The Witcher - Prelude to the Second War - A Fan Story
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
The witcher prelude to the second war hooves bludgeoned the wet, warm mud. As Gero sped across a tarnish landscape, the horses underside splattered with earth and blood cade wind had not yet become a battleground but just South and Adrian, the two kingdoms fought sporadically for the Pont Valley which was situated precariously on the border. The unsuspecting peasants had their once prosperous lands trampled in the name of expansion. After King Hen, south of Edwin had sent a sizable force southward. Go outside knowing the monstrous armies of the North Guardian Empire further south would relish the fractured Northern Kingdoms. But that didn't matter. Gerald was low on crowns and King Volte of Tamir had put out a sizable bounty to a professional monster slayer who could kill a strier which would force him to abandon one of his palaces. Gerald's two swords strapped to his back. One steel and the other silver clashed and rattled together against his boiled leather armor which was dressed in chain mail on the shoulders. They were clean as fortunately, Geral didn't have to use him in the town from which he left heels are honorable men at arms. Decided on having an impromptu purging of non humans. Garrett had arrived as two soldiers were beheading an Elvin couple. Their warm yellow uniforms gingerly sprayed with the blood of the shunned minorities and Gerald after witnessing the unfortunate lover's murder was quick to convince the soldiers that despite being a witcher, his genetic alterations and mutations did not render him as nonhuman. His appearance, pale skin, cat, like eyes and ash and hair as well as the blatant lack of complex emotion had often landed him in intense disputes. The war with Nil Guard two years ago had spread xenophobia amongst the northern kingdoms. Any blame that wasn't thrown at the invaders was prejudicially passed on humans. Elves and dwarves mostly. But Gerald often found townsfolk who are open minded enough to hate all N P beings equally including witches. As he crossed the border into Arin, he shuddered, seeing the strewn banner flags marinating in the crimson brown soil reminded him of the house to house slaughter. He had just escaped. He would have intervened but the town was predominantly human and the soldiers outnumbered him. 40 to 1. The dozen or so wells were dead anyway. And Gerald as proficient as he is with a blade against multiple enemies could not handle more than half a dozen realistically and to provoke the men at arms of Cain would not help his quest for subsistence employment. He begged roach for more speed. Come on, roach from here, he could ride directly east to Tamaria right now, he was in the area known as the Pont Valley as evidence watching a crow stripping away at their meals. The battlefield was their buffet. A mixture of cared carcasses with black unicorns painted on their yellow shields and air dri soldiers sporting red and yellow striped uniforms. Calls for mercy or when they cut early through the cold, thick with a stale odor of death. Even Gerald with roach galloping with all his might, couldn't tell who had won the obviously trivial battle. But it seemed a handful of the victors had stayed behind to kill the surviving members of the defeated host could make out a few standing in the distance. Even though just blurred yellow figures at this speed from this, he rationalized that Kay had won and reached for a planted yellow flag with a black horse, Herald hopeful that the soldiers saw him as one of their own. A cacophony of wet splatters as steel cleaved mercilessly through vehicle flesh had clearly disturbed roach into a more frantic gallon, independent of Gerald's orders through the border. Garrett felt safer and tossed the banner aside under King fest was prosperous. The king himself known for his honor and wisdom but soldiers were soldiers and with the tensions from nil to the south and a small rebellion to the northeast. Gere's anxiety quickly fought back. He entered a small forest and approached a crude wooden bridge patrolled by an elf, a leading member of a militia which had descend from a slick curved sword resting on his shoulder. The witcher guessed he was part of the a rebel militia which are taken to guerilla war, fighting against humans for their oppression. Ignored his cold gaze as he walked by questioning internally why the guard did not stop him, albeit not pausing to find out why he opened his leather satchel to retrieve his map, darting his finger along the warm paper until he found the settlement that looked similar to what he could see a few 100 yards ahead of him flat. So he uttered to himself, he pressed on into the town. The wooden shacks there were sun doors shut and shimmers of terrified eyes danced in the darkness hiding as acknowledged them. An Elvin man waved him down an intricately carved bow in hand unmount or die. He beckoned the waiter grumbled and submitted. The elf was clad in leather scaled armor interwoven with a handful of leaves to aid in his woodland ambushes. He was a typical Elvin aesthetic cheekbones defined as if sharpened on a wet stone. A trail of soft brown hair styled into a long mohawk, the excess tied neatly into a ponytail that hung gently behind his shoulders and he stood with a spare point. Pelt. What's your business here? Widger, the Elf scowled. His bow already knocked distrusting of Gerald edging his way closer. No business here. Business elsewhere. Garrett snapped as he looked the archer up and down planning his options. Should the encounter sour any further? He had narrow, slender shoulders and his long fingers strained white as he gripped his bow. Here you go. You couldn't use a different road. The Elf continued. Isn't this town under Tamar jurisdiction? Shrugged Gerald as he probed, agitated yet apathetic. The Elf chuckled. Three soldiers. They left to guard this sorry place. Figured we'd