PSA: It's gonna be dark. Gritty. Twisty. Violence and gore will abound. Castle will become the ultimate white-haired badass with two freaking swords hacking limbs off vampires, werewolves, strigas (basically demons that possess young girls and turn them in bloodthirsty monsters at night but leaves them normal, only slightly nymphomaniac and sarcastic, at day), nekkers (short, stubby creatures that live in grassy areas near water, with sharp, poisonous fangs and a taste for human flesh) and giant spiders (that's kind of self explanatory) and many more I'll describe later. A world so dark that Game Of Thrones will look like it has a neatly polished setting where everyone is happy and no one dies. Ever.

The world of The Witcher is extremely dark. It's low fantasy. Like, ground level fantasy, better underground fantasy. Don't expect Lord Of The Rings type of fantasy. Violence, gore, blood spurts, gratuitous sex, mentions of rape… all trigger warning you can possibly conceive apply to this story. If you're easily triggered by any of these subjects, stay away from this.

I own nothing of course. All rights go to Andrew Marlowe and Andrzej Sapkowski and CD Projekt RED.

Also: happy Ficathon everyone!

Chapter 1 - End Of The Hunt

Monster slayers, most of the time.

A necessary evil, sometimes.

Freaks of nature, at worst.

Witchers were rarely called by their names.

A profession that required intense training, extreme sacrifices and gave little to no satisfaction should be heeded as noble and respectable, in an ideal world. But reality was much harsher than some utopian dream born out of desperation.

In a world where magic created rifts between worlds and caused all types of monsters and spirits to cross the lines between different dimensions and take residence in their lands, Witchers were necessary.

Highly trained swords for hire, they succeeded where even the most skilled soldier was doomed to fail. Taken in as children, they spent a lifetime undergoing physical conditioning and alchemical processes, building resistance to poisons and diseases and the assumptions of mutagenic agents rendered them killing machines. Through the years, their skills with the blades was nurtured day by day and their agility and cunning became unmatched, even the greatest acrobat couldn't be as fast as they were with their blades.

Magic was taught to them. Nothing in comparison to what magicians and sorceresses could achieve, but they knew the basics. The Signs, the most fundamental form of magic, allowed them to get the higher ground during their fights with monsters sometimes three times bigger than them. They needed all the advantages they could.

They made a living by travelling all around the world and looking for monsters to slay or ghosts to eradicate. A bit sellsword, a bit priest, a bit ruthless warrior, Witchers were respected, but most of the time they were feared. People were terrorized, as most of the commoners felt they were closer to the monsters they hunted than human, because of the tremendously horrific process they underwent to become what they were.

Having a Witcher in town often meant that something was very wrong. Everyone was in danger if they needed a Witcher to do something. Ghosts and spirits were just as dangerous as a Nekker or an Endrega, as they could possess people and force them to do the unspeakable.

Therefore, most of the time, Witchers were just vagabonds trying to make ends meet and find a roof for the night. Usually, as soon as their job was done, they were shoved away on the road again. If they were allowed to stay, they rarely had people around them. Respectable townsfolk tended not to meddle in Witcher's affairs until a Drowner appeared in the their yard, crawling out of the river to seek fresh blood to feed on.

Hypocrites.

Richard Castle, of the School Of The Wolf, couldn't help but snicker at the thought as he walked down a path invaded by weed. At least he was far away from water, so no archespores could pop up and shoot him with their toxins.

The mayor of the village that had hired him had shoved a bag of coins at him while he was drinking a pint of ale in the tavern and pushed him out of the village borders, basically ordering him to track down a succubus that was haunting an abandoned manor deep in the forest.

Six days before.

If only the fat idiot had pointed out in which direction he had to go… He was starting to wonder if the man had just paid him to get out of his town so people wouldn't become scared and paranoid when they saw him in their tavern.

Damn the glowing eyes and the white hair that made Witchers so easily recognizable.

The sun was quickly setting behind him as he walked eastward in one last attempt to find this manor. He had been walking in circles for the past few days and he was getting restless to find this place and get it rid of its unwanted visitor. After all he had been paid a decent sum of money; there was no reason to deny the man a job well done. He had also promised another wealthy sum of money if he returned with proof he had slain the succubus.

He had almost lost all his hope when the wolf head medallion hanging from his neck vibrated. A barely there movement, but he felt it strong against his sweaty skin. Something not of that world was around.

