With a Name Like Midden…
Geralt wasn't entirely sure what to expect of the secluded hamlet they called Midden. The Path had never brought him this way before, so he knew the town only as a tiny dot marked on a handful of maps. It was tucked well within Nilfgaard held territories, so Geralt reasoned any wounds left by the war would've scabbed over.
If so that meant he was finding Midden on a good day.
A sobering thought.
The village could be seen miles off by the billows of hearth smoke. They rose in curls white as curdling milk and about as pleasant to behold. They filled the skies in a bleary smog, rising from crooked black-grey smokestacks, fed by damp lumber.
They hung over a town of wooden hutches piled together from rough, aged lumber, most of it driftwood. The town was more repurposed flotsam and jetsam than quality board carpentry, and it showed. A stiff wind or a sudden squall looked right to bowl the whole place over.
Half of the town already was, as Geralt lead Roach along the main road, he found half the homes in ruined, their collapsed frames reduced to blackened charcoal sodden from heavy rainfall. Nilfgaard had left it's mark, sweeping north.
Geralt could see that in the shambles of the village proper, and on the ashen looks the local color wore. Their faces were black with pitch, eyes heavy from sobbing and lack of rest. They hunkered down as he passed, watching him like rabbits would watch a hunter from the brush. Husbands shooed their wives and gave him hard looks. While children ceased their play and scampered back to the arms of their mothers.
A witcher's usual reception, just a shade grimmer and dourer.
Perhaps exactly what you'd expect from someplace named after a garbage heap.
Names could tell you a lot of things about places. And a name like Midden told you nothing good.
Geralt's keen nose caught all manner of scents in the air. There was an odor of wet wood and muddy earth as you might expect, and the always pleasant reek of unwashed peasant. But fouler smells cloyed in the air. Buckthorn from the deep brooks just east mingled with the smells of town. Smells of rotting meat and starving cattle and goats with fecal-flecked hides left to slowly die in their own waste. The smell of discarded and half-eaten meals of pike and roach, with a few hints of squirrel. There was a scent too of blood and ashes, of sweat and salt.
A stench of misery and sin and waste.
Put plainly Midden stank like the refuse it was named for, and being a Witcher Geralt could smell every subtle nuance of its foulness.
There was a downside to his mutations, he supposed.
"Who's he then?" A young voice spoke off to his right.
"Don't be daft 'Arry. A witcher isn't he. See 'is eyes?" Spoke another.
"A Witcher. So he's here about Ol' Meddcar then?"
"Sure 'ope so. Miss huntin' frogs in the forest streams. Mum won't let me play there 'til he's gone. Says it ain't safe with all the folk gone missin'."
Monster in the Woods it sounds like. Leshen? Fiend? It's work at least. Just hope it pays well.
Geralt brushed on by, casting a second glance along the mud-strewn streets, stopped every now and again by a half-drunk peasant or a wandering hog. Somehow he doubted the villagers had enough coin between them to post a half-decent reward.
His only hopes thus lay in the Nilfgaardian garrison he'd heard lay just on the outskirts, at the feet of an old manse. He brushed on through the streets and found the notice board about where he expected to, on a wind in the road on the doorstep of a dingy inn that reeked of stale bread and watery vodka.
The Midden-folk had filled it with the usual drivel of peasantry. My bitch just whelped and her pups go for five crowns a head. Will pay for help fixing my roof, stripped by the storm-winds. One posted by a blacksmith, Dwarven if Geralt were to wager a guess, warned that any caught ogling his freshly flowered lassie would earn himself a swift, hard, forge-hammer to his family stones.
One hastily scrawled note demanded the prompt return of one Haskill's prized hoe, an heirloom from his father. It was answered by one saying Haskill would have his hoe back, just as soon as he apologized for "accidentally" cuckolding him last Belletyn.
Most of these were written on cheap paper and scrawled in charcoal ink. Only the one stamped dead center, sealed with a Nilfgaardian Sun looked promising.
Geralt plucked it off the notice board and read.
By Order of the Emperor,
A Witcher is wanted to slay the creature the local Nordlings have dubbed Old Meddcar. Regrettably the local peasantry has yet to provide any useful information such as its taxonomy or rough physical description. Suffice it to say that it is large, has developed a certain fondness for human flesh, and he who fells it will be duly compensated with a sum of 300 Novigrad Crowns. Price is non-negotiable. Any hagglers will be flogged then shown the door. Inquire further at the Glenmore Estate on the village outskirts. Reward will be granted upon proof of the beast's death.
