The Witcher Series is copyright by Andrzej Sapkowski. This story is licensed under creative commons and derivative non-commercial fiction.

The wind howled through the darkened forest, carrying with it a haunting melody of desolation. Geralt of Rivia stood at the edge of a moonlit clearing, his silver sword gleaming in the pale light. His steely eyes scanned the surroundings, ever watchful for signs of danger. By his side stood Ciri of Cintra, a young girl with fiery hair and an unyielding spirit. She clutched her slender sword tightly, her face a mixture of determination and uncertainty.

Before them, a grotesque creature loomed, its twisted form barely recognizable as anything that once belonged to the natural world. Its jagged claws and gnashing teeth were like shards of death, hungering for the flesh of the living. It let out a guttural growl, a sound that sent shivers down the spines of those unfortunate enough to hear it.

Geralt, however, held back, allowing Ciri to take the lead. This was not a monster that posed a real threat to him—a Witcher with years of experience, honed skills, and countless battles behind him. No, this was a low-level adversary, and Geralt saw it as an opportunity for Ciri to gain some much-needed experience. He had fought countless beasts, and now it was time for him to pass on his knowledge to the next generation.

“Don’t show fear,” he said in his husky, calm voice. “Attack!”

Ciri lunged forward, her sword cutting through the air with precision. She fought with all her might, but her strikes were hesitant and her movements lacked the fluidity of a seasoned warrior. The monster's claws grazed her arm, leaving a shallow gash that bled crimson onto the forest floor.

“Don’t let it inside your circle. Keep everything out. Let your training be your guide.”

As the monster bared its fangs, believing victory was within its reach, Ciri's eyes narrowed with determination. With a swift, athletic turn of her body, she unleashed a series of strikes that seemed almost dance-like in their execution. The monster, caught off guard by her sudden skill, had no chance to defend itself. Ciri dispatched it with ease, her sword finding its mark again and again.

“A-Ha!” she cried, putting her foot on it’s head, as it heaved it’s last breath. “The foe is defeated!”

Geralt's eyes widened in surprise and pride as he watched Ciri's display of newfound prowess. He rushed to her side, embracing her tightly. His heart swelled with a mixture of love and admiration for the young girl he had come to see as his own.

Checking her wound, Geralt found it to be only superficial. A few moments later, Yennefer of Vengerberg, a powerful sorceress with raven hair and eyes of violet, approached the duo. She channeled her magic, mending Ciri's injury with a wave of her hand.

“When will you two learn to control yourselves? That monster wasn’t going to harm anyone.”

“The only good monster is a dead monster,” they both said in unison, then laughed.

Yennefer rolled her eyes, finishing the healing.

The trio continued their journey, making their way toward the city of Marabel, where Ciri was to further her magical training under the guidance of Yennefer's dear friend, Arabelle. Yennefer's excitement was palpable as they drew nearer to their destination. She had spoken of Arabelle's expertise and wisdom, eager to reunite with her long-time companion.

“You’re going to learn a lot from her,” Yennefer said. “She’s very powerful in earth magic.”

Ciri nodded, smiling as her friends walked beside her.l.

"Ciri," Geralt said, his voice a low rumble that carried with it the weight of years of experience, "remember the Rule of Deception. Sometimes, in order to defeat an enemy, a Witcher must appear to be something he is not. It is in that moment of the enemy's confidence that we strike, ending their existence."

“That’s why I feigned being tired. I knew it would draw the beast in.”

“Remember though, the monster’s know the rules too. It may also have been using the Rule of Deception against you. Some monsters are quite crafty like that.”

“Have you ever faced one that used the Rule of Deception?”

Geralt nodded. “Many times. A Faecore once lured me in with a baby’s cry. There’s also the shimmering pools of a Tartus, luring passerbies into thinking it’s a cool pond of water.”

“I remember the Tartus,” Ciri said.

“The whole pool is it’s mouth. The minute you step into that pool—“

Ciri pulled out her short sword. “Jab!”

“You slide right down into its gullet, is what. Better to throw a stone into the pool, let it close its jaws, and thrust up into the soft skin under the chin.” Geralt made an overhand stabbing motion with his blade.

