They were right behind her.
Her hooves sunk into the mud as she galloped, kicking up earth and grass along the dirt path. The contents of her saddle bag clinked and clanked. Rain lashed against her oak brown cloak with the subtly of a whip. Her breathing was becoming haggard and coarse with each lungful of air taken. The cold and unrelenting wind made her fur stand on end, as if tiny icicles were making their way between each individual hair on her skin. She gritted her teeth, fighting off the intense cold. She cursed herself for using up the remains of whatever magic she had left.
Glancing back, her violet eyes scanned the environment with the grace of a hawk. She could make out a figure up in the air, wings flapping, a fore-leg splayed above their head, as if it was looking for something. The mare narrowed her eyes. It was one of the Lunar scouts. She gasped, her eyes widening, heart beating like a drum.
As if the scout knew it was being watched, it turned its head in her direction, pointed, and shouted something to someone down on the ground. The mare turned her head swiftly, focusing on the path in front of her, sprinting as fast as her legs could make her. Droplets of mud splattered on to her face, dirtying her coat of beige fur. A freezing sensation was building up in her throat, her right side was stitching, just below the ribs. She blinked away a few tears, trying to keep a distance between her and her pursuers.
The pine trees at the edge of the road waved from side to side as the wind crashed against them, the creaking noises they produced sounded like they were in constant agony. A murder of crows flew by overhead, their black feathered bodies easily identifiable under the gathering of grey storm clouds. They cawed in panic, trying to escape nature's wrath. Pine needles blew out on to the path, sticking to the sloppy mud.
The smell of woodland dominated the air, causing the mare to flare her nostrils. The squelching noise of her hooves slapping against the earth made her wince internally. Her cloak billowed from both sides of her vision, feeling the piece of clothing wrap around her flank and sides like a wet towel. She took a quick peek over her shoulder.
Three Lunar scouts were right on her tail, shouting profanities at her over the howling wind. One was flying with the wind, leathery wings spread out, a spear grasped in its right fore-leg. The other two opted to stay on the ground, galloping after her, crossbows in hoof, getting ready to fire a bolt or two.
The sudden realisation caused her to sprint just a little faster, forcing some of her chartreuse green mane to get in her eyes. She quickly brushed it away with a swift flick of a hoof. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt a mighty force impact the mud just behind her. A crossbow bolt was fired. She turned her head to look back at her pursuers to see who would fire the next shot, but immediately retracted her head back, feeling a bolt whoosh past the side of her face and strike the ground just a few paces before her.
She scrambled along up the road, as if she was weaving in-between imaginary poles. She hoped it would be enough to throw off at least one of their aims. Her body was drenched in water and mud, and areas in which the water or mud had trouble seeping in to was stinking of sweat.
A tingle was felt on the tip of her horn and a small smile found its way onto her lips, despite of the situation. Her magic was coming back, slowly but surely.
The wind began to die down a little, only enough as to make out what the Lunar scouts were roaring.
"Queen Nightmare Moon only wants your head, Clover!" One of the scouts yelled, old, authoritative even. "And we intend to carry out just that!"
Clover's eyes grew wide. 'Queen' Nightmare Moon? Does that mean Princess Celestia is dead? She thought. Clover buried that thought, clenching her eyes shut. A sudden pang of fury darted through her, but it quickly passed. Taking on those three whilst her magic reserves were low was just asking for an early death sentence.
The same voice called out again, dripping with venom. "You can make this easy for us! You and I both know how this will end!"
Clover ignored him, running even faster, but she was starting to feel her legs give way, her saddle bag weighing her down. She inhaled and exhaled breaths in quick succession. Tears were threatening to escape her eyes as she knew she was only delaying the inevitable. She ground her teeth together so hard it had hurt, pushing on, the tip of her horn poking out from the brim of her hood.
She heard a crossbow fire.
A sudden force impacted her flank. Searing, white hot pain coursed throughout the area in question. A shrill scream escaped from her mouth as she tumbled to the ground, tripping over her hooves, getting coated in slimy, wet mud during the process. Clover lay there shivering, breathing haphazardly. With a weak turn of her head, she could make out a crossbow bolt sticking out of her left side, embedded in the cutie-mark. Blood oozed out of the wound, the rain washing it down her body. Her cloak lay to her right, drenched in mud and grime. Some of the contents of her saddle bag were scattered behind her. Notes, scrolls, quills and a golden brooch face side in the mud littered the trail. Tears streamed down her face like a river. Pained, shuddering breaths wheezing out of her.
