Four Weeks Ago – Commons, Telchar

“Maker have mercy…” whispered the old man between quavering lips. A cold sweat beginning to form beads along his pale wrinkled forehead. Even as a Witcher, Jaspar had never seen anything quite like what was before him. He felt something unusual, something foreign to him… he felt a shiver of fear. The man raised his rough calloused hands to his head and let his fingers glide through his dirty black locks, reaching the itchy scalp beneath. He had heard rumours of the killings, of the grim horror stories surrounding them – its what brought him to this wretched city after all – but he didn’t expect the stories to be so accurate.

Before him laid a dozen bodies, gorged to death, their entrails and sticky bits Strawn over the floors and furniture like seasonal decorations. Had he not known better, he might have thought such an attack would have required a pack of werewolves. But, despite the gory mess, there were no signs of fighting; no broken or misplaced furniture, no dulled or bloodied weapons, and what was left of the bodies laid in a circle around the centre of the room. Neighbours, from what he understood, did not hear any fighting either, just the wailing of a little girl.

“Well this must’ve been the poor girl” he grumbled as he trod through the mess to the centre of the room, his boots squelching with each step. In the centre laid one body which, unlike the others, had not been ripped apart. It was clear from her grotesque size, skin colouration, and clothing stains, that she had been the one responsible for eating the bodies around her. He swept away the blood stained blonde hair from her face for closer inspection. “Couldn’t have been any older than ten.” He guessed outloud whilst shutting her eyelids. The puke and mess leaking from her mouth suggested that her feasting was what killed her, “Her body obviously wasn’t made for eating raw flesh. Must have been a horrible slow death.”

He had seen carnivorous and cannibalistic monsters in the past, like Nekkers that had gotten so fat that they could hardly move. But this was different. Externally, she showed no signs of being non-human and moreover, his medallion wasn’t moving at all. His feline eyes scoured her body for signs of clues, but there was nothing – no marks, no scratches, no symbols, no defects at all save for the bloating. He tried using his nose, but aside from the expected stench of rotten flesh and human waste, there was nothing in the room that seemed to stick out. With no other options, Jaspar unsheathed a dagger from his belt holster and began a butcher-shop autopsy. Diving straight in at the gut and dragging his blade up towards her throat, he allowed the mass of gore to seep out, along with a fresher more repugnant scent. It was enough even to make the Witcher wince and hold his breath for a moment before digging around. Despite his thorough rummaging, Jaspar could not find anything that would give him answers. Her organs, though damaged through the gorging, seemed human. There didn’t even appear to be any drugs or magical items stuffed into her either.

“This isn’t right…” his bushy brows furrowed in irritation, “She is definitely human. Was she forced to eat her family? What could make her do that? What monster or creature would benefit from that?” Jasper continued his search, desperately looking for some sort of clue that would at least start him off in the right direction. So desperate was his search that he failed to hear the approaching sounds of footsteps outside until too late.

“What happened to the guards?!” exclaimed a coarse voice from outside, swiftly followed by a chorus of jeering and mumbling.

“Shit!” Jaspar hissed, quickly shooting upright and scanning the building for a second way out.

But it was too late.

With a mighty smash, the front door of the small house quickly caved in, allowing half a dozen figures to storm in. Each wore different armour, but one feature remained the same: a dark blue featureless mask. They were the Warriors of Manannan, the secret police of the local church, whose job was to hunt down witches and other abominations. “Halt fiend!” shouted the burliest of the lot, his sword poised and ready.

Jaspar, although a good fighter, was past his prime and knew better than to try and take the group on. “Woah. Easy there. I was just investigating. We’re dealing with something very nasty here.” He spoke softly as he slowly unstrapped the swords from his back and tossed them away. Even disarmed, the mess that covered his clothes and the room around them made him look dangerous. “I’m happy to comply and speak to your leaders.”

“Silence!” snapped a voice from the left, causing Jaspar to turn just the warrior threw dimeritium dust in his face. Jaspar recoiled as the metal fragments went into his eyes and let out a small gasp of pain. Dimeritium of course is a substance used to block magic, and so for Jaspar this was very problematic; not only did it mean that he would be unable to cast signs, but it also caused the charm which disguised his mutations to ware-off. His golden feline eyes now glaring angrily at his attackers. Without giving Jaspar a chance to react, another warrior stooped in to ensure that Jaspar would no longer be a threat, efficiently slicing his sword across the back of the mutant's heels and rendering him immobilised. Jaspar fell to the floor in a slump, blinded and writhing in pain, roaring like the monster his captors thought him to be.

“Gag it and take it to the Temple! The Bishops will want to interrogate it!”

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Three Weeks Ago – Central Main Square, Telchar

Hordes of humans, elves and dwarves alike littered the public square, cheering merrily, and shouting for the show to begin. To the outside eye it would have looked like some kind of public festival – and truth be told, that wasn’t far off. Due to the diligence of the Church over the last half a century, these sort of spectacles had become a rarity in the city of Telchar, and so when such an event came around, the public savoured the opportunity and gave in to some of their more primal instincts.

“Nothing like a good ole monster burning, eh lad?” came the intoxicated slur of an almost stereotypical rowdy bearded dwarf, who held in his hand a flagon almost as big as his head. “I’d heard bad things about these foreign Witchers, but I didn’t realise they were capable of the shit that’s been happening recently.”

The gentleman that had the pleasure of hearing these delightful insights was one of the local guard captains, a young blonde haired man by the name of Artorias. The young guard was a bastion of discipline, with short cropped hair, a freshly shaved face, and shining plate armour. Artorias did not respond to the dwarf and instead kept his eyes fixed on the stake in the near distance. Whatever he thought of monsters, mutants and witches, he hated the idea of making anything suffer unnecessarily. To make a public event of burning a sentient being alive? It did not sit with him well, but he felt obliged to be there to keep the peace. Such was the duty of a guard.

“Oooo! It’s *hic* starting!” squealed the dwarf in delight.

At the edge of the square four Warriors of Manannan began to tie the broken body of Jaspar the Witcher to the stake, a large beam of wood that rose from what would soon be a large pyre. His legs were mangled and his body torn and scarred in such a way that it even hurt to look at. Clearly, he had only survived the torture this long due to being a Witcher and the genetic mutations he had received. Still there was a fight in his animalistic eyes, a burning fire within.

As the warriors continued to prepare the Witcher, one of the Church’s Bishops took to the raised podium to address the crowd. He wore rusty blue coloured scale armour beneath darker blue tattered robes. Unlike the Warriors, his face was unobscured and showed off an angry elderly face, with an unkempt grey beard and tattered long wiry hair. In any other city his appearance would have led one to believe that he was a raving madman, or perhaps some sort of soothsayer, but in the fine city of Telchar it signaled that he was one of the Church’s five leaders. “Good citizens of Telchar! I see that once again you have come out in waaaves to support the Church! To praise Manannan!” The Bishop paused for a moment to let the crowd cheer, “Know that he is proud! For today we burn a vile monster! A beast known as a Witcher! The same beast that has killed so many innocent families over the last few months! Finally, we can have retribution!”

“You fool! I am not the monster you seek! There is a darkness that lurks this city, a darkness far more dangerous than me! Your fucking sea God is more of a monster than me!” The coarse beaten voice of Jaspar rang out surprisingly loud, as if he had saved all his remaining strength for that moment.

“Heretic! You will not speak another word!” The Bishop yelled back, pointing his old knobbly finger in the Witchers direction. “You will be burned and fed to the sea! Like all the damnations that dare threaten our great city!”

As if on cue, the four Warriors of Manannan finished tightening the bonds and walked over to a nearby brazier, each picking up a flaming torch.

"Oh great conqueror, absolver, and savior!" boomed the Bishop in prayer, the crowds repeating after him in devout chorus.

The four Warriors walked slowly over to the pyre, each taking position on a corner.

"To you we give our thanks! And to us you give your Mercy!"

The Warriors slowly dropped to a knee and held the torches up in prayer.

"To you we offer the wicked! May we burn the sin from our city! We may save our souls!"

The Bishop turned to the pyre, a bloodthirsty smile across his face, and slowly raised his hands as if rising the flames himself. "Praise be to Manannan!"

With that the warriors set alight to the pyre which, due to the oils, quickly rose and engulfed Jaspar. Vivid tones of orange and purple swirled around in an almost majestic way that seemed to detract from an otherwise awful seen. Though hard to see through the flames, the Witchers body quickly began to melt and boil, the special oils preventing him from simply being charred. The last inhumane cries of pain and terror were quickly drowned out by the cheering of the crowd, who watched on with bloodlust in their eyes.

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King Krios sat against one of the many stone window frames that lined one of the south-eastern corridors of Bastion Keep. From here one could gaze down at the ships below as they came and went from the port, or simply gaze across the Great Sea towards other unseen lands. The King was lost in a trail of thoughts when a rain-drop brought him back to reality. His light hazel eyes looked up towards the skies where dark clouds were drifting in from the sea.

Footsteps from behind caused the large chubby man to turn, only to see one of his advisors quickly pacing up towards him. “Your Highness!” came the breathless high-pitched voice of his cousin, “We have received a letter from the Mercean Empire. It appears that the rumours we’ve been hearing are true; Prince Lorcan is on his way to the City of Telchar as an ambassador. Likely with the goal of stopping us from supplying their enemies.”

Krios gave out a low-pitched exaggerated chortle in response, causing his advisor to become all the more nervous about the situation. The King then lightly shook his balding head and combed his fat fingers through his long dark beard. “Lorcan? That’s King Greagoir’s runt isn’t it? I haven’t seen him since he was a child. He was a goby vicious little shit back then, and I can’t imagine him marrying into the Mercean Empire has improved his character.”

“No sir, in fact he’s gained quite the dark reputation. What are your orders sir?”

“My orders?” smirked the King, “I don’t have any! Go bother the small council with this, that’s why I have you advisors after all.”

The advisor did not look all too surprised, giving a small bow before running back off from where he came from. Although the arrival of foreign diplomats and emissaries was not usually a big event (in fact it was a rather frequent occurrence), this situation was different. If things did not go well, not only could the City of Telchar be branded an enemy of the empire and officially be dragged into the war, but given the Princes lineage, the city of Telchar could even face war with their southern neighbours - the Kingdom of Moorwind. Even so, it was not enough to garner the King's direct involvement or interest. And truth be told, that was probably for the best.

