Chapter Text
“Master Witcher, we are concerned about the villagers in Brzegin. They were supposed to send in the shipment of salted fish to us weeks ago, but it never arrived. So we sent a couple of men to check, Mattias and Simon. Only Simon returned to us, but he was…half-crazed. Said he saw a demon, and there was a bloody gash on his chest when he came back to us. Fever took him, and the healer who tended to him fell ill soon after."
Geralt's brows furrowed. A village that was cut-off. A messenger who died of fever.
"What happened to the healer?"
The alderman gulped. "She died. We feared the plague, so we burned them both.”
Fuck. “When was this?” Geralt asked.
“The burning? Only a week ago.”
Geralt hummed, casting his gaze outside. They were in a mid-sized town, in the periphery of Kaedwen. Geralt rarely took the road that led to this town in his travels, but he knew that if he had chosen the typical route, he would have to bid farewell to Jaskier within three weeks to head to Kaer Morhen for the winter. They would have arrived at the fork where Jaskier would turn to follow a caravan to Oxenfurt, and...Geralt was not ready to part ways yet. Winter was still a ways away, and so he had chosen a different path, taking them closer to the edges of the Kestrel Mountains. They happened upon the town, which was well-stocked thanks to its proximity to the trades of the Pontar river, and now there was even a promising contract.
Still, the details of the contract bothered him. If he had the corpse of the villager and healer, it would have been easier to figure out what creature could have caused this issue. As it was, he also could not blame the townsfolk for their actions. Plague was a genuine fear, and if an entire village had lost contact with them, that would be the foremost suspect.
“How far is the village?”
“Three days ride northeast from here, if you’re on a horse. We’ll pay you 300 crowns, Master Witcher. To investigate Brzegin, and kill the monster there, if there is indeed a monster.”
“Hold up there,” Jaskier interrupted. The corners of Geralt’s lips twitched. He had, over the years, almost completely handed over the details of contract negotiations to Jaskier, after finding that the bard had the uncanny ability to be both persuasive and shamelessly opportunistic at the same time. He recognized the tone Jaskier was using now and nearly felt sorry for the poor alderman who was about to be fleeced for his coins. “Not only do you not know what creature this could be, you’re also sending this Witcher to a potential plague-infested village. Which requires him to burn the bodies and cleanse the area if that were true. I’d wager 300 crowns for each of those tasks.”
Geralt hid a smile. Plagues were common in the late summer and early autumn, but this close to winter, they were much rarer, though not impossible... but of course Jaskier knew that and was playing it to his advantage.
The alderman paled. “We would not be able to pay such a sum,” he said desperately. “Like I said, we never received the salted fish that was supposed to come, so we have not been able to sell and make business as we usually did. If Brzegin has fallen, we’d need to catch and salt the fish ourselves from here on, and that would pull all our resources. I’ll ask the innkeeper to let you stay here for as long as this takes.”
“That and food. And an additional 100 crowns,” Jaskier haggled. “Unless there is no monster. Someone could have attacked your fellow just as any monster.”
“Oh, no, it was indeed a monster,” the alderman said. “Leyla, the healer, confirmed this before she died. There was something about the wound.”
That piqued the Witcher's interest. “What did she say?” Geralt asked.
“It was black at the edges. Jagged, too. She thought that was what caused his fever, but that doesn’t explain why she fell ill afterwards, too.”
“Then it’s confirmed. Four hundred crowns for us to settle your issue here,” Jaskier countered. "Whatever is keeping your salted fish away is for a Witcher to deal with, and this is risky business. Not to mention, your livelihood depends on it."
“Very well, Master Bard,” the alderman said defeatedly. “We will pay you half upfront, another half when you bring back the head of the monster.”
Geralt stood and walked out of the stone structure into the town center, leaving Jaskier to exchange farewells with the alderman. Four hundred crowns was good earnings, but there was something ominous about having an entire fishing village cut off all contact. Only plague would do something like that, unlikely as it was. As Geralt headed into the tavern, he heard footsteps running behind him and knew, from the light treads, that Jaskier was catching up to him.
