The Last: Chapter One

—-PART ONE: Frozen Blood

Aelfred rubbed the temples on his forehead and felt that he was sweating despite the freezing, salty blasts of ocean air rushing up the mountain through the tall rocks and short trees around them.

“Is your jewelry humming at all around this mess?” he asked through panicked breaths, waving his hands over a dark crimson slush of snow, blood, and body parts. Behind him were the deep tracks of freshly broken snow from himself and the person accompanying him that they had crunched through on their way to the location. The morning sun blinded his eyes off of the surface, rendering him temporarily ignorant to a scene he was more than happy to forget.

“No,” replied a gruff voice over a set of broad shoulders. The kneeling man with yellow eyes, two small swords attached at his waist, one larger sword across his back, and what seemed to be countless other accessories and pieces of spiked armor strapped to him was busy inspecting the scene. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“It doesn’t!? I thought it told you when something unnatural was at play!” Aelfred yelled. His eyes continued to inspect this hunter - or at least that’s what the druid called him. A peculiar type of mercenary whose brothers in trade - called witchers - had apparently been making quite the name for themselves on the continent. Aelfred had neither the luxury nor the time to keep track of the gossip coming from the Northern Kingdoms outside of trade routes, embargos, and blockades.

“My medallion doesn’t…” the witcher grumbled through his thick, red beard without looking up. His eyes traced the imprints in the hard-packed snow and worked on making sense of what appendages or organs he was looking at spread throughout. “Not always,” he relented, not feeling like explaining the intricacies to Aelfred.

“So, if whatever did this… ” Aelfred made the same dramatic gesture he had just made before, “ …comes back, then your jewelry might not warn us with the necessary noises!?”

The witcher stood and Aelfred followed him with pleading eyes. The smaller man pulled his thick hat down over his freezing ears and straightened himself. It was a vain attempt to try and temporarily match the tall lanky figure of the professional hunter that towered above him, not to mention the waves of auburn hair poking out from a worn headband on his forehead.

“I can promise you it won’t start making noises.”

Aelfred looked around with his palms outstretched like he was expecting a crowd of people to acknowledge the absurdity of the situation. However, he and the witcher were quite alone on the side of the mountain overlooking the port town of Svorlag, nestled within the isolated island known as Spikeroog. At least, he hoped they were.

“Well, then what’s stopping this creature from sneaking up and ripping my heart out, leaving it on the snow like that poor bastard there -” Aelfred could hardly finish his sentence as his eyes traced over the remains to his right and saw a glassy set of eyes staring back at him. He felt his insides lurch and his throat seize up. His body heaved, doubled over, and he had to fight down the bile that was coursing up his esophagus. Once he could swallow again he stood up, straightened his jerkin, gave a quick glance to the invisible audience he was worried about and continued as if nothing had happened. This time, he avoided making direct eye contact with the head of the young man he’d unknowingly sent to his death. “What’s protecting us from a similar fate?”

The witcher knelt down again at another scattering of body parts while Aelfred was having his intestinal fit. The studded leather gloves of the professional were poking around the frozen wounds of something Aelfred dared not inspect himself. Although, judging by the size he guessed it was a torso. Bubbles began punching the sides of his stomach again.

“Liver,” the witcher said over his shoulder.

“Pardon?” Aelfred asked annoyingly.

“You said ‘ripping my heart out’ and referred to that organ on the ground. That’s a liver,” the glove covered in chunks of frozen blood pointed to a slab of dark brown matter that had partially sunk into the snow. “The heart is still in the body, but the accompanying arteries have been completely severed. What’s left of that liver was tossed there while it was still quite warm. Do you see how deep it melted the thick snow around it?”

Aelfred looked down at the ground and felt tiny prickles run up his face. He didn’t bother looking but took the witcher at his word. In that moment, Aelfred wished he was anywhere else other than where he was.

“So,” he started, his voice quivering with nausea, “what is his liver being a hundred feet away from his body supposed to tell us about the rest of this mess?”

“Thirty, roughly. Thirty feet. And it tells us that the liver was in the way — something to be discarded. That rules out any kind of wild animal. The liver is a prized organ amongst natural beasts. Also, that these men were killed and torn apart while still alive. That is quick and delicate work with powerful instruments to have the liver be that warm when it landed. Not to mention the other appendages and quarterings that are strewn about.”

Aelfred swallowed hard and whimpered something to himself.

“To answer your other question, I am what will protect you should this ‘thing’ reappear. As long as your coin is real.”

“Of course the coin is real!” Aelfred fired back in a whispered shout. He closed the distance and looked around as if hoping to avoid being overheard. “This has to be stopped, master Witcher -”

“Roger,” the witcher injected. “You can just call me Roger.”

“If you help me I’ll call you ‘Lord Fucking Majesty the Great on Fucking High’ for all you like! Master Wi - Roger…” Aelfred sighed, “ …these were just boys. Barely men! If I can’t sort this then no one will want to stay here - do you understand? The entire operation is forfeit, and I might as well include my head in that as well! The people I’ve borrowed money from - the people who use this service I’ve started —”

“Are not my concern. I understand the stakes as you’ve outlined them otherwise,” Roger stood again and brushed his hand off on his chest. “Tell me, what were these boys responsible for, specifically?”

Aelfred had turned his back to Roger and was rubbing his temples again.

“Mister Aldricht…” Roger pushed.

“Yes, apologies. They were ‘mules,’ carriers, transports. Unskilled muscle from around the port that we used to get things from one side of the island to the other - over the mountain - while avoiding taxes. Svorlag gets inspected every now and then, so the northwest shore is where we keep our ‘unofficial’ docks,” Aelfred looked up to see Roger staring at him with his yellow eyes.

“Oh close your lids. This is honest work for an area without a lot of opportunity outside of pirating and drinking. These are hardy people who need to be busy so they don’t get out of hand. The job provides that. No one comes to Svorlag, let alone Hov anymore.”

Roger peered back at the two villages that sat on either end of the island’s bay: Svorlag and Hov. They were peaceful looking at this time of day. Not that the sleepy cottages were ever known for their excitement, but they were continuing to operate as if the violence that sat before him didn’t even exist. It is probably better that way, Roger thought to himself. He caught some faint smells on the wind of someone cooking a meal to break their fast from the previous night. Roger was famished.

“Do they always work at night?”

“Yes, of course. For obvious reasons.”

“Who found them?”

“Other men-for-hire. They check the routes everyday.”

“And they can be trusted?”

Aelfred scoffed, “About as well as any man can here.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back in Hov. I gave them the day off after finding the scene. Poor bastards. One man quit already - I heard he’s gone to Ard Skellig. Some family there. Anything to get away from this, I supposed. Can’t say I blame him. I think about going back to Novigrad from time to time. Wouldn’t do me any good in the long run though.”

Roger had guessed Aelfred wasn’t originally from Skellige. He had neither the size, the accent, or the courage that is bred into the sea-faring folk from day one. Pirates, raiders, warriors, and leaders were their desired professions; never merchants or peddlers. Given the limited land for agriculture, Roger understood that most of their entire living had to be off of the tit of the continent in some form or fashion.

The witcher further inspected the tracks in the snow and the spattering of blood that carpeted an area the size of a small cottage. There were four sets of boots leading up the mountain and four sets of tracks in the chaos where they now stood. The men whose bodies were ravaged stayed close together from what he could tell. What troubled him was that there were no signs of an attackers tracks. No paw prints or claw marks anywhere except for their skin and clothes.

