Flicking away the whickered bottle, a last lurch at its mouth, he shouldered his pack and followed the main street to the town’s square. There appeared to be no system to its manure-reeking streets, instead it was a wild collection of twists and turns until suddenly he arrived at a cobbled square. Gargoyles hung from several facades, the town houses there clearly owned by the wealthier merchants. He trudged on, down a side-lane and towards the docks where the cobblestones eventually gave way to a muddy, grimy ditch that had to masquerade for a street.

Winter was coming soon, already doing battle with the end of autumn. There was already strength in its frosty fingers. The winter season was stubborn north of the Pontar, and tended to outstay its welcome every year. At night temperatures plummeted, leaving the puddles in the road frozen over, and the cobblestones slippery with ice. The ground lay hard as bones come dawn, and the fattened cows and pigs herded through the streets complained loudly when ushered into their pens at the quays. Some broke their legs on the way over, and were slaughtered on the spot, their meat sold at the morning market.

Men wrapped themselves heavily against the encroaching bites of frost and looked at the grey skies in anticipation of the snows and deep winter. Afterwards would come the short spring and even shorter summer. Families huddled together around flickering fires, mindful of the infringing shadows. Folk said it was during the longest nights in midwinter that the Wild Hunt rode out in force. Everyone had grown up with the tales of the spectral riders racing through the air, devils swooping down to steal souls and children. They were told, time and again, memories of an ancient era passed into myth. Yet, there were rumours now that those ancient memories were not simply that, but forgotten truths come back to haunt.

Little to no work could be done on the poor fields any longer, and the countryside was empty but for the murders of crows and solitary coal-burners or shepherds. The culling season had begun, and no hands could be spared from the cattle business. Slaughter, sell and send on its way – after the beef and pork would float on heavy barges down the river Gram, people could hibernate, yet for now there was work to be done.

When the sun rose, its light was pale as if coming through milky glass. Its weak rays barely managed to provide any warmth, and when the sun passed again beyond the horizon for another long night the cold returned with a vengeance. A low-hanging mist was slithering into town from the docks.

Cregan took an angry look around him. He felt tired, dirty and ill. The streets were nigh on empty at this time of day and he himself wanted a place to get even more drunk, find something to eat and rent a bed. It was as if his bones had been burnt, and he had to drag his limbs through a muddy bog.

In the faint light of dusk, the narrow hovels clustered together tightly, as if gripping one another for support. They rose from the refuse and filth of the streets in uneven, jagged rows like a crone’s teeth. Out of all the houses in front of him, only five had slate roofs and straight walls of dressed stone. The others were made of wattle and shoddy brickwork with thatch-roofs and crooked corners.

The region east of Novigrad was not a wealthy place, torn apart by squabbling nobles with a claim to one title or other. Somehow they managed not to deal with the bandits hiding in the hills and deep forests. They were too preoccupied with counting their silver and tourney-play. There were more poor places than rich in the world, Cregan knew. Novigrad might have been the largest port and only true city of Redania, but it also had some of the poorest buggers as its inhabitants.

Those who could afford it constructed their town houses and manses at the foot of the hill upon which Temple Isle was perched, as close as they could to the stone fortress and temple. Those who could not buy or rent a plot of land there had to try their luck in the lower districts, where the squalid dwellings were crammed together, shoved up against one another and the militia-men patrolled in strength to keep the peace.

He moved away from the city though, and followed the road toward Oxenfurt until he quit the outskirts and reached an inn. Looking back to Novigrad’s walls he estimated it was three or four hours walk from the gates.

The Seven Cats, the sign read. Fuck. Cats were notorious for their aversion to people like him. There would be a lot of hissing tonight.

Cregan pulled his longcoat tighter around his brawny frame, the stitches almost giving as the heavy fabric was drawn taut across his broad back and shoulders. After another glance down the street he moved toward the two establishments, one of the only ones where light poured from the stained windows. There was some carousing to be heard from within. The hand-painted - badly painted, mind you- sign hung from the doorpost, and he had to duck to pass under it and into the inn. He snickered again because of the name of the alehouse.

