to your wounds and give you a place to sleep and a warm meal along the way. Let us repay you...'.
'This meal is oughta do.'.
'No. It is simply too little.', the gemmerian merchant replied, with a hiss as if insulted. 'What you did, saved many lives, of daughters, son's and parents alike, I cannot let you walk half naked, beaten and hungry because of us. Besides you mentioned you're travelling north as well, therefore we have a common destination. I won't stop pestering you, until, you agree...', continued the merchant, ending with a smile.
'Be it your way...', murmured the witcher.
'Great !', strongly agreed the merchant, grabbing a bite from a piece of bread and slurping some stew from the bowl.
An hour or so later, the new member of the merchant caravan was prepared to leave north, hired as a protector on their way to the sunny lands of Nazair.
Close to the road side part of the camp, the stranger sat on a keg, chewing on a fried chicken leg, next to him near a table a woman was folding a piece of blue cloth. She gave the man a few stares, frequent. The man from Vicovaro did not pay attention, he had more pressing thoughts. He probably noticed her talking to him, however, he heard nothing but, '...your name ?'.
'What ?', replied the man, as he shook his head.
The woman smiled then repeated her previous question.
'What's your name ?'.
'Ksander. Yours ?'.
'You didn't- Nua. My name is Nua.'.
'Is it something that I can help you with ? Nua ?'.
'To know you better, if I could.'.
The man smiled, then gave an answer to the woman's request.
'Trust me, it'll do you more harm than good, so better not.', replied Ksander, closing his gambeson.
'I beg to differ...', continued the woman, 'Besides I can think of certain ways I would like you to 'harm' me.'. She then walked behind him, leaned towards him and placed her hands on his shoulders, simultaneously moving her head next to his, whispering in his right ear : 'I've never been fucked by a witcher…'.