bialy_wilk | Contract: The Oxenfurt Drunk

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moiraine sedai

Contract: The Oxenfurt Drunk

Oxenfurt. City of academics, of doctors and researchers and artisans. A civilized Redanian jewel tucked into the current of the Pontar; a bastion of higher thinking.

Geralt stumbles through the portal Moiraine has created onto its cobbled streets and slumps for a moment against a stone wall, his stomach lurching. Portals.

Nice to bypass the guards at the gates, though. Let them try to work out later on how a witcher managed to sneak past the soldiers' not-so-watchful gazes.

They'd aimed for a quiet back alley — the last thing either of them need is for some upstart Redanian looking to make a good impression on his commanding officer realizing that Moiraine is a sorceress. Oxenfurt is less deadly than Novigrad, just now, but. No need to make things more difficult for themselves. The witcher straightens, making a sour face at the roiling in his gut. "Welcome to Oxenfurt."

Wizard-fearing Redanians aside, the city is a good deal more hospitable than the keep they'd left behind. The cobblestone streets are neat and clean, the buildings in good repair. There's not much hum of industry here; Oxenfurt's purpose is loftier than that. "Home to Oxenfurt Academy and more snobby intellectuals than anywhere else on the continent. At least they mostly stay behind their walls."

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She steps gracefully through the gateway after him and allows it to dissolve in a flicker of silver light as she eyes him, waiting for him to regain his balance.

It would seem that he truly does loathe such crossings. She cannot help but wonder if it is a sensitivity to the power, or the displacement between places, or something else entirely.

"Thank you," she murmurs, allowing her flicker of amusement at his observation to be visible. "I may take it you are not fond of such 'snobby' types?"

"Academics live in the past or in pure potential. They tend not to like it when grubby reality gets dragged through their door." He orients himself with a glance, then starts heading down a gently sloping street. "This way."

The sound of the river is everywhere, as constant as the stream of bright-eyed youths that fill Oxenfurt's streets and cluster beneath trees, arguing about poetry. Geralt ignores them, making for the market square. "There's a blacksmith here, should be able to forge the sword we need."

This time she laughs, quick and soft. "I have known enough scholars that I cannot entirely disagree with you on that point."

She steps around the knot of would-be poets he has passed and nimbly ducks an overenthusiastic gesture with an ale mug from one of them as she comes up on his other side.

"Hopefully your blacksmith is currently accepting commissions, or is willing to be encouraged to do so with proper motivation."

"A blacksmith is just about the only person in town who's happy to see a witcher," he points out. "And there aren't many who can do what we need for this sword. He'll accept it. Probably mark the price up a good ten percent, too." And Geralt will have no choice but to pay it. Maybe the smith will be willing to haggle.

He glances over at Moiraine as she comes back to his side. "But speaking of scholars, wouldn't hurt for you to pretend that's why you're here. The Redanian king has it out for magicians. Can't let anyone here know what you are."

"Mm. As it happens, I am not unaccustomed to seeking out those with tales of interest or specific knowledge to share from which I might glean certain insights."

Moiraine arches an eyebrow at him. "And it would seem a place such as this might well have a wealth of such things."

She glances at his medallion, then up to meet his eyes. "Are amulets such as that common among those who are not witchers? If so, then I may need to be cautious in actions as well as manner."

He shakes his head: no. "Not unless someone's trying to impersonate a witcher," he tells her. "Happens from time to time, but it's rare."

It's not a life most would want, after all, though the occasional foolhardy youth in need of coin might give it a try. "But even if one of those happened to be hanging around, odds are they wouldn't have a real amulet. You should be safe from that."

"That is likely just as well." She glances sideways up at him, then returns to watching the people around them as they make their way.

"Is there a particular reason this king bears such a view?"

"He believes his father was assassinated by the Lodge of Sorceresses." Geralt nods towards a street leading off the main market square, where they can hear the ringing sound of a hammer striking metal on an anvil.

