Vengeance and Fury

## (I)

*1250 Temeria*

               The old town guardsman could smell the man before he showed up. An awfully, stinking, rotting smell, definitely someone who had wandered too long in the muck without taking a bath. The old Temerian put his hand over to the axe by the side, just in case, but didn’t grab it. There was no reason to be apprehensive, at least, not yet.

               The man from which the smell originated quickly emerged, stinking even worse in person. The guardsman merely sat up straight and said, “Ho there friend.”

               The figure stopped, and the guardsman was able to get a better look at him. There was nothing remarkable about him, a short fellow wrapped in a large cloak and hood. The guardsman did take a glance at the large bag and twin swords strapped onto the figure’s back. A traveler, who certainly seamed to have come far enough. The figure didn’t say anything, keeping a completely blank face beneath his hood.

               “What’s your name and business stranger?”

               The stranger didn’t respond at first, and the guardsman felt a little uneasy. The man, well, more like a young man, remained quiet, too quiet. Taking a closer look, the guardsman then saw the narrow grey eyes, slit like a cat.

               The guardsman looked at the twin swords again, and back at the eyes, and raised his eyebrows at the realization of who this was.

               “Ah, I see,” he began, “A witcher eh? Haven’t seen one of you in a long time.”

               The stranger still didn’t say anything, and while the guardsman was slightly uneasy, he knew witchers to be fine as long as you didn’t get in their way. People told all sorts of stories about them, how they were emotionless monsters who’s only good value was in hunting monsters worse than themselves. The old guard knew such stories were quite overexaggerated, but witchers were still best left alone.

               “Well look,” the old fellow continued, “We haven’t got any monster problems around here, if you’re wondering. But if you just want to spend a night in town there’s an inn on the east side. Don’t cause any trouble and we won’t have any problems.”

               The witcher merely nodded, but then pulled out a piece of paper, and spoke for the first time, a quiet and flat tone, “Have you seen this man?”

               The guardsman took a look at the piece of paper held out before him. It was a simple parchment, with the sketched figure of a man’s face. A name was at the base of the picture: Stryvabodd.

               The old man scratched his beard and said, “Hmm, yes. Seen this fellow show up a few days ago. Seemed quite in shock really. I believe he’s holed up at the inn. A friend of yours?”

               The witcher shook his head slightly.

               The unease grew in the old man’s stomach once again, but he only said, “Well, alright then. Folks around won’t mind you too much, just keep your head down. It would probably be best if you left town sooner rather than later though.”

               The witcher nodded his head again, the guard knew that he wouldn’t be here long.

               “Well, anyways, welcome to Alfurt. Ah, what is your name?”

A pause, again.

“Ah, well, who care’s anyways? Welcome to Alfurt. Enjoy your stay. And please, if you can, take a bath.”

## (II)

               Stryvabodd knew who the man was, even though he had never met him, the moment he walked into the inn. The resident mage himself had hurried into the Temerian town after the death of his companion Ardalm over a two week ago.

               The other Kovirian mage had wandered off into a nearby village, and Stryvabodd had only heard of his death by a mysterious twin-sword swinging warrior in grey. And so Stryvabodd had run, knowing that only one creature on the Continent would be so persistent.

               The mage had ran for weeks and attempted to confuse his tracker, even coming to this isolated forsaken town in the middle of Temeria. The mage had even thought he might have been safe for a little while. But clearly his pursuer was still hot on his heels.

               And so Stryvabodd stood, mouth dumb, at the main room of the inn. A servant boy had called him down, and he stared at the figure who meant his death.

               Truth be told, the figure did not appear to ominous. He wore a simple grey cloak and carried some twin swords on his back, but otherwise looked like any normal person, short with brown hair and small nose. But those grey eyes staring back at him, and that cold look. That was the look of a witcher, and worse, a witcher on a hunt.

