Ancient Wanderers - The Witcher

Chapter 9: The Striga's Kiss

*Unedited

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𝓖𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓵𝓽 looks out of the broken palace window. I walk to his side, staring at the view. A light snowfall brings a bit of brightness to dusk. Beyond the lake the distant lights of Wyzim twinkle.

There is a wilderness around the old palace - a strip of no-man's land with which, over seven years, the town had cut itself off from this dangerous place, leaving nothing but a few ruins, rotten beams, and the remains of a gap-toothed palisade which had obviously not been worth dismantling and moving.

As far away as possible - at the opposite end of the settlement - the king had built his new residence. The stout tower of his new palace looms black in the distance, against the dark evening sky.

The Witcher returns his attention to the dusty table where he's been preparing, calmly and meticulously. We have a bit of time. The striga won't leave her crypt before midnight.

On the table in front of him, he has a small pouch. He opens it. Inside, packed tightly, stand small vials of dark glass. The White Wolf removes three.

Geralt whispers an incantation and drinks, one after the other, the contents of two vials, placing the third into a pouch on his person. He stands motionless, his eyes closed. His breathing, at first even, suddenly quickens, becoming raspy and tense. And then it stops completely.

The mixture which helps the Witcher gain full control of his body is chiefly made up of veratrum, stramonium, hawthorn, and spurge. The other ingredients have no name in any human language. For anyone who is not, like Geralt, inured to it from childhood, it will be a lethal poison.

The White Wolf turns his head abruptly. In the silence, his hearing, sharpened beyond even my capabilities, picks up on something. It must be midnight.

I glance at him. His eyes are pitch black, the surrounding skin darkened considerably. My head dips in a nod.

We quickly depart the room after Geralt retrieves a silver chain, making our way down to the main floor where the striga will meet us after dealing with Ostrit. I pull off my necklace, allowing it to lengthen, just as the screams echo to our sensitive ears.

My intrusion had not allowed Ostrit to form words, but apparently, his ability to die loudly remained intact.

A soft vibration alerts us to prepare - Geralt's medallion and my sword. His eyes flit to my weapon. But the screeching grows closer forcing us to round the corner to gaze up the stairs. There at the top, stands the striga. Its disproportionately large head is set on a short neck surrounded by tangled, reddish blonde hair. Her eyes shine in the darkness like an animal's. Long fingers end in talons covered in blood. Dark gray wrinkly skin covers its large body.

Ever so slowly, the creature walks down the steps. When it reaches our floor I can make out an umbilical cord dragging the ground behind it.

The end of Geralt's thick and heavy chain drops with a clank. Mine is much thinner but strongly enforced by magic. Though, looking at the striga, I doubt it will be much help.

Regardless, we both swing the ends of our chains in a circle beside us, tinkling filling the air. Then we toss them to wrap them around the monster, trapping its arms. The striga screams as its flesh melts, vapor rising from the areas where silver touches it.

But suddenly, it breaks free. It opens its jaws - as if proud of its rows of pointed teeth - then snaps them shut with a crack like a chest being closed.