The Last: Chapter Four

—- PART ONE: An Unwelcome Guest

Roger’s legs felt the need for rest as he hiked up the hill to Greyleaf’s abode. He was pleased to see the lantern lit on the metal hook perched next to his front door, as he would have felt some guilt waking the old druid this early in the morning, despite how spry he seemed upon each visit. Not to mention it held the possibility of a drink with more pleasurable company than the cremator. The witcher began organizing his thoughts in order that he wanted to go over with him, as well as pick up the potions that he had begun working on before he left to the pits. That’s when it hit him, and stopped his feet dead in their tracks. The familiar scent of iron, mixed with what was always a varied and uniform organic odor alerted Roger to the presence of blood. 

Immediately, his toes pushed off of the dirt and sprung him into a quiet sprint. His right hand gripped one of his short swords on his front belt, while his left kept the pouches and bags strapped to his torso from bouncing and making too much noise. As he approached, he let the blade slip from the scabbard. The sanguine smell grew stronger, along with the familiar sounds of conversation. Roger was unable to determine if it was one of duress. Cautiously, he placed his hand on the door of the druid’s home and slowly tugged at the metal ring. 

Roger knew that the hinges would start to creak after he cracked it open past a certain point. With a small area to view, he began scanning the visible area to get a better idea of the situation inside. The conversation had stopped, and his eyes locked onto Greyleaf as he sat awkwardly in his familiar wooden chair. The druid’s hands were up and his eyes were staring at someone to the left of the front door that Roger wasn’t able to see. 

“Wait, wait, just wait a moment!” Greyleaf pleaded. The light from inside the home was blocked by a figure now standing in the doorway. Roger’s focus locked onto the armored shoulders that sat on either side of a chainmail neck coif. The figure dropped low into what Roger recognized as a fighting stance, but it was the odd movement of the left hand that made Roger’s hair bristle. He was barely able to get his sword in front of his face before a crossbow bolt slammed into the tapered steel and ricocheted off to the side. 

Roger’s feet struggled to hold their balance. The surprise of the projectile staggered him backwards several yards as the soles of his boots dragged through the dirt. The lantern that had been hanging from the door’s hook had also shattered from the deflected shot and showered sparks through the night’s sky before disappearing into nothing. 

“Who’s this nosey cunt?” asked a raspy, throaty voice from the smoke still dissipating from where the lantern used to hang. “I don’t like nosey cunts.” 

“Please, please!” Greyleaf shouted from inside. Roger was unable to tell if he’d even gotten up from his chair. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the old druid decided to stay out of things outside of a few words of protest. 

“Quiet,” the hoarse voice replied as his thick build barely squeezed through the door frame. Roger stood and realized he was no longer holding onto his short sword. Instead of being in his hand, it was lying between him and the armored man walking towards him; knocked from his hand and stuck point-first into the dirt. 

The moonlight illuminated what had been previously silhouetted by the interior light of Greyleaf’s home. Roger noted that this man was almost as tall as he was, but was much bulkier than Roger’s thinner frame. His face, like Roger’s, was also traced with various scars that intersected over his left eye. It was an eye that looked to have been claimed in the process. A gold nose-ring sat perched between his nostrils. The top of this magic user’s head was layered with golden beads woven into long blonde hair that sat high on a receding hairline. His braided beard stretched down past the chainmail coif that completely covered his neck, but didn’t cover up the silver medallion that dangled from a chain. It was a medallion in the shape of a bear, which caused Roger to audibly curse. 

The bear witcher stopped for a moment and placed his foot on the protruding hilt of Roger’s grounded short-sword. Nonchalantly, the handheld crossbow that had nearly claimed one of Roger’s ears was hung back on it’s belt loop. 

“Osric,” the wide, blonde-haired witcher said as he jabbed a thumb at himself. “Of Arnell.” 

Roger didn’t immediately reply, and placed his hand on his other short sword that paralleled where the other had been sheathed. 

“Don’t care. No business with you,” Roger stated, digging his feet into the ground in case he needed to dodge or lunge quickly. 

“Your eyes through the door told a different story, cunt,” Osric accused. Roger was trying to figure out the injury to Osric’s throat that would cause him to speak in such a graveled, damaged tone. 

“Speak or fight,” Osric commanded and interrupted Roger’s thoughts while drawing a steel sword from one of his scabbards. He flourished the blade in a wide arc and turned his body sideways, keeping an ungloved hand covered in golden rings at the forefront of his fighting stance. 