               Stryvabodd swallowed and listened to what the witcher began to say in his quiet flat voice, “Stryvabodd.”

               “Yes! What is you want!” the wizard spat back, preparing himself for a sudden incantation or spell.

               The witcher returned with a calm demeanor, “You know what. Don’t waste your spells in here, there is no need. Let us settle our business elsewhere, away from here.”

               “Pah, so you can gut me in some alley!?”

               The witcher looked at the innkeeper, who had watched the sudden scene with wide eyes.

               “I’m giving you a fair chance. That’s more than my brothers got from your kind.”

               He narrowed his steely grey eyes at that last remark, and the mage felt his resolve breaking. But curse it all he was a mage! So what if this monster was tracking him down, he could conjure spells of fire and frost, boil water with a mere thought, and cure diseases of any kind!

               “No, no you’re not cutting me down your monster!”

               He immediately raised up his fist prepared to fire, some spell, but before he could form anything of substance the witcher moved with inhuman speed grabbing his hand and bashing his skull against the mage’s head!

               Twirling around the witcher grabbed the mage with his hands and pushed him to the doorway, shoving him outside and into the light!

## (III)

               The air was still humid with the morning air, which stung the cuts on the Stryvabodd’s hands. He had fallen on the dirt and scrapped his fingers, but he was too angry and fearful to even notice. Immediately the wizard stood back up and stumbled back.

               The door to the inn opened up as the witcher emerged, his hand on the back of his sword, still in its holster. Stryvabodd quickly backed away, but regained his composure, and gritted his teeth. His blood was pumping as sweat began to form on his head.

               The most infuriating part though, was that ploughing witcher, who remained unearthly quiet and still. But the mage could feel the cold rage emanating from the figure. Rage directed at the wizard.

               There were only a few people about at the moment, but those who saw the scene quickly backed away, unsure of what was going to happen.

               “Just die you cursed fool!”

               Stryvabodd threw his hands forward and a flowing river of flames rushed forward, wisping towards the grey-cloaked target. The flames roared over the figure, and Stryvabodd yelled as he poured more magical energy into the spell, with the fire cooking the ground around him!

               After a few more seconds of this, the mage finally relented, and stopped his attack, hoping to see some charred corpse before him. Unfortunately for the wizard, the only thing that greeted him was the same steely face, a magical barrier dissipating around the witcher.

               The grey-eyed figure looked drained, and his cloak was singed, but he had the same fiery look in his eyes.

               *No!* thought the mage*, Those cursed signs!*

 This witcher clearly had mastered the use of the magical Signs for protection, and before Stryvabodd could even yell the witcher had moved forward with his inhuman agility, pommeling him several times in the stomach and then giving him a hard punch to the face! The mage spat out blood, and was pommeled to the ground!

               He looked up, hearing the swing of a sword, and felt the soft edge of a sword on his throat, staring up at the face of his killer.

               “Please, please don’t kill me!” he muttered, only consumed by the thought of the sword plunging through his throat.

               “The names of your company. Tell me them,” the witcher commanded.

               “What, you want their blood as well!” Stryvabodd already knew the answer, but was now just angry. A witcher, hunting down his kind? Hunting him down? And here he was, humiliated before the blood of some emotionless faceless creature, tortured and mutated beyond the human mind!

               “No,” came the respond, “Not until the blood of my brother’s have been satisfied by the blood of yours. You should have, you *all* should have thought about that before you buried us underneath those rocks! Before you wiped out Kaer Seren and murdered my school, and the rest of my order! Did you really think anything else would come of this?”

               The witcher gave a slight flicker of rage, just for a moment, but then looked with an even greater intensity at the mage at his feet.

               “The names. Now.”

               “Oh please! You’ll kill me anyways, you filthy murderer! I hope the other’s skin you alive like a stuffed fat pig!”

               Ryvlyn the witcher sighed, raised his sword and said, “For my brothers.”

               The sword came down with vengeance and fury.