A Sign of Greed ~ A Short Story
“Five-hundred crowns.” The judge slid the heavy pouch across the hard, wooden table, “All yours, Witcher.” The Witcher smiled as he gracefully lifted the pouch and jingled it in his grasp before inserting it back into his pockets.
“Go on, then.” Geralt said sternly, “Show me what you had.” The third man with glasses swore under his breath before showing his cards. Damn! If it weren’t for the Witcher’s charisma, Geralt could’ve lost the rest of his earnings. Geralt’s opponent scoffed and hissed at the Witcher before counting his golden coins, offering another round. In response, Geralt held up his gloved hand. “No more, I’m afraid. I must go.”
“Already?!” The spectacled man exclaimed in panic, desperately eyeing the other man’s purse. “We’ve barely even started!”
“You call five hours ‘barely even started’? No wonder you lose your money so easily.” The man’s face reddened with anger as if it was about to burst. The judge, sitting opposite the two – with a clear view of the battleground in front of them - even leaned back, making his own chair creak monotonously. Looking at the scattered cards upon the table, Geralt stood and looked to the door of the tavern.
“Well?” He asked desperately.
“Well what?” The Witcher replied.
“Aren’t you going to show me your cards?” Geralt stared, the corner of his mouth curving towards the ceiling before turning away from the table. The judge took the hint and started gathering the cards, calmly and intellectually sliding them back into the pack. The opponent’s head started to sweat. “No, Witcher! Come back here! Show me what you had! A three? Or a five?” The door clicked shut.
Breaching the misty evening air, Geralt had to work his eyes to see ahead of him. He admitted it was difficult work despite his years of agile training. He often wondered to himself how he could dance amongst drowners or hurdle over the necks of griffins but now struggle to pull his stiff legs up and over the Novigrad cobblestones. Swords jangling on his back, he continued down the mysterious alley.
“Please, master Witcher, a moment of your time, please.” A poor, bending woman struck the side of him, startling him. His fingers twitched for his sword; how did he become startled so easily? He stood still, analysing the dark-haired, old woman. The Witcher was reminded he had gone too long without a suitable contract, and that other means were necessary to make money. His mind prompted the time not so long ago when he had been forced into the city streets to make money from people rather than the wilderness of No Man’s Land.
“Yes, what is it?” He asked carefully. The woman’s face dripped from exhaustion, as if she’d been running a long time. Her knuckles were pale, like the bones stuck through her skin. She had been scared by something, or someone… no, she was gripping her dress as to not to trip. Perhaps all three.
“I need you to help me. My son’s been missing for almost… well, too long. You need to help me- help my son.” Her eyes pleaded the man. Geralt sighed like an old man and looked around. He returned.
“How much?” he commanded.
“How much?” she echoed, her confused, tired face glaring unknowingly back at him.
“How much do you have for it?” The woman stared frightfully, suddenly shaking her head as if she misunderstood Geralt.
“Oh no, nothing at all, master Witcher. I’m a poor woman with no two coins to rub together.” The Witcher felt his bones ache. He turned and sighed, scratching his pure white beard. It was as if winter had fallen; everybody, including monster hunters, had slowed down – work was less frequent, and when it did crop up, nobody had the funds to supply his wage.
“That isn’t going to happen, I’m sorry. Go home.”
“Please, I- I can get money.” She grabbed his sleeves, shaking the tiredness from him. He saw sorrow; a mother without her son, who cannot even afford a search warrant or an investigation. Geralt was reminded that a Witcher’s life was cold…
“I’m sorry.” The woman passed a shaking piece of paper to him.
“Take this.”
“I cannot take this.” He said, “Come back another time.” He saw her watery eyes glare back at him, unblinking – like that, if she blinked, the Witcher would be gone forever, and her only hope disappeared like breath on a shard of glass. Leaving a last, supporting smile, Geralt wandered back into the mist. The woman cried, alone.
