The werewolves howled in agony. Turning together, hunting together, gutting together; good times, it has always been. That night, however, it was not. The prey was fast, had fangs of its own, and bit back ferociously. Definitely not good times.
That was probably Dremor's first big contract. The Lyndra Sisters had been ravaging the northern realms' countryside for years, spreading terror and death wherever they set their hunting grounds. Identical twins, Rhena and Olga Lyndra had never been known by the outside world before the curse of lycanthropy descended upon them, and it was extremely hard to track them down when they did not want to be found.
After three weeks and a bit of luck, however, the witcher managed to spot their camp in the woods near Maribor, but the twins were not there, most likely because they noted his presence beforehand. Dremor searched for them during the entire afternoon, but then decided he had to act that same night, or he would lose their tracks again. Once turned, he knew the sisters could not hide their presences anymore. Coming up with a makeshift plan and whatever potions he could brew until nightfall, he started acting as soon as the terrifying howls filled up the moonlit sky.
The general idea was simple, but the execution had to be perfect for it to work. The witcher knew he had no chance to fulfill the contract if he had to fight both werewolves at the same time. He could hold his own, sure, but would never be able to kill any of them, even with the aid of potions. In addition, his stamina would certainly deplete much sooner than his foes', and that would be the end for him. So he had to be smart, and use every little advantage the situation provided to the fullest.
Turned, they could not distinguish dog from wolf, house from tree, and much less human from witcher. While beasts, they lost every part of their sentient conscience, and that was the only reason they did not immediately run away. Through expert terrain maneuvering and calculated moves, the monster slayer managed to lead them towards a cave, driving the werewolves further and further inside.
Though their attacks were not as coordinated as he expected, their relentlessness almost caught him off guard. The werewolves' naturally aggressive nature was taken into consideration, and it even was, to some extent, necessary for the plan to work. He wasn't expecting, however, so much of it. Rabid is a word that described it well. The mad bloodlust in their eyes showed no other intention than to rip off his limbs and turn his body inside out in the goriest way possible. Always pushing forward, they clawed, bit and roared their way to the witcher at an unrelenting pace.
"That's why two witchers already died while trying to get those bitches", said Dremor to himself while parrying and sidestepping away from their wild claws. He could clearly see deep scars on their torso and faces. His fallen comrades certainly did some work, but it did not matter, since those creatures' last concern was about their own physical state. The previous witchers probably thought it was over once they landed one or two clear blows on critical parts of their bodies, but such strikes only left them open against that never ending aggression. Dead open.
Once inside the cave, each step deeper into the underground, the twins kept chasing Dremor around, and he could see the plan was already bearing fruits. Light steadily faded away, and the sisters' reckless behavior started to work against them as they stumbled and tripped towards their prey. The rage made them simply ignore the fact that, at a certain point, the darkness was so dense that the only things they could see were Duenmich's runes and the witcher's glistening, golden eyes.
Dremor saw everything just fine. While the chemicals of the Cat potion were still pumping in his bloodstream, he could see even in pitch blackness. After noticing that their reaction had become entirely dependent on his own movements with the sword and the glimpse of his eyes, he decided it was time.
In a swift, fluid motion, he took a big step back, sheathed the silver blade and closed his eyes, leaving the beasts in the deepest possible darkness. The werewolves stopped their advance immediately, clearly confused and caught off guard. The prey they had lusted so much was gone, and so was everything around them. Quick and silent, using their perplexed snarls as a reference of their location, he positioned himself next to the closest one and performed the most risky act of the entire plan.
All at once, he opened his eyes, unsheathed Duenmich and slashed at the werewolf's head, while using his left hand to form the quickest Aard Sign he had ever done. It worked like a charm. Unprepared for the sudden assault, the closest sister could not react in time while the silver blade sliced all the way from the back of her nape to the front of her throat, cleanly decapitating the beast with just one blow. The other one, having fully received the air blast from the Sign, would probably be able to recover only in a few seco-
Pain. Sharp, throbbing. Blood gushing out from his face, and a sick numbness that felt like his entire jaw had been ripped out.
Dremor woke up, startled.
Another nightmare, he thought, with a sigh, and one that really happened, for a change. Instinctively, he touched his chin, stating that it was still there. At the time, though, it really seemed as if his whole lower skull had been shredded off.
