Cyras's 1 shots (fan fiction)

[Cyras]

OOC: I rarely post 1-20 page short stories. My fan fictions run between 50,000-100,000 words when I am done with them. Most of them span "books" such as a witcher fan fiction that I am writing. So, this thread will rarely be updated.

I thought I would share with you some of my better 1 shot fan fictions.

One Sexy Man, Ezio Auditore

OOC: This story came about when my husband and I were joking around about the narcissism that Ezio must have. It is not meant to be a serious piece. Think of it as satire. Beside canon characters, Cyras appears in it, also. She is the star of my AC fan fiction "Deception".

IC:
She walked into the hideout on Tiber Island, feeling the warmth of the inner sanctum surround her. While she had been demoted for her own foolishness, there was a boon to her loss of rank. Now, Cyras was Ezio's apprentice. The irony of the situation was not loss on her, however.

Smoke blanketed the air, bathing the few initiates in its hazy cocoon. On the wind, she could smell the pungent, sweet smell of hashish. She could see two novices sharing a wooden pipe and passing a long wooden dowel to each other. As they lit the ebony paste-like substance, their eyes gleamed in the darkness like raptor eyes.

"Cyras," one of them, the slimmer female of the group, called to her. A cloud of ivory smoke enveloped the other woman's head and rose to the ornate ceiling.

Nodding her head slightly to the other female novice, Cyras continued on her way. She was not there to socialize. If it was any other time than the present, she would have stopped and smoked with them. Instead, she knew where she needed to be. Her master had tasked her with an assignment and requested her presence when it was completed.

The sides of her mouth lifted in a grin. She was not completely humorless. There was a time in her life where she thought Ezio would never pass her in rank. Just the idea of answering to Ezio was enough o make her smile.

As she walked pass the great hall, the smell of fresh baked bread overcame her. Her stomach growled with the anticipation of a good meal. It would be awhile before she would eat. Perhaps, Ezio would take supper with her if he did not partake in dinner already. She smiled more, thinking how much she would like that.

Unfortunately, it would be quite some time before she would get to eat. He would have another The coin purse attached to her belt clinked together with each soft footstep. Her boot-heels rang hollowly on the marble flooring.

She entered the lengthy, dark hallway. The sulfuric aroma of candles penetrated her eyes. Her bright gaze blurred as her footsteps echoed eerily behind her. Despite living in Roma for a few weeks, the intense sour stink of the candles always affected her vision. Cyras hated it, but she would gladly bare it.

Sighing, she reached the door she was looking for. She looked up and studied it intensely. The mahogany wood swept in carved designs. Various birds of prey cried out in endless silence on the edges of the huge door. Ezio's room was one of the best chambers in their quaint hideout on Tiber Island.

Again, she smiled. She preferred to stay in Ezio's room than with the other novices. Cyras considered herself above the new recruits in both personality and skill. She could be slightly egotistical when she wished it. However, she wondered if it was egotistical if it was true?

The other side to staying in Ezio's room with him was that he offered willingly. Ezio was known for his somberness. It was something that she had come to admire in the man. He was one of the only people she could count on to give her an honest opinion.

His room reflected his very personality. In contrast with the novice chambers, Ezio's reflected the solitude of an assassin's life. She would often come there to get away from the noise and chatter of the others. It was the silence and peace that she craved.

Opening the door, she mused how she did not even knock anymore. Cyras and Ezio knew each other for over twenty years. They had developed a sense of comfort that most couples saw in the long years after being together. Ezio had been there for her every time she had need of him. Almost every time, she reminded herself, bitterly.

Cyras reached down and placed her hand over her stomach. The sense of loss overcame her sharply. It overwhelmed the woman in its intensity. She had thought she was over the painful emotion and her lover's betrayal. Dread and anger crept over her.

Like a dog shaking off water, she shook off the old memories. She could not hold Ezio's actions against him forever. He had done his penance for his actions a few years prior. He would never abandoned her again. The assassin swore to her. Cyras believed him.