*
Geralt’s eyes tiptoed over the notice board. A man without his broom, a woman out of bread… Nothing a Witcher can fix. He stopped halfway down the wood, his eyes reading another scrawled note. “MISSING SON” The Witcher rubbed his eyes. Mixed guilt and frustration gripped his shoulders every waking moment, and the Novigrad houses leaned in too, pressuring him. But no; a Witcher must receive pay. That’s how he makes his money, earns a living. He had to shut down inadequate funds until something better came along. His fingers itched again. He plucked the notice and stuffed it in his side pocket – maybe later…
Then, he saw another. In large writing, a luminous beam to the message, as if he was meant to read it. The message sat perfectly in the middle of the board, waving his attention. In big letters: “Ten thousand.” His eyes reached out of their sockets. “See contractor for details about the beast.”, “Just outside the city, in the steep hills.” Money was just within reach! This was just what he needed; something to keep him going. He lifted his pouch and realised that five hundred crowns were lighter than he remembered. Yes, he fluked a win, but he had gone so long without refilling the worn pockets of his. He needed the money. He scratched the notice away, tying it with the other. This was his chance.
*
“Anyone home?” Geralt blurted out into the dark, damp room. Despite the darkness, he was hit with the aromatic fragrance of freshly ground spices that wafted through the air.
“You don’t have to slam the door.” Another voice replied from the stairs, in a soothing tone. He followed the voice, clunking up the wooden boards. “It’s nice to see you, Geralt.”
“I like that- the smell I mean. What is it?” Sitting on the bed in the new room he entered, Geralt looked in the figure’s direction, her back to him. The candles glittered perfectly so that her pure red hair bounced back at him.
“Oh, just this and that. I won’t go into the details… Oh, wow. Geralt you look filthy!” Triss swirled carefully on her stool, beaming from across the room.
“I feel filthy. Damn clothes are too… clean.” He stared blankly at the wall opposite him.
“Really, Geralt?” Triss looked inquisitively into Geralt’s mind, trying to study it like a scientist does his crazy inventions.
“I need to get back on the road; my fingers are hurting for my blade. I can’t…”
“Relax. Have you got a contract?” Ah, yes, how could he forget?
“I do actually. It seems quite exciting from the looks of things.” He heard Triss scoff slightly.
“You? ‘Exciting’?” Triss laughed. He continued to fumble about the papers. He chucked the missing person note across the room and perfectly aimed it to lay peacefully on Triss’ desk, prickling the wood slightly with its corners and curls. Triss briefed it slightly before turning back to Geralt.
“Here. Read this.”
“For someone who is supposedly ‘itching to get back to things’, you sure have a lot of scraps of paper in there. What next, rabbits?” She smiled, chuckling slightly.
“Just read the damn script.” Geralt tried to hide his smile. Deafening moments passed.
Geralt noticed the emptiness of the room. The only sounds he heard were the slight cracklings of the candle flame. No creaking of the floorboards. No ticking of the windows adjusting to the chilly air. Nothing.
“That’s… a lot of money there, Geralt.” Triss handed back the paper, then turned her back towards him. She picked up a brush and resumed her magic, patting her face whilst gazing elegantly at herself in the mirror. “You should investigate it.”
“That is my intention.” Like fluttering leaves, Geralt hand tapped the edge of the bed. Should I ask her? “Triss, can I sleep here for a few days?”
“Yes, no problem! There’s a bed we can share…”
“Uh, no thanks. Here is fine.” He tapped the slightly smaller bed he leaned on. He felt her disappointed yet understandable eyes staring through the mirror.
“Alright, get some rest then. I’m getting riled-up at this contract; sounds thrilling!” Geralt balanced his gear upon the chest of drawers beside him. He adjusted his large variety of leather straps and twisted on the soft material. He welcomed sleep graciously.
*
“The creature is a Wyvern.” The man with the plump, bald head said loudly.
