The monster is huge as it stands on its hind legs, its log-like upper body raised high into the air, its grotesque head with the eerily glowing stalk eyes darkening the sky. The enormous, sharp mandibles glisten with moisture. A sticky, greenish fluid dribbles down along the deadly curves of the chitinous, blade-like structures of the ambush predator's chewing mouthparts, forming a drop on both their pointy ends. The drops rapidly increase in size, become bigger and bigger. He stares at the two growing green spheres, paralysed with fear. He knows the fluid is not only highly toxic but also caustic. And, following the laws of gravity, the drops will fall directly onto him, a lethal shower that will burn and devour him. He wants to grab his sword and jump up from his sitting position, drive the long Nilfgaardian blade into the monster's soft belly, but as much as he gropes for it in the semi-darkness of the forest, there is nothing there. No sword, just withered leaves covering the forest floor like broken shards of stained glass windows, their sharp edges cutting painfully into his hands.
The greenish drops have expanded into gigantic beads of vicious venom. Any second now the monster saliva is going to detach from the mandibles' tips. He has to get out of their trajectory. Now. But he cannot move. Not the fraction of an inch. He is rooted to the spot, horrified, not even able to cry for help. This is the end, he is suddenly certain of it. Who would have thought? The black knight of Nilfgaard killed in some random northern forest by a nightmarish giant arthropod that looks like a rotting log. How ridiculous. And terrifying.
Like in slow motion, the drops fall. First the one from the left mandible. Then, just a split second later, the one that formed on the right.
"No!" he howls at the top of his voice, finally able to move again. However, it is too late to get away. He covers his head with his arms and curls up into a ball, panting with panic, his heart in his mouth.
Somebody shakes him by the shoulder.
"Cahir, wake up!" A familiar voice next to his ear. "It was a nightmare, just a bad dream. You're safe. Come, lie closer to me. Yes, like this. Now go back to sleep. We're to get up at first light. A lot of travelling to do tomorrow."
Milva yawns heartily, puts an arm around Cahir, who is still trembling from the terrifying dream, and cuddles up to her distressed friend as closely as possible. He closes his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. His heart rate slows down. He is not alone. He is safe with his friends. The Witcher Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier the bard, the higher vampire and barber-surgeon Regis, and Milva, the amazing archer.
There is no monster. And even if there were, no monster would stand a chance against this weird fellowship of friends.