She perked her ears up slightly. The sound of hooves impacting the ground drew near, accompanying it was the noise chain armour would make, as did the flap of wings.
A condescending laugh from one of the scouts made her shudder. "A well placed shot, Drill." Clover closed her eyes, choking back a sob. "Aw look, the poor girl is crying." The two other scouts chuckled. Clover felt a hoof prod her. "Listen here, you skank, you have made me and my lads travel for three fuckin' days chasin' after you. So for that," he paused, "we're goin' to make your death slow and utterly painful. Snag, give me the knife."
"Aye, sir."
Looking up at her attackers, Clover could see that their leader was an orange earth pony with a scar trailing down from the bottom of his eye to the top of his lip. He and his little troop were adorned in the armour any member of the Lunar forces would usually wear, but in the scouts' case, they were wearing a light, purple chain-mail instead of a heavy, fuchsia coloured plate. This 'Drill' stallion had a snow white coat of fur, he was an earth pony also, and 'Snag' seemed to be the only bat-pony that accompanied them, its slitted eyes glaring balefully at her.
Gathering up every ounce of strength she had inside her, Clover used her fore-legs to drag herself forward, if only a little. Mud stained into her fur even further, but a sharp and stinging pain in her flank made her bite her lip, suppressing a yelp. The crossbow bolt dug into her flesh even more.
"You're trying to escape from us?" Their leader snarled. "After what you put me and my lads through? Keep the knife, Snag. I think-" his voice grew low, menacing, "-it's about time we relieved a little stress."
Clover's eyes widened, more tears flowing. Even harder she tried to drag herself across the ground. She was on the edge of hyperventilating, exhaling quick shuddering breaths.
"Are you crazy, Fern?!" Drill exclaimed, young, his voice cracking. "Our Queen doesn't want her body desecrated!"
Fern turned to him. "Are you daft, foal? Our Queen only demands her head. Maybe you grew deaf durin' our little brief."
"No sir, I didn't." Drill spat, narrowing his eyes. "I have a family, and I will not bring myself as low as to rape an injured mare."
"Maybe you won't then, Drill, maybe you won't. Maybe I'll just have to force you-" Fern stopped abruptly, eyes travelling to the ground, before narrowing them, he turned to Snag. "Get that brooch off of the ground, it could be worth a few bits."
"Aye, sir."
Clover's mouth was hanging open. "No! Please, don't take the brooch!"
Fern raised an eyebrow. "And why should we not? Is it impor-"
A low pitched growl cut him off. The stallions, eyes going wide, readied their weapons. Fern scanned the environment, gazing along the tree-line. Another growl.
"That sounded like a wolf." Snag muttered to himself, spear in hoof. He turned his head to Drill, baring his fangs. "I thought you had said there was no wolves along this path?"
Drill sputtered. "There shouldn't be!"
"Enough!" Fern shouted, glaring. "Shut up and protect the trophy. I intend to please our Queen, no matter the ramifications. Form a circle around her." He gestured with a hoof.
Clover lay there, distraught. Somewhat thankful that the wolves delayed her terrible fate. From her place on the ground, she could see nothing in the trees. The forest wasn't as dense as the Everfree, which was an odd fifty miles back. The wolves should have been easy to see in the expanse. This got Clover to think. The only wolves capable of hiding in plain sight were Equestrian timber-wolves.
The growls grew closer.
"I don't see anything." Snag said, eyes narrowing, his voice raising a little in pitch. "I can't see anything." It was mutter of disbelief.
"You don't see anything?" Fern whispered, harshly. "You bat-ponies have the best eyesight among the legions, how can you not see anything?"
A particularly strong gust of wind blew through the area, it was tinted with sparks of green, almost like lightning. The trees whispered, threateningly. The grass fell flat, as if it was being stood on by an invisible force. The rain hit the ground, harder now, with the force that of hailstones.
Clover could feel her magic seeping in through the tip of her horn. A sad smile tugged on her lips. The ambient magic in the air was causing her magical energy to regenerate at a faster rate. She closed her eyes.
And waited.
