RUSELM'S BESTIARY
CHAPTER THIRTEEN ─ SONG OF A GOAT
Note: I am incredibly sorry it has taken me years to update this. You all know how much I love my boys Ruselm and Geralt, they're the loves of my life. Unfortunately, when I stopped writing after chapter twelve, I hit a bit of a slump in my writing. And now after two years, I hope to be back permanently. Here's to the new year and the many adventures it will bring! Also, we reached 8.85k reads? Guys, that is insane. I love you all!
Dedication: _wearingsamtotheprom

TRAVELING ALONE ON this quiet road leading far, far away from Blaviken and the madness of that coastal town gave Geralt ample time to reflect on the happenings there, on the people and everything that had transpired. He could take a moment to breathe deep and not taste the saltwater in the air. To bask in the bright sunlight as a cat does, the warmth fanning over his cheeks as he turns his face to the sky, Roach plodding steadily on beneath him. He cared very little for where they would end up and very much for where that reckless Nazairian would turn up dead if he continued the way he was.

He chose a separate path to keep Ruselm safe but that didn't mean he wasn't concerned for what trouble he could get up to in Geralt's absence.

Geralt closes his eyes.

What was Ruselm thinking, asking him a question like that? The last thing he needed was a headache trailing along behind him and getting them both into trouble. He'd attract questions, unnecessary attention from people the witcher wanted no interactions with. He'd only distract Geralt at all the worst times. He'd also get them both killed when it came to Geralt doing his job, that's what he had to tell himself anyways.

Being alone is better. Safer.

He opens his eyes, staring down the path ahead of them. Every step his horse took put yet another between Geralt and Ruselm, distance that only confirmed his belief that to be alone was to be better and with nobody to contest these thoughts, the witcher held to them firmly like a crone to her trinkets. This distance could be a good thing, too. It didn't have to mark the end of the two knowing each other. No, Geralt knew for certain he'd run into that eccentric little monster enthusiast sooner or later. The continent was only so big, after all.

An errant breeze ruffles Roach's chestnut-colored mane and the mare holds her head higher, taking in the cool air. Geralt suddenly wondered once more how Ruselm could manage to communicate with his horse. Or that bear.

Those princesses and young maidens who'd Geralt had heard of, the ones who could talk to animals... their stories had never ended well. He knew it was the same sad song for Halla, too, but he wondered if she was royalty. If she had been able to commune with beasts, she could have passed such a trait on to her son. Having seen stranger occurrences, Geralt wouldn't be very surprised but he would still be somewhat shocked that Ruselm had inherited the ability no matter how pure of heart he seemed to be.

Boys were never born with such powers, as if the goddess herself were aware of their tendencies to commit horrible, inhuman acts against their fellow man.

And what did that mean then, knowing Ruselm likely had inherited this from his mother? Was he different? Did he have some destiny Geralt should be aware of? And what did it mean if he did? Surely, Geralt wasn't meant to help him? That couldn't be why they had crossed paths in the first place. It couldn't be that grand. In the scheme of things, their chance meetings were mere coincidence and nothing more.

Regardless, Vesemir would be the right person to ask about this.

Or perhaps Nenneke, she was closer.

She was also as close to a mother as Geralt could get, and just as knowledgeable as Vesemir. Maybe even more so. The priestess had been running Melitele's temple since Geralt was a child and had seen and heard things from many strangers who stopped for refuge or respite at her doorstep, if there was anyone who might have heard of a situation similar to Ruselm's then it would decidedly be Nenneke. Geralt had no contracts or leads after Blaviken so he supposed, with nothing else to get up to, he might as well chase after this problem for Ruselm.

Should they ever meet again, perhaps he'd have answers for him then.

Geralt knew it wouldn't be long before the dastardly tale from Blaviken was spun, surely painting him as the fearsome Butcher—a name the witcher was already growing weary of. He knew he shouldn't have gotten involved in the human affairs and their power struggles but what no peasant nor noble would ever be privy to is that Geralt only acted decisively to prevent mass bloodshed from Renfri's men. The evil he'd tried so hard to avoid... in the end, one was picked.