"The sorceress who was his father's advisor used him like a puppet. As far as he's concerned, mages are all evil, power-hungry manipulators and murderers." He shrugs his shoulders, a loose, sardonic motion. "Or maybe it's that they're a convenient scapegoat. Gives the country something to unite against while they're at war. Hard to say. He was never an easy man to talk to. Seems to be getting worse, these days."

"Ah. I see." The Aes Sedai's tone is dry as desert sand, but holds no surprise at the concept. "Indeed, actions have consequences. Or excuses. Or both."

As they cross into the street, she tries to peer through the crowd toward the smithy, and is resigned to only glimpses.

"And it's helpful to have a boogeyman when you need to control a population," he agrees. "Yeah."

He shoulders away the worst of the crowd, keep them from bumping into the petite magician next to him. The smithy is on the other side of the block of buildings ahead, a quieter street overlooking the water. Geralt sets a heavy gauntleted hand on the door and pushes it open, stepping into the shop. A man looks up from a back workroom, face red with exertion, and sets down his hammer to wipe his hands down his apron. "Help you?"

She glides through the door and moves to the side to examine the visible merchandise, thus leaving the path free for Geralt to approach.

"I believe so," she says, "but I shall leave it to the expert to explain what he seeks."

There are any number of trinkets for her to glance through, slightly magical and otherwise. Geralt leaves her to her perusing and draws out the diagram of the silver sword. After a brief moment of consideration, he pulls out the one for the matching steel sword, as well, pushing both over toward the smith. "Looking for a smith who can craft these weapons. You up to the task?"

The man gathers the diagrams together and studies them, holding one in each hand. "Witchers' blades," he comments. "The last time I saw anything like these was during my apprenticeship in Toussaint."

He peers up at Geralt, weighing. "I can make them. But it'll take time. Plus materials... 300 for one. I'll cut you a deal for both, though... 550 all together."

She pretends to be immersed in her examination of a crossbow - well-tuned enough, as far as she can tell - and keeps watch on the conversation from the corner of her eye.

Geralt's expression gives nothing away, which does not surprise her in the slightest. It seems a reasonable enough price, although a trifle high, given the hundred crowns he had charged her for their original contract, which he has yet to even claim. She reminds herself to renegotiate that agreement in his favor, given everything, and continues to listen as she moves on to study a number of stones with runic symbols carved in them.

He doesn't have that kind of coin. There's maybe a little over two hundred oren kicking around in his purse; not enough for even one of the swords. And this isn't even an especially exorbitant price.

But they need it. He nods, mouth pressing into a grim line. "How much to add runestones?"

"Triple that," the smith tells him. "At least. But I have a particularly nice Veles stone... very useful for a witcher. I'll let you have it for five hundred... practically at cost."

Geralt growls low in his throat, but the stones come dear. "Fine," he says, sour. "Get me the swords. Keep the stone on hand."

He straightens, glancing to Moiraine as he strides to the door. "Let's go."

Edited 2026-03-31 15:57 (UTC)

Moiraine gives a polite nod to the swordsmith and follows the witcher out into the street, stifling the flicker of irritation at being ordered out so abruptly.

"Not what you hoped for, I take it?" Her tone is perfectly smooth.

The witcher shakes his head, pausing as they hit the edge of the market square and glancing around. "More coin than I have on me. I'll have to take a contract to make up the difference." And hope that the bank here will give him as good a return on his orens as Vivaldi would.

Finding what he was looking for, he makes his way towards one side of the square, where a large notice board stands beside a merchant. "City this size, should be one or two I can take on."

"I can contribute," she points out. "Although I may need to make a return to where we met, depending on the local exchange rate."

He has clearly spotted something, so she looks with interest at the board with its postings. "Or at the very least I hope I may assist with the contract."

Geralt pores over the announcements and requests on the board, scrawled in everything from poor villager chickenscratch to an educated, swooping hand. He reaches for two of the best written, glancing over their contents before looking back to Moiraine.

"Sure about that? You could go back while I work. You don't need to put yourself in harm's way for a handful of crowns."

"I am. You are seeking to have these swords made to assist with my concerns," she points out. "As such, I will assist with obtaining them. Besides."