After letting the door fall shut in its creaking hinges, Cregan observed the gloomy room. A slow, sullen murmuring filled his ears, sharp laughter and high-pitched giggles cutting through which made his head hurt. Or rather, which made it hurt even more. He sensed the mood was stifled, surly people sitting at trestle tables and aged benches. The room was a low one. Old straw lay in the corners, reeking and mouldy. Tallow candles sputtered with greasy flame, streaking their alcoves and the daub walls with black.

A quick look was all it took to realise they were mostly scum or downtrodden. Just like me, Cregan cynically told himself. There were others too though, sat at the better furbished back of the room, closer to the hearth and more beyond on an elevated level. Not just the downtrodden attended the Seven Cats. Some of the patrons turned to look at him enter, most turned back to their drinks, conversational partners or bought women. Most, Cregan noted, but not all. One man with a salt-and-pepper beard kept his calm eyes on the newly arrived guest. A frown sat etched on his forehead, much like on Cregan’s. Then, after a few moments the fellow returned his interest on the tankard in front of him.

His thick boots made the wooden floorboards squeak as he marched forward toward the bar. Cregan ignored the bearded lout. The old fool probably lusted after Cregan’s warm and heavy coat. He can try and take it if he wants, he thought grimly. Better men than him had, and failed.

“Beer,” he told the woman standing behind the bar, his voice gravel-coarse. She was wearing an apron, and busy with counting coppers into a clay jar. Slightly overweight, it seemed her best years were behind her. “Something to eat.”

The waif looked at him irritated, as if serving customers was not her task even though employment at or ownership of a business like this one implied as such. “Keg or bottle?” She screeched.

A single brow went up at the question. To have beer from a glass bottle was a rarity, an oddity. Cregan ogled the ones on show carefully, trying to discern whatever was written on the faded labels that stuck to the deep green and thick glass. Long corks protruded from the bottlenecks. The characters he attempted to read were foreign, angular and non-sensical. Plundered stock then, he surmised, anything could be in them. I better not.

“Keg,” he said, throwing a single silver piece onto the tabletop. The woman got up and filled a tin tankard with a dark brown liquid. There was practically no head on it, none of the usual froth dark heady beers had. Cregan took a sniff. It almost smelled like beer, almost. But there was more than a bit of the drain about it too.

Nevertheless, Cregan took it up and shuffled over to one of the benches lining the daub walls. Sitting down heavily, he noticed the man with the salt-and-pepper beer had left, but none of the other clientele paid him any attention. He sighed and took a sip of his drink, dropped his pack next to him. The metal and apparel within jostling, mixing with the jingling of glasses and cutlery of the heated room. The beer had a sour finish after the initial sweetness subsided, but he had had worse. Much worse, as he recalled the rubbish he had drank in Cintra after the war. It was wet, it would take the edge of his mood and ease his burning bones and sluggish arms and legs. Not much else mattered for now.

Cregan pushed himself back against the wall, reclining and then letting his legs stretch out against the floor, studying his feet. His boots had once been something to be proud of: expensive leather, expertly sewn, steel in the heel and tip of them. Now they were just like him, faded, battered and worn-out. He grunted in self-loathing and shifted his pale eyes to his legs. Though it was hard for him to remember, he had been considered tall. Handsome even. Now he just looked big and weathered like an old willow. The muscles that had swung steel and iron were still there, but were encased in an unwelcome layer of fat he had put on in the last two years. His features had become lined and hard from the elements and the sea. His dark hair, jet-black in his youth, was now ragged and stained with white from the sea-salt. It was slowly coming off, but the tresses kept on a grey colour. At least when he looked in a silver platter or bowl of water he saw the colour of his eyes -grey like the flank of winter wolf- had remained the same, even though his eyes themselves were set in a stranger’s pale face and underlined with red. When he looked at his sorry reflection he saw his mentor’s eyes stare back at him, and then cursed his curiosity. Even from beyond the Last Door the bastard managed to haunt him, find him wanting and unworthy of his legacy.

The dark beer went down easily, too quickly. Before he knew it, the drinking flagon was nearly empty. Cregan left the dregs where they were, bubbling like molten grease at the bottom of his tankard. You never really wanted to know what was in those dregs. He gestured the woman for another. She brought one over, grumbling as she approached.