And Renfri was right. Geralt would never know if it was the right choice.

But he couldn't dwell on it. As is the way of the Path, witchers were supposed to move on. Something bad happened but he couldn't exactly go back and change it, leaving there to be no room or excuse to feel guilty over the outcome. If he stopped to try and explain the truth of Blaviken, he would only make things worse for himself. None would listen. Which left the truth to precisely three people.

Stregobor, who would never speak out on Geralt's behalf just as he demonstrated in Kovir many years prior to their reunion. That doddering old fool and his companion Zavist had convinced King Idi that Geralt was a scavenger, not worthy of pay. Even after all these years, the witcher still couldn't comprehend why Stregobor had done it except for the simple fact that wizards did not appreciate witchers. And that Stregobor himself was probably in the King's terrible graces for not being able to handle the amphisboena problem before Geralt had wandered into Kovir.

Geralt also held the truth of Blaviken, although he knew he would never tell it.

And Ruselm was the last person on the list who was aware of the truth, or a version of it at least. Geralt wasn't sure how much the author knew of what was really happening in that town, but he'd attempted to reach through to Caldemeyn before they left, saying something about how it wasn't Geralt's fault if he remembered correctly.

There was a chance Ruselm would tell the truth as he knew it to be but Geralt couldn't rely on a stranger's good word to mend his reputation. No, chances were that none would know the truth except them and he would just have to live with the consequences. Probably less pay on dangerous jobs, less trust from townspeople, and less involvement in general. Blaviken would make lonelier an already lonely job. Not that Geralt cared, anyway.

Although he would not stand to listen to being called the Butcher of Blaviken. Especially from peasants who did not know what they were speaking of.

He hated that name.

Butcher of Blaviken, he thinks. Of all the names I've been given. It's the worst.

For the first time since they've been on the road, Geralt takes in their surroundings and notices a small group of fieldhands eating lunch on the side of the worn path. Farther down the road, smoke trails lazily into the sky from a village. And at their backs, a half-harvested field of wheat sways in the wind and the tree they take cover under rustles, arboreal whispers flitting to Geralt's ears as clear as if he were under that tree even from this far off. The men speak amongst themselves between bites of what smells like smoked pork and bread.

Geralt catches their conversation as he rides closer on Roach.

"Oi Albwin!—" one of the men is talking with his mouth full. "'id the guards e'er cetch those bast'rds that killed Ellie?"

Albwin is just as loud-spoken as his companion, but he sounds tired. "No," he chews for a moment. The fieldhands glance over and see Geralt for the first time, although he's still far off from them. "You haven't been goin' near her house, 'ave ya?"

"No, no, nope! Ya wouldn't cetch me anywheres near th're. Bad luck"

"Good." Albwin says. "Nothin' but trouble."

"Ey who's that ridin' up on us?" A third man suddenly questions. He squints in Geralt's direction, no doubt just now able to discern his strange attire and, of course, his white hair. It always puts people off but it's a feature unique to Geralt that some common folk use to solely tell the witcher apart from others.

Albwin and the first man take a closer look now.

"Dunno," the first man shrugs. "Nice 'orse though."

"I guess we'll see." Albwin says.

And when Geralt rides closer, the men take more interest in him then and have no shame as they look hard at his attire, his horse, his medallion in plain view at his chest. The sunlight glints off the dark metal, wolf there for all to see. He's sure they're not about to say anything at his approach when Albwin calls out just as Roach begins to pass them.

"Hey stranger!"

Geralt pulls on the reins. Roach stops. He looks over his shoulder, eyes immediately landing on Albwin's rundown visage. He's begrimed from field work and there's dirt caked under each and every one of his fingernails. He smells of earth and soil, wheat and sweat. An ugly old scar crosses from one side of his face to the other, his eyes are the kind of blue of the summer sky above them and there is no fear in them as he approaches the witcher.