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”Urgh, typical. I forget to take my clothes off the line before I leave for work and it starts hammering it down.” The Captain sighed as he peered out of his office window in the upper floor of the Town Hall. From there he was able to see the citizens of the city start scrambling for shelter around the skirts of the main square, where the buildings had more cover. Some of the merchants desperately began packing away their goods, hoping to prevent damage and spoiling, whilst others stood firm beneath their own little stall roofs and canopies.

“That’s why you need a wife (or two), so you have someone to do all that boring crap for you whilst you’re out doing real work.” Chirped in another town guard, who sat with his feet rested up on one of the tables. His name was Monroe, a scruffy looking meathead in his late thirties, who served as the other Guard Captain of the Central District. His skin was darkened, leathery and scarred – the result of years fighting and being out in the sun. He had no hair left on his head, but you couldn’t tell this from the barbute that he wore. Like Artorias, he wore Captain’s garb consisting of a dark blue doublet and plate cuirass, shoulders and greaves.

”You see, it’s pathetic talk like that which drove away your last two wives.” replied Artorias with a grin, “…it’s fortunate I have such a big bed.”

“Fuck you!” laughed Monroe, launching his cup of water towards his comrade. “What are you still doing here anyway? I’m here now, which means you’re relieved. You can go chase chickens, or visit a brothel, or whatever it is you do in your own time.”

“You’re early, I’ve still got a little while left on my shift. I’ll at least wait to see what this gentleman wants…” Artorias gave a nod towards an older looking man who was making his way up the corridor towards them. The older man was visibly shaking as he approached, with tears flooding from his bloodshot eyes. ”Can I help you sir?”

“I-I- erm- Yes please. It’s my daughter, she-“ as the man’s words fell off his tongue he began to weep, too distraught to explain. The two Captains shared a glance and Monroe quickly jumped to his feet and whistled a couple of their subordinates over.

“Sir, please listen to my voice. I know this is hard. But if you don’t explain what’s happened we won’t be able to help. Take a deep breath and tell us what’s going on.”

The old man nodded quickly as he tried to hold back his emotions. He could not bring himself to raise his head as he recomposed. “My daughter, Alisha. She helps me sell my tools on the market. She’s a short less, just a little over 5ft and she has her mother’s brown hair. The prettiest blue eyes…” The old man let out a few whimpers before continuing, “She was down in my basement, my workshop, helping me pack up some of my wares. I went upstairs and heard a terrible crash. When I went back down there was a hole in the wall and I could see the sewers beneath us. And she was gone, my little baby girl was gone!”

”And did you see anything else?”

“Aye, I did. I saw one of them fucking drowners! And I know what one looks like, I saw enough of them when I was in the navy!”

”I see. Men, take this gentleman back to his home and secure the area. When he’s calmed down try to get more information from him.” Artorias ordered, and with that the two guards that had come over led the man away.

“Shit. We haven’t got the men to go on a sewer hunt – not for one girl anyway.” Monroe said, scratching thoughtfully at the bristles on the side of his face. “It’s no use sending just a couple of guards down, as they’ll either get butchered, lost, or they might just spend days down there with no luck. Maybe we ought to let the Warriors of Manannan know – they love dealing with this sort of shit.”

Artorias grimaced at Monroe’s suggestion. The relationship (or rather rivalry) between the City Guard and the Warriors could be tense at times anyway, but Artorias has recently lost all faith in the Church and their fanatical vigilantes. “You’re right – we haven’t got the manpower to send our own down into the sewers on a hunt. But given the other rumours of drowner sightings, this could be a bigger problem. And I don’t want to get the Church involved.”

“So what do you suggest?”

---

(Collab with @BlackSam3091)

After weeks of travel on the crowded roads, Kieran and Fridolf caught sight of the free city of Telchar, the wind beating against their cloaks as the rain poured from the murky grey sky. Kieran had wrapped himself in his black travelling cloak, and his black cloth scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth. It hid the silver bear medallion that hung against his chest, while the telltale cat-like eyes of a Witcher were hidden by the glamour he possessed, which took the form of a silver crescent belt buckle.

The glamour had been costly, and Kieran had to give up a month's worth of pay from contracts to a travelling enchanter for it. As such Fridolf and he had spent many nights under the stars instead of an inn, drinking water and ale and eating hard bread and whatever they could catch or gather instead of fine food and wine. It wasn't so bad until the storm had rolled in the past few days. Kieran did not much mind the downpour or the more humble vittles, but Fridolf was another matter and it took every ounce of Kieran's Witcher discipline to block out his friend's curses and complaining. Thankfully, they still had enough coin squirrelled away to stay at an inn for at least a few nights, and Kieran had little doubt that they could find more money in the city, despite the costliness of the glamour and the need to disguise himself.

But such concealment was wholly necessary, for the City of Telchar disdained magic in general and Witchers specifically and vehemently. Kieran was proud to be a Witcher. But not so much that he would risk burning to death for it. He had a job to do, and he was resolved to see it through, no matter how long it took. News of Jaspar's death had shocked Kieran, and he had rode post haste to the city to right the wrong of his comrade's death and put an end to the killings that had wracked the city.

Kieran had quite a bit of work set out for him. He had to get a look at the bodies, examine the attack scenes. Identify the beast, track it. And kill it. If indeed it was a beast. It could have been a serial killer, though the need for Jaspar to investigate in the first place implied otherwise. In any case, Kieran would put a stop to it. He had to. The young Witcher found his swords, strapped to his hips instead of his back. The steel and silver tools of his trade. He wasn't used to the position, but that was another neccesity, else the guards recognize him as a Witcher. As it was, he simply looked like a hedge knight or sellsword who was fond of carrying two swords. Whatever the killer was, Kieran would be ready for it.

He looked at the walled city, with it's stunning castle on a hill, sprawling buildings, and proximity to the sea and knew it was one of the most magnificent sights he had ever witnessed, even as the storm pounded on it. The city was far older than him, and would exist long after Kieran was gone, even with his extended lifespan. It was a grand testimony, in construction at least, to the potential of humanity.

If only the inhabitants of the city were as forward thinking as the architects had been.

Still Kieran smiled, grinning ear to ear and petting Storm, "Good girl. We'll get you out of this soon enough and into a stable, with a nice apple." The Witcher-trained horse was used to the rigors of the wildnerness, but Kieran thought it was only proper to compensate his companion and friend for the rougher weeks they had recently spent on the road, and reward her for her steadfastness throughout them.

As the city gates came into view, and they slowly rode on the muddy road next to clusters of people, animals, and carts entering and exiting the city, Kieran turned his head to look at Fridolf, "Magnificent isn't it? Have you ever been here before? Know what it's like in the city?"

Fridolf started suddenly at Kieran's question, his attentions momentarily diverting themselves from the path in front of them. This momentary distraction was all Flo, Fridolf's contrary-natured mare, needed to start causing a fuss. Without skipping a beat she reared up onto hindlegs, whinnying loudly as she fought to shrug her rider out of his saddle. The con-man snatched feebly at the saddlehorn, but it was too little, too late. With a high-pitch squawk, he tumbled gracelessly from his seat, somehow managing to twist bodily mid-air, before dropping face first onto the churned mud of the road.

Manfully stifling a sob, he went to push himself upright, but to his horror just sank deeper into the murk. For a terrifying heartbeat he thought that he might just die there, suffocating in the dirt and shit outside of Telchar. Panic added strength to his limbs, and with a cry he managed to fight his way clear, pushing himself to his knees. With the back of his grubby forearm he tried to wipe the worst of the muck from his face and eye's, but something told him it was a losing battle. He'd need at least two baths to shed the filth that now plastered him like thick icing. Flo stood facing him from a few feet away. She was wearing a decidedly smug look. Fridolf hadn't even known horses could look smug before he met Flo. Gods, he hated that horse.

Kieran had almost jumped out of the saddle, thinking Fridolf was injured, but he soon realized he was fine and simply warring with his mount once more. Kieran's concern turned to amusement, and he fought to stifle a laugh.

"Try not to look to pleased with yourself," He growled to the horrible herbivore, "Soon as we get to the city, I'm selling you to a butchers." Flo didn't seem all that intimidated though, responding to his threats by raising her tail and farting lazily.

"You just see if I bloody don't!" The criminal muttered to himself as he marched ungainly through the sludge, and hauled himself back into the saddle. Now that she'd throughly embarrased and defaced her owner, Flo seemed satisfied to settle back into the unsteady, disdainful truce that usually coloured their relationship, though no doubt she was already planning her next attack. Fridolf would just have to endevour to be more ready for her next time.

All of Kieran's Witcher training was barely enough to contain the young man's laughter at the sight. As it was, he fought to hide his amused grin as Fridolf wrestled his way back into the saddle. Charming con artist Fridolf may have been, but forrester he was not.

After brushing the worst of the grime from his clothes, he settled himself more comfortably before turning his attention's to Kieran.

"That was your fault, by the way. She plays up in front of you. She was far less ornery before I met you. A paragon of virtue, in fact, compared to her behavior now. I think you're a bad influence." Which was all blatently untrue. Flo had been a bad-natured bitch ever since he'd had the misfortune of winning her in a rigged card game, but Kieran didn't need to know that. Fridolf's pleasures had become few and far between recently, and so he had learned to find his jollies wherever he could. One of his favourite passtimes was attempting to get the ever-honourable Bastard Bear to feel righteous guilt over horrible deeds that he actually had fuck all to do with. Just last week he'd managed to convince Kieran that it was his fault that all Fridolf's socks had holes in them. Juvenile, but fun.

Kieran's brow furrowed in thought, , "Hmm. She might still unused to the presence of a Witcher. Animals have been known to react poorly around us on occasion. Flo could be particularly senstive. I apologize if that is the case, Fridolf. At least the rain will wash some off."

"Ach, I'm bloody drenched. . . And cold. . . And hungry, now that I think about it. If only someone hadn't wasted all our money on an overpriced glamour - instead of just wrapping a black cloth around his face like I'd suggested - then maybe we could have purchased some proper vittles at the last village, and I wouldn't be in danger of starving to death." Calling the money their's was being generous in Fridolf's favour, as he hadn't actually contributed anything to the communal pot, but he didn't like to let facts like that get in the way of a good gripe.