Roger’s face twisted as if he were queasy, and a frustrated sigh escaped his mouth. Just as he began to reply, it appeared that Osric had grown impatient. The blonde witcher’s beads jingled in his hair during the small time it took him to dash forward with a piercing stab. Just as fast, Roger drew his remaining short sword and used the momentum to hit the side of Osric’s oncoming strike. Orsic was clearly no amateur when it came to swordplay, and pivoted to his next attack without even a moment’s hesitation.  

Roger realized he was being put on the defensive. It was a reactive state of combat that he detested, and it was made even worse by the fact his second short sword was lying several yards away, behind the bear-school witcher. His usual tactic of controlling his enemies’ blade with one sword and the direction of the fight with the other was gone. Instead, he was relegated to addressing each strike as it screamed through the air directly at him. 

“No fight in you, eh? Typical snake,” Osric taunted between swings. His powerful legs covered a wide area with his stance, which gave him an effective and circular range of motion. Roger would not be able to go around him. Instead, he decided he would go through him. 

Roger’s hand turned his sword downwards and reversed his grip. From this angle he would not be able to parry at a distance, but he would be able to block a heavy and close-up blow. He leaned his weight forward and launched himself at Osric. There was a brief, nearly imperceptible moment of shock that Roger recognized in the muscles around Osric’s eyes. It then turned into excitement. 

Osric leaned back and brought the sword up with a powerful two-handed, diagonal cut meant to hit under Roger’s armpit between his lamellar breastplate and his gambeson. The steel longsword collided with Roger’s smaller weapon, and the red-haired witcher felt the impact reverberate through the bones of his forearm. He could also feel the exhaustion and physical stress that a night of no sleep and the fight at the pits was causing him. If this plan didn’t work then he would be at the mercy of Osric and his mighty blows. 

Osric spun again and channeled the momentum of his body’s rotation into another piercing stab. Instead of dodging the attack at a wide angle, Roger turned his body to the side and let the blade slide against his chest’s armor. He heard the rip of his blue, sleeveless overcoat as the metal tore through the fabric, and the high-pitched singing of the steel against the lamellar. Roger followed this up with a swing from his elbow aimed right at Osric’s  forehead. Osric’s heightened reflexes were barely able to see this hidden attack, and his knees bowed to keep Roger’s attack from landing. 

Quick calculations of speed, momentum, and spacing raced through Osric’s mind. He knew that an attack that was as front-loaded as Roger’s would need a moment before balance could be restored to the attacker’s feet. Osric’s would as well, but that was only if he planned on turning to slash. Instead, he somersaulted and recovered in a crouched ready stance with his eyes looking for the incoming interloper, but ended up growling in displeasure. He had anticipated Roger turning to attack, using the advantage he would have felt from Osric’s missed thrust. Roger had chosen to run. 

Osric wasted no time in trying to correct his mistake. His stout legs slammed into the dirt as he traced behind Roger. The intention became clear as Osric caught sight of Roger’s other short-sword that was still sticking out of the ground. He focused his good eye and lept high into the air as only someone with mutated physical abilities could. 

The witcher of the Kestrel mountains also lept, but his was to bring himself lower. He slid against the ground and felt the tiny bumps of rocks and clods of dirt roll under his weight. His momentum stopped as he gripped the hilt of his other sword, and he spun back just in time with blades crossed to catch Osric’s flying slice between the guards of his own weapons. Again, the impact of the bear-witcher’s attack made Roger’s arms feel as if they would shatter. He had never encountered such strength in attack from another swordsman before. 

For a brief moment, the two made eye contact between their weapons. Osric landed but didn’t press the attack further. Neither did Roger. The two stared at each other, each waiting for the other to make their move. 

“Enough, enough!” Greyleaf commanded as he finally left the confines of his home. “This is wasteful! You are both customers! I can vouch for it! He is no spy!”

“No snake then?” Osric rhetorically asked and flourished his sword out of Roger’s guards and into his scabbard in one fluid motion. His shoulder bumped past Roger’s without even giving him a second glance as he trotted back into the orange light that filled the inside of Greyleaf’s abode. “Just a cunt.”

—-PART TWO: A Meal Hard to Swallow

“So, you’re saying…” Osric croaked out through his damaged throat and a mouthful of venison, whose juices were dripping down his woven beard and glinting light from the morning sun through the small window “ ...that you’re just a customer. That you’re not some viper cunt, despite the fact you fight with two swords, and are currently in possession of one broke -” 

Orsirc’s voice rasped and choked from either overuse or food. Roger was unable to determine which caused him more vocal strain as of yet. The blonde, one-eyed witcher’s hacking caused him to launch the last chunk of meat he was eating onto the floor of the old druid’s humble cottage. That old druid was currently finishing the potions that Roger had started before he went off to investigate the pits. 

“Blah!” Osric frustratingly spewed at his own dysfunction. “Fucking Brux - HACK - Bruxa!” 

