Chapter 11: Witcher on the Hunt

Coën was a seasoned witcher who had dedicated his life to hunting down monsters and protecting the innocent. He travelled across the land, taking on contracts and fulfilling his duties as a professional for hire. Hailing from the school of the Griffin, Coën's ideology was more aligned with that of a knight than a mere mercenary. He believed in the importance of upholding a moral code, bringing justice to those who deserved it and safeguarding the weak against harm, like George of Kagen, a fellow witcher from the past who had exemplified the values of honour and duty.

In terms of equipment, Coën wore a simple yet effective medium-weight gear. His steel sword was always strapped to his back, ready for action at a moment's notice. Meanwhile, his silver sword was kept safe on his trusty horse, a loyal companion who had seen him through many battles. The school of the Griffin placed a heavy emphasis on the use of magic, and Coën was no exception. He utilised powerful signs to quickly and efficiently incapacitate his enemies, making him a formidable opponent on the battlefield.

Crouching down on the ground, Coën examined the earth beneath him, looking for any signs of activity. His eyes scanned the ground, searching for any traces of movement. It wasn't long before he spotted them - a set of footprints imprinted on the soil. They were wolf tracks, unmistakable in their shape and size.

With a stern expression etched onto his features, Coën stood at the edge of a dense forest, its gnarled trees looming ominously over him. The forest, situated near the Mahakam mountain range and the Trava River, was a vast expanse of greenery, filled with countless dangers lurking in the shadows. It was a place where even the bravest of men would tread carefully.

"New." he hummed, and he took a deep sniff around. "Smells like blood, a wet dog, and… perfume? Must be the sorceress. They're near."

With his heightened senses, the witcher was able to navigate the forest with ease, following the trail left by the wolf. As he made his way deeper into the lush greenery, he began to notice a distinct change in the size of the pawprints left behind. At first, they were those of a normal lone wolf, but as the trail led further into the forest, the size of the footprints grew exponentially. In fact, they were so massive that they were nearly thirty percent larger than the size of a human's foot.

Eventually, the witcher arrived at an abandoned campsite, situated in the middle of nowhere. Upon first glance, it was clear that the site had been used by bandits, as evidenced by the numerous empty cages and chests scattered about. Coën examined the area thoroughly, taking note of the recently extinguished campfire at the centre of the encampment.

As he continued to investigate, the witcher noticed something peculiar: there were multiple sets of wolf tracks around the campsite, each one indicating that the creature had grown heavier and more human-like in shape. Coën furrowed his brow, wondering what sort of monster could transform in such a way.

Coën's eyes narrowed as he took in the strange scene before him. The creature he had been tracking had thought to be a mere werewolf, but now, it was clear that it was something far more… new. Coën had never encountered a werewolf that could change forms before, and the realisation piqued his curiosity a little bit more.

He circled the encampment, taking in every detail. That's when he noticed the bodies scattered about, their necks twisted at unnatural angles. Coën knelt down beside one of the corpses, his sharp eyes scanning every inch of the body for clues.

"Skulls cracked," he muttered to himself, analysing the evidence. "Whatever killed these people hit them so hard that their necks broke." His mind raced as he tried to piece together what had happened. "Werewolves usually use their claws to kill, but not this one apparently. It's like they tried not to taint their clothes, bringing it with them to wear."

Coën let out a low whistle as he pondered his next move. The scent of the clothing might lead him to the beast, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. "Strange," he muttered under his breath. "This feels too easy."

But Coën wasn't one to let his guard down. He called his trusty horse, which appeared from outside the forest, and mounted it with ease. With a sharp nudge of his heels, he urged the animal forward, galloping deeper into the woods.

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Blaidd, the werewolf, stood tall and firm in front of the sorceress he had recently captured. His arms were crossed in annoyance as he glared at her. She had decided to stay in his bloody cave, and had even brought along all of her equipment and wardrobe, leaving the space littered with a mage's belongings and furniture of all kinds. Blaidd couldn't believe it.

"Are you serious?" he growled, clearly exasperated with her.

The sorceress simply smirked in response, unfazed by Blaidd's irritation. She was currently seated in front of a mirror, her face adorned with makeup. "You underestimate the curiosity of a mage, Blaidd of Lod," she cheekily replied. "Besides, you asked me to make you a device, and I need my gear to do it."

Blaidd scoffed, walking away and leaning against a nearby drawer. "Do it at your own place, not mine," he retorted. "Don't you have a king to advise?"

The sorceress hummed casually. "Foltest has more than one advisor. Kiera Metz wouldn't mind my absence. I'm researching a new type of werewolf, after all."

Blaidd rolled his eyes, dismissing her words. "Well, you're not going to get anything from me," he said coldly. "So, I assume you're not having any sexual relations with Foltest, then? Judging by your... neutral standing."

The sorceress let out a hearty laugh. "That question again? What is it with you and my vagina? If you want to do it, you could just ask. But you have to answer my questions first, though."

Blaidd shook his head, clearly annoyed by her antics. "I just want some blackmail material, Merigold. Nothing sexual about it."

He turned to leave, heading towards the entrance of the cave. The sorceress, Triss Merigold, watched him go, still amused by his behaviour. "Blackmail?" she laughed. "You want to blackmail the king? You're either mad or too brave."

"Well, I'll take that as a no, then," Blaidd said, a note of disappointment in his voice. He whistled to himself and took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the forest in front of them. Suddenly, he noticed something moving among the trees.

"Ooh, someone took the bait," he said, a smirk spreading across his face.

Triss frowned and turned to Blaidd, her curiosity piqued. "Someone's coming?" she asked.

"It seems to be a mutant," Blaidd replied. "Perfect, just what I needed."

Triss looked at him quizzically. "You know witchers, Merigold?" Blaidd asked.

Triss shifted uncomfortably in her seat and turned to her mirror. "Why do you ask?" she said, her tone guarded.

"How are they like?" Blaidd pressed on, ignoring her discomfort. "Those rumours about them not having any emotions true?"

Triss thought for a moment before responding. "Mostly no," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Though, I've only ever met a couple of witchers."

Blaidd raised an eyebrow. "They're reasonable, right?" he asked. "Unlike the other seventy percent of Nordlings?"

"If you've done nothing wrong, sure," Triss replied with a shrug.

Blaidd grinned. "Then I guess I'll try my luck with him," he said.

Triss looked at him sceptically. "Wait, can you describe the witcher? Can you even see him?" she asked.

Blaidd's grin widened. "It's hard to see him in between the trees," he said. "What? You thought it might be your acquaintance?"

Triss shook her head. "Check his hair. What colour is it?" she asked.

"None. He's bald. Why?" Blaidd replied, puzzled.

"Not him then," Triss said with a sigh of relief.

"Alright, time to act the part, I guess."