The world was red.
Dark red, bright red, deep red. Blood red.
People begged for mercy, crying, yelling and running around in circles, trying to escape their inevitable death by his hands. The blade descended upon them nonstop, its swings and swirls whistling a requiem that resonated deeply inside his mind.
There was fire, too, and pain. But his senses were already dulled, and only rage remained. He could feel his mind going blank as he also bled to death from several wounds in his own body. Grimly, the people around him transformed, becoming less human and more beast by every passing moment. Just like him.
Still hacking and screaming, he took a long time to realize that everything around him had already died, and what he slashed at were, in fact, lifeless chunks of meat sprayed around the place. Now it was all red, not only in his mind. His sight was blurred with blood pouring from his head, and his body was probably in no better shape.
In the distance, beyond the gore and carnage, he could distinguish a figure lying on the floor. It caused him a deep and sick repulse, yet some strange primeval force drew him to it, even though he clearly didn't want to know what it was. Step by step, he forced himself forward, trying his best not to stumble and fall to the ground, for he knew if that were to happen, he would never get up again.
It was a small lifeless body, relatively untouched and clean. Female. Terrified, he started to resemble who that was by each nearing step. His conscience screamed and howled, craving to leave that unforgiving place, but every cell of his body acted otherwise. And then, he was close enough.
The touch was the same. The feel of her skin, her hair. But she was still bent over, facing the opposite direction, so he wasn't sure. He didn't want to know. But he had to know. And, deep inside, he already knew. His hand slowly reached to her face and turned it back, his mental breakdown now causing a sharp physical pain.
Ves stared at him with blank eyes and a sad smile. Dripping from the corner of her lips, blood also flowed from several wounds on her chest and neck, surely caused by him during his surge of rage and madness.
That was enough. Now even his body wanted to leave, to run away from there, to forget all about what happened, but he was unable to. He didn't have the strength to stand up. I am also dying. With the little energy he had left, he turned her body over and placed her head on his lap. After looking down at her final complexion, he closed his eyes and allowed the last remnants of life to leave his body in a calm and steady stream.
Shivering, Dremor woke up on Ves' arms. She seemed really worried.
"I knew you had nightmares, but had no idea they were this terrible." She gently wiped the sweat from his forehead and hugged him tight. "You were trembling and writhing, as if you were in pain."
"Never this terrible." Surely, he killed people before in his dreams, but never Ves. And never so real, so personal. "I'm sorry for making you worry so much. I'm fine now."
"It must be really hard." She cuddled closer, looking at him in the eyes. "I'm not gonna force you, but if you wanna talk about it, you know I'm always here."
"I know." He hugged her back and kissed her deeply. "I love you, Ves." Clearly caught off guard, she blushed and turned her face away. "What's wrong? You were the one who said I had to be more romantic at times." He loved everything about her, starting by her name.
At the time, Ves was a very common name in the northern kingdoms. Tales of the sanctified merchant Gregory, who donated most of his fortune to feed the population of Novigrad during the city's deepest crisis, were spread among the countries for decades. Ves, his all so bright and beloved wife, was often described in the stories as attentive, intellectual, and stunningly beautiful.
As a result of those tales, their names became really popular, even though, Dremor didn't doubt, those were characters that nowadays diverged completely from their true original personalities. Mothers named their daughters after the lovely Ves, and fathers wanted their Gregory sons to be as smart and benevolent as the sanctified merchant. Time passed, and the traditional names started to mutate, adapting to each region and the accent of its people. Gregory was sometimes shortened into Grey, Gory, or simply Greg; on the other hand, with Ves, it was easier to find people named after the extended variations, such as Vince, Venna, or even Visenna.
Dremor had absolutely no problems with this whole story, since the traditional Ves, which gave birth to all those different pronunciations of the female name, derived from the ancient Zerrikanian name Vea. He was aware that most people didn't know that, and those who knew probably didn't even care. Nonetheless, having his own biological origins influence so many names of the folk from the northern realms filled him with some strange kind of joy.