“Mhm,” replied the Witcher, “So why is this worth all these crowns if it’s just a simple Wyvern. Any Witcher could handle that with just a few swings.”
“Master Geralt,” the man with no hair exclaimed, “this is no ‘simple Wyvern’; this one is smart and dangerous!” The bald man with weaving yellow and white clothing drank the last from his mug and slapped it back down on the table before waving another round from the innkeeper. He laughed at Geralt and the Witcher tried to hide his horrified expression as he smelt the contractor’s breath.
“What did you say your name was again?” Geralt grumbled, clearly annoyed.
“I won’t say my real name as from the look of you, you wouldn’t be able to say it without your tongue getting tied!” He laughed again, smacking the base of his wooden cup faster and faster in repetition. Geralt eyed it with evil eyes. “But you can refer to me as Vorva.” The plump man adjusted his fat belly and Geralt listened to the creaking of the table they both leaned on. The innkeep danced around the moving table and laid the encumbered tray full of bottles of drinks down.
“I might refer to you as a pain in the ass.”
“Watch it, Geralt. I’m the one with the money.”
“Fine.” Geralt watched as Vorva downed another mug full, “Where am I looking?”
*
The Witcher clambered the high walls. He had traversed the dense cliffs and great foliage of this part of Velen for what seemed like an annoyingly long period of time, and now that he had reached a far, lengthy plain of grass and stone, he was confident he had found the spot. Smelling the crisp, morning air and browsing his full pouch, oiled weapons and chunky vials of liquids, he was filled with assurance that this wyvern wasn’t too much of a challenge at all. His veins itched with adrenaline. He longed for another fight… another dance. His stiff bones had spent too much time inside playing cards to earn his food; he knew contracts during the colder period were few and far between, but this was the worst yet.
Walking steadily along the uneven ground, he noticed something. Something wrong. Something he felt he hadn’t seen before until now. He spotted a trail of blood from the middle of the ground he stood at. It was thick and dark; a wyvern’s. It led in thick blotches further away from him before thinning, scraping around the corner. Geralt slowly drew his sword at the same time as the hairs at the back of his neck stood on edge. This was unusual, and Geralt hardly ever experienced this type of unnerving sensation.
Finally. Geralt’s feet spurred with adrenaline as the creature flew out almost from beneath his nose. Geralt was shocked with how delayed his reactions were and didn’t see the creature coming. But it was already injured. A few cuts coated its lower belly and bony wings. Who had been here?
The Witcher slashed in stiff momentum, struggling to get that eager pounce in. Swiping upwards and downwards, Geralt continued to launch, but his joints wrenched and cracked as they were warming slower than he expected.
The struggle was over quickly, but Geralt still snarled as the wyvern’s corpse collapsed to the ground; that was a poor attempt, he thought. He drew his dry, dusty knife from his leather pouch and aimed for the throat…
His vision entered a blurry state, and he discovered a throbbing sensation in the back of his head. What’s this? What’s happening? He didn’t have time to think. No, he had too much time to think, as his body collapsed to the stone ground, and was still paralysed from whatever had just smacked him. No matter how much he tried pulling his own body-weight, his distorted thoughts prevented him from doing so…
When his vision finally cleansed, the wyvern’s head was already gone. Geralt stared as if he’d just lost a heavy chest stuffed with Florens right in front of his eyes. Ahead of him, however, stood another man. He was bald with a beard… and crooked teeth, and Geralt noticed his thin and slender outline. At least that what Geralt thought… He also had something dangling from his neck… A silver amulet in a shape of an animal which Geralt struggled to make out… As the mysterious figure darted away, blending into the blurred distance, the Witcher saw that he had two swords on his back, dancing lightly as the man jogged. And as the man glanced back at Geralt, bright, yellow animal eyes shone back. Another Witcher, fleeing with the trophy dancing in his grasp. Geralt tried moving his legs, but his left cheek scraped the ground, and Geralt exhaled.