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 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…
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
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
“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
“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
“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
“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.
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…
silly!” she made fun of Geralt, who was clueless to how Triss managed to track
“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.
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
“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!