“This sounds like a song of wonders in the making,” Jaskier said, flopping down onto a stool as they picked an empty table at the corner of the tavern. Geralt ordered two ales. “A cut-off village. An unknown monster. A missing villager. The village’s healer tragically burned to death.”
Geralt hummed. His slow heart thudded heavily in his chest.
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Jaskier pointed a forefinger at the Witcher’s face, who feigned indifference. “You have that brooding look about you. I am absolutely not going to stay here. Absolutely not. I’m coming with you. If you had one of your Witcher brothers here, then I would, but you don’t. Three days' ride is too far for me to know if something’s happened to you.”
“I will be back in a week. Eight days, at most.”
“No,” Jaskier answered resolutely. “That would take another three days for me to head there if you need me, and I cannot do that. We’ll stay out of the village, if plague is what you’re worried about. I won’t talk to any of the villagers there, and I’ll keep my distance. We’ll camp somewhere safe.”
Geralt sighed. After so many years travelling with Jaskier, he had long conceded that the bard has always been more of a help than a hindrance. He had an uncanny sense of knowing if Geralt needed his help, whether it was to deal with difficult townsfolk or to wash his wounds and nurse him back to health. He had become a softer Witcher, but more fearless in accepting risky contracts.
Jaskier, recognizing the sigh, was already smiling triumphantly. “It’s settled then. We’ll restock our supplies, sleep well in beds tonight, and head out first thing tomorrow. I’ll see if I can get the alderman to spare another horse.”
Geralt knew that once Jaskier had his mind on something, there wasn’t any force of nature that could stop him from attaining what he wanted. And so, when he awoke the next morning and headed down to the stables, he was entirely unsurprised to see Jaskier already awake and ready, feeding apples to a black horse. The worry settled deeper into Geralt’s chest, but he brushed it off, knowing Jaskier would not appreciate being treated like a child. The bard had become accustomed to the ways of Witchers, and despite appearances, could more than hold his own ground…not that Geralt would tell him that.
They set off northeast, following the trail and the rudimentary instructions provided by the alderman. The forest was thick and suffocating, the air heavy and damp. Jaskier, atop his borrowed horse, strummed his lute—a melancholy melody, no doubt finding the mood that would inspire the lyrics to tell the tale of this excursion.
“What do you think it could be, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, breaking the silence, though his fingers still danced across the lute strings. “I know we don’t have much to go off on, but the bestiary catalogue in your head would surely narrow down the options.”
“The most obvious one would be a Pesta. The plague maiden,” Geralt answered. “They spread diseases, but they rarely physically attack people. Your theory that Simon could have been attacked by a villager was sound, until the alderman mentioned the blackened flesh. Plague maidens don’t leave those kinds of wounds.”
There was a short sound as Jaskier spurred his horse, coming to ride beside Geralt. “Could it be one of those…water hag, bog witches kind of monster?”
“That wouldn’t explain why Mattias never came back. They normally stay in the water. It might be a wraith, or an alghoul. They can be tied to curses that stop the villagers from leaving.”
“So…that leaves almost too many options to choose from,” Jaskier concluded.
Geralt hummed.
On the third day, they saw the village. Geralt motioned for them to stop, his keen eyes tracking movement from where they stood. The air was still, and a heavy fog had settled in the area. Though his Witcher senses could sense no movement, Geralt felt the threat in the air and wished, not for the first time, that he had left Jaskier at Gloamhaven.
"That, is absolutely creepy," Jaskier said, his voice cutting loudly in the still air. "It's the perfect sympathetic background to your adventure today. Dark forest. Fog. A quiet village. I'm sure your Witcher eyesight can see more than I can, but I don't think anyone's moving in there," he commented. Geralt remained silent, though he could not help but agree with the bard's observation.
Cautiously, they approached the village, the horses’ hooves unerringly loud. Geralt took note that the road leading into the village was unusually clear. Plague victims would usually post warning notices. There would be piles of burned corpses too, but there was none here, almost confirming to him that it wasn't plague that had cut Brzegin off. As they came closer to the village, the smell of rotting bodies hit his nose and Geralt hissed, flinging his hand sideways to stop Jaskier from proceeding. "Jaskier, stop. Something's wrong."
