There are many theories about witcher elixirs.

And by many… I mean many.

Some say that they allow Witchers to fly.

Bollocks.

Others claim that they enable Witchers to see in the dark, to hear the flutter of a moth.

Maybe.

One thing is certain, however – one should never even touch these concoctions.

 

Uma Elvardt, member of the Council of Mages

 

●

            “Is this all? Thanks, Nenneke.”

            “Don’t mention it, Geralt. I shouldn’t have to keep repeating this to you. You of all people should know the grace Melitele shows my temple.

            “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Geralt grimaced. He didn’t believe in gods or deities. Godly “grace” or “gifts” weren’t exactly his favourite fairy stories. “Farewell, see you towards the end of the year.”

            “You know that I’d offer you residence… If you were alone, that is…,” she said, meaningfully nodding towards the gate. Dandelion stood at the entrance, in his retarded little red doublet, grinning gleefully at the younger and curvier adepts. Geralt permitted himself an unsettling smirk.

            “He’s my good friend, after all.”

            “You know what I have to say about your friendship. I think…”

            “I know what you think, Nenneke,” and cutting her off he turned and bid her farewell.

            “Wait. I heard that they need a Witcher in Cleves, some village near Maribor.”

“Maribor… That’s a day’s journey from here. Thanks Nenneke, I could use some coin. I could’ve made it on that money I got from Dainte but…” he trailed off looking towards Dandelion. He suddenly felt sheepish.

“Ha!” she interrupted him, “You should know better. Traveling with him is expensive. You’ll never be able to save anything if you continue like that. There was something triumphant to her smile he saw.

He didn’t reply. He still felt sheepish. Dandelion was the only friend he had. Apart from his Kaer Morhen next to kin, that is.

“Farewell, Nenneke.”

“Farewell, Geralt.”

She stood there for a while, leading him off into the distance with her eyes.

 

•

 

            “Hey! Which way to the governor,” shouted Geralt to a group of peasants sitting under a tree.

            “Over there, in that house with the red bricks,” replied one of them, pointing in the direction of a couple of buildings. He eyed Geralt suspiciously, “Why?”.

            “Nothing. I have business with him.”

You have business, the peasant repeated silently to himself. You’re not the first who’s thinking of grabbing some of his gold, no you’re not. Some people will want to know of this. I better whisper them a word or two so that can welcome you appropriately.

As they neared the brick house, Geralt and Dandelion jumped off their horses, approached the front entrance and knocked on the door.

“What do you want? I have no visitors planned for today,” an alarmed voice shouted to them through the heavy wooden door.

“I’m a Witcher, governor. I heard that there’d be work for me here.”

            “Witch… Witcher?” a small head suddenly popped out through the half opened door “please, please, enter. Do forgive me for my unkind welcome, dear sir, but a number of shady types have been making their presence felt in the area of late.”

            “I understand. What would you have for me then?” Geralt asked, putting his hands on the table and getting straight to the point.

            “Oh, dear sir, our village is plagued with a vile, vile creature. It’s large and gray as stone. Lives just on the outskirts of the village, in a nearby cave.”

            “Anyone seen this creature?”

            “Why yes. Last week even, the old mill maid when she was…”

            “Good. Send for her then.”

            They sent for her.

            Within a couple of minutes, the old mill maid made her appearance at the governor’s home. A terrible old crow, Geralt thought to himself. Burly and fat, she held a wooden roller in her left hand.

            “What do you want, can’t you see I’m busy!?” said she, waving her heavy kitchen tool around.

            “We heard you’ve seen the monster, the one that lives in the cave.”

            “Yeah, I seen it. What of it?”

            “I’m a Witcher. Please tell me how the creature looked like and…”

            “I get, I get it! I’m not stupid, dammit!” she blurted out, and then continued more easily, “The thing was big, was about eight elbow lengths high, wide and stocky o like thiiiis he was,” she said with concern, “completely grey, a goddamned boulder if I didn’t know better.”

            “A Bonehunter,” muttered Geralt, “Stonea Hedei.”

            “Huh?” her face went crooked with puzzlement. She looked terrible.