"You are one sexy man, Ezio Auditore," she heard a voice murmur.

She stopped in her tracks. For a moment, she was not sure what she saw. A part of her hoped that she was in a nightmare. Another part of her knew she was not.

"No wonder all the women want you," Ezio continued. He lifted his arm and brushed his hand lightly over his muscular abs.

"And this is the man that I wish to be il mentore (the Mentor)," she murmured to herself. Closing her eyes, she wondered if she was seeing things. She had to be. Ezio would not be standing before a mirror and admiring himself as she thought he was. Raising her hand to the bridge of her nose, she pinched.

A swift wind came from the open window, ruffling her blonde hair. The light mass whipped against her face, stinging her cheeks.

She opened her eyes and gazed at the strange man again. Cyras did not recognized the naked man before her. How could she? "What?" she asked, curiously. "What are you doing?"

He stopped the impassioned rubbing of his stomach and locked his dark gaze with hers in the mirror. Redness crawled across his cheeks, turning his olive complexion darker. It was slightly cute in a morbid way.

For one agonizing moment, both of them stood still. She was privy to a private moment that she had no desire to witness.

"I was checking myself for bruises," he spoke, suddenly. It amazed her at how he could be calm after she caught him doing whatever he was doing. Of course, she would not let him get away with it.

"Oh?" she chuckled. She could not help herself. Laugh after laugh erupted from her. Cyras did not mean to laugh at him. Yet, he looked so absurd standing before the antique, full length mirror. After the day that she had, she could see the humor in the situation. No one but her saw this side of Ezio. Even with her, it was a rare glimpse into a very special soul. "Your bruises think you are a sexy man?"

"Cosa? (What?)" he asked. he did not think that the man could become anymore uncomfortable. Cyras had him exactly where she wanted him. Because of her love for Ezio, she let the charade that Machiavelli orchestrated with her demotion. The woman did not want conflict within the brotherhood. However, it was too strange of a sight to just ignore.

"What were you doing?"

"That's brotherhood secrets," he managed to get out. He turned from the mirror looking at her. Slowly, a wiry grin spread across his face.

"I'm part of the Brotherhood, Ezio."

"You are not high enough rank to learn those secrets," he continued, lecturing her. It was still a funny sight to behold. The Master Assassin Ezio Auditore da Firenze was quick on his feet. As with her, he had a natural ability.

"I think I learned those secrets many years ago," she whispered, planting herself on his bed.

"Nevermind that," he stumbled, muttering in his uneasiness. "Did you accomplish what you set out too?"

"450 florins," she said. She unhooked the pouch of coin and threw it at him. "When are you going to make these tasks challenging?"

[Cyras]

OOC: Excerpt of a later chapter of Deception, my AC fan fic.

IC:
AC BRO Life and death
Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, Cyras was disoriented, not knowing if she was alive or dead. She splayed her hands and tried to get an idea of where she was. The woman was on a simple bed. Judging by that, she did not think she had been captured. Her shoulder ached, but the wound have been tended to and bandaged.

"I was wondering when you were going to wake up," Ezio said from his seat across the room.

Instantly, her eyes darted to him. She fell back in a mixture of relief and shame. She was safe. With Ezio standing before her, she knew that he was alive. Claudia and Maria were right. He had escaped with them through the tunnels beneath Monteriggioni.

However, there was one nagging thought ramming inside of her brain. Cesare still lived. He was not brought to justice. She had failed in her mission. The knowledge of the failure penetrated her like a honed blade of a dagger.

"Why didn't you come to me when you learned that I was safe? Cyras?" he spoke softly. Ezio stared at her, and it felt as if he was looking through her. "Why did you hide from me?"

At that moment, she knew that he had hounded Claudia into telling him everything.

"You would have tried to stop me from going after the Borgia," Cyras murmured. She dropped her head, studying the bland fabric woven into the blanket. It was the first time that Ezio had reprimanded her for going off on her own. "I did what I had to do."

