RUSELM'S BESTIARY
CHAPTER FOURTEEN ─ BALLAD OF A NOONWRAITH
Note: Spam this update with comments, please! I'd love to know what you guys are thinking. I mean how are we feeling about Martien, or what happened to Ellie? What do you guys think of Bayset so far? Are we enjoying things from Geralt's perspective? Gimme all the comments. Also, congrats to us on reaching 11.5k reads. We rock. Forewarning, this chapter's a bit long.
Dedication: _wearingsamtotheprom

THE SILVER EAGLE wasn't so much of an inn as it was more a glorified tavern with a few rickety wooden benches next to a darkened table at the back where a few of Bayset's day-drinkers were sleeping off their last round before they would wake and eventually return home to their families, too wasted to drink into the night. Candles flicker lazily, their warm orange glow lighting the corners of the inn. There were a few alcoves directly off from the main room where men were busy playing dice poker, voices raised with excitement, or where they were discussing the latest gossip in low tones, glancing conspicuously over their shoulders every few moments just to be sure none were listening in on that private conversation. Some of the men were singing a song as Geralt entered, too.

It was a melancholic tune he'd heard on the road before, probably written a long time ago by some unknown bard, and it was about a young woman who lost everything.

As he stops just in front of the threshold, the door swings closed behind the witcher and shuts with a swift bang! that draws the attention of more than a few pairs of unfriendly eyes. The atmosphere suddenly shifts into one that is all too familiar to the witcher. It's apprehensive, as though they're all waiting for Geralt to start brandishing his weapon against them without provocation. Breath baited and leaning to the edge of their seats, he feels at home amongst the inimical, judgemental faces because it's all he's ever known. Where witchers tread, antagonistic souls soon follow and they are in every town, every city, and every village.

Their ire was nothing new.

Geralt examines the room in a single glance and approaches the bar at the back, where a young barmaid pretends to look busy cleaning out a rustic wooden mug that has seen countless patrons over its years of service. She's using the edge of her dirty white apron, bunched up in one fist, to get at the bottom of the mug. She makes no comment at the witcher's arrival.

Slowly, the talking and singing and rolling of dice resumes while Geralt takes a seat at the bar. Everything becomes comfortable again, although it teeters on the edge of apprehension as more than one pair of eyes remain on Geralt probably to ensure he doesn't stir up trouble. Those eyes burn into the back of his head, daring him to do something, just anything for these men to start a row with him. It might have been the middle of the day, nearing evening, but drunkenness and stupidity had no time limits. He would have to be on his toes while this many men were at the inn.

The barmaid looks at Geralt out of the corner of one light green eye. It's a gentle green like newborn spring leaves and she has honeyed hair that looks more brown at the roots than golden like it is at the tips. It must have been neatly braided at some point but after hours of work there are little stray hairs beginning to peek out at the edges of the braid, unruly little things that add a simple charm to the barmaid. Her braid ends a few hair's breadths past her shoulders and is resting along the right side of her thin neck.

"Can I get ya something, stranger?" she asks, voice gentle and neighborly.

Geralt doesn't even have to think, he knows what he needs after Blaviken and after Ruselm. "Whatever's your strongest, if you don't mind." After a moment of consideration, he adds, "And whatever food you might spare."

She takes the mug in her hands and sets it lightly down on the battered and stained bartop in front of Geralt. Then she reaches under the bar and rifles around for a few moments before producing a dark green bottle lined with dust and a little dirt. The print on the bottle is fading and the paper is peeling, its stickiness lost and yellowed with age, but he can clearly make out the dwarven script that was written with an elegant and confident hand from many years before. He does not recognize the exact writing and so he doesn't know what it says, but he's had dwarven spirits many times before and they could have any man singing like a bard after just a few sips.

"Got the dwarven stuff," she says as she dusts off the bottle. "Been sittin' under 'ere since my da ran the place before me. This suit your fancy?"

"Yes."