“Were these men friends?”

Aelfred didn’t look up and kept rubbing his eyes while covering his mouth with a newly produced handkerchief. “How the bloody fuck should I know? I don’t inquire into their personal lives.”

“I’m asking to see if they got along with each other.”

Aelfred burped something up from his stomach and swallowed it, “Don’t know. Don’t care. As long as they did the job, which obviously didn’t happen - hence my involvement.”

Roger took long, lanky strides through the untouched snow so as not to disturb the scene he was looking at. It appeared to his yellow eyes to be the sight of the first attack. There had been a strong flow of arterial spray that sent the four sets of prints scrambling, but the wounded and one other separated a bit from the rest of the group. There was a knife on the ground that was only partially unsheathed, whose blade had no signs of blood on it, but whose strap had been severed from one clean blow. The leather strap, that would have normally looped on itself around the wearer’s waist, was cut so clean that Roger could see the grain-quality as he peered inside of it.

The first of the porter’s cargo looked to be dropped at the same time. One of the boxes was split open, with a path dragged through the snow traced by lighter-colored, smaller amounts of blood than the rest of the area. The other boxes were untouched - four in total - one for each porter. There weren’t even scratches around the nails to show that someone had tried to pry them open and failed.

From here, it appeared that the surviving man of the two ran to the others while the first fell dead. More arterial spray painted the white canvas of snow. A picture was forming in his head. There was an initial death for each of these young men, but a ravaging of their bodies after that lasted for many moments after.

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“There’s four sets of prints here,” Roger pointed out to Aelfred.

“There had better be, I pay for four men’s work.”

Roger shook his head, “There are only three bodies.”

Aelfred gave quick glances to the sprawl of carnage but couldn’t keep his eyes on it for long, “How could you possibly tell that in all this?”

“Count the hands and feet.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“There is a man missing - someone who could perhaps tell us what happened here, assuming he is still alive. Although judging by the color of the blood trail leaving the scene I wouldn’t be so certain.”

“Why the hands and feet instead of their heads?” Aelfred inquired.

“I only see one head. The rest of them seemed to be…mixed in with the rest,” Roger pointed at the mess around them.

North of the two men, on the perimeter of their area of inspection, was a bright red trail that tapered off the further it went.

“What is due North of here? Over that ridge.”

“Nothing, a sheer drop. It’s not even something you could miss and accidentally fall into - it’s massive.”

Roger walked parallel to the strands of blood straining the snow, and as his own feet crunched and sank into the frozen ground he noticed the obvious lack of prints accompanying the crimson.

“Can you tell me what they were transporting?” he asked back over the wind that had picked up.

“No,” Aelfred responded, shooting a glance from under his pale gaze. “The whole point of what we do here is private shipping, Witcher Roger. Tax-free, guaranteed to the continent. That privacy is more than paid for.”

“Just Roger is fine. So you don’t keep records or you don’t want to tell me?”

“Pick one,” Aelfred sarcastically retorted. “In fact, your line of questioning is starting to concern me a bit. Are you a professional hunter or are you something else?”

Roger twisted his face uncomfortably, slowly swaggered through the snow, and closed the distance between the two while resting his hand on the pommel of one of his short swords.

“If you’d like to make an accusation then I’d prefer you were just out with it.”

Aelfred gritted his teeth and tried to calm the shaking in his knees. His fear was starting to express itself as anger, “I don’t need to say it, as I get the feeling you know what I’m suggesting. I don’t like prying. Call it a professional habit, but questions like yours normally lead to unfavorable results.”

Roger’s hands were on Aelfred’s coat in a flash. The smaller man didn’t even register that the witcher was making a move. His freezing muscles tensed and braced for a hit with an instinctive flinch. However, nothing came. Instead, he felt the witcher pull his collar up to cover his neck and upper chest. At first, it came across as a gesture of kindness: a concern over his warmth. When he saw the serious expression on Roger’s face he realized that this was far from reality. The witcher wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, he seemed to be inspecting his body as a butcher would a cut of meat.

“Call it a professional habit,” Roger wrinkled his forehead and looked as if he had eaten something bitter, “but that type of prying is normally what leads me to discover what caused unfavorable events. I don’t care if you are suspicious of me. Given what little information I’ve gathered from you in the last few minutes there are plenty of assumptions I could make about your work. However, that wouldn’t get me paid. I get paid by solving your problem. Help me solve your problem. Then pay me. That simple.”

Roger looked him over from head to toe, released his grip on his coat, and gently pat his chest.

“I am a professional, this is what I do. If you don’t like how I do it - even if I solve the problem - then you don’t have to hire me. I’ve heard there are even some from the School of the Bear coming to the isles every season.”

The witcher turned his back and gently stepped around the bloody snow before them, gazing over the entire scene.

“That’s assuming they come out to Spikeroog, that is.”

—- PART TWO: A Place for Everything

“Everything is coded - you understand?” Aelfred asked impatiently. “None of what is actually in this ledger is what it is. It’s a code.”

Roger wrinkled his face and looked around the walls of Aelfred’s office. There were shelves lining the walls, but none of them looked as if they existed before he set up shop in the small room of the cottage. Most of them leaned and wobbled as if they were tacked on quickly in order to hold an influx in parchments. Many of them were misaligned and unleveled, causing books to slide on other books while crushing disorganized papers in random order. In fact, his entire operation looked like it ran from the same manic energy as his shelves did. When Roger first asked to see the ledgers of sale that included the “inventory” that Aelfred kept a “record” of, he had to search around for several minutes. Aelfred even left some of the spilled parchment on his office floor without bothering to pick it up.

“I think I understand, thank you,” Roger said, feigning a smile that looked more like he was fighting off nausea.

“Now…let me see,” Aelfred scratched his cheek and leaned forward over his records. Roger assumed this was written in his own handwriting. Judging by the empty bottles littered on the office floor, Aelfred may have had a hard time remembering his own words he’d written down.

“Their transport included…” Roger leaned forward to better hear Aelfred, “…some cases of Cintrian Faro, a Redanian Lager, salted pork, jade carvings, and a Kovir tapestry. Nothing out of order there.”

Roger squinted his eyes at Aelfred.

“Well, I mean to an inspector. Obviously, that’s not what was in there.”

“You don’t ever open a box? You never look to see what’s being transported?”

Aelfred leaned over his parchment and placed both hands on his desk. The glow from the candle that sat between them danced off of his thin face and highlighted his disdain.

“Which part isn’t getting through? The whole business - this entire operation - is built off of one keyword. And that word is…” he trailed off, spooling his hand in front of him as if he were reeling in a line of string. Roger didn’t even blink and responded coldly.

“What I’m getting at, is that there is probably a reason they pick certain items to list in the manifest. If I had to guess, it has to do with weight, size, or other elements that a toll inspector might give a visual check for. Am I right?”

“Quite astute of you. You are picking things up quicker than I’d guessed,” Aelfred encouraged, the sarcasm practically dripping off of every word. “Although I don’t see what that has to do with some monster ripping apart my porters!”

Roger indifferently looked away from Aelfred’s gaze and scanned the crooked shelves again. “Something specific was taken from the broken box on the mountain.”

“Yes, all dragged off by whatever -”

“No. I didn’t say some things or mention multiple broken boxes. One box was broken and a specific selection was taken by one attacker.”