"You're damned right I would have tried to stop you," Ezio blurted. His voice raised in an unusual display of dismay. "You were foolish. You almost died!"

"There is nothing foolish about what I did," she snarled. She lifted her head, gazing at him with fire lighting her eyes. The shame colored her cheeks. However, she would defend what she did to her last breath. "I was just doing what you have done for as long as I known you."

"We are in the city of our enemy, Cyras," Ezio protested. There was no bitterness in his voice. There was no anger. There was nothing. He slipped back into his calm countenance. The man who she had loved was a stranger to her. To much time had passed between the two. In his place, a man who came to age stood. It was with the experienced that he had gained against the Spaniard that he judged her. "We must move with caution. We must be precise."

Cyras knew when she was wrong. She sighed, and the breath hammered out of her chest. Lifting her hand, she winced as pain assaulted her side. It would seem like the aim of the guard who attacked her was true. She placed her other hand on her side. The soft linen slide across her fingertips. Whoever had taken care of the wound to her stomach saw to it well.

"Some one wise once told me that a person's actions affect others," he stated. It was what she had told him months earlier when she had briefly visited him the day before Claudia's birthday. "I thought you were dead. The reason you are not is because Abatos led me to you, and Niccolo and I got you to a dottore before it was too late."

"I'm sorry."

"Machiavelli wishes to see you," he spoke up. The calmness in his voice was edged with apprehension. She was sure she was the only one who could detect it. When someone was around someone for as long as she was with Ezio, they could merely sense things.

"What does he want with me?" Cyras asked, unsure of what the future held. She did not feel like dragging herself out of bed to bring herself before the new Grand Master. She, somehow, knew that some sort of punishment awaited her.

"He is waiting outside," Ezio stated. "I will let him in, and he can tell you himself. Ezio strode to the door, opened it, and poked his head out.

Moments later, Niccolo Machiavelli entered behind him. He looked upon Cyras with disdain, and she could see the anger in his eyes.

Dread pooled inside of her, making goose-flesh appear on her skin.

"Your brazen actions have endangered the brotherhood," he spoke with authority. "They have brought unneeded attention down upon us and has put our allies in danger. They may have even damaged our relations with those allies. Such actions can not go unpunished. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Cyras was silent, refusing to explain herself to a man she was loathed to trust.

"For your actions," Machiavelli went on after a moment, "you are to be stripped of your rank. You are nothing more than an initiate, and, as such, you will be given your hidden blade when you have proven yourself worthy. You will, also, be given a master, someone who can train you in the proper ways to behave."

Cyras found it ironic that another man named Niccolo had ruined her life. She knew punishment would likely come from her choices. At that time, she did not care. Even when she was stripped of her rank, she still did not care. The soldiers associated with the death of her friends had to die.

She closed her eyes, ruing the thought of having to work her way up through the Brotherhood again. There were only a handful of assassins who could preform such a duty. They had lost much in the war against the Templars. "Who will he be?" she asked hesitantly.

"I will," Ezio spoke up from her bedside. "Niccolo does not agree with me, but I insisted."

Relief washed over her. Ezio and Cyras had kept their relationship as much a a secret as the two could. If Machiavelli had known of the relationship between the two, he would have barred the request.

She waited for Niccolo to finish speaking. At that moment, she realized something important. Cyras hated him. Grief welled inside of her. It wailed against the loss of those she counted among friends. The brotherhood would surely suffer under the weight of his reign. She knew that he was one of Cesare's lackeys. Having voice her suspicions to La Volpe, it would only be a matter of time before they would have proof.

If Machiavelli was truly a traitor, she did not want to spook him. He would damn himself in his ignorance. However, if Niccolo knew he was being watched, then Cyras and La Volpe would never know for sure.

"Now if you'll excuse us, Niccolo," Ezio spoke, "I have to see to Cyras' lessons. I'll keep you informed of her progress, which I foresee to be quick. She is and always been capable, even if her choices are sometimes erroneous."