She pours the mug full and the scent hits Geralt like a horse at full speed, overwhelming his senses and drowning out the other (more unpleasant) smells the inn had to offer. Dwarves sure knew how to distill a good batch of alcohol, that was for sure. This particular spirit was the color of harvest-ready wheat and it twinkles in the sunlight, gleaming golden reflections into the witcher's catlike eyes as it settles in his mug, sinking gracefully to the bottom as a cat in the sun. He finds he's looking forward to the drink and the carelessness it might offer after burning the back of his throat.

"Thank you." Geralt says quietly as she next sets a hard-looking chunk of day-old bread, a few slices of yellowed cheese, and what smells like smoked pork that steams with heat in front of him. It's probably the only thing that's fresh. But witchers are not picky when it comes to staving off hunger.

The barmaid hums under her breath, going about her business as she leaves the bottle with Geralt and sets to cleaning the bartop next. She wets a thick square of cloth in a murky bucket, wrings the excess water out, and begins to scrub the wood at the far end of the bar from the witcher. He can tell she's being careful to maintain her distance from him and he knows it's because the locals are uneasy with a witcher in their midst.

He breathes in slowly, absorbing every smell this dwarven spirit had to offer him: earth, age, barley. The scent washes over him once more, engulfing his sensitive nose with the promise of a good drink. Geralt brings the mug to his thirsty lips and takes a large swill of the spirit. He relishes in the instantaneous burn that races down the back of his throat, scorching a trail of pain inside of him that he is not soon to forget and not eager to dismiss. This pain was a pleasant one and every time he thinks of what happened in Blaviken, Geralt promises to take another swallow.

Like Renfri dying at his feet, a girl who lost everything. He drinks.

Like Stregobor, that bygone and forgotten lamebrained wizard not worth a single oren, and his squirrelly ideas of the Black Sun girls and their 'destiny'. He drinks.

And like Ruselm, who almost defended Geralt to Caldemeyn. Why would he even try? Didn't it occur to him that the witcher would be blamed every single time? That was perhaps one of the stupidest and most charming things he'd seen out of the Nazairian yet and they barely knew each other. He drinks once more and the mug finally turns up empty. His throat is on fire, almost numb.

By now there is a satisfying buzz in the back of Geralt's skull, taking an edge off that he wasn't aware he'd been carrying. Blaviken was sure to leave him sore for a long time to come and the news hadn't even spread to other towns on the continent yet! He would know when others had heard of his actions there when an elderly woman was spitting in his face, or a child runs in the other direction yelling about the Butcher coming to kill them all, or even when in passing he hears young men muttering under their breath about how Geralt doesn't look so tough to them.

Then he would know. And the headache would bother him for years to come.

Geralt fishes out a few bloodstained crowns from a pouch hanging off his belt with still-agile fingers. He leaves them at the bar, gathers his food, and stands to find an empty alcove just at the back of the Silver Eagle, blissfully aware and uncaring of the wary eyes that follow his progress throughout the inn before he sinks into the shadows of the alcove. He has a job to do in a few hours and cares enough about his own well-being to leave the dwarven spirit at the bar, although he will consider another drink when the job is done, that's for sure.

There is a small and round wooden table pushed into the limited space, a few worn chairs with rather comfortable looking cushions scattered haphazardly around it that beckon to the witcher as he makes his home in the chair with its back to the wall. From here he can see the rest of the inn with ease and he makes eye contact with a few of the men, staring back until they reluctantly look away. On the table, a single candle dances with light, made brighter by the sight of the sun setting outside. And this is exactly where Geralt would wait until night had descended over Bayset.

As he eats the lacklustre food, he thinks of everything he knows about noonwraiths, from both past experience and Vesemir's teachings. He knows they are always the distressed souls of women, particularly women who have died violent deaths. Sometimes before their weddings, sometimes after. There isn't always an exact timeline for a spirit to turn into some sort of wraith. The only requirement is an extreme wrong and a violent death, which often go hand-in-hand.

Noonwraiths are strongest when the sun sits at its zenith in the sky, making it easier to deal with them at night, while nightwraiths are strongest when the moon washes pale light over all the land, particularly a full and bright one, and both types are bound to this mortal plane by objects of significance or unfinished business.