Signed Commandant Murvadd van Moorig,, 3rd Nilfgaardian Army
Addendum: The next clever fellow who brings me the severed head of some warg will lose his own for wasting my time. You could ask the miller about the seriousness of my threat, if not for the recent and not unrelated loss of his tongue.
Addendum II: For the last time. This Contract is for Witchers, not addle-pated bumpkins with delusions of monster-slaying. But if you insist on throwing yourself at it anyway, go on, I'll lift not a finger to stop you. If by some act of divine intercession you succeed your reward will be the promised sum of 300 crowns, and my considerable shock. If you fail, the more likely outcome, well try to at least take the edge off its appetite. A bellyful of peasant will keep the beast drowsy, content, and thus ill-inclined to sup on someone who matters.
Addendum III: An Addendum is an item of additional material attached to a written document such as the one you are currently reading you Nordling halfwit. By the Great Sun. The next person who consults me instead of a dictionary on the matter will be flogged. Number of lashes depend on the color of my mood.
"Charming fellow." Geralt said, pocketing the notice. "Now to find the Glenmore Estate."
"Just up the road she is. About ten mintues' riding if your mare is swift. And judging by how quickly she left me in the mud, she's that an' more."
Geralt turned to find Nils behind him, panting with an earnest though somewhat frightened smile on his face.
"So are you. Didn't think you'd be back in town so quick." Geralt said, shifting and putting a hand on his coin purse.
"Ah well in my line o' work you either build strong legs for sprintin' or…" Nils started, "Or well that mess you just saw back there has a way o' happenin'."
"Yeah I imagine you don't win a lot of friends doing what you do."
"None as it turns out. Though that's as much to do with my not bein' from around 'ere as it does my trade." Nils spoke in answer. "Don't go lookin' for a warm welcome. Folk here are all related five or six generations back, an' won't give you the time o' day unless you can provide 'em with an adequate accountin' o your heritage."
"I'm a Witcher. I'm used to that."
"Well we've common ground in that at least. You know you've been awful kind to me. Most folk don't let me off with naught but a scoldin'. Usually it's a bared length o' steel or some nanny's walking stick iffin' I'm fortunate."
"Is this conversation going anywhere?"
"Uh yes it is in point o' fact. See I can't help but to think we got off on the wrong foot back there."
"You mean when you tried to steal from me."
"Yes that bit right there. Can't help but feel it's driven a wedge straight through what could otherwise have been a beautiful friendship."
"Get to the point."
"Well, I was goin' to offer my sincerest apologies an' beg you to find it in your doubtless massive an' assuredly merciful heart to let bygones be bygones." Nils started.
"I said get to the point. You're prattling on." Geralt said, pulling himself into Roach's saddle.
"Sorry occupational quirk. See if you get folk distracted-." Nils started.
"They're less likely to notice you digging around in their pockets." Geralt answered. "I know. You just tried that out on me, remember?"
"Right…" Nils sighed, letting the smile slough off his face. "Look I was just wonderin' if you wouldn't mind lettin' Rosa, the pretty girl up at the Glenmore estate, know that I'm alright. I missed our meetin' time an' she'll be worried sick o'er me I know it. Ol' Meddcar's acquired a fondness for lads around my age group whilst he was sleepin'. I don't want her thinkin' it nabbed me all night. She won't sleep a wink."
Geralt blinked in honest surprise. Of all the favors Geralt imagined him asking, this wasn't one of them. True he was of around that age, and pubescent stirrings of romance knew no boundaries of class or status, but why a pampered lord's daughter would embark on a tryst with a lowborn thief was beyond him.
Of course Geralt's interests were stoked by another matter. Work-related.
"By the sound of things Midden's got a history with this monster." Geralt asked.
"Could say the two are one in the same I 'spose. Or at the very least they're closely twined." Nils answered. "Meddcar's been a scary story mothers threaten their young 'uns with for o'er a century now, or so folk tell it. None can recall exactly where it all got started 'course, but the basic yarn's pretty straightforward. Now do you know why our humble little township goes by Midden?"
Geralt frowned sniffing the air.
"Have something to do with the stench?"
"Does actually. Y'see originally the Glenmore estate was all there was on this spit o' land. There was this one lord, loved feasts an shite but always had a bloody hard time cleanin' up after 'em. There'd be legs o' mostly eaten venison and fish bones left after every servin', an' he couldn't' find a place to put it all. Eventually he started just dumpin' it in a great trash heap. Only that attracts drowners an' ghouls 'an the like so he needed folk to manage it. Some workers start stayin' 'round full time. Build houses. Some find out that the local brooks are nasty with fish, good tastin' ones too. Some others find out there's plenty o' herbs in the local wood. So they both stay on an' then one o' 'em gets the idea to build an inn. An' before you know it, you've got Midden, our own little slice o' this watery hell called Velen."