Silently, Machiavelli left the room, though it was clear that he was annoyed with the entire situation. His mood didn't matter one iota to Cyras. She was not out to please anyone. She was out to uphold the creed of the Assassin's order, to safeguard free will. The fact that she was being punished for exercising hers was not lost upon her. She knew, though, that Machiavelli would not be the Grand Master for long. One day, her lover would hold that place, and politics would no longer be an issue. Niccolo cared to much about appearances.

"The first thing I want you to do is to take a walk through the city," Ezio said. "Stay on Tiber Island. I want you to gather one hundred florins, through any means other than prostitution. Come back to me when you've gathered the coin. And remember, I will be watching you."

"Do you mean any way?" she asked, smiling to disarm the situation. This serious, melancholy Ezio was unfamiliar to her. It bothered her. She did not like him being disappointed in her. "Does that mean that I can make a visit to the banco (bank)?"

"Clever girl," Eizo chuckled, "but no. You are to use your skills to obtain the money. I was thinking of something more along the lines of lightening the pockets of some of the more affluent citizens that walk through the district. There are no guards here on the island, so you won't have to worry about fighting unarmed."

"I knew what you meant," Cyras replied, flatly. "When are you going to grow a sense of humor, il mio amore (my love)?"

"I am not humorless!" Ezio blurted in mock abhorrence. "You wound me with your words. I think that when Niccolo took your weapons, he forgot the most dangerous of them all: your tongue."

"Let's not talk about Niccolo," Cyras sneered. "Come, Ezio. I had though you dead, and I have missed you."

[Cyras]

OOC: This was for an entry for an Assassin's Creed contest hosted by one of the many clubs on Deviantart. The club closed the contest because there wasn't many submissions for it. We had to take a scene from AC 2 and explain it in our own words.

When I write, I love to take how the character feels. I feel it gives a more meaningful view into the person. In sense, it makes the writing more "Real".

Searing Embers
Heat assaulted the young man, burrowing underneath his flesh. His skin crawled with both grief and rage. In that single night, he had lost everything that truly mattered to him. His father and his brothers were brutally executed. Federico had taught him how to free-run. Who would be there to jibe him on his conquests or lack of them. Petruccio was innocent. He did not harm another living soul. His father.   .   .

Even his mother and sister were not safe.  Maria had been accosted by the guards. Shock ate away at her voice, rendering her speechless. Claudia had witnessed the horrific assault, and his sister would never be the same again. She was scarred as was the assassin novice.

In a space of a week, their entire lives had been shaken as if they were leaves tossed about in an autumn wind. He was left alone, a barren trunk in in the midst of the desert.  There would be no lush vegetation around him until the seed of retribution fully blossomed and was harvested.

He stood still; fear circling deep within his stomach. It shadowed the boy and oozed over his thoughts as if it were boiling oil. The terror gripped him, and his stomach clenched tightly.  Feeling like he was going to be sick, the boy could not withstand such an indignity as that.

Closing his eyes, his thick eyelashes fluttered against his hot cheek. Even though he had seen to his father and brother's burials, their dead, life-less eyes continued to stare at him through the darkness behind his gaze. They haunted him still, and he thought that they would always.

For a reason, Ezio Auditore could not fathom they all were taken from him. He only knew he wanted vengeance against those who harmed his. Even though he wanted a woman's comfort, Ezio could not understand that no one could provide him the succor that his soul cried out for.  The boy was at the young, tender age where a man's life was carved out before him. The ground of his life would forever be  pitted and the lands blackened. There would be no other way.

Opening his eyes, he gazed at the woman, who seemed to grow in maturity over the course of the week, before him. His heart clenched tightly in his chest. Misery assaulted him, slicing and twisting to the surface. In truth, he wanted this woman to comfort him. He wanted her to flee with him, and he would protect her as best as he how.  

Most of all, he wanted what his father and mother had. A real love. Something that transcend space and time. He thought he found it in this beacon of searing warmth before him. She helped him do the impossible, pushing him into setting the bodies of his fallen family aflame and adrift in the Arno.

