#Coinneach is not the smartest cookie

[sonsoffenris]

The rocky crags of Ard Skellig spread out for miles around Coinneach like the bare spine of a wyrm of legend. Wind blasted through the chasms and valleys of razor sharp stone, battering the sparse vegetation clinging for dear life to their perch. The gale brought a plethora of scents to the Witcher’s nostrils; the ever pervasive salt of the sea, kelp and seaweed drying on the shore, and the unwelcome cloying scent of death. Not all that uncommon for the inhospitable coastline and the rough waters, however the overwhelming power of the stench set it apart. Coinneach stood in the open, unlocking his enhanced senses to study the world around him. Pushing aside the roaring waves and howling wind, he focussed further. Below the squawk of seabirds, an altogether different sound could be heard; the voices of women singing and laughing. The melody sailed on the wind with perfect clarity, every note seamlessly complimented the next, never a key out of place or faltering vibrato. The greatest performers serving in the highest courts of the land would sell their souls to come even close to the talent these vocalists displayed. Listening brought warmth to Coinneach’s weary soul and as each moment that passed, it beckoned him to come closer. He had found his quarry. Coinneach tightened his sword belt, bringing the hilt within his hands reach. From his shoulder the bear headed pommel stood tall, the azure blue stones mounted in its eyes watching its surroundings. The hunter retrieved a medallion from within his jerkin. Feeling the familiar shapes and marks of the snarling bear head, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The frigid air stung his chest, awakening his body to the hunt. His heart began beating a steady rhythm, gradually quickening at the prospect of combat. With a grim smirk, Coinneach cast aside the heavy fur cloak draped across his shoulders and set off towards the source of the intoxicating ballad.

After vaulting the outcropping of another rock formation, Coinneach came to a cliff edge. Crouching precariously close to the verge, he surveyed the sight before him. The rough seas were placated by a wall of black rock as it entered a serene natural bay. The calm, crystal clear waters lapped lazily upon a sandy shore where three feminine figures could be seen, waist deep in the freezing cold shallows. Their song continued in perfect harmony as the trio looked to each other. Each voice complimented the other, weaving a complex tapestry of emotion and suggestion. The urge to forgo all thought and go to them grew ever stronger the closer he moved. Suggestions of comfort and love, images of new joys and sensations; a promise of ecstasy forced their way into his mind. The Witcher’s medallion vibrated harshly in response to the lament, indicating the strong magic at work. A devilish smile played across Coinneach’s lips as he unbuckled his sword belt, removing the weapon from his back before sliding down the steep angle of the cliff. A layer of loose shale provided a safe yet somewhat uncomfortable path down and soon he found himself on the shore, some distance away from the singers. The remains of small boats were strewn across the shore around him, dashed against rocks and left to the elements. The musky scent of rotting wood permeated the area, it seemed the vessels had been here for some time. He watched the women from his new vantage point, peering from behind a smashed hull. More information on his prey was needed, however. He’d have to move in closer.

A short distance form the trio, Coinneach dropped his sword. The melody stopped abruptly as the singers turned to the source of the alien sound. Their shocked expressions quickly softened as the raven haired beauties looked the approaching visitor up and down. Each had skin the colour of polished ivory, a far cry from the weather beaten complexion of the men and women of the Skellige Isles. Ruby red eyes followed his every move as he approached. One of the maidens reciprocated, slithering through the water to meet him. She raised her arms towards him, revealing her bare breasts and beckoning him closer with a predatory glint in her eye. Each step caused Coinneach’s medallion to pull and strain at the chain hanging it around his neck as if trying to free itself from the grasp of the forces at work. From his position, imperfections became more apparent. Once slender fingers now showed elongated claws, sharpened to a needle point and upon her slender waist, scales blended into her milky skin. The Witcher reached for the straps of his leather jerkin, slowly loosening the ties and opening his armour as he edged closer. The woman’s face twisted to a wide grin, displaying a row of sharp teeth. She burst from the water with incredible speed lunging toward the man before her. Leathery wings breached the surface followed by a scaled, serpentine body. The midday sun danced across her scales, reflecting a myriad of intense shades of blue and green. As the creature made its move, her human countenance fell away, revealing ashen grey flesh tightly stretched across a lithe body, a row spines the length of a man’s arm travelling along her back, and her once soft features were replaced with a malformed face akin to a bat. Coinneach stopped in his footsteps.