“And? That silver was enough to cover one pint and the meal. You want another? Pay up.” she said, holding out a grimy palm. Cregan paused. His payment should have been good for it. His stash was almost empty, just like his cup. He had paid in silver after all, minted in Kovir across Praxeda’s Gulf, taken from a trader. That merchant and his cog now rested at the bottom of Freya’s seas. Nobody in this inn probably knew any of those places, Cregan presumed bleakly.

Cregan was about to protest, but the alcohol had sunk deep into his body, almost as deep as the Koviri cog had in the sea, and had made him lethargic. Who cared if he was being swindled? The money would be gone soon enough anyway. Let this cunt have it, he thought indifferent to his own misery. After pressing a second piece of silver into her hand, she skulked off. He took a thoughtful sip, for the amount he was paying he should make it last and try to enjoy it.

A second sip followed soon after. And a third. The familiar warmth and solace spread through his leaden body. Watching the common room, taking in the scent of cooking food, he managed to slink into something of a relaxed state of mind. He would need to take the edge of himself before heading to the backroom and this secret meeting.

@Sini

Areir bit himself, it wasn't just the biting cold of the impending winter that did so. Dijkstra, had one of his messengers summon him to a place, in particular the seven cats inn. Areir was heeding summons from a not so honest business man, but at this point, with the few leads he has of the Wild Hunt ran cold, he realistically had no choice. The eagle head of his Witcher medallion bobbing to and fro from his neck as he rid his horse.

Each breath becoming more visible with each step as the temperature rose, Areir tightened the once draping, ragged cloak around him in response to the growing, stinging cold. He looked around him, the smell of death and despair subtly present in the area. Much like many other places, however probably not as bad, the east of Novigrad was riddled with poverty and evident pauperism. The walls around him were in disrepair, but the people were worse off. People huddled around small, dying bonfires, their hands etching near the edge of the flames, trying to wring as much warmth as they can before the embers ebbed away.

Areir dismounted wearily, he slowly sauntered next to the fading fires, his armor clinking against the frozen cobble, and weaved his hands against the empty air, risking looking like a madman to people unknown. A small stream of concentrated fire shot from his left hand, revitalizing the once dwindling flames. The small crowd of people huddling near the fire either shot him surprised looks, some looks of enmity and others flashed small smiles of bitter gratitude. Arer simply shook the glares off and mounted his horse once more.

The eastern area of Novigrad were the result of a power struggle between the nobles, not giving a single damn about the inhabitants, instead the coins that jingled in their pockets. The biggest cities do tend to have the poorest of inhabitants, as is the growing trend in Novigrad. He clicked his tongue at this, even though he's had not much power to realistically do anything about this. He somberly looked at the flames as he passed by more huddled crowds, being reminded of that one looming night. The sounds of screams and steel clashing. He bit his lips, and despised himself for being powerless that night.

The Seven Cats Inn came into view, Seven Cats, huh, maybe I'd fit in? he thought to himself as the building got closer and closer. He was a bit fatigued from the long travel, as he spent a few days on horseback. He dismounted his horse and left him near a trench of bucketed water, the horse greedily guzzling down the water. As he was making his commute to the inn, a white and grey bearded man bumped into him before he could enter, the man not even turning back, not that Areir really cared, but he was plenty sure it wasn't by accident.

Areir entered the inn, with it having the same atmosphere as outside, silent and somber, sometimes high pitched giggles that pierced the stillness. The smell of 'beer' meeting his nose. Not many actually propped their heads up, but the few that did averted their eyes when they meet Areir's own amber eyes. His medallion lazily swayed back and forth as he made his way to the seats.

His eyes gravitated to a sullen man, wearing a long cloak, laced with obvious hints of armor. Areir could also easily feel that this man wasn't a normal man, his aura gave off hints of experience and memories. He tread towards this man, and sat next to him near the benches. He looked at the bar maid and held two fingers up at her, she looked irked but complied nonetheless, bringing him two kegs of beer. He handed her a few coin, and slid the drink next to the man.

"So, what's a Witcher doing around these parts." He asked, trying to start a conversation, knowing well that Witchers are normally the 'lone-wolf' types. He also had his doubts, the most likely answer being that he himself was also summoned by Dijkstra.