Kieran frowned, "Too risky. This city is no friend to either of our kind, Fridolf. I couldn't chance someone catching a look at my eyes and reporting me to the guards. They'd burn us both at the stake. Worth missing a few hot meals to avoid that, if you ask me," He smiled at Fridolf, "Besides, I'm sure we can make some money in the city. Should be all kinds of beasts lurking around."

While Fridolf had been complaing, the two companions had happened upon the Common's Gate, where they were forced to wait in a que of traffic before entering the city limits. The train of wagons, merchants, tinkers and travellers moved slowly, as it appeared they were all being stopped and questioned by the squadron of city guards postioned at gates. As the two neared the checkpoint, it became apparent that the guardsmen were soliciting a toll from all entrees. Fridolf clucked in annoyance, as at that moment he wanted nothing more than a warm bath, a hot meal, and a cold drink, and this diversion was hindering him in his pursuit of those things. Still, nothing else for it. This was how civilisation worked. Taxes everywhere.

The two riders were the next in line when the con-man turned to his companion "Would you like the honor of dealing with these gentlemen," He gestured at the guardsmen, "Or shall I do the necessaries?"

Kieran shook his head, "Better for me to interact with the guards as little as possible. And we don't have much coin left.' Kieran grinned at Fridolf, "This is your area of expertise, my friend, you should have the honors."

Fridolf returned the grin, though there was something slightly predatory about the bent of his features.

"Oh, I have very little in the way of honour, good sirrah, as shall no doubt soon become apparent."

The grifter cracked his long fingers, made a last attempt at cleanliness - he still looked a state, but there was nothing else for it now - then dug a tightly rolled scroll, stamped with a purple waxed seal featuring a proud griffin with wings outstretched, from his saddlebag.

Fridolf's criminal ways had always been a concern to Kieran, but perhaps now they could be put to good use. Kieran simply sat straight up in the saddle and watched his friend at work.

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A sigh of relief escaped Niavak's lips as the caravan passed through the familiar, rickety gates of Telchar. For better or worse, Niavak had been tasked to guard the trader and his goods by himself. It had been a four day journey from the rambunctious city of Turr, the caravan had slowed down their trek by a day. Luckily it was only a few scant untrained bandits, and a pack of wolves that had slowed their journey. The bandits were quickly dispatched off as they had no formal training, with the only damage he received being boredom and disappointment; the wolves scattered as soon as more than a handful perished under his gleaming blade.

He rubbed his slightly aching leg as the trader spoke with the guards, and they were let in. The trader then patted himself off, handed him a bag of crowns, and went off- disappearing into the sea of faces. Odd fellow, pleasantly pleased that he didn't try to converse to much through the passage, he thought, sliding the dusty sack into his inner pockets. Niavak rolled his shoulders, taking a long look at the city, coupled with the city's hustle and bustle, the city gave off an air of normalcy. "Is this really where they ended that poor sod off?" he muttered almost inaudibly to no one in particular, "Smoke and mirrors, huh?"

His steps took him to Central, eyeing for the 'Jolly Lion inn'. A hearty meal, and a nap would do good to the man's mental physique. After a few moments of pacing aimlessly in the central he finally located the inn, the loud chatter and the lingering smell of ale gave it away. Stepping in he was nary cast a look, his creaking steps through the old oak smothered by the clamor of the establishment. "Room please." he asked, placing crowns on the counter. As the woman scraped off the coin, she led him to his room upstairs. As he settled in the woman handed her his keys, and left finding her way back into the ground floor. The door locked with a click, and he began taking off his murky cloak then his steel armor. "Damned long day."

With his body heavy, and his eyes failing he slowly drifted off into a rare, relatively restful sleep.

---

"Listen Niavak," A blurry cloaked figure called out from the stern of a wooden ship, the storms were unlike anything Niavak had ever witnessed "You have to g-" The man's words were cut off by a crackle of white that barreled down the mast of the ship, simultaneously lighting on fire. A large wave then thrashed the already barely held together ship, with the force violently thrashing the young Niavak into the dark depths of the ocean. The fiery ship that lit up the night soon bled into nothingness as the black and red of the sea slowly began to envelope his sight.

He woke up in a cold sweat, heaving lightly as his eyes swam nervously around the wooden walls of the inn. Outside the window, he noticed it was about sunrise making him decide to get up. His joints cracked as he got up, sluggishly equipping his armour then his tattered cloak. Niavak wasn't exactly a morning person, making his way to the ground floor to grab a bite to eat. Luckily it isn't as noisy as it is at night, the only people up were a few patrons dead asleep on the counters, and a gaggle not-so morning people like him. He spotted an empty table, and slowly sauntered towards it. Waving over the 'waitress', he ordered for the generic special for that fine morning.



"Here's your food." she said snapping Niavak out of the conversation to the table next to him. She placed down a steaming soup with soft bread, and meat on the side. He slid some copper in her hand and she left him to his devices. He began slowly consuming his meal, his mind drifting into the drowner contract the two unsavory fellows spoke of, "Might be worth a little look."

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The pair's turn in line had come, and the squad of city guards stopped the two, the sergeant looking them over with a critical eye, taking special notice of Kieran with his two swords and the mud-stained Fridolf. The sergeant began to open his mouth, but before he could say anything Fridolf cut him off by leaning from his sandle, until he was hanging close to the officer's ear. Conspiratorialy close, some would say. The sergeant eye's narrowed, his suspicion's irked by this uncommon turn of events, though through either a naturally inquisitve nature, or perhaps a willingless to find diversion from the monotony of gate guarding, he was willing to see where this was leading, at least for now. Good, Fridolf thought, that's enough opening for me.

"Psst!" he hissed, beckoning the guardsmen to crowd in closer by waving his hand. They duly complied, jostling one another for position, faces open in curiosity. Some of the traffic behind Fridolf and Kieran tried to push forwards, but were quickly discouraged of that notion by a bullshouldered guardsman growling threateningly in their directions. The grifter had the gate-guard's full attention now, and they weren't the type of lads who liked being interrupted.

"You lads seen a tall, blonde man come through this aways? Woulda been sporting a wispy little mustache, with a an ugly arse birthmark across the bridge of his conk, like a bird had shat purple on his face. No? He'd probably been wearing a maroon cloak." He spoke in a low whisper, though one carefully modulated so that it was loud enough for all his audience to hear him. Took some work, a whisper like that, but was well worth the effort. Made anyone who heard it think they were a part of some conspiracy, or about to be privvy to some juicy gossip. And if there was one thing soldier-boys loved, it was gossip. Several pairs of eyes began to shine in anticipation, while the sergeant lent in a bit closer, his features softening somewhat.

"Can't say we've seen a man fitting that description. What's this about?" Replied the sergeant, eliciting a sigh of relief from Fridolf. He wiped at his brow with the back of his sleeve, before returning his attentions to his small audience.

"That there is a relief like you lads wont believe. Began to think that maybe we'ez was too slow. Ain't that a relief Benjy-boy?" He flashed a grin to the Witcher, hoping the younger man wouldn't blow their cover by overplaying his part.

"See, my names Jonas Starline. I'm a soldier from the Northern ranks . . . well, I was a soldier, until I had the shite luck ta run afoul of the rightsame blistering thunder-cunt that I just described to you fellas. Nowadays, well now I'm just a poor bloke down on his luck, and ... well, I shouldn't be boring you with my sob stories, we ain't got time for that."

It was clear that the sergeant and his squad were warming to 'Jonas Starline'. Nothing endeared itself to enlisted men like the plights of fellow enlisted men. They all bemoaned the hardness of their incessantly bleak lives, and loved nothing more than to share in the sorrow of their fellow, if only so they could borrow those troubles for their own the next time they were in the tavern and competing with their comrades for the 'whose had the shitest career' trophy. Masochists by proxxy, the lot of them.

"Anyway, after I got shunted from the forces I had a good hard decision to make. See, Benjy here is my kid brother. Lovely kid, bootiful singing voice, like a blessed angel. Slow as an old mule with a missing leg though. Mammy dropped him on his head as a babe see, and he ain't never been right since. I've always looked after him since mammy passed, rest her soul, and without my soldier's pay, well I'm feared what may come to the two of us. Some of the guards shot sympathetic looks Kieran's way, though the man closest to the Witcher took a step away from him, as if he was afraid that he might catch a case of stupid. Kieran smiled pleasantly and vacantly as was expected, but kept silent.

"So I got to get more work quick, or we'll both end up starving, which ain't no way for an honest soldier, loyal to King Krios, to die." The sergeant nodded slowly and made a sympathetic cluckling noise with his tongue, before motioning for 'Jonas' to continue his tale.

"Figured the easiest place for an old swordhand like m'sell to find work was your fine city of Telchar. Plenty of merchants looking fer experienced guards, or maybe a tavern looking for a bouncer, ye know the thing. So me an Benjy, we packed up our belongings, sparse as they may be, sold mammy's old hut, and used the proceeds to buy a couple nags." Here was were the stories holes might show through. Just where a half-wit, brother to an out of work common soldier, might have gotten himself a horse as fine as Storm - whose quality was evident to even Fridolf's untrained eye - was a devil of a question to answer. Thankfully the squad was too taken up with the tale of woe, and where it was going, to quite question the details. He continued on quickly, not willing to give the lads to long to in case they started to excercise those grey things between their ear's.

"So there we were, riding into the great unknown, when I decided on a whim to stop in at me old mess hall and have one last schniffter with me ol' muckers. You lads know how it is, can't just run out on your comrades, even if I have been cheated out of the uniform." This also earned some nods of agreement, though a few faces scrunched up in confusion, as if the men had just remembered that Jonas was no longer a soldier, but had yet to explain why.

"Well, I had more than one drink with the boys. Started enjoying meself so much that I came to think me and Benjy might have lost a days travel, in fact, but thats when Cromtiff, who was the champion pugilist in me regiment, let it slip." Pause, for dramatic tension. The guardsmen leant in even closer, if that was possible. "Special-Commander Reevis, the man I described to you lads earlier, and the whoreson responsible for my current misfortunes, was on his way to Telchar, and taking this very path." Fridolf folded his arms, and nodded triumphantly to the squad, though recieved nothing but blank looks in return. Silence reigned for a moment, but when it became clear that Jonas wasn't going to be continuing unprompted the sergeant coughed to clear his throat.