He flexed his fingers, already itching for his silver blade, when he suddenly stepped into a large clearing. In front of him, in the shades projected by the thick fronds of the oaks around him, the famous haunted manor he had been instructed to liberate.

Problem was: it wasn't abandoned. It was a fully illuminated, richly decorated manor full of life and people bustling in the last lights of the early spring day. It looked pretty normal to him, but his medallion still vibrated, so he decided to investigate further.

There was something fishy in that situation, that was sure. And it wasn't the basket of freshly gutted herrings that a maid was carrying as she walked up the neat track that went up to the back of the house from a larger road that went straight into the woods, on the other side of the clearing. He had arrived from the wrong side apparently.

Slowly, not to startle anyone as the hurried to finish their daily chores, he moved up towards the house. Though he was sure that, after six days spent in the thick of the forest, he was a ghastly sight to behold at such a late hour, the first person that noticed him greeted him with a broad smile.

He was probably shortsighted, thought Castle.

"Greetings traveler. May I help you?"

The man, a short, stubby farmer, holding a large sheaf of hay in his hands as he loaded it on a carriage, looked incredibly friendly for someone who was talking to a Witcher.

"Yes… ah… I'm sorry, I think I'm lost. You see I'm…"

"A stranded traveler, of course… come my friend. The Lady of the House will be pleased to have such an honorable guest for the night."

With a large hand on his shoulder, careful not to touch the sheaths of his swords, the farmer led Castle to the back door. The man was friendly, too friendly. Something was wrong indeed, but he still had no idea what it was. He decided to play along and see where the events led him. He was pretty sure he was in the right place; he just had to understand what was going on.

When he stepped in the kitchen, he was nearly knocked down by the wonderful scents hanging in the air, from the freshly picked herbs hanged to dry near the fireplace to the thick stew that was being cooked in a deep kettle on the nearby stove. And baked potatoes. Castle found himself salivating as the kitchen personnel, young women all feverishly working, politely greeted him.

He heard one giggle as she realized that she had just met a Witcher. He sighed. People like him, as rare as they were, were famous not only because they were excellent monster slayers, but also for their prowess in bed. The alchemical and mutagenic process they went through made them sterile, so they were the perfect partner for those women, and sometimes men, that wanted to have some fun without facing consequences. Also, being basically immune to common diseases and extremely resistant to poisons and toxins, being… not so appropriate with a Witcher had no chances of leading to infectious diseases or anything like that. Giggles from young women were common when a Witcher was around.

As much as angry fathers and husband preemptively shutting daughters and wives away.

The farmer greeted a maiden and left him in her hands, then went away back to his work.

"Come with me sir," she said, leading him deeper in the house. "Our Lady always welcomes stranded travelers like you. I'll give you something to get yourself presentable for dinner."

"How kind of your Lady…" he replied, looking around. The house was opulent, but not tacky. There was a display of wealth, with rich tapestry and antique furniture, but nothing too extreme. The owners had good taste, and the servants kept everything clean and neat.

And yet, they were too friendly. Most of the people didn't like to have Witchers around, and yet they had welcomed and offered him a lush room, supplies to get cleaned up, and apparently dinner with the mistress of the house. It seemed like they didn't even know what a Witcher was.

Now not only the continuous vibration of his medallion kept him alert, but also his instincts. There was something very, very wrong in this place.

Maybe he hadn't wasted those six days wandering for a scared man's whim. It might not be a succubus, as they tended to live alone in more secluded places than this, but there was something otherworldly in this manor.

"Yes, she is a kind woman. Treats us right. Come please."

The maid led him upstairs to what looked like a guest chamber. "You can rest here. I'll bring towels, water and soap so you can clean yourself. Do you have a clean shirt?"

Castle nodded and took the small backpack off his shoulders. "I have clean clothes, though I wouldn't mind if someone could at least wash this shirt for me."

The girl nodded. "It will be done. I'll be back shortly."

The moment she closed the door behind her, Castle went into hound mode. He dropped both the backpack and the swords to the floor and, taking a silver-lined dagger from his boot before he started looking around, this time not admiring the tapestries or the engraved four poster bed. He was searching for traces of anything abnormal.

He found plenty just with a quick look around.

The maids were thorough when they cleaned, but bloodstains were tough to wash away. And there was a nice smudge just beside the bedside table. And traces of someone bleeding being dragged towards the door were still pretty fresh.