Aelfred softly shook his head to indicate he wasn’t following, nor did he seem to really care.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I smelled it.”

“You smelled it?”

“Yes, one scent that appeared at the moment of the attack once the box was broken into, then traveled north,” Roger tapped a finger to his nostril and echoing the same pandering tone Aelfred had just a moment ago, “With my nose. You understand?”

“Tell me…” Aelfred seethed with anger at Roger’s indignant comment, “…is it considered a professional courtesy in your trade to be such a cock with your clients, or is this a value-add that only comes with your own skillset?”

Roger laughed. It was a brief but genuine noise that seemed to catch him off guard as much as it did Aelfred. When he stopped a slight smile had frozen itself onto his normally somber face.

“First off, you are not my client. Not yet. This is still just a consult.”

“You…” a storm began to well up inside of Aelfred. He seemed to grow in size as the pressure grew with every second, “…haven’t agreed yet!? What the fuck am I spending all this time then with you if we aren’t even technically working together!? Not to mention with a witcher that’s got a fucking sense of humor!”

“Secondly, what I smelled was one scent, from one thing. Not a mix of salts, peppercorns, ales, barleys, or fabrics; but one scent. Whatever was taken was taken by choice. It was selected. Now…” Roger ran his hand over the manifest that Aelfred had been reviewing, “…I can’t make heads or tails as to what any of this is supposed to be, but I can tell you that I can recognize that scent should I find it again.”

“How is this my lot in life? A shaggy, red dog of my very own to sniff out whatever was stolen by a monster. A hound. Is that what I’ve hired? ”

“You haven’t hired me yet.”

“Fine!” Aelfred erupted, throwing his hands as high as he could and his voice making the shaky construction of the shelves quiver, “Witcher Roger, I hereby proclaim my intent to hire you as my own shaggy, red dog! Will that suffice!”

“Dramatic, but sufficient.”

Aelfred leaned over the table as far as he could, the sleeve of his gambeson snuffing out the candle as he pointed his finger at Roger. Only the dull light of the wall lantern illuminated the two.

“However, there are conditions! There is no payment upfront. None. I realize I actually have no way of knowing if this shit about ‘smelling a thing’ or whatnot is true. Therefore, I aim to protect my investments a bit.”

Roger sucked in air and opened his mouth to protest. Aelfred didn’t let him.

“I will double my initial offer of 100 florens to 200. However, the condition is that you must recover the stolen item. Losing a parcel from clients like mine is dangerous, and if pressed I’ll be given no option but to tell them you refused to track it down, even given you had the ability to do so.”

“Florens?” Roger calmly straightened up, “You didn’t say anything about having to exchange currency. No one in will accept that here.”

“Not my problem, is it!?” Aelfred fired back. “That’s the only currency I have since that’s what I - myself - get paid in!”

“Bollocks,” Roger countered, “You pay your men, and I doubt it’s in Nilfgaardian shillings.”

“That amount is predetermined and locked. If I don’t pay my men I risk a similar fate to those on the mountain. Who, by the way, I paid just a week ago and I promise they’ve already spent it. If only they had died earlier, then I could just give you what I was going to give them. Shame!”

“What’s to stop me from just leaving? I doubt your clients would actually hold me responsible for you losing an item - let alone scaring off the one person who could help?”

“Nuh uh,” Aelfred wagged his pointed finger in the air, “If you leave, I control the story. For all they know, you were the one who butchered my men and made off with their item.”

“Threats then?” Roger leaned his hand on the pommel of one of his short swords. He could see the little man’s pulse quickening in his neck around his loose skin from his roughly 50 years of age. Roger didn’t feel his heart speed up once. Aelfred’s shoulders deflated. He let out a deep sigh and shook his head down at the table.

“I don’t have the energy for this,” he relented, his voice sounding like it was starting to give from the shouting over the last few hours. “I need help. 200 florens is the most I can offer. Yes, that is the only currency I can work with on this. I will end up losing money on the transport but I will keep my head if you can return the cargo. The upside for you is that the exchange rate is better for florens. There are no banks in the isles that will help you with this, but there is one in Cintra, should you be heading there anytime soon. Witcher -”

For the first time, Aelfred actually seemed to be pleading. There was no more ego in the room that Roger could detect. This seemed to be a genuine request out of desperation.

“If you didn’t also need this then I imagine you would have left by now. If you had some better opportunity then why would you even be bothering with this? Can we just agree that we are both two…” Aelfred spit up the words “…men, two men who could both benefit from this?”

Roger nodded.

“If you take the contract we’ll both be in the same raft. You were right, I was bluffing. It doesn’t matter what story I spin for my clients. If they don’t get back what was lost, or at least something of equal value, then I’m dead - regardless.”

“So, to even determine something of equal or greater value then I am required to ascertain the missing item as well. This manifest is obviously no help in that regard.”

Aelfred said nothing and just looked at him pleadingly. Roger blew air out of his nose and became lost in thought. A drop of blood landed on the table causing Roger to look up. It fell from Aelfred’s lip, which he had been chewing on nervously. Roger wanted to say no. He wanted to get away from this and whatever tripwires were attached with this syndicate Aelfred had become mixed up in - on purpose or not.

“What’s the exchange rate exactly on the florens?”

“High.”

Roger gazed around the room. He caught a quick glance at the manifest and then looked back up at Aelfred. With his forefinger and thumb he reached out and made a small sign of Igni, felt the low-level magic begin to manifest in his palm, and then cut the source off so a small flame took hold on the extinguished wick. The room was illuminated with a renewed glow.

“We have a contract,” Roger held out his hand. Aelfred, who was wide-eye from the small display of ability, weakly shook it.

“So,” Aelfred began after a long pause, “What do you think did this?”

“I have a few ideas, none of them concrete,” Roger replied, wrinkling his forehead. “None of them are good.”

“Yes, obviously given the scene on the mountainside.”

“I need to speak with a few people on the island, assuming you are easing your restrictions for me.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

“I want to make something clear,” Roger lowered his head, “Now that you and I have entered into a contract you will have my full discretion. I take the term ‘professional’ quite seriously. Whatever I learn about this under while we are contracted stays within the confines of our agreement.”

“Bloody hell, my red dog just became a notary! What’s next, you going to read me my last rights under the eternal flame as well!?” Aelfred realized he had just hinted at his own death, and his mood instantly became somber.

“I’m just asking to see the contents of the container.”

Aelfred began removing his coat, whose sleeve had put out the candle just moments before, and hung it on a hook behind his desk. Roger’s head tilted to the side, a bit confused since he figured Aelfred would need that to walk back up the mountainside. Perhaps Roger was going without Aelfred now.

“Yes, yes,” Aelfred responded, shaking himself out of his own spiral, “I suppose that should be fine. Quick question, as long as we are clarifying things.”

Aelfred didn’t continue and waited for Roger to give his permission. The red-haired witcher nodded while looking over the manifest again.

“You can tell a lot from a man by looking him in the eye. Let’s you know if he’s being honest or not. You can tell a lot by the small twitches and pupil dilations of someone you’re either lying to or telling the truth. You - Roger - seem to want to avoid it at all costs. Except when you thought I was threatening you - then you looked me dead in the eye. Why is that?”

Roger pursed his lips together, then gave a few quick nods with his head as if confirming in his own mind that he wanted to respond.