Ciri listened intently, her gaze fixed on Geralt. She nodded, absorbing his words like a sponge thirsty for knowledge. She understood the importance of strategy and the power of illusion in battle.

As they approached the city of Marabel, their eyes fell upon a scene of desolation. Once a bustling hub of life and activity, it now lay empty and abandoned. The air was thick with an eerie silence, broken only by the distant howling of the wind. The trio exchanged concerned glances, their senses sharpened by the knowledge that danger lurked in the shadows.

“Fuck,” Geralt said, as they passed through the unguarded gates into the town. The last time he’d been here it had a bustling thoroughfare.

“I don’t like this, Geralt.” Yennefer raised her hands in anticipation. "This isn't right," she muttered, her voice tinged with unease. "Arabelle would never leave the city like this. Something must be terribly wrong."

With renewed determination, Geralt, Ciri, and Yennefer pressed on, their footsteps echoing through the deserted streets of Marabel.

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The Witcher Series is copyright by Andrzej Sapkowski. This story is licensed under creative commons and derivative non-commercial fiction.

The trio moved through the deserted streets of Marabel with caution. Geralt's senses were heightened, his every step deliberate and calculated. His keen eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for any signs of life or the lurking presence he sensed. The air hung heavy with an unsettling silence, broken only by the soft whispers of the wind.

As they ventured deeper into the heart of the abandoned city, Geralt's mind raced with possibilities. What could have driven the inhabitants away or claimed their lives? What kind of monster could be responsible for such devastation? He ran through a mental catalog of creatures that could fit the bill, each more dangerous than the last.

The name that sent a shiver down his spine was the mention of a vengeful spirit known as the Banshee of Gloomfield. Legends spoke of a spirit that haunted forsaken cities, its mournful wails bringing death and despair to all who heard them. It was said to be a relentless creature, seeking vengeance for some long-forgotten injustice.

Geralt couldn't help but worry that the Banshee of Gloomfield had made Marabel its hunting ground. The thought of such a formidable adversary lurking in the shadows sent a chill down his spine. He knew firsthand the devastation a spirit monster could bring, their ethereal nature making them difficult to combat.

His mind continued to piece together the puzzle, considering alternative possibilities. Could it be a wraith, feeding off the fear and anguish of the city's inhabitants until they fled or perished? Or perhaps a higher vampire, thirsting for blood and reveling in chaos? The uncertainty gnawed at Geralt's mind, his thoughts filled with the myriad of dangers that could await them.

As they turned a corner, the remnants of an abandoned marketplace came into view. Empty stalls lined the square, their contents scattered and forgotten. Geralt's acute senses picked up on a faint, lingering scent of decay, mingled with a trace of magic that lingered in the air. It was a scent he had encountered before, one that spoke of death and despair.

"Stay close," Geralt murmured to Ciri and Yennefer, his voice low but firm. "We're getting closer to the heart of whatever's taken hold of this city."

“Maybe they all just decided to visit relatives?” Yennefer said, her hands making intricate motions and chaos magic spinning silently between her fingers.

“Hmm,” Geralt said.

“I can feel…something,” Ciri said, looking at each stall. “It’s like…someone is there, but isn’t”

“Careful,” Yennefer said. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with and there are creatures that can sense your use of sensing.”

Ciri nodded, still staring into every corner and market stall.

A gloom had fallen over the city, a pall. No wind touched their hair, no insects buzzed around food bins, nothing. It was as if the City had been built but no people lived in it.

Food rotted uneaten in stalls, manure from farm animals had dried underfoot, undisturbed.

It all felt so…familiar. What was he missing?

The trio continued their careful exploration, their footfalls masked by the eerie stillness that enveloped Marabel. Geralt's instincts guided him, his Witcher training honed to perfection. He had faced countless monsters throughout his career, but the unknown always carried an extra weight of danger.

A sudden movement in the corner of his eye caught Geralt's attention. He tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for his silver sword. But as he turned, ready to strike, he found only a flickering shadow dancing in the moonlight. The sensation of being watched intensified, sending a ripple of unease through his veins.

