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 EIGHT ─ THE TRIDAM ULTIMATUM, PART ONE DISCLAIMER: Much of this chapter is from Sapkowski himself, from The Last Wish, which I have edited and added my own touches to. Many Witcher fans haven't read the novels so if you like the writing in this chapter, I urge you to go give them a read! In this chapter, everything up until Ruselm arrives is Sapkowski's work. After Ruselm is in Blaviken, though, is my own work.
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THE GOLDEN COURT, the country town's elegant inn, was overly crowded and awfully noisy. The guests, both locals and visitors, were mostly engaged in activities typical for their nation or profession. Serious merchants argued with dwarves over the price of goods and credit interest. Less serious merchants pinched the backsides of the girls carrying beer, cabbage and beans. Local nitwits pretended to be well-informed. Harlots were trying to please those who had money while discouraging those who had none. Carters and fishermen drank as if there were no tomorrow, spilling alcohol all over their fronts. Some seamen were singing a song which celebrated the ocean waves, the courage of captains and the graces of mermaids, the latter graphically and in considerable detail, which the witcher expected nothing less from them.
"Exert your memory, friend," Caldemeyn said discretely to the innkeeper, leaning across the counter in order to be heard over the din. The alderman had met up with Geralt after he'd left Stregobor's tower, just after the kikimora had been disposed of. "Six men and a wench, all dressed in black leather studded with silver in the Novigradian style. I saw them at the turnpike earlier. Are they staying here or at The Tuna Fish?"
The innkeeper wrinkled his bulging forehead and wiped a tankard on his striped apron morosely. "Here, Alderman," he finally said. "They say they've come for the market but they all carry swords, even the woman. Dressed, as you said, in black. Clearly Novigradian."
"Well." The alderman nodded. "Where are they now? I don't see them."
"In the lesser alcove. They paid in gold."
"I'll go in alone," said Geralt, excusing himself from the innkeeper who continued to give him nasty sideways glances and the alderman. "There's no point in making this an official affair in front of them all, at least for the time being. I'll bring her out here."
"Maybe that's best." Caldemeyn nodded. "But be careful, I don't want any trouble."
"I'll be careful."
The seamen's song, judging by the growing intensity and number of obscene words, was reaching its grand finale. Geralt drew aside the curtain of the lesser alcove—stiff and sticky with dirt—which hid the entrance to the small space. Six men were seated at the table, stretched out to various degrees as they relaxed. Shrike wasn't with them.
"What'd'you want?" yelled the man who noticed him first. He was balding and his face was disfigured by a scar which ran across his left eyebrow, the bridge of his nose and his right cheek.