Things like wedding rings, which Geralt knew he'd have to find before he could kill the wraith, were objects with strong attachments that kept women like Ellie tethered here. He wonders where her wedding ring could have gone—perhaps outside?

It seemed unlikely that the murderers would have taken only Ellie's ring but left her husband's, and Martien mentioned that they looked everywhere inside their house for the ring but couldn't find it. Geralt rules out the possibility that they were robbing Ellie and her husband but he knows he'll have to investigate the contents of the house to be certain that this wasn't a motivation for the men. The ring could be outside, perhaps it fell off or was torn off when her dress was, or it dropped when she was strung up in the tree. Any number of things could have happened to such a small item with all the chaos that was happening around it.

Which left the witcher to his investigation. It would all depend on what he could glean from the aftermath of the house and the story the blood would tell.

He'd normally speak to some of the locals about what had transpired that night, asking if they saw or heard anything or if the noonwraith had attacked them in the days since, but Geralt was more curious about the house itself and thought the best course of action would be going there first. What better than seeing the site of the carnage? He would be able to use his superior senses to gather all the details and piece the story together. As hard as normal men might try, they still did not match a witcher's ability to perceive the world around them; allowing the aftermath to have a voice wasn't something most were used to.

Geralt made a mental note to ask Martien where they buried Ellie.

As her wrath has kept her tied to the mortal world, only destroying the objects she has a strong attachment to would not be enough to kill her. The witcher would have to dig up her remains and burn them with the rest of her attachments. It would weaken her bonds here enough that he could set her free, forever. Unfortunately this was the only way to fix a noonwraith's problems because this was not something Geralt could cure or make better. She'd have to die for a second time and he tries not to think about this unfairness as he instead focuses on what he would have to bring with him to the fight.

Spectre oil for his silver blade, for one.

The Sign of Yrden to force the noonwraith to take a corporeal form.

And a couple moondust bombs invented by a halfling herbalist near Oxenfurt Geralt had encountered a few years before. Moondust bombs were made with silver shavings that, when the bomb shattered and exploded, would create a silvery mist that could prevent monsters or shapeshifters from turning invisible, changing forms, or keep them from going to their incorporeal form which would provide just the advantage Geralt needed. The effect of the bomb didn't last for very long (a meagre twenty or so seconds) but it was effective just long enough that only a witcher could act fast enough to seize the advantage and strike their foe.

Monsters were vulnerable to silver in all its forms. Blade, silver dust, the rings of pure silver that adorned Geralt's calloused and weathered hands—it all depended on how creatively the witchers could use silver. He looks down at his hands then, thinking about the silver rings. They catch the candlelight and glisten up at him like stars in the night sky and Geralt can't help but wonder if he would be able to grab hold of the noonwraith while these rings adorned his fingers.

Not that he'd want to get within grappling distance to find out, but the thought stayed with him for a few moments as he had never tried something of the like before. It wasn't a very smart idea as wraiths had long, razorlike claws that could slice any man to ribbons but this is the kind of thing Geralt was thinking about before. Being creative. If the situation begged for him to try it, he knew he would. Dying was not on his agenda for today.

Geralt's eyes wander across the inn to the windows by the front entrance. The sun has just set below the horizon and a soft blanket of darkness is beginning to descend over the land. Now was the perfect time for him to start heading in the direction of Ellie's house to begin his investigation. The quicker he could figure out what she needed in order to move on, the better.

He stands.

Many eyes instantly follow his movements, hands stray to swords and daggers in their clever and some not-so-clever hiding places. There is extreme distrust here and Geralt can't help but wonder why these villagers were so wrought with trepidation, most places he came across had no love for witchers but they also generally left him be and were simply wary around him. These men were waiting for something to happen like an abused dog biding their time until their master hits them next. This wasn't right.

Geralt makes his way out of the Silver Eagle without looking back.

Once he steps outside, Roach turns to look at him from the post outside the inn she's been tied to. He pats the mare on her neck and runs his fingers through her mane for a moment. Roach has always been a way for Geralt to ground himself before he continues on. She nudges his arm then, her way of asking for a good scratch behind the ears. Geralt obliges.