"Y-yeah, I know I said that, but this was so sudden that… I'm just not used to it, that's all." She peeked behind the witcher. "And besides, we're not alone." Dremor turned his head to check on their companion. Olme, the fisherman who found them on the Cidarian alleys, gripped the helm with both hands. He snored peacefully, his head tilting up and down on the slow rhythm of the waves.
"I don't think he would mind, Ves. He's asleep." The witcher thought briefly about flirting with her again, and then common sense made its way into his mind. He's supposed to take us to his village. If he's asleep, who's guiding us? "Better wake him up, though, before we end up entering the Pontar, or something worse." Dremor got up and wore his cotton shirt, shifting his weight around the ship. Just that slight change of balance on the vessel was already enough to awaken the sleeping man.
"O-Oy… Master witcher, already up?"
"Don't mind me if I ask, Olme, but how are we supposed to go the right way when you sleep like that?"
"Dun' worry, sire. We's already in the cold Nova curr'nt. It takes us straight to the village."
"How long until we're there?" The fisherman straightened his hand above the eyes and peeked forward.
"Not much. Maybe 'n hour or two. The fog is near."
Their escape from the city was way easier than Dremor initially pictured. The witcher wore his hood to cover Ves' bag and his swords, making him the weirdest hunchback alive. His disfigured self attracted all of the attention, while both his companions treaded behind virtually unnoticed. When the trio entered the dirty fishing boat, announcing their leave to a poor faraway village, the guards didn't even bat an eye. As they finally left the Cidarian shore, Olme explained the situation as best he could.
Located on a small drifted isle, the village, named Lindale, was cursed. After becoming shrouded by a dense mist, its climate took a turn for the worst, and the once warm weather was now cold and dry. Farming was near impossible, since it never rained and the underground water pockets barely managed to provide enough drinking water for everyone. To make matters worse, people started to go missing, and the surrounding woods and shores became infested with ghastly wraiths that haunted the populace on the coldest nights.
Nobody was able to discover a plausible cause for the curse, as most of their energy was devoted to simply staying alive. They tried hunting, but there were already few animals on the island to begin with, and the forest became a dangerous place with all the specters roaming about. Fishing was their only safe, reliable food source, and even that got worse as time went by. The mist turned the water excessively cold, driving away most of the fish, and it seemed to advance further and further ahead, making the island more isolated by each passing day. If the curse was not lifted soon enough Lindale would wither away and die, together with all its residents.
As soon as they entered the fog, his medallion started to tingle and slightly wriggle around, making a rattling sound that deeply unsettled Ves, since she always associated it with imminent danger. Ever since they started traveling together, Dremor made sure that association would be clear and immediate in her mind. The fog seemed to be connected with magic, and if that was the case, then the tingling wouldn't stop so soon. Thus, at least to stop the damn clinking noise, he put the medallion under his cotton shirt and hoped for the best.
Almost an hour later, the island revealed itself, and Dremor acknowledged that Olme wasn't overstating when he said the shore had been taken by wraiths. Floating all over the beach, their fading existences swarmed around aimlessly. If the boat passed just a few dozen meters closer, they'd be able to notice our presences. That would've turned out very ugly for us. Following the current, the vessel traversed through the edge of the shore, outlining its shape.
"So many of them!" Ves exclaimed, gaped. "You'll have to fight this many monsters, Dre?"
"We'll see, but hopefully not." The witcher turned to the fisherman. "Is every part of the island infested like this?"
"Nay, sire. This' one of the worst places, but I dunno much else. Joan will explain e'rry detail ye need when we arrive."
"Who's this Joan you speak so much of?"
"He's the village couns'lor, our mentor. He's wise 'n fair, we can always count on 'im when times 're hard".
"He's your local leader, then."
"Well, I guess ye can say that."
They followed the current for a while before catching sight of the village. It was bigger than Dremor expected, although its size most certainly didn't reflect on the population number. The harbor was small and tight, with barely enough room for their big fishing boat to anchor, but Olme maneuvered steady and precise, repeating the same moves he undoubtedly performed during countless years of his life.