A few, long moments passed and all of a sudden, the growls ceased. The rain stopped. The wind turned from a strong gale and into a small breeze. The storm clouds stayed, hovering above. Pine needles fell gently to the ground, floating on top of small puddles. Cuckoos, pigeons, finches and crows began singing once again. The scouts, still in their formation, did not move an inch, waiting.
Drill stared in every direction he could, breathing growing quicker. "No, no, no. . ."
"What is it, Drill?" Snag whispered.
"Everfree timber-wolves can not be this far out."
Breaths hitched. It was as if their hearts stopped beating. Beads of sweat formed under the manes, trailing down their faces, down their necks.
Loud and hungry growls sounded all around them. Crescent slits formed by the tree-line, an aura of bright green emanating from them. A wind picked up, fast and unforgiving. Weeds, shrubs, sticks, twigs and branches flowed with the wind, forming up at the tree-line. With the ground as a base, the debris collided with each other. Twigs and sticks snapped into place, weeds and shrubs climbed the branches like snakes wrapped around their prey. All around them, the wolves gathered. Building up.
The paws formed, claws digging into the earth. Then the legs, stocky and firm. Along came the bodies, branches creaking under the strain, smacking against each other as the wolves made themselves whole. The heads came last, combined with small rocks and pebbles, twigs off of pines turned into teeth, ready to slice into flesh. Their eyes of autumn green flowed with the wind, a deadly sense of beauty about them.
"Get ready, lads." Fern said, his voice low, quivering somewhat. "Drill, ready your crossbow." The white stallion grunted in acknowledgement.
The barking soon began. The timber wolves were snarling with a fiery intensity no other animal of its kind could ever hope to match. Spittle, in the form of tree sap, dripped from their jaws. One took a single step forward, causing Snag to raise his spear in its direction. The spear shook slightly in his grasp.
Clover, opening her eyes, took in the scene around her. The stallions were surrounded, and she was the only unicorn there. A plan quickly came to mind. She couldn't teleport out, her magic reserves were still too low, but she could heal herself up while the scouts weren't looking, and possibly set a timber wolf or two on fire.
Summoning up her magical energy, her horn glowed a faint lavender. The same lavender hue enveloped the end of the crossbow bolt on her flank. She tugged on it, only to bite down on her lip to quench a scream of pain, the magical connection cutting off. She breathed out quickly and quietly, clenching her eyes shut. Feeling the metal bolt underneath her skin, the nerve ends reacting to every tiny nudge of the bolt, made her shiver.
Again, she grasped it firmly with her magic, exhaling a quiet sigh, calming herself. Clover clenched her teeth together, numbing the burning sensation in her flank. She tugged the bolt as hard as she could, a little squeak escaping her throat, pulling at the protrusion. Her eyes went watery yet again, blood gushing from the wound like a waterfall as the red liquid trailed down her thigh. With one mighty and strained pull, the bolt was out of her flank like lighting and in her grasp in the air, blood dripping from the tip. She sighed quietly, before placing the bolt gently next to her. The burning pain soon turning into a dull throb. With her horn emitting a faint light, Clover began to heal the wound to some extent, using too much magic for the healing alone would get rid of any chance to escape.
The wolves were beginning to make their move. One rushed forward, barking madly, only to get a crossbow bolt to the eye. The beast staggered back with a whine, before rushing forward, seeming to ignore the fact that it was just shot. Another ran in from the opposite direction.
Snag, with a single flap of his wings, propelled himself into the air, before swooping down, his spear aimed at an incoming wolf's head. Catching the beast mid-stride, the spear entered one eye, making the wood that acted as a skull crack and snap under the force. The steel tip of the spear exited through the opposite eye. The wolf fell apart into a pile of sticks and stones immediately after, pieces scattering everywhere.
Snag stayed in the air, thrusting the spear at the wolves below. He didn't take notice of Clover.
Fern had a sword in his mouth, and Drill had a crossbow in hoof. They weren't faring as well as Snag. The wolves were getting uncomfortably close before being struck by a sword or the side of a crossbow, before jumping back, circling. One or two of the wolves were eyeing Clover as an easy meal. Clover, summoning all of her strength and willpower, got up onto her hooves, without a sound, the saddle bag still firmly attached to her back.
A timber wolf charged at her.