"I'll be back soon, Roach."

She leans into the scratches, eyes half-closed.

"You'll have to stay here," he says under his breath. "Just to be safe. Besides, it shouldn't take that long. Take a look around, get out. Nothing more to it for the moment, we will have to get somewhere to stay for tonight though. And go to the market tomorrow, for supplies."

Roach flicks her ears towards the familiar sound of Geralt's voice, and she opens her eyes to look right at him. They're both quiet for a few moments. She likes to listen to him talk. But he can't talk any longer, he feels the pull of his investigation and knows he has business to attend to.

Geralt stares at his horse, then steps away. "Don't give me that look. I'll be back."

She shakes her mane then and leans down to continue nibbling at the grass by her hooves, the gesture seeming very much like a dismissal to the witcher. Oh, wonderful. His horse had officially released him for his duty. Geralt huffs, pretending not to be amused and starts to follow the well-worn dirt road leading out of Bayset. It's not a far walk to the edge of town and it only takes a few minutes for Geralt to spot the siding of Ellie's house just past the stone walls that surround the inner village.

With night only deepening and the stars twinkling overhead, the house looks far different from its earlier appearance. If he were a normal man with emotions, Geralt supposed he would be struck with fear at the sight of the darkened house that dances with shadows and memories of those no longer present. But he was not a normal man. And he was not ruled by his emotions. To normal men, darkness was blinding. To witchers, with their catlike eyes, seeing in that inky blackness was no issue at all.

There were potions Geralt could mix to give him the greatest advantage in the nighttime, to ensure no monsters could sneak up on him, although he wasn't intending on a fight for the moment. His eyesight would have to do for a simple investigation like this one. No light needed. Instead, the night would offer cover to his task and prevent others in the village from spying on him or ambushing him.

After the way the men were acting earlier, Geralt would not be surprised if any number of them tried to follow after him or deter him from his quest.

But he'd not heard footsteps trailing behind him in quite some time and he had very good hearing all in thanks to how he was brought up. The witcher was decidedly not going to be disturbed by other interferences tonight, and if he was then he wouldn't hesitate to fight back and drag the perpetrators back to Martien who could take care of them from there. Geralt only spared a second more to think about the captain and his warm eyes as he stepped up to the front door of the house.

The door was made of a warm colored oak wood and splintered near the frame due to use and wear over time. It was unpainted, the dark rings of the wood created an interesting pattern for Geralt to stare at. He looks down. There is a simple iron handle, the metal blackened and decorated with a few thin lines carved into the area around the bolts holding it in place. This was by no means a master craftsman's handiwork but it was decent and clearly made with care. He tries to open the door, pulling the handle towards himself.

It opens with ease and a slow creaaaak greets the witcher as he steps into the darkened interior.

His eyes only take a moment to adjust to this new, thick darkness which envelops him as warmly as a mother does when he stops just in front of the door. Geralt lets it shut gently behind him. He is inside now. And the house is quiet, eerily so.

When he can finally make out the color of the rug beneath his boots, he moves further forward into the den and takes a nice deep breath. Several scents, old and new, wash over his nose and he takes a moment to sort through them as a hunting dog would puzzle over the smell of rabbit. The newest scents hit first as they're bold and fresh while the forgotten smells waltz slowly into range and he is eventually hit with the words to label each smell.

Cats, one or two.

Rats. Many.

Blood. Lots and lots of blood.

Men... one stands out among the rest, probably Marcus. The others are fleeting, barely distinguishable. The bandits, likely. Or guests.

Geralt glances around the house. He's located in the den, what looks to be the kitchen area is on his right, and there are a few rooms that break away to his left. He looks closer at a dark spot on the first door frame and realizes it to be part of a bloody handprint, smeared as the owner of the blood would stumble through the house. The witcher could almost picture it then, Ellie tripping over her own feet as blood loss makes her unsteady and lame.