As soon as the witcher stepped into the island's accursed soil, he knew this wouldn't be just another ordinary job. Forget about tingling; now his medallion flickered and twitched beneath his clothes, practically humming away at the rhythm of his heartbeats. There's some strong, ancient magic taking place here, and it sure won't be easy to even figure it out, let alone defeat it.
It was cold and arid. The mist scratched his throat every time he had to breathe, as if the air itself sucked all humidity it encountered, and it didn't take long for his eyes to become irritated and itchy. The sun was present, but just barely, as a vague memory, a clear yet distant remembrance of what it once was; its rays not warm anymore after traversing through countless layers of clouds and fog.
The houses were plain, built mostly on eucalyptus wood with simple stone foundations, yet very spacious. The couple followed the fisherman through rough compacted dirt streets, heading straight to Joan's residence. The first people they met didn't seem to recognize Dremor at first, but a closer look and a few interchanged whispers were more than enough to reassure themselves about it. Their reactions, however, didn't change much from when they didn't know who he was. There was nothing else on their eyes, no exasperation, no fear, no curiosity, just grief. And death.
No one spoke to them as they passed through the dense maze of short streets and straight alleys that composed the village's architecture. Although what bothered Dremor the most was the fact that nobody followed them. Usually, even when folk pretended they weren't interested or were too scared to say anything, a procession was sure to follow the witcher's path to the settlement leader. At that time, on the other hand, people kept minding their own business as if the monster slayer didn't exist.
Their walk ended at a wide square paved in cobblestone bricks. It was the little town's trading spot, and also the main branch from where the biggest streets sprouted from. At the square's northern end, the village counselor's house imposed itself, being the only residence boasting two floors and lonely occupying the area of half a block. It also had an upper balcony and a life-sized female statue a few yards across the front door. The gardens that surrounded its short outer walls were blooming with white mirtles, dandelions and sunflowers. Cultivated through magic, without a doubt. It doesn't matter how experienced of a gardener you are, there is simply no conventional way of keeping so many flowers alive in this twisted weather.
Dodging the woman statue as if it could turn alive and catch him if he gave it a chance, Olme knocked gravely on the huge front door. A soft female voice answered from upstairs.
"Who is it?"
" 's me, Miss Luci. I brought a witcher for our troubles"
"Stay put, I'll be with you in a minute." Turning to his companions, the fisherman spoke in a hurried tone.
"Miss Luci is Joan's woman. She dun' like rude manners or t'be stared at, so watch it, ye both."
While they waited, the witcher could hear Luci inside the house. She walked from room to room, carrying tableware around. After a while, apparently satisfied with what she was doing, she met them at the door.
Indeed, she could have problems with staring. I could stare at her all day and never be bothered to look elsewhere. The woman displayed a mature, refined beauty that Dremor instantly associated with the elves', although she didn't have their distinctive pointed ears. She was also the figure depicted by the statue behind them.
"Pleased to meet you, I am Lucienne." She measured them both with her bright brown eyes. "I take it you already know, at least to some extent, the problems we are having in these parts."
"I told them all I know, Miss." Olme was evidently doing his best to control his accent, and it was a fierce battle. "We even seen the ghosts on the beach."
"Good, Olme. Thank you for everything." For a split second, the witcher thought he had sensed the glimpse of a deep, strong hatred kindle her eyes as she spoke to the aged man, but it was gone so fast he couldn't be sure if it was real or just his imagination. "I'll take the guests inside now."
"Right. Good bye, Miss, tell Joan I said hi." The couple also bid farewell to the fisherman, thanking him once more for saving them from the Cidarian city guard, and followed the hostess inside the mansion. She guided them through well-lit corridors, rooms and halls, all of which heavily adorned with beautifully carved furniture.
"I didn't think Olme would return so soon, so I wasn't expecting any visitors for a while. Please, excuse me if the house might seem a bit messy."
