Tales of a Witcher: Of Monsters and Ponies
I. Just Another Job - Prolouge
Tales of a Witcher
By: Stable_Stream
Prologue – Just another Job
Once upon a time, in the magical land of Equestria…
Johan stared out into the forest clearing once more. Stray colours of stars dissipating swiftly. There were grasslands around the lake—a serene place with which, over the course of many decades grew wilder and dangerous for the earth pony town of Barnemouth, only the wreck of an eldritch dilapidated barn remaining. From Johan’s distance— at the opposite end of the clearing, he saw that the decayed barn had long forgotten its inhabitants. The barn doors no longer stable and unbroken, the night’s air creeping throughout its husk.
Alongside the extinguished campfire, the Witcher turned to the laid out fabric before his foreleg at which he was preparing, slow and methodical in his organization. Picking upon the multiple vials at his disposal, he had no trouble equipping them to his jerkin, removing his black cloak as he folded then tucked it beneath the roots of a nearby tree. Returning to the two scabbards sitting by his fabric, he hoofed up one of them without word, unsheathing the sword —rows of runic signs and symbols dancing on the blade as it shimmered in the moonlight. Silver, for monsters. The Witcher’s gaze broke from the sword abruptly, ears perking as he bundled what he didn’t need, placing them with his cloak as he stepped into darkness. Observing.
Emerging from the nearby woodlands galloped a fair mare— the teal tints of her luxurious mane dancing with the light of the moon. Wilting from a trot to a saunter, she progressed closer to the river humming a merry tune. However, peculiar to those observing her, the tone enticed the woodlands—the cries and chirps of the animals softly dying to an eerie silence. With phantom fluidity the mare paused at the water’s edge, kneeling upon the strip of grassland as she transitioned from a hum to vocal song. The voice was honeyed; haunting and tailored to attract the ear, yet, as it had ended, the enticing song was desolate. Lonely.
“Old tune…A while since I heard it last.” Came an unpleasant voice, harsh and metallic in nature.
Eagerly the mare turned to meet a peculiar young stallion leaning upon a tree, a face of intrigue growing on her face—softening to a smirk as her eyes rolled. She saw his unusual eyes.
“Folks sadly have forgotten it Witcher.” She answered, hoofing back a rouge strand of her mane with disinterest.
Stepping out of the shadows, the stallion skulked beside the mare—the Witcher still as his eyes pierced her.
“Aye, they’ve been dealing with turmoil. Wars, massacres and monsters take a toll on most.” Johan muttered.
“True. These are indeed dark times…But I created the tune to last decades. For somebody of my age I yearn for something that isn’t gone in a blink of an eye, or —gods forbid— something I can take credit for that isn’t another death.” She said, whipping her mane back as she rose up from her seat, making her way towards the barn.
A heavy sigh left Johan, the silver sword hissing as it left its scabbard. The mare didn’t even turn to face him—contempt unnaturally twisting onto her face as her eyes lowered, inspecting her hooves.
“I’m surprised to see a living Witcher in these parts,” she begun, staring at the stallion unimpressed. “I certainly haven’t seen you in how long? Tell me Johan. Is it really time for my departure?”
The Witcher was silent.
Seconds passed before the mare was before the stallion. Johan didn’t react. Softly, she put a hoof on his lips, shushing him with fervour as she slowly embraced him—bone like nails protruded from her hoof, tracing them on the stallion’s neck. The white mare soon broke off from him, her hooves gliding down his wings as she lingered for a moment, a devilish smile creeping on her. Slowly turning to her side, she moved towards the treeline as she let her hooves drag up his neck, playfully letting it linger before dragging herself away.
“This may be the last night I share with a stallion then,” She taunted, removing her aqua blue cloak. “Let’s make it a night to remember while we still can.”
Hideous black veins ruptured above her fair coat—Pupils dilating as her eyes went a sick milky white, her skin tightening to a hideous maroon. The Mare’s gaunt body adjusted itself as rows of sharp teeth splintered from out of her mouth—her mane transforming into wavering black tendrils; teeth like structures erupting from their tips. She no longer held the same form as before, standing upon the remnants of her two hind legs as fleshy skin dragged on the ground.
