Ancient Wanderers - The Witcher

Chapter 1: The Smell of Venom

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𝓣𝓱𝓮 faint smell of the sea fills my senses. My white mare, Death, moves underneath me with strong muscles forged through consistent travel. I draw her to a stop atop a hill overlooking Gors Velen. The city is surrounded by walls, bristling with towers with glistening, pointed roofs. Beyond it, the gray-green water sparkles in the morning sun, flecked here and there with the white dots of sails.

I lift my head, allowing the wind to blow through my tangled silver blonde hair as I breathe in the scents drifting to me. Salt. Fish - raw as well as cooked. Sewage. And the unmistakably unique odor of this particular city.

In all of my travels, I have found that each place has a fragrance that marks it as its own. Gors Velen's smells oddly of venom.

My fingers flex on the hilt of my silver sword.

"There are monsters here, Death," I mutter to my mount. "I know it."

One perk of wandering the Continent alone is that there's no one to judge me when I talk to my horse. Or is that cause and effect?

I shake myself a bit before ushering Death forward. Time to see if I can be of assistance to this port city.

It takes no time at all to reach the gate leading into town. Hoofs clack upon the cobblestone. Keen eyes miss nothing.

This place has changed drastically since my first visit. Well, it was just a simple settlement back then.

Despite the gargantuan size of the city, it's easy finding a tavern. From the constant influx of patrons through the front door, I can tell that this is the ideal lodging for my stay.

I demount Death and lead her to the stable. Swiftly, I unstrap all my valuables. Extra weapons and two packs, one with clothes and camping essentials, the other with food and supplies. Everything else I own is on my person: a magic-infused shield on my back, a silver sword at my left hip, a coin purse carefully placed on my right hip, and daggers hidden inconspicuously throughout.

I saunter into the tavern with the confidence of a King drunk on wine. My boot-clad feet carry me to the bar where I flag down the man working.

"How much for a bed for two nights and use of your stables?"

His gaze flits from my sword to my almost unnatural-looking hair to the tattoo on my forehead before finally resting on my emerald green eyes.

The stout man takes a moment to size me up. I'm used to the reluctance people initially have when seeing me. My hair is a bit too close to white, some believe it to be inhuman before they realize that there's a touch of gold in the tangled tresses. Then there's the tattoo. It's a pale pink, resembling a birthmark in the shape of an eight-pointed star. They wonder what type of person would choose to have such an obvious marker. Perhaps a mage? Perhaps an elf? But ultimately it's not their business and it's quite easy distracting them from their thoughts.

I pop a hip and rest my hand by my money pouch, purposefully allowing it to jingle with the tink of coin. My eyebrow raises in question, although the sass in my action is clear.

"Fifty groats, lass."

Too tired to argue over the absurdly high price, nimble fingers toss him the amount. He slides a key across the bar to me, "Upstairs, third door on the right."

"Many thanks," I reply, still as polite as ever.

Then I turn on my heel and weave through the crowd. I brush off two pickpockets on the way to the stairs. It's easy enough finding my room. Though small, it has everything I need. A bed. A chest. A rickety table and chair. A single cracked mirror.