Hadn't meant to take so long with this, but we've had some family issues at home and my muse doesn't function with distractions. We'll see if I can finish before Halloween, but I promise nothing. Oh yeah, feel free to CC if you want - it don't bother me any!
Quick warning for anyone who is easily disturbed (which I hope means no one, cuz the witcher ain't full of cuddly bunnies): You will see dead people, in detail. Enjoy!
II
“Can we please stop? My arse is killing me.” Dandelion grimaced as the witcher glanced at him. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant look, but he had yet to get accustomed to the other’s eyes – golden-yellow with vertical slits: cat’s eyes. “We’re nearly there.”“You said that an hour ago, Geralt. I’m going to die; I can’t feel my toes.”“It’s just over the bridge,” the witcher replied, unfazed by his companion’s discomfort. Dandelion grit his teeth, trying not to whine. He was certain the sky could collapse all around them and Geralt wouldn’t so much as blink. He didn’t know if he admired or despised the trait. They crossed the tiny bridge, one after the other. Their horses’ hooves clattered noisily across the rickety timber, drowning out the trickling of the river below. A few moments later, the forest trees thinned considerably and – true to Geralt’s word – a small hamlet came into view. It was a typical village – comprised of perhaps two dozen buildings, made of rough wood and stone. They were scattered haphazardly along a single dusty road, which wound upon itself at one end, creating a cul-de-sac. Carts, plows, and lumber lay along walls; sacks, crates and barrels were stacked in piles in the middle of the neighborhood. It looked a pretty picture; charming cottages set amidst rolling fields of golden wheat, and the many reds, yellows, and browns of the forest in the background. “Quaint,” Dandelion muttered, shifting in his saddle. He wanted to spur his mount on to a gallop – the sooner they arrived, the better – but he immediately rejected the idea. He was in pain enough. As they drew closer, Dandelion noticed something peculiar about the town: it was deathly quiet. Not the picturesque sleepiness one might find along the outskirts, this was a different sort of quiet. The kind that permeates, hanging heavily in the air; makes the flesh crawl and the hair on the back of neck stand upright. There were no livestock in sight, nor any people for that matter. It was nearly harvest; the men should have been busy in the fields, and the women overseeing house-keeping. There should be chickens, pigs and goats wandering the area, cows and bison grazing, hawks and rabbits and squirrels caught up in the continuous cycle of life and death. There was nothing, only quiet. “I don’t like this,” the poet muttered, forcing his gelding on to a trot in order to ride even with the white haired man. “Something’s not right.” “What’s not to like? There could be work here.” Geralt smiled grimly at the prospect. They rode on in silence; Geralt fixed on the road ahead, while Dandelion occasionally scanned the surrounding woods. He could feel eyes watching them. “What if it’s just bandits? It would be a prime target, out in the middle of nowhere. And who’s to stop them? Knights, local militia? You know as well as I that the vassals won’t give a damn until they’re all dead, because then there will be no one left to cultivate and bring value to their precious land. It’s all—”“Dandelion, I don’t give a damn about politics,” Geralt interrupted, this time his expression was decidedly unpleasant. “If there’s a monster here, I’ll kill it. If not, we’ll have to keep going.” The statement felt more like a threat, considering that they’d been traveling non-stop for nearly two weeks. They finally arrived in the hamlet, although the bard was less pleased than he imagined he might be. All of the houses seemed to be barred and locked, several had been boarded up; windows, too, had been sealed closed, their shutters nailed together. Dandelion couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched; several times he looked to Geralt to see if he had noticed, but the other man remained stoic. Geralt dismounted at the end of the lane, casually tossing his mare’s reins over an old fence. Dandelion followed suit, rubbing his tender backside as he saw to Pegasus. A loud bang resounded along the circle, causing the troubadour to jump several feet, swearing colorfully when he realized the witcher had only knocked on a door. Much as the sudden disturbance had surprised him, Dandelion was even more surprised when the door creaked