“It makes me mad.”

“Excuse me? Mad?” the smaller man asked, astonished.

“Yes. Mad,” Roger continued, “I find it confrontational, and I tend to…it’s better…no good comes from it. In a business sense - that is.”

“Oh my,” the merchant said. A chuckle began in his belly and slowly turned into a hearty laugh. Now it was Roger’s turn to be confused and mildly annoyed by the other’s jovial outburst.

“Follow me,” Aelfred said, his words still bounding off of each other from his amusement and popping some sort of morsel into his mouth from a bowl, “Good boy,” he followed up with a high-pitched chuckle as he saw Roger going with him. Roger wrinkled his face and shot air out through his nostrils.

The two exited the office through a set of double doors that, for some reason, were not the entrance they used to come into the office. Instead, they emptied into a small courtyard full of stacked boxes and other containers that were all open and all rifled through.

“Just there is fine boys, thank you very much,” Aelfred tossed a small pouch that jingled when it was caught by another set of hearty Skelligean lads. Roger thought to the scene on the mountainside again, then noticed that the box they had placed down had blood covering two sides of it. He immediately recognized it as the box that had been broken during the attack.

“These boys,” Roger stammered out, “They took this from the scene?”

“Of course,” Aelfred reassured him, “The other boxes were taken back to where they needed to go, the bodies were cleaned off of the side - which is going to cost me quite a considerable sum - and the damaged goods were brought back here to see what we can do to replace them.”

“Who disposes of the bodies?”

“‘Dispose’ is probably not the right term,” Aelfred corrected, “We have a man that brings the remains back so they can be taken care of as to the local custom.”

“Which is?”

“Fuck if I know,” Aelfred began looking through the broken box that was just laid down, “Hey! You there! Lad! Is this everything? Did anyone swipe from this? I won’t use you again if I think anything’s been taken!”

“N-Nossir!” replied the boy, trying his best to seem brave and masculine to the Skelliegean standards by pushing his voice deeper than it would have normally been, “That’s all there. We’d love the work if there’s…openings.”

Aelfred squinted his eyes and pretended to give a thorough inspection with his finger against the sides of the broken box, “We’ll see, lad. We’ll see,” he turned to Roger as he waved the boy off without looking to verify that he’d left, “You see, everyone just wants honest work.”

This obvious lie made Roger feel worse about their agreement than he already did and foolish for having sympathy at Aelfred’s moment of weakness just moments before.

“May I look?” Roger asked out of courtesy.

“Of course,” Aelfred waved his hand dismissively and began searching through some of the other damaged boxes that had been there before.

Roger leaned his head and began visually inspecting the box even before moving into their contents. He noticed that the break on the wood had not just been from the drop, as he originally surmised. The first split had been from impact, but the following tear has been from the same type of claws or weapon that rendered the flesh off of the men carrying it.

Inside, even after being moved, most of the contents seemed to be in an orderly manner. All except the small chest, whose iron lock was still dangling from the latch it had once held together. Roger leaned in and carefully pulled the container out, roughly about the size of a loaf of bread. There were visible claw marks across the intricately carved wood that traced a dangerous swipe. Without opening it, he placed it on the ground at his feet.

“Do you have a spare candle or lantern?” he called back to Aelfred. The merchant was nervously scratching his neck and staring at the small box.

“Aelfred,” Roger repeated, “Some light, please.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied and shuffled around another stack of boxes, reemerging with a handheld lantern overflowing with dried candle wax. It had obviously seen a lot of use, and never once been cleaned. He handed it to Roger and started making wooshing noises while opening up his fingers.

“Go on then,” he pleaded, “Give us another!”

Roger let a sigh out through his nose and made the Igni sign, being sure to cut the source off through his hand so it stayed a small spark. The wick jumped to life, and so did Aelfred’s excitement. He clapped twice loudly and went back to watching.

Inside the crate were various stacks and items of inventory. There appeared to be gathered bottles of lager, but as he drew the candle over them he saw that a broken one had spilled fisstech on the floor of the parcel. Linen cloth encased several pounds of butcher’s paper, which Roger was initially hesitant to unwrap given the similarity of pork to human flesh. However, what he found inside were merely spices that marked up a large fee when coming into the islands. The goods were anything but honest, but far from evil.

As he traced the remaining areas of the crate he noticed an emerald shine littering the floor around some of the fisstech. Bending down, he picked up one of these small objects between two of his fingers and his thumb and was able to see the intricately carved outlines of a small, jade soldier. A part of him was expecting to see more jade soldiers when he grabbed another of the figurines. However, he instead found himself holding a handful of what could only be described as a sampling of various occupations. There appeared to be a baker, a skald, a bard, a shepherd, a blacksmith (judging by the hammer and apron), a lancer, and a king. That was just in one handful. No two were alike from what he could tell with the soft glow from his lantern.

“Aelfred,” Roger asked softly, “In the manifest - it was listed as ‘jade figurines’ or something similar, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes I believe it was,” he said, realizing he hadn’t bothered to bring the document listing the false items.

“Why?”

“Fuck if I know, this is all new to me! Rooting around broken cargo that could get me killed hundreds of different ways! Maybe I’m senile! Maybe it’d be better if I just fucking died! Maybe I just pain forgot -”

“No, Aelfred,” Roger gently shook his head, “Why is this the one accurate listing on the manifest?”

Aelfred stopped his diatribe. His hands raised up as if balancing two items on a scale, shrugged, and then looked back to Roger, “I see what you’re saying. I think.”

“You understand,” Roger said, unironically, “The bottles are meant to hide the fisstech. The salted pork are meant to hide the highly-taxed spices. But the jade figures…” Roger held them out in the palm of his hand, “…are just that. Or at least, they would seem to be.”

Aelfred’s long fingers gripped a baker, and brought it close to his wrinkled eyes, “Something inside of it, maybe? Should we break them open?”

Roger shook his head, “There are no breaks in the carve. No entry point to hide something. They are carved from one, unbroken piece of jade. Or at least, I believe it’s jade.”

“To add to that, why is this the one container that was intentionally broken into?”

The two men stared without speaking at the small, bread-sized chest on the ground between them. Roger opened it and saw that it was filled with other jade figures. A part of him felt overwhelmed by the mystery standing before him, and the coin that he so desperately needed depending on him solving it. Another part - a larger part - felt excited as he imagined the various threads connected to this small but complicated box of possibilities. He smiled, for the first time in a long time. He smiled deep, and he smiled long.

Aelfred also seemed rejuvenated by the mystery, “Should we find a jeweler? Should we find someone who can tell what’s going on with these figurines?”

“Are there any on Spikeroog?” Roger asked skeptically.

“No, of course fucking not,” Aelfred realized after a brief moment of thought, “There’s not much here at all.”

Mentally, Roger felt stuck. Spikeroog was the furthest-most in the chain of the Skellige Isles, with seemingly few resources of value other than the fact that it is remote. Whatever knowledge of skill or ability that Roger didn’t possess would have to be circumvented since there probably wasn’t anyone who could help him.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me who this was for, or where it came from?” Roger inquired.

Aelfred popped another morsel into his mouth from his pocket - having pocketed whatever was in the bowl on his desk - and shook his head, “Even if I knew, I probably wouldn’t be comfortable telling you. I protect myself with my own infrastructure of ignorance.”