Now, looking back, he could clearly see what went wrong that night. Evidently, the witcher had once more underestimated their aggressiveness. The instant that light returned to their twisted, bloodthirsty world, they began to act again. Sure, the first of the twins could not move in time to evade the silver blade, but the second one was already on top of him when the Sign had been formed. Instead of knocking her down, the Aard blast only took her off balance, partly deflecting a blow that would have surely killed him otherwise. Even while wounded, however, the rest of the fight was relatively easy, since he only had to face one of them, and it was still pitch black down there.
Noting that dawn was nearing, Dremor got up and left the bed. As usual, Ves was still asleep, nude, happily babbling away amidst the crazy dreams she claimed to have. Only if she knew what I have to go through every night… The mutagens had surely worked their way on his body, since his speed, reflexes, muscular strength and biological features were the same as every other witcher, but it all came with strange side effects he never heard anyone else commentate about.
Each time he slept, a different dream. Vivid, savourable, almost real, and it was always about killing. Was it a spot on reconstruction of a fight that actually happened, like the one he just had, or a completely fictional scene, he always carried the duty of the harbinger of death. In those dreams, while slaying monsters, he was cold and rational, fulfilling his deeds without much care.
The worst nightmares, however, were when he slaughtered people. Inside those ones, a mad rage consumed him, as if he had become a beast himself. He had absolutely no control of his body as he sliced and diced at the corpses of helpless humans, elves, dwarves, and sometimes even halflings. In the end, everyone met a messy, gruesome death by his hands.
Even though she probably had her suspicions, Dremor never told Ves about the dreams. The alchemist already had her hands full at dealing with the way people treated her because of him, and she didn't need yet another reason to worry. At that moment, however, she lied peacefully on the bed. It took a true fanfare to wake her up before eight, and he moved around the room as silent as a shadow. After gathering his clothes and a towel, he went to the bathroom and lit up the fire beneath the porcelain tub. Since we've already spent a fortune, I'll enjoy it as much as I can.
From Dremor's calculations, the guard captain schemed them one hundred and sixty Thalers the day before, and that little play cost him dearly. Ves' contact fetched them a whopping five hundred Thalers for the sacrificial dagger, mostly because of the rubies. They briefly considered returning the surpassing amount in secret, but then changed their minds. Those guards were not worth the trouble. Instead, they rented an entire floor at the most expensive cottage in the city, and spent the night enjoying themselves among luxuries and delights of a life they knew they could never have.
The garnished tub was one of the treats the place provided, as well as a huge crystal mirror notched to the bathroom's front wall. While steam and foam bubbled up from the heating water, the witcher could take a good look at his own figure, and the dream from just now made him focus on Olga.
The scar started just below his right ear, going down while covering the jaw line until the middle of his chin. Granted, there were others on his face, but lesser, almost completely cleared away by time and his very own slow, but sure aging. Olga, on the other hand, was big and intrusive, copper-colored as if the wound had just healed.
As a form of reminder, all of his major scars were named after the beasts that caused them; and if they had no name, he just had to make it up. Olga, for instance, had a fifty percent chance of being named correctly, as he could never know for sure which twin cut him up: when dying on beast form, their bodies remained like that forever, and the sisters didn't have in their belongings any form of identification whatsoever. All things considered, it wasn't that big of a deal, since Olga just sounded way better than Rhena.
After taking a long, relaxing bath, Dremor returned to the bedroom, grabbed his swords and went into the bathroom once again. He did not want to bother the snoring lady. Kneeling on the floor, he started to care for his blades. Duenmich, made of the purest silver, glistened faintly as the witcher carefully moistened it with specially condimented oils. The leather grip was long and thin, a perfect fit for a sword designed to be held with both hands. Reaching to each end of the cross-guard, the metal was expertly chiseled in the form of a scale. This unique craftsmanship was also present on the pommel, whose embossing consistency always reminded him of a hard, cold nut when he handled the sword. All those details harmonized with the runes carved in the blade, which read "dragon's claw" in ancient elvish. After the oiling was done, he rested Duenmich by the wall and grabbed the other one.
