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I'm sure you know there are many tales about Witchers that float across the continent- some warm, some cruel, but most of them incorrect. What you might not know, is that for every whispered story about a Witcher, there is almost always an accompanying one about his horse.
These stories span a great many genres and lengths; with emotional ones about the bond between and Witcher and their horse, and wary ones, about their tempestuous natures. People have speculated an umpteen number of things about these wondrous beasts, and have come up with equally wild and wonderful theories.
The one I am about to tell you is a very famous origin story. Not that it tells you where the horse came from, no, but it is in fact one of the very first or maybe even the first story that described the truly terrifying nature of a Witcher's horse.
A little PSA for the faint-hearted: there is absolutely nothing physiologically superior about a Witcher's horse; granted, you wouldn't walk away unscathed if you said this in front of a Witcher, but it is true. So what follows is a tale of fiction, woven by one truly ingenious bard, to get himself out of trouble.
I'm sure he didn't mean to set off this spark that led to a Witcher's horse sometimes being feared more than the rider himself, or indeed get them extremely hospitable stable visits, but that is exactly what happened.
The words of Jaskier the bard had once again made history.
Our story is set in the middle of one of Geralt of Rivia's many hunts. There was nothing special about this one- no strange town, no curses or angry aldermen. Geralt had set off into the caves to slay a monster, and Jaskier had spent his day in the village, entertaining and collecting coin. The story begins as Jaskier makes his long trek back to their campsite for the night. He is being followed by a group of bandits, eager to swindle whom they assume is an easy mark.
~
The bard’s footsteps were eerily silent, almost as if he were gliding over the bed of frosty leaves, feet neatly sidestepping fallen twigs and hidden puddles. He never once looked back, filled to the brim with the confidence of one under the protection of a formidable Witcher. But there were no Witchers here, the bandits thought to themselves. The silver-haired one was out on a hunt in the old mines, and it would likely take him a while to finish. If he finished it; they had hardly told him all that he’d need to expect. After all, the only Witcher worth anything is a dead Witcher. And if they were lucky, they’d rob his bard blind as well.
So they kept walking, further and further out of the village. The bard seemed to know where he was going, moving at a steady pace, never once hesitating or stopping to consult a map. The bandits weren’t so sure. What campsite is so far away, anyway? But greed is a strong motivator, and thus they persevered.
The path was long, and the horizon steadily swallowed the sun.
It was dark by the time the bandits stumbled into the field. They’d been following the bard’s trail for what seemed like hours, over dusty winding paths and through shrubbery high as their waists. He’s easy pickins’ , they’d whispered to themselves, we’ve just got to go a little farther is all. They were a group of six, stealthy and armed, and reeking of desperate glee. They would be paid this day.
The bard finally came to a stop in the middle of the field, surrounded by swaying white stalks of grass peppered with snow. He faced away from them, head tilted upwards, gazing at the hazy sky. The moon was high and waning, the slightest rays forcing their way through the sinking fog to illuminate the bard’s brightly coloured figure. The shadows around him looked distorted, trees taking on frightening visages in the absence of sunlight. The bard seemed utterly unbothered by the sudden chill permeating through the air.
The bandits halted a ways away, suddenly unsure. What was the bard doing? They nudged each other, and scathingly called their companions cowards, but none volunteered to take that first step closer. Their whispered huddle was rudely interrupted when Jaskier spoke.
“You’ve been following me.”
His voice was sharp, and cracked devastatingly across the silent plain.
The bandits flinched, abruptly and uncomfortably exposed. They jostled each other as they rushed to straighten and face the bard, who was still not looking their way .
“You’ve been following me, and I want to know why.”
His voice never once increased in volume, but it felt immensely menacing.
“Well?” he continued, and turned around when no answer was forthcoming. “Do you know who I am?”