Clover's horn emanated a darker hue of purple then that of previous. Charging up a spell she knew only too well, Clover glared at the wolf, letting it come close. The timber wolf snapped its jaws as it came within spitting distance. Clover smiled slyly before a blinding beam of fire streaked from the tip of her horn. As soon as it made contact with the timber wolf, a mighty explosion rocketed the area, turning the wolf into nothing but an ash pile. This caused the other wolves to stop their advancements, and the Lunar scouts to turn their heads in her direction.
It was few moments before one of them spoke. "Nevermind pleasuring ourselves. We can't afford her running." Fern growled. "Snag, kill her. We'll deal with the timber wolves."
Snag had the audacity to smile, a lone fang showing. "Gladly, sir."
Clover cursed their ungrateful and utterly stupid attitudes under her breath. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend' didn't seem to work, she thought bitterly. With her leg slightly healed, she ran for it, a slight limp befalling her. Another wolf rushed at her, snapping its jaws ferociously. She blasted it apart with another fire spell, a cloud of ash in its place. Glancing back, she could see that wolves didn't bother giving chase, only focused on killing Fern and Drill. Her vision travelled up. Snag was right on top of her. Spear aimed downward, coming right at her.
Clover dodged to the left, missing the point of the spear by inches. She could hear Snag roar out in frustration. Looking up again, the spear sailing down just ahead of her. Clover made a sharp turn to the right, barely feeling the spear touch her, before running down the trail. An idea came to her mind. If it was any other day, she would have grinned.
Clover halted mid step, the spear jutted down just in front of her. Using her magic, she grabbed onto the spear, and pulled it out of Snag's noticeably strong grip with ease. Snag came down with it, hitting the ground. He quickly pushed himself back onto his hooves. Using the blunt edge of the spear, Clover readied for a swing.
Snag propelled himself at her, fangs bared into a snarl.
The spear came at him fast and strong, whacking the crown of his head, the top of the spear splitting off with a crunch. Snag roared in pain and fury, holding his head in his hoof. As Clover prepared a spell to incapacitate him, Snag snapped out of his pain-ridden phase and made an all out charge at her. He rammed head first into Clover's chest, winding her momentarily.
A sudden hoof rocketed down on her face with the force of a brick. Clover, feeling slightly dizzy, felt a great pain in her temple. Another hoof came down tremendously, forcing Clover to spit out some blood. Regaining focus, Clover grabbed the next hoof with her magic, stopping a few short centimetres from the side of her face and hurled it back into Snag's snout. A crunching sound immediately followed as she used her hind legs to buck him off of her. Snag collapsed onto his back, like an upturned tortoise.
Clover took this has her chance to cast the incapacitation spell. Mumbling quietly to herself, a stream of lavender bolted from her horn. Snag was clambering on to his hooves before being struck by the magical blast. His eyes, slowly and agonisingly, rolled to the back of his head as he collapsed to the ground, the squelch of mud sounding thereafter, his body splayed. Clover looked back, breathing heavily, the main fight still ongoing behind her. She couldn't see the battle clearly, but she managed to make out that some of the wolves had grown bigger.
They probably absorbed the remains of their friends, no doubt. She thought.
Blood flowed from her snout as she wiped it away with a muddied hoof, the blood staining her appendage even further. She wanted to cry then and there, but she knew she had to push on. She was so very close to the border.
Clover turned around and quickly trotted off, pulling her hood up. "There's no point in going back," she mumbled, "I can get the brooch later."
A scream that could have been heard for miles, echoed between the trees. Clover shivered, but didn't look back.
The fate of those beasts was now left for the wolves to decide.
The horse let out a heavy breath as it slowly came to a halt, its rider tugging the reins gently. A light breeze brushed against the rider, the cool winter air going between the weaves of his padded clothes and the gaps of his silver ring-mail pauldron. The ponytail tied on the back of his head bobbed as his eyes wandered slowly to both sides, taking a note of the surroundings.
The Dragon Mountains were just to the north, easily visible. The mountain range expanded in each direction as far as the eye could see. To the east, they met the Kestrel mountain range which stretched south into the province of Kaedwen, and to the west they dragged into the North Sea. The Dragon Mountains acted as a natural border between the Northern Realms and the Kingdom of Equestria, a kingdom still in its youth.
