A night to remember
She came out of the house at night. She was wearing a long night gown with a blue cloak thrown over it. She was softly singing a melody which filled the air, traveled through the yard and over the lake, disappearing on its way to the distant lights of Beauclair. It was a song of passing ages and turning seasons, of marvels both remembered and lost, of what once was but no longer. Of change, and the few things that defied it. A lullaby for the world, and for all the fragile things within it. Beneath her voice stirred a sorrow older than language.
She took her time walking in the garden, relishing the beauty of nature, the feeling that she was part of it. How the light of the full moon reflected on her pale skin, how it painted the clouds in hues no painter could recreate. On mesmerizing nights like this, the world became a canvas; pure art. And she, its muse. She reached the chorus and her face took on a sad expression. It told of monsters and how they became stranded in the world by ancient cataclysms. Creatures hunted, hated, feared. It was about how they had come here not by choice, but by fate. About how in mankind's pursuit of safety, they were given no peace, cast down in the name of justice. And about the heartless Witchers that hunted them for gold.
She reached the water's edge and let the final notes fall, low and aching.
Geralt had to admit, she had a nice voice.
"Nice tune." he said, stepping out of the shadows. "Been a while since I heard it last".
The woman froze and breathed in through her nose with a sound that almost resembled a sniff. Her face tightened.
"Folk've forgotten it." she remarked with a sad expression.
"Got other things on their minds." His voice was the complete opposite of hers; rough, gravelly, his tone detached. A voice that had seen too much and forgiven too little.
She turned around and uncombed her red hair, letting them wave free. She was dangerously beautiful.
"Things like me?" she asked seductively, a beautiful smile adorning her face.
He didn't smile back.
"They paid me for you" he said dryly.
His face was serious and undecipherable as if graven out of stone.
Another smile. "Aw" she purred, letting the cloak slip from her shoulders, her gaze momentarily falling on the sword in his hand. "In times past…" she began, fingers working at the clasps of her gown, revealing ample cleavage "…no amount of coin would convince a Witcher to take this contract."
But her voice was changing.
Each word higher than the last. Each syllable stranger. Metallic. Inhuman. The seduction peeled away, replaced by something cold and ancient.
The Witcher kept piercing her with an ice melting gaze. "Times have changed".
With a last smile she let her gown fall off and lunged at him in the nude, disappearing into thin air, before the dress had even touched the ground.
Geralt shifted just in time as a gust of wind tore past him, making his white hair whip across his face. A few meters away, the door to the barn opened and closed.
A deep wrinkle appeared between his eyes. The barn was small. Too small. Cramped, dark. Perfect for her. She awaited him in her element. But the Witcher wasn't without his tricks. He approached slowly, dilating his cat-like pupils on command. His surroundings shifted, first into hazy shades of gray, then steadily sharpening, layer by layer, until dozens of tiny, hidden details leapt vividly into focus.
The moment he reached the door he came to a halt and took out two small vials containing a greyish fluid from his belt. He had to tip the scales to his favour. As soon as he popped the corks with his teeth, the stench hit immediately; acrid, metallic, something like rotting herbs and rusted steel. His eyes watered. The Witcher flinched a little, exhaled slowly, then threw his head back and successively swallowed the potions hard. As was the case with all Witcher's potions, he felt the effects of the concoctions almost immediately, rich as they were in secret mushrooms and various mysterious ingredients carefully grown through the ages to offer superiority over almost any foe and absolute mastery over his own body. As the nausea dulled to a simmer, a fresh wave of agony bloomed; he bent low, hissing, as the second stage began its merciless work. The potions were altering his body chemistry. Blood rushed to his ears. Muscles, eyes, brain all burned as if ignited from within. His breath caught, then stopped entirely. His nose bled; the drops sizzling on the ground, smoke curling from where they fell. Black veins crawled up on his neck and face, pulsing like living things, the very blood inside them giving a feeling as if it was set aflame. The urge to rip off his own skin surged; his body a battlefield of fire and resistance. And then... it passed.