Then, abruptly, four squatty men burst into the room, with wooden truncheons held high. They looked rather ridiculous.

            “You! What are you up to here?” yelled one, the shortest of the bunch, towards Geralt.

            “Business,” calmly replied the Witcher.

            “Governor, everything all right?”

            “Why? You blind, Derk? Damn you. Why do you always barge in at the least appropriate of moments?

            “Oh… Sorry sir, we’ll go then.”

            “Forgive me, Witcher,” began the governor, turning to his guest, “but recently we’ve been having trouble with a wave of thievery. They keep trying to get their grubby hands on literally everything. What can we do? Looks like being preyed upon by that scum’s our fate.”

            “I understand. Just one thing before I get to work on this. Payment. How much are you willing to offer for this Bonehunter?”

            “Two hundred silver pieces, Witcher.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. He was expecting a hundred and thirty in the best of circumstances.

            “When are you planning to begin?” asked the governor.

            “Today. Before sundown. Till then, you have any good taverns in the village?”

 

•

            The tavern was empty. It was also somewhat without that ambiance you look for in such places. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise, though, as the inn didn’t even have a name. Simply – some tavern. Pathetic, even for such a small village, thought Geralt.

            “Tell me, why doesn’t the inn have a name?” he asked the owner, as he leaned against the bar. He was bored. There was still some time before sundown and Dandelion trotted off somewhere saying something about not sleeping alone tonight.

            “You see, no matter what name we gave it, it just didn’t stick. So we just left it be as “tavern”. Why do you ask?”

            “No reason. Not my business.”

            “True enough,” muttered the owner.

•

            At sunset, he was already at the cave’s entrance. You could feel the cold coming from within it. Geralt reached for the blue vial, anticipating that the Bonehunter did not have a habit of using torches. The adaptation period of the eyes was nearly instantaneous. In addition to boosting night vision, the potion tended to increase his thirst for combat. With a quick stride, he entered the cave. It stank horribly.

            With his silver sword already unsheathed, he walked around the stone maze. After a while, he found what he was looking for – a nest. He looked around, noticed a shelf a fair way up above the cavern floor, managed to hoist himself onto it, and waited.

            Quite a bit of time passed before Geralt heard the unmistakable steps of the approaching monster. He crouched, ready to pounce, sword in hand. The creature passed under the shelf. Making his move, Geralt jumped down, landed lightly on the stone floor and immediately began to disorient the Bonehunter with a series of sword movements. The sword flashed in circles and lines in front of the monster, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. A Bonehunter’s skin was hard as rock, with the only weak spots being the neck, armpits and crotch. The moment finally came. Geralt jumped forward with the sword aimed for one of the weak spots. He underestimated the Bonehunter’s reflex, however, and was hit in the ribs so hard that he flew back four feet. The sword clattered audibly on the stone floor. Eventually, his back hit the wall behind him, leaving him momentarily breathless and dazed. Yet he quickly regained his senses and saw the Bonehunter making his way towards him with rather unambiguous intentions. Geralt shot up, flipped sideways along the wall, giving himself a second or two before the monster knew where he landed. Flinging himself forward, he soon reunited with his cold, yet loyal companion. He lifted it off the ground, turned on one foot and took an offensive position, aiming where the monster’s armpit should be. Hit. The creature hollered, turned sideways and fell with a thump. Regaining his calm, Geralt walked up to the dead monster and diligently cut off its hideous head with a quick slash.

        

•

            Riding into the village, he was thankful for the darkness. The decapitated head possessed no hair of which to speak of, so he had to hold it as if a large pot of sorts. Geralt was content that no one would see him like this. He really did look retarded.

            He made his way to the inn, this time surprisingly full of people. In an instant everyone fell silent. Undisturbed, Geralt spotted the governor by the bar, walked up to him, and set the head on the counter.

            “Gee, Witcher, why did you even bother lugging this thing all the way here?” the governor said in surprise.

            “My two hundred silver pieces,” Geralt fumed, “please”. Bringing in a recognisable part of a slain monster was the Witcher custom, to show that they had done their job properly and professionally.

            “Right,” the governor said, fumbling for his purse, “here you go, Geralt. Your payment.”