The Stallion reacted with an unnaturally fast swipe of his hoof held blade. His sword reaching for her torso with incomprehensible speed. The momentum of the swing stopped. The beasts arm deflected the silver sword—the other thrusting with a hooked claw. The Witcher deftly ducked under, rolling backwards with deft motion as he gestured his hooves.
Igni
As he rolled to a stop, fire spouted from his left hoof as he thrust it towards the beast, showering it in flame as the sparks remained for only a few seconds. Regardless, a Witcher still had the ‘signs’ available to them. What good was a Witcher if they didn’t know the basics? A squeal of pure rage thundered across the night, the creature’s flesh scorched as it reeled back. In a speed unable to be measured by seconds it lunged towards the stallion, just knocking him to the ground hard as it dashed overhead into the barn. Its shape feigning transparency as the wisp of air resonated around the stallion — no longer there.
The stallion swiftly recovered to his three hooves, his fourth tightly gripping the hilt of his sword. It was reflex that caused him to shift into a parrying stance, only to notice where his opponent had fled. The Witcher was content. He slowly began to make his way toward the barn, retrieving a vial of ebony liquid from his leather jerkin. Reaching the precipice of the rotten oak door, the Witcher eased his foreleg upon it, gulping down the venomous liquid.
His body unceremoniously stiffened, reeling from the horrid taste as his head lurched back with jerky haste. Before long, his body trembled, pained grumbling barely escaping his lips as he shook furiously. The stallion held his eyes tight, feeling hot fire rupture through his veins as they became more pronounced, a horrendous blackness racing through them as he ached. Almost at once, the pain eased, his bodily functions returning to his control once again. The pain was leaving. The mutation was successful. The Witcher opened his eyes, the iris of a cat narrowing exponentially to a curved slit.
He was ready.
The Witcher shifted his weight into the door, pushing into it gently as the wind slithered into the malformed building. His teachings resonated stronger through his actions, the stallion taking cautious steps as the wooden behemoth heaved heavy gasps and creaks. For years of being dormant, the barn was burdened by the still air entering its long dead lungs. Apart from his own movement, again the eerie silence enveloped the barn, pressing on the Witcher's ears as he could not hear a whisper of motion. His sword at the ready, he continued on eagerly keeping his wits about him, the potion beginning to numb his hooves as he waited.
The passing shudder of heat pressing against his back made him leap forwards.
Rolling across the floor, he quickly rose to his hooves, placing him in a parrying stance as he stared hard behind him. Nothing was there. The Witcher stood still, listening carefully as a sharp hiss slithered across the walls of the barn, creeping upon the roof as dust faltered from the banister. He found it.
He thrust a sparkling concoction upwards, the vial shattering with extreme explosive force as its contents fluttered in the air, repulsing shimmering dust across the entire barn. The unholy crackle of a hiss followed almost immediately, the invisible creature stretched, lunging itself as it barely tore skin from the Witcher's muzzle, lightly scarring his face. The Stallion evaded a second attack, a spinning pirouette slashing what he knew to be the creatures arm— having no effect. Shimmering dust clung to the body of the beast, revealing its figure in noticeable detail. Its movement shifted from erratic to slow and precautionary, returning its visible state as it unsheathed its fangs.
Its tendrils slashed like a whip, sending the Witcher whirling into a wooden pillar. It launched after its target, pinning and ripping into the stallion’s heavy leather, piercing the skin underneath. The Witcher reacted, brutally lurching his gauntlet into the creature’s chest with a flash of light, sending it flying backwards to the ground; claws tearing into the floorboards.
He recoiled upright, flinching as his wounds openly bled. It returned to him once again, unleashing an onslaught of murderous swipes with its claws. Likewise, the Witcher followed the monsters movements, his footing dance-like as he weaved with the monstrosity, evading each possible blow. At last, an opening came.
The Witcher spun hard, landing a sickeningly hard blow with his gauntlets, a ruthless CRACK confirming his hit.
It cried a raging howl, its jaw unhinged as the Witcher performed a swift pirouette once again, heaving his silver sword down onto its shoulder. A sharp spurt of blood splattered his face, his blood mixing with the beasts as his sword clung to the tear in the monsters shoulder. Within the blink of an eye, the gaunt figure curled up, the stallion losing his balance as it bared its claws into his shoulder, spinning him around as it gorged its teeth into his neck.
The Witcher strained hard, yelling in pain as the creature finished. Removing its fangs from his neck, it punched him with immobilizing strength, sending him to the ground. A slow snarl escaped its mouth as it looked on— the sight grim as its jaws cracked back into place, tendrils wavering.
