THE WITCHER AND THE WOLF
CHAPTER ONE
Amadeus was a witch hunter. His duty was to send the wicked into the black abyss. He was a tall, well-built man of formidable presence. His silky white hair glowed faintly under the dying sun, casting an eerie radiance. At his side was his white wolf, Snow—bred to be a predator, a faithful and tireless watchdog. Strapped across his back were twin swords, crafted for swift combat, and on his black horse—whom he named The Knight—hung a weathered shield.
On this day, Amadeus came upon a small village. Quiet and remote, it huddled beneath the shadow of an old church that overlooked the modest cluster of homes like a forgotten sentinel.
As he entered Wallachia, the villagers scattered and hid. His reputation had preceded him. Shopkeepers closed their stalls, fearing that death followed him. But Amadeus was not a butcher of innocents—he had never spilled clean blood. He hunted only the damned, the cursed, and the monstrous.
Three years earlier, while he was away on a hunt, a vampire had murdered his wife and child. Since then, his sword had found not only witches, but shapeshifters, daemons, ghouls, and blood-drinkers. His vengeance knew no boundaries.
As he neared the church, a figure emerged from the mist. It was the village priest.
“Pardon me, warrior. You have no business here,” said the priest.
“There’s always business in cursed lands,” Amadeus replied. “Now move—you’re in my way.”
“I will not allow sacrilege in this holy place—not even for your cruel bounties! Tell me, do you believe in God, sir?”
Amadeus met his gaze. “No. Only in man, and the evil within.”
“Then may God deliver you from the grip of sin,” the priest whispered, stepping aside reluctantly. “I pray you find peace in your work.”
Amadeus pushed open the church doors and entered.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the bitter tang of sulfur—clear signs of something unholy. The once-sacred sanctuary was now lifeless, haunted by rumors of ghosts and the cursed things that kept them company.
He unsheathed his blade—Stormbringer—forged in fire and enchanted by ancient rites. Few wielded such a weapon, and even fewer dared to face what it was made for.
Snow growled beside him as the final light of the village faded. Darkness swallowed the chapel whole.
At the altar, a cloaked figure hunched over a corpse, feasting like a beast.
“Have you come to kill me, Witcher?” the figure rasped, its cloak billowing in the moonlight pouring through the broken window.
“There’s a price on your head,” Amadeus said, stepping forward. “I’ve come to collect it.”
“Very well... let me finish my dinner,” hissed the creature—a vile fusion of man and monster. “You really think you can hurt me?” it asked, licking its blood-soaked fingers.
“Flee now,” Amadeus warned, “or feel the wrath of Stormbringer.”
The creature turned. Its skin was pale as bone. Its fingers stretched unnaturally long, crackling as they moved. “You're just another bounty hunter. You came for gold.”
It reached under its tattered cloak, tossed a pouch of coins toward him. “Here. Take it, and leave me be.”
Amadeus stared at the gold, unmoved. “I said go! Or I shall have you for dessert!” the monster roared.
Amadeus pulled a capsule from his belt—a vial of holy water, blessed by the last of the old popes. He poured it along the blade, which hissed as the holy water met its runes.
“They call me the Count of Wallachia,” the vampire hissed. “This is my city.”
Amadeus surged forward without warning, slamming his elbow into the Count’s face. The creature collapsed beside the bloodied remains of a woman in a torn white gown, her body limp and lifeless.
“And you... what do they call you?” the Count wheezed.
“I am your end,” Amadeus said, driving the sword through the vampire’s chest.
The Count screamed, his body igniting in a blaze of fire. The church filled with his final, echoing cry.
Amadeus stepped away from the ash and left the gold where it fell.
Outside, the villagers began to emerge, one by one, from behind doors and shadows. They had heard everything. Their eyes followed him, wary and silent.
Amadeus said nothing.
Snow walked beside him, and The Knight waited. Without a word, he mounted his horse and rode into the breaking dawn, the great white wolf padding beside him, vanishing into the light.
CHAPTER TWO
Ten Years Ago
The night howled with winter’s breath—cold, sharp, and unforgiving. Snow fell in thick, swirling sheets like ashes from a dying sky. Amadeus stood in the barn, brushing down his tall black stallion, Knight, as his wife labored in pain just beyond the wooden walls.
The barn door creaked open, and the midwife appeared, her cloak dusted with frost. “The child is almost here,” she whispered breathlessly, eyes wide with urgency.
