A rider approached the notice board by the tavern that stood at the crossroads of country lanes. His bay horse, dappled with dark patches, stepped confidently over ground still wet from recent rain. The rider was broad-shouldered, in a worn black cloak from beneath which jutted the hilts — of a steel and a silver sword, their old engravings almost worn away. A scar crossed his face over the left brow, and his gray hair, tied back in a tight tail, stirred slightly in the wind. The gaze of yellow eyes ran over the board with habitual attentiveness.
He dismounted. The horse stayed where it was, untethered. He walked up to the board. He gave the rows of yellowed, sodden parchments a practiced once-over. One of them was fresh, nailed up with a new spike. He tapped it with a gloved finger, tore it free, and unfolded it. He read aloud, quietly, without expression:
Be it known to any witcher and to any other versed in the hunting of monsters.
Hunter, witcher, or any brave soul — heed this. A bane has taken root in the fields by the village; it poisons the land and kills folk. It hides among the wheat furrows, where the mist conceals its tracks. Whoever slays the creature or otherwise deals with it will receive one hundred Novigrad crowns. For the duration of the hunt we provide board and lodging. Payment after the deed, on our honor.
Stanislav, elder of Rechitsy.
Having finished, the rider gave a quiet snort, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest of smirks. Folding the parchment, he slipped it into his pocket and headed for the horse. He swung into the saddle with the ease of long roads. The horse snorted.
"Looks like we've got work," the rider said. "Come on, Roach!"