[i]Kraeg’s Hill, Kaedwen Summer, sometime in the 13th century[/i] The witcher rode into the village astride his black steed halfway through the morning. The sun was not yet at its peak but the peasants had already begun to gather in the shade of the trees that dotted the valley, the lone suppliers of mercifully cool shadow between the amber fields of grain. Kraeg’s Hill had been constructed on top of the eponymous highland that rose towards the far end of the valley. Forests dominated the edges of the valley and snow-capped mountains rose beyond them on all sides, for such a land was Kaedwen; large swaths of it were uninhabitable mountain ranges. The wind, always a powerful force in the valley, was coming down from the mountains in the east and brought warm air with it. Even this far north, the summers could be hot. Clouds sailed lazily overhead like pieces of white cotton candy and the trees bowed their canopies gracefully. It was an idyllic sight, but appearances could be deceiving. Valker of Kerach knew this well. He dismounted from his horse, a fine Mahakaman stallion that he had christened Charles after receiving it as a reward from a grateful baron in Velen about four years past, upon reaching Kraeg’s Hill’s inn. With trees in anything but short supply, the village’s houses were fashioned from wood and featured straw rooftops. Children were playing on the muddy main road, chasing after loudly protesting gaggles of geese, while the elders watched them from their porches. Their eyes were sure to find Valker as well and the witcher’s sharp hearing picked up on their mutterings without trouble. Peasants always thought they were being clever. “That be a witchman, sure as sure. Two swords on his back. Bad omen, that.” “Oh hush, Kerd. Might be he’s here about the contract. Nothing wrong with that. It’s honest work.” “Finding out where that whoreson buggered off to? We’re all better off without him, and you know it. Damn waste of the lord’s coins, I say.” Valker looked up from Charles’ saddlebags to glance in their direction. The sunlight brought out the blond in his hair and his beard and reflected brightly off the polished pommels and crossguards of the swords sheathed across his back. He stood out amongst the village’s population as much as a siren would be out of place in a forest. Every inch of him, from the steel toes of his sturdy boots to the midnight blue fabric of his robes, was decidedly extraordinary. And yet he seemed modestly and practically dressed, without vanity or pretense. Not fit for a village and not fit for a ball. A true outsider. “Work,” Valker muttered to himself, a trait common to witchers. “Good.” He was in need of crowns. Well, he was always in need of crowns, for a man like him could never have enough. His feline eyes fell upon the notice board that had been erected outside the inn’s entrance. Having made sure sure that Charles, who carried the foreboding skull of a dead leshen on his flank, had enough water to drink and hay to eat from the inn’s modest stable, Valker made his way to the notice board and inspected it, his hands on his hips, spine straight as an arrow. As usual, the notice board was mostly filled with the kind of insignificant trifle that peasants bothered themselves with, but there was also an important looking piece of parchment signed with a genuine wax seal. [i]To all denizens of Kraeg’s Hill, One of my guardsmen has gone missing two days hence. As my men are a reliable and professional regiment, I suspect foul play -- or worse. A full purse of crowns awaits the man that can discover his whereabouts and, if possible, rescue him from his predicament, whatever that may be. Come to the manor for details. I wish to speak with all who attempt to complete this task personally. Men without a sword need not apply. Signed, The Right Honorable Lord of Kraeg’s Hill, Karthwin and Kingfisher’s Hollow, Reeve Aunsellus[/i] “Foul play, or worse,” Valker repeated under his breath. Peasants were liable to see monsters everywhere and blamed all their misfortunes on them -- if they weren’t too busy blaming mages, non-humans or even witchers -- but for the lord of the area to suggest such a thing, there might actually be a tangible reason. He turned around and looked behind him at the valley as it winded away into the distance, his eyes scanning the forests on either side. He had known monsters to hide in less ideal places. And even if there was no monster to be slain, finding out what happened to the guardsman should prove to be an easy task for one of the best trackers of the Northern Realms. And that meant easy coin. First things first, however. He was both hungry and thirsty and did not trust the lord to provide nourishment or refreshment for every visitor. Valker turned back to the inn and stepped inside, the wooden doors swinging shut behind him. Predictably, everyone in the establishment stopped what they were doing and looked up to gawk at him. Four men were sitting at a table playing gwent, the innkeeper was pouring an old man at the bar a drink, and a gaggle of girls that barely looked old enough to be drinking rye were seated in the back. One of them giggled, staring at Valker with eyes the size of saucers. Another one shushed her. Expertly sensing the tension in the room of her inn, the keep spoke up and cut through the silence with a warm voice. “Master witcher, welcome. What can I get you?” After a further second or two of meeting everyone’s gaze with his