I've written plenty of short stories over the years, but I am currently trying my hand at a full-length Witcher fanfic. Bear with me, please!
Prologue
It was late autumn, 1276. For three hours, Eskel had tracked the three missing hunters. They were professionals, and their trail vanished on the rocky ground, forcing him to scour the earth with maddening patience. When he finally picked up the trail again, he barely paused. His cat-like eyes focused on the faintest depressions in the frozen mud. He had taken this one last contract from a village in the Blue Mountains—a final coin-purse before the long trek north to Kaer Morhen.
The bodies lay on the lake shore. Three men, mangled and cold, dead for at least three days. The air was thick with the cloying stench of rot. Eskel knelt, his medallion hanging still against his chest, confirming no immediate magical threat. The mud was churned, scarred by webbed, clawed prints.
Drowners. And where there were drowners, there was likely a water hag.
He slung his pack onto his back and skirted the lake’s perimeter, the icy sludge sucking at his boots. At one point, he sank to his knee; he didn't curse or grow agitated, simply shifting his weight with practiced, muscular grace until he was free. He cleaned the filth from his boots with a quick sweep in the freezing lake water and pressed on.
The lair was a small, vine-choked cave on the far embankment. He drank a Cat potion, the world shifting into sharp, grey-scale clarity, and peered inside. The interior was a cramped, muddy pit—unsuitable for a sword fight.
He didn't hesitate. He oiled his silver blade, reached into his pouch for a Devil’s Puffball, and tossed it into the darkness. The poison gas bloomed. Moments later, the hag gagged, panicked, and scrambled into the light.
She dove for the water, but Eskel was ready. He cast Yrden. She stumbled, trapped, and he lunged. A single stroke opened her back. She shrieked. Then, the water bubbled—a swarm of drowners emerged from the lake. An explosion erupted from Eskel's left hand—Aard. The freezing shockwave hit the drowners, shattering bone and frozen flesh. A second blast finished the stragglers.
He turned back to the hag, who was clawing her way upright in the muck. He didn't offer her mercy or time to recover; he swung. The silver edge cleared her neck, and the contract was done.
By sunset, he was back in the village with the news of the hunters fate.
“I'll have to tell their families.”
The ealdorman looked tired as he handed over a small pouch of 150 crowns.
"I wish it were more, master witcher."
"It’s enough," Eskel replied, his voice deep and raspy. “Take care.”
He didn't linger. He didn't ask for a meal or a bed, though he was hollow with hunger. He simply turned and left, leaving the village to its grief.
A mile out, he made camp in a quiet clearing. As the fire crackled, he went through his ritual: sharpening the blade, scouring the mud from his boots. Everything was functional. Nothing broken.
He caught his reflection in the silver of his sword—the jagged scars, the ruined lip. Mementos left by his "Unexpected Child." He traced one of the scars with a calloused finger.
Who could ever love this ugly mug?
The thought came, but he pushed it aside. It was a wasted effort, like complaining about the cold. He sheathed the sword, sat by the fire, and folded his arms over his knees.
"I am what I am," he murmured to the embers. "And I have all I need."
He rested his head on his arms, the silence of the mountains closing in around him, and drifted into sleep.