Töhra, slightly heavier and bulkier than Duenmich, was made by dwarven hands entirely on reinforced Mahakaman steel. In contrast to the silver blade's shining, vivid nature, the steel sword had a darkened, opaque tone. The guard, bent slightly up, also had a circular rim protection that faced away from the witcher when he handled the sword. Other than the standard, hard-boiled leather wrapping, its grip had no special features, which could also be said about the pommel, with its common, smoothly rounded design.
The blade supposedly was an antique piece found long ago embedded within a dragon skull. Forged in ancient times, the warrior who once brandished it had been swallowed whole and managed to strike the beast from the inside. While the blade hacked from within its head, before its last breath of life, the dragon flooded its own body in hellfire, turning the poor warrior to ashes. The sword, however, was not destroyed, since it was indeed made of the authentic Mahakaman steel. Yet, as a result of that episode, the reinforced metal acquired a scorched shade, impossible to remove by any means physical, chemical or magical; or so that old dwarven merchant told him in Aldersberg. Thus, instead of runes, Töhra displayed a few seemingly charred spots that, although not visually appealing, did not hinder the blade's resistance, handling or performance.
Dremor dearly cherished both blades, caring for them whenever he had a bit of spare time. They were his most aged companions, since all his closer witcher friends from his generation had already died on the Path. He liked to imagine them as two parts of a whole: as the runes clearly indicated, Duenmich was the dragon's claw, twinkling its bright sharpness to anyone who dared to get close enough. On the other hand, Töhra represented the dragon's tooth, directly removed from the majestic creature's skull; scorched from the countless years of contact with the beast's roaring flames, and still just as deadly as ever.
Finishing with the steel blade, the witcher turned again to his silver sword. The oil chemicals had already dried, and the metal displayed a hazy shine. Searching around for the silk cloth used for polishing the swords, he got startled when it popped in front of his face. Ves was handing it to him.
Caring for his blades usually demanded all of his attention, absorbing him in a pleasant state of affection and nostalgia. So it was not to his surprise that he couldn't hear a thing when she awoke, got up, and started to watch him tending to his trade. She always enjoyed keeping up with him when he treated his blades, brewed secret witcher potions with rare ingredients, or even when he meditated. Her curious self deeply admired those who possessed skills and abilities she did not own or know about; and that probably meant she admired a lot of people. Leaning against the open bathroom door, she stood there, in pure awe, naked.
Her short height and goofy personality sometimes mislead him about her age, but during times like this there was no mistake about it. Ves was no kid. Instead, the person in front of him was a perfectly matured young adult. While keeping everything in proportion to her size, her body was a marvel to look at. And he looked, indeed. She had brown hair and eyes, a small curved nose and lips that filled almost half of her face when she smiled. Her small, yet plump bare breasts pointed upfront, watchful. The thighs shaped up perfectly her waistline in a way that-
"Go on, keep doing the... thing with the swords. We can have some fun later." She was still attentively staring at the blades, their shine reflecting lively in her eyes.
Wrapping it firmly to the sharp edges, the witcher slid the silk tissue up, down and around, thoroughly polishing the metal. Slowly, its hazy, opaque brightness turned into the vivid radiance so typical of Duenmich. Before he was done, however, the alchemist interrupted his work.
"Someone's making a real fuss downstairs. It's so loud I can hear it from here."
Taken away from the dozed off state of his care for the blades, Dremor could focus his senses again, and stated that Ves was more than right. On the ground floor, several people screamed at the same time, making it hard for him to understand what was the reason for all that. He could, however, distinguish the voice of the cottage owner, some of the attendants, and a third one that sounded somewhat familiar. After a few loud thuds and more screaming, the witcher noticed who the noisy uninvited guests were.
"Put your clothes on, quick. We'll have company very soon." He warned the alchemist, who promptly started to dress up. He could hear them perfectly now. Metal greaves ascended the stairs, clanking with each step along with the armored breastplates and weaponry. That third known voice sounded clearly, ordering them up: it was Palis. Dremor was about halfway done with his cotton shirt when they entered the main room of the floor he and Ves had rented.
"To the bedroom, boys." The captain of the guard commanded, with triumph. "The two lovebirds must be waiting there." A few moments later, the bald officer and his squad burst from the door.