That seemed to spur them into action. “Yeah,” one of them spat out derisively. “That Witcher’s bard.” Their anger clears the air around them, heated skin and words drawing them a path straight to Jaskier. “Your Witcher’s going to die, ye know?” They sound pleased. “Vespertyls, we told him; down in the caves. He seemed to think they’d be easy to take care of.” They grinned and looked at each other in silent congratulations. “We didn’t tell him about the other beasties, did we boys?” They chuckled at their treachery.
“Look like rocks, they do, and hairy as bugs, with them beady eyes. They’ve got sharp teeth, the buggers, and can talk too! Took away all our miners, they did. Every single ‘un. Vicious.” They were gloating, talking over each other in their excitement, Geralt’s demise already assured in their minds. “The Witcher stands no chance.”
Jaskier felt his heartbeat falter, breath catch in his throat; his face remained impassive. Geralt would be alright. He would be alright . “That may be,” he said, with a fervent prayer to Melitele for his voice to remain steady, “But you still haven’t told me what you want with me.” He knew what they intended to do, of course. There was no other reason to follow him all this way. He just needed to buy some time.
The bandits were rallied together, spirits flying high in apparent jubilation. "We're going to kill you, bard. And we're going to take all yer coin." There was no reason to hide their intentions. There was no one here bar the bard, after all.
"Is that so?" Jaskier channeled every ounce of confidence he possessed, and threw his condescension in their faces like they were Valdo Marx. “And how do you know I have any money on me at all?” Jaskier keeps his ears trained on the thicket behind him. Help is somewhere in those trees, if he can only keep these fools from attacking him too quickly.
“What, did the Witcher take the coin with him on his hunt?” They scoffed. “We aren’t stupid, bard. And even if you do stiff us on coin, we can cut the nice clothes you’re wearing right off of you. They’re sure to fetch us a pretty price.” They were starting to move, stretching their arms and unsheathing their weapons. Well, Jaskier thought, that was a leap of logic he didn’t think these men were capable of. He needed to figure something out, right now.
“And you chose to do it now because you what, you thought I’d be alone?” He hoped the edge in voice sounded like incredulity. He laughed, forced and with a hint of hysteria. “You really thought Geralt, a Witcher , would leave his bard alone and unprotected at night?” It was his turn to scoff.
The bandits paused. The bard couldn’t be serious?
“He’s very possessive, you know? Never lets me go anywhere without him. And if he isn’t around, then he leaves behind his most trusted. Roach.” Jaskier smirked at the thinly veiled confusion in their faces, mingled with apprehension.
“Surely you’ve heard of Roach.” He sounded aghast. “No? Then let me tell you.” He pitched his voice low, and spread his arms wide, made himself look as dramatic and gravely serious as he could. His own fear was fading now, making way for unbridled glee. He loved a good story.
“She’s a truly fearsome beast, and has been with the Witcher his entire life. Her eyes are like flint- cold until angered, and then they burn, bright enough to sear into your souls.” A flinch, from the one closest to him. Good, Jaskier thinks. Be afraid. “Roach’s face is long, and her gaze can span many miles. Her nostrils can detect even the faintest of scents, from days past. Nothing ever eludes her. Even if you run now, gentlemen, she will find you.” Jaskier bared his teeth in a snarl.
The bandits were visibly shuffling. Jaskier’s words were getting to them. “Her mouth, or maw, rather, is capable of swallowing creatures whole. Her gums are lined with wicked glinting teeth, so strong I’ve seen them go through bone.” A hush had fallen over his audience, held captive in horror. Jaskier had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from exhaling in relief. Swallow an animal whole indeed, he thought mirthfully, as his mind flashed briefly to that morning, when he’d seen Roach chomp down on a hive of bugs, gleefully cracking into their exoskeletons.
“Even her neck is well-muscled, able to carry my weight no matter how tight I hold on. And her back ; well, suffice to say, she can rival her Witcher in strength.” As he talked, Jaskier’s attention still lingered on the copse of trees behind him. Come on, girl. I know you’re there. Just come out now.