When his eyes snapped open, they were glowing brighter than before. The numbness in his head started to recede as the world peeled back its layers.
He heard everything.
He saw everything.
The place was brimming with life.
Bats wheeled in the sky. A snake slithered in the grass. Two rats squealed in their tunnel beneath the earth. Drunkards shouted across the lake in Beauclair. Even the insects crawling on the nearby trees seemed impossibly loud. The barn was older than it seemed too; the old wood was creaking under the constant caress of the wind. And more importantly, it had lit up before him like midday. There, in the darkness, the Witcher saw through it all.
He was ready. Feeling the adrenaline rush building up awakened by the elixir, Geralt confidently pushed the door open, his eyes reflecting light and stood there momentarily. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Inside, the barn was nearly empty, save for an old carriage hogging the center and a lone table tucked in the corner. The ground was covered in hay. The moon's light crept through some cracks on the ceiling.
His feet took slow, rehearsed steps as he moved towards the center of the barn searching feverishly for the Vampire, ready to jump and strike in an instant. The Witcher didn't see her but he sensed her. He could feel her presence like pressure in the air.
His medallion started vibrating violently. Reaching for his belt, he unhinged a spherical object; silver dust packed tight into a glass shell. The woman was almost perfect at sneaking. Almost. Dust fell from a wooden pillar above him. He didn't hesitate. The bomb sailed upward with lightning speed. A flash of silver and sound split the barn, scattering dust and force like a kicked hive. The silver splinters and dust didn't fly off far away from the impact zone; they remained floating for a few seconds. Something thudded to the ground. The silver dust stuck on, revealing the slim silhouette of the invisible vampire. She let out a horrific howl.
Gone was the voice of the lullaby; what remained was raw and ravenous. And brandishing his silver sword with wild euphoria, the Witcher answered.
The Vampire was fast. Very fast. But so was he. Now that he was under the influence, only the battle trance existed. Talons flashed, jaw gnashed, inhuman howls and shrieks reached his ears. They never reached his mind. His blade had gained a will of its own, eager to feast on flesh while Vampire and Witcher engaged in their deadly dance, perfected over the centuries of their species' constant fighting. Nothing else besides it existed. Geralt spun in a pirouette and slashed at her face but her talons met the blade, blocking it and pushing it away. Taking advantage of the momentum, he spun the opposite way, following the blade's movement and redirected it at her throat once, twice but it met with no resistance.
The Vampire, still visible only through the powdered silver stuck on her body deftly avoided all his strikes and jumped at him, her talons flashing. Geralt's face was serene, calm. He didn't need to think. Every move he executed was natural, instinctive. He acted and reacted. Each block, parry and counterattack was rehearsed, executed with the same efficiency a painter used his brush. He sidestepped and her claws soughed past him. She was skilled. Too skilled to be fighting her first Witcher.
Every move she made was calculated, honed by experience and desperation. She wasn't just a monster, she was a survivor. And she was angry. The Bruxa changed tactic, resorting to her unparriable weapon. She screamed. It wasn't a sound meant for normal ears, let alone a Witcher's. The shriek dug into Geralt's skull, made his bones vibrate and his vision blur. The barn twisted for a moment, warping in the corners of his sight. He staggered.
And then, he didn't.
He feigned pain. Let himself sway. Dropped his blade slightly.
She lunged, taking the bait.
Her talons came for his chest.
Geralt's blade snapped up, not to strike, but to parry. Her claws met steel in a shower of sparks, masterfully deflected. His sword spun overhead, reversed direction in a blink, and slammed into her temple with the pommel.
Very hard.
Beneath the elixir's euphoric rush, Geralt felt a rising surge of fury, raw and demanding release. The dance was becoming a storm.
Grunting, the vampire blurred past him, only to reappear with renewed speed. Her invisibility making her almost impossible to make out, Geralt realized the blow she planned to execute only at the last second.