            “How did you know…” Geralt couldn’t hide his surprise before realising that the answer was rather simple – Dandelion.

            “Witcher sir,” the tavern owner decided to join the conversation, “you still need that creature’s head?”

            “On the contrary.”

            “Would you be so kind as to leave it with me then, huh? The tavern would finally have a name…”

          

•

The tavern that went under the name of “The Decapitated Head” was full of hustle and bustle as usual. Nothing unusual about that, though, as the inn was well known in all of Temeria. Suddenly the light coming in from the entrance was blocked by six dwarves. Surprisingly, no one except for the owner noticed the new arrivals, who despite being vertically challenged, were armed rather convincingly.

 

“Greetings, dear host. A lot of customers today, no?” began the one with the sword at his belt. The others wielded battle axes. Big ones.

“You think? It looks to me more like every other day. What would you like to drink?”

“Beer. Six pints. Is it any good?”

“Most certainly.”

“What about the tavern’s… name? Where’s it from?”

“Leave it be, Zoltan. The fuck you interested in it?” said one of the dwarves, the only one without a beard.

“Shut your trap. You’re still young and still stupid,” Zoltan snapped at him, “and most likely you’ll stay that way,” he muttered as he turned back to the tavern keeper.

The keeper smiled to himself, as he remembered the Witcher. Good man, he thought.

“Take a look to your right, sirs.”

They looked.

“Well I’ll be damned!” jumped the one named Zoltan. “That your trophy, tavern keeper?”

“Oh no. Definitely not mine but a Witcher’s.”

“And what did he call himself? I probably know of him.”

“Geralt, Geralt of Rivia.”

“How? Gerard? Boys, you know of any Gerard?”

“Geralt, kind sir. It’ll be two years since he’s slain that beast… that, what’s it called,” the keeper snapped his fingers, “Bonehunter! Yes, that’s the name. I remember.”

“Geralt of Rivia…” the dwarf repeated in thought, “I better remember that name. One hell of a swordsman if he managed to bring down a creature that size.”

 

•

            “Take it. I have no need for it. Keeper?”

            “Yes?”

            “Could I stay the night? My companion and I. Riding in the dark isn’t exactly one of my favorite pastimes.”

            “Yes, yes of course. Let me just get a room ready,” he said as he started up the stairs.

 

•

            By the time Geralt managed to slide out of bed, the sun was already high up over the horizon. He walked over to Dandelion’s room, where he found him still asleep, tired after a playful night with his new acquaintance.

            “Dandelion. We’re leaving.”

            “But…” he said pleadingly, as he stretched in bed, looking at the redhead beauty lying next to him. “All right,” he conceded without too much grimacing, “just give me a moment.”

            “I’ll be at the entrance. Don’t take too long.”

            As he left the tavern, Geralt couldn’t help noticing the growing crowd around his faithful horse. Making his way through the commotion, helping himself here and there with a much needed elbow, he finally stopped, stupefied.

            A young boy of about sixteen lay trembling in unsettling convulsions on the dirty ground. He was without one eye, with the other looking seemingly a bit too fluid. The boy was clutching an empty glass vial, he noticed. It was one of his night vision potions. What a waste.

            “Idiot. Serves you right, thief.”

            “What’s with him,” asked an unskinny women from the crowd, seeing that the Witcher seemed to know something.

            “He stole and drank one of my elixirs,” he replied, pointing to the empty vial on the ground. “His eyes burst,” he summed up. Witcher potions aren’t exactly suited for mass consumption, only for the few. Like himself.

            “Will he live?”

            “That he will. Though he’ll never be able to see again. His right eye burst, and his left will sooner or later evaporate or it’ll burst too.”

            At that very moment, Dandelion was almost at Geralt’s side. Pity he never made it. He fainted as he saw the convulsing boy.

•

            “Geralt? Where we headed?” asked Dandelion.

            “Wherever the road takes us. South. Those are still uncivilised  areas and heaven for monsters. And me.”

            “Aha. And then? When you finally earn enough to survive winter?”

            “I’ll worry about that then. But I guess we’ll need to find a place where we can go and blow it all, won’t we?”

            They rode.