gather a few blades and have a little fun with these bastards. You're like our friends. The el stood to the side pointing to a row of bodies behind him. Mm Give him a quick death. Gad questioned internally, grimacing. All except two. The Elf sneered, pointing towards two female bodies laying amongst the soldiers. Can I be on my way? Girl? Depressed. The witcher was fair game when it came to animosity from elves and humans alike, he needed to leave. The Elf glared. He opened up his mouth in preparation for rebuttal before being interrupted by the crashing sound of a door swinging open a woman with light brown hair, partially stripped and beaten, struggled as a group of rebels tried to pull her back into the small shack. Grunting all the while filthy beast bit me. Cursed one rebel. Well, then get her inside and make her regret it. The Alvin Archer yelled back. They forced her back into the shack, the door slamming behind them girls huffed, ****, annoyed and unamused. He drew a thin bladed dagger from his side and lunged at the elf who stepped back, startled, failing to land. A decisive stab, managed to sever the bow string. Instead, the elf yet to realize this raised his bow only to gawk in shock. In his futile situation. A blade forced its way into his stomach before he could utter a word. Gerald's other hand on his shoulder, holding him steady. No, the Elf whispered. Garrett withdrew before plunging the dagger into the underside of the Elf's chin. Standing back to watch blood lurch out of his mouth, making sure to meet his terrified gaze before pushing him backwards into the dirt. The reacher started for a shack before the body even hit the ground, he drew the steel sword from his back, leaving a silver sword sheath. Silver was reserved for magical monsters, but cold taste of steel would do just fine for these. He paused and thought was impartial to killing when he wasn't paid for it. It felt like he was meddling. He hated meddling. He cursed under his breath. **** realizing that these elves were known for their speed. He should have an arrow jutting out of his face right about now. His lucky slice into the bow saved him, but witcher should not be losing his edge, especially in speed. Please. No. The last ALF cried crawling along his back as Gerald unsympathetically cornered him. The Elf's frantic blue eyes darted between the witch's piercing gaze and a blade carrying the same venomous sting. The tears in El's eyes appeared to freeze as his blood ran cold with fear. I, I didn't know she was yours. You can have a, we didn't spoil her, ask her. You stopped us from, slammed his boot into Elf's chest, pinning him to the ground and began pressing his sword against the Elf's stomach, angling it under the rib cage. She's not mine retorted, Gerald somewhat calmly before adding a few more pounds of pressure to the hilt of his sword. The elf gasped as he frantically reached for the blade, his palms quickly smeared in his own blood. As soon as the witcher felt his sword con the heart, he withdrew it, cleaning his weapon on the elf leather shoulder pad, holstering it on his back and turning his attention to the woman huddled in the corner. Are there any more? He knelt in front of her as she shivered, the tears streamed down her cheek and her breath hampered as if she couldn't cry anymore. Yes. Yes. The three more of them house opposite a bakery. They wanted bread. Nodded, handed her some material from a nearby table to cover herself. Thanks. I'm going to see King Fest. I'll see about getting floss and some more soldiers. She nodded towards the door. There are some more due today. I think a blank stare made him uneasy as he stood up and started for the bakery in the opposite as he pushed open the door. He was greeted by the sight of more militia devouring the bakery's provision under the dim light of the oven at the back of the room. Their gluttonous laughed and no doubt while they hadn't heard the screams of their fellow soldiers, or perhaps the sound of slicing and screaming had simply become all too common to them. They were obviously foot soldiers. Unlike their leader, they only had crudely sewn leather vests and boots paired with various assortments of stained trousers and patchwork shirts. The man nearest the door was impaled where his neck met his shoulder before he could even turn to look the gray haired intruder in the eye, the blade severed through the vest strap causing it to collapse onto the table before he followed with it. The second falling back on his chair had barely began fumbling for his sword as Garrett trained his blade upon him forcing it down three times before delivering a surgical stroke across his neck. The third had drawn his sword and stood in front of the oven silhouetted. So Gerald could only sense his fear by the tremble of the buckles on his arm, charged raising his sword above his head and swinging it down before Garrett blocked and carried the weapon out of his hands. One sided swing followed, cracking into the A's jaw, decapitating him. The sound of his head hitting the floor with a light patter of loose teeth subsided. The rest of the body slumped onto the table, blood poured into the wood imperfections of the table before Gael's attention was drawn by a gurgled voice behind him. The elf who first fell victims of the witch of steel sat limply on the table. Gerald had obviously failed to deliver the killing blow at the first time of asking, but the flow of blood out of his mouth and Nick suggested he hadn't long left to contemplate the slaughter of his comrades. What is you me mercy through the splutters and wretches. Gerald understood the call for mercy and promptly obliged. With one final swing plunged straight into the heart and in an instance, that was calm, trudged along the path, less spoiled as they ventured further into Tamir.
Tags
Elf, Hero, Narrator, Soldier, Villain, Authentic, Engaging, Genuine, Narrator, Natural, Softspoken, Understated, Warm, Relaxed, British (General)