“A broken Bruxa?” Roger asked uncomfortably. 

“Bah,” Osric cleared his throat, “A broken pendant. That’s Viper School property. Bruxa’s the cough.”

“No, I am not a viper, nor do I belong to a school of vipers. I’m assuming this is a new school of witchers, better than the group they left, different in every way that would necessitate a new branch. I never understood the point of them after the bloody fallout with your leader,” Roger furrowed his brow, “Who’s running this one?”

“P-tah!” Osric spat on the floor right next to where he’d left the morsel of chewed meat, “The most venomous of them all. The evil-eye himself.”

Roger sat up in his chair, “Ivar?”

Orsic filled his mouth with another bite of Greyleaf’s cooking, “You know that cunt?” he asked through chews. 

Roger thought back to the forest: back to watching Ivar train his hand-picked adepts - Roger included. He remembered how stern he was, and how in-awe they were of his combat prowess. He remembered the times that Ivar would become lost in thought, sometimes for long periods of time without saying anything, despite being surrounded by his unofficial pupils. 

“A bit, yes.”

“Ah,” Osric acknowledged, “You been around for a while, eh? Before Arnaghad - BAH - before he took the first of us away? Do we know each other then?”

“Perhaps,” Roger thought, but not too deeply, “There were many of us there. Many more who died, either by the trials or the training. I can’t remember all of them, especially that long ago.”

“Mmhmm,” Osric nodded in agreement and traced his fingers over the scars running across his face, “Plus, we’ve all grown up so much.”

“You said true hunters,” Roger inquired, mildly put off by the description of someone who had seen the same brutal sights at the Order’s old headquarters that Roger had. 

“Aye, those who understand,” Osric nodded to himself, “It’s a job. Only the job matters.”

Again, Roger’s mind drifted back to his old home in the Kestrels. He remembered Erland standing in the middle of their training field and his lectures on upholding an image with honor – how that image was just as important to their cause as their swordsmanship. Roger never truly understood that mindset, but seeing the hacking, spitting, cursing, wheezing, and rough-looking witcher in front of him now, he gained a bit of insight into Erland’s philosophy. Osric wasn’t exactly an easy sell, especially to a village looking to rid themselves of something unpleasant. Dogs for wolves, he thought to himself, then lamented the unfortunate nickname he’d earned while being on Spikeroog.

“You mentioned the Bruxa. Is that professional hazard also responsible for the eye?” Roger inquired. 

Osric nodded and swallowed, “Aye. What about yours?” 

Roger nodded in return and removed his bandana from his head. He could smell the dinge and sweat that had accumulated in it over the last several days and laid it on his knee. Osric was now able to see another scar across Roger’s forehead that paralleled the one running across his nose that stretched nearly from ear to ear.

“Nice,” Osric commented, “What was it then?”

Roger sighed and rolled his eyes back to claim the memory. “Kikimore. Information from the nearby village had been embellished to the point that I thought I was going to fight a noonwraith. They had ‘misinterpreted’ the signs of dust in their fields as spirits. I went equipped to vanquish a spirit. I ended up dealing with something much more...alive. Regardless, it taught me a valuable lesson.”

“What’s that?” Osric asked, “Wear a helmet?”

Wheezing blasts of air crackled out of Osric’s throat. It took Roger a moment to realize he was laughing. Even Greyleaf turned from his herbalism table to see what the noise actually was. 

“No,” Roger’s forehead furrowed again, “Don’t trust anything outside of yourself. The people in the village thought they were right. They had a perspective I didn’t bother to inspect. I lost any advantage, nearly lost my face, and the village lost three more people before I could return with the proper equipment.”

Osric hummed an agreement.

“All cunts. Especially vamps. Always have to go for the coin though,” Osric growled. 

Greyleaf stopped quarking the vials and turned to peak at the rough-looking monster hunter with the beads in his hair. Roger wrinkled his forehead and turned his gaze away from the half-chewed meat that now sat in the middle of the room. 

“Bruxa,” Osric said, turning the attention back to himself as his fingers tugged at the chainmail coif around his neck. “Nearly ripped my throat out. Never again.”

The sound of bottles being clanking together caught Roger’s attention. Greyleaf was now walking over to the small table that the witchers were sitting around with a wooden crate of potions. The old druid gently placed them in front of Roger, then turned back towards the herbalism shelves. 

“Yes, yes. I wonder if it has since protected you from other vampires since donning such a cumbersome scarf?” 

Osric looked up at Greyleaf for a moment with his mouth open, “Oh, ya mean this?” He pointed to the coif. “No, haven’t given them the chance,” he mocked a slice through the air with his hand. 