He shifted his weight onto his rear leg and twisted sideways, narrowly avoiding the sweep of her talons. Then, ducking low beneath her outstretched arm, he drove his silver-spiked gauntlet into her ribs with brutal force.
She screamed.
The blow rattled her, nearly lifted her off her feet.
Growling furiously, she retaliated with a savage flurry, showering the mutant in a maniacal barrage of blows strong enough to shatter bones and dislocate shoulders in any ordinary man.
But Geralt was no ordinary man. And every strike was parried.
The Bruxa, enraged, shifted tactics once more and finally appeared before him, jaws snapping shut where his face had been a moment earlier. A deliberate strike, meant to rattle him. Psychological warfare.
Gone was the beauty.
Her mouth had stretched into something monstrous, lips withered to near nothing, and the delicate white teeth from before had been replaced by long, jagged fangs. Her skin had turned a sickly gray, stretched thin over a skeletal frame. Her breasts now sagged, her ribcage jutted sharply, her limbs seemed too long, unnatural. And her eyes were bottomless pits of hunger.
Only her luxurious red hair remained unchanged; flowing, vibrant like blood on snow. Geralt stepped back, involuntarily.
His heel caught in a clump of hay.
Just for a moment.
A moment was all the vampire needed.
She gored him in the abdomen. The Witcher staggered but did not go down. He grabbed her by the throat in an iron grip, his hand like a vice, spun around and slammed her down, following up with a thrust of his sword. It found only the hay. She had disappeared again.
He quickly glanced at the wound. It was deep and bleeding. Three slim but long cuts were discernible through his broken mail. The skin around the cuts was greyed out. It didn't hurt at all; Witchers had a significantly higher pain tolerance than normal men and with the elixir's help, pain was negated completely. But it did not deceive him. Blood was precious and he was losing it; he had to finish the fight quickly.
A sound.
He turned around and saw the wooden carriage hurtling toward him, lifted by unseen hands. Barely having time to react, Geralt instinctively traced the Sign of Quen in front of him, catching it just in front of his face. The impact destroyed the magic barrier around him along with the cart.
The vampire, sensing the power scales had tipped, reappeared at the far side of the barn, grinning triumphantly.
She leapt.
Taking advantage of the short distance between them, Geralt arranged his fingers in the Sign of Igni, unleashing a hellacious fiery stream towards her, burning hay and the wooden walls.
But she was faster.
She moved through the inferno, caught him by the wrists, forcing the fire sideways.
Witcher and Vampire struggled, locked in a brutal grapple. Her strength was monstrous. Geralt wrenched his sword arm free, jerked the other away and jumped at a half turn, his blade aimed at her heart.
He missed.
A moment later his sword flew off his hand. The next, he saw her talons coming towards him. Too late. They cut open bloody paths along his face, his brain slamming against the walls of his skull. Shrieking, the Bruxa grabbed him by the shoulders, digging her talons in through his armor and into his flesh and slammed him violently against a wooden pillar, breaking it before throwing him on the ground. The world grew dark and Geralt almost lost his senses. His head was spinning. Smoke was starting to fill the house and the flames had started to devour the wooden walls. He couldn't see where she was.
The Witcher spat and stood up with difficulty searching for her with his gaze. His limbs felt heavy. The barn swam.
And then, she was behind him and he was immobilized. His head was tilted to the side, pointy fangs were sank into his neck and the Vampire begun to drink greedily. He felt life draining out of him. He groaned, grabbing her hair and pulling weakly, trying to free himself. After a few seconds, she released him willingly, maniacally shrieking in triumph.
Geralt fell down and grabbed the hole at his neck. Only minutes of consciousness left.
His vision was already starting to fail, his arms supported him with difficulty. Smiling menacingly, the Vampire slowly approached him, savouring her imminent victory. Smoke curled around her like a veil. The heat didn't bother her. The fire, the blood, it was all part of her world. He would be her greatest trophy yet.