“I need to think on this a bit,” Roger grunted and paced directionless through the courtyard. “Will you be here tomorrow? I will need to see your staff list. I assume you have this, for payment reasons.”

“Yes,” Aelfred made a face at Roger, “Despite the condition of my office, my finances is one area I keep in strict order. I’ll have everything that you need tomorrow. Now fuck off.”

Aelfred waved Roger off with his hand, rubbed his temples, and walked the witcher out of the courtyard before locking the iron gate to the courtyard behind him. The gate squeaked and clanked shut.

“Witcher,” Aelfred said, almost as a question.

“Hmm?” Roger replied, barely looking over his shoulder.

“Your presence is appreciated,” Aelfred’s voice was soft, and he looked as if he was ready to run at any moment.

Roger nodded, knowing that any further response would make Aelfred regret his rare comment. The little, old man left quicker than Roger assumed he could. He found himself walking around onto the small path branching off of Svorlag’s main road. Outside, he found the young man who had received the payment from Aelfred for bringing the abandoned goods down from the mountain. The boy was untying the payment and shaking the pouch over his open palm.

“You!” he shot in the boy’s direction, “What’s your name?”

The boy stopped from counting the coins in the pouch and hesitantly looked at the armed and armored witcher approaching him.

“I swear, sir!” he started while backing up, “We didn’t take nuthin’, it’s all in there! I swear!”

Roger stopped moving towards him and held up his gloved hands, “Relax, son. I just need your help for a moment.”

“Does it pay?” he replied, suddenly less afraid now that money was being discussed. Roger thought about the thirteen crowns he had in his bag that hung off of his belt. He also thought about the food Aelfred kept eating, and how it kept reminding him about how hungry he was.

“I could, depending on what information you have.”

“That’s fair, sir,” the lad said, standing up straighter.

“Your name, please.”

“Holbrak, sir,” he almost yelled, as if a recruit in a military line-up.

“Holbrak, those other men who died on the mountain - you saw the scene, did you not?”

“Not much,” Holbrak sheepishly responded, prodding some dirt with the toe of his worn boots. “There weren’t much to see outside of all the red. Ulp’s group was the one responsible for bringing down the bodies.”

“Did you know any of the men - the ones who died?”

“Sure,” he replied, perking up a bit, “Friends with my older brother. Well, two of ‘em were. The other two were hired just a few months ago.”

“Did you get to know the newer men at all?”

“Not really,” he shrugged. “Nightwork doesn’t leave much time for socializing in the day. I’d be happy to take it though, the open spot, if it’s open.”

“Even after what you saw, or even heard about happening up there?”

“Aye,” he nodded without a moment’s hesitation. “It’s bad here. There’s not much to do. Most of the ships are already crewed up, the services in the villages can’t pay for hired hands, nor do they even want them. If I went to Ard Skellig, or even the continent, I don’t know nobody. Wouldn’t be any better off there then I would on the mountain, would I?”

“I suppose not,” Roger replied begrudgingly. He thought about being in an area far from where he was raised, not knowing anyone or having any real sense of direction or purpose. He thought about how lonely it would feel - and how a quick death at the hands of a dangerous monster might not be the worst way out. Roger realized that he was tightly gripping one of his short swords, and slowly released his grip on the hilt.

“Will you put in a word for me, with Master Aelfred?”

“Hmm?” Roger replied. “Yes, I would, if I thought he would listen to me.”

There was an uncomfortable pause between the two.

“This seems like a small island - most folks know who everyone is and where they come from, wouldn’t you say?” Roger changed the subject.

“Aye,” Holbrak agreed.

“Is that the case with the four men? The night workers?”

“Aye, sure.”

Roger felt disappointed at this response, as it placed a wall on his line of questioning. At least, with this individual.

“Well, not all.”

“Sorry?” Roger turned back to Holbrak.

“There was one man, I don’t know his name. But - well - I never saw him out with the others, or heard about him out n’ about.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Roger said, walking closer to Holbrak.

“I mean,” Holbrak continued, trying to find the words, “The drink usually brings all the men, and some women together. All of them. Even if they aren’t from here. There was even a man from beyond the deserts at one point. That was long ago though.”

“And you never saw this one man from the night shift?” Roger pressed.

“Not once. Daytime would come, the men would get together, but he’d never join.”

“Did he have a name?”

“Yes - well I’m sure he did - wait -” Holbrak stopped himself, realizing that he’d been giving away a lot of information for free, “I won’t give any more information without some kind of pay -”

Roger didn’t let Holbrak finish. Fingers danced the sign of Axii and shot the source energy into the young man’s head. Roger saw his eyes glass over and his head momentarily bob. Roger had him.

“Tell me his name,” Roger said coldly.

“I don’t know,” Holbrak said indifferently.

“Where does he live.”

“I don’t know.”

Roger grunted in frustration.

“Where would he part ways with the group? Where did their party disband?” Roger reached for any lead.

“I don’t understand,” Holbrak responded honestly. Roger’s irritation swelled. His fingers danced and traced Axii into the air again while willing the minor speel at Holbrak another time. The young boy’s legs staggered and his eyes rolled back into his head. Roger immediately regretted his decision and was embarrassed at his own angry response. Roger paused and caught his breath.

His thoughts raced back to a dark room dimly lit by torchlight on the walls. His hands were small, and they tugged at the shirt of his friend that wasn’t moving. Black veins crawled up the pale face that sat before him.

“Do you feel anything?” Roger could hear the old man’s voice asking him.

“No,” Roger lied.

“The old watchtower,” Holbrak whispered.

Roger snapped himself out of his own mental trance - surprised at his lack of awareness within the memory.

“Watchtower?” Roger repeated.

“Yes, the watchtower. Mostly rubble. Overlooks the forest west of Svorlag. It’s on the way back from the mountain path.”

Roger was making a mental note of this when he heard a cry from another young man down the road. Three boys were making their way over to Holbrak after they noticed the two talking. For a moment, he contemplated using Axii on all three, but the logistics of such a feat wasn’t something he wanted to force onto the entire group. Even considering that made him realize that he needed to get a grasp on himself. He needed to eat.

“Holbrak! Are they givin’ us the work?” one of the young men with wispy blond hair asked enthusiastically.

“Are you the head man?” another with jet black hair and crooked teeth inquired before stopping dead in his tracks when he noticed the swords hanging off of Roger’s waist and back. The last youth didn’t say anything, although his silence was more of a result of being shy instead of fear of the witcher’s weapons.

“Who’s this then?” the black haired boy asked tentatively. Holbrak said nothing, and Roger noticed that his eyes were still glassy even though his pupils had returned to the forefront of his face.

“Hol, you alright?” the shy one asked.

Roger moved quickly and gave a few hard pats to Holbrak’s face, shaking him out of the effects of Axii and startling him as if he’d just woken up.

“‘Course he is,” Roger assured them, “He and I were just having a chat about his previous work experience - seeing if he’s got what it takes to make it over that mountain.”

“We all do, sir!” the black-haired boy shouted, “We all have what it takes. Even Pastey here!”

The other boys laughed. Holbrak gave a late chuckle at the habitual teasing of the pale and shy lad in the back.

“Right then,” Roger said, straightening up and beginning to turn away, “I’ll let headman Aldricht know we’ve got some good candidates in line.”

The boys seemed excited, and also couldn’t take their eyes off of Roger’s swords. They continued to until he turned the corner and began making his way back to the tavern that he’d rented a room at and stored his other gear.