He walks into this room next. It's the bedroom where Marcus Hilhen was murdered. He can smell the man's scent clearly now, and it's tainted by the stench of bitter copper. Blood. It's everywhere and Geralt can see it now, too; all over the unmade bed, sprayed onto the walls, pooled on the wooden floor until it stained the oak a shade of dark burgundy. Melitele, this was a massacre. Being done out in your sleep was one thing, but this... this was the site of agony and suffering.

They might have tried to kill him in his sleep but it did not turn out this way. The bed's left leg at the headboard was broken and it sat at an awkward angle, bloodied pillows at the floor and blankets looking as if there had been someone thrashing about. This evidence of violence was only confirmed by the perfect spray of little droplets on the ceiling. The blood could only get up there if the attacker had stabbed Marcus multiple times, each drawback of the blade would fling more and more lifeblood backwards until the ceiling was as red as the bedsheets. And it was ugly.

"Fuck."

Geralt looks away from the bed, towards the vanity against the wall. There's a washbasin under the mirror that has yellowed with age and sits empty. A hairbrush next to it, a cloth meant for washing with. And a little brown book with frayed edges, worn well with age. He walks over and picks it up, a thin layer of dust scattering the moment his hand touches the leather cover. It's smooth and weighs hardly more than a rock in his palm, ink wafts into his nose and he flips it open to the first page to skim the contents.

Ellie's diary.

"What happened...?" Geralt wonders as he flips to the last few written pages of the little book. "Did you know who it was?"

Last night's events before dinner were trivial, at best. As is the game, politics are usually played at mealtime when everyone is trapped at the table too scared to exit. I tried to tell Marcus he was playing a dangerous game, insulting Leo Etellen as if he weren't a Viscount who could very well ruin our lives, but my stupidly lovable husband did not listen. He was bent on defending my honor, as if such a thing matters when the word "whore" comes from the lips of a Viscount like Etellen. He'd said it so boldly like it was a fact. I have not been anyone's whore for years. Not since Marcus. Not since he rescued me from that life.

Marcus knows this. I know he just wanted to defend me, but... I'm scared of what might happen in retaliation.

Viscount Etellen took my husband's retaliation with a brave face but I know how politics work. I know he and his reputation were still wounded by Marcus and what now if he decides to mete out revenge? We can't fight him. We—

Geralt flips a couple pages.

I am with child once more! Not a soul yet knows, I want to surprise Marcus. Our little star Sofia has been with us for two years but now I want to bring my husband another little bairn, a boy just as strong as his father; someone he can teach to farm and fight and work hard. I wonder how I shall reveal it this time...?

Maybe I can—

Another page.

Unfortunately, the Viscount Etellen stopped by tonight and just after Captain Lavilt left us, too. He actually apologized for his words at the banquet, kissed the back of my hand, and bowed to us both. I tried to stop him but he would not listen. And Marcus could only watch as Etellen lowered himself to us. Why in Melitele's name would he do that? It renders me stupid. I expected backlash, guards at our front door, violence, something!

But instead he apologized.

Perhaps he meant it? I know that is only my hopeful heart wishing so but I find I am still scared by the thought of otherwise. We would do well to keep to ourselves for some time.

And that is the last thing written.

Geralt flips through the rest of the diary, looking for even the smallest hint of further ink upon the page but when he finds nothing, the witcher tosses the book back down on the vanity and frowns into the darkness. She had been pregnant when she was raped and killed. And after what else he'd read, he would be stupid to think it mere coincidence that this Viscount Etellen had met with Ellie and Marcus just before their deaths. He'd be blind to see they'd had conflict together over Ellie being called a whore and to not think it strange how personally Marcus had been murdered; stabbed into over and over and over again by someone who wanted to watch him flail and thrash with the agony of it.

After a brief search for the ring, he moves to the next room with a sour taste in the back of his throat.

On the outside of the door is a little painted flower with spirals of green vines that look like they were made with a woman's steady hand and when he finally steps inside, Geralt feels his stomach drop. The room is so still he could only hear the beating of his own heart. At the heart of the stillness is a dusty crib with a faint copper scent in the child's blue swaddle. His heart threatens to stop when the realization hits him that this is the little girl's room.