And then the Witcher looked up at her. But there was no fear in his eyes. Only cold anticipation.
Then, she felt it. A small burning sensation within.
Her face twisted. Her lips curled. The burning was growing hotter. A scream rose but died in her throat. Her body locked up, trembling. And then, searing pain ignited in her throat, then crawled outward, spreading like fire through her veins.
Her expression contorted into a mask of agony.
Black veins bloomed across her face. Her skin cracked. Blood bubbled up from her mouth; thick, dark, and steaming where it fell.
The vampire clutched her chest, howling now; loud, feral, broken. Her body shook with the force of it. The pain was absolute. It was wrong, unnatural; unlike anything she had felt in centuries.
Her eyes darted in wild panic, searching for sense, for escape—until they landed on his neck.
Then the wound.
And then, on him and saw him smiling. A very sinister, hideous smile. Steam hissed from the droplets of his blood on the ground, curling in lazy spirals.
Her eyes widened in horror and realization.
This wasn't ordinary blood.
It was laced with alchemy, with poison, with death.
She stumbled back, gagging, clawing at her throat. The black veins spread further. Blood poured from her lips, sizzling as it ate through the earth. Her skin split in new places. Her body began to fail.
The monster hunter slowly rose in the shadows, his yellow eyes glowing ominously like twin coals and channeling all his willpower, he formed Aard, unleashing a wave of pure energy that blasted her across the burning barn. She forcefully collided with the wall in a hideous thud and slumped to the ground. The Witcher felt weak at the knees but picked up his sword, took a small breath and came at her once more. Panicking she tried to fight back, do what little her body allowed her to do and slashed wildly, trying to claw his eyes.
The Witcher's blade flashed. Her arm fell to the floor, severed just above the elbow.
Another slash.
Its force launched her into the air, her chest opening wide. The woman looked at her severed extremity and cried horrifically, a sound more human than monster now. She fell on all three limbs, howling in pain and tried to crawl away from him, out of the burning barn. Away from the monster that lurked inside.
She came out in the clean air, the moonlight enveloping her in its pale embrace, the breeze lightly caressing her skin but she could no longer feel it. The world, obliviously beautiful, kept on going as indifferent to the suffering of its people as they were to its own. The beauty of the night continued on, but the "muse" was a part of it no longer. And no amount of screaming would make the world notice her.
Geralt sheathed his sword and grabbed the small crossbow slung across his back. Loading a silver tipped bolt he realized aiming had become much more difficult. He pulled the trigger. She slowed down but didn't stop crawling. The string sang a second time. A hole was torn in her chest, the bolt continued its course, disappearing into the night. She finally fell and lay motionless on the ground.
It was over. Weakening with each step he took, he let the crossbow escape his hand and approached her, exhausted. The fire was now raging wildly. A few feet from her he collapsed, his blood soaking the soil. She had reverted; once again a woman. Beautiful. Peaceful. They lay near each other in the moonlight, monster and hunter, looking into each other's eyes, sharing a moment not of hostility, but of pain.
There was no glory. No justice. Only a contract fulfilled, and a life extinguished.
It was simply humans wanting to survive by ending her and her wanting to live at their expense, like her nature demanded. There was never going to be peace between wolves and sheep.
Ever so slowly, they lost themselves in each other's eyes, until the light left hers, only to be replaced by oblivious emptiness, her face forever stuck in an expression of pain. Turning over he, too, let himself go, looking at the stars decorating the night sky until darkness took him.
Awoken by the warmth of the sun, the Witcher gasped for air, grinning as the wounds on his face reopened. He turned sideways and was greeted by the empty eye sockets of skeletal remains; charred, lifeless, forgotten.
He rose. Slowly. Without thought, without sound.
He said nothing.
There were no words.
Only the Path.
He mounted his horse and rode off, leaving the ashes behind.
Wherever the Path would lead him.
Always, the Path.