“Sirens.” He muttered, confirming his suspicions. Coinneach reached inside his battered jerkin and retrieved a dagger from within, sending it hurtling toward the siren in one smooth motion. The poison coated weapon embedded itself deep within the siren’s chest with a dull thump. The simple iron tool was no silver sword, but in conjunction with the toxic mixture applied to the blade it would at least slow her down. The impact was followed by a blood curdling howl that would stop even the hardiest warrior in their tracks. The monster crashed to the ground, flailing wildly in an attempt to remove the thorn in its side. The Witcher took the response as a small victory as he sprinted back to his sword. With a deafening screech another siren closed in. Her leathery wings beat a steady rhythm, granting her incredible speed. Without a misstep, Coinneach turned on his heel and arranged the fingers of his left hand into the sign of Igni. Thrusting his arm toward his target, a jolt of magical energy surged through his muscles before bursting forth from the Witcher’s hand, unleashing a gout of flame. The enchanted fire struck hard, immolating the siren in mid flight. Flesh quickly blackened as the she wailed in pain. The remaining seawater flash boiled on her skin, leaving white streaks of salt across her body as the siren barrelled through the air; crashing into the ground as a charred husk. Returning to the resting place of his weapon he quickly took hold of the grip and removed the scabbard with a quick swing. Suddenly the hunter slammed into the sand face first as the third of the trio collided with him. Claws gained purchase in his armour as the third siren followed him down, her full body weight crashing on top of him. Coinneach and the monster wrestled desperately for control of the situation. Tumbling across the beach, his attacker’s claws tore away the layers of leather and began pulling apart the layer chainmail beneath. With a grunt of exertion the Witcher thrust his head back, smashing into the siren’s maw. The beast’s claws loosened their grip in shock, giving Coinneach time to throw off the monster. Before the siren could counterattack, the Witcher was upon her, straddling her torso and smashing his sword’s pommel into her face. The monster flailed in panic under the thunderous assault as Coinneach ignored a stray claw slicing his brow open, continuing to brutally rain down hammer blows. Blood rapidly flowed from the wound, masking the Witcher’s features in deep crimson. Finally the siren regained the upper hand as her tail whipped out, sending Coinneach sprawling onto his back. The monster coiled her lower half and launched into another assault, flying into the air and began to dive toward the Witcher with wings outstretched. Her eyes opened wide in terror as she witnessed the Witcher leap to his feet and ready his sword, the shimmering blade in position for a mighty thrust. She desperately flapped her wings in a futile attempt to avoid the certain doom shooting towards her. Alas her momentum couldn’t be stopped in time. The keenly sharpened point slid into the siren’s chest, the force of the beast’s descent forcing it inch upon inch deeper into her flesh. She looked down at the Witcher, bracing himself against the impact and returning her stare. His viper like eyes betrayed nothing, no anger, no hatred, no fury, not even pity. Opening her toothy maw wide, she snapped at her killer in a last ditch effort to end his life. Coinneach remained motionless as the siren gnashed her teeth inches from his face. Every bite slowed with each repetition as the beast’s blood drained steadily. Before long, she let out a final rasping breath and went limp. Coinneach spat as he used his boot to remove the corpse from his sword. The phlegm marred the golden sand with sanguine blood and saliva. One more to go. The hunter thought to himself. He walked towards the still writhing mass of scales as it struggled to remove his dagger from her flesh. Returning to her human form, she looked at Coinneach in terror, wordlessly begging for her life. The Witcher simply stood sentinel over her, wiping the blood from his vision and into his sand encrusted hair. As he took up his sword in both hands realisation hit her like a sledgehammer, there was no stopping this. Her glamour dropped away as she screamed in defiance at the fate laid out before her. The silver sword sang through the air, effortlessly slicing through the siren’s neck. Silence soon followed as her head tumbled onto the ground. Coinneach knelt, relaxing his muscles and allowing his breathing to slow. The quiet in the moments after battle was more beautiful than any song could ever hope to be. Removing a tattered sack from his jerkin, the Witcher wordlessly began the grisly task of collecting trophies.

His ears perked at the sound of movement on the sand. Coinneach cursed his foolhardiness. Three sirens, only three. Sirens live in packs of three or more and… From the shadows of a hollow in the cliffs came another half human, larger than the previous three. A shock of flame red framed her features, contorted in rage.

“An Ekhidna.”

The Witcher barely had time to take up his weapon before she was upon him. The Ekhidna shot through the air, moving more and more rapidly with every beat of her wings. Taking hold of Coinneach’s arm she lifted him from his feet. He winced as his shoulder was torn from its socket with an audible crack. Taking a sharp turn, she cast off her prey and watched in delight as he was catapulted through the air, his flight ended abruptly, slamming into the graveyard of boats he passed earlier. A sickening snap and lances of extreme pain overtook him as Coinneach crashed to the ground limp. Breathing raggedly the Witcher fought down the stomach churning sensation of broken ribs scraping together, dragging himself to the the shelter of an overturned rowboat. He released the death grip on his weapon as he furiously searched through belt pouches and hidden pockets. The sounds of the Ekhidna raging outside was deafening as it tore apart the rotten hulls in search of her prey. Every second brought the thunderous cacophony closer. With a smile of relief Coinneach produced a vial of red fluid and tore away the cork with his teeth, quaffing the liquid in a single gulp. The viscous potion warmed his body as it slipped down his throat and travelled to his battered organs. The flesh knitting mixture known to the Witcher schools as Swallow would aid him given enough time but for now its pain numbing qualities would have to suffice. Discarding the vial, Coinneach turned his attention to his left arm. Cradling it gently, he took a deep lungful of air before wrenching the joint back into its socket. Even the Swallow couldn’t dull the intense pain. His eyes screwed shut as he thrashed, straining against the urge to scream until he could bare it no longer. Coinneach’s lips parted and let loose a pained howl. The storm of fury suddenly stopped. The Witcher cursed under his breath and gripped his weapon tight.