"And, uh, just who is special-commander Reevis? And, for that matter, what is a 'special-commander?"

"You mean they never told you about the special-commanders?" Fridolf responded incredulously, feigning outrage.

"Who's they?"

"Why, yer captains man! Yer captains! They ain't mentioned the special-commanders t'ya?"

The sergeant was looking completely puzzled now, and actually doffed his coif and scratched at his thinning sandy hair before answering.

"Not that I remember. Should they have?"

Fridolf made a grunting noise at the back of his throat, though the grunt went on for so long that it became a growl.

"Those highborn bastards!" He snarled, slamming his fist into his palm, the very picture of an incensed soldier. Just what he was incensed at the squad couldn't be sure about, but Fridolf made sure that it was some moments before he appeared calm enough to continue his story. He was enjoying himself too much to let it end so soon.

"They're doing it again, dammit! The same thing they did to me, and half the lads in my regiment! Mark my words boys, those noble shit-stain, cum buckets are trying to mark yer cards!"

When he'd finally stopped making wordless rage-like noises and cursing all gentry, he allowed the guardsmen to goad out the rest of his story.

"Hold on," interrupted the sergeant, "what are they doing? And what's it gotta do with this special-commander."

Fridolf took a deep breath, trying to look like a man doing his level best at mastering an animal like fury. Didn't take much effort, considering his intense familiarity with that particular type of curse.

"You boys in the city ranks musta heard about all them plans the generals have to cut military costs, aye?" A series of nods met this statement. There was always rumours amongst the common soldiery about the bigwig's plans to minimize military budgets . Even a self-avowed pacifist like Fridolf had heard them. "Well the special-commanders are the gentry's latest plans."

"Those specials are spies and traitors." He spat for emphasis. "Sometimes they make like they're enlisting up as normal soldiers, then make mates with us rankers. It's all a ploy though. They sit at our campfires, or join us at the tavern table, and as we chatter and banter, they're taking notes of all thats said. And if you say something that the command might not like, say complaining about rations or complaints about some tosser captain, those special-commanders take note. Othertimes they dress up as commoners while we're on patrol or at a guard station, or what have you, and try to get us to slip up. Curse the king, or what have ye, like an honest soldier of Telchar would do sommat like that!"

"Well, once they've compiled they're shiting reports, they pass 'em onta the brass, who then got themselves a dishonest reason to get rid of a honest soldier." There was a collective gasp of disbelief at this, and more than one foul curse. The burly gateguard near the back hissed that he'd heard all about this from one of his mates, which was impressive seeing as Fridolf had just made it all up. There was no such thing as a special-commander. The con-man wated until the hubbub died down before continuing.

"And thats how them arselickers got ol' Jonas. Got shafted by Cromtiff, didn't I, after I merely made mention that my army issued boots didn't fit right, and how I reckoned the quartermaster in charge of such things was buying them cheap then pocketing the difference. Well Cromtiff grassed me up, and that was that, outta the military for me. So now the high hegions have managed to do some old rankers outta a job, cut their budgets, and made sure that even if us soldiers did wanta complain, it would look like we were radical dissidents making noise after being rightfully turfed out."

"Thats terrible." Sympathised the sergeant, his squad nodding enthusiastically in agreement.

"Aye, that it is squire. Which is why when I heard Cromtiff was on his way here, probably to do more of our lads outta their jobs, I turned to Benjy here and said, 'ah-ah, Benjy-boy, not on my watch, nor siree'. See, I might not be able to wear the colours no more, but you lads are still my comrades, and I'll never see our lads in a fix, not while there's still breath in my body." Kieran smiled blankly at mention of his name.

"We made haste thiss'aways, barely stopping for rest or vittles, as'in ya can probably know doubt see by the state of us." Handy way to explain his current state of sartorial distress. "And it seems our prudence paid off, as in it looks like we beat ol' Cromtiff here. Now you lads are forewarned and forearmed, as it were. You'll know to be ready for that cocksucker when he shows his ugly mug, for in he cannae be far down the road now. Mind your P's and Q's lads, and don't say a thing to him that you dinnae need to, and you'll get through alright. If you don't say anything, he can't report you for anything, and you boys will beat the system!" Fridolf smacked his fist into his palm once more, this time in savage triumph.

The guardsmen, already scanning the horizon for the hated - and fictional - special-commander Cromtiff, gave a ragged cheer, singing Jonas' praises and bemoaning the fact that they'd never be able to work with him. The sergeant smiled beatifically before gently grasping Flo and Storm's reigns and guiding the horses through the clamour of guardsmen, Fridolf and Kieran shaking hands and recieving backslaps from the grateful soldiers. Kieran for his part returned them all enthusiastically, with a wide smile and did not say a word while looking utterly confused.

"You're a hero Jonas. You and your brother too. The brass might not think so, but it's the opinion of the common boots that matters. I'll make sure every squaddie in the city knows what you've done. Many an enlisted man can sleep easier, now that we know what the commanders have been cooking up. We'll all be on our guard from now on. What the fuck can we do to thank you?" Fridolf fixed his face into a bashful smile, and did his best to blush. It's more difficult than it sounds, faking a blush. Fridolf had found that imagining that he was standing in church in front of a congregration of old women while his cock hung free usually did the trick.

"Oh, I ain't no hero, just done what any of you lads woulda done" He murmered, all of Jonas' storytelling bravado from a moment ago dissapeared like smoke in the wind now that his praises were being sung.

"Bollocks," replied the sergeant, "must be something we can do for you?"

"Well, there is one thing . . . "

"Anything!"

"Well like I said, me and Benjy find ourselves a touch light on funds, and we heard that there's a toll to get into the city, and, well . . . " The sergeants face lit up, and he nearly bounced on his toes, as he realised how easy it would be to repay his debt.

"Say no more Jonas, man like you, doesn't need to pay no stinking gate tax. You've already contributed more than any of these fucking merchant men. Follow me, I'll take you both through." And with that the sergeant led the two riders through the gate, and into the city. When on the other he pointed out directions to get to the major districts.

"We wont forget what you did today." The sergeant repeated. "I'll be sure to charge that tosser 'special-commander' double when I see him, just for you!" With that he turned on his heel and returned to his squad, though not before thrusting a bulging coin purse into Fridolf's outstretched hands, a 'contribution to the retired veteran's fund', apparently. The conman watched the sergeant go, making sure he was truly gone, before turning to Kieran and flashing a shit eating grin.

"Impressed?"

Kieran's blank smile turned into a genuinely appreciative gesture, his eyebrow cocking up in surprise, "Very. You played them all like a fiddle, Fridolf. Let us hope they do not catch on to the ruse any time soon. We don't need the guards looking around for us."

Fridolf snorted in derision, shaking his head condescendingly.

"Those boys wont be catching on anytime soon. They'll be too busy spending the next year glancing over their soldiers in fear of being stalked by special-commanders. You stick to nekkers, I'll handle the rubes... and their coin!" He cackled as he tossed the coin pouch high into the air, before tucking it into his shirt.

He eyed the coin as they rode by, "Taking the coin might have been a bit much, but it's too late to give it back now. I dislike misleading people in matters of money." The notion didn't quite sit right with Kieran, but he tried to put it out of his mind. The coin was made from tolling poor farmers anyway. Kieran could see that it was put to better use. He would have to keep telling himself that for a while before it would be convincing.

"In any case, I think we've earned ourselves a good dinner and a roof over our heads, right? The sergeant mentioned an inn called the Jolly Lion, Central District. Sounds like a fine place."

He caught site of a posting on a nearby wall and quickly scanned it from his seat, his forehead furrowing. 200 crowns to find a missing girl. That hefty of a reward, coupled with the term missing, indicated a monster-related job. Just up Kieran's alley. He needed the money, and it could be the girl's disappearance was connected to the mystery beast. Even if not, it was his duty to pursue the job.

Kieran turned back to Fridolf as they slowly cantered through the hustle and bustle of the city, high above most of the inhabitants as they pushed by on foot or with carts in the crowded streets. He had been to a few towns before, but had never seen so many people at once. Scores of greetings, curses, laughs, and conversations in a dozen tongues filtered through the air as fragrant foods mixed with the scent of sweat, piss, and shit. It was disorienting at first to his superhuman senses and Kieran had to concentrate for a second to dispell the sights, sounds, smells, and various stimuli that competed for attention.

Finally he said to Fridolf, "We get lodgings tonight, and in the morning, I aim to pursue a contract that could get us some money and possibly some leads into the beast. Perhaps you can try and find some information in the underworld?"

The conman glanced at his companion sidelong.

"That, or I'll get pissed, yeah."

_{Collab with @MrDidact}

---

---

It had been over a year since her exile from Greyreach, since Sia last saw the faces of the children whom she had grown up with. Those same children were likely living on the streets once again, orphans with no place to live and no name to claim as their own. Nobody in Greyreach would want them. All because of the ties they had to Sia, all because she had fallen for a noble and broken her vows. Such a thought haunted her even to this very day as she sat on the edge of her bed in the Inn. There was nothing she could do for them, returning to Greyreach would certainly mean her death and she had no contacts inside the Kingdom to give money.

However, it was not Sia’s way to dwell on the past for long nor was she going to focus on what she could not change. She had arrived in Telchar only a few days in the past, being greeted by a city which seemed all too peaceful for this world until she discovered the murders that had been happening in the city and that the Church there in had executed a Witcher of all people for them. While the Witchers were, objectively, as much monsters as those they hunted, she could not bring herself to believe that one would murder people for personal gain. Though she couldn’t say all too much if such an idea was true for she had never truly met a Witcher, only heard stories of them and their deeds.

Like her, they cleansed a world of the evil and impure beings which plagued but, unlike her, they focused primarily on hunting true monsters. She could likely never truly keep up with them if they were to fight together, in fact she was willing to bet that she’d be a hindrance to such a person. No, Sia’s specialty was to hunt people who had committed atrocities against others. Those were the monsters most real to her, the most she could truly touch and punish for their crimes.