Her mouth curves in a faint smile.

"I confess to some curiosity about your contracts."

“Hm.”

He looks from her to the requests, then hands one over for her review.

By orders of our most magnanimous rule, King Radovid V, any itinerant monster slayer reading this notice is obliged to abandon any currently-unresolved contracts immediately and devote himself to tracking and slaying this monster. The beast in question has befouled the cradle of human intellect, the city within whose territory lies the oldest of academies of learning, namely: Oxenfurt. The swordsman who puts an end to its criminal doings will be rewarded with the King's full generosity.

-Commander of the Oxenfurt City Regiment

“Pretty sure this’ll quell your curious soon enough.”

Her eyebrows arch upward as she reads. "One might wonder what precisely the 'King's full generosity' entails," she observes. "But there would seem to be a fairly simple way to find out."

Moiraine hands it back and looks up at him. "Are monsters of the sort you hunt common within cities?"

“And I’ll be sure to see how generous Radovid is willing to be.” He’s going to have to. He doesn’t have time to waste chasing after every paltry purse on offer around Oxenfurt.

At her question, he shrugs, then starts walking again: this time toward a street that leads down to the piers. “The ones that hunt humans, sometimes. Easy hunting might outweigh the chance of being found out.”

She glides along at his side. The crowd shifts around them as they get closer to the water, thinning out a little as merchants and students peel off.

"We shall see, I suppose."

He doesn’t answer, which is likely answer enough. Oxenfurt isn’t a large city, and it’s not long before they’re heading down to the docks. Geralt makes his way toward a soldier in Redanian livery, looking bored where he’s guarding the ramp to a ship tied up along the pier.

The man hardly reacts as they come close, though Geralt sees him glance at the twin sword grips angled up over his shoulder. The Witcher holds out the summons, letting the soldier read it over. “Seems you have a monster problem. Tell me what’s been happening.”

The city guardsman, or the self-styled regimental commander, looks over the paper and nods. "Aye, looks like what I put my mark to. Seems a creature's been attacking lonely passers-by, abandoning their corpses in the gutters 'round Oxenfurt."

"How did you discover it was a creature, and not some madman?" Moiraine inquires.

Geralt folds his arms and stares the man down as his glance flicks between Geralt and Moiraine. Never seen a noblewoman and a witcher together, he supposed. "No human could leave the marks we found on the corpses," the man tells her, finally, when Geralt proves to be a silent statue. "They weren't made by any blade of my ken."

"Isn't that something you should be looking into?" Geralt says, finally, breaking his silence. The commander gives him an aggravated look.

"Perhaps, but we've got a ploughin' war to win," he grumbles, before remembering himself and looking to Moiraine. "'Pologies for the language, milady, but it's true. We haven't got time to be cleaning gutters."

"War does place a great strain upon many," she observes. "Perhaps my companion might be of assistance in this case."

"Perhaps I could," Geralt agrees, arms still crossed, yellow eyes steady on the other man. "Let's talk about the reward."

The commander straightens, but only nods. "Acquit yourself well and you'll not be disappointed," he says. "Redanian army's no band of scruffs — we can afford to hire a witcher. Two hundred and seventy crowns."

They can afford to pay a lot more than that, at least. Geralt shakes his head. If he's going to get enough for both swords, he'll have to be aggressive in his negotiations. "Three-ninety."

The commander crosses his arms with a huff. "I know guildsmen ought to be decently rewarded, but now there you've gone too far," he grumbles. Studying him, Moiraine thinks he's annoyed but not truly offended. "I've not got that kind of coin."

She slants a sideways look at Geralt. Negotiations like this are not exactly unknown to her, but she does not frequently bargain, herself.

It was worth a try. He stifles the urge to use Axii on the man and says: "Three-forty."

The commander relaxes, nodding. Hm. Probably could have gone up another ten crowns. "Very well. That I can pay with a clear conscience."

It's something, at least. Geralt nods. "I'll take the job. Need to hear some details first, though. And I'd like to examine the victims' bodies."

"I'll tell you everything I know, but why do you want to disturb the dead? A corpse is a corpse," sputters the commander.