“I think I smell it,” Jaskier whispered quietly, all playfulness gone from his voice. “There’s nobody alive, is there?”
Geralt made a motion for Jaskier to stay put, then spurred Roach forwards. His gaze roamed around the small huts, the stench of death overwhelming his senses. Yet, apart from the movements caused by the soft winds, he could sense nothing else. Geralt dismounted and chose a random hut to enter, his sense of smell assailed by more death.
Bodies littered the floor in the hut that he entered.
There was a man and a woman, and two girls, all lying dead on the hut floor, though they looked oddly like they were sleeping. There was no blood, no signs of fighting. It almost seemed as if they fell asleep at the same time. While his nose confirmed that they weren't alive, Geralt still crouched forward, pressing a finger against the neck of the man. He likely had been dead for weeks now, judging from the extensive bloating and fluids on the man's face.
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice called from outside the hut. It was soft, yet it sounded afraid.
Fuck. Geralt stood quickly and exited the hut, almost running in his worry. He spotted Jaskier at the edge of the village, still keeping a safe distance from the edge of the huts. He was still atop his horse, looking down on the body of a man sprawled in front of him.
“Jaskier. Stay on the horse," Geralt said, coming closer. "What is it?” He asked, for he could tell that there was no immediate danger nearby.
“This body has a wound in it,” Jaskier answered.
Geralt knelt at the body. Jaskier was right. Where the rest of the villagers seemed to have been sleeping, this one was badly mangled. The man also had died recently, compared to the villagers Geralt had inspected earlier. A long, jagged, blackened wound ran across the man’s back. He held a long dagger in his right hand, stained black. Geralt prised the weapon from the man’s hand, inspecting it. Where the metal had been stained, most likely with the creature's blood, its surface seemed distorted, corroded.
“It’s a Żrączyca,” Geralt said, realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.
“What’s a Żrączyca?” Jaskier asked.
“A cursed creature,” Geralt said, straightening. “Once an herbalist, or a midwife, it's cursed to poison its village with a failed remedy. I’ve never fought one before, but they’re mentioned in the old bestiaries. Its blood can corrode steel, but silver is effective.” Out of all monsters that he had faced, two in particular always put him on edge when Jaskier was around: those that could fly, and those that were poisonous. “Stay close to me, but stay on the horse," he said quietly. “If you see anything, anything amiss, you turn and run,” Geralt’s tone brooked no argument.
Geralt walked over to his pack near Roach, taking stock of his potions. He noted with satisfaction that Golden Oriole and Swallow were well stocked, and that he had several decoctions at his disposal. The main challenge, it seemed, was to make sure to draw the monster away from Jaskier, and keep him at a distance. He already regretted bringing the bard with him, especially now that he had to track the monster.
Geralt downed Thunderbolt and Black Blood. As he felt the potions take effect, he grabbed Roach’s reins, handing it to Jaskier who looked at him with nothing but concern.
Not for the first time in their long friendship, Geralt admired Jaskier’s bravery in facing a Witcher. His eyes, he knew, would be glowing. Dark veins would be visible against his white skin, especially around his neck and eyes. Yet Jaskier never looked at him differently. The bard just gave a resolute nod, a silent promise that he would keep himself—and Roach—safe.
They tracked the monster into the forest.
The trail was easy to follow at first—the occasional splash of dark, acrid blood, leaves and branches that had sizzled from the touch of the acids. Whatever the beast was, it had been wounded, but not enough to slow it down. Mattias must have made a heroic slash at it before he was killed. Yet that was more than a week ago, and Geralt was sure the creature had long healed since then. The fighting, he knew, was short. There wasn't enough damage done to the forest's surroundings, and the creature had killed Mattias with one swipe across the man's back.
Geralt crouched beside a felled tree, fingers brushing across the glistening sap where more dried blood had blackened the bark. He glanced up, eyes narrowing at the way the canopy parted ahead. “It moved towards the water,” he murmured.
