You can check out my first season: The Cold-Hearted Thief herehttps://thealfanator.tumblr.com/post/160120934949/the-cold-hearted-thief-chapter-1

It contains six chapters in which Geralt of Rivia takes on a contract to eliminate an infamous beast.

“ To anyone who dares accept my calling: There’s a monster on Island Frologhe, not too far from here. It's… not human. Last time I saw it, I moved across sea to Novigrad with my wife and children. It still haunts me. As close friends of mine are still inhabited on the island, I am willing to pay a hefty sum of cash to whoever may take out that bellowing beast… “

The Cold-Hearted Thief ~ Chapter 6 (Finale)

Footsteps moved the small, hopeless pebbles on Novigrad’s cobblestone ground.  They clocked the cracks that led down a dark alleyway and echoed across the brick red walls like tiny little screams of warning.  As they slowly faded from view of the busy public, the clashes of metal Nilfgaardian armour filled the narrow walkway in which they led.  They moved like clockwork; not a move out of line – not by a millisecond.  One. Two.  Three.  They continued to progress.  Their spears clunked on the cold alley path every other step, warning near people to steer clear.  The menacing movements of the soldiers encouraged them to lock their rustic doors. Double checking, and shushing their relatives.  The Nilfgaard sun which was present on their armour gleamed even in the severe darkness. The symbol waltzed with them with a sense of cocky superiority over the other peasants.  They reached a clearing.  Bustles of people swiftly became cowers of miniscule ants which avoided their path.  The soldiers continued with faces of stone; without failing to continue with their task. No faults, no fluctuations.  They knew exactly what to do.  One.  Two. Three.  Their footsteps echoed.  One.  Two. Three… they readied their weapons. One…  Two…  Three…

Keep reading

The Cold-Hearted Thief ~ Chapter 5

Hankala roared and spurred and spit the retching flames at the land beside it.  The fumes of fury disturbed everyone in the nearby vicinity.  Geralt watched in shock, fear paralysing him to the spot while he tried to analyse the situation before recklessly acting in a somewhat naïve way.  The townspeople were afraid – screaming, wailing, yelling, calling for loved ones.  They wanted to run but didn’t want to leave their home.  

“Geralt!” someone called in the smoke layered distance.  Geralt’s disorientation of his cat-like senses distorted his recognition of the people around him.  He recognised the voice that shouted for his name, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it… Dewey!

“Get ya’ ass up and runnin’, Witcher!” he screamed, imperatively.  The dwarf rushed hurriedly towards a burning house nearest to him.  Geralt immediately rushed into action.  Using his Witcher senses, he desperately tried to identify if there were people stuck inside any of the buildings.  There. A small child, stuck inside a recently alight caring home.  He rushed to the door.  Unfortunately, he tried to budge the door but it had been blocked by a fallen wooden plank on the other side.

“I’m gonna get you out!” Geralt consoled.  He made his way around the building to a window.  He gazed inside the building to see where the boy was.  It was cloudy with smoke -  Geralt was blinded.  Without caring to use his Witcher spells, he smashed the window in desperation.  Shit. He covered his bleeding knuckles. He’d have to be quick. Carefully crouching to avoid the hot air from infesting his lungs like sprawling cockroaches, Geralt made his way towards the trapped and vulnerable kid.  Coughing and splattering, the boy was found.

“Come with me,” he led.  The boy held the Witcher’s hand in a timid but thankful way.  He was scared, and begged for his mother. Geralt pried with the wooden bar that blocked the door.  One… Two… Three… The heavy annoyance absorbed all of his energy, and almost mocked his attempt.  After a few, precious seconds, however, Geralt was able to push the object into a blazing fire a few inches from his right foot.  Finally, gasping for breath, Geralt smashed his foot into the wooden door. “Come on” he growled softly.  His vision seemed to be fading.  It wasn’t until the hinges came away from the door and then buckled underneath the force that he realised that the boy had fallen unconscious.  The White Wolf dragged him as efficiently as possible out the destroyed wreckage.  One last tug…

The screams of a lost mother burst the tragic area of Hankala. When she found her son being escorted by a Witcher, she bellowed in panic.  Rushes followed.  Geralt lie the boy on the cold ground.  The boy’s mother dropped to her knees to aid him.  Geralt started ordering Dewey’s men: “Help me!” or “Get this fire out!” Moments passed.  Seconds that felt like decades.  Multiple people now huddled around the little boy.  Geralt slowly retreated; heart in his throat. Come on… more decades were spent… One… Two… Three… Geralt’s eyes widened with fascination.  He started breathing – small panicked bubbles of forgiveness.  Frequent cheers flooded emotions; mixed emotions of anxiety and relief battled each mind.  What had started this mess?  The Cold-Hearted Thief.  Geralt sighed.  He had let the people of Frologhe down.  Deryk approached behind him.  His shy, almost non-existent footsteps alerted him.