As he walked up the rough path that overlooked the docks in the bay, he heard someone’s footsteps behind him. Roger sighed, knowing that the matched pace meant that he was being followed. As he made his way past some of the roughly constructed cottages and shacks that lined the road he pushed off of his left foot and dashed between two houses.

Shortly after, a small and thin figure appeared, looking around the alley between the houses after having lost the witcher. As he passed through the walls, a leather fist grabbed his fur-lined collar, but then quickly dropped it.

“You. What do you need?” Roger asked the shy boy from earlier. “Pastey, isn’t it?”

“Don’t call me that,” the boy said gloomily, straightening his jerkin and standing straight. “That’s not my name. I hate it when they call me that.”

“Then why do you let them?” Roger pushed.

“It’s easier.”

Roger sighed again,” I’m guessing you weren’t following me to talk about your nickname. What do you need…”

“Tyrn,” the boy replied, without making eye contact. Instead, he nervously looked around the spaces behind the houses they had found themselves. “You’re a hunter, a hexer. I know it. My nan told us stories about your kind. She’s from the continent. Said you used to be knights of the North.”

Roger wrinkled his face and made that familiar scowl, “Some were, yes. Others weren’t. What gave it away? Was it the eyes - it’s usually the eyes.”

“Yes, the eyes.”

“Well,” Roger continued, “You must have a pretty specific request since you decided to follow a newly discovered witcher. Out with it.”

“Master Aldricht, he’s not the headman here.”

“Pardon?”

“You said Aldricht was the headman. He’s not. There’s another man that runs things. Aldricht is just the bookkeeper. He can’t hire us.”

“The bookkeeper?” Roger’s mood was souring even further, “Then who is the headman here?”

“I don’t know,” Tyrn replied.

“How do you know this? Aelfred gave the contract, why shouldn’t I assume he runs things?” Roger interrogated. Tyrn shook his head and seemed hesitant to answer.

“People talk.”

What people?” Roger pushed, feeling his fingers starting to make the initial signs of Axii. Tyrn looked sick, but spoke anyway.

“My sister - she makes coin from keeping him company. He talks to her…during.”

Roger relaxed his fingers and stood back a bit, feeling embarrassed for the young man, and even worse for his sister.

“I understand. What does he say?”

“She doesn’t tell me much, but what she does tell me is that there’s a man who comes to visit from time to time. He comes and checks the goods, speaks with Master Aldricht in private for a bit. Then with one man who transports the goods. Always the same man.”

“Which man?” Roger asked. “And do you know what they talk about?”

“I don’t, but the man is one of the four that was murdered up on the mountain. I don’t know his name, but the others called him Packy.”

“Packy?”

“On account of the load he could carry, like a pack-mule. Also, account of his large teeth and overbite. Men used to joke that if he were going after food don’t get near it or you’d come back with a stub.”

“Fair enough,” Roger nodded. His mind raced back to the bloody scene on the mountainside. Piece by piece, he began reassembling the parts that he could remember, trying to see if he remembered someone with such prominent facial features with no luck.

“What do you want for this information?” Roger asked, leaning against the wall of the cottage and resting his hands on his swords.“You couldn’t have come to help me out of the goodness of your heart.”

Tyrn didn’t waste a moment, “I want double whatever you paid Holbrak. Aldricht thinks it’s a monster that killed those men, that’s why you’re here.”

“Do you think it was a monster?” Roger posited, almost indifferently.

“I think…” Tyrn began as his mouth fought against twisting into a smile, “…I think I’m the right man for this kind of work, now that there’s an opening.”

Roger inspected Tyrn, the young man known as Pastey. It was true, his skin was incredibly pale, even for a Skelligean, but there was an intensity and solidity about him that caused Roger to believe that he could carry any load - weight or content.

“As I said,” Tyrn reminded, “I want double.”

“So be it,” Roger relented, pushing his weight off of the wall and walking away from Tyrn, “Double of nothing is still nothing.”

“You -” Tyrn started, his voice shaking with anger, “You are taking advantage of me.”

“No,” Roger replied, looking back over his shoulder, “You didn’t secure your terms upfront. You offered the information without stating your cost, and you didn’t even make sure that your cost had the value you thought.”

Tyrn looked stunned, and his knuckles were turning white from the intensity of his closed fists.

“You won’t forget this lesson. Consider that payment in itself.”

Roger walked around the corner, leaving Tyrn alone with his lowered head full of thought.

—- PART THREE: Sanguine Libations


”I think you’re right,” Roger admitted, pushing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes and rubbing the tension out of them, “It’s a vampire. Potentially a higher vampire, or at least a very old, very experienced Ekimmara.”

“Of course I’m right,” replied a cheerful, scratchy, and high-pitched voice from an old man covered in animal furs, trinkets, and bones. “I wouldn’t have sent for you if I thought otherwise.”

“And you’re willing to make good on your bargain? Whatever I can carry from these stores just for its teeth?” Roger pointed to the stacks upon stacks of alchemical reagents lining the walls, counters, and shelves of the small home built into the mountainside.

“Of course, of course!” the old man cheered.

“And you’re not going to empty them out, or move them to some different location, or find some weird catch so that I end up empty-handed, right?” Roger sat on a small stool next to a wooden table lining the wall by the entryway. There was a plate of leftover food that Roger began picking at, unable to control himself from his own hunger. The old man continued to toil over some ingredients and liquids that he’d started as soon as Roger entered the single-room lodging.

“Roger, you and I have known each other - well - not a short time, but not a long time either. Wouldn’t you say?” he poured some liquid into a boiling cauldron.

“Somewhere in there, sure, old man,” Roger peeled some leftover meat off of a bone with his teeth, knowing that his witcher mutations would protect him from any sort of bacterial infection a normal person might have caught from eating someone else’s scraps.

“In my home, you would do wise to refer to me by my name. Would you ever consider me someone to be taken advantage of? Or to take advantage of someone else?”

“No, Greyleaf,” Roger smiled and inspected the remains of what looked like a boiled turnip, then swallowed it whole.

“Therefore, wouldn’t it be a safe assumption that our exchange - in my own presumptive eyes - is fair and equitable?” Greyleaf began dicing a chunk of a reagent with a thick knife, then grinding the pieces with the dull side of the blade.

Roger hadn’t finished swallowing before responding. He choked out, “Not netheth-tharilly.”

Greyleaf stopped and flashed his blue eyes in Roger’s direction. Even for Roger, with everything he’s experienced as a trained witcher, it made his heart speed up for just a moment. However, Greyleaf was still smiling. Roger elaborated.

“It depends on what we’re weighing against each other. If it’s the gathering of wanted items, then the risk definitely falls heavier on my side. Killing an Ekimmara - even a Kattakan - is no simple task. Anything higher than that - well - let’s just say your stores wouldn’t be enough of a payment by far. Whereas, gathering some bloodmoss or puffball is just a matter of walking into the woods. Which isn’t without its own dangers, but even an old man can point a spear and kill a wolf if need be.”

Roger pushed the plate away now that he’d eaten everything left but the bone.

“Are there wolves on Spikeroog?”

Greyleaf turned his back and continued chopping another item Roger couldn’t make out. His weathered hands, which looked like the tree roots growing through the rock walls of the home, grabbed another vial from a shelf next to his table.