His voice wove a horrifying caricature of Geralt’s horse. The dear one had been nothing but wonderful to him, once they’d gotten over their initial territoriality over Geralt; and here he was, turning her into some brutal beast. He would definitely have to make it up to Roach later. Maybe extra apples? He’d have to think about it.
The mist was thicker now. It obscured his feet entirely, and was snaking its way up his calves. Their surroundings were shadowy, and the small forest around them looked far too menacing.
Jaskier suddenly craned his neck to the side, almost certain he’d heard something just then. It was faint, but it was definitely growing closer. He grinned. Good girl.
He clapped his hands together, and the loud sound startled the bandits into bumping into each other. They were very clearly edging into being terrified.
Jaskier continued his spiel.
“The very ground buckles beneath the force of Roach’s limbs, as she sprints across incredible distances. There are very few beasts faster, or more determined than she. Her coat is dark as the sky around us, and she flows through the wind like ink through the nib of a pen.” Jaskier could hear Roach clearly now, could feel the steady drum of her hooves as she crashed past the undergrowth to get to the clearing. Just a little longer.
“Roach’s breaths are gusts that can shake the leaves off trees.” The bandits must have been able to hear the hoofbeats, and the crackle of leaves and bark. They looked at each other, the decision to flee being tossed around non-verbally.
Jaskier could hear a familiar whinny, and he began his concluding arc. “They say if a Witcher’s horse looks at you, you are marked for death.” He gestured to the trees behind him. “These are Cyprus, the trees of the underworld. If you were to die now, even the moon wouldn’t be witness to your slaughter.” Jaskier hedged his final play on the hope that these men wouldn’t be able to tell pine from maple, let alone Cyprus.
“Can you hear her now?” he continued, voice rising slightly. “Would you like me to get her here quicker?” He raised a hand to his mouth, fingers shaped to blow a shrill whistle. “No!” the men exclaimed, some loud and the others whisper faint. They could see the phantom moving in the woods beyond. Their knees shook and their spines betrayed them.
Roach had almost arrived.
“If you leave now,” Jaskier offered, smiling benevolently -although in this setting it did look rather bloodthirsty- “You can leave now, and I won’t set him on you. I’ll even do the ritual to cleanse this place of your scents so Roach will never be able to find you.”
“Yes,” they gasped, sweaty and pale. “Please, spare our lives.”
“Very well,” Jaskier grinned. He was not above a little mischief, even at this point. “All I need from each of you is a weapon- or some coin, if you don’t feel like parting from your protection.” The bandits looked at each other for a moment, and then there was a rapid scramble for coin-purses and secret stashes in the lining of their clothes.
“Step forward, one of you, and just leave it all in a pile. Yes, all of it,” Jaskier gestured impatiently. The clink of the coins as they fell was overshadowed by the sounds they made as they vibrated on the trembling ground.
With a terrifying neigh, Roach burst through the trees and into the clearing, nostrils flaring with effort. With the white fog curling around her form lending a spectral glow, and Jaskier’s last words still ringing in the air, it was all that the bandits could take.
They fled.
It was rather amusing to watch, now that Jaskier no longer feared for his life. He chuckled as he walked over to Roach, nuzzling her snout gently. “Hey, girl,” he whispered, and pressed a soft kiss just below the level of her eyes. “You have no idea what you’ve just done, do you? I am going to give you so many apples. And sugar cubes.”
He continued talking as he led her over to their actual campsite, which was still further along the path.
Oh, did he have a story to tell Geralt.
~
And there you have it, the fib that started all those other rumours. The tale that heralded decades of fantastical storytelling.
Of course, seeing as I have met neither Jaskier nor his Witcher’s noble steed, the actual facts of this story lie embroiled in mystery. The version I told you is the one that was told to me in a similar fashion; from one lore-keeper to the next.
All I ask is that you carry this story forward in your own tales, help spread the seeds of myth and legend. After all, no fiction exists without a grain of truth, and all good stories come with a side of embellishment.