Jaskier, still atop his horse, made a small sound. “How do you know?”
Geralt tapped his ear. The wind carried more than just the scent of rot and damp moss—beneath it, a faint rush of water, not distant enough to be the Pontar itself, but perhaps a tributary.
"I hear it," Jaskier said quietly.
They pressed on, the trees growing denser, shadows swallowing the last streaks of evening light. Soon, the ground beneath them softened, mud threatening to suck his boots. Geralt made a gesture to Jaskier to stay put, not wanting the horses to deal with such precarious terrain. The air had become even stiller, an indication of hiding prey. The trees were so dense that the afternoon sun could barely reach them. Geralt thought about downing Cat, then decided against it, wanting to keep his distance from Jaskier and the horses.
A distant snap of a branch echoed through the trees. Something heavy moved just beyond the direction of the stream, deeper in the gloom. The forest fell silent—too silent. No birds. No insects.
Geralt drew his sword, the silver glint catching the little light they had. He signaled once more for Jaskier to stay put, then stepped forward, his boots pressing into the damp earth without a sound. In the darkness, something shifted. A slow, deliberate movement, like a predator testing the air. Then, the curtain of leaves ahead quivered, branches curling inward as if recoiling from the thing emerging from their midst.
The Żrączyca stepped into view.
It held the shape of a woman, but wrongly so—twisted, stretched just beyond natural proportions. Her frame was tall and spindly, her limbs too long, moving with an unnatural, jerking grace, like a marionette held by unseen strings. Bone-thin fingers ended in curved, black claws, clicking softly as she flexed them. Her face was a grotesque mask of hunger and death—what had once been lips were now horribly stretched, skin splitting at the corners of her mouth to accommodate rows of jagged, needle-like teeth, glistening with venom and old blood. Her nose was flattened, nostrils flaring as she sniffed the air, taking in the scent of sweat, steel, and flesh.
Her hair, thick and black as drowned weeds, trailed down her hunched shoulders, shifting as if caught in an invisible current, swaying though no wind stirred the trees. And her eyes—milky, depthless, seeing everything and nothing at once—remained locked onto Geralt.
She moved, her bare feet whispering across the forest floor, circling him slowly. A predator toying with its prey. The stench of decay wafted from her, mingling with the scent of damp leaves and stagnant water.
Geralt held his ground, blade steady, his breathing measured. He had fought things like this before—things that looked human, but were anything but. Carefully, deliberately, he took a slow step backward, drawing her in, leading her away from Jaskier and the horses. He caught a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision—Jaskier, stock-still, clutching the reins of their frightened mounts, watching with wide eyes.
The Żrączyca tilted her head, something between curiosity and amusement flickering across her grotesque features. Then, she exhaled—a long, rattling breath, carrying the stench of bile and rot—and spoke.
"Witcher…"
The creature hissed, its gaunt frame lowering into a predatory crouch, muscles coiling like a viper ready to strike. Its milky eyes gleamed, fixed on Geralt with an unnatural hunger.
Geralt tightened his grip on his silver blade, shifting his stance, watching—waiting.
The Żrączyca lunged.
Geralt barely had time to raise Quen before a stream of searing acid erupted from its gaping maw. The golden shield flared, holding for the barest second before shattering on impact, sending sparks cascading into the air. He twisted away, rolling across the damp earth, but still, droplets of burning ichor sizzled against his armor. He gritted his teeth against the sting, the scent of charred leather and scorched flesh curling into his nostrils.
The Żrączyca lunged again—faster this time—its long, spindly arm snapping forward, its claws seeking flesh. Geralt barely slipped beneath the strike, feeling the rush of air as razor-sharp talons carved through empty space where his head had been a moment before.
He moved on instinct, sword flashing in the dim moonlight as he twisted, aiming for the joint. Silver met dead flesh with a wet slice. The Żrączyca shrieked, a horrid, grating sound as one of its legs buckled, blackened ichor gushing from the wound. It collapsed, its skeletal frame twisting unnaturally as it hit the mud.