own stern, piercing stare and forcing them to look away, Valker rolled his shoulders and stepped up to the bar, taking a seat on a stool on the opposite end of where the old man was sitting. “A stout and a meal. Your recommendation.” His voice was deep, pleasantly so, but bereft of mirth -- he spoke with the same commanding tone that a general might use, expecting to be obeyed. He looked up at the woman with a furrowed brow, his expression somewhere between silent judgement and mild impatience. The innkeep, looking to be in her thirties, blue-eyed and with long brown hair down to her waist, flustered for a moment and cleared her throat while she fiddled with her fingers. “The grilled chicken with a side of mushrooms,” she said, regaining her composure. “Best we have, master witcher.” Valker nodded. “Very well. Make it so.” As people picked up their conversations in the rest of the inn Valker adjusted the tilt of his head slightly in order to overhear them, but found himself rudely interrupted by the old man at the bar, head devoid of hair save for a few straggles round the sides but sporting a magnificent mustache. “What brings you to these parts, good man?” he asked, his voice as shaky as the hands with which he was nursing a drink that Valker did not recognize. “The Path,” Valker said dryly without looking at him, not expecting -- nor wishing -- the man to understand him. “Witcher’s lot, eh?” the old man retorted unexpectedly. He grinned a gaptoothed grin. “Name’s Mandring. Folks call me Manny.” Valker looked at Manny for a few seconds, his face unchanged from when he had sized up the innkeep. “Valker.” “Gods preserve ya, Valker. I hired one of your kind once when I was a young man. Was the ealdorman, y’see. Had a problem with one of them big… whatchamacallit? Rooster’s head, dragon’s wings, screams like a dying pig?” “Cockatrice.” “Aye, aye, that’s the one. Had a problem with a big cockatrice. Funny name, that. Either way, whole village pitched in to hire a witcher. Fellow killed the beast in a day. Slept with my daughter, gone the next morn. Good man,” Manny said, wheezing at his drink. Valker deduced that must have been laughter. “Now my Clara has young’uns of her own that are ‘bout the size of you! Ah, how time flies, eh?” Valker nodded slowly. “On wyvern’s wings.” Manny grinned his grin again and pointed a finger at Valker. “That’s just right. On wyvern’s wings. Nice turn of phrase, that. Have you read the notice yet? One the lord posted?” “I have, and I’m going up to the manor to speak to him after my meal,” Valker said and glanced in the direction of where the innkeep had disappeared off to -- presumably the kitchen. “Couldn’t help but overhear people talking about the guardsman outside. Not a popular man, I take it?” “Oh, no, no.” Manny shook his head and took a sip of his drink at the same time, turning both simple actions into a needlessly complicated procedure that resulted in him spilling some of it down his tunic. “Normally I wouldn’t be one to speak ill of the dead and all that, but Jon’s a right rotten bastard.” “Mind your manners, Manny!” one of the gwent players said without looking up. The others laughed. Valker ignored them. “He’s dead?” he asked. The innkeep finally returned with his stout and his meal. He ignored her too, save for the crowns he dropped on the countertop. “I hope so,” Manny said darkly, dabbing at his tunic after having finally caught up to the mishap with his drink. “Hm,” Valker hummed before he turned to his order and set about the task of devouring it in short order. The conversation was clearly over and even an old fool as daft as Manny could tell. He muttered something under his breath while he continued to dry himself with his handkerchief. A few minutes later, Valker’s ravenous appetite sated and the stout having been downed in a single gulp that prompted a smattering of applause from the gwent players, the witcher heard light and trepid footsteps approaching from behind him. He looked over his shoulder to find the same wide-eyed girl standing there that had giggled at his arrival earlier. “Sorry to bother ya,” she began, her arms wrapped around herself. “But -- but are you a real witcher? From the stories, and all that? You look like one, with the swords and all that, but the other girls -- they don’t believe you are.” Valker sighed, an almost imperceptible exhale through his nose, and turned on his stool to face her. Without a word, he simply held up his medallion for the girl to inspect. Her eyes widened even further, an act Valker had previously thought impossible. Her grin was almost painfully enthusiastic and her stare flickered between his medallion and his eyes rapidly. “Ah! So it [i]is[/i] true! Have you killed many--” “My turn. Are you a real whore?” Valker interrupted her, dropping the medallion back to his chest. “You look like one.” The girl’s excitement turned to offense in the blink of an eye. “Nay!” she huffed and took a step back, hands on her hips, all her knowledge about how dangerous witchers were forgotten in sight of this affront to her decency. “I’m a good and proper woman, thank you very much!” “My mistake,” the witcher replied dryly. He got to his feet and towered over the girl for a few seconds. She took another step back, her indignation turning to uncertainty beneath Valker’s slit-eyed stare. Without another word, Valker strode out of the inn. “Don’t ask witchers stupid questions, girl,” Manny piped up, shaking his head.