“Mmhmm,” Greyleaf replied. Roger detected a hint of sarcasm with the druid’s impression of interest. “Speaking of, I believe we were in the middle of a bargain, yes?” 

“Right,” Osric nodded and began reaching through the satchel he had attached to his waist belt now lying on the small table. From the parcel, he produced a bloody heap of something wrapped in linen cloth. The blood was barely dry, and Roger realized this was the smell of blood he’d detected earlier when approaching Greyleaf’s home. The stench inside was nearly overwhelming, and he wondered what he could have possibly killed to have an item as potent as this. The red-haired witcher stopped inspecting his vials and their contents to now gaze at the macabre parcel in front of him.

“My last contract depends on the head,” Osric unwrapped the linen and inside were two bloody globs of semi-transparent, yet organic material. “Didn’t say nothin’ about the eyes. Heard of you while I was in the Southern Isles. Buys odd monster parts, but not in exchange for coin.”

Roger’s ears perked up at this, and he looked up through his brow at the old druid who the witcher thought he’d made a unique deal with. 

“Correct, mister Osric,” Greyleaf acknowledged, but seemed to make an effort to avoid Roger’s gaze. “You may take a few moments to look at my wares, and let me know wha -”

“Black blood,” Osric replied, holding up two fingers and his thumb, which Roger just realized was missing the tip. “Three vials of it.”

Greyleaf’s eyebrows raised and looked over at his walls that were completely lined with ingredients, “Is that all? Three vials of a potion for the eyes of an Ekimmara?” 

Osric’s head cocked sideways like a dog’s hearing a strange whistle, “Did I say that earlier? Ekimmara?” 

“I believe you did, yes,” Greyleaf reassured. 

“Hmpf,” Osric sat back in his seat, smiled, and leaned over to Roger, “Normally I wait until I show the item before saying what it is. More dramatic, and fun.”

Greyleaf busied himself amongst his stores and began gathering more glass containers.

Roger nodded, “Still hunting vampires then? I am not aware of another use of Black Blood other than poisoning your veins in the hopes it kills the beast after biting you.”

“Aye,” Osric replied and poked at the wood on the table between them. “Right here on Spikeroog, as well.”

The skin around Roger’s face wrinkled and contorted as if he’d sat on something sharp. 

“Oh?” he asked. “How did you come to track it here?”

“He told me,” Osric wheezed in his raspy voice while holding up the eyes in the linen wrapping. “Carved it out of him. It’s how I found him, and the cunt before that one, and the cunt before that one.”

The blonde witcher with the beads in his hair leaned his head towards each of the other men in the cabin as if he were telling a deep secret.

“You know where I started?” Osric took his finger and made it hope through the air as if he were poking at various spots on a map. “Maribor, in Temaria. Caught the scent of one, then another, then another. Now I’m here.”

“Wait, they lead you to others?” Roger held up his hand and seemed to be retracing the spots on Osric’s invisible map between them, “You’re describing a cabal. An organization. Each of these vampires was connected to each other?”

“Smarter than you look,” Osric smiled. 

 How could you possibly know what they were telling you was the truth?”

Osric wheezed a short chuckle, “Vampires are hard to kill. Most of the time, that’s a problem. But for me, it became the key. Interrogate one for information, then you leave him tied up in silver. Go investigate his claim. Won’t die of starvation, but will go a bit mad with hunger.”

Greyleaf turned and made a disapproving face, but quickly went back to his task. 

“And if they told you the truth?” Roger asked, skeptically. 

“Go back, kill them, collect the reward on their head.”

Roger shook his head and waved his hand, “There’s no way you’ve gone back and killed them all. That would take months to go one at a time. You’d have to verify each lead based on the last. If you took the time to go back and kill each one before going forward to the next then you’d miss your windows. It doesn’t add up.”

“Not when you put it like that,” Osric agreed. “But it isn’t like that.” 

Roger furrowed his brow, then his yellow eyes went wide, “You haven’t gone back yet. You haven’t killed any of them. You’ve got vampires chained up from here to Temaria.”

Osric smiled and nodded, “I’ve got my investments secured.”

A bottle smashed against the stone floor, causing Roger to grip the hilt of his short sword, and Osric’s hand to move towards his belt on the table. 

“Be more careful,” Osric scolded the old druid. “That’s not one of my three, is it?”

“No, no,” Greyleaf reassured. “No, no.”

“Are you mad?” Roger leaned towards the witcher he had just been crossing swords with an hour before. “You’ve left a series of some of the most dangerous monsters just ‘tied up?’ Where? What if other members of their pack come and find them? Free them? Furthermore, what happened if you found out they lied about the information they gave you?”