The sun stared down from its place in the sky, the trees and mountains casting great shadows that loomed over the land. Small patches of snow dotted the ground, most of it was already turned to slush that blended in with the mud. The horse kicked up some dirt as it dug its hoof into the ground, snorting impatiently.
Looking up, the rider noticed a few pegasi of all different colours tending to the clouds. Moving them around, changing the weather. Even after all these years the thought of them being able to change the weather on a whim still unnerved him slightly, but ultimately didn't warrant any of his concern. The peasants however, either loved them or hated them. The emotions of the farmers usually changed when the weather did, shunning the pegasi when crops failed to grow or died and then practically worshipping them when a good spell of sunshine came along.
The farmers were a double edged sword to the pegasi. Understandably so.
"Come on, Roach." The rider said, his voice gravelly and monotone. The horse whinnied as the man squeezed him gently with his legs, pulling the reign back. Roach trotted forward.
The rider brought his vision back down to the ground, noticing a pack of wild dogs giving chase to a stag in the distance, trampling over and weaving between long tufts of grass, the mutts were catching up to the animal, barking loudly. He brought his gaze past them and immediately spotted a village in the distance. The village went by the name of "Kiilden" if the signs scattered far and few along the roads were to be believed. A few farmers houses were seen around the outskirts, a couple of cattle grazing in the fields next to them. A cobblestone bridge was stretched over a small stream and with no guards in sight. The rider narrowed his eyes as he noticed a corpse impaled on a pike in front of the bridge. The body was a dark grey with a red hue, its belly bloated.
A mucknixer.
He was coming closer now, the wild dogs a safe distance away. The sickly smell of the corpse quickly greeted the man's nose. From what he knew, there was no bog around for a dozen or so miles and the body of the mucknixer had a small skeletal structure. The implications quickly dawned on the rider, his eyes losing their cold and hard demeanour, softening. He blinked, turning his head away as he rode past the corpse, its large lifeless eyes seeming to bore into his back. He sighed gently, melancholic.
Mucknixers were a deadly version of a drowner, easily distinguishable from their light blue and green cousins. Mucknixers arise from the bodies of travellers who drown in bogs. Or children who drown in shallow water.
Many of the buildings in the village were made of pine wood, roofs of straw thatch protecting the residents from the elements. A few wooden poles were dotted around the area, a lantern or two strapped on to them.
The population of the village was a mix of humans and ponies, like some villages were further north. A few ponies were on the street, selling there wares of food and clothing and tools, mingling with the local humans or arguing with them. The tell-tale sound of a blacksmith's hammer slamming against a metal piece was heard nearby. The rider could make out some of their ears perking up at the sound of heavy hoof-falls clattering along against the bridge, turning their heads in his direction. The humans of the hamlet didn't even bat an eye in his direction. The ponies were a different story, some looking away, a few quickly walking off and others eyeing Roach with disgust. Roach, seeming to notice the looks he was getting, grunted suddenly and aggressively.
The rider tugged the reigns hard. "Easy, Roach." The horse shook its head, its chocolate brown mane waving from side to side, snorting in mild annoyance.
Some of the ponies didn't seem to take mind of Roach as he trotted past them, only concerned with talking to a friend or an acquaintance. Roach wandered past a conversation between a human and a pony without a care. The rider however, put his eyes on them, ears perking slightly as their talk grabbed his attention.
"Someone is bound to come sooner or later, Henrik." The pony said, female, the voice was gentle and soft as sin. The rider made out a pink mane, a spring green coat of fur, a large pair of maroon eyes. She also wore an extra layer of fur, grey with a bit of black in some areas, a wolf's. Unusual for a pony, he thought. It covered her entire upper-body. She had no horn, and the coat of fur on her back made it hard to decipher if she was a pegasus or an earth pony.
The man she was conversing with spat. "No one will bother, my sweet. The guards might if they somehow get sober enough for the job." Henrik paused. "We're better off looking for him ourselves."
The rider zoned out of their conversation. What did Henrik say? My sweet? He thought, a small grimace crossing his face. Human and pony couples were rare, very rare. Usually, the townsfolk, ponies included, would react negatively and try to drive the couples out of their towns and villages or outright execute them. Death by hanging if Lady Luck was on their side. This got him to think. The townsfolk of Kiilden either found out about the relationship and didn't take action whatsoever, which would have been very fortunate, or didn't yet know of it. A small voice in the back of the rider's head hoped it was the former.