This wasn't the work of a succubus. Succubae sucked the energy of their victims while they had sex, and usually left them tired, sated, in love with a hellish creature for a while, but alive. There was never blood involved. And here there was a lot of blood.

Vampire. There was a vampire involved here.

Or worse…

The perspective didn't exactly look great, he had to admit it.

"Fuck…" he murmured, sheathing his dagger when he heard the maid approaching the door. When she opened the door, balancing a small pile of towels on an arm and holding a steaming jug, he was casually looking out of the window. There was still activity down in the courtyard, though the sun had already set and the little light came only from torches and the windows. In the yellow glow, he could see the kind farmer still loading hay on his carriage.

Weird didn't even start describing the whole situation.

The young girl left the supplies on a table near the door. "Dinner will be served in the main dining hall in an hour. Lady Kandell is eager to meet you, sir. If you need anything, don't refrain from pulling that rope and an alarm will ring downstairs. I'll be happy to procure anything you'll ask. Leave the dirty clothes on this chair, I'll take care they're washed and hung out to dry during dinner."

With that she left him alone once again.

"Well, if the Lady wants to dine with me…" he mumbled, unbuckling the strap that held the sheaths of his swords on his back to lay them beside the bed. If he had to have dinner with a noblewoman, he'd better be presentable. Also, he wasn't one to forgo the possibility of getting the grime off himself, and have his clothes washed and ironed, for once.

He used the bar of soap and the hot water wash away most of the dirt of six days spent roaming in a thick oak forest, pieces of grass and foliage too. On a richly engraved dresser nearby rested a set of toiletries. He used the comb to attempt at taming his unruly hair. As he tried to comb through the thick white locks, he decided he definitely needed a haircut. In the past few months his hair had grown past his shoulders, and keeping them clean and in order had become impossible, considering the roaming life he lived. As he looked at his reflection in the full figure mirror, while buttoning his crispy white shirt, he decided he'd get an haircut the same moment he'd set foot in Vizima.

Once he thought he was presentable enough, he tucked the silver-bladed dagger in his boot. He couldn't go down to dinner with his swords, but the dagger could easily be hidden. If there was a vampire involved in all those strange happenings, he would never go anywhere unarmed.

Someone knocked on the door. When Castle opened it, he found a tall and pale butler waiting for him. The man silently guided him to the dining hall; it was a lushly furnished room with a long rectangular table already prepared, thick red brocade tapestry on the walls. A large fireplace and an insane amount of beeswax candles gave the room a dark orange hue that made it almost hard to see. He was lucky the mutagenic agents he had consumed in his youth for the Trial Of The Grasses, one of the steps to become a Witcher, had made it possible for him to see even with such an unfavorable light.

The suspect that there was a vampire involved was becoming more and more a certainty each time he looked around and noticed little details. Lack of light was one of those details.

He was admiring a portrait of a knight in full gear when the door behind him opened. A tall, slender woman dressed in the most revealing kind of dress he had ever seen, outside of a brothel, showing off an impressive cleavage. The skirt had a slit from ankle to hip that left nothing to imagination. As he respectfully bowed in front of the noblewoman, he couldn't help but think about how beautiful that woman was.

"My Lady…" he greeted her, politely.

"Good evening sir. My servants informed me I was having a guest tonight. They've told me they found you stranded in the forest." Her voice was sensual and mellow, like raw honey flowing directly from the honeycomb. Her bright blue eyes glinted in the dim light and the smile she put on, probably for appearances, shined like an autonomous source of light.

Feigning meekness as well as he could, he smiled. "Yes I… was heading to Vizima but I'm not familiar with the area and I got lost. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up walking in circles in the forest. Your attendees were so kind to give me a place, some water and soap to get rid of weeks on the road. I'll forever be thankful for that."

A valet entered and silently pulled the chair at the head of the table for his lady so she could sit, and when she was comfortably seated, he did the same for Castle. The same moment he had set his ass on the wooden surface, a small contingent of waiters and kitchen aids stormed in and brought shiny platters and bowls with the food.

It had been ages since he'd had such a luxurious banquet, that he had to admit.

They ate while chatting inconsequentially. Castle kept up the appearances and went on playing the part of the stranded lonely traveler that had stumbled upon the isolated house in the woods. The woman, Lady Beth Kandell, was apparently a widow of a small noble of Kaedwen that had decided to move in Temeria some years ago to live in peace. Little did they know about his weak heart that would leave her mourning her husband less than ten years after they had moved.

