𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐌'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐘 | ❝ Great works are performed not by strength but by perseverance. ❞
A quest to complete a bestiary leads Ruselm to force the infamous witcher Geralt, of Rivia, to accompany him during his travels after many ins...
RUSELM'S BESTIARY CHAPTER FOURTEEN ─ BALLAD OF A NOONWRAITH Note: Spam this update with comments, please! I'd love to know what you guys are thinking. I mean how are we feeling about Martien, or what happened to Ellie? What do you guys think of Bayset so far? Are we enjoying things from Geralt's perspective? Gimme all the comments. Also, congrats to us on reaching 11.5k reads. We rock. Forewarning, this chapter's a bit long. Dedication: _wearingsamtotheprom
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THE SILVER EAGLE wasn't so much of an inn as it was more a glorified tavern with a few rickety wooden benches next to a darkened table at the back where a few of Bayset's day-drinkers were sleeping off their last round before they would wake and eventually return home to their families, too wasted to drink into the night. Candles flicker lazily, their warm orange glow lighting the corners of the inn. There were a few alcoves directly off from the main room where men were busy playing dice poker, voices raised with excitement, or where they were discussing the latest gossip in low tones, glancing conspicuously over their shoulders every few moments just to be sure none were listening in on that private conversation. Some of the men were singing a song as Geralt entered, too.
It was a melancholic tune he'd heard on the road before, probably written a long time ago by some unknown bard, and it was about a young woman who lost everything.
As he stops just in front of the threshold, the door swings closed behind the witcher and shuts with a swift bang! that draws the attention of more than a few pairs of unfriendly eyes. The atmosphere suddenly shifts into one that is all too familiar to the witcher. It's apprehensive, as though they're all waiting for Geralt to start brandishing his weapon against them without provocation. Breath baited and leaning to the edge of their seats, he feels at home amongst the inimical, judgemental faces because it's all he's ever known. Where witchers tread, antagonistic souls soon follow and they are in every town, every city, and every village.
Their ire was nothing new.
Geralt examines the room in a single glance and approaches the bar at the back, where a young barmaid pretends to look busy cleaning out a rustic wooden mug that has seen countless patrons over its years of service. She's using the edge of her dirty white apron, bunched up in one fist, to get at the bottom of the mug. She makes no comment at the witcher's arrival.
Slowly, the talking and singing and rolling of dice resumes while Geralt takes a seat at the bar. Everything becomes comfortable again, although it teeters on the edge of apprehension as more than one pair of eyes remain on Geralt probably to ensure he doesn't stir up trouble. Those eyes burn into the back of his head, daring him to do something, just anything for these men to start a row with him. It might have been the middle of the day, nearing evening, but drunkenness and stupidity had no time limits. He would have to be on his toes while this many men were at the inn.