"Headin' into Bayset, are ya?"

"Perhaps," Geralt answers. "Why?"

Albwin rubs a hand over his bald head. "You're a witcher."

"Yes."

"Might 'ave a problem for ya, if you're interested."

Geralt glances in the direction of the town. He's never been to Bayset but he's also never known there to be a problem in the area, so he surmises it must be a new issue. Stopping here wouldn't go against the witcher's plans as it's on the way to Nenneke's... and the Path calls for Geralt as he looks back at Albwin, mind made up.

"What's the problem?"

The fieldhand smiles sadly. "Aye well, you'll see when ya get closer. That 'ouse near the main road, the oak tree right in front of it. Can't miss it. You'll see."

"That's not very specific," Geralt muses. "Who's going to pay me when I deal with this problem? Am I to believe you are the man hiring me for the job or is there someone else in town who is more knowledgeable that I should speak to?"

"Find Martien Lavilt." Albwin points down the road, one sausagelike finger waving in the wind. "Captain of the guard. He'll give ya more to go on. He's got all the crowns you'll get for the job, anyway."

Geralt grunts and nudges Roach on, leaving the fieldhands to themselves. He wonders, for the moment before he's thrown into this, what sort of problem Bayset has on their hands and how long it will take him to deal with it. The witcher takes mental notes of what he currently has at his disposal right now, thinking of what he might need to replenish before he can deal with whatever's in the house by the main road.

Better to be over-prepared than under.

I have enough potions for a few more jobs, he thinks and continues down the list. Spectre oil for the silver sword, although I'm running low. Maybe enough for one more use.

He can see the house clearly with his cat's eyes and it's not a very big house but it was built with care and love, like a husband wanting to create a beautiful home for their family but all he had was little money and a lot of time. The house appears more derelict and neglected the closer Geralt gets, though, and he wonders where the family has gone. Someone who took the time to build a home like this wouldn't just abandon it and not take care of it.

Curious, Geralt breathes deep and can confirm that it's empty. Of the living, at least. He catches the bitterness of copper in the air and it's a familiar scent—blood. Old blood, to be exact. Nobody has lived there for quite some time.

The closer Roach gets to the house, the more skittish the mare becomes. She walks faster as they pass, her brisk pace clearly different from her relaxed and calm amble from just moments before. She eyes the house nervously and Geralt knows the mare won't spook under him as they've been in situations far worse than this but he wouldn't be surprised if she did, given her behavior. He directs Roach to pass the house on the far side of the main road, just at the edge of the worn path where the mare walks in the grass.

She grows docile once more and Geralt can tell it's the distance that helped.

He stares hard at the house, looking into the dark windows but he sees nothing to tell him why his horse was acting strange. They pass the house then and draw closer into Bayset, new buildings appearing on their left and right. A fresh barrage of sights and smells and sounds hits Geralt all at once as a child chasing a dog darts across the path in front of him.

The little boy laughs as he nearly catches the dog, who barks excitedly and wags his shaggy golden tail back and forth, eager to play. They take no notice of the witcher when he rides past, stuck in their own little world while they run through the town and disappear around a corner. The dog's barks grow faint and new sounds take its place. Geralt hears villagers talking up ahead, chickens clucking in their coop, a guard reprimanding another (probably younger) guard and instructing him on how to do his job properly. He smells various dinners cooking in all the houses they pass.

Stew bubbling with savory aromas, cooking meat sizzling over the fire, grease in the pan. Fresh vegetables being chopped up by nimble hands, their earthy scent stronger than even the cooking meat. Onions, carrots, potatoes. The smells of a proper poor man's dinner, put together by a caring wife or enthusiastic children. It made his stomach growl as the realization dawns on Geralt that he hasn't eaten since he was at Caldemeyn's before the butchering took place.

He'd do well to find something in town to provide nourishment, perhaps at the inn.