"Welcome, dear guests. What can I do for you?" Despite Dremor's warm words, his tone and stance clearly revealed his true intentions. The witcher held Töhra close to his chest, defensively, ready to act on the slightest sign of aggressiveness. Noticing that, the guards instantly dropped their stupid grins and assumed a serious expression.
"Now, now, witcher, easy. We just want to talk about some… unfinished business."
"Cut the crap, Palis. What do you want?"
"I want what's mine, and you know it. Where's my dagger, thief?"
"You cheated us, we cheated you back." Ves intervened at the corner of the bedroom, still not entirely dressed, and already furious. "A fine deal, indeed." She added with a daring smile.
"I see, witcher, that you already polluted this girl's mind with your twisted logic and barbaric manners." Ves' taunt obviously hit a nerve, since Palis' usually calm voice sounded dry and rasp. The guards also felt it, and began to ready their weapons. Trouble's very near, thought the witcher, worried for the alchemist. I can smell blood, already.
Before any rash actions, however, he quickly did the math. Clumped in the bedroom were eight people: himself, Ves, Palis, and another five guards. His potential foes were using metal plating on their chests, leggings and greaves, standard iron helmets, and chained gloves. Four of them, including the captain, used longswords, and each of the other two held a strange polearm similar to a halberd. Dremor had his brown leather pants, a plain, white cotton shirt half buttoned up, and Töhra.
He could kill them all, right there.
And then he would become a true criminal. Self-defense or not, it wouldn't matter. The story of the crazy witcher who slew several Cidarian guards in a horrid outbreak of madness would reach every far corner of the northern kingdoms, and beyond. It would even drag Ves down to the same hole, since she would be associated with a wanted murderer. The true happiness of her life, alchemy and commerce, would be forever doomed. She would never again be spoken to in the same way by anyone that knew who she was or whom she lived with. Thinking of her, Dremor made his decision.
Kneeling to the ground, he slowly raised one of his hands; with the other, he laid the steel sword on the wooden floor and pushed it away. The blade slid to the opposite side of the room, poking lightly into the door frame. Standing up again, the witcher spoke in the most conciliatory tone he could manage, given the situation at hand.
"We-… I… I've sold the dagger and spent most of the money already… I can give you what's left, and then negotiate a price. I'll owe you, we can even make a letter of obligation, if you want. A contract. Give me a few weeks, and you'll have your money back, with interest. I just don't want any more trouble."
At first, Palis didn't seem to understand what had just happened, and just stood there, staring at the couple with a confused look on his face. Didn't think I would give up that easily, eh? The other guards weren't any better, either, since apparently all they could muster was looking at their equally perplexed officer, waiting for an order. After taking a few moments to digest that sudden turn of events, however, Palis finally noticed he had the upper hand. With that sick smile of his and a mocking voice tone, he began his speech.
"I'll be honest with you, witcher. I prepared this whole task force because I feared you. I knew that, if I brought a whole armed squad, you would at least consider making a deal, given that you were protecting those little tits behind you. I thought you were a force to be reckoned with, but now I know I gave you too much credit. You're just stupid. You gave us the chance to force the deal and beat you both to a pulp."
"Don't be this low, Palis. It's not going to end well."
"Ohh, freak. For this opportunity, I would sink much lower. I and the boys here always wanted to punch the flesh of a witcher to see if it's harder than usual. And now, we can even do that while ploughing his own little wench on their lovely rented bed. Now, let's-"
"Before anything else, just answer me. Why?"
Dremor had never, in any moment of his life, doubted the bad side of humankind. People were simply evil, sadistic and selfish by nature, fearing and shunning everything different and (to their eyes) inferior. Yet he knew that, sometimes, pure violence and bigotry were not so pure, so out of purpose. Hell, he couldn't remember the amount of times he was scorned for being a child kidnapper. Even though he wasn't, he knew that many of the old ladies who spat while he passed actually lost their kids to other witchers on silent, unsuspecting nights.
Given that scenario, Dremor liked to play this little mental game where he wagered the odds: was the individual in front of him acting with a purpose, or was that just another display of a rotten personality? It was always fun to stay against humanity itself, because doing so made it seem like there was another gambler on the mix. With Palis, was there anything that could explain all this hatred, or was it just humans being humans? As usual, his bets were on the latter.