"Looks like I'm not well recieved here either." He mumbled to himself.
He got a few stares as he rode deeper into the village, some were filled with fright whilst others narrowed with hate. Ignoring the looks he was getting, the rider could make out a notice board a dozen or so paces ahead, just to the right. The board was a large square of wood that was just barely the size of Roach, with grass and weeds and some yellow calendine flowers growing at the base of the legs.
The man hopped off of his horse, leather boots hitting the soft ground. Taking a couple of steps forward, the man's yellow eyes scanned the board. Twenty or more notices were nailed sloppily on to the wood, the bottoms flapping in the light wind. Most of the notices were mainly complaints, an advertisement for the "Equestrian Market" held every Friday was up there somewhere. The man grunted. Not what I'm looking for, he thought.
A few moments later and his eyes narrowed.
He ripped two sheets off of the board, the tops torn. The writing on the first notice was written rapidly with some misspellings, as if the person was in a severe emotional state. It was for a missing son, a colt named Tree Top and to meet the parent at their house outside the village. It was signed by Sweet Meadow, a pony no doubt. The man filed the notice into a brown leather satchel strapped to his waist.
The next notice was dirty, hastily written just like the last but was somehow kept neat, short and straight to the point. The man's eyes gazed across the parchment, soaking in every detail. It said, 'IN NEED OF A WITCHER! Equestrian timber-wolf packs prowl amongst the Dragon Mountains, preying on adventureres and merchants, human and pony. Kiilden and other villages near the mountains are at risk of attack at any time of day. If you are a witcher and are reading this, please meet me at the Ale Maker Inn. I will explain further there.'
The man scratched his white beard, scowling. A lot of detail was left out. Who wrote it? Are they human or pony? It left a lot to be desired. Stuffing the note into his satchel, the man climbed back onto Roach. Better meet this 'Sweet Meadow', the rider thought.
"He's in the forest, probably fightin' for his life, Meadow!" Henrik whispered through gritted teeth, "we can't stay here and hope someone sticks their arse out for us, it will take too long!"
"How do you know that? Someone will stop by at the house at any time, I only put the notice up yesterday." Sweet narrowed her eyes, a hoof slamming into the dirt.
Both were unwary of a horse and its rider making their way to them, the loud clip-clops of the hooves against stone and earth going seemingly unnoticed.
Henrik wanted to tear his hair out. "Meadow, we nee-"
"Are you Sweet Meadow?" A gruff voice asked out nowhere.
The couple jumped, a tiny squeak escaping Meadow's mouth. They both turned their heads to the right to see a massive horse with an oak coloured coat of fur and big black eyes that seemed to go in both directions. They looked up further to see a beast of a man, white hair tied into a ponytail, a full ivory beard and a noticable scar trailing down the left side of his face. But the most striking of all to Meadow was the silver wolf's head medallion, the eyes a blood red, dangling from his neck.
Finding her bearings, Sweet Meadow met the eyes of the man and replied hesitantly. "I am, yes." She then turned to Henrik, a small yet smug smile on her lips. Henrik growled quietly. "But how did you know?"
"I overheard." But before Meadow could open her mouth as to question how, the man introduced himself. "Geralt of Rivia, witcher."
Henrik's eyes widened. "A witcher?" He glanced around, turning his head in every direction. Geralt raised an eyebrow. "We shouldn't be speaking to you out in the open like this, we'll talk further at the house."
Geralt didn't question it.
"Come along, follow us." Sweet Meadow gestured with a hoof, turning around, a spring in her step.
The walk to the house wasn't going to be long one as it was just on the outskirts of the village. The three crossed the bridge and passed the impaled mucknixer, both of them seeming to look away from the corpse. Meadow had her eyes clenched shut, tears threatening to spill. Henrik took in a sharp, shuddering breath. The mucknixer had a silent scream firmly plastered on to its face, the pike jutting out just below the jaw. Continuing forward, they went through a field of golden grain. Farmers tended to the crops and earth ponies pulled ploughs across the fields, humans following behind, sprinkling seeds. The light wind giving the grain a sort of a wave effect. The smell of the countryside permeated in the air.
Barking was heard in the distance. A stag screaming in pain.
Sweet Meadow flinched. A look of resentment crossed Henrik's face. "Bloody dogs. . ."