open. It was wide enough for someone to peer out, and Geralt was quick to press his witcher’s medallion to the opening. There was a hushed conversation, too brief for him to make out, and then the door opened fully, revealing only the darkness from within. Geralt motioned for him to follow, disappearing as he entered the cottage. Dandelion cast one last wary glance down the road, then sprinted to the door, shivering lightly as the shadows swallowed him. “You’re witchers?” a hoarse voice croaked near his ear. Dandelion found himself sidling closer to Geralt. It was almost pitch-black, and though the witcher could see without trouble, Dandelion couldn’t make out anything more than vague shapes. “I am. He’s traveling with me.” Geralt nodded in Dandelion’s direction. As his vision adjusted, Dandelion was able to make out more details. A group of three sat around the table, all women, though he couldn’t see clearly enough to tell if they were attractive or not. Two children sat on the floor, clutching at the women’s skirts – a good indication that at least one of the ladies was worth bedding. The hoarse man stood before them; it seemed to Dandelion that he was trying to shield the rest of his family from Geralt’s view. The witcher either didn’t notice or didn’t care, for he remained still, silently watching their host. It was far too quiet. Dandelion jovially strode forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Dandelion, famous poet, minstrel, and –”“All around scoundrel,” Geralt muttered behind him. Dandelion ignored the remark, shaking the man’s hand vigorously. “No doubt you’ve heard of me.” He removed his hat, sweeping into a gracious bow for the women. He pretended not to notice when Geralt kicked him in the calf. “But to business, good people,” the witcher said calmly, clasping a hand on Dandelion’s shoulder – a warning not to interfere. “Something troubles you.”“Yes sirs, a most terrible thing,” the man said, glancing anxiously between them. “Taxes?”The man’s brow furrowed as he looked to Geralt for insight. Geralt glared the bard – a particularly piercing look, considering the faint orange glow of his eyes. Dandelion only shrugged. He couldn’t help if the man had no sense of humor. “Forgive him, he doesn’t always think before he speaks,” Geralt replied, still scowling slightly. “A monster bothers you, am I right…?”“Yes, mister—”“Geralt.” The man gave a nervous sort of laugh at the witcher’s brusqueness. “It is a terror. We dare not leave home anymore, not even during the day.” The women all nodded solemnly. “What is this beast, exactly?”“I—I don’t know that there is a word for it.” “What does it look like?”Dandelion bit back a grin. Although he had only recently met the witcher, it was easy to tell that he was irritated by the man’s lack of information. Geralt wasn’t exactly sociable, but if he knew one thing, it was how to ask questions, and if all else failed, exact answers. “Why it’s…” “The devil’s spawn,” a woman spat. “It’s said to be a man astride a great steed – both are dead. The man is headless. The b*stard haunts our town and murders any who stray. The son of a—” She fell silent, aghast at her outburst, for she clasped a hand to her mouth, looking to her feet as she shook her head. Dandelion worried that she might burst into tears; if there was anything he hated, it was to see a lady in distress. “A headless horseman?” Geralt asked. He sounded genuinely interested, although the glint in his eyes spoke more than his words. “Yes.”“What nonsense!” Dandelion exclaimed. “You’re all mad! Why, it’s simply a bandit playing a clever joke, and it’s working! They’ve got you all holed up, scared for your lives. Someone with a bow and a good shot would suffice; you don’t need a witcher for that!”“Dandelion,” Geralt warned. “Good… ah…”“Banach. Of the Credio’s.” The man was making a good effort to glare at Dandelion, but it lost effect in comparison to the witcher’s. “Good Banach, please, again forgive him. I’m sure this is a truly disturbing problem, and no doubt a real terror to everyone here, but—”“You don’t believe us.” It wasn’t a question. Geralt shrugged. “I’ve been hunting monsters for many years now, but I’ve never heard of anything like that. There are ghosts, true, but they’re incapable of causing such grievous harm. I don’t think they would look like that either. I don’t know what haunts you, but it doesn’t sound like a monster. Dandelion might be right, no matter how bluntly put.”“No, we’ve all heard the stories. Spirits can kill! What about the people who wake up covered in scratches, or who get slapped when there’s no one around? Are they mad?”