Castle shook his head, inwardly smiling. The old trick of the deceased husband. He had noticed she had barely ate a bite or two of the four courses of the meal and that her pupils weren't round, but straight, like the eyes of a cat.

Little light, straight pupils, ate nothing… vampire.

After dinner, the woman guided him to a parlor. She had him sit on a plush couch and poured him a glass of vodka, before sitting down herself on an armchair in front of him.

"So… tell me sir, what brings you to these parts of the kingdom?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "This and that. I'm a writer," and to an extent, that was true. "And I love to see the world. I usually travel around the world, looking for things to write about."

"And what do you write about, Sir Castle?"

"Novels, mostly. I've tried my hand in poetry, but I'll leave bards to that. I'm more interested in the mystery."

And for the first time that evening, he hadn't needed to lie. He did write in his spare time, and published under a pseudonym, with a more than decent success.

"Oh there's enough mystery to inspire you around here that's sure. I was told you were heavily armed when you arrived."

"Travelling alone, you never know what you may encounter on the roads. The world's a dangerous place."

She nodded. "Oh yes indeed. But tell me… why a Witcher would try to pass himself as a stranded traveler? Did the mayor of the village send you?"

Castle chuckled. "I see it's not possible to fool you any longer," he said, downing the remaining vodka in one quick swallow. "How long have you known?"

"Long enough. But, spill it. Did the major sent you?" she asked again.

He nodded. But he was convinced you were a succubus. And from what I gathered, I highly doubt you are."

"What do you think I am then?"

Faking an easiness that was quickly fading away, Castle crossed his legs, so that the dagger hidden in the boot was easy to reach. "Considering the amount of blood splatters your servants have tried to clean around the house, I'm quite sure you're a vampire."

"Uhm…" she nodded. "Impressive. And you gathered that only from the poorly cleaned traces of blood?"

"And the little light in the dining hall, the fact that you barely ate anything at dinner and your eyes are kind of revealing."

"Eh, I had forgotten how perceptive Witchers are. What do you intend to do?"

"First of all I would like to know if what the major said is true. He said people have been disappearing. Mostly young men, that's why he thought a succubus had taken residence here. What do you have to say about them?"

She smiled.

Fuck.

It was that kind of wicked smile that kind of monsters usually gave before they pounced at attacked.

Castle braced himself, just in case.

"They were delicious."

He was right. She pounced.

A split second after she had spoken, they were tumbling on the floor crashing furniture and destroying that adorable cabinet where she kept the liquor, spilling them all over them. Her fangs bared as she tried to bite his neck, saliva dribbling down the pointy teeth as she anticipated a succulent meal of fresh blood. He managed to shove his left forearm in her mouth to keep her from making more damage by biting more vital parts of his body.

He had made a major mistake. She wasn't a simple, common, relatively innocuous vampire. She was a Bruxa, a higher vampire, a stronger form of the same monster, more subtle as they were able to charm people to meddle with them, and definitely more dangerous. Damn he had underestimated her and was stupid enough to forget to cast the Quen Sign, that created a protective shield around him. There was nothing except the light fabric of his shirt to protect his arm from her sharp fangs.

He grimaced in pain as the monster sunk her teeth in his flesh, sucking hard as blood poured. But she couldn't expect that his blood had a revolting taste, because of all the mutagens he had been given in the past, making him a terrible meal for a monster like her. She snapped her jaws open and leaned back, hissing. His blood dripped on his face from her teeth, along with her nauseating saliva.

"You…" she cackled. "You won't leave this place alive!"

"Are you sure about that?"

She tried to bite him again and again met the muscles of his arm. While keeping her busy with that, he bent his right leg just enough so he could grab the hilt of the dagger from his boot. She was still gnawing away at his flesh when he managed to stab her in the back, three times in rapid succession. The silver blade was highly caustic to monsters like her and she let go of him, with a loud scream of pain. That gave him the chance to hit her in a much more lethal spot: he pushed the sharp blade in her ear. The silver burned her, searing her flesh and brain to a pulp. The Bruxa convulsed above him, eyes bawling as she gnawed at the air trying to set herself free from his deadly stab. He grasped her neck with his other hand, holding her in place as he pushed her back until she was lying on the floor.