“That last part’s easy,” Osric said without looking concerned, “Go back and carve it out of them again. This one I had to go back twice. Hence, both the eyes.”

Roger’s seasoned stomach turned. Being a monster hunter was one thing. This was something else. 

“Show these peepers to the others and they tend to tell you what you want. Ekimmara might be smart, but they aren’t Bruxa. Not clever enough to get clever,” Osric stacked his empty plate under Roger’s half-eaten one. 

“So, what did he tell you?” Greyleaf asked over his shoulder. The sound of a liquid being squeezed into a container could be heard. 

“Told me there’s a cunt here running their little supply chain. Important one. The cunt, and the chain. Figure there’s gotta be someone willing to pay for its head. Interested, druid?”

“I believe,” Greyleaf started as he turned back to the table with a full vial of dark liquid, “That this task has already been claimed.”

Osric turned and eyeballed Roger. Roger stared right back at him.

“Before you say anything,” Roger began, “Know that I was there. I was there when your leader,  Arnaghad, and Ivar attacked the other members of the Order. I was too young then to interfere, but I wish I had. I’ve seen what ‘professional jealousy’ can lead to. Do you know what Arnaghad killed witchers for? Do you know why your master did what he did?”

“Aye,” Osric turned in his head and faced the red-haired witcher, “I do.”

“You think you do,” Roger corrected, “He killed all those witchers for a contract he missed out on. For a contract he had no right to. He killed all those witchers because he didn’t get there before one of his brethren in arms. He then showed up with the other members of his gang in tow, and they took to slaughter.”

Osric leaned forward but said nothing - just staring at Roger with his one good eye. 

“So, before we get confused on anything, this is my contract, bear. If that bothers you, say so now and let’s finish what began outside.”

“Yet,” Osric countered, “You did nothing.”

“Sorry?”

“Did you sit back, clutching your sword, praying it would all go away?” Osric taunted. Roger’s body was as still as it could possibly be, as he was afraid if even a single muscle twitched that it would cascade into an attack. 

“Did you watch them fight? BAH!” Osric’s throat spasmed and coughed while he spun his insults, “See the blood? Imagine the pain? Feel the fear?”

Roger stared at him for some time. The fire from Greyleaf’s hearth danced in both of their eyes.

“Wish it would all just go away?”

Roger was on his feet in a flash. Osric mirrored the move, and the two were now standing on either sides of the small table with a weapon pointed at the other’s face. Roger’s hand remained steady as he held his short sword an inch away from Osric’s good eye without fully extending his arm. There was a slight bend in his elbow that would allow for a fast strike if needed. He remembered seeing a bandit do the same trick with a fully extended and locked arm, so when the time came to strike he had already gone as far as he could. Roger made him pay for that, and delivered his ear to the local guardhouse as evidence of road bandits. 

Osric had his crossbow pointed at Roger’s throat. There was a bolt already loaded and the string was taught and drawn. Osric could only have done this ahead of time, perhaps anticipating the fight, or even baiting Roger into it. Roger hated that his emotions - which were supposed to have been dampened by the concoctions of the witcher trials as children - were still getting the best of him in these situations. 

“So hostile,” Osric replied without any show of emotion, and his good eye seemingly looking through the blade blocking its sight. “After we’d just become friends.”

“Bear don’t believe in friends, that much I know.”

“No,” Osric shook his head, “We don’t.”

Greyleaf’s body approached and separated the air between the men as he placed the first vial in front of Osric to inspect. Neither of the hunters averted their gaze as the druid stood straight again and looked at them both. 

“Would you like to change your order, now that you know it has been claimed?” Greyleaf asked, a bit nervously in an attempt to calm the situation. 

The silence grew stronger as their eyes remained locked on each other. Roger was already visualizing his next moves if he needed them. The chainmail coif may have presented an issue with a throat strike yet it did nothing to protect Osric’s one remaining eye. What good is a blind witcher, afterall?

“No, I’ll still take the Black Blood. This looks fine. However,” Osric lowered his crossbolt and cleared the heavy phlegm from his throat, “BAH! We are men of our work. Right now, my work isn’t paying. My coin is chained up from here to Temaria.”

Roger didn’t soften his stance. Instead, he leaned a nearly imperceptible amount forward on his lunging leg. Osric noticed.

“No friendships. But a partner, perhaps,” Osric shrugged as if he was indifferent to the idea. The blonde witcher then walked forward and let Roger’s blade rest onto the skin under his good eye.

“No,” Roger wasted no time in responding, “The contract is mine. It was issued, and claimed.”

The beads in Osric’s hair jingled against each other as he shook his head and backed up, “No - I don’t want your coin. I want my coin. If this lead is correct I can go get my coin. My secured investments. I’ll help you for no cost.”