But first, before anything, Geralt finds he wants to talk to Martien Lavilt and get more information about the abandoned house next to the main road. The rest of Bayset seemed so lively in comparison, he wondered what happened in that home and why Albwin had sounded so sad when he spoke of it. Could it be related to that woman the fieldhands were talking about earlier? Ellie, her name was?

Geralt would have to see.

He dismounts Roach with practiced ease and brings her reins over her ears, content to lead the horse behind him as he walks through town. His girl had to be getting a little tired after the long day of walking they'd had. With the sun still high in the sky, the summer heat would have slowly drained their energy as they kept on. Roach was due for a break and Geralt was due for a drink.

Not water.

Alcohol.

Strong alcohol.

He leads Roach to the nearest guard, who wears chainmail and the town's colors: a deep red and vibrant, lively yellow, the Redanian colors. This guard is a young man no older than twenty, sunkissed rosy cheeks and a red nose. He stiffens when he sees Geralt coming for him but otherwise remains still at his post, eyes flickering all up and down the witcher's appearance.

"Excuse me," Geralt stops just in front of the guard. "Looking for Martien Lavilt. Where can I find him?"

"Wh-What do ya want with the Captain, Witcher?"

"A word about that house on the main road—"

"Everyone's to stay away from that house!" The guard interrupts. He looks slightly scared and his heart starts to beat faster, Geralt can hear it as clear as a bell with his superior senses. He takes a step closer to the guard and that heartbeat soars into the sky, racing now. "T-That's what th-the Captain s-s-said, ya see! Just following orders."

Geralt stares impassively at the guard. "Where can I find him?" he repeats.

"Guard's barracks, just down the road. Little grey building, you'll know when you see it." The guard swallows nervously, and he still looks uncomfortable with how close Geralt is to him.

He backs up and the man's heart rate begins to plateau.

"Thanks." Geralt grunts as he turns Roach away and they walk further into Bayset, eyes peeled for the grey building the guard spoke of. It doesn't take long to find a building that fits such a description, it's quite small and fitting of guard barracks especially for a town as tiny as this one was. Then he ties Roach's reins to a post outside and enters the barracks in search of the Captain of the guard.

Inside the barracks, Geralt has to bend down to get past the doorway, too tall for the frame, but once he's inside the space has adequate room for him to stand tall. He walks past several beds meant for the guards working at night, and a side room with all manner of swords and shields inside. The armory, if Geralt had to guess. There are a few other rooms connected to the main area and inside one of them, Geralt can hear a man humming to himself.

He sounds like the only other person in the building so the witcher approaches that room and knocks one knuckle against the splintering old wood of the door.

The man stops humming, and calls out for him to enter.

Geralt opens the door and slips into the tight space. There's a desk in this side room with a window behind the man sitting there. Golden sunlight filters in and graces the man's slender frame with a bright outline, shining on his long brown hair which is tied back in a neat ponytail that barely controls the thick wild mess on his head. His hair ends about halfway down his chest, cascading past his right shoulder. The man looks up to Geralt in polite confusion and his eyes are a deep brown, the color of wet soil.

His face is clean shaven and his eyebrows are well taken care of, a detail which most men and especially poor men did not seem to pay attention to. He's quite the handsome fellow, for a guard. And his eyes sparkle with the same intelligence Geralt had seen in Ruselm just hours before when they had parted ways. It made him wish they hadn't left each other, despite knowing it was for the better.

He gestures for Geralt to take the seat in front of his desk.

Geralt quietly sits.

"How can I help you, Master Witcher?" Martien's voice is smooth like silk and pleasant to listen to. He sounds educated, not like a guardsman at all.

"I heard you have a problem at a house leading into town," Geralt says, unable to look away from Martien's eyes. They're captivating. "And I was hoping you could tell me more about it. Discuss payment, even, as I understand you're the one to see about this kind of thing."

Martien smiles then, and his teeth are white. "You'd be right in your understanding, Master Witcher. I can tell you what's going on in that house and I'll pay you one hundred crowns to take care of the spirit that's living there."