Gray and dreary, just as it always was this far north. Something Rausen had figured he'd have gotten used to by now. Of course, getting used to something and enjoying something were entirely different things, so perhaps he was thinking of it the wrong way. His travels the past year or two had strengthened his weakened and fresh constitution into something a bit more seasoned. Not nearly enough, he told himself. Out here, there was no telling what the dirt stained street rats or the quarreling nobles would do to a man who looked fairly well off.

Despite not being entirely downtrodden, he had begun to look the part of a vagabond. He had teleported some days earlier into the forest opposite of Novigrad, but saw the beggars and cutthroats long before the gray enshrouded city walls came into view. More than one lanky and half starved man looked at him with either contempt of open hunger for his coin purse, but the sword at his side and the way he carried himself were enough to deter any would be attacks. That is, if he kept moving.

So he did, and soon enough he found himself approaching the Seven Cats, judging from the sign hanging out front. He halted for a moment, seeing one odd man leaving and an even more curious man walking in. A hint of yellow he thought he saw in the latters eyes. He would need to take a closer look, but wherever a Witcher was, there was bound to be violence. He let out a breath, and strode forward with a determination, doing his best to kick his muddied boots before entering the screeching and boisterous inn. Perhaps he was here for the same reason Rausen was. T'was logical, after all.

Scanning around, Raus could tell this place was the quintessential northern tavern. Full of grime, but still better than being outside. One man sitting beside him gave him a gap toothed smile. Raus simply looked back at him, giving a small nod before striding forward. "One for me, miss." he told the serving wench as she passed him by. She snorted and shook her head. "Aye" was all the response he got, and he shrugged. Gazing at the two Witchers, for that is what they had to be, he approached them just as they were about to converse. "So, what's a Witcher doing around these parts." he heard one say, and spoke up as he stepped forward. "I was about to ask that very question."

"Two witchers, and a human swordsman."
"Are you kidding me? I swear your a witch yerself."

A smirk appearing on a lad's face, he held out his hand wrapped in leather, expectingly. A cat like gaze as he tilted head head, seeming to grow more an more amused at the look of irritation that was given to him.
Sitting at the front of the inn, Anath had been speaking to the keeper for a while now. The smell of ale and wooden seat becoming well known after the years he used them, despite his young appearance.

It was always good to gather information here, this was where all sorts gather, from all kinds of backgrounds. With a little ale to loosen their lips the boy seemed to have found himself a gold mine. One that was soaked in the smell of piss and corpses outside, but a gold mine non the less.
Though even with the thought, he saw it as a small sanctuary, one of the many that he would hide in whenever the guards had wanted his head. The owner here had hid him more than once when he was in a tight spot. Nothing a little coin and spoken word couldn't get you in this place of drunken stupors and cards of gwent.

But that was not why she came here. No, not at all, the damn fool, him and his frilly attire. It was not even a day ago when Dijkstra gave her the job. She had just came back from a rough patch with a gang fewed, she now had a bounty on her head, least with them. And he was already asking her to take on another case.
But it was not one she could refuse, the temptation was as sweet to her, as wore house was to a drunken swine. So here she was, the appearance of a boy, no older than 15 it seemed, with a cap hiding pointed ears, and placing bets of who would enter the inn. Even though she's been cheating for some time now, the woman already knew who would be coming, she just saw a chance to earn some coin.

Reaching to her shoulder, she gave a rat a small pet, the creature still under her hand. "Why don't you get that vermin out of here?" A roll of her eyes, she took a swig of her drink. "Oh come now, we both know that this little fella is cleaner than half the peasants of Novigrad."
She only earned a snort in response, waving him off as he began to warn her. "Best watch what you say round here, don't need you taking your secrets to an early grave."

"I didn't take this job because of the long life expectancy. Go take your wise words and give em to someone who cares about their skin." Another round she downed her drink, acting as if she were just a young boy who for some reason had too much power. Yet under the façade, she kept a ear trained at her back, listing to what the witchers had to say. Dijkstra already gave her a hint on who would be interested in this job, the bastard never just going straight to the point though had caused her to be careful. Never go jumping to conclusions, you'll only get a new rope necklace.

The rat on her shoulder began to climb down her arm, curious eyes and a twitching nose to keep her company, she gave it another pat on it's back, smooth fur under her finger tips, while she waited for them to bring the next move.

"Gods, this place is a pit..."