"Why, you ask? Is there any reason not to? You're a freak, nobody cares about you, and we want to let out some steam. In fact, we don't even have to put up this little show anymore." From the leather purse he was carrying, he removed the same ritual dagger Dremor and Ves had stolen and sold the day before. "It was easy to track this down to the last buyer. I have eyes all over the market."
"So, you only came here to rub it on our faces and then beat the shit out of us, just because you can?" Ves asked, dryly.
"Finally, someone who understands me! Took your sweet time, huh, sugar?"
Touché, humankind. I win once again.
"I first thought you were here to collect a debt." She continued, poison oozing from every word. "But, in the end, you're just scum. Filth. Trash." With each punctuated sentence, Palis' expression became more and more dreadful. Once again, the alchemist managed to rile him up, but this time it seemed worse. Unsheathing his blade, he issued the order.
"Changed my mind. You can play all you want with this whore, but slit her throat afterwards." His crazed look went from Ves to Dremor. "The witcher dies, now." The soldiers also readied themselves, and advanced.
As quickly as he did before, Dremor calculated the odds of the fight. The variables remained pretty much the same, except for the fact that all the soldiers, but especially Palis, had a clear bloodlust consuming their minds. Oh, and there was that. He didn't have Töhra anymore.
He could still kill them all, right there. Although he hoped he didn't have to go that far.
Once they started to get close, the witcher took two quick steps forward with his inhuman speed. Caught off guard, the first soldier wasn't able to parry or dodge his punch. Dremor could feel the chin shatter under his fist, and the man dropped like dead. Hopefully not.
With five foes remaining and the surprise factor out of the way, the witcher could only catch a glimpse of Ves running away from the room before being engaged by the others, but just that already lifted a huge burden out of his chest. Now they could dance at his pace. Since the guards were heavily armored everywhere else, the front of their faces was the only vulnerable place he could actually deal significant damage with his bare hands and feet, so that's where he aimed. That much protection, however, also encumbered them, and they moved heavily around the place, trying to catch him.
The bedroom was not that small, but also not big enough to allow them any coordinated act whatsoever. He dodged a swing from his left, ducked away from a close-range halberd thrust, and formed the Aard Sign at his front, knocking two of them to the ground, helmets flying away. Without losing momentum, he rushed forward to the fallen foes and brutally kicked the first one in the face while he tried to get up; the second was almost on his feet, but another Aard blast launched him across the room once more, making his head hit the wooden footboard of the bed with a loud thud. Both stayed down for good, but Dremor didn't go unscathed after all that: he had shallow cuts all over his body, but a particularly ugly one on his left thigh would make his movements slower for the rest of the fight.
He turned back to his foes and resumed his dance, swaying away from their blades and searching for openings, but it got harder than before. Now, there were only three remaining, and with not so many people fighting around the clumped place, the guards moved freely and were able to somewhat synchronize their attacks and evade the witcher's hexes. After dodging Palis' blade, he barely managed to cast a Quen Sign before another blow hit the middle of his chest. The magic shield absorbed all the damage, but was instantly broken, shattering in a burst of energy around the witcher that made his foes back off for a brief moment.
Dremor used that chance to maneuver around the place, and as soon as he found the perfect spot for it, he cast an Yrden Sign on the ground. The purple magic field covered a fair part of the room, and it worked wonders, drastically reducing the speed of his closing attackers. The two soldiers on the back promptly backed away from the area affected by the Sign when they saw the one at the front suddenly get slower.
"Fuck, cap, he's too quick!" screamed the guard in frustration, trying to hit the witcher with the halberd.
"So step out of his witchcraft, stupid fool!" Palis hissed in response, trying to catch a breath inside the heavy, plated armor. Only then the halberdier noticed he was inside the purple field, together with the witcher. Not wanting to lose that opportunity, while the soldier attempted to back away from the affected area, Dremor closed the distance, grabbed the weapon's wooden pole with both hands and pulled it down, trying to disarm his opponent; but the guard didn't let go of it, and was also pulled down, bent over. Oh, if that's what you want… The witcher then jumped and raised his right knee, fully connecting it with the face of the poor bastard. Blood exploded from his broken nose and mouth as the impact launched him across the room. He hit the ground and didn't get up.