“So,” Greyleaf counted, “Really it becomes an issue of time. It took me ages to gather all the items in this room. A lifetime, really.”

Roger picked at something in his teeth then sucked air between them to see if he’d cleared whatever was stuck. Greyleaf continued.

“And, given that I have not undergone the horrific mutations designed by your dear Cosimo, nor the training by your swordmasters, it would take me longer than a lifetime to have the means necessary to kill our monster on the mountain. Therefore!” Greyleaf picked up a small plate and hoisted it into the air like some kind of trophy, then walked it across the room and placed it on the table in front of Roger, “You are doing me a great service by using that unique skill set and genetic concoction you call a body. One worth what you can carry from my lifetime’s work. Enjoy!”

Greyleaf smiled wide and began scurrying around in a cabinet. Roger looked down to see a meal prepared for him, the steam of which was pouring into the air around them. Judging by the turnips and bones full of meat, it was a full plate of the one he’d just picked the scraps from. The witcher’s keen sense of smell inhaled every ingredient enhanced by the fires of Greyleaf’s workshop that apparently doubled as his kitchen.

“Thank you, Greyleaf.”

“Make no mention of it,” he replied, plopping down in a chair he’d pulled across the room as he returned with a bottle. The quark popped with a dull echo, and he placed it onto the table. “Now, where are…ah!” His hands shot in front of Roger and snatched two cups by their lips. He swirled them around and smelled whatever liquid was in there before dumping it onto the stone floor so that he could refill them with the deep red of his bottled wine.

Greyleaf handed Roger one of the carved wooden cups, now overflowing with a generous pour.

“So, tell me, what was the mountain like?”

“Big,” Roger replied, focusing mostly on cleaning the bones of their meat.

“Don’t be obtuse!” Greyleaf chastised him, his grin only continuing to grow. “What did it look like up there? What was the carnage?”

Roger looked up through his eyebrows and wished that he could keep his focus on the turnips. He stuffed the last of them into his mouth and shifted his weight on his stool, letting his back rest against the wall. As he swallowed, he let out a deep sigh.

“It was brutal, old man,” Roger replied as if recounting a particularly arduous carriage ride. He crossed his fingers across his stomach.

“You see the irony in you using that nickname with me, I’m certain. Please, continue,” Greyleaf joked, sitting back in his chair and echoing Roger’s posture while taking a deep sip of his drink.

“Three bodies and their parts spread out over a wide area overlooking Svorlag. Not that far up from the Twindove Tavern, but not on a path that most would take during the day-to-day.”

“I heard it was a team of four,” Greyleaf added, seemingly already aware of where the tale was going.

“It was, but the fourth is missing. There are no footprints to show that he left, but there are no prints to show that he was taken.”

“I notice…,” Greyleaf interrupted while giving a large slurp of his wine, “…that you said ‘left’ and not ‘escaped.’ Why?”

Roger looked up towards the top of the ceiling before responding, “I’m fairly certain the fourth man whose body is not on the mountain is tied to the deaths in some form.”

“So the fourth man is the vampire?”

“That would be the simplest solution. Although there are some dangling strings to this that I may need to tug on. Currently, the trail has literally vanished over a mountain. I can’t even examine the bodies further, as the headman had them taken down to be dealt with according to custom,” he washed down his full mouth with a generous gulp of wine, some of which dribbled down his beard.

“The headman that you pointed me to, Aelfred, is not actually the headman,” Roger stroked out the tips of his mustache as he watched for Greyleaf’s reaction.

“Of the operation, certainly. But here in Svorlag -”

“Not even in Svlorlag, according to a young urchin desperate for the merchant’s work. There’s another man who comes from time to time that seemingly runs things.”

“You still got your contract from him though, didn’t you?”

“I did, yes. The terms are bittersweet. Double the pay, which could be more once exchanged since they’re in florens, but I must now also retrieve the lost item.”

"A Nilfgaardian-sponsored operation perhaps? Also, only one item?” Greyleaf sat up in his chair and leaned forward. “So, you’re thinking that the vampire’s motive was attaining this one item that you discovered was missing? What in all the realm could it have been?”

“This,” Roger reached into his belt-pouch and produced a small jade figurine in the shape of a blacksmith. Greyleaf’s eyes squinted and scrutinized the object. “Something like this, to be more precise. It came from the same box as the others. There are probably twenty in total.”

“May I?” he pleaded, seemingly desperate to hold a piece of the mystery.

“Please do, I would be happy for someone else’s eyes,” Roger carelessly tossed it into the air which caused Greyleaf to leap up so fast that he nearly spilled his wine all over the stained stone floor. His grasped the object in both hands, then turned it over in his fingers before he had even sat back down.

A few moments passed while Greyleaf scanned every inch. His teeth softy tested the hardness of the object, and his nostrils ran over the smooth surface.

“I meant to thank you, by the way.”

“You did thank me. It was my pleasure,” Greyleaf replied, half-listening, “It’s a simple recipe but quite savory. Bah! I should have smelled it before biting it. Now I can only detect my own breath.”

“No, I mean for the contract. Both ours, and setting up the introduction with Aelfred for the second.”

“Oh, that,” Greyleaf pulled a candle from the other end of the table and held the figurine up to it, watching how the light broke and turned in the green stone. “Think nothing of it. You’re a good man on hard times. I understand why you want to leave the islands, but I’m not sure what you’ll do back on the continent. You aren’t exactly flush with cohorts these days, are you? Plus, it helps me out considerably in ascertaining some incredibly rare materials.”

“Regardless, thank you.”

“Again, think nothing of it,” Greyleaf placed the jade figure in front of Roger, who picked it up and looked at the candlelight through it as Greyleaf had just done.

“I don’t see anything unusual about it other than its incredible polish and sheen. It’s not mastercraft work, but it is an adept hand that sculpted it,” Greyleaf informed. “So, what does your professional experience tell you about a vampire that is willing to kill for a bauble?”

“Immediately, it tells me that whatever it took was different than the others. I can tell you from my own inspection that the killer seemingly appeared out of nowhere, then disappeared again.”

“How could you tell?”

“Scent. A strong one too. Didn’t detect it anywhere else other than that spot, and then over the northern slope where the rock is nearly a straight wall down to the shoreline.”

“Ah, yes, I know the area you mean. You know a drunk shipman tried to climb that several winters ago? Climbed a crack in the rock using just his hands. Made it halfway up before he fell. They say that by the time he’d reached the apex of the crack more than half the villagers had come to watch. Then a scream, a fall, and a splat. An impressive feat, to say the least. Does a witcher find feats that like impressive?”

“Probably depends on the witcher, Greyleaf. We don’t all share the same thoughts and interests.”

“Of course, of course. How foolish of me,” Greyleaf blushed a bit and looked down at his cup in his hands. “I find it impressive, albeit moronic. I digress. The scent vanished!”

“Here’s what I don’t yet understand. This creature or vampire, whatever it is, knew of the route, knew of the cargo, and knew what it wanted specifically inside this box of little carvings. Not even Aelfred knew of the actual content being carried. So, this is either an inside job, or the thief had some way of detecting what was inside. My fear is that it demonstrates a level of intent and intelligence normally reserved for higher vampires.”

Greyleafs’s eyes flashed at Roger, and traced the scars running perpendicular to each other across his nose , down his eye, and across his forehead.

“I don’t think either of us necessarily wants you to engage against that, do we?”