Geralt saw his opening.
He lunged forward, driving his sword toward its heart, but something was wrong. The Żrączyca did not recoil, did not scramble away from the fatal strike. Instead, it spread its arms wide, its lips peeling back into something eerily akin to a smile.
A trap.
The moment the blade plunged into its chest, its long, skeletal arms snapped around him, locking him in a suffocating embrace. The burst of acidic blood exploded from the wound, searing into his sides, burning through the gaps in his armor, eating into flesh.
Geralt gritted his teeth against the pain, but the Żrączyca wasn’t finished. It lunged—jaw unhinging, needle-like teeth sinking into his neck.
Then it screamed.
Black Blood was working.
The creature convulsed, its limbs spasming as the toxic elixir burned through it from the inside out. Its grip faltered, but not before one last, desperate swipe—claws raking across Geralt’s scalp, drawing hot, wet pain.
Geralt collapsed, the Żrączyca’s limp frame pinning him to the forest floor. His breath came ragged, his body burning, muscles screaming in agony as acid seeped into raw wounds.
Then—silence.
The creature had stilled.
Geralt’s vision blurred, then darkness swallowed him whole.
“Fuck,” Jaskier was already spurring his horse towards Geralt as he saw the Witcher and monster tumble. Dismounting, Jaskier raced towards his friend, stopping short. Geralt was lying on his front, the creature awkwardly splayed on his back, the silver sword sticking out from its front. Jaskier could smell the sizzle of acid in the air.
“Geralt? Geralt, Geralt! Geralt, wake up!” His friend didn’t stir. "Fuck," Jaskier said again. "Think Jaskier, think."
He could tell by sight alone that Geralt's armor was damaged, corroded by the creature's blood. Geralt said that silver was effective, but there was no way for Jaskier to reach the sword without first touching the Żrączyca. Not that he wanted to. He also didn't have anything that he could use to pull his friend away. With time running short, Jaskier knew that he had no choice. He dropped to his knees and reached forwards, tugging Geralt's gloves off and putting them on. There was no way for this to be painless, but he also knew that leaving Geralt to die was no option. Steeling himself, Jaskier grasped Geralt’s body from under the armpits and tugged hard, attempting to drag his friend away. The acid on Geralt’s armor ate his flesh and Jaskier screamed, yet his hold remained firm.
“Come on, Geralt!” Jaskier tugged, his friend coming free from the thin monster’s arms.
Jaskier felt his arms and hands burn as he continued to drag Geralt deeper into the forest, towards the stream. The acidic smell was nauseating, already threatening to pull him unconscious. Yet Geralt was in a precarious position, and Jaskier knew he couldn’t rest yet.
With slow, painful steps, he dragged the witcher to the stream, burning his fingers as he ripped the armor off his friend, the acid already eating through the gloves. The pain in his fingers was agonizing, drawing tears from his eyes as he divested his friend from the armor, then dragged him into the shallow water to wash the acid away. “Roach,” Jaskier called weakly. “Roach, here.”
The chestnut mare came closer. Jaskier tugged his dagger from his boot, carefully cutting across the strap to Geralt’s pack so he wouldn’t touch the mare. He rifled through the contents of Geralt’s witcher pack, choosing four potions.
“White Honey,” Jaskier said aloud, his burned fingers trembling as he removed the awkward gloves and uncorked the bottle, tipping its contents into Geralt’s mouth. The effect was instantaneous, as Geralt trashed and moaned. Jaskier kept a hold of his friend, uncorking the next bottle. “Golden Oriole…for that bite,” he said, tipping the contents again. The trashing lessened, and Jaskier felt his vision darkening as he uncorked the third bottle. “Swallow…to heal you,” he said, tipping the contents again. Geralt’s eyes flickered open and Jaskier almost cried in relief. “Last one…Troll’s decoction…” he said, tipping the last of the contents into Geralt’s mouth.
Geralt’s eyes drooped closed and Jaskier slumped backwards, his trousers and chemise soaked wet. He dipped his arms into the water, screaming as the cold water seared his skin, and registered no more.