"Why don't you catch any of our weapons and fight back, witcher? You sure had plenty of chances to do so." Palis seemed curious, yet he did not dare to step into the Yrden field. "Could it be you're afraid of… some sort of public backlash? Since when the folk's opinion started to matter that much to you?" The fucker's smart, I have to throw him off.
"Actually, no." Dremor answered, wearing his most disgusting and prepotent smile. Downstairs, he could hear more turmoil and screaming. He had to finish this quickly. "I just wanted some handicap because it looked like fun, to see if you humans would be a match for my skills, but it seems not. You're just inferior beings not worthy of my tim-" As soon as the Yrden field was down, Palis advanced like a bull, charging at the witcher with all his might. Dremor simply took a sidestep at the last moment, leaving his left foot behind. The captain stumbled vigorously and fell face first on the wooden floor.
As Palis struggled to get up again, removing his own bent, bloodied helmet, the witcher dealt with the last remaining guard. He was fast and skilled, but also scared, his eyes never facing Dremor's. That's right. This freak here just wiped out your entire squad with his bare hands, and now it's your turn. Cornering him between the wall and the bed, the witcher slipped past the longsword's range, grabbed the soldier's wrists, and bludgeoned his face with the guard of the sword while he was still holding it; until he wasn't anymore. Passed out, he collapsed on top of the mattress.
In order to face the captain once more, Dremor turned just in time to see Ves striking him from behind. She swung a huge alchemy bottle with both hands, outlining an upward arc until the glass shattered with a sick crack into his skull. His whole body stiffened for a brief moment, and then he plummeted forward, hitting the floor in the exact same standing stance he was a while ago. It would be hilarious, if not so potentially tragic. With quick steps, Dremor reached the alchemist and removed the broken bottle remains from her trembling hands.
"D… Did I kill him?" Kneeling to the ground, he checked Palis' pulse. It was still there.
"He's not dead, but when he wakes up, the headache will surely make him wish he was." Sighing in relief, she looked at the other guards. They all seemed fine, but they had no time to check every one of them. "Clothes, instruments, grab everything you need. We're leaving as soon as you're ready."
"Already am." She picked up an overly sized backpack from behind the mahogany door. "Started packing as soon as I left the room. Figured we'd have to hit the road when you were done with them."
"Good. We're going, just give me a minute." For good measure, Dremor wrapped his thigh injury firmly with some tissue, stopping the bleeding and numbing down the throbbing pain for a bit. He then slipped inside his leather padded gear and grabbed his swords. Before leaving, both wore their long hooded mantles. On their way down, they met the cottage owner, who was walking up the stairs with a grim expression and a broken nose. When he looked under their hoods, he seemed equally delighted and uneasy.
"Good gods, you're fine! I wanted to check on you because those officers from before were really angry at you both. I thought th-"
"Why did you come up right now?" Suspicious, the witcher grabbed the old man by the collar, looking at him directly in the eyes. "If you were that worried, you would've came much sooner. Are there more soldiers? Are you working with them?" He felt the man shrink away from his gaze. Gotcha.
"They forced me. They said I had to lure you down, so they could ambush you downstairs with a suh-surprise attack." Trembling, he started to cry copiously, stuttering with each sob. "Puh-puh-please, help me, master witcher. They'll cuh-cuh-kill my daughters if I don't come back wih-with you."
"Calm down, I believe you."
"Wha-!"
"Not now, Ves. Don't worry, we won't walk into their trap." The witcher opened a nearby window and looked down to the street. A four meter drop, I think we should be fine. "Look, mister…?"
"Guh-Gilbert."
"Mister Gilbert, when they ask anything, and they will ask, tell them you met us on the stairs and I instantly knocked you out, got it?" He nodded frantically and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. And the inevitable hit him hard. After taking the witcher's punch, the poor old man collapsed like a ragdoll.
"Wow, Dre, you could've held back a little. His face looks like a red-seasoned, mashed potato."
"No, I had to go all out. The guards wouldn't believe a single word of his otherwise." Not wanting to waste any time, Dremor picked up the alchemist in his arms. "Hold on tight. We're jumping."