“You let us down.” He coldly presented to the table in a gravely, aggressive voice.  Geralt, in shame, asked what had happened to him.  “You were asleep in that bloody inn for 3 days! I tried and tried to wake you and you failed.  You let us all down!” He crashed down on Geralt like sharp boulders down a steep hill.  Geralt felt aggression at whatever malevolent force cursed him.

“I’m sorry.” He emitted with his dry, steel tone.  He wished he could express more, but his emotions were stripped from him long ago at Kaer Morhen.  Deryk continued to mock him.

“Why did I think you could help us?” he stormed off, half in anger, half in sorrow, pity and longing hope that his daughter would return.  Geralt sighed.  As the commotion in the village continued, Geralt proceeded to feel the burning sensation that wretched in his head like the day after alcohol.  Like an angry boar, the White Wolf broke off into an aggressive stride towards a burned building.  He came to a small bench which looked like it had not been touched by the destruction.  As Geralt rested, he pondered on how the monstrosity managed to pacify him for that amount of time.  More importantly, how he did not wake at the devastations that it caused several times before… Shit.  His head lie in his blood-stained hands, hopeless at his incompetence to save the inhabitants of Frologhe.  He had one job.  He had failed.  It took a few moments and lots of wrecked pieces of furniture before Geralt to finally come to a conclusion.  He needed to stop the Cold-Hearted Thief as fast of possible.  It had to be tonight.

“Need any help?” a voice rung beside him.  Geralt’s eyes did not stir from the mud-riddled ground, but he knew exactly who it was.  Her voice struck ominously at his senses, stealing all thought or reason. He gasped.  It really was her.  That iconic American accent didn’t fool Geralt so easily… Triss Merigold. “I heard you had some trouble. Looks like you definitely had some trouble.”  Geralt smiled – in contrast to the situation of the ruins of Hankala.  He swiftly questioned her sudden arrival as memories flooded in…

“Word-of-mouth, silly!” she made fun of Geralt, who was clueless to how Triss managed to track him down.

“All the way from the other side of Novigrad?” Geralt chuckled, “I don’t believe you.”  Both of them continued to recollect their journeys on the beach that presented the ports of Novigrad from the Isle of Frologhe.  They sat on the melancholy sand and dirt but it did not phase them. They had to be cautious that none of the inhabitants of Hankala saw them like this; they would take the situation the wrong way after their sudden depressive states. Emotions were wild after such a horrific event like this after all.  Moments passed.  They came to the resolution and reason why the Witcher was here in the first place.

“What is it like? The Thief thing I mean?” Triss asked.

“I…” Geralt stumbled on his words like hurdles plotted on a pathway, “I don’t know.”  Geralt released a big sigh.  He was pondering whether he thought the creature had defeated his motivation.  It seemed impregnable which caused him to shake with frustration.  Anger drowned his rational thoughts.  Deryk’s daughter, the cave, the failure to help the fires of the village.  It all led back to him.  Triss’ hand warmed Geralt’s shoulder.

“We can do this.  That’s why I’m here to help, remember?”  Geralt lifted the weight that hefted his eyelid.  His grumble let out a swift agreement.  He stood up with effort, ignoring his muscles spams at the sudden movement, and followed Triss with determination.  He wasn’t going to let one more failure be the final straw that broke the camel’s back.

As they headed back into the depths of Frologhe, Geralt asked Triss how exactly she found him.  In a large town such as Novigrad, Geralt thought he was untraceable.

“It really was quite a tale…”

This story is based off The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt.  Please let me know if you enjoy this by following my blog. If you have any feedback please comment.  If I find out people enjoy this kind of stuff, I may continue the story.  I’m literally just starting out so I would really appreciate it if you reblogged so I can get more recognition.  Thanks!

Link to Chapter 1: https://thealfanator.tumblr.com/post/160120934949/the-cold-hearted-thief-chapter-1