She stood before him with tiny diamonds of sadness sparkling in her eyes. Her bottom lip quivered. Why was it so hard for her to say yes to him? Why could she not just let him protect her? It would be something that would follow the Florentine man throughout his life.

Ezio reached out, brushing her bottom lip with his thumb. He could see her tremble beneath his touch like a wave breaking on shore. Even though he wanted to be the rock, the man was little more than a crumbling land. The future lay murky before him, and he wanted his future with this woman. She was the craggy piece of earth, supporting him in the most difficult moment of his life.

Again, scorching, ivory embers blazed inside of his body. He felt the grief well up inside of him again. Everything he planned, every single moment of his life, had erupt like paper set aflame. Ezio wanted a life with her. No, he wanted more than that. He wanted to watch his children mature as he grew old with her.

She opened her mouth, her delicate mouth that held such pleasures that a woman could never imagine. None could pleasure him as this woman. She was gifted in everything she done. Yet, it was deeper than that. She was inside his body, inside the secret room in his heart that he would erect barriers around. As he matured, none would breach it.

As she told him that she could not come with him (and that her family was more important), his heart clenched painfully in his chest. A part of him would not rest until the murders of his family and the disastrous treatment of his mother was avenged. That part of him glowed brightly, igniting emotions that the boy had never felt.

The other mourned the loss of a life that was yet to begin. He wanted very much to be with her, to provide for her, and to take her in his arms. Ezio knew the truth. He could not.

Again, his heart felt like it was struck from a bolt from a crossbow. Like his father and brothers' necks, he felt a noose slip over him. Inside, he recoiled from her devastating refusal. Another part of his life was slammed shut, and it was taken from him prematurely.  The loop of proverbial rope tightened around his neck.

She walked away from him. In the distance, he could see her straight back was bent with the proverbial, intense grief that they both experienced that evening.

Ezio felt the pressure of his emotions at that moment.  They bore down on him like boulders crashing upon his body.

"I've always been with you," he whispered into the sudden wind to the departing woman's back, "and I'll always be with you."

[Cyras]

After I quit World of Warcraft in 2008, I stumbled on an adult game called The Witcher. I began to write fan fictions for it. Before the announcement of the Witcher 2, I was approached by mods on the official Witcher forum and asked to write a fan fiction for their news letter. Well, I don't know what happened. Perhaps, they were swept up in the announcement of their second game. The newsletter was never published. I think I'll share it with you.

Of Manticores and Witchers
1.
Rain fell in stinging sheets, bearing down upon the heads and shoulders of the peasants who did not seek the comfort of shelter. The wind howled its displeasure against the worn building like a client unleashing his rage on a unwilling whore. Shutters slammed against the sides of the dilapidated inn, and splinters of wood crumbled to the sodden ground. The fat drops of rain soaked the dirt, creating a slurry of mud and rocks.

Within the inn, it was business as usual. Most taverns were the same throughout the various kingdoms. One could find a plethora of ales, a veritable panoply of overpriced, poorly prepared food, and just as many women hawking flesh. In many cracks in the walls of the common room, flies stuck to several webs as if they were prisoners shackled to some wall in a forgotten dungeon. Bulbous, dark spiders dangled on silken, silvery threads as they spun demise for their intended victims. Mangy rats scurried from one darkened corner to another. Their abdominous bodies dragged noisily against the floor.

He stood before the mass of fawning women. Some had bellies swollen with child. Their dark manes were tied back with simple brown twine. Most of their cheeks reddened with exuberance as their eyes sparkled with enjoyment and ecstasy. All had their shoes off, and the dirt from the floor clung to their small, slender toes.

Slowly, the delicate chords of the lute faded. It was accompanied by the wind from the raging storm outside, mixing into a fragile symphony of silent and wild emotions. The two sensations could never be mixed.