"Down the street? Are you sure it's a good ide-AAAAHH!" Landing on his feet, he distributed the weight by bending his knees to allow his lower body to absorb most the impact; efficient and silent. Still hurt like hell, though. "Shit, I was too loud, now they'll be after us".
"That's what I want. It would seem like a hurried makeshift plan, and help Gilbert's version of the story. There they are." From the street corner, city guards spotted them and rushed to their direction, screaming orders. "Run!"
They were chased from the city outskirts where the inn was located all the way to the seaside market. Dremor carried Ves' ridiculously heavy bag, and still managed to bolt ahead, clearing the path of any bystanders. The soldiers, armed and armored to the teeth, lagged further and further behind. When the distance seemed right, the witcher shortened the gap between him and Ves and entered the dark alleys of the market. Sewing his way through the tight corridors and lanes, he ran in circles for a couple of minutes and then made several sharp turns, in order to lose their pursuers. Next to a dead end, facing the city walls, they hid inside an abandoned shack and waited for the guards to move to another area.
"Pretty comfy down here, all things considered." Remarked the alchemist after a few minutes of silence and tension.
"Shh, be quiet, or they'll find us," scolded Dremor in a low voice, peeking at the street.
"Oh, come on, they're already far from here. We should leave already."
"Too risky. We should wait a little longer to make sure the place is safe." Another pause to scan the surroundings, and again she resumed the conversation.
"A little bit off topic, but I really liked the way you held me back at the inn. You could be more romantic at times, you know that?"
"Huh, I guess I could." Certainly wouldn't hurt to try.
"Yeah, that's the spirit!" Her face lit up in a dreamy smile. "So, when we leave, you could hold me in your arms again, like a maiden from a fairytale!"
"Don't push it. I'm already encumbered enough by this huge bag of yours." As quickly as it came, her smile turned into a sulky pout. They waited some more, then decided it was safe to leave.
"Just for a couple blocks?" She insisted, with a hopeful look.
"Not gonna happen." She was about to complain once more when he swept his arm in front of her, blocking the way.
All of a sudden, the witcher felt a close presence appear out of nowhere. Turning a close corner, a shady figure approached. He… No, it. It wore a dirty travelling vest, its face covered in a ragged hood. Strange. Too close, I should've felt this coming way earlier. Dremor rested his other hand over both the swords sheathed at his back, not knowing for sure which one to choose. Looks human, but this aura is so very strange that Duenmich doesn't seem like a bad option, either. Noticing the witcher's uneasiness, the figure ahead raised its arms, in a sign of truce, and removed the hood. It was a plain, middle-aged man, with scarce black hair that was already graying and a scared expression.
"Sorry if I spooked ya, master witcher, please dun' kill me."
"Who are you? What do you want with us?" Finally making his decision, Dremor reached for Töhra's leather grip. "And how do you know I'm a witcher?"
"Two swords on the back, sire. I was sent here by my village to search one of youse. We need help."
"And how did you know I was here?"
"But I didn't, sire! Just heard a few guards screamin' about catchin' a witcher, so thought to meself: 'better look around, maybe I'll find him hiding somewhere'. But this side o' town is too scary, and while looking for youse I ended up hiding meself."
"Fine." He let go of both Ves and the steel sword. He was, indeed, talking to the alchemist for a while, and could have missed this man's approach, considering he was also trying to hide his presence. Have to be more careful. My senses are getting duller with age. "I would like to help you and your village, but we're trapped in this damned city. They'll keep every entrance locked up until they find us. And they will, sooner or later."
"Ohh, sorry to hear that. But if ye can't help it, then ye can't help it. I'm goin' back to the boat then".
"Boat?!" Ves exclaimed, surprising even herself. "You got a boat?"
"Yes. A big fishin' boat, the only one the village could spare for my trip."
"We could get away in it, Dre! There's no way the guards can check every ship that gets in and out of the city. It's a seaside bazaar, for Melitele's sake!"
"Can you take us to the village?" The witcher asked.
" 'f course, master witcher! Tha's why I came here in the firs' place!"
"Let's get moving then, we still have to reach the boat while avoiding the guards. Tread light, and be quick."
Dremor lead the way, followed closely by his other companions; three hooded figures that slithered away amidst the dark alleys of the Cidarian market.