Amadeus nodded once, solemn. As custom demanded, he had prepared a gift for the newborn—an heirloom dagger, short and keen, with a silver sheen and pearls embedded in the hilt. It was wrapped in royal blue silk—a warrior’s welcome.
Moments later, a cry broke through the howling wind—a child’s first scream, fierce and wild. Amadeus stepped into the firelit room. The midwife handed him the boy, whose piercing blue eyes seemed to glow, twin flames in the dark. He was silent now, staring at his father as though he already understood the harshness of the world. The boy’s spirit resembled Snow, the white wolf curled by the hearth, watching protectively.
Angelica lay on the bed, her golden hair damp with sweat, her skin glowing like amber under the flickering firelight. She smiled faintly, drained but proud, her fingers brushing the edge of the blanket wrapped around their child. Amadeus knelt beside her, placed the sheathed dagger beside the baby, and whispered:
“Your name shall be Artemis, goddess of the wild and the hunt. You will walk between shadows and flame.”
The next morning dawned clear and cruel. Though the air was brittle with frost, the sun shone brilliantly through the trees, casting long spears of golden light into the cottage windows.
Amadeus went into the woods, carrying his twin swords and a bow. The hunt was quick—he sighted a deer grazing beneath frost-covered branches. A single breath, a drawn string, a whistling arrow—and the beast fell. He skinned it cleanly, bound the meat, and turned homeward, satisfied.
But as he neared the river, a plume of smoke snaked into the sky. His heart froze.
He ran.
Crossing the stream, the scent of fire and blood filled his nostrils. His home—his sanctuary—was engulfed in flames. Villagers surrounded it, torches in hand, faces twisted with ignorant fury.
“Burn the witch!” they chanted. “Death to the magical conduits!”
Amadeus drew Stormbringer, his great blade—etched in runes and thirsting for vengeance. With a roar of agony, he descended upon them like a tempest. Steel met flesh. Screams rang through the cold morning. Justice—or wrath—was swift.
But it was too late.
Inside the burning home, Angelica and Artemis were gone. The fire had claimed them both. Amadeus dropped to his knees, ashes falling like black snow around him. His world collapsed. The light in his soul extinguished.
The truth was cruel. Angelica had been no witch. She was a healer—gentle, wise, skilled in herbs and roots. But the town priest, threatened by what he did not understand, branded her a heretic, and the villagers obeyed like sheep.
Enraged, Amadeus stormed the chapel of Grenadia. The priest stood defiant, robed in false holiness.
“May God forgive you, Witcher,” the priest gasped as Amadeus plunged Stormbringer into his chest.
“God is dead,” Amadeus whispered coldly. “Only monsters like you remain.”
As the priest’s lifeless body slumped to the floor, Amadeus walked into the snow. His heart now hollow, he vowed to hunt every monster—be it beast or man—that poisoned the world.
On a high cliff, he knelt beneath a gray sky, snow falling around him. A small white wolf pup emerged from the blizzard, curling beside him for warmth. Its fur was indistinguishable from the snow—silent, pure, and deadly.
“It should’ve been me on that pyre,” Amadeus murmured, closing his eyes. “Not you… my Angelica.”
CHAPTER THREE
Amadeus was spent.
The battle with the Count of Wallachia had drained him—body, mind, and magic. His veins still pulsed with the residue of old spells, but they no longer answered his call. The earth beneath his boots was soft with dew and blood, the long grass brushing his legs as he led his horse, Knight, by the reins. Too weary to ride, he walked, one slow step after another, through the endless green of a quiet land that seemed to hold its breath.
Beside him moved Snow, a massive white wolf with shoulders as high as Amadeus’ chest and eyes as cold as the northern ice. Loyal, silent, deadly. Always a step ahead, always watching. They hunted not for glory, but for survival.
A deer emerged from the trees, its body lean from winter’s passing but enough to fill a pot. Amadeus knelt. His bow creaked as he pulled the string, his fingers stiff. The arrow flew, struck true. The deer fell without a sound. Another day survived.
He crouched by the fire as the sky darkened. The meat hissed over the flame. Snow lay curled nearby, ears twitching. But something shifted in the air—a murmur, a soft crunch of boots on frostbitten leaves. Amadeus turned his head slightly.
From the trees emerged villagers—six or seven men, wrapped in worn furs, hands rough from fieldwork. Their eyes held the same look every peasant wore in wartime: tired, wary, and desperate.
“Witcher,” one said, spitting the word like a curse or a prayer, “do you not fear the King of the North?”
