Chapter 2: Detective Mode, Engaged

A quarter hour later, Zeilin pushed open the tavern door and stepped out. The cool night air was a welcome change, clearing some of the Gwent-fueled buzz from his head. He pulled the warped wooden door shut, the familiar din of drunken revelry muffled behind it.

His purse was heavier by a good twenty crowns.

Not from the contract, mind you. Fleecing drunks at cards was a far more reliable income stream. Especially after that lout Yark slapped down a truly pathetic Scoia'tael hand. Zeilin figured that alone would cover his meals for the next couple of days. Easy coin.

It was a regular habit of his, finding a tavern come evening, sniffing out the ones deep in their cups. Years on the Path had taught him that men drowning their sorrows were the quickest to part with the few crowns jangling in their pockets. The craftsmen and merchants he sometimes played during the day were a different story. They might have deeper purses and bet boldly at first, but after Zeilin had taken a few hands too easily, they’d suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere, making flimsy excuses and clamming up tighter than a Vodyanoi’s arse. But the common folk, weary after a day’s toil and looking for a bit of distraction? They were different. They’d happily wager their drinking money, cursing their luck and begging for "just one more hand" even as their coin piles vanished. Zeilin often had to practically fight his way out. Yark, today’s specimen, had been true to form.

Took just a few rounds for Zeilin to liberate Yark of his last crown. Bright gold, these coins were common enough in the Northern Kingdoms, though some realms still insisted on minting their own, like Temeria with its orens, trying to keep a tight fist on their own coffers. Still, across the Continent, nothing quite matched the crown for sheer buying power. Especially this close to Novigrad. No farmer with half a brain would try to trade with those high-and-mighty city merchants using anything else.

Zeilin twirled the card he’d won from Yark between his fingers – a Scoia'tael Smuggler Medic. Not a bad card, all told. But Zeilin’s Scoia'tael deck was far from complete; he usually relied on his tried-and-true Northern Realms deck to crush opponents. So, into the depths of his pocket the medic went, for now. Not that he’d expected to find any hero cards in a piss-poor village like this. Even if some sod did have one, they wouldn’t cough it up easily after a lost game. That was a card you kept close.

He carefully tucked his Gwent deck – his other essential tool for survival – into an inner pocket. Time to earn the other half of his pay. He recalled the directions Elder Sigi had given, and headed towards the forest north of the village. Keeping the locals happy, or at least not actively hostile, was key to a steady Gwent income. Two hundred orens for this monster, whatever it was. And if he played his cards right, literally, he could probably milk another two hundred from the villagers in Gwent games before the Eternal Fire zealots managed to turn them against him again. Just had to establish his reputation as a Gwent sharp. There was always someone – a craftsman with a bit of spare coin, some bored young buck with more bravado than sense – willing to try their luck. Zeilin never turned down a challenge. Witcher contracts paid the bills and kept him from being run out of town on a rail. Gwent… Gwent was his passion. And a damn sight more profitable, most days.

The village path was little more than a muddy track. Zeilin’s Witcher eyes, missing nothing, scanned his surroundings. They were in the Northern Kingdoms, south of Redanian soil. The tendrils of the Eternal Fire had reached even this far-flung hamlet. He noted a few clusters of lit candles by the roadside. Not for light, no. A ritual, meant to symbolize the Fire’s "divine radiance," protecting the village from the "darkness." Superstitious nonsense. Zeilin had no love for the Order, with their talent for stirring up hatred between humans and non-humans. Burned more than one acquaintance of his at the stake, they had. Fortunately, their real power was concentrated in Novigrad. Out here in the sticks, or further south in Nilfgaardian territory, their missionaries usually got a rougher reception – a beating from the local guard and a swift boot out the gate. Besides, the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, for all their own scheming, usually kept the Eternal Fire from getting too out of hand. For now.

Zeilin’s eventual destination was the Mahakam mountain range, far to the southeast of Redania. A couple of days' hard riding on a good horse would see him across the Pontar and into Temeria. He hadn’t planned on dallying here. But his last horse, a decent mare, had ended up as a wyvern’s lunch during his previous contract. Until he scraped together enough coin for a new mount, he was stuck on foot. A Witcher reduced to shanks's pony – his colleagues would laugh him off the Path.