Several of the women raised linen handkerchiefs, dabbing their eyes with the corners of the cloth. Some of the lower class women used the blackened sleeves of their dresses. What help the soiled garments offered remained to be seen. Instead of wiping the tears from their cheeks, it smudged ebony soot on them. A couple of men stood, clinking their tankards of ale together as the song finally faded into the wisps of memory. A motley assortment of feminine and masculine voices shouted at the dandy for an encore. They rose above the other raucous shouts in the spacious room.

The troubadour stood, bowing deeply. The heron feather on his hat grazed the floor, moving as if it was an extension of his hand and body. Once more, the crowd burst into admiration of the bard. He noticed everything from his position. As with his white-haired friend, nothing escaped the poet's attention before, during, or after a performance, particularly a beautiful woman, such as the alderman's supple daughter. He smiled widely at her, flashing his teeth and winking.

“Master Dandelion,” she cooed, “Please, we must hear one more tale about your fellow, the witcher.”

“I write about the beauty of emotions, my dear lady,” he purred, smoothly. As the words flowed forth from his mouth, he smiled widely. “I don't sing about one person in particular.”

She approached him, swaying her hips side to side. Her gown rustled as the ends dragged across the floor. For all intents and purposes, she bore a striking resemblance to the ladies of pleasure who were peddling their wares. “We all know you sing of the legendary Geralt of Rivia. Tell us another of his expoits, good sir.”

Who was he to deny his audience? he thought as his gaze swept down the voluptuous form of the young woman. The fairer sex was always a weakness of the minstrel, causing him all sorts of problems with the men of various villages. Immediately and discretely, he touched the back of the girl, let his hand glide down, and pinched her buttocks. She would be the reason why the troubadour would not have a warm bed to sleep in that night. “It was such a night like this one. He had left the comfort of his inn room, leading his horse along a merchant's path. Holding the piece of sheep's skin in his hand, he read the notice branded into it. [Help urgently needed. A winged”

2.
demon has been shooting poison out of its eyes and killing people. Men and women can not get in or out without the monster killing them on the road. 605 orens.] The price was a few coin more than what he would have been paid for an old matron wyvern. Yet, did he have a choice?

As he clutched the long, thick rope tied securely to the bridle of the mare, he tilted his head up and stared into the murky blackness of the rain soaked night, blinking away the tears that heaven had unleashed. The very tip of his ivory ponytail touched the collar of his ebony cloak, swaying right and left with each step he took. Through the crisp fall air, the man could feel the start of winter on his exposed skin. The raindrops bit him with a coldness that could only mean that snow was soon to fall. Geralt of Rivia knew winter was coming early that year, and the trek back to Kaer Morhen would be made on an empty stomach unless he could find some work. His upper lip curled into a snarl, mimicking the animal that was his namesake. No, not some work. Any work.

The horse and man continued to walk slowly down the dirt path lined in either direction with thick, dense trees. Rain trickled down the groove of the scar that marred the flesh mere centimeters above and below his left eye. The water ran in rills down his gaunt cheeks, losing itself in the coarse growth of stubble, and dripping off his jawbone in a ragged drizzle. With each step, his heavy boots sank noisily into muddy whirlpools.

When he got to an area that roughly matched the vague descriptions of the villagers, he tied the lead rope of the horse around the thick branch of a sturdy, old oak. He looped the rope, securing it with a tight knot. When one traveled alone, they had to know much about the ways to tie a rope. Sometimes, it was the difference between life and death.

The horse looked at him anxiously with her dark eyes, and he placed his hand on her muzzle. “It will be fine, Roach,” he whispered, gruffly. His fingers arranged in a form of a sign, causing the horse to blink vacantly and calm.

He rifled into the packs on the front of the Roach, producing his potion box. The corners gleamed like coins in the moonlight. Ebony stretched across the box itself, bathing the entire container in an endless darkness. Geralt opened the chest, sliding his fingers across the various colored glass bottles of elixirs. Because he had been at his profession a long time, the witcher was prepared for anything. Picking up a dark liquid, he swallowed it. Immediately, his head started to spin. As dizziness took him, he placed his back against the trunk of the oak. Blood lust pumped through his veins, blinding his mind to anything else.

