White Wolf Of The Everfree

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.