Amadeus didn’t look up from the fire.
“Fear him? No. But I’ve learned not to underestimate fools with crowns. Why?”
A younger man stepped forward, his voice cracked from wind and grief.
“Tyrion. They call him the Ice King now. Burned our village to cinders last moon. Took the boys for his mines, killed the women that resisted. Says it’s for taxes… but we know better.”
Amadeus glanced up, one eyebrow raised.
“Sounds like a man with more enemies than friends. Why tell me?”
“Because you kill monsters,” the youth said. “And he is one.”
“I kill beasts,” Amadeus said flatly. “Cursed things. Abominations. Not kings with bad tempers.”
An older man—perhaps their elder—stepped closer, eyes narrowed.
“They say your wife died ten years ago. Burned in her home. A priest took the blame.”
That got Amadeus’ attention. Slowly, he stood. Snow lifted his head, alert.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the fire wasn’t an accident. The order didn’t come from the Church. It came from the North. Tyrion was cleansing the land of ‘southern impurity’—his words. Your wife… she was one of the first.”
The fire cracked between them. For a long while, no one spoke.
Amadeus’ voice was low, even.
“If you’re lying, I’ll find you. All of you. I don’t care how far you run.”
“We swear it. On the old gods.”
He turned away.
“Then leave. I have work to do.”
The North
The wind grew sharper the farther he traveled. The once fertile land turned to cracked ice and ash. Amadeus rode now, his strength returned enough to endure the saddle. Snow kept pace, ghost-like in the frost.
Villages lay in ruin. Burned-out homes. Unburied dead. Smoke hung low over the hills like mourning veils. The few survivors dared not speak. They simply watched him pass, their faces hollow.
At the foot of the Ice King's stronghold, iron gates loomed. Guards stood with halberds, their armor pieced together from what scraps remained of a dying kingdom.
One stepped forward.
“State your business.”
In the blink of an eye, Amadeus’ dagger found the man’s throat. The body crumpled without a cry. The others froze.
“I’ve no fight with you,” he said calmly. “But stand between me and your king, and your wives will be widows before nightfall.”
The guards backed away. None followed.
The castle was cold—literally and in spirit. Its halls echoed with the sounds of nothing. Librarians and scribes remained, old as the stone they walked on. They moved like ghosts, still loyal to a king long lost to madness.
At the end of the hall, beneath a flickering torch, sat Tyrion Cornelius, the Ice King.
He was no tyrant in gold. He wore no crown. His clothes hung loose on a bony frame, and his eyes were red-rimmed and hollow. One hand clutched his side; the other gripped the arm of the iron throne as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.
“So,” he rasped. “Another hero come to kill the mad king.”
“Not a hero,” Amadeus said.
Snow padded silently to the far wall and sat, watching.
“They call me mad because I burned villages,” Tyrion said. “But they don’t remember my son. My only boy. Hung by the same villagers who claimed I taxed them too much. He was ten. I gave them fire in return.”
“You gave them hell,” Amadeus growled. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
He stepped forward, slowly unsheathing his sword.
“You murdered my wife. Burned her alive. Took my child from the cradle and left nothing but ash. You didn’t just raise taxes. You raised the dead in me.”
Tyrion didn’t flinch. His voice came out soft.
“I’ve killed many men. I won’t remember you.”
The sword drove clean through his heart.
Tyrion gasped once, then sagged forward. Blood trickled down the blade and pooled at the foot of the throne.
Amadeus pulled the steel free, wiped it without ceremony, and turned to leave. Snow was already at the door, tail swaying.
“It’s done,” he said.
“Let the North bury its dead.”
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER SIX: THE SNOW QUEEN
Amadeus gazed across the vast, snow-drowned plains with contempt in his weary eyes. His wounds still bled beneath his armor, and like a rabid beast he licked the dried blood from his lips. He had only just left the castle of the infamous Count of Wallachia—Dracula—and exhaustion gnawed at his bones.
Legends spoke of the Snow Queen of the North—Freya—who wielded winter as if it were an extension of her will. They said she could conjure ice from her bare hands, freeze a man’s lungs with a single breath, and bend storms to her commands. Since the death of her husband, she had become a merciless tyrant. She built her army from stolen children, taken from their homes and forced into the brotherhood known as the White Legion.
From her white castle carved of ancient ice, seated on a throne of glaciers and frost, she declared war upon North Umbria. One by one, the small kings fell. Villages bowed or burned. Her domain grew, cold and unchallenged.