"You're joking, right?" Ves answered, whistling. "I haven't seen a house this tidy since the last time I was at home, and my mom was a real cleaning freak." Dremor could feel the lady straighten uncomfortably ahead, in disapproval. Before the alchemist could spout any more nonsense, he kicked her on the back of her leg, just above the tendon. She got the message. They stopped in one of the many living rooms, where Lucienne had previously arranged the tableware for an afternoon tea.
"Please make yourselves comfortable, I'll be right back." She headed to the neighboring room and started to heat the water, handling several pots and pans at the same time. So there's the kitchen. Or a kitchen, for all I know. While he tried to concentrate on what the hostess might be doing, Ves' flaming eyes caught his attention.
"That fucking hurt!" She whispered at him, baffled. "You trying to cripple me or something?"
"If that's what it takes to make you shut up, then yes. If it wasn't for your sweet voice back there, I could swear it was a troll speaking out loud. Didn't you hear Olme say she hates rude manners?"
"Yeah, I remember he also said she doesn't like being stared at, but that didn't stop you from gobbling her up with those cat eyes of yours."
"I-… I didn't stare that long…"
"She's gorgeous, right? What, now, you fancy her or someth-…" Sensing Lucienne's movements nearby, the witcher stopped her mockery with another kick under the table. Lightly, this time. The lady returned with a hot teapot and a few spoons. Without even asking if they wanted it or not, she filled three cups of tea and seasoned them with mint and cinnamon. While she was at it, Dremor took another good look.
Her black hair was evenly cut and pulled back in a short braid that reached just below her shoulders. Now that they were closer, he could see that her cheeks were slightly colored up, and her eyes were swollen. Also, she didn't wear any make-up. She was crying a few minutes ago, just before we arrived. Her dress was a bit too tight in the chest area, and her breasts wobbled around as she mixed the spic-
Ves' kick was so powerful that the whole table trembled, making the teacups and dishes clink vigorously. Holding a cry of pain and massaging his right leg, he looked down at his own cup and lightly nodded. Got it. I'll stop it now. Finishing with the tea, Lucienne pulled a chair for herself and took a seat across the table, facing the couple. Before she could bring any conversation topics, however, the witcher took the initiative.
"I must say, milady, this is all very strange."
"How so?"
"You see… I'm a witcher, a mutant, a freak, you name it. Common people scorn me as I pass, and nobles even avoid making eye contact, let alone letting me within their houses. Yet here I am, inside a beautiful mansion, sitting comfortably on a cushioned oak-carved chair and drinking seasoned tea made by your own hands. I've lived a long life already, but this is definitely a first for me."
"Well… When you put it like that, it must really seem very strange." Her weak smile could mean pretty much anything, and her body expressions revealed nothing at all. She's definitely not easy to read. Trying so hard to be neutral… so polite… There's gotta be a catch to all this. "But considering that you accepted to help us in this delicate matter, it's easy for me to overlook the differences between us and treat you gently, just as I would with anyone else." There it is. They really seemed desperate about this whole island situation, and Dremor wasn't about to let them swirl him up in this little game.
"And that's already one misjudgment of your part. I didn't accept this job yet. I'm here to discuss the details, fill in the blanks left by Olme, and most importantly, to bargain for my reward." Dremor then wore his most sick, defiant smile. "And just from what I've already seen and heard, this is no 'delicate matter', but an outright mess. We're dealing with powerful magic and many dangerous creatures. If you want to talk business, then let's talk business; there's no need for fake smiles and polite measures anymore." He emptied his cup in one swig. The tea's good, though. "You're not softening me up anymore, Miss Lucienne. Bring in Joan, I wish to speak to him. He's been hearing our conversation for a while, no doubts about that."
After a brief moment of hesitation, the hostess got up and smiled again, this time, revealing her own defeat. She slightly bowed to Ves, who watched the whole scene wide-eyed, and got very close to the witcher. When she was just beside his chair, she bent over and whispered to his ear:
"You seem to be the right one for this. Now don't fuck it up, okay?" Even with her voice as low as it was, he could feel it tremble with that same uncontrollable hatred that seemed to emanate from her a few minutes ago. She straightened up and made another curtsy, this time directed at both guests. When she spoke, her voice was once again soft and calm. "Joan will speak with you shortly. Please, do remain seated and comfortable, it won't be long." She left from the same door they used to enter the room, and Ves didn't waste any time.