Geralt leans forward in his seat, propping his elbows on the edge of Martien's desk. It's littered with stray papers and maps, an unlit candle sitting perilously close to the edge, and a number of inkwells which waft strong smells into the witcher's sensitive nose. He ignores it, crinkling his nose slightly as though the action would help block the smell.

"I'm listening."

"If you would've passed through here a few months ago, there would be no need for a witcher's services, you see." Martien also leans forward, their faces inches apart. He looks down at the desk between them and sighs a little. "But we failed to keep our own safe. A group tore through Bayset two months ago, wild cretins looking to satisfy their depraved needs. You can guess what they did there..." Martien looks back up into Geralt's eyes. He doesn't shy away. "And when morning came, Elisevan's body was strung up in that oak. Entrails hanging down like decoration, dress torn off. Her wedding ring was missing when we found her, too."

Elisevan... Ellie. The witcher guesses and he grunts a little, remembering what those fieldhands said about Ellie being killed.

"Did you burn or bury her body?" Geralt asks.

"Bury."

"Ever find her wedding ring?"

"No." Martien gives a little shake of his head. "Found her husband's, buried it with him. Not hers. Couldn't have guessed where it went, we combed all over the house but it wasn't inside. Why?"

Geralt shrugs nonchalantly. "I'm thinking your problem could be a noonwraith, based on what happened there. I'll have to investigate more, but if that's the case then finding that ring is going to be important."

"Because it was important to her?"

"Yeah," Geralt tilts his head. "You don't seem very bothered by me or this talk of spirits. And you don't seem like you belong around here, no offense meant to you. You're just more... proper."

Martien laughs suddenly. "How very perceptive of you, Master Witcher."

"Geralt."

"Geralt," Martien corrects. "Of course. Well, you're quite perceptive. I'm not from Bayset but rather Cintra. I only just came here a few years ago after my partner was killed in the city. I didn't feel at home anymore so I traveled far."

"Far indeed." Geralt leans back a little. "But you're not scared of me?"

Martien looks a little confused. "Why would I be?"

"Everyone else around here is."

"They're simple people, what can I say?" Martien spreads his hands to either side, gesturing to the rest of the town around this building. "And it has been a long time, from what I understand, since a witcher has been to these parts. I inherited little problems from my predecessor, thank Melitele, but we are not impervious to bandits it seems and while I have enjoyed a peaceful captainship here, somehow this tragedy happened."

"Hmm." Geralt grunts a little. "Bad things happen everywhere. I know it doesn't help to hear, but you couldn't have seen it coming nor could you have stopped it. Sometimes things just happen. Have you seen anything around that house recently?"

Martien appears to think for a moment. "Not me personally, but a few townspeople and merchants passing through on the main road have complained about being attacked by a ghastly woman in white. We decided it would be time to hire a professional so the guards all pitched in some crowns to pay a witcher such as yourself, but you lot are very hard to track down, you know."

"It's better that way." Geralt sounds a little harsh, even to his own ears. Not that he cares. "And I'm here now. Make sure everyone gives the area a wide berth tomorrow. I'll be investigating tonight, when the sun goes down. Makes noonwraiths a little weaker, if she decides to show up."

"I'll do that." Martien is unphased by Geralt's sharp tongue, and he makes a note on a stray piece of paper. The quill scratches eagerly against the paper, scratccchscratccchscratccch. A quick note and the Captain is already done. He folds the paper neatly, tucking it into an unseen pocket of his leather tunic. "There. I'll be sure to tell the guardsmen when they come in to switch shifts. What if you need help while you're there?"

"I won't."

"Ahh yes, witchers work alone. My apologies, Geralt."

"It's all right." Geralt stands, stepping back around the chair again. "Know where I can find the inn in the meantime?"

Martien spares the witcher a small smile. "Yes, it's just a few buildings down. Exit, take a left. Can't miss it—The Silver Eagle. It's a quaint little place, lots of locals there around this time of day. And I'll be here in this office, should you need a little help later on."