Not even the talk of a missing woman and her distressed father was capable of bringing Sia’s single standard for contracts down, though the idea of being paid such a large sum of money was immensely tempting to her. She felt bad that she could not help the man, the idea that his only daughter was likely dead and there was nobody truly capable of helping him was sad. But there were more important monsters to hunt, at least from Sia’s view. The other talk of the town was a bounty on the head of a man named Fergus. Supposedly he was a small and quick man, decent fighter too, and used this to his advantage in his crime spree.

The man had raped women, murdered a person, and committed robbery. If let free, other criminals would grow as bold as he and seek to expand their crime further, though the Church’s standards for criminals seemed to keep that at bay for the time being. Not only that, but such a man was a menace to women that Sia could not let survive. Though no longer a Sister of Virtue, she still upheld their standards and did not wish to stand by as a fellow woman was harmed. Thus, she decided that she would take the contract and find the man. All information pointed to him being a member of a group that operated out of the Crafts district, though that meant she would have to be more careful than usual when asking around.

With that, she left the Inn for the Crafts district to get as much information as she could about Fergus and the group he worked with. Upon arriving, there wasn’t much that people were willing to tell her other than that they were all criminals of some kind and that many people seemed to be afraid of them. But, few were truly willing to give her any information, though a couple offered to give her more for a hefty sum of coins. Instead, her next destination became obvious, though she certainly was disgusted with the idea of having to go to the Brothel.

Upon arrival, she was greeted by a cloyingly sweet smell, likely some kind of perfume with they used to mask the scent of the sweety sailors who often frequented the place. Well, that and a woman by the name of Genevieve, the supposed owner of the Magic Corset. ”Well, well. We don’t get many women in these parts of town. I wonder what kind you are into. Perhaps,” She said with a slight pause as her finger trailed along Sia’s cheek, ” You like the kind that take charge? Or maybe you just want them to sit back as you pleasure them? Oh! As long as you got the coin you can get both of course.”

Sia let out a heavy sigh of annoyance, the woman’s words were sweet and it was no wonder that such a place had been capable of becoming a major brothel in Telchar but she had not the time for them. ”I am not here to procure your services. I am here on the part of the contract for the criminal Fergus. I am to understand that he,” She began to say before the woman let out a loud laugh and dragged her further in and sat her down at a couch.

”Now, now honey. That is no thing for a woman such as yourself to worry about. You wait right here and one of my girls will be able to give you some pleasure so you don’t worry about that bad man,” She said loudly and with a hearty laugh before she leaned closer, ” Wait here and do not move. Such a man is dangerous and you should be more careful where you say his name, unless you want to lose that pretty little head of yours.” Sia simply nodded in agreement and waited, as she was told to, on the couch. Despite being surrounded by many others, she couldn’t help but feel as if many eyes were on her, watching to see what

"Sir, you simply cannot strike a man of the Telchar Guard in the nuts."

Surrounded by swords and angry men just wanting an excuse to plunge their blades into Keggar's throat, the Dwarf was glad yet again that his thick beard kept something sharp from finding traction against his jugular. "Yer dock tax is full o' shet just like yer shet uniforms!" The Dwarf cried, overly enraged at the blatant thievery of merely landing at the docks. Not even his Dwarven kinsman were so cheap!

The dock officer would have probably looked past his nose down at the scraggly Dwarf even if Keggar was taller than him. The man wore a well tailored uniform, gilded with beads of unknown make and furnished with pussy frills. He looked to be ready to order Keggar's execution, the Dwarf figured. At least, if he had that kind of power. "Listen sir Dwarf. 5 crowns is not too much for a city tax, but seeing as you've struck a member of the guard, you would need to double the tax to pay for your fine."

Keggar's left eye twitched at the highway robbery, and he looked just about ready to dive through the swords leveled his way, before he calmed and began to fish through his pockets. "Freeze!" One of the guardsmen said, but the others felt confident he wasn't being stupid, and lo and behold the Dwarf produced the money needed to buy his landing and his freedom. He waited for the officer to take the money, and one he took it, he began to count out the coinage. The guards sheathed their swords and Keggar dusted himself off. The officer spoke promptly.

"Sir, this is fifteen coins."

"Aye," Keggar replied, and buried his fist in the man's stomach, doubling him over and sending him flying back in half. The other guardsmen guffawed and barked at him with threats, but Keggar ignored them. Instead, he marched over to the downed officer, the man wheezing and trying to regain himself. Keggar knelt over him, knife out. The threat was clear, and if the guards advanced on him, Keggar would slit his throat.

"Now that ye got yer striking tax, heard of a bounty ye have here about a little girl and a monster?" He asked. The officer coughed, and cleared his throat. "Why would you care about that?"

"I track and kill monsters, sonny."

---

The underground sewers beneath the Craft District danced to the haunting voice of Edgar "Lantana" Cervantes. The night had started with him and his troupe, planted along a nook big enough for a small audience. Giuseppe Gavignone, the group's half-ling talent manager, coordinated with the local herbalists to bring in droves of wonderfully scented fauna to combat the stench of excrement. Natural light came from the moon shone down from the manhole opening above. People came and went, but there was always a crowd, even when the moon left and the bits of sun started rising in its stead, peeping through the manhole and down onto Lantana like a faint spotlight. He basked in its glow like an ethereal deity, strumming his guitar as its melody lanced out in harmonious echo. The rhythm was soft, slower now, a calm that seemed to match the beauty of the rising morning, further accentuated by his somber ballad:



The final note was sung; The chords plucked from his guitar melted away into the silence of morning's light. A slow clap was heard, followed by many more, until all that could be heard was an overwhelming echo of applause. Streetgoers corralled around the open manhole from above, their shadows blotting out the sun as they joined in on the jeers and whistles. Coins and flowers rained down on Lantana, even a random Telchar sword and stiletto, which thankfully fell onto the ground without injuring anyone down below. Lantana didn't think the cheers could get any louder, but they did when he bowed his head, thus concluding their Night & Day concert. He straightened up, pointing toward where his troupe should've been, but they were nowhere to be found.

"Oh my, where did they run off to?" Lantana said, deeply concerned. Giuseppe Gavigone appeared at his side, pulling Lantana away from the continued shower of coins, flowers, and whatever random objects people felt compelled to chuck down at them.

"You did it again." Giuseppe simply stated. Lantana stared at the half-ling, confused for a moment, but a knowing look from his old friend made him realize his folly. Lantana sighed.

"Who was the first and last to leave?" Lantana asked, walking over to his guitar case. Giuseppe waited until he put his instrument away, then cleared his throat.

"Osid gave up after his 2nd string broke, likely a drunken stupor somewhere. Tizald, well, tried Fisstech to keep up. Setra had to take the lad back to the inn and tend to him."

"Why didn't you stop me?" Lantana had a somber look about him, but Giuseppe only smiled, the kind of smile that hurt because such happiness came at the troupe's expense.

"It was magic incarnate, dear friend, and no one dared interrupt a Grand Wizard's summons!" Giuseppe raised his hand, pointing to the audience crowding around them. "This was your defining performance, Lantana! They'll be talking about this for ages!"

The pale bard tried to smile as all eyes were on him, but his attention was still back at the empty wall where his troupe should be.

---

---

The world spun madly about. It felt as though a surgeon flayed his body open, doused him in peppered spices, and sewed the bard back up with barbwire. The slightest of movements exacerbated his torment, so he laid there like a paralyzed dolt in an aracnomorph's web, groaning in agony.

"Quit yer codswallop, Tizald!" A woman's voice called out. The man could barely make out the details of the room, but her figure was undeniable. It was Setra.

"I'm almost ready." She said.

Ready, ready for what? Was this a fevered dream, or had she finally warmed up to his farm boy charms? He pursed his stiffened lips, gritting his teeth through the pain as he held them in place for a kiss. What he received instead was a wooden spoon full of what could only be described as ichor from a mutilated calf. Tizald lurched, but Setra firmly planted her hand over his mouth.

"Don't ye dare, Tizzy!" Setra warned, pointing a finger at him like she were his mother. "I ground that paste down to wee bits til the sun came to, so ye best get ta gulpin if ye know what's good fer ya!"

Tizald submitted to her will, calmed his aching body, and swallowed the syrupy paste.

"There ye go, Tiz." Setra's voice went from sharpened pikes to feathers and bath soap bubbles. She sat beside him and lifted Tizald's head, then scooted over so he could use her lap as a pillow. He gladly obliged.

"Wh-what happ--" Tizald lazily slurred, drifting into a hazy calmness.

"Shh, Shh, my lil bumpkin." Setra hummed a tune, The Handmaiden's Sonnet, the last ingredient needed for Tizald's recovery. She combed a loose strand of hair from his forehead back into Tizald's mane. As she did, she left a red mark in its place. Setra frowned, drawing her hand close, then out into the bouncing light from the Inglenook flames. The skin on her fingers were torn to bits, riddled with nicks and cuts.

"Lantana, ye crazy fuck. You'll be the end of us all."

---

---

The increasingly loud patter of rain against the roof above Cristina drew her out of her thoughts and her book as she looked up at the small window with a frown. With every moment that passed it seemed as if though the rain was only growing worse, and venturing onto the rooftops that evening would pretty much be suicide. She hadn’t worked much lately and was growing antsy as a result, but thankfully the coin she’d stashed away was still not close to running out. She’d just have to find some other way to occupy her time.

She put away the book and made sure she’d all the equipment she’d be likely to need for the night before heading down the ladder to the rest of the house. The bow she left behind in her concealed storage area, and her hair she braided and pulled into a bun.

Though it consisted of two floors if one didn’t count the attic or the cellar, the house was fairly small and only the second floor actually looked lived in. It was also the most well-kept part of the house, and a clear sign of her landlords’ priorities. The lower floor was where he conducted business. To most of the public it was simply a rundown pawnshop, but to the thieves of the town it was the home and workplace of a fairly well-known fence. One had to be well-liked to survive very long as a fence in a city where criminals were as hunted as in Telchar, and Eski had been in the business longer than most in town. His greying hair and wrinkled skin told of that.

He was looking through one of his ledgers when she came downstairs and didn’t do more than throw her a quick glance before looking back down again. “Do you need my help with anything before I head out for the night?” she questioned as she approached the counter and pulled her hood up to cover her head. He looked up again and looked her over quickly before meeting her eyes.