Roger turned to Greyleaf who had since stopped making Osric’s potions, and was now watching this new bargain being discussed. The old druid also shrugged, and swallowed a nervous gulp of air. 

“I find that hard to believe,” Roger scrutinized. “You don’t strike me as the type to offer services for free.”

Osric clucked his tongue, “You still don’t see. We find the cunt - if we can find the cunt. I talk to the cunt. You can kill the cunt - if you can kill the cunt. I go back and collect the other cunts. Osric becomes rich. Red-hair becomes whatever he becomes.”

Roger nodded, “If we can find the ‘cunt,’ then your lead was true, and you are released from the last vampires’ trail.”

Osric spread his fingers next to his head and then pointed at Roger in a confirming gesture.

“No tricks,” Roger replied, pointing a finger right back. “Understand that if I let you come it’s not you doing me a favor. I’m going out of my way to help you regain your coin.”

Osric nodded, “You’re very kind, red-hair.”

Roger’s forehead wrinkled and he looked at Osric skeptically. 

“And I get to speak with him.”

“That seems dangerous,” Greyleaf interjected, “Roger, you saw what happened on the mountainside. Hesitation could be disastrous.” 

The corners of Roger’s mouth twisted as he debated this information. Greyleaf had usually never offered any warnings about the occasional drowner or siren over the last year. However, those types of monsters were considerably easier than what he was currently tracking. 

“Bah!” Osric wheezed in the druid’s direction, “Done it multiple times. Just don’t run it through or lop its head. I can restrain it.” 

“And how is that?” asked Greyleaf. Osric smirked and tapped the side of his head.

“Trade secret, friend.” 

Greyleaf huffed and carried the remaining vials towards the men, clunking them down on the old wood. Roger continued to mull over the offer.

“I thought you agreed those of the Bear don’t have friends,” Greyleaf slid the black-filled containers towards Osric. 

“We don’t,” the blonde witcher replied, as he placed the eyes of the Ekimmara at the edge of the table. “Also, I will buy that broken pendant.” 

“For what use?” Roger inquired, suddenly feeling defensive over the newly discovered item. 

“My own,” Osric replied, looking up through his brow.

Roger gazed at the small box that was on his side of the table. It was resting next to his worn scabbard that was holding his silver sword that had seen very little action as of late. It also reminded him of how empty his coin purse was, and how adding a third deal to one hunt may make some business sense for his future. 

Collect the reward for the killer of those men on the mountain, first and foremost. Roger cursed his situation as he remembered that he’d have to get Aelfred’s payment to a bank in Cintra before he could do anything with the Florens. 

Secondly, he would collect as much as he could carry from Greyleaf’s stores. These would not only allow him to make his own potions and treatments, cost-free, but they would also give him some wares and items to sell should he find himself in a bind. He knew of several herbs and tinctures that could only be found and made in Skellige that bid a high price in other places. He had also been playing around with the idea of opening up his own apothecary shop and hanging up his swords. 

Now, he had the ability to sell a worthless trinket from a group of witchers he had no business having any relation with. 

“My price could be high, the magic-infused metal could fetch a large price on its own,” Roger stated.

“Pfft,” Osric blew air through closed lips and sat back down in his chair, “To whom? Who would use it to hunt outside of our kind? I’ll pay the cost of the silver.”

Roger also sat and opened the small box to see the contents, “Anyone could offer that.”

Osric squinted his good eye. 

“Curious,” Osric began through the graveled stones of his voice, “How did you get that? There should be little attachment if you’re no Viper.”

Now it was Roger’s turn to smirk, “Nice try, but I won’t fall for it. You won’t get me to sell this as some plea to my innocence. Nor do I care what you think of any relation I have to them, if I had any. I’m not afraid to cross blades again if I have to - especially knowing that your group tends to prefer solving problems that way anyhow.”

Osric’s body remained motionless. Roger expected to see it snap into an attack, regardless of his seated position, at any moment. 

“Double,” Osric relented. “Double the silver cost.” 

“We’ll make that our deal if you tell me what you would use it for?” Roger added as a final raise to their stakes. 

“Simple,” Osric leaned forward in his chair, “Looks like the sign of a dead witcher. Means there might be a Viper corpse. You have claimed the main cunt on this island, but not a Viper’s body. That’s mine. The pendant goes with it as a marker. Proof of authenticity, as some might call it.”

“To sell it?” Roger asked, some disgust coming through the gruffness of his tone.

“Bounty,” Osric clarified, “Only reason to go back to our keep. For some, the only way to get back in. Collect bounties on dead Vipers.”