“To put it bluntly,” Dandelion snickered. “Look, Banach, I’ll have a look around and see what I can find.” Geralt took a half step to the side, standing between the peasant and the troubadour. “There could be something after all. I haven’t seen every monster in existence, and they’re constantly adapting and evolving. There really could be something.” Dandelion groaned, already dreading the journey. They would waste hours looking for something that didn’t exist. “If I find anything, I’ll let you know, and then we can discuss prices.” Banach scoffed at that and was about to argue, but the witcher spoke before he had a chance. “I can’t work for free,” Geralt stated. “I’m no knight, I don’t get backed by sponsors; there’s only me. I need to eat, I need oats for Roach, clothing, weapons, and lodging. None of that comes for free and neither does my service. If you can’t pay, I can’t work.” The man sighed, but agreed. “Fine, our lives are more important than any amount of ducats.”“Banach,” one of the women whispered. “Show them.” Dandelion looked at her questioningly, and then to Banach, who was fidgeting with his shirt sleeve. “There are bodies. Maybe they’ll help you understand what’s after us.” He locked eyes with the older man for a moment, imploring. Geralt nodded calmly. “Lead the way.”“Geralt,” Dandelion whispered frantically as they stepped back out into the sunlight. “I’ve never seen a corpse before.”“You don’t have to come,” Geralt replied, shielding his eyes with his hand. The bard looked around nervously: first to Banach, then the cottage behind them, and finally at the witcher’s silvery head. He gnawed at his lip, debating on returning to accompany the women. They were surely frightened and lonely without a man’s protection. A sick part of him actually wanted to see what a dead man looked like. The knowledge frightened him – it couldn’t be healthy. But then, Geralt made a living killing things and had surely seen his fair share of death, both man and monster, and Dandelion thought he was relatively sane. He reasoned that he might not have the unique opportunity again; at least, he didn’t plan on it. In the end, his curiosity won out and so he trekked on, dutifully following the two men. They were led to a shabby looking shed at the far reaches of the town. It didn’t feel as eerie here as it did along the main road, although the sight of coffins lined along the side wall did cause the poet to shift anxiously. Banach knocked at the door in a sequence of raps and taps – a secret code. The door squeaked loudly as it opened, and a man with a beak of a nose and a rather bushy beard ushered them in. Dandelion took one last gulp of air, puffed out his chest, and entered. The stench almost overpowered him. It was unlike anything he’d ever smelt before, but he likened it to a mixture of raw sewage, rotten eggs, moldy dwarf boots, and the indescribable smell of death. His eyes watered, and even with his nose pinched shut, Dandelion was unable to block out the stink. For a moment he couldn’t see anything beyond Geralt’s coat, but then the witcher shifted and Dandelion was able to see everything. Bile rose to his throat and he had to fight to keep it down. A long carpenter’s table was situated along the back wall, with many pieces of extra lumber resting on crates in order to give more length to the set-up. Bodies lay crammed on the table, their feet resting precariously on the planks. They were deathly pale – gray, with shades of yellow-blue bruises in various places. Some were bloated, as if they’d been left in the water for too long. Straw had been tossed along the earthen floor, but it wasn’t enough to collect all of the blood, which leaked from the corpses’ orifices. A few bodies were still clothed, the linen stained dark red, nearly black in some places. All were covered in cuts, deep and wide. All were beheaded. Dandelion leaned heavily against the wall, trying to keep his legs from shaking. He wanted to leave, but was afraid to move. Geralt turned to look at him, brow furrowed. He reached forward and grabbed the poet’s hat, using it to fan him. “Don’t faint. I should have told you to stay outside,” he murmured, grimacing. Dandelion remained silent, staring numbly at the wolf’s head medallion resting against Geralt’s breast. Ruby red eyes looked at him fiercely, shining with their own light. At first Dandelion thought it was his imagination – born of shock – but after a moment’s rest, he realized the witcher’s medallion was, in fact, vibrating of its own accord. ~*~*~*~