“Not at the moment, no. Might want you to hide something when you get back, so wake me if I’m sleeping will you?” She raised her brow slightly but didn’t comment. Hiding contraband with magic was something she helped him with rather often, and it was rarely very difficult.

“Alright.” With nothing more to say Cristina made her way over to the door and out into the narrow alley. She didn’t see any people until she made her way out onto the bigger roads, and they were mostly keeping their heads low and hurrying on their way to get out of the rain as quickly as possible.

She kept up a brisk pace as she made her way further north through the commons, keeping her eyes down and avoiding any of the more well-populated streets. Cristina was only a few blocks away from the central district when she found the door she was looking for. Though it was the entrance to a bar no sign hung over the door, the only thing that marked it as anything out of the ordinary was the two glosseghar that’d been scratched into the door-frame. One that marked it as protected and the other two quen signs side by side, showing that both mages and creatures where welcome there. The door was unlocked most hours of the day, though drinks were only actually served during the late evening and night.

There was only one way to go once inside; downstairs into the basement, and Cristina made sure to close the door behind her before making her way downstairs. There where only a few people present, all but two deep in conversation with their companions. Of those two one was a larger man sitting by the bar; the bouncer whose work didn’t truly begin until the alcohol started flowing, and a lean brunette sitting off to the side of the room at one of the smaller tables.

She made her way over to the brunette who looked up as she approached. “Hello Cris. What brings you to Donnans’ today?” Cristina didn’t wait for any further invitation before sinking down into the chair across from the other woman, then threw a glance at the rest of the room before speaking up.

“Thought it was time to check in,” she stated as the two eyed one another. The cellar was only lit by candlelight, the few windows present along the walls having been boarded up since the bar opened, and one of those candles was placed on the wall just behind the other woman, casting her face in shadow and casting Cristina’s face in as good of a light as was possible in the room.

“Work’s been slow lately, has it?” the brunette questioned with a slight smile, causing Cristina to shrug and smile in return.

“That too.” The brunette’s smile bled away as she leaned back in her chair and looked Cristina over.

“Not many people who need or are even looking for help at the moment. Church’s no closer to finding any mages than they were last time we spoke, though there are a couple of businesses in the central and port districts who could use some illusion work if you’re up for it. Of course, the reason they need work done is because both the church and the guard have a higher presence there.” Cristina frowned as she leaned back.

“So there’s work to be done, but because it’s risky no one’s taken it yet.”

“That’s generally the case, yes.”

“Darkness. Nothing but darkness.” – these were the terrified thoughts of Alicia Black as she began to awake from her forced slumber. The utter absence of light, the veil of nothingness which was cast upon her surroundings almost made her think that she might have gone blind. There were no windows, no lamps, no ominous glows. And yet she knew she was inside, she could feel it. Though her body was numb from the almost icy cold, she could feel that she had been laid down in some sort of liquid, with the thick sludge rising up to her jaw. By the smell she knew it was sewage, and she might have begun to gag or freak out were she not so terrified. Instead she tried to move, but found her legs trapped beneath something. She tried to move the unseen obstacle, but as her hands fumbled for grip, she felt something deeply unpleasant. It was flesh.

”Keep calm Alicia. You’re going to be okay, help will be along soon. Just need to-“ her internal thoughts were cut off by the sudden sound of screeching, the inhuman vocals echoing off the sewer walls. Her eyes opened wide in horror, though it did little to help her see. The slushing of waste signalled the approach something ghastly, gradually growing closer and closer until it must have been within feet of her. Only a few seconds passed before the monster shuffled away again, seeming to drag something along with it – though to Alicia it felt like hours.

As the sounds of her captor faded away in the distance, she began to sob.

(Collab with @BlackSam3091)

Fridolf declared that he would lead the way towards the Jolly Lion, and so the two riders got lost three seperate times on the way to the inn. He tried to convince Kieran that the detours were intentional, to help familiarise themselves with the new city, but he didn't think the young witcher bought it.

Still, the sun was still high in the sky when he eventually stumbled upon the Central market, and it wasn't long after that they located the Jolly Lion inn, a large, multi-storied building of wood and stone construction. It looked like the kind of place that had been standing for as long as anyone alive could remember, and the gentle babble of early hour merrymaking (one of Fridolf's favourite kinds of merrymaking) emanating from the inn was a good sign that the place was a favourite with locals and visitors alike. As they got closer the smell of delicious roasting meats wafted out to greet them, Fridolf's belly growling in aching want.

"Praise be, they've got dinner cooking! My stomach was starting to think that my throats been cut." He said aloud, only part-joking. The anticipation of enjoying a meal that he didn't first have to pick from a bush was mouth-wateringly tantalizing. He half-slid and half-fell from the saddle in his usually graceless manner, narrowly dodging a bad-temperd nip from Flo in the process. The sergeant had told them that there was a livery at the back of the Jolly Lion that they could stable the horses in while staying in the city. Flo would be quite comfortable there for the night, but Fridolf felt he had suffered enough dealing with that bitch horse for one day. Kieran liked horses so much, let him deal with her.

"See to Flo, will you? I'll go in and get us settled." He tossed the reigns to the witcher and hurried inside before Kieran could voice an argument.

Kieran catched the reigns and opened his mouth to speak but the con artist had already gone. He chuckled and slid down from Storm, reaching over to stroke Flo calmly and retracting his hand before she could nip him as well. Kieran quickly looked around to see that nobody was watching and in the grey murk of the temporary respite from the storm, nobody was. He formed the Axii sign and Flo calmed instantly.

He felt a bit bad about doing so, but she wouldn't suffer any side effects, and it would stop her from kicking some stableboy in the chest before she got settled in. The Witcher walked them both to the stable and paid the head groom for their feed, lodging, and care. The stableboy who came to attend the two horses got a generous tip, and the boy smiled, producing apples for both of the mounts before setting to work cleaning the gunk of travel off of them.

Kieran stroked Storm's mane and his friend nuzzled him affectionately before the Witcher took his leave. It was refreshing to walk around and talk to people and have them think he was just like anyone else. In most cases, had his eyes been visible, the grooms would not have been no so friendly if they had even taken his coin at all.

The young man whistled an old witcher's tune, a jaunty and cheerful song, as he made his way to the inn proper, he stepped inside and basked for a moment in the warmth, taking in the scent of good food and drink. It was a friendly, clean, homey kind of place and the atmosphere immediately lifted Kieran's spirits. He looked around for his friend to see what he was up to.

Fridolf had a claimed a table near the fireplace, where a merry blaze was crackling away. The grifter waved the witcher over, thrusting a tankard of ale into his companions hand.

"Drink up pal, this round is on the good guardsmen of Telchar!" So saying he emptied his own ale in two,steady gulps. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and called to a nearby barmaid, a buxom blonde wench of maybe twenty-one summers, for a second. "Ahhh, that hits the spot. Gods, it's good to be back in the lap of civilisation again, isn't it? Make yourself comfy mate, we got eats coming up, and the keepers getting us a room organised upstairs. We're sharing, unfortunatly, but beggars can't be choosers. You'll just have to put up with my snoring for couple more nights, but it's not like -"

He looked like he might have kept on yapping, but was interrupted by the re-appearance of the serving girl who dropped two more tankards in front of the travellers, followed by two steaming bowls of beef stew, and a large loaf of crusty black bread. Fridolf smiled his thanks at the waitress, breathed deep of the delicious aromas wafting from his bowl, then got stuck in. The food was divine, though he barely took the time to taste it, so hungry that it was probably more accurate to say that he inhaled the meal. He was just mopping up the dregs of gravy at the bottom of his bowl when the waitress returned to let him know that his bath was ready.

"If you'd like to follow me, I'll take you to your room before the water gets cold." She stepped away from the table and waited for Fridolf to excuse himself.

"Righto Kieran, don't wait up" He pushed himself up from the table and leant into his companion, whispering into the witcher's ear so that the maid couldn't hear. "Have a few drinks and make yourself scarce, yeah? It's been a while since I tamed the stange, and I'm gonna chance my hand here. Don't need you stumbling in and interrupting me. I'll come get you when I'm finished." He slipped a couple of coins into Kieran's hand, enough to buy him a few more ales, and made to follow the maid upstairs. As he dissapeared up the stairway he could be hear entreating upon her to help him scrub his back.

"Have fun."

Kieran could only chuckle to himself, shaking his head in mirth as he watched Fridolf walk off with the woman. He had barely drunk from his first tankard or taken a few spoonfuls of the savory stew before Fridolf had already been scampering upstairs and into the serving maid's skirt. He didn't mind in the slightest. His friend needed it. And Kieran didn't need much sleep either. If he took too long, he could just sleep in the barn next to Storm. It wouldn't have been the first time. But, Kieran himself had never been with a woman. Aye he had kissed a few farmer's daughters or serving girls. But he had never shared a woman's bed, or loved one.

Kieran mused on that a while as he chewed his bread and stew and sipped his ale. He would never have a child of his own, that was for certain. And any woman he did love, he would most likely have to watch grow old and die while he lingered on. If he wasn't killed by a monster first, of course. He wasn't even sure if he was capable of love, with the way mutations had dampened his emotions.

The good mood he had been in from the food, warmth, and drink started to sour. But he couldn't exactly head to bed at the moment. Kieran gritted his teeth in annoyance. He was a witcher. He wasn't supposed to worry about things like love. He was supposed to save lives. And if he didn't go after that missing girl in the morning, she would never have the chance to have children either. Kieran took his time with the rest of the food, and called for more ale.

He may not be able to have children. But he could get drunk.

"I'll have another round."

---

---

---

His now cold meal was all about finished. The silent prattle now beginning to liven up as the day continues to amble by. Two of the more louder individuals catching the eyes of a few patrons, with a man that seemed to be out of it, and a woman feeding him some... concoction. It was an interesting sight to behold for a moment or two. From behind his ale, his eyes began drifting aimlessly through the sea of faces, stopping and landing directly on a quirky twosome that had just entered the inn- particularly the man who holstered two blades on his hip. Even if Niavak himself does similarly, it was still an odd sight to find another individual who carries two swords. Niavak's brow rose as his eyes followed the man; noticing the stranger's gait, he had summised that this man is an experienced swordsman. It was easy to miss the way he carried himself proved so. Niavak's varied experience had trained his eyes to find the finer movement of individuals, being able to easily discern between an expert and a competent user.