"Charming story. Where does the monster figure in?"
"Well came a time some o' the lord's trash minders got a bit lax in their duties, let the trash pile up too high. Only this time it weren't ghouls or nothin' that came. This thing were big, and though the scent o' death drew it, was keen on livin' meat. Our meat. Started out with sheep an' hounds caught out too late. Then it eats a hunter in the woods, then the town drunk and on and on it goes. Reckon there were about a dozen dead 'afore it sodded off the first time." Nils answered. "The name it got on account o' its favored dish. See it got a hankerin' for soused up blood after eatin' the drunk, an' thereafter it would nab any 'an all o' his like it could. So we called it Meddcar, the Mead Lover in the elder tongue."
"A bit of a botched translation."
"Well what'd you expect? We ain't exactly in Oxenfurt, not many 'round here who can speak the elfy-tongue worth a damn. Fuck, out here you're lucky to find one in ten who can write their own name in the common one."
"Don't sound too fond of the place." Geralt asked.
"Would you be? I can see that look in your eyes. You hate this place an' you just got here. I have to live here year 'round. Its sweat and blackflies come summer and bitter cold come winter. Wears thin awful fast." Nils answered.
"So why stay?" Geralt asked.
"Don't 'ave a horse do I?" Nils asked with a shrug, "How far do you reckon a scrawny cutpurse like meself makes it on foot in Crookback bog?"
"Not very." Geralt admitted.
"Exactly, more or less stuck here. Travellin's the province of men with steel or coin to pave or pay their way respectively. Well steel an' silver in your case."
"And you think fleecing bandits and dirt poor peasants is going to help you pay your way? Reasonable I suppose at least until you're on the road. You know what it's like out there. On the roads you'll be met with patrols of Nilfgaardians, Redanian skirmishers, deserters from both sides, any of who will gladly lighten your pockets and feed you a length of steel. Off the roads you'll deal with necrophages, wraiths, the odd earth elemental or chort. If you're lucky they'll kill you so fast you won't realize what's happened, if you're not, well there are worse ways to go than being devoured by drowners but not many." Geralt cut in, "If I were you I'd straighten out. Learn a trade, sweep chimneys, I dunno take up a lute and learn a few songs. Leaving carries a whole lot of risk just to wind up in a slightly cleaner shit-hole."
"Don't need to tell me twice. Roads were bad enough on my way here. No chance am I bravin' 'em now that all Temeria's gone to shite. Won't get as far as the roads. Meddcar'll nab me up right quick. Seems whatever it is, it's acquired a taste for young 'uns what stray too near the forest since its untimely resurrection. Nah the gold's for summat else, a worthy cause I assure you." Nils said, frowning, "Say you can straighten out this bugger quick right. Whatever he is?"
"That depends." Geralt asked.
"On what?"
"On how soon we get back on track. As much fun as it is shooting the breeze I do have places to be before sunset." Geralt asked, casting an eye towards the sun.
The last light of day was dwindling, reddening to blood ruby instead of honey gold. Another day lost, another day on this side of the sea, whilst Yennefer waited on the other. Another day the Swallow was on the wing, moving here and there, with the Wolf stuck grasping at straws, sniffing for a hint of her in the air.
He'd wasted enough of his time on urchins and cutthroats.
"Alright alright no need to be fussy. I don't know much about it mind you, been keepin' clear o' all but the fringes o' the forest as you might expect. Don't fancy some nastiness breaking its fast on me. What I do know is that it's big and reeks o' a powerful musk, something a little ursine or buckish smellin'. Only stronger, hits you proper like a punch to the gob. An' when I say huge I do mean huge. Saw the wake o' it's passin' on the outskirts. Was barrelin' trees aside left an' right, bendin' 'em so far their roots could scarce keep 'em moored. Nearly tore this ol' Cedar I used to play in right outta the dirt, and it snapped younger trees like they were twigs. Let's see what else is there? Its footsteps were cloven if the tracks are anythin' to go on. That help you any?"
"Sounds like a relict. Size points to a fiend, but predatory behavior's more reminiscent of a Chort or a bumbakvetch." Geralt mused.
The locale certainly fit. Large relicts of the like of fiends, chorts, and bumbakvetches prospered in swathes of marshy forest. Accordingly the forests of Velen, which put down roots in swathes of boggy soil and deep pools fed by the Yaruga, was an ideal habitus. And in particular the Crones' presence seemed to indicate that relicts of all sort found the swamp to their liking.