Roger thought back to that day in the Kestrels. He thought back as he watched Ivar cross swords with those he had shared a roof with. He remembered the anger and hate that welled up inside of him as he felt any bond or admiration for his former mentor drain out of the bodies of the slain. He wondered what he could have done to the bears to earn a never-ending bounty on not only him, but his new trainees. 

“Agreed on all fronts, just stop calling me a cunt,” Roger said, after a brief pause. 

Osric smiled and slammed his palm on the table.

“Finally! Let’s go hunting!”

—-PART THREE: Packy Appears

Night swept over the small island of Spikeroog, broken intermittently by the small lights from seaside homes. In the woods surrounding the central mountain, the darkness fell even thicker. Not even the glow from the full moon could penetrate the thick canopies of the hearty firs that stabbed at the sky. 

The wind created many noises in the field of arbors. Night fowl chirped as they struggled to keep their balance from the salty gusts, the occasional pig would grunt as it churned up the dirt for a midnight grub, and a low rumble from the island’s infamous pack of wild dogs warned of the areas never to be visited. 

However, tucked beneath the branches of the ancient wood a new noise emerged. It was rough, quick, and painful. 

“BAH!” Osric hacked and spit as he slammed his palm over his mouth. His next words were whispered and coarse as if to make up for the blunder, “Sorry. Never been that sneaky.”

Roger ground his teeth together and avoided looking into Osric’s good eye. Instead, he decided to occupy his mind and pass the time by inspecting one of the jade figurines that he’d kept as evidence from Aelfred’s stores. There was a small break in the treeline where the moon illuminated a tiny patch of the forest floor that they were sitting on. He placed the object into the cascading light as if washing it under a running stream. 

“What’s that?” Osric grumbled. Roger, for a moment, had forgotten Osric was there as his eyes had become lost on the glossy and emerald angles of the object.

“A bauble. Something found in the cargo that had been attacked by those porters on the mountain. Everything else in the crate was falsified, save this and the others like it. I still can’t figure it out.”

The figure was snatched out of Roger’s hand, and he realized how enamored with it he’d become since he didn’t notice Osric’s movement to grab it. He instinctively felt his muscles twitch to try and take it back, but stopped when he realized he would love another witcher’s perspective on the troublesome item. The muscles above Osric’s mouth contorted as he began his inspection. 

“Shiny,” he hoarsely mumbled. Osric then held the small statuette near his medallion and moved it around. When nothing happened, he tapped it against the silver metal of the bear’s head. 

“Pssh,” he dismissed and tossed it back through the stream of moonlight to Roger, who caught it and held it between his thumb and forefinger again. 

“Looks like nothing to me,” concluded Osric. 

“That’s the problem,” Roger countered, being careful not to bring his voice above a whisper. “Is the only thing that has nothing suspicious attached to it. To be more clear, to have nothing obviously suspicious attached to it. We may have just not discovered it yet.”

“Or it’s nothing,” Osric yawned, and peered through the thicket in front of them at the ruins of the old watchtower. 

“Perhaps,” Roger relinquished, “But I still find myself irritatingly drawn to it.”

“Definitely starting to get irritating.” 

Roger rolled his eyes and placed it back into his satchel, tucking it neatly away beneath the other potions he’d been working on with Greyleaf. 

“What if the cunt doesn’t show?” Osric asked as he propped up a small branch of the thicket for his good eye to gaze through. 

“Greyleaf said he would. We don’t really have another lead at the moment,” Roger calmly stated, also taking a more comfortable position to survey the stoney remains. 

“That druid,” Osric huffed, “He just knows things, does he?”

“Seems so,” Roger sighed, “Tends to know a lot of things.” 

“Just happened to know where the cunt hides, does he?” Osric pushed.

“He doesn’t know where he hides,” Roger rubbed his temples with his gloved hand, “ He knows how to get to where he hides, after I told him where he hides.”

“What did you tell him?” Osric asked, picking a small twig from the thicket and scraping his teeth with it.

Roger sighed, “I told him about a dream.”

“You told him about your dreams? Nothing more boring than someone who prattles on about their dreams.”

“Not my dream. A dream. Packy’s dream.”

“The cunt’s dream?” Osric perked up, “A vamp’s dream? Who told you about his dream?”

Roger stroked his beard and seemed to be hesitant to give any more information, “Is it too hard...for you to just focus on the task at hand?”

“Honestly, yes. This is boring as fuck.” 

Roger nodded as if he should have known this would be Osric’s response already. Osric gripped the plates of his armor and rattled them as if he were exposing himself to the red-haired witcher, “I - don’t - sneak!”