"How long have they been around?" Geralt asked.
"As soon as the timber-wolves came along a month back." Henrik said, spitting. "Those wild dogs come in at night, into our fields and kill our livestock. Mainly sheep mind you, but a pony or two has been killed by them and dragged off into the forest over yonder. The lads and I managed to kill, what was it? Twenty-two?" Henrik turned to Sweet Meadow for confirmation. She nodded. "Twenty two, though the pack seems to be endless. I'd reckon there's around a hundred in that pack."
The witcher's eyes widened slightly. A pack of dogs usually had ten or more, but around a hundred? Surely he was exagerrating. The rest of the journey was continued in silence.
Soon enough, they reached the house in question. It wasn't a big, luxurious house. It was just simple yet humble abode. The door looked heavy and thick, attached to the frame with iron hinges. The roof was thatched with a lot more straw than that of the houses in the village. Small wisps of smoke floated gently out of the cobblestone chimney. The house at least looked safe and cozy.
"Here we are." Meadow said, opening the door. "Come on inside."
Geralt hopped of Roach and tied the reign to a nearby post. Roach sneezed as Geralt gave him a hefty pat on the neck.
Entering the house, Geralt stepped onto a dirty wooden floor, planked. The main room had a fireplace, a table and a few of chairs. A storage room branched off to the right whilst a bedroom was seen to the left. A lone candle was lit on the table, hot wax trailing down it slowly. Henrik sat down by the table, patting a chair next to him as if signaling the witcher to come over. Geralt took a seat next to the man, putting his hands on the table.
"Before we get down to business, I'll make us some tea." Meadow said with soft smile.
"No need, thank you-" Geralt was cut off, much to his chagrin.
"Nonsense, I insist." Sweet Meadow began making a fire, an iron pot over the fireplace.
The witcher sighed. "Fine."
Henrik glanced between the two of them, and put his gaze firmly on Geralt. "She's awfully insistent. Never turn her down lest ye want a swift knock to the head." He barked a laugh. Geralt smiled slightly.
"And you learned that from personal experience." Meadow giggled.
Henrik turned to look at her. "Aye, I did."
Geralt put his eyes on both of them. "Are you two together? As a couple?"
Henrik flinched, as did Meadow. That question came out of the blue. Henrik looked to Meadow for confirmation, she nodded. "That question would've come sooner or later. Aye, we are. S'ppose it's common knowledge around Kiilden by now. We've been together for the past two months. She came down from the sky one day, taking a break from movin' the clouds. Tirin' work she says," he laughed, "I met her in the fields out there, and started chattin'. Turns out we were talking for two hours! Almost cost her her job."
"Henrik is very talkative." Meadow deadpanned, boiling the pot of water.
"I can see." Geralt said evenly. "The townsfolk are okay with this? Very unusual."
"That's what we thought as well, hell, almost everyone here has takin' kindly to it. Barring a few people of course, though we always have those types. They mainly 'ang around the Ale Maker. Drunken bastards. They harassed us on the street, though the guards took care of 'em. 'Bout time they did somethin' too." A look of sadness spread over Henrik's face. "Wish they'd do somethin' about them dogs though."
Geralt didn't press on.
"Henrik, can you help me with the mugs?" Meadow said, the handle of a mug firmly wrapped around her fore-hoof. Henrik got up off of the chair and made his way to the pegasus. Geralt watched them, they were cute as a couple as strange as it may have sounded. He shook that train of thought away. Time to get down to business.
Three piping hot mugs of tea were placed on the table. Geralt picked up one of the mugs slowly, blew some steam away and gently took a sip. He was given a sense of comfort, as tea ususally did give. Meadow took a seat next to Henrik.
"Alright, lets get down to business. You two both know why I'm here." The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.
Meadow sighed, her words coming out slowly. "Yes, as you know our son Tree Top. . . went missing a couple of days ago. He was playing near the forest at the base of the mountain, I was with him. Watching him train with a stick as if it was sword," She laughed, eyes going watery. "I turn my head away for a few seconds and alas, he was gone. . ." Her eyes turned steely. "I'll be damned if I lose another son.' She stated strongly, a tear trailing down her cheek.
Geralt's face didn't show any outward sympathy, however his eyes did. He turned his head to Henrik, who was nearing Meadow's state of emotion. "Do you have any details? What he looks like? Where he was exactly at the time?"