The Legion was her pride—the perfect soldiers. Orphans, beggars, and strays—taken in, not out of mercy, but for purpose. Trained by the most brutal warlords in all of North Umbria, they were taught to master both body and mind. Sword and shield, bow and arrow, wit and will. They learned to harness the hidden force within themselves. They endured frost, hunger, pain. And in return, the White Queen gifted them strength beyond mortal men—unnatural speed, magic, and unbreakable endurance. They became her iron fist upon the land.
Her silver hair fell over her shoulders like threads of moonlight. Her skin, pale and cold, gleamed like polished bone. She wore a gown as white as new snow, untouched by blood or ash. In the throne room she sat immovable, her breath curling into mist, chilling the very air and spine of every servant.
“My Queen, you have conquered all of the North. Beast and man alike tremble before your glory,” said Erik, kneeling as he presented a silver crown encrusted with jewels.
Freya swatted it from his hands with the petulance of a storm.
“I do not rule over monsters!” her voice echoed like thunder across ice.
“Every living thing must bow to my will,” she declared. Her eyes glittered like frozen stars. “There is a man they call the Witcher. Bring him to me. They say he commands monsters and vile creatures. Bring him before me, and I shall make him my pet.”
“My liege,” Erik whispered cautiously, “the Witcher is no loyal servant. He is a wanderer of Midgard, shunned by kings, bound to no throne—”
“Silence,” she snapped. The temperature seemed to plummet. Frost crept across stone. Her advisors shivered, rubbing their hands in vain. “I am your queen. You will do as I say.”
The courtiers bowed and fled, leaving Queen Freya alone with the howling winds and her thoughts.
The winter stretched on, merciless and eternal. No sun, only grey skies and whispering snow. Days bled into nights, and nights into hopelessness. Villages lay buried in frost. Children were stolen. Barns burned for refusing the Legion. Hearths went cold.
Amadeus’s black stallion, Knight—once unstoppable—now dragged his hooves in the deep snow, each breath a labored cloud. By his side padded Snow, his faithful direwolf, ears twitching, eyes sharp.
They came upon a forgotten village—silent, lifeless. A tavern stood at the center, wooden beams rotting, windows shattered by wind and time. Amadeus pushed open the door. It groaned in protest. Cold air blew through a broken pane, scattering flakes inside like white ghosts.
He knelt by the fireplace and, with trembling fingers, struck flint. Flames crackled to life upon old wood. Snow curled beside him, watching the door.
Amadeus removed his armor and slumped onto a torn Victorian-style couch. Exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted into sleep…
A sudden howl—sharp and urgent—ripped him awake. Snow stood rigid, teeth bared, fur bristling. Amadeus grabbed Stormbringer, his greatsword, and stepped outside.
Four figures emerged from the darkness—cloaked soldiers, each armed with bows, arrows, and steel.
“Witcher!” one shouted, unrolling a scroll. “By order of Queen Freya, you are summoned to her court.” When he finished, he crumpled the parchment and tucked it into his coat.
“I bow to no king,” Amadeus growled, voice like thunder. “Nor to queens.”
An arrow whistled through the air, but he caught it effortlessly on Stormbringer’s steel. The sword ignited in blue flame as he whispered an ancient incantation.
A soldier wielding a warhammer charged. Amadeus deflected the blow with the hilt of his sword and struck back, plunging steel into his chest. Blood spilled onto the snow like a crimson waterfall.
Another soldier circled behind, whipping out a chain inscribed with glowing runes. It lashed around Amadeus like a living serpent. The Witcher’s sword clattered to the frozen earth.
With a roar he broke free of the enchanted chains, but the effort drained him. His knees hit the snow. His breaths were ragged. Blood dripped from his brow.
A final blow struck the back of his head. Darkness swallowed him.
“You will obey the Queen of the North,” growled the bearded man before everything went silent.
Those were the last words he remembered.
What fate awaited him in her icy grasp?
Would he defy her… or die at her feet?
CHAPTER SEVEN: THE LYCAN WAR: PART I
Amadeus got off his horse, Knight and made a small campfire at the edge of the forest. There he made dinner by the fire from previously acquiring rabbit game. On these nights he wished his family was still alive. But who was he to dictate life’s unfortunate events. A piece of him died when his family passed. All that remained were memories of a distant past.
Snow with his dazzling white fur gave a sharp contrast with the night time. Amadeus gave him a raw bone to chew on. He quickly devoured it making a soft whine, a token of appreciation. Snow had nearly doubled in size after a long winter and was now becoming a monolith of a monster.
