"Is good! Is not Kvas, but is still good!" So saying the drunkard raised the goblet in his trembling hands and drained it dry, leaving his long mustaches wet with drool and wine and his hands a mite steadier.
Bertram smiled and pushed the bottle of twenty year old Toussaint Red over to the other side of the table, what a waste to feed this exquisite vintage to such an uncouth individual, still it was this or the rack and Bertram had no liking for violence. The big drunkard smiled, a pathetic gratefulness in his eyes and filled his goblet ever so slowly and precisely.
Bertram took the time to look him over with a critical eye, he had once been a big man, indeed his shoulders were still wide and his clothes hung loose on his frame. A warrior no doubt, born and raised in heavy mail with a sword in his hands before his prick, yes there were the telltale scars of duelling on his forearms. His clothes now billowing about his frame, encrusted with filth, spilt food and drink, wer of a good cut and sturdy wool. Faded garish colours still glinted through the ground in dirt, only a rich man could afford such dyes, so possibly the drunkard was telling the truth and he was an exiled nobleman from far Borea, the legendary land beyond the worlds end.
Bertram leaned forward letting his smile warm the room and a fat gold coin fall from his fingers. "There is more to come friend, a warm room, nourishing meals and all the wine you can drink. Simply tell me a tale of your homeland."
"Borea, what you wish know?" The warrior asked, knuckling his mustaches dry and then licking the wine from his filthy fingers.
"Witcher's my friend, the monster slayers of your land, tell me of them?"
"Witcher's not kill monsters in Borea!"
"What!" Bertram asked leanng further forward, his elbows on the table and chin in his hands.
"Witcher's not kill monsters. Monsters stay in Wald and not bother anyone, Witcher's of Borea slay dead that walk, that is curse that stalks our land and the Raven's are the only effective cure."
"The Raven's?"
"Yes Witcher's bear medallion of Raven, they haunt the battlefield and make sure all rest as they should, always dress in black with long cloaks and brimmed hats. You have problem with dead rising then the Raven's will come and deal with it for a purse of silver, but many are loathe to call them, they have a reputation as stormcrows, bringers of doom and trouble and it is said they steal orphans from the battlefield. Still if you want the dead to sleep, then the Raven's must come."
"What do they look like?"
"Look like men." He shrugged and drank some more, "But very ugly men. They all tall and very pale, with long lank black hair and they move too quick, they seem to skip and jerk as if they're slipping past your eyes." He leaned forward and grinned. "It as if you drunk all time watching them."
The scholar chuckled and noted this down in his mind, quicker than the other schools of the Witcher?
"And you should see them fight! Is terrifying, they pull out their sabres and wish, swish, splat, limbs go flying in all directions. Anybody enter that steel web dies, for it is said that their swords are blessed by the Lord of the Mound and are instruments holy to death. Old mothers say that that is a part of their training, becoming acolytes of the Death God. They certainly look half dead!"
"They are students of a religious doctrine?"
"More pursue than study I think, but they always go to the Mounds and the Deathman to pray before embarking on their tasks, I have seen this."
"Do they...do they possess any tricks, strange trinkets or powers like a Sorceror might use?"
"Oh yes! Big bangs, choking fumes, burning waters that eat steel and cold blue fire and ice that they can call forth from their hands at any time. I have seen one summon a shield of ice that repelled the blows of his attackers, throw the dead into their graves with a gesture and burning a man to blackened ash with their blue flame!" He leaned forward. "The old wives say that they can steal truth from your tongue!"
Bertram nodded, signs and alchemical items, though of a suitable wintry theme for the tundra of Borea. "So my friend if I might ask, why is Borea so beset by the Undead?"
The warrior stopped his drinking, letting the wine spill over his hands and mustaches while his eyes grew small and angry. Slamming down his goblet he leaned forward, his once comically befuddled features growing hard and fierce. "I tell you why, is because of damn Konung! He grow old and mad and listen to Elves, he impale his family when they try to stop him and he eat them. He close gates of Holmgard and when they are opened the dead pour forth to bedevil us, for two centuries we of the Seven Cities have fought them. Is a last gift of the Elves, even as we burn them they laugh and tell us they will see us on other side of death. Pointy eared bastards!"
Bertram sat back astounded, "The Elves tricked your...konung into undeath?"
"Yes bastard sit on his throne still, cackling and calling up the dead to serve him." The warrior seized his goblet and emptied it, before pointing his finger at the scholar. "The Raven's barely contain the curse that wracks Borea, its champions and knights all fled, haunted by dreams of their wives and children crawling from the dark earth."
With a snarl the drunkard swept bottle and goblet from the table, seizing Bertram by the collar he shoved his face into the scholars, his fetid breath gaging the gentleman and his bloodshot eyes spitting danger. "We condemned to death also, death of coward and drunk, we are failure whose great grandfather destroyed our nation and our blood is cursed!"
With a sob the drunkard let the scholar drop and lurched for the inn door, pushing through the crowds and roaring obscenities. Bertram smoothed his collar, regained his seat and waved over the servants to clear the table. Every tale of the Witcher's, every rumour was wrapped in tragedy and despair, one could almost believe the killers were doomed.
Hundred redpoints and two mugs of kvas for this gentleman.
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