The rain poured hard on the crumbling rooftops of the brothel's inn. Dominik had no interest in the painted whores in the rooms above him, the calls of men's pleasure being something off a disgust to his ears. Especially not having spent the past few days in the hell hole of a city, he'd come to know the locals by their gargled cries after fucking the whores. He'd find pleasure another time, in another city where the coin flowed a little more freely and the men didn't have names on the streets. He picked up the cup of ale and threw his head back, there was little pleasure in the taste. It was almost stale against his tongue with the frustration he felt with the current situation. Whores and beggars screamed their obscenities above him, gamblers and cheats fought through the night below him. There was no haven, no matter which city a Witcher went to, there was no welcoming hand to guide him through the town, not a second glance at the eyes which screamed of murder.
Flotsam was the
town he currently stayed, the ale was easy and the work nothing more difficult. Nekkers had inhabited the forests once more, having been cleared when the infamous White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia had come through some years prior. At the same time, he'd also managed to get the infamous Iorveth captured, kill a mutated and overgrown Kayran, and kill off the local sheriff of sorts, Loredo. Flotsam was lawless, full of whores, and full of contracts for him to fulfill. It was his kind of work, and the added bonus of free room and board in a whorehouse wasn't bad. The only problem was the city. He hated the atmosphere.
"Witcher?" A man stumbled up from the basement of the inn, jabbing his hand towards the white haired mutant. "Yo-you said you'd be riddin' the-"
Whatever he wanted, it wasn't clear. The Witcher eyed him up, golden orbs of the trade giving him a stern look. The man stumbled back down and the instance was over. The whole room was silent as they watched the man's every move. Witcher's were once feared, hated beings. They still were, but had it not been for Geralt his presence would've been shunned.
Dominik fumbled with the chain around his neck, a menacing
wolf medallion hung on the end. The Witcher hadn't the pleasure of studying under Geralt, but he had the privilege of being from the same school. The wolf was their symbol, and the medallion aided him wherever he went. A Wticher was never seen without a few things. One being the medallion of their school, and the other a famed silver sword. Silver was key in banishing most creatures, but the Witcher himself was also just as important. Without his improved skill and ability, a normal man wouldn't last five minutes with any beast.
"Come now, Witcher, don't be shy!" One of the whores approached his table. "Come on upstairs, we can tumble for a while."
"Fuck off." He growled.
"Oh, sour one." She teased. Her hand reached for his face, but he swattered her away easily. At the action she finally scowled, folding her hands across her barely covered chest.
"I said,
fuck off." He repeated. Dominik looked up to her eyes, signing with his hands beneath the table. It was an old trick, and when his hands stopped moving, her eyes grew glassy.
"Of course, Witcher, good'day." Her voice was far in the distance, the trance the Witcher put on her would fade as soon as she was gone. It was nothing harmful, he just didn't want to be bothered.
Dominik slammed the glass on the table and stood from his seat in the inn. There was work to be done, most of it at night when the Nekker population was above ground. Nasty little things they were. He strutted from the inn and out of the town's fortified walls. They were once guarded with Loredo's men, but since his passing, the town had gone to shit. Guards were nowhere to be seen on the walls, instead flaunting their cocks at the local prostitutes. The only ones watching the walls were the local Scoia'tael forces, but they did so behind enemy lines. An elf in the city was a dead elf.
He rolled his shoulders and pulled his silver sword from his back. It slid effortlessly from its sheath, glowing grossly in the pale light of the moon. From deep in the woods he could hear the cries of monsters unknown, it was Witcher's work for sure. Slaying them was never easy, but the pay was well worth the fight. Coming back with a new scar only meant a better story in the end. So he smiled, his golden eyes glinted eerily to those who might have seen, and trekked on into the dark. The pay was always worth it.
Witcher's work, he reminded himself, it would always be worth it.