Geralt turned from the Roach, stepped back onto the dirt path, and unsheathed his silver sword. The moonlight glinted along the blade, igniting it with a stark, naked white light. This sword and the witcher represented everything that most creatures feared. Bite and Hate. After all, it was what he was to most he slew. As he gripped the hilt of the delicate blade, a sureness overtook Geralt. His stride became long, dripping with the confidence that the White Wolf felt.

A rustle sounded to his left. The undergrowth seethed with the movement; the twiggy bushes waving out over the edge of the road. Suddenly, a large beast burst forth from the undergrowth, stopping before the witcher and snarling like a wild cat.

At once, the witcher raised the point of his sword and gazed down the length of the blade at the creature. He had slain a few of these beasts in his long life. Yet, that part of his memory was gone to him. He could not recall anything beyond collapsing upon the cold, hard ground. It was as if that part of his life was sealed away in some dark catacomb of his mind. It did not matter to him at the time. He had learned that while he was Geralt of Rivia, he might have been a completely different person before. After all, what if he went seeking for the truth of his death and resurrection, and he found something unsavory in his past or present, something that rocked the foundations of his life to the core. Once more, his attention was brought to the creature before him.

The body was a strange mix of various animal parts. Its enormous, black webbed wings beat around it. Perhaps, it was a warning to the witcher. Mud and debris kicked up from the ground, coating the tan fur of the monster with a thin brown patina.

Yet, the affect was lost on the witcher. He stalked around the creature in a slow gait, circling like a hawk homing in on prey. His silver sword cut tiny circles into the air, threatening the winged being before him. Together, they circled as the demon clawed at the ground with its giant lion paws.

As he circled, the creature's growled resounded in the clearing around the dirt path and echoed into the forest. It rose its bulbous tail. Venom dripped from the needle-sharp tip, running down the dark cracks of the flesh. Suddenly, the immense tail cut into the air above the monster's wings. Geralt was surprised that it didn't cleave into the flimsy skin. Manticore, he thought with disgust.

Geralt waited. He could be unusually patient when he wished to be. The few who knew the witcher intimately could compare his stubbornness to that of an ass's. He could be immoveable like the stone foundations of the earth. In fact, like the rock, he could be slowly eroded, as well.

Like a lightning bolt, the creature charged towards him. Mud and dung fell off of its coat in a steady stream, blurring together in a glistening aura, illuminated by the sparse light of the westering moon as it peeked through a crack in the rolling blanket enveloping the world for as far as the eye could see. The malicious eyes bore into the witcher's, flooding with a hatred that only Geralt could understand. He had slain a few manticores in his time, and they always produced the same wrath. Some things killed to survive, but these creatures took pleasure in killing and ingesting their victims.

As it swiped at him with its massive paws, Geralt spun away. He could feel the black, crescent claws tear at the fabric of his leather jerkin. The tips punctured through his burlap cream shirt, dragging thin, scratches onto his back. While the mutagens allowed him to react with cat-like agility, there were times when he was too slow. Every witcher had scars. Those scars were a constant reminder to the error of not dodging fast enough or hesitating when he should have made a strike. They were to be learned from.

Geralt turned, facing the beast again. His sword gleamed as if by the rage coursing through the witcher. The internal fire washed down the blade, over the fuller, and off the tip of the sword. He tightened his grip on the blade as the blood lust hummed in his head. Under the intoxicating witcher's elixir, he felt his blood roar in his veins, urging him to kill mercilessly. Grunting, he swept forward. Once more, the blade screamed with fury.

The beast was young. Geralt could tell by the coloring on its hide. It could not predict Geralt's movements. As the sword cut deep within the fleshy webbing of its wing, it screeched loudly in pain and anger. With blood streaming from the wound, the manticore charged forth. Being fueled by fury, it rose up. Saliva dripped from its jowls, smattering the ground. It was foamy, stinking of decaying meat.