He groaned as the bite marks on his arm stung and hurt, blood dripping down to his hand and making his hold on her clammy skin slippery. He doubled his effort, to keep holding her down and the dagger in her head. The exertion was making him breathless, but finally, after endless minutes of fighting to maintain control, the Bruxa stopped jerking beneath him.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled the dagger out. A gush of dark red blood and gray matter flushed out of the wound and onto the carpet, ruining it forever. The smell was disgusting, enough to make him want to puke.

Standing up, he pulled the head of the dead Bruxa so she would lie prone on the floor. He passed the silver blade on her neck. The sharp metal cut easily into the now lax flesh and cut the head off the body. That was the proof he had slain the entity that haunted the manor, to bring back to the village in order to claim the rest of the money of the contract.

He still held the head of the Bruxa by the hair and the bloodied dagger in the other hand when some valets entered. They looked at him, eyes bawling and mouth gaping in shock as they saw the guest they had welcomed and fed holding the head of their Lady, decapitated. Blood was still spurting from his own arm and dripping from the severed head and neck, and he looked positively gruesome, covered in gore.

Shrugging, he walked out of the room. "She was a Bruxa." The proceeded to show them the sharp, inhuman teeth and the straight pupils.

"But…" stammered one of the valets. "How… You're a Witcher?"

Castle nodded. "I see the spell she put on you has already vanished. Yes, I'm a Witcher and this Bruxa had enchanted all of you to believe she was your Lady. She probably killed her years ago," he explained.

"How did you…"

He shook his head. "It's my job, no more no less. And apparently you were not so good at washing the blood away from furniture and floors. Now… would you mind washing this shirt?" he asked. "I need to get to Vizima as soon as I can and I don't think walking all the way there from here covered in blood would be a good idea." He omitted the part where he'd tell them that so much blood would probably attract all the monsters in the area, but advised them to burn the body in order to avoid necrophagers, monsters that fed on dead and rotting bodies, common in badly maintained graveyards and battlefields, in the courtyard.

The servants started working again around him. They took the head of the monster and promptly put it in a burlap sack, and then someone grabbed the dagger and took down to the smithy to be cleaned and sharpened. A maid took the soiled shirt and went to wash it. A stubby elder woman dragged him in the kitchen to tend to his arm.

In a flurry of soap, hot water and healing herbs, the bite marks were disinfected and bandaged, his shirt cleaned and mended and his boots shined. One of the shepards, an amateour but capable barber that took care of the workers also cut his hair for free when he lamented how long and unruly it had become. The next morning, after a good night of sleep, he was ready to walk back to the village to cash in the rest of the payment, with a detailed map this time, gently offered by another grateful farmer.

When he appeared at the village gate, that late afternoon, holding the severed head of the monster as proof of his accomplished mission, the people were gasping in disbelief and fear. People shoved children and women inside, murmured insults and blasphemies at him, cursing his presence and the bad luck it brought. He called the major, loudly, standing in the middle of the town square showing off the head and demanding to speak to him.

The fat man hurried out of his house, scared to death. When he saw the head of the Bruxa he stopped in his tracks. "Oh my God you did it!"

"Of course I did it, you bloody idiot!" he yelled in response. "And it would have taken a lot less if you had told me in which direction to go!" he threw the head at his feet. "And it was a Bruxa, not a Succubus. Succubae leave their victim tired but alive. This one sucked them dry. Way more dangerous. Now… I was promised a decent sum of money if I dealt with what haunted that mansion, right? Time to give it up!"

The man nodded and went back inside to gather the coin. He threw him a small leather pouch from the doorstep.

Castle weighted the pouch in his hand. At least one hundred Orens, plus the two hundred he had already received… he was good for a while.

"Thank you. Now… can any of you show me the direction for Vizima or all of you bloody morons don't even know where the capital is?"

A young farmer approached him and drew the quickest route to the capital of the reign on his map, giving him some landmarks so he could orientate himself. Castle thanked him, giving him a couple of coins for the trouble and went on the road. He didn't want to spend a single moment more in that place.

He was tired of the attitude of people towards Witchers. It wasn't like they were heartless bastards. They weren't much different from them. They were just unlucky enough to be the only people trained to kill the monsters that plagued their lands.

And that scared those who were not smart enough to understand that without them, the humans, elves and dwarves alike would be constantly chased by drowners, demons and ghouls.

But apparently, a white haired man that knew how to wield a sword was scarier than a fucking Nekker.