He had heard stories about this part of the forest about how the Lycan Empire and the Vampires of royalty were at war for a millennia until the Chosen One a half human, half vampire and half Lycan hybrid brought peace as the herald of uniting the two creatures. But a decade had passed after the chosen one’s death and the war was more prevalent than ever.
The war had spread through all of Earthrealm, fighting for peace where there was none to be found. Villagers were caught in the cross hairs of this war that seemed to never end. Leaving a wake of terror and constant fear among the mundane.
The Lycans were a vicious race their leader Lord Dimitrius ruled with an iron fist his followers were a savage race. After every full moon they would turn into werewolves massacring innocent lives feeding on their flesh like sheep.
They would turn into huge monsters, their bodies would turn to a thick coat of fur, their backs arched like that of minotaur, their faces turn into fierce nozzle like that of a hungry wolf, their teeth would form a jagged razor-sharp weapon that could cut through the toughest steel. Their eyes would turn blue to that of a fiery luminous flame.
They always travelled in packs like that of a modern-day wolf. They would kill any enemy that would travel these parts of the Dark Forest but Amadeus did not fret he seemed unbothered and indifferent by the Lycan war against the Vampires even though he was the Monster Hunter.
From a distance he could hear the howling of what seemed to be a large wolf. Snow howled back in synchrony. He grabbed his sword Stormbringer close and slung it over his back sheathing it perfectly.
The full moon was in perfect precision. It gleamed from a distance illuminating the Dark Forest home of the Lycans. Suddenly something moved within the bushes not too far from the camp fire. Amadeus cast a spell summoning his eagle vision to activate, a way Witchers could see thermal footprints once engaged.
To his surprise, it was a Lycan but in man’s form.
“Who goes there?” asked the Witcher
“It is I Cornwall of the Wolfsbane gate, here to deliver a message” said the half human hybrid.
“Well then spit it out. I do not have all day” said the Witcher in a gruesome low tone.
“The Vampires and Lycans have been at war for over a millennia. And the death of the Chosen One has broken the treaty for decades now. Oh, great Witcher, you need to intervene with the guild of Vampires, we cannot endure the blood shed no longer. Every other Witcher from here to the North of the Edge of Earth would kill us for game” said the man pleading exuberantly.
“The Witcher’s made a pact with the Lycans and Vampires hundreds of years ago not to interfere with the War and I intend to keep it that way…” said the Witcher.
“They have my daughter Amadeus” interjected the Lycan half breed.
Cornwall shook at the very name of her daughter. “Amelia” he said trembling.
Amadeus disgruntled, sighed in exhaustion.
Without a word he got onto his black horse, Knight.
“If what you say is true then the Lycans really do need my help. I have heard rumors of your kind going extinct in the Midlands. That shall not be the case. We Witchers are a testament of nature and nature must have a balance no matter how cruel it will be. So be it, I will be your peace broker between the two tribes.” Said the Witcher as he trotted off on horseback.
“I will see to it your daughter is safe Cornwall. Now go about doing whatever you Lycans do” said the Witcher.
The sun rose over the horizon giving life to the Dark Forest. Its warm rays of purple and azure filled the air with hope and benevolence. Birds could be heard singing their tunes to break the silence and monotony of the dark. The sky became clear and the sun glistened into a fiery infernal ball of fire.
The forest came to life within a few seconds. All forms of flaura and fauna once docile springed to life like a new born baby from her mothers’ womb. A low tremor rippled through the roots, subtle enough that the smaller creatures dismissed it as the shifting soil. But the elder trees those that had stood for centuries recognized the vibration. Their bark seemed to shiver, their branches whispering warnings to one another in creeks and groans.
Deep within the forest’s heart, where sunlight dared not reach, a single crow launched into the air with a frantic cry. Its wings beat against the silence like a drum of impending doom. The forest paused, listening.
Then came the second tremor louder and more deliberate.
A hush swept over the foliage. The birds fell silent. Even the wind seemed to retreat, holding its breath as if something had awoken a sleeping giant. He felt a great sense of dismay and discomfort of the journey ahead. He knew well not to dwell in politics of the realm.
But this was for a greater cause he told himself.
THE WITCHER AND THE WOLF
CHAPTER NINE: THE LYCAN WAR: PART TWO
The Witcher grunted at the long journey to the Lycan Empire but first he had to pass through the fishing village of Skasgaard, home to the werewolves and dwarves. He hitched his black horse Knight and fed him an apple. Good boy he said under his breathe petting his silky black hair. He sighed in affection. He took his reins and led him to a clearing by the village entrance.