Roger was lost in thought for a moment before snapping to, “Depends. I’ve heard that high vampires enjoy solitude, and I’m not sure that you’d get more solitude, geographically, than around Spikeroog. However, some ‘middle’ vampires, when alive long enough, can develop attributes and affectations that resemble their higher cousins. That scenario would certainly put me at a bit more ease than the former.”

His thin fingers had been scratching the side of his temple, but had unconsciously moved to tracing the start of his forehead scar.

“The only lead I have is where the men would normally part ways on their way back from deliveries - some old watchtower southwest of the mountain.”

Greyleafs’s eyes widened and slowly looked Roger over, “The old watchtower? That is where the men separated?”

“Where the missing man did, yes.”

“Do you know his name?”

“I don’t. No one I spoke with really knew him, and the men that worked with him are all dead. Why, did you know him?”

“I did not, no,” Greyleaf replied pensively. “But that watchtower has an unfortunate history. Well, legend to be more precise.

The old druid set his empty cup down and produced a long warden’s pipe from under his furs and robes, “Would you be so kind?” he asked, leaning forward towards Roger.

“Everyone’s favorite trick,” the witcher relented, and sparked the pipe to life through his fingers. Greyleaf inhaled deeply and let the smoke fill his mouth. It poured out of his nose and trickled to the ceiling until he blew out the rest through his mouth, surrounding them at the table.

“The legend is of a woman from Kovir, supposedly a princess with incurable mental issues. That’s not how the story describes it though. Legends rarely get so cynical. Instead it was some form of ‘love sickness.’ Anyhow, she became convinced that the only way to find a suitable husband was for someone to rescue her from a tower. Obviously, an obsession with old tales, romantic conquests, and outdated stereotypes could be to blame, but she ended up traveling all the way here to the isles to ensure it was an odyssey to be told for the ages. Except, no one came. She supposed died, alone in the tower of old age.”

“Bollocks,” Roger snorted.

“Oh? So certain?” Greyleaf challenged.

“Where did she shit? Who brought her food? How could she bathe? What if she had become sick? Do I need to go on?” Roger waved his hand at the tale. “Nonsense - does me no good.”

“Simply sharing a story,” Greyleaf leaned back in his chair and stared up at the smoke swirling above them, “Not trying to solve anything for you with it.”

The two sat in silence as the clouds of smoke encircled them.

“As much as I can carry. Even with a pack?”

Greyleaf slowly nodded, “Even with a pack.”

More silence filled the room. An ember popped from Greyleaf’s dying fire.

“Does that include the materials I need for this hunt?”

Greleaf slowly nodded, “It does.”

Another pause.

“What are you going to use them for?” Roger asked, watching the draft from the cracks in the window pane carve through the smog in the room. Greyleaf took a long drag in on the pipe and held his it for a moment. His voice was strained with the effort of keeping the smokey air in his lungs.

“There is a short answer to that,” Greyleaf blew out the restrained breath in a giant cloud of smoke, “And there is a long answer to that.”

The old man smiled, not even thinking about providing a follow-up to the question. Roger knew there would be no point in pushing, nodded, and gave a slight smile in the corners of his mouth.

“Obviously important then. Given the task ahead of me, would you mind if I used your stores to help craft what I need for this job?”

“Yes, yes,” Greyleaf waved him off, “Go on, go on.”

“And it’s not coming out of my final payment?”

“No, no. Not at all.”

Dark circles surrounded the bottom of Greyleaf’s eyes. Roger could tell that he was getting tired, and that this was probably past when he would normally sleep. He also knew that the old druid was never someone to pass up stories or histories of a witcher. One night, Greyleaf had openly admitted such. After more than a few glasses, Greyleaf had gone into some detail about the information he’d gathered over the years about the “fascinating” practices of the outlaw sorcerors, and how they pitched their human-experiments to the kings of the north. Roger had been drinking a specialty concoction known as “Perfume.” Greyleaf had bought it especially for Roger as a thank-you for bringing him an in-tact harpy egg. It was pungent, expensive, and incredibly alcoholic. For a witcher, this was a good thing, as they could spend a fortune trying to get drunk thanks to their mutations.

As a result, Roger let Greyleaf know exactly what he thought about his interest in the practices of what makes a witcher. He let him know exactly what was entailed in the trial of the grasses; the dead bodies of the other children that didn’t pass; the adepts who never returned from their first hunts; the men who continued to experiment on those who handled the poisons and mutation process well. He went into detail about the nightmares, the achy muscles pushed beyond the limit of normal folk because of what had been done to their bodies.

Roger was practically foaming by the end of his diatribe. Greyleaf had been speechless, only able to stare up at the witcher’s bloodshot, yellow eyes. Roger saw that through the druid’s thick, silver and blond beard, that he was practically beaming.

“Fascinating,” Greyleaf had said. Roger felt his rage dissipate like the smoke from the druid’s pipe. The kind smile blew like a breeze through an open window. For the first time, Roger had felt like the shameful history of his own past was not being judged.

“Tell me about these ‘trials of grass,’” Greyleaf had misquoted.

Ever since, the witcher and the druid had become great drinking acquaintances, storytellers, and business associates. The old man lived outside of the main druid-circle in Ard Skellig, and whatever he missed in updates from their organization he more than made up for in information from the commoners. He always knew when there was work to be had for a mystic, a healer, and even a monster hunter. Before a few years ago, he wouldn’t have had any way of helping anyone with the threats of a local monster. Greyleaf knew an opportunity when he saw one, as well as an obvious person in need.

Now, Roger walked along the shelves and tables that lined the humble walls carved into the rock. His cat-like pupils scanned the labels and ingredients arranged seemingly by effect. It might not have been the way a witcher would organized the materials, but what a witcher used commonly would be substantially different than a druid. Something cold squeezed in his stomach, and he forced himself to stop daydreaming and get back to the task at hand.

“What did you think of Aelfred?” Greyleaf mused as Roger began gathering bottles of Alchohest. The witcher’s bony fingers danced through the same cabinet and gripped two bottles of Dwarven spirit by their necks.

“Scared,” Roger replied mindlessly, “You have Endrega embryo?”

“Yes, yes. Third column, one shelf down from the top - red label,” Greyleaf turned in his chair and inspected the cherry inside of his pipe bowl. “To clarify, he scared you, or you scared him?”

“Neither,” Roger inspected the contents of the vial filled with vinegar and the embryo. “Where did you get this?”

“Who remembers?” Greyleaf shrugged. “So, then what scared him if it wasn’t you? The vampire?”

“No. It seemed to be his employers more than anything,” Roger leaned to the right side of the corner wall and plucked two red-capped mushrooms from it. “There you are.”

“The Novigraadians?” Greyleaf pushed.

“Perhaps. Not really my concern,” Roger moved to where the larger jars were and looked over the labels.

“His backing doesn’t interest you at all?” the druid asked, dumbfounded. “A foreign power funding a trafficked goods operation with laundered florens off the coast of the largest port town outside of Novigrad? Run by a man escaping the continent to set up shop in the remote island of Spikeroog?”

“No.”

Greyleaf shook his head and poked at the embers in his pipe before taking a long inhale to make them catch fire again, “You, good sir witcher, are an enigma.”

“Not at all,” Roger countered, grabbing a set of long, green plants labeled Celandine. “I’m a professional.”




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The Last: Chapter Two