#queuebism

1.

Valentine shouldered his way through the heavy doors of the small elven-made castle that had been repurposed some centuries ago to serve as the Veronan mayor’s estate, swiping a woolen cap from his head and shaking rainwater irreverently from his cloak.

“It’s bloody pouring out there,” he grumbled, walking quickly down the main hall toward the little dais from which his uncle facilitated town meetings. “The stalls are closing until it clears, and I don’t blame --”

He stopped short when he saw that his uncle had a guest; a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed all in black -- which contrasted sharply with the stark white of his hair -- stood on the floor in front of the dais with strong arms crossed over his chest. It was the man’s sword, however, strapped across his back like a bow, that made the strongest impression on Valentine.

He turned narrowed eyes on his uncle.

“And who’s this?” he asked, venomous.

“Valentine,” his uncle began in a placating tone, “this is Geralt of --”

“A witcher,” Valentine spat.

“A witcher,” Escalus huffed, exasperated, “who I called here to give his professional opinion --”

“We haven’t any monsters here,” Valentine cut across coldly, his eyes flicking briefly to the man in black’s back. “I told you, what we need is a sorcerer.”

“What makes you say that?” the witcher spoke for the first time, turning to regard Valentine with sharp yellow eyes like a raptor’s. Valentine felt gooseflesh skitter up his arms and the back of his neck.

“What has my uncle told you?” he asked in response, darting another glare at the mayor.

“He says that something stalks your townspeople nightly,” the witcher relayed. “Whatever this thing is, it doesn’t leave survivors, meaning that no one has gotten a very good look at it. Before you arrived he’d just mentioned that the remains of its victims are only barely recognizable. Yet you don’t believe that this is within my purview as a witcher. May I ask why not?”