The smell of raw fish rented the air. The sound of a nearby carriage nearly startled him carrying refugees from a nearby town. It was rumored that Lycans the half human hybrids would storm the night and feed on the flesh of humans, led by their insurgent king Dimitrius. He was a man of great power and everything seemed to be ruled by his iron fist.
Him and his loyal choristers would lure out the innocent people of Skasgaard steal all they had: their bounty, their live stock and most of all their children. The humans that lived there lived in fear of these ancient beasts. Every so often they would give a sacrifice to one of the leaders of their Lycan guild by butchering their own sheep to prevent any more extra blood shed that seemed to be too much for their village to handle.
The Chieftain of small fishing village was old and did not care much of the people of his territory he simply hoarded the villagers’ precious metals and treasures from himself and refused to step down from power. An usurpation took place where his twelve sons attempted to assassinate him but it was all futile for the great Chieftain Gangus had ears in the walls and he knew every secret that roamed through the shadows.
Amadeus led his horse near the tavern. He was thirsty and sought for mead. He tied Knights reins on the stead. Snow his wolf, had gone mating, he let him be in the Northern forest, let him do what animals have always done, it’s in their nature. And also carrying a dire wolf to this part of the realm would have raised too much of an alarm. It would not be wise to carry any extra attention.
He had a mission to find Amelia the deserter’s Lycans’ daughter. He stepped into the tavern slowly unbuckling his swords and putting them right next to the bar tender.
“Oh, in all my days of living in this rotten earth, a Witcher, I haven’t seen the like of you since the death of Witcher’s, you lot are an extinct breed.” He said as he was wiping a wooden cup.
“And I would like to keep it that way” said the Witcher.
“I am looking for a girl” said the Witcher.
“Many children go missing this time of the year, due to the sacrifice” said the bar tender.
The Witcher reached into his pocket and got out a gold coin. On one side was the sun embroided with dazzling rays. the other, the moon with a great face that shone brilliantly by the fires’ reflection. The bar tender put down the wooden cup and took the coin examining it while he smiled wanly.
“There are rumors that a child had been taken by the Lycan King Lord Dimitrius. She is rumored to be the chosen and is being held hostage by the very same Lycan King.” He said as he poured him some mead in the wooden cup.
So that half wit lied to me, his daughter is the Chosen One-reborn. What have I gotten myself into he said under his breathe. He took a sip of his mead, then another. He could hear some kind of commotion at the back of the tavern, two drunk gentlemen going at it. Fists flying and chairs breaking. But the Witcher did not flinch not one bit until…
“Hey you!” said a voice from behind. The Witcher hunched over, did not move until the drunken man poured his drink on his silver hair now turned dark from the ale. Amadeus stood towering over him, looking at him with null expression. The man shoved him, the Witcher did not move.
“The likes of you are not welcome here!” said the drunken man.
“I am not looking for any trouble” said the Witcher.
“These god damned Witcher’s think they can just waltz into any village and be given special treatment. A curse on you Witcher!” said the man as others approached, staggering towards them. One of the men punched him only for the Witcher to block it. Another drew a kick to the stomach only for the Witcher to parry it in midair and break it like a piece of wood.
He dodged their attacks with ease and precision. Punching one attacker in the shin while his left hand grappled the neck of one of the drunken men throwing him off balance and into a small fire in the corner from the room. He caught another by the collar and gave him a head butt that made him fly across the room.
Three men came from the side and tried to subdue him but his strength outnumbered them ten to one. The law makers of the town stepped into the tavern trying to arrest the drunken men but the Witcher showed no mercy, breaking bones and teeth for sport.
After a few moments later the assaulters were bound to each other and the Witcher was tired, blood oozing from his porcelain-like head. He was given a bandage by one of the so-called law makers and gave a short report.
“Amadeus, we have no quarrel with you, go about your way, I hear you’re looking for a lost girl. I am afraid Lord Dimitrius the Lycan King has her bound for God knows what reason. Be steadfast we will show you the way” said the Lieutenant known as Gatsby.
Outside the now crowded Tavern were by standers looking in great shock at the events that had unfolded in the small fishing village. Lieutenant Gatsby escorted him out the fishing village and gave him directions to the conclave of the Lycans. And with that the Witcher got onto his horse and trotted away in dismay…
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