Ingar was convinced that Novigrad was not going to last as a nation, not really. Ignar had read accounts of such places in the far past, forgotten nations to others that had left the downtrodden and the outcasts to run rampant beneath their opulent palaces and grand carnivals. Only to drown in a sea of filth, revolution, or outside invasion. Or some combination of the three, and looking at this place, he couldn't help but think that he felt poorly of this land. But, he was fortunate enough to evade encounters with the brigands and outlaws, seems folk were too busy with the harvest of the live stock. Which was good, he hated having to get into fights, it really didn't serve him well, or at all. He hated the concept, needless bloodshed for oft needless purposes. Why couldn't they just reason things out? Because they were all mortal beings, sadly.

No one seemed intent on bothering the thin foreigner, as his pacing was fast and he looked the part of someone who invited no trouble from those, less they regret their life decisions. In all reality Ingar would likely run before he would fight and stand his ground, but that wasn't something they needed to know. His garb was almost as foreign as he was, and he made no attempts to hide it. He had committed no crime, well, he had, but none they would know about. Murdering Witcher's in cold blood was technically criminal, or so the family had claimed upon delivering their verdict, but the man had it coming, so he hardly was regretful of it. Rather, that small medallion sat heavy in its pocket, secreted away about his person in a way only he, or someone intimately familiar with him, would ever have the hopes of finding. It was a dark reminder of the past, but one he would not forget, lest he have to repeat it.

Lost in thought as such, Ingar almost missed the Seven Cats inn, where the good agent of Dijkstra had so kindly pointed him towards. Apparently this would be the place he would meet up with this band of agents to hunt the tales of the Wild Hunt. It had taken some convincing, to be honest, since anyone who seriously tracked such dangerous lessons tended to not resurface again. History was also startingly quiet on the matter, something that inevitably tipped the scales in favor of the agent of Dijkstra to aid him and his other chosen agents in their cause. But, with a sigh, he walked into the inn, regretting his life decisions as the disgusting pit he found himself in. But, it was hardly the worst he had seen, so he found himself seated at the counter a few stools down from some young looking lad, couldn't have been more than fifteen, maybe sixteen. Bit young to be drowning his sorrows, but who was he to judge?

"One bottle, please. Thank you kindly." He paid up front, before being asked for the pay, and in short enough time he was presented with a bottle of some fairly foul looking swill. But it would last for some time, and keep attention off when he decided to make his way to the back room. The few Witcher's congregating rather obviously was, well, not sitting well with him, but he ignored them resolutely. He did mutter a comment, taking a nasty swig from the bottle before hand, regretting buying the bottle immediately, but no sense just sitting there. Would create trouble, most barkeeps and innkeeps tended to not tolerate freeloaders lightly. "Seems you can't even go to the ends of the world without running into a Witcher..." And that was unlikely to be a statement that could be taken well, but it was spoken lowly so only those immediately nearby, or with unfairly supernatural hearing, might catch it.

Ingar already didn't like the look of the Witchers, so he turned his mind's eye to the only other really interesting figure so far. The young looking lad drinking a few stools down. Again, the apparent youth was what threw things off the most. His pet rat was rather peculiar as well, but bothered him little. Small thing was probably cleaner than the majority of this filthy hovel. He kept an ear to the Witcher's, but also an eye on the door. You could never go long with their ilk about without trouble walking through the door. Or crashing through the window. Or bringing the ceiling down on the collective heads of everyone. Or, he thought bitterly with another swig, murder everyone worth caring for. No, that was not a fair statement, he chided himself, it was one select group that did it. Didn't make dealing with Witchers any easier though. Barring any interruption from anyone, he would eventually make his way to the back room, passing on the code phrase to find some peace from the stinking hovel that was the main room.

Merrick growled angrily as he put his armor aand clothes back on. Stupid whore, she had no idea what she had been doing, clearly having only recently taken on this job. Didn't matter now, she was dead and he had what he had come in for. Her mutialted corpse was on the bed behind him as he began to leave, before snapping his fingers, "Ah, almost forgot.", he turned, walking back to the nightstand and picking up his necklace, the cat shaped witcher pendant on it, and placed it around his neck before walking out. He passed the owner and tossed a small bag of coin at him, "Thats for my time.", he said as he burst out the door, swords back on his back.

