You will never find a witcher working a guard post for a fort, they are restless creatures, migrating across great distances, taking contracts as they go, and moving on. Although they hunt the demons that plague the people, they are hated and feared for their unnatural appearance, a constant reminder of the evils that lurk in the world. They’re not selfless heroes, they’re businessmen who provide an invaluable service to the community, and if there’s no gold to be had, there’s no witcher to be found. The majority of witchers carry two swords with them.ĭespite the many differences between individual witchers, such as school, personal differences, and general worldview, one thing that unites all of them is the witcher’s code the idea that a witcher doesn’t work for free. They usually die to monsters, but even fewer survive the infamous Trial of the Grasses, the final part of the process, in which the subject is subjected to toxic chemicals which, in addition to making them infertile, mutate them into something more than human, something that is both the evil they face and the silver they banish it with.
Witchers are trained in small batches, usually consisting of ten to fifteen kids, the vast majority of which don’t survive the training. They fill a necessary niche in the homeland of their craft, killing monsters for those plagued by them, and have taken their services to a new land, only to find a continent with bounties ripe for the taking. Mutated by the Trial of the Grasses, trained in swordplay, and well versed in nearly every type of monster, they are more than equipped to handle being pitted against whatever goes bump in the night. The last thing they see is his face, veined from the potions he took, a branching mass of death.Īll of these fighters are Witchers, the ideal being for killing monsters. With a short sign, a wave of fire explodes forth, followed by him cleaving a path through them with his shining sword. Blood and feathers fly as he nimbly carves his way up the side of the beast before finally splitting its head in two.Ī half-orc thrusts his hand toward the pack of undead shambling toward him. At the sound of an otherworldly howl, he dodges out of the way, narrowly avoiding the cavernous maw of a werewolf.Ī tiefling whirls his gleaming sword about his head before bringing it down before him, hacking a griffin’s wing from its body. All is silent save for the gentle tapping of his medallion against his chest. And we, Witchers, are the ones who will bump back.Ī human stalks through the night, cat eyes shining in the darkened forest.
There will always be things that go bump in the night. And in that darkness there will always be Evil, in that darkness there will always be fangs and claws, murder and blood.
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