Geralt tried to dodge the powerful onslaught. Yet, the creature was younger than he was. It was more agile. He felt the leathery wing beat at the side of his head, drumming as if he was some sort of tribal instrument. At the same time, the paws hit him in his chest, pushing him onto his back.

At once, the tail swept down towards Geralt. It smashed into the ground repeatedly, sending up dirt and debris with each thrust. Geralt rolled back and forth, staying barely ahead of a sure death. With fury, he gripped the hilt of the silver sword and jammed the blade upwards. The creature convulsed on top of Geralt, threatening to smother the witcher with its weight.

Coated in blood and saliva, he pushed the creature off of him.

3.
The next morning was more of the same. Hostile villagers swarmed in the town like hornets around a nest. Geralt knew that the townspeople did not trust him. While it would bother someone who was seeking admiration for the deeds they had accomplished, the White Wolf did not care one way or another. Orens were orens, and winter was coming. As if to remind him, the wind blew harshly, making the tip of his nose cold. Winter loomed heavily in the air all around him. Soon, he would have to make for the passes of Kaer Morhen, he reminded himself once again. Humanity. More often than not, it disgusted him.

Ignoring the usual cries of, “There's the witcher. Lock up your woman and child!” and, “You kidnap children. You should be a shame of yourself,” Geralt stood outside a hut constructed from sticks, mud, and thatched grass. Inside, he could smell the stench of the rot and decay of humanity.

He opened the door, slowly. An old man stood behind a wooden table, lifting a turkey leg to his lips. He had a huge neck, shoulders, legs, and thighs. The thin scrap of cloth covering his torso barely stretched across as the edge of the table rested on his protruding stomach. As the light shined down through one of the holes in a wall, his balding head sparkled like a gem. The glare almost blinded Geralt. “Beastie-fighter, is the demon dead?”

The witcher strode forward, unhooked the meaty tail from his belt, and slammed it onto the table. Cups jumped, clattering together. Immediately, the smell of the man's rotting breath drifted to Geralt. He did his best not to gag, and he narrowed his eyes, not hiding his disgust. “Mhm,” he spoke simply. Geralt thought it was best not to confuse this man.

“How do I know it came from the demon? The tail is damaged. Five hundred and six orens,” the fat pig managed to breath out between wheezes. His eyes glowed hatefully behind his turkey leg. Bits of fat and skin dripped from his mouth, landing on the tail and table.

Geralt crossed his arms, puffing out his chest. His eyes returned the stare. The White Wolf would not be intimidated by a simple alderman. “Six hundred and five orens was what was agreed on. It's the price that I am going to be paid,” he replied, his voice sounding like a thing formed of metal.

The man seemed to shrink beneath Geralt's gaze. He placed the piece of meat down and reached before him, producing a medium size coin purse, bulging with its contents, from the rickety table. Geralt knew it was more than enough to get him supplies for the harsh passage to Witcher's Settlement from the way the coins seemed to protrude from the sides of the pouch. At once, the alderman tossed the small sack of money to the witcher. As if the other man had completed a grueling exercise, puffs of his decaying breath pushed forth from his lungs. The stench almost made Geralt gag.

Immediately, the witcher plucked the coin purse out of the air like he was a wild cat catching a large bird. Geralt was disgusted with the entire village. While it did not scare him, he could not wait until he left the place behind him. It was a den full of thieves and hired thugs. Yet, even in this place, a witcher could find work.

“Remove this...thing..before I start to lose my supper,” the fat slob called to him.

The White Wolf did not care. Cleaning up after they paid him was not part of his job. They would throw the carcass in the midden heap in the center of town. In fact, the demon would be a testament to the evils and sins that humanity had caused.

“Beastie-fighter?”

Geralt felt the warm air hit his face as he opened the door. He walked out into the sunlight, ignoring the comments behind him. He would be glad to leave that shyte-hole behind him.