A chort was the likeliest suspect. They were smaller, more aggressive, not the recluses that their larger fiend and bumbakvetch cousins were. They were more likely to take humans as prey as well. The only sticking point was the size. Chorts were more aggressive in part because their smaller size and faster metabolisms demanded it. Perhaps the locals were exaggerating it's size but if they weren't…
Fiends roused to anger were worse ten times over than their smaller cousins.
"Pieced that together quick." Nils whistled, "Seems you know your craft."
"Wouldn't be much of a Witcher if I didn't."
"Well no you just wouldn't be a very good one. There's shite carpenters an' shite blacksmiths but they are still blacksmiths. You gotta reckon there are more'n a few shite Witchers out in the world."
"No there aren't. Witchers who weren't up to snuff rarely made it past a contract or two. You shoe a horse wrong, or strip too much wood of a board, you can always do better next time. If you forget to cast Yrden when facing a noonwraith you'd be torn to pieces in moments. If you forget to down a swig of black blood against a Fleder or Ekkimara, you'll die of exsanguination or just get dismembered. Only the Witchers worth their salt are still around these days. My line of work doesn't have much of a margin for error, even the simplest mistakes could mean your life."
"Once more, sounds like my trade. A pickpocket who's no good has a way o' losin' fingers. An' a pickpocket who loses fingers can't pick pockets so good no more. It's a rough life 'an you get by on whatever meager pickings you can." Nils said, with an all too innocent smile. "Speakin' o' meager pickin's. Don't suppose you'd be of a mind to lend a fellow destitute workin' man a modest advisory fee."
"Really and here I was thinking you'd be content with the gift of my friendship. Too bad, you just had to get greedy. Come on R-." Geralt started.
"Hang on, no more jokes. I get it, I'm a little shite. Believe me you're not the first to drum up that impression o' me an' you've got more cause'n most do. All the same though, you will pass that message on to Rosa for me won't ya? For 'er sake if not mine." Nils spoke.
Geralt groaned, the words dying in his throat.
"Fine I'll let her know. In exchange you've gotta promise me you'll-."
"I know, I know, Law o' Surprise an' all. What I find at home but do not expect. It's gonna be a mushroom, a rat, or an oddly shaped rock just so you know. Home's a bit lackin' in décor an' occupants."
"…quit being a complete dumbass. The way you pick marks pretty soon you'll be trying to sweet talk trolls. And no getting them arguing about how to cook you doesn't work. The first crest of dawn won't turn them to stone and most already have exhaustive recipes." The Witcher finished.
"Ah come on you really think I'm thick enough to try an' swipe from a Rock Troll, d'you?"
"Yes."
"…Didn't have to be that blunt did you?" Nils said, face falling.
"No. I didn't."
"…still sore 'bout me tryin' to nick your coin purse ain't ya?"
"Could be." Geralt said, cracking the reins.
As before, Roach burst into a full gallop from a near standstill. As before she'd been standing square in a muddy pool which had gathered on before. As before, she thundered off, clods of muck and filthy water went flying, and one unwashed peasant let out an undignified squawk of dismay.
"Ah come on!" Nils squealed after him, "I ain't even dried yet."
Geralt almost smirked as he rode off, the last light of day had gone bloody, the color of some deep flask of Toussaint red. The stars were out, glittering against a purpling sky. Yet he could see the outline of the Glenmore estate fine, perched on a rocky promontory on the edge of a winding road, fanned on all sides by alders and oaks.
He rode out and his thoughts turned. Away from the boy by now slouching home in search of a good night's rest and a change of clothes, and towards the swamp-forest that sprawled off to his right.
Wispy branches cracking in the wind, grasping and gnarled with age. It was ancient, sylvan and overgrown. The woodsmen could try to hew and hack their way through, but the woods had grown too wild for too long, and wouldn't go without a fight. A perfect haven for an ancient relict.
Behavioral characteristics of a Chort, physical characteristics of a Fiend. Geralt thought to himself.
A hard job. Not an impossible one, not one a seasoned Witcher would balk at, but a hard one all the same. But the coin was there, that was all that matters.
Sooner or later, as all thoughts did these days, Geralt's mind wandered from peasant thieves and sylvan forests, to thoughts of Swallows. Swallows on the wing, hounded by a hunt of riders, galloping through the heavens.
He tightened the reins and dug in his stirrups.
He'd wasted time enough as it was.