Leaving the dim lights of the tavern behind, the village fell into a deeper quiet. The sounds were softer now: the faint glow of candlelight through grimy windowpanes, the sparse chirping of crickets in the damp grass, the occasional bleat of a restless sheep. After a long day of back-breaking labor, the village slept, a brief respite. Come first light, the crow of a rooster would shatter the peace, and the cycle would begin anew. Fields to till, animals to tend, endless, grinding work. Nations were built on the backs of countless such villages, their tithes and taxes filling the coffers of lords and kings who lounged in their castles, blissfully unaware of the sweat and toil that sustained them.

He reached the edge of the cultivated land, the boundary between village and wilderness a ragged line of stunted bushes and overgrown weeds. Monsters rarely ventured into settled areas, unless driven by desperation or something truly unnatural, like the Wild Hunt. But out here, in the untamed wilds, humans were just another item on the menu. Zeilin had lost count of the number of times he’d found human remains while clearing out drowner nests or ghoul lairs. This world was a dangerous place. Walls and a strong gate offered some measure of safety. Beyond them, it was monster territory – necrophages picking over fresh kills, mutated insects buzzing in the gloom, things with too many teeth and claws, like griffins and their ilk, ruling the night. And that, in a nutshell, was why the world still needed Witchers. Someone had to deal with the things that went bump in the night.

The bushes thinned as he pushed deeper, replaced by the dark, towering shapes of pine trees. This close to the border between Temeria and Redania, dense pine forests were common, stretching for leagues, a dark, brooding ocean of trees. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a small, gold-plated compass, its needle quivering. Essential kit when crossing these endless forests, especially on overcast nights when you couldn't see the stars or moon to get your bearings. This particular compass hadn't cost him a single crown. He’d won it in a high-stakes Gwent game in Vergen, the capital of Aedirn. The merchant, a fat, sweating fool, had been down to his last pair of breeches and had sent his servant scrambling home in the dead of night to fetch it as payment for thirteen consecutive IOUs. Some people just didn't know when to quit.

"Hmm… north it is…" Zeilin muttered, checking the needle before tucking the compass away. He looked up. The further he went, the thicker the canopy became, the moonlight struggling to pierce the dense web of branches. To a normal man, it was just dark. To a Witcher, it was prime ambush territory. Foglets loved these conditions. Werewolves too. And nekkers, always nekkers, skittering in the shadows. A lone nekker was a nuisance. Five could be trouble. Ten or more? Even a seasoned Witcher could find himself in a world of hurt.

A wolf howled in the distance, a long, mournful sound. Zeilin merely shrugged. He raised a hand, fingers tracing the familiar lines of an inverted triangle in the air. With a sharp thrust of his palm, the sign flared to life – a shimmering, orange ripple that enveloped him in a protective aura. Quen. The Witcher's Shield. He remembered his old Griffin School master, a grizzled veteran with a fondness for cheap spirits, slurring after one too many flagons: "Know what a real dragon is, boy? Not these overgrown lizards. A true dragon… with Quen, I could stand toe-to-toe with one, share a pint even!" But when Zeilin, young and foolish, had asked what he should do if he encountered such a beast, the old master’s advice had been considerably more pragmatic. "Don’t be a hero. Run like hell."

Zeilin shook his head, banishing the memory. He strode into the deeper gloom, his Witcher eyes adjusting instantly, piercing the darkness as easily as a cat’s. Even in a thick fog, he could see clearly for thirty yards or more. The mutations weren't just about strength and speed; every sense was honed, every organ altered.

He hadn’t gone far when the coppery tang of blood hit his nostrils – old blood, stale and faint, mixed with something fresher. The five-day-old scent, that would be the slaughtered cow. The newer scent, sharper, more recent, came from about thirty yards ahead. Several wolves lay sprawled on the forest floor, their bodies contorted in death.

Zeilin paused, closing his eyes for a moment, focusing. When he opened them again, the world had changed. The air itself seemed to shimmer with information. The scent of blood was a visible trail now, a crimson miasma. The jumbled footprints on the damp earth told a story of a desperate struggle. The rustle of leaves, the snap of a twig – he could pinpoint the source of every sound. Even the medicinal herbs hidden amongst the undergrowth seemed to glow faintly. These were the things ordinary men never saw, the subtle clues that allowed a Witcher to unravel the tangled threads of a mystery. "Right," he muttered, a grim satisfaction settling over him. "Time to get to work."