Sofia.

Geralt wasn't overly fond of children but he couldn't stand the idea of someone killing an innocent life like this, the girl had only reached two years of age as her mother's diary had mentioned. And her crib now smelled of old blood. What the fuck? He swallows down the bile in his throat and sets about combing through the room for any sign of Ellie's wedding ring. He works through the room going first over the child's toys which litter the ground like forgotten relics of the past, inspecting every nook and cranny he can think of where a ring might fall and become lost. But it's nowhere.

He hesitates when he comes to check the crib last. The bitter scent that coats this entire house is stronger here in the middle of the room, coming from the currant colored stain blemishing the swaddle that stinks of death. It's unpleasant to think—the violence that occurred in this little girl's room. She must have been asleep when it happened. Geralt picks up the swaddle and moves it slowly aside, the material is as soft as he expected. Only stiff where the dried blood has made its mark, but again the ring is not here.

With a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, Geralt closes Sofia's door firmly when he exits.

He did not want to see that room again.

Next, the witcher turns his back on the little flower door and approaches the kitchen on the other side of the house. It's quite simple, the counters have yellow ceramic tiles with more flower designs on them, most definitely made by a feminine hand. Ellie? Geralt runs a finger over the tiles and traces the outline of a lavender flower.

The paint is rough under his fingertip and the lavender is a little messily made, a few droplets of the purple paint splotched around the edge of the design. It's imperfect. It's begrimed. It's the last memory of Ellie in the house that's not stained by blood and tragedy and violence... but it's beautiful. It's a pretty little flower.

Ruselm would adore it.

Geralt sighs and pushes away the thought. He's in an empty house surrounded by fractured memories of the family that used to live here, why in Melitele's name would he be thinking of Ruselm now? He really needed to stop doing that. There was nothing more he needed in this moment than to focus, get this job done, and go to see Nenneke. The priestess would be able to offer her thoughts on Ruselm's situation and perhaps guide Geralt's path a little.

She had always been like a mother to him. And an outside perspective like hers could only help.
He breathes in. The cat and rat scents hit him first and what they're followed by... makes him see red. He could have suspected this, given the bandits had torn off Ellie's dress before they strung her up outside as naked as the day she was born. But to smell what they did to her? Months after the fact? And after seeing the love she put into her little paintings? By the goddess, it was hard to remember that witchers were not supposed to be enforcers of the law.

If he were to ever find who did this—

He draws his hand away from the tiles, slowly closing it into a fist. Geralt turns and sees the evidence of this assault all over the rest of the kitchen.

A broken table laying on its side, leg snapped in half. Claw marks in the wood, no doubt made by desperate nails which scorched trails of pain across the surface. Chairs tossed about. Cutlery scattered over the kitchen, on the counter, some of it laying where it fell on the floor. Geralt knew she'd fought back with all the fire she had in her, but it still wasn't enough.

And there was more blood here in the kitchen. He could see long red drag marks along the floor now, leading to the front door he'd entered from. He hadn't looked down when he first stepped in, but Martien did mention she'd ended up strung up. In that tree.

So they had dragged her.

Maybe her ring was outside after all.

Without much more lingering, Geralt steps out into the night and his eyes take a moment to adjust to the pale white light of the crescent moon hanging in the sky above. The oak tree is illuminated by the moon, its large branches and thick canopy of leaves casting a dark shadow on the witcher and ground below. He can just make out one of the lowest, thickest branches wreathed in shadow and sin, part of a hemp rope still hanging from the branch.

Goddess above, they hadn't completely removed the rope, had they?

Geralt grumbles to himself with displeasure and turns his eyes away from the tree to examine the overgrown grass out in the yard. He keeps his eyes peeled for even the slightest sparkle of metal, any sign of the rogue wedding ring shining in the moonlight. Rings didn't just grow legs and walk away. He knew it was somewhere, could feel it inside him. Hiding. Taunting. Waiting.

Where was this fucking ring?