Interesting, this city does live up to it's tales, he mused wordlessly behind his tankard. As he got up, his swords buckled under his feet, and after taking one last look at the stranger he walked to the door. It was time for him to follow up on the leads. His eyes narrowed at the blinding light, the day was much to bright for himself. His gaze meandered through the rows of houses, looking for any signs of the 'Town Hall' so that he could take up the contract. He also wouldn't mind company in this contract as drowners come in packs. After a few wrong turns he took to asking a random passerby. He handed the man a few bronze coins as he pointed towards the general direction of the town hall.

He made his way to the hall, his leather boots sinking slightly in the recently muddied roads. His thoughts ended up wandering towards the witcher executed here, the few and far between hearsay and rumors speak of it being unjust execution with no real trial. This city is darker than Niavak initially realised. A few more minutes of walking led him to the doors of the hall, which looked cleaner and fancier than the tens of creaky houses he had passed by. With a strong gaze upwards, he went into the hall. He was led in by a person to the office of Captain Artorias and Monroe.

"Greetings." he said, his voice slightly coarse having not spoken that day as of yet. With a light cough he continued, "I have caught wind of a contract about a workshop's girl disappearing, and I would like to take it up. Of course I wouldn't mind waiting on a few more individuals as I've also heard it was a gaggle of Drowners that took the girl."

"I think you turn left down this road," the buxom tavern wench said, holding a bucket of water she had just drawn before being interrupted by this savage looking Dwarf stranger. Keggar sniffed the air, though for what the women could not tell. She felt he was dangerous in a way most men weren't, though not towards her or her well being, she felt certain. With his many weapons, well armored body, and rugged, stout musculature, she found him oddly attractive in a repulsive kind of way.

"I dinnae think that's correct, woman. Look, I'm just trying tae get to the Town Hall." He said, glancing her way. She placed the water bucket down and put her hands on her hips. "Why are you interested again? The Inn here can help you find a room for the night..." She looked him up and down. "If you actually sleep in beds?"

He turned to her with an incredulous look, then gave her a wink. "If it suits me." He tossed her a gold coin which she fumbled to catch. It bounced off her large breasts and into her hands, which gave the Dwarf a laugh before he marched down the road to where she had pointed him. Heavy boots thudding on the stone as his fur cloak swayed in the light wind, the ragged Dwarf slipped by merchants and shouldered through milling throngs, his mind now fully on the hunt.

Finding the steps to a larger building, to him it seemed important and prominent enough to probably be the town hall. Pompous rapscallions permeated the area as well, which led him think he'd found the right place. The wench was right! The Dwarf waddled up the steps, and entered the archway to find a very refined knightly man, with pale hair and two swords in the witcher style. He didn't seem to be a witcher though, from what Keggar could tell.

"Oi, heard you lot got a Drowner problem." He announced to no one in particular. He'd made the pronouncement not moments after Niavak had done the same.

It had been a while since Kieran had had anything to drink other than water and the young Witcher decided to make up for all those sober weeks by ordering a few more rounds of ale. His advanced metabolism and resistance to toxins allowed him to process alcohol much better than a normal man, and it would take more ale than he had coin to spare to truly make Kieran blackout drunk. But he had enough spare coin to get a good buzz going. It soon became clear that Fridolf was not going to come down before at least noon the next day. So just after midnight, Kieran loped off to the stable to find a spare hay bale to fall asleep in, next to Storm, barely taking time to strip off his swordbelt, take off his armor, pull off his boots and gloves, and spread his cloak beneath himself before falling asleep.

Kieran awoke early in the morning, stretching out and smiling to himself. He'd had a roof over his head, the straw was clean, and his sleep had been dreamless and deep. One of the most refreshing nights he'd had in a little while. Now it was time to work. The Witcher strapped his sword belt back on around his hip, brushing the straw from his cloak before replacing his armor wrapping himself back in the cloak. Kieran then donned his cloth scarf to cover the lower half of his head, his medallion hidden beneath his armor. Kieran made sure he was clean of straw and pulled on his boots and gloves. He pet Storm, and the young mare snuffled in greeting.

"You get to rest today, old friend. No place for a horse in a sewer."

The Witcher had tracked monsters through all manner of terrain before, but it would be his first time tracking anything through the muck of a major city. Kieran fully expected for his clothes to be stained with all manner of ungodly debris and slime, he would have to ask around for a good cleaning wench afterward. But with 200 gold, he could certainly afford it and then some. Enough to keep them in the inn for quite some time and allow the Witcher breathing room to track down leads on the Beast of Telchar.

With a sense of purpose and a spring in his step, Kieran walked off to find the Town Hall. He followed the signs, his senses taking in all the sights and sounds of the vibrant, lurid, alive city and his long strides making quick time. Kieran weaved in between the crowds, light of foot, and within the hour he found himself as the Town Hall. Kieran scanned the building, noting guard dispositions and possible escape routes in case of the worst. He wasn't expecting discovery, but it never paid not to have a plan just in case. He had the Samum bombs. Kieran wasn't planning on a fight, or even killing anyone, but he could make a quick exit if he needed it.

Calm and confident, Kieran strode into the large building, looking for all the world like an experienced mercenary or knight errant, if a bit young. He noted a pale-haired swordsman who also had two blades, and a burly dwarf who looked like he knew his business. Likely other fighters for hire, and it seemed as if they were pursuing the contract as well. Kieran grimaced internally. Neither looked like greenhorns, but they weren't Witchers. They could very well get in his way. And he'd have to split the reward if neither of the two mercenaries wanted to just kill him first. There had been more than one mundane monster hunter who had tried to take all the coin for themselves and take Kieran out of the picture.

The Witcher traded glances with both and quickly measured what he could with his senses in a short time, which was quite a bit. Then he said, "Let's hope three isn't a crowd then. I have experience in taking care of drowners, and this contract is right up my alley. I'd welcome the company, as long as we agree to split the earnings fairly."

Lantana and Setra stood in the shaded alleyway. It was still humid for his taste, but the lady needed air, so he obliged. Tizald was fast asleep in their room, looked after by Giuseppe. Well, sort of. The halfling was more preoccupied with counting crowns earned from their gig, but he looked over his shoulder every now and then, watching to make sure the strung out bard was still breathing and all.

"Heard they gave a standin' ovation." Setra uttered, arms crossed. She was visibly tired, but Lantana learned not to remind her of such things.

"Yes," He nodded. "Setra, I-"

She raised her hand, gesturing for him to say no more. As she did, Lantana saw the dried blood from her cut fingers. He looked away, and not because he was fighting some vampiric urge --- the sight of her wounds had simply overwhelmed him with guilt.

"We know what we signed up for," Setra assured him. "Just wish we made it ta sunrise with ya, is all."

There was poetry in her words. Such loyalty and devotion to the craft often goes unnoticed to the random passerby. Lantana always told his band that the power of a bard's music is no different than magic. With it, unimaginable depths of one's soul is laid bare. The acoustics, the ballads, and emotion, all resonate with exhilarating symbiosis, polarizing out into the ether like a jolt of energy. And sometimes Lantana can't stop, no, won't stop, from releasing that musical energy, fearing that pausing its momentum will lessen the ultimate crescendo. So he continues on, developing a bloodlust for chords, notes, and lyrics, an addiction far more potent than his own inherent vampirism.

That inescapable high had consumed him as he strummed away, non-stop, in the Craft District sewers. He so desperately wants his band mates to feel what he feels in those raw, intense moments. Unfortunately for the band, such a musical frenzy often results in more lows than highs, but they still try, no matter the consequence. Lantana couldn't be anymore prouder of their commitment to the craft, unconventional methods included. Tizald with his fisstech, Setra with her sheer willpower, and Osid with his rank booze.

Wait, Osid. Where's Osid? Lantana thought. Setra smiled when he asked about his whereabouts.

"He was the first to scram," She began chuckling at the memory, "Osid's strings gave way after ye sang, La Bruja. Said, verbatim, 'Fook this shite lute! I'd rather bounce it offa Fleetfoot Fergus' dome for 25 crowns than keep re-string'n tha cunt!"

"Oh, dear." Lantana's eyes widened. He remembered seeing the name, Fleetfoot Fergus, on a wanted poster he passed by on the way back to the inn. Attached to that name were dangerous words like 'murder' and 'rape'. "I best go looking for him."

"Who? Oss?" Setra scoffed. "The lad's more likely to play a terrible hand at gwent, than joust with some shifty malefactor."

"Still, I'm concerned. It's midday and he's yet to make an appearance." Lantana said, turning towards the street. "Go get some rest, Setra, I'll see to the safety of our stilted friend."

"Don't have to tell me twice," She yawned, stretching her achy limbs. "Oh, while you're out, grab some persimmons from the market, will ya? Those are usually Tiz' favorite when he comes to."

Lantana nodded and bid Setra farewell. He quickly emerged onto the busy street, attuning his senses for a disheveled bard in a jester's cap, and, of course, persimmons.

Captain Monroe lounged in his wooden seat, with his derrière pressed against a hard-worked imprint in the leather cushion and his feet up resting on his desk. Very much a man of habit, it would be fair to say that it was his usual positioning in the office. Of course being a captain, he didn’t just spend his shifts sat around – if he wasn’t doing some sort of paperwork on his lap then he would be up and around the central district ensuring that everything was going smoothly.

“Captain Monroe, sir! We would like a word!” came an interruption from his office door. The captain's unpolished metal helmet turned to gaze upon the intruders and found four of his own men gathering around. He could see from their tensed up bodies and scowling faces that they were angry about something, which caused him to raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Yes Roberts, what is it?” Monroe replied his usual gruff voice, not bothering to sit up or otherwise move.

“We know all about the Special-Commanders! We all do! And we aint too pleased about it!” barked Roberts, the young but well-built private marched in front of Monroes desk and lent over in a futile attempt to intimidate his superior. Monroe’s eyes quickly glanced between each of his men before resting back on Roberts. He then gave an exaggerated shrug to show he had no idea what they were talking about. “Don’t play daft Captain! We know about these Special-Commanders, joining up the ranks pretending to be regular lads. Spying on us honest guards and taking notes of the things we do and say. Then, they pass their findings onto scum like you so you can fire us!”