Thankfully, the damage the Bruxa had done to Osric’s throat was enough to keep his voice below the noise of the ocean wind blasting through the trees. Regardless, Roger snapped out of his crouched position and clamped his hands against Osric’s shaking metal garments to stop them. Immediately, Osric’s hands grabbed Roger’s wrists and shoved them upwards. With Roger’s momentum moving upwards, Osric lowered himself and spear tackled his opponent. Despite his attempt, Roger wrapped his arm down around Osric’s neck and shoved his legs backwards to halt the charge.

The two monster hunters clashed together like rams locking horns. Roger yanked upwards on his neck hold and was able to get enough room for his other arm to slam an uppercut into Osric’s face. The Bear witcher’s weight dropped for a brief moment in a reaction that Roger recognized as a stun to consciousness. The duration of this stun was significantly less than Roger had anticipated and he found himself in a bear hug before being tossed over Osric’s shoulder and slammed into the ground. 

A flash of light cascaded through his eyes. He momentarily lost memory of what he was doing, but the sudden onset of pain through his shoulders, neck, and into his head was a quick reminder of his skirmish wish Osric. With a quick shake of his head he refocused on the jingling beads growing louder with every moment. 

Roger’s short sword was out in a flash. The dirt in front of him scraped as Osric’s momentum slammed to a halt. 

“Oh, is this the game we’re playing, red-hair?”

Roger breathed in deeply and hoped the two blurry combatants in front of him would finally slide together into one before the next attack. 

“This is a waste of time,” Roger muttered, both angry and alarmed. 

“It was,” Osric lowered himself again and began reaching his hand back towards the steel sword hanging from his back, “It got more interesting.”

Roger didn’t wait. He hated the idea of being reactive and on the defensive again for another fight with the Bear school witcher. This time, he would have Osric on his heels. As he dashed forward he removed his other short sword and readied his strike. The burden that was this mutated thug would be washed away in a brief moment of violence. 

A dull light breached their hidden arena. Instead of continuing his attack, Roger stopped and barely deflected the counter strike Osric had prepared. Thankfully, Osric also noticed the light, flourished his blade, and resheathed his sword. 

“This isn’t done,” Osric whispered despite his vocal disability. “This will be settled.”

“Until then, shut up and focus,” Roger shot back, narrowing his gaze onto the brightening light approaching them from the coastal path. “Are you capable of that, at least?”

“Show me the cunt, “ Osric stretched his arm back behind his torso, “I’ll show you capable, red-hair.”

“Quiet!” Roger yelled in a hushed whisper, desperately trying to ignore the pounding in his head from Osric’s body toss. 

Before he could see for certain, Roger deduced that the light was coming from a handheld lantern. The shadows that it cast jumped and rotated in a way that could only be done by a hanging, encased flame. Osric slowly squatted down and readjusted his plate armor so that it wouldn’t make as much noise in the crouched position. The two sat motionless in the churned up dirt that only moments before was their tournament grounds. 

A figure appeared as it climbed up the narrow pathway from the coastal shores of Spikeroog. True to Roger’s assumption, there was a squeaky, iron lantern that spun and fluttered the shadows of the metal container against the rocks and trees that surrounded it. As it got closer, Roger and Osric could see that it was a mid-sized man with receding black hair, a limp in his right leg, and a nervous energy that caused his head to snap around him constantly. 

“Doesn’t seem too cold, given the weather, does he?” Osric pointed out. 

“No?” Roger asked, more surprised at the quality of vision from the one-eyed witcher than the fact that the man walking down the path was not wearing much more than rags despite the frigid air. 

“Clear sign to me,” Osric began unsheathing his silver sword. Roger could see the state of the witcher’s trade tool. The edges were nicked, dulled, and stained. It had clearly seen a lot of action without a lot of care in its recent history. 

“Not yet,” Roger implored. “We both want to speak with him first.”

“Not first,” Osric replied, “Need to soften him first.”

“Osric!” Roger exclaimed, trying to keep his voice down as much as possible. It was too late. Osric’s beads jingled as he sprang from the cover of the thicket. Roger heard the twang and whistle of the same crossbow that had nearly claimed his life earlier that night. The lantern that the figure was holding shattered and sprayed fire along the path. Oil kept the fire burning even after it’d hit the dirt, and it fully illuminated the stranger walking up the path for the first time. 

The description that Aelfred had given them fit perfectly. Packy stood before them with sunken eyes surrounded by dark rings. They didn’t flinch or show any signs of fear at the approaching witcher charging towards him. His weight was shifted away from his bad leg, and his crooked jaw wasn’t quite able to hide the row of similarly crooked teeth beneath it. 

Packy didn’t run, cower, or alternatively drop into a fighting stance. Instead, Packy smiled, his skin swelled, and his eyes began turning a decaying shade of yellow.