"So much for keeping good manners in check, huh?" She hummed, smiling from ear to ear. She's really enjoying herself, this little… "I think it would be best if you let me handle the interrogation next time. Using your own terms, a troll would've been more subtle while speaking to the lady. That grin of yours makes my insides turn ugly."
"I'll explain it all later, Ves, but we don't have time now. I can hear the contractor's footsteps, and I need you to leave all the talking to me."
"It goes without saying." She answered, with a playful wink. "Go get'em, tiger."
The man who entered the room was, without a doubt, of noble lineage. He was tall, thin, and fair-haired, with light facial features and deep green eyes. He wore a black tanned doublet, heavy leather trousers and long hunting boots. The man also had a sword strapped to his belt, but as soon as he noticed the witcher's gaze, he took it off and placed it over a wall hanger. He steadily approached their table and took a seat, right where Lucienne was a while ago.
"Well, I guess there's no need for introductions. You clearly saw through my gamble, and I'm entirely at fault. There's no way to say it nicely: we're desperate for help. So, how do you want this conversation to go, master witcher?" Nicely played, now it appears like I'm in control, but you're still the one with all the information. We'll try to turn that around, one step at a time.
"Tell me everything, from the start. How it all began, and what's the situation right now. I'll wait 'till you're done, then I'll ask my questions. That good enough for you?"
"So be it, then." He got up and started to walk around the room, halting every few seconds to fix his clothes. After a short while, he stopped in front of the table, cleared his throat, and began his speech. "This island never had an official name, but folk used to call it Nürand." Elven origins. This place is old. "Yes, an elven name, which most likely goes back to our origins. But, as usual, as generations went by, our human traits became more and more prominent, to a point where even the island name changed to Nurland. Nowadays, I believe one of the last remnants of our elven lineage is present in my wife, whom you just met."
"A resemblance, yes." The witcher nodded. "But the old blood is already scarce in her. She doesn't have pointed ears, and I'm pretty sure she ages just the same as anybody else on the island."
"You're right. But this is not the main topic of our conversation." He searched through some of the chests and cabinets, grabbing a tied parchment at the bottom of a drawer. "This is the map of the island." Stretching the scroll over the table, Joan displayed a very well structured and detailed design of the island, circling two spots with a feather pen. "Nurland has-… had, two villages. The one we're at, Lindale, is located on the southern shore, here. The other one, on the north-western edge, is no more. It has been taken by monsters after the accident."
"Hey, slow down, you jumped a few steps just now. You were telling me about the ancient elven origins of the people from the island, and now we're already discussing the monsters that haunt the place? I need the whole story." The man sighed and shook his head. For a moment, the witcher thought he might have pushed a little too hard, but then Joan let out a tired laugh, and his face opened up in a smile.
"Well, if you really want the full explanation, then introductions are indeed necessary." He unbuttoned the doublet, removing the heavy garb and placing it over the same wall hanger where his sword rested, and then performed a complex reverence. "I am Joan of Nurland, counselor of Lindale and former mayor of Thome." Dremor thought the man wanted to make more of an impact, since he just stood there, knee to the ground and head tilted down. Then Ves nudged him on the shoulder. Oh.
"I am Dremor of…" Where did I come from? Zerrikania? But I can't be completely sure about that. From Kaer Morhen? Nah, too plain… But what then? I've already taken too long here! See, folks? Proper human relations can also be very hard. "Just Dremor is fine. I'm a witcher."
"And I…" Ves also made a curtsy, just as complicated as the one Joan performed before. "Am Ves Rayla of Vizima. I am a herbalist and an alchemist. We're at your care." Joan held her hand and lightly kissed its back. He then got up and extended his hand to Dremor.
Well, there's another first.
The witcher and the noble firmly shook hands, flesh onto leather; their eyes steady, staring at each other, yellow onto green. Unwavering green.