Monroe sat for a few moments with his mouth slightly agape, surprised by what he was hearing. He had no idea where his men had gotten such a stupid idea planted in their heads, and he didn’t care – he would not be spoken to like that. Slowly taking his feet off his desk and taking a stand, Monroe got eye level with Roberts before delivering a nasty headbutt. There was a nice metallic ‘doink’ as Monroe’s helmet collided with the subordinate’s skull, who subsequently fell to the floor unconscious. The other men took a couple of steps back in shock.

“I don’t know what the fuck you silly cunts have been drinking, but you’re full of shite! There aint no such thing as a ‘special-commander’! If I want to fire one of you lot, I don’t need some underhanded reason to do so! I’ve worked with you all long enough to know what kinda useless crap you get up to; you forget I was one of you not too long back. Now if I catch anyone else spewing this nonsense or making a scene then you will be out of a job, and your only severance pay will be a couple of black eyes. Is that understood?” Monroe barked at the small group, spittle flying from his mouth. The men sheepishly nodded. “Good. Now then, take Roberts here back to his home and requisition any items belonging to the city guard that may be in his possession. I won’t have any of my own speak to me like he did! Once you’ve done that get back to work and stay out of my way.” And with that Monroe once again sat down, visibly fed up.

Only a few minutes seemed to pass before Monroe’s tranquillity once again disturbed. The almost simultaneous arrival of the two swordsmen and the dwarf caused him to let out a sigh. However impatience turned to relief as they made their intentions clear. For the first time that shift someone was coming to him with a solution instead of a new problem.

“I’ve got to say lads – I didn’t expect the contract to be taken up so quickly. But I’m glad it has.” Monroe adjusted his seating so that he was able to reach into one of his draws and take out the report. “Alisha Black was recently reported kidnapped by her father. He says that she was in their basement workshop when the wall caved-in. Recon’s he came down stairs just in time to see her dragged off into the sewers by drowners. It’s not the first report we’ve had of drowners in the sewers recently, so we might have an infestation – that’s why the bounty is so high. We’re offering 10 crowns if you’re able to prove that she’s dead but unrecoverable. 20 if you’re able to bring back her body. And 50 if you’re able to bring her back alive. Additionally, we’re willing to pay 6 crowns for every drowner head you bring us up to 200 crowns. If it turns out to only be one or two drowners, we’re not giving you 200. If you want to pursue this, then dive in to the next sewer entrance you see or go down to 23 Agard Street and let my boys know you want to investigate the scene. Any questions?”

" Drowners ?" Keggar echoed, the short but stout hunter standing between the two long legs, burly arms crossed over his broad chest. " Drowner's are bitches."

He'd dealt with a few before, though they weren't exactly his forte'. Drowner's were usually Witcher's work. But it was still a hunt, and he'd be damned if he didn't get some work done in this town. He hadn't traversed the sea for the fresh air or the foreign women. Though he did enjoy both so far.

He'd need to go get some oil. Not that fancy Witcher shite, but oil oil. Flame'd do well against those slimey bastards. Stay on your toes, don't get into deep water, it wouldn't be too hard. Hell, even without the fire, just figure out their attack pattern and gut 'em. Keep on the high ground. " Sounds easy enough."

Kieran nodded, crossing his arms and saying, "Aye. Drowners are a nuisance, but not hard to kill, especially on their lonesome. It's packs where the danger lies. But I've had experience dealing with them. Three good swords is more than enough for this job." They both seemed to be quite capable, and Kieran noted that the dwarf's accent marked him as a foreigner while the swordsman had strange white hair. He didn't look like an albino, and he was quite young. Kieran's enhanced eyes showed him that the hue was natural, not a dye. Either he had some latent mutation or was touched by magic somehow. And both of them carried themselves professionally. Not men to be trifled with. He would have to keep a wary eye on them, in case either tried some trickery to increase their cut.

As for the job itself, it troubled Kieran little. The young witcher had spent most of his career so far dealing with pests like drowners. Killing them was second nature by now. He couldn't use the Igni sign in front of these strangers or his silver sword in front of these strangers, but he would bring a torch, and he had the ingredients necessary to make necrophage oil; due to how ubiquitous necrophages were in his line of work. It wouldn't be the more sophisticated material his veteran comrades used, but it'd do the job. He could coat his steel sword in the oil and it'd work just as well. He'd just have to take care not to show off his mutant skills. Better to play the part of a trained sellsword. His main concern was finding the girl before it was too late.

The incognito Witcher said, "These other drowner sightings, can you tell us more about them? Numbers of drowners sighted? Locations of sightings? Frequency? Is this girl the first to be abducted? When did they start?" The last and most important question, Kieran asked with a smile, "And no matter which way we slice it, we're not going to be able to split the coin equally three ways; so how should we do that?" To be perfectly honest, Kieran did not much appreciate two other sellswords tagging along and forcing him to handicap himself and take up the coin. But he couldn't do much about it that wouldn't draw even more attention to himself. Best to go along, get the job done, hopefully rescue the girl, and get paid.

"I wouldn't mind talking the smallest cut, seems like I'm the least seasoned in dealing with drowners in this particular trio." Niavak chimed in with a friendly half-smile, admitting his inexperience, "Not to say I haven't had the displeasure to have tussled with a few. Not much to brag about however." He eyed both the dwarf and the swordsman silently before continuing, "Well that, and I'm not too terribly pressed for crowns at the moment." He mentally noted the way they carried themselves make them seem more extraordinary than any hunter he's seen, and that's saying something.

Kieran turned to the other two hunters, "Let's agree on this then. Each of us will keep the fee for the drowners we kill and the heads we bring back. Then we can divvy up the reward for finding the girl based on the division of labor and how succesful we are. Does that satisfy you?" Kieran didn't particularly want to share the reward, but if he was going to, then it wouldn't do to be overly stingy. He believed in fair wages for honest work.

As the black-haired swordsman spoke, Monroe's curiousity became arroused. Those were a set of very specific questions he seemed to be asking, and given that the man claimed he'd dealt with them, Monroe could not help but wonder what his background was. He certainly wished that his own men were so inquisitive - maybe then they'd actually get more results. Monroe lightly tapped his boots on the table as he tried to recall the requested information, his metal greaves chinking each time. "Been a couple of different sightings, but nothing really substantiated until now. Started a few weeks back. Had some sightings over on the north side of the port, nearer to the hanging prison - but given the amount of guards and mercs in the area, I would have thought there'd be some fighting." Monroe shifted slightly before continuing, "There's also been a good few rumours of monsters roaming in the sewers beneath Hightown. Thieves and the like sometimes use the sewers to get around unnoticed or to have secret meetings. But word on the street is that a few wrong'uns have gone missing and now a lot of gangs are sticking to the surface instead. Could just be a rumour to stop us sniffing around though. No idea if anyone else has actually gone missing or how many drowners have been sighted." and with that he gave an exasperated shrug.

Kieran absorbed all of Monroe's answers in silence, his mind working. He had studied a map of the City of Telchar extensively as Fridolf and him traveled to the city. And due to his training, his memory was quite robust. He didn't have nearly the same kind of intimate knowledge of the city a local would; but he knew enough to get a general layout of Telchar. As Monroe spoke about the possible drowner sightings, he plotted them on his mental map. Hightown and the ports near the Hanging Prison. Both in the northeastern half of the city, both close to the water. Kieran frowned and said, "If those rumors are true, then this infestation has spread in a substantial area through the city. We'll have to find out more information to narrow down the search. Tell me, this workshop, where is it? The craft's district or the central district?"

The monster killer then said, "The best thing to do is to investigate the scene of the attack. I can gather more clues there, and it'll be a better use of time than mucking around in the sewers without any leads. I have a torch, but each of you better bring one as well. We'll need the light and fire is almost as good as a blade when dealing with drowners. If you have schematics for the sewer system, that'd be a big help as well. That way we can formulate a proper search and not get lost down there. A guide who knows the sewers would be even better."

"The Workshop is down on Agard Street, which is in the Crafts District. If you want a guide you'll have to find one of the masons or engineers that do work down there, but I couldn't tell you who to speak to for that. You won't find any maps here either, cause they're kept in the keep - and even those aren't complete from what I've heard." The guard captain replied, feeling less than helpful due to his own lack of knowledge.

"Maps? Guides?" Keggar snorted, and then he laughed. He laughed a lot. In fact it was so uproarious that most people in the room would probably get very uncomfortable.

Then he farted.

"I can track a hawk in flight on a cloudy day." The Dwarf claimed, pointing his thumb at his face. "Just stick with me if you want to find this cunt. But first, tell me where this Crafts District is. Might need a few materials somewhere if my own stock starts to get lacking. Not that I'm bad off now, don't ye fret." The Dwarf grabbed his belt, self confident and ready to get to work. These human lads seemed meticulious, which was good he had to admit. But all the preperation in the world didn't outdo raw experience.

Despite himself, Kieran smiled. He had grown up around Dwarves and it seemed that even from across the sea they were much the same. Loud, bearded, cocky, and not very gential. But that was all just fine to the young Witcher. He just wished, not for the first time, that his nose wasn't so keen. He could tell everything the dwarf had had to eat recently and it did not exactly make a pleasant aroma.

Kieran didn't doubt that the dwarf was a fine tracker, but neither of the sellswords could match his senses or his training when it came to tracking. The mercenary just needed to be good in a brawl and from the look of the dwarf, he was exactly that. Kieran replied, "I should be able to lead us all to the Crafts District just fine, I studied the city maps. You can stock up on material and I can investigate the scene of the abduction. I believe that'd be a good place to start the search as well."

Kieran stepped forward and pulled off his glove, holding out his hand for a firm handshake, "My name's Devan. What do they call you?" Kieran didn't want to give out his real name, to further conceal his true identity as a Witcher, but he was no Fridolf. No elaborate backstory here. Just a travelling sellsword named Devan, one of hundreds just like him drifting through the countryside.

Niavak silently contemplated what was discussed here. Wiping away thoughts of his inexperience with drowners aside, he figured it was best follow the leads of the dwarf, and the young lad. One of his more reliable traits is his memory, being able to mentally keep track of his posessions was pretty important for sellswords. He had enough oil and had a few torches handy on his person. He continued listening wordlessly to the two's conversation as it went on.