"Information comes from a variety of places," Moiraine murmurs. "A healer's examination of a wound reveals the weapon that caused it, for example."

The soldier gives her a warily skeptical look, clearly not willing to be overt in his cynicism but unable to let that stand. "Mayhaps so... but I've never heard of a witcher being a healer."

"My specialties lie in a different direction," Geralt says, dry. "But she's right. If I see the wounds, might be able to tell what kind of monster killed them."

Moiraine takes care to keep her expression perfectly serene, merely widening her eyes a bit as if to convey 'there, see? He knows what he's doing.' Although, Light knows, the likelihood of the commandant picking up on that subtlety is partial at best, she thinks.

The man looks dubious, but nods. "You can ask our sawbones then. He's the one'll know whether the bodies have been burned yet or not. Probably he'll be out in the riverbank hut - that's our morgue."

He looks even more dubious as his gaze slides toward Moiraine, then back to Geralt. "You, uh, might want to have her wait somewhere? Somewhere else, if you get my meaning."

If he thought he could manage it, he might try. But Moiraine has surely seen worse than a few mutilated bodies. "Maybe she can help in a different area," he says, as though there were any chance Moiraine wouldn't be accompanying him straight to the makeshift morgue. "Like by talking to any witnesses to the attacks. Anyone see the beast?"

The man looks dubious. "Some woman survived an attack," he says. "They say she's not been sober since. I'd try the tavern, if you want to try talking to her."

"Which tavern?" she asks. If Geralt thinks she will not be joining him to examine the deceased, she will disabuse him of that notion at the appropriate time. Still, more information will be useful.

The commander points up the street behind them. "That way, make the turn at the square, you'll see it ahead of you on the other side."

They're not going to get anything more useful out of this man. Geralt nods, then pauses. "Won't give me any trouble with the reward, will you?"

"Nah." The commander shakes his head and crosses his arms. "I want this out of my hair."

The witcher nods again, then turns away with a glance to Moiraine, setting off at with a rapid stride. "Better check out the bodies first. Wait too long and there might not be anything left for us to see."

“Indeed. There is only so much information that can be gathered from ashes.”

She keeps pace at his side, although she needs to take three steps for every two of his.

“I can attempt a Delving, although the results may be limited.”

"If you think your stomach's strong enough." Said with a straight face and no hint of humor in his voice, but there's the slightest twinkle in his yellow eyes.

"I can always find a spot for you to lie down, instead, if you want."

“I will pass on that generous offer, thank you.”

Moiraine slants a sideways look at him. “Do not worry. If I become ill, I will be sure not to do so on the bodies.”

"Appreciate it," he says, so solemn it would be easy to miss his amusement.

The ramshackle shed where they've been keeping the bodies isn't far, just a little way down the shore. Geralt can smell it on the air: corruption, rot. Some of these bodies must be days old. Best he can hope for is that they haven't decomposed so much he can't determine what killed them.

A man lingers outside, a beaked mask strapped to his face. Geralt approaches him, letting Moiraine come as close or stay as distant as she prefers. "You the medic? I'd like to see the monster's victims."

The stench is foul, but she wills herself to ignore it. It is far from the worst she has encountered over the years. Instead, Moiraine focuses on the man in the oddly-shaped mask, the reason for which she cannot discern.

"Ah. Yes. I've not had them burned yet," the man muses. "Must get to that."

He sounds detached. She narrows her gaze and studies him closely. "Perhaps not just yet."

"Not just yet," Geralt agrees, and crosses his arms heavily over his chest. The medic's mask keeps his face anonymous, but his body language is insouciant. The witcher can easily believe it was only his forgetfulness that kept him from destroying the bodies without an investigation. "Still time for an examination. You done autopsies yet? Intend to?"

The man snorts, shrugs noncommittally. "Why would I? Beggars and vagrants — every last one stinking of cheap wine."

"And yet they were still people, were they not?" Each word is crisp and cool, and her dark-eyed gaze is level.

"We would like to examine them."

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Contract: The Oxenfurt Drunk

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