He turned down the street, his destination the Seven Cats Inn, the locale he had told to be at for his newest 'Business venture'. The lucrative offer, or at least he had been told it was lucrative, was supposedly right up his alley. He supposed he would find out soon enough. After a few minutes of walking, he arrived at the inn. It was like seemingly everywhere else in Novigrad, disgusting, filthy, and the perfect place for someone like Merrick. He wasn't so high and mighty like many other Witchers he had known throughout his life. Merrick was infinitely more willing to do much anything his skills, so long as coin was involved.

Upon entering he surveyed those there, not knowing who else may be here for the supposed offer fro Djikstra, so he sat down at a table to survey his fellow patrons. For one he raised an eyebrow at the two men conversing at a bar, the one in the large cloak looked... familiar. But, the Cat Witcher decided to simply watch for a bit as they spoke, trying to see if he knew the cloaked man. However, the nearby young man griping about Witchers was who interested him the most. He turned to his fellow patron, a smile on his face and his catlike eyes open wide, the medallion of the school of the cat dangling from his neck, "Really? Because, I actually don't see to many myself!", he chuckled at the irony of that, Witchers becoming less and less common but this boy acted like he saw one every day.

"Though, I'm a pretty secluded one myself eh? Like to work alone you know? So, what have yo seen of Witchers? What I mean, is what has you seeing so much friend?", he was being legitametly friendly and charming or at least trying, after all he saw no reason to be unpleasant with the young man.

"So, brat, you haven’t paid for your drink yet. Give me some info." A brow raised from the boy, Anath leaned back, his hand still on the rat that scurried just a inch away from him.
"That all depends friend, information is far more expensive than the horse piss you serve here." His words laid back, yet a smirk on his features, he only watched as the bar tender began to grow angry. "You watch your mouth! This is the best your ever going to get." His voice was rugged, raspy from drink and smokes. He didn't seem like the fast type, or the intelligent.

"Oh forgive me, your right sir. I could have never gotten something better than the juices from a decaying corpse. Honestly I don't know why I drink this stuff, guess its to pass the time, keep me warm. Look if its just local gossip I'll be given it to ya, but that be it."
Kicking his feet under his stool, Anath leaned his arm on the counter. Pushing the now empty mug while he cupped his face in his hand. The rat tipping the container and lapping up the dripping liquid. He wasn't going to stay here much longer anyway, back room seemed rather tempting.
Still he listened to the growling man, finally give in. He should be smart enough to not kill a information broker. Least not the child that worked with Dijkstra, he was known to be spoiled by his fellow street rats. "I need to know if me wife is having an affair, I heard stories she was, and she's been coming in late."

The words caused the boy to burst in laughter, shaking his head, and readjusting his cap to keep his elven ears hidden. "Sir, your wife will ride anything that has something between his legs. Even offered a round with myself, though believe me when I say she's not my type, not even close."
Watching the man turn pink, he was about to make a get away, "sir, don't be thinking I'm a liar. Lying will only have gotten me killed a long time ago. You wanted to know what your wife is doing and I told ya, now she does have reason but that cost extra, so if I were you I would grow a pair and talk to her."

Leaning back even further, the rat falling to his lap, Anath barely dodged a harsh blow that was meant for him. The man knocking down the drinks set up, foul tasting liquid dripping from the side of the counted and soaking into the mouldy straw ridden floor. The woman at his side cursing a few colores before moving to clean the mess.

Taking that as his cue to leave, the boy let his rat climb to his shoulder. Making his way to the loud bunch, another witcher laughing, his words off slightly. It was strange, he always seen witchers as being calm, cold and collected, beings who had the stillness of a mind that could take down the foulest of beasts.
"Well witcher, there are more than enough places you folk go to when you need to hide. But those places are barren now, last group left to a keep, said there was a few jobs down dare."

Smirk on his face, Anath leaned on the counter near the swords man. He could feel the emotion from the guy, disdain, someone who had no tolerance for the kind. Folk like him were a dime a dozen. But seeing the armour and fine sword on his person was screaming to him. This guy and the witchers were all here for Dijkstra's new little job. "Name's Anath, the local street rat, so what brings such colourful characters as yourself to a place like this? Surly its not for the women and drink."