The flimsy hull suddenly exploded open, sending splinters raining down upon Coinneach as  sunlight flooded his shelter. The Ekhidna slammed down onto the boat’s hull with a manic grin on her still human features. Coinneach raised his left hard towards his foe as her venom coated claws tore through the air toward him. Even a single blow would mean his end in this state. Contorting his fingers into the sign of Quen, Coinneach forced all of his energy into his magical abilities. The Claws bearing down upon him collided with a barrier of blazing orange light, stopping the blow dead in its tracks. Undaunted by the new obstacle, his foe continued her assault, raining strike after strike on the wall of magic. Coinneach’s muscles burned as he faltered under the assault. A warm trickle of blood began to flow as his strength was drained to fuel the arcane bulwark. He wouldn’t last much longer if this continued. In a last ditch effort, the Witcher abandoned his shield. The conjured creation shattered like glass before dissipating entirely. As the next swing bore down on him, Coinneach pushed himself to his feet and made his last stand. His sword flashed out in a wide arc, connecting with the attacking claw and hacked it from the wrist in a shower of dark blood. The Ekhidna reared back in shock while Coinneach used the momentum of the blow to turn into a graceful pirouette and prepare his next strike. The blade trailed a thin stream of blood behind it as it travelled to its next target, slashing a deep gash through his foe’s face. Immediately halting the arc, he changed his grip and thrust forward with all his strength roaring in frustration. The sword buried itself to the hilt in the Ekhidna’s neck, extinguishing her rage. The beast mewled in her death throes before collapsing onto the Witcher and the rowboat beneath her.

****

“For fuck’s sake…” Coinneach cursed as he crawled out from under the melee’s wreckage. Once free he fell onto his back, basking in the light of the setting sun. His limbs ached, his head was spinning and his stomach was in knots thanks to the healing tonic, but he was alive. Getting to his feet carefully, Coinneach suppressed the urge to vomit to no avail. A mixture of dark fluids of indeterminate origin slopped onto the sand as he found himself falling back onto his knees. With the toxic mixture expelled from his body the Witcher felt the nausea ease somewhat. Tentatively standing, Coinneach made his way to the hollow where the Ekhidna had been lurking. A narrow cave mouth caught his attention as he explored a sheltered overhang. The stench of festering meat spilled forth as Coinneach made his way inside. The Witcher’s eyes quickly adapted to the pitch black interior and to his surprise, the hunter could stand at his full height with room to spare; making the scene before him even more terrible. Corpses of men, varying in age, size and nationality were piled to the ceiling, many half eaten or simply toyed with. Between the mass grave and the Witcher stood a mound of treasure. Gold, silver, precious stones, jewelry, bottled perfumes, lotions, potions and tinctures; courting gifts to the ladies that called this bay home.

“Damned fools.” Camshron snorted.

Old tales speak of the days when sirens were willing and loving towards men, and of course that an everlasting love and marriage would follow successful courtship. The perfect wife, subservient and ageless. Those stories spread in no small thanks to drink and idle gossip.

“At least if I can’t find a contract on the sirens, this wasn’t all for naught.” Coinneach joked, gathering the valuables into his pouches and pockets. Taking another glance at the poor soul’s butchered remains, he let out a deep sigh.

“And if I leave you lot here the Necropages will come sooner or later.”

****

High tide brought with it the rising sun. Coinneach watched from cliffs above the bay as the water made its way to the shore, taking hold of the siren’s bodies and pulling them out to sea; wiping clean the signs of his battle. The Witcher turned to a ramshackle funeral pyre and cast the sign of Igni, the small smarks produced by his light casting beginning a makeshift cremation ceremony. Bowing his head in respect, he spoke.

“I know none of you. I don’t know what brought you here; be it searching for missing friends, desperation, a bet, or some other calamity. I hope now you can rest in peace.”

If not, I’ll be back soon. Coinneach thought to himself. With that, the Witcher collected his belongings, wrapped himself tightly in his fur cloak, and strode off into the wilds to start on the Path once more.   

((A new story appears! Came up with this over the last few days after a nasty case of writers block and procrastination. Let me know what you think of my latest tale of Coinneach the Witcher!