It was a moment before Henrik replied. "Aye, dark green mane, cinnamon brown coat, blue eyes. Earth pony. Sweet said he was by the tree line, near the well. You can't miss it, tis where everyone goes during the day. When I went there to investigate myself, I found a small tuft of fur. It was stained in blood, didn't know whether it was animal's or if it was Tree Tops."
Geralt's mind went back to the wild dogs. "Could it have been the dogs?"
"Nay, them dogs have not a trace of fur left on 'em. There all ridden with scabbies and plague." He paused. "There is no other animal in the area that would attack someone out in the open."
"Then it was most likely Tree Tops' fur." Geralt concluded.
Sweet Meadow bit back a sob. "Please, don't say that."
"And there's a chance it isn't the colt's at all.' Geralt sighed. "As low as that chance may be. I'll find your son, but my standing as a witcher-"
"Is that you won't lift a finger without pay.' Henrik finished. "I understand, we'll give you all that we have as long as you bring our son back. He means the world to us, especially after Abram. . ."
"Abram?" Geralt raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his tea.
"Nevermind." Henrik mumbled, looking down.
A few quiet moments passed, barring Meadow's sniffling. "I'll go to the area around the well and investigate." Geralt got up off of the chair. "I'll bring back evidence, I can promise you that." Geralt made his way to the door, he looked back before pushing it open. "But before I go I'll need to brew some swallow potion."
"Swallow?" Meadow tilted her head.
"Healing potion. Witchers only." Geralt stated. "I have Dwarven spirit and some calendine, all I need is a drowner's brain."
"A drowner's bra-" Henrik's eyes widened, he then narrowed them and bared his teeth. "No, I can't let you. Not to-"
"The mucknixer was Abram, wasn't it?" Geralt asked bluntly.
Henrik gulped, letting out a heavy breath. His hands closing in to tight fists. "Just. . . do whatever you have to do, witcher."
Henrik had his head down, refusing to meet Geralt's eyes. Tears were openly trailing down Meadow's face. "Please go. . . and find our son." She whispered.
The witcher gave a single nod of a head, pushing the door open. He said nothing walking out of the door.
Roach snorted.
The mucknixer was right there in front of Geralt. Unmoving, limbs dangling in mid air. The smell was rancid. His eyes travelled up and down the corpse, investigating it. Dry blood trailed down one of its arms to the middle finger. A large, darkened splotch was soaked into the dirt and snow underneath it.
A couple of humans and an earth pony stood nearby, watching him. Geralt paid them no mind, focusing on the corpse in front of him.
"Red hues, grey undertones, sharper claws than most drowners. Definitely a mucknixer." He said aloud to himself. He kneeled down and lightly felt one of the dead creature's fingers. They were ice cold. "Claws are white and small. The flesh is soft, very soft. This mucknixer was barely two days old." Geralt's eyes trailed to its belly. Veins popped out, blue in colour. The organs could be seen clearly through the skin. "Belly is slightly bigger than it was when I first got here. Gas build up. The area will start to stink soon for next few days if it isn't properly buried."
He stood up, meeting the mucknixer's one-thousand yard stare. The teeth were as sharp as knives. "Teeth, some still resemble a human, and their small, still in their early stages. Abram was an infant." Geralt took note of the pike jutting out of its neck. "Died instantly, someone must've come from behind. Very hard to sneak up on a drowner, it's possible though."
The witcher took a small knife out from a holster in his belt and strutted along behind it. Time to get this over with, he thought.
The witcher mumbled a silent prayer for the boy.
He began to slice the head open.
Putting the brain in the saddle bag on Roach, Geralt wiped his hands of any excess blood and other fluids. He turned to see the mucknixer still firmly attached to the pike, its head sliced open like a flower bud about to bloom. The trio of farmers were still watching, eyeing Geralt with disdain.
Geralt walked over to them, each step causing the farmers to flinch back. The witcher was easily a few inches taller than the humans, the earth pony only coming up just below the hips.
"Bury the body lest you all want this area to smell of piss and shit for the next few days. And bury it deep unless you want more necrophages coming in." He narrowed his eyes at them. They nodded quickly, scampering off. One mumbled 'freak' under their breath and said something about clocking him over the head with a shovel.
He was welcome to try.