“A pity. A Witcher of your caliber – not even capable of harming pretty old me. You don’t look it, but you’ve surely grown old Johan.”
The Witcher looked on with rage, clutching his neck with a stiff grip—yet, his face eased. His pained expression shifted uncomfortably, breaking into an ugly smile. The monster slowed its pace towards him, taking slow heavy steps. All he did was spit out blood, staring into the monsters eyes as the beast returned his gaze. Until it stopped, remaining rigid as its skin cracked into torn, rugged pieces.
“Aye, but Black Blood always hurt your kind.” The Witcher muttered, forcing himself to stand as the beast roared in anguish, a look of unbridled fear quickly taking over its expression. The blackness of Johan's veins transferred to the beast, pockets of air pushing and bursting throughout its body—the vampire looking as if it was choking. He stood unflinching, his cat eyes glowing in the darkness.
It was his turn to be the monster.
He ignored the bite in his neck, taking predatory steps towards the vampire as he raised his sword once more, maneuvering around its left claw as he slashed diagonally; the beasts arm severed. Silver typically damaged any monster, but this one’s skin was rare—harder to penetrate than any other in the Witcher’s Bestiary. Until now. The beast yelped as its arm fell to the ground, dark blood coagulating on impact. It regained its nerve, no longer fighting for pleasure but for survival as it clawed at him, ripping into his weapon foreleg. It didn’t stop the Witcher.
He whirled to his right, swiping a horizontal slash across the beast’s chest, its blood boiling as it hit the floor searing it—crackling like flame. A screeching wail escaped the Bruxa, turning invisible momentarily as it shot to the other end of the barn, heaving a wagon with ease with its only claw.
The stallion quickly made a few motions with his hoof, crouching down defensively as a flash of yellow light encircled him, the wagon splintering against it as the Witcher shielded himself from the trauma. As quickly as it came up, the shield dissipated. Wasting no time the monster shot through the air, transparent—the wisp of air resonating around the stallion once more. It didn’t get too far as it barely tumbled outside the barn, no longer capable of maintaining its camouflage as it pathetically landed on the ground, crawling ever slowly. The Witcher unhooked a crossbow from his leather belt, aiming it as his hooves trembled. The bolt finding its mark through the lower abdomen.
The vampire simply stopped, barely capable of moving as it simply pawed at the rising sun. The warm and fearful shine of dawn broke through the early morning darkness.
Cracking of bones resonated into the fading bright sky, the vampire shifting back into the once beautiful mare it was. Quivering, she looked at the faint shadow creeping behind her, the Witcher wielding a hook as he slowly staggered his way towards her, his wounds growing too much to bear. Once he reached the struggling mare, he stopped. He was no longer menacing, nor vengeful. He was stoic. His eyes clenched closer together as he collapsed beside her with heavy force, each of them staring at each other as he clutched his neck, going still. Everything he held fell from his grasp, heavily breathing as he observed the mare with gritted teeth. The Mare looked content, ugly wounds ripping across her body as she stared towards the stallion, affectionate eyes releasing tears as she coughed up the blood filling her lungs.
The mare’s voice struggled but stayed sweet as she sputtered, closing her eyes as a tune barely left her lips.
The Witcher passed into the dreamless void, his body numb as the world left him.
***
Beyond the lake, a cock, grooming his feathers crowed hoarsely. Three times it crowed, and thus, morning came.
Author's Note
Well, my the first story to reach public attention is available. Likewise, I'm absolutely terrified.
Either way, my well founded insecurities aside, hopefully my first public piece isn't too egregious. Accordingly, I hope some sort of 'enjoyment' came from the chapter, while all criticism (no matter how harsh) is greatly appreciated! As a large fan of the Witcher novels by Andrzej Sapkowski (and by extension the games), I really tried to capture the essence of the novels in my writing, as well as attempting to honor the authors writing style. Yet, I must clarify that my prose is merely primitive compared to what Andrzej is capable of, so this may be a bit of a ~~bastardization~~ far cry. Ultimately, I understand that my writing is terrible, but feel free to be blunt about its quality. I must learn to improve 
P.S.
One day, perhaps I might be able to get my hands on an editor for the next chapter...If people don't want me to stop that is.