The shadow melted through the door of a nearby building.

"We're being watched," Geralt warned, his voice a mere whisper. "Keep your guard up."

Ciri nodded, her face etched with determination, while Yennefer's eyes gleamed with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. They pressed on, their resolve unyielding, determined to uncover the truth behind the ghostly emptiness that gripped Marabel.

Geralt approached the building he’d seen the shadow enter, motioning for the women to follow him. Stone archways led to a heavy oaken door that wasn’t locked. Geralt opened the door, hearing the creak of rusty hinges. He held up a hand to stop Ciri and Yennefer from entering while he took a look inside then motioned for them to follow.

As they crossed the threshold a shriek filled the air, and Geralt fell to his knees in pain. He heard Yennefer yell, then something whumped as she created some kind of barrier around the trio.

“That should deaden the worst of the sonic scream,” she said, tugging at her earlobe.

“What was that?” Ciri said.

Geralt sighed. “Banshee. I was afraid of this.”

Both women blinked. Geralt wasn’t afraid of anything.

He stopped a moment, sighing. “A Banshee is a cursed soul who seek retribution upon the living.”

“We shouldn’t be here,” Yennefer said.

“I’ve never seen one act like this,” Geralt said. “What has it done to all the townspeople?”

“We aren’t being paid, Geralt,” Ciri said. “Do we kill monsters without coin?”

Geralt sighed. Ciri was right, he didn’t have a customer. But that didn’t mean coin would be forthcoming if the townspeople weren’t dead but imprisoned somehow.

“This all just feels, wrong.” Geralt continued into the building, wary of every shadow and crevice.

He took out his potions and drank one to enhance his strength, speed and perception. He felt the cold rush of the magic sweeping over him, the cold embrace of Witcher magic, so addictive yet so deadening.

Silently, he stalked into the building using his enhanced senses to feel his way through. Power radiated from the center, hate. He could feel it there, lurking, poised to attack. It would have some type of physical form, or it wouldn’t be able to cross into this reality. If he could dispatch the physical form, perhaps the people could be saved.

Another shriek came, deadened by Yennefer’s magic.

Now he remembered where he’d felt this before; when he first met Ciri. She had a similar ability to use her voice and stun an opponent.

“Ciri, do you still remember how to call your Voice?”

Ciri nodded, confusion etched on her face. “But you told me never to use it.”

“Perhaps a creature who uses a sonic screech can be affected by one. When we see it, attempt to stun it in return. It might give me a few moments to dispatch it.

Ciri nodded, rolling her shoulders and taking some deep breaths.

Descending some stone stairs, they wound their way down into the inky darkness below. Geralt struck some flint on steel and lit torches, handing one to yennefer and ciri in turn. “Ware that the flames don’t burn you.”

“I can handle a torch, Geralt.” Ciri said, annoyed.

They entered the catacombs beneath the building. A stench filled the air, decaying meat, mold, things rotting. Water dripped from above into inky black pools. Still, nothing stirred in the darkness. Bats did not hang from crevices, eyeless worms did not inch their way along bannisters, and maggots did not squirm in hidden crevices.

So unnatural. It was like they were the ones shifted out of reality, into a plane of existence where nothing lived except them.

He paused at that thought. “Yenn, could we be the ones shifted?”

“What are you talking ab—“ Something shrieked at them, and leaped from a hidden cloister.

Ready for the attack, Ciri shrieked back, and the creature shied away at the last moment. Geralt had barely seen the physical body of the thing, something gnarled, humped and large, with too many teeth.

It’s just a monster, he thought to himself.

Gripping his sword and torch, he moved silently into the cavern the thing had retreated to, running to catch up to it.

Something stood in the center of the cavern, a structure of some kind, with something on it that moved. Frowning he approached it to find a lattice made of wood, with a woman stretched upon it, blood leaking from several wounds as if the thing had been feeding.

“Annabelle!” Yennefer said, rushing to the woman.

“Careful!” Geralt said, “It might be a tra—“

As Yennefer approached the lattice, the Banshee sprang again, wrapping Yennefer in leathery wings.

Monster and prey both flickered out of existence.
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