#and yes his lute's name is 'Atisha'

[thereluctantinquisitor]

pssst i saw you reblog some witcher stuff and i was wondering - DA Witcher AU??? (maybe with Varlen as a witcher, because white hair and all, but up to you!)

So I made Hanin the bard. I don’t know why. Let’s do this. (3320 words)

[PART 2]

When Varlen shoved open the tavern door, he had expected the usual warm welcome of conversations warbling to a halt and a dozen sets of eyes silently rolling in their sockets to face him. He could judge any place by that single, simple act. Some people were very good at pretending not to watch every step he took with the wary apprehension of peasants who were raised on stories of monsters and beasts. Others, less so.

The presence of a Witcher was proof, after all. Proof that it was all true.

Well, some of it, at least.

But this tavern was different. The atmosphere inside was already tense, and for once it wasn’t his fault. Stepping through the threshold, shrugging off his damp cloak, Varlen looked for the eyes but found them all elsewhere, lingering in mugs or on the feeble flames of the hearth. There was music, faint and slow - almost reluctant, as though each note was an uncomfortable interruption of a much larger, heavier silence. If Varlen didn’t know any better, he’d guess someone had died.

But he did know better, and there was no need for guessing.

Not entirely sure what to do when he wasn’t immediately confronted by hostile villagers, Varlen made his way to the bar, hoping the old trick of asking the tavern owner for news would work its usual magic. He settled on one of the tall stools, shifting slightly, the blades hanging from each hip bumping awkwardly against the outside of his thighs as he adjusted. 

Steel for humans. Silver for monsters.

“Gold for the Witcher?”

Varlen started, surprised to see what he assumed was the owner of the tavern standing before him. He must have come in from the kitchen. “I… What?”

The stocky man cocked one of his bushy grey brows, then nodded to one of the casks behind him. “Honey brew. Local specialty.” He shrugged. “Folks just call it ‘gold’ around here. You want that or something else?”

So, he was actually being offered a drink first. Things must be worse than rumour suggested. “That’ll be fine,” he said after a moment, meeting the older man’s gaze. “Thank you.”

With a brisk nod, the tavern owner bustled away, fetching a mug and heading for the cask. He turned back and introduced himself as Rolf in what felt like an afterthought as the sound of rushing liquid filled the room. Varlen didn’t bother watching what he poured or how he did it. Most folks knew better than to try to poison a Witcher now. After enough failed attempts, word gets around. 

“Took your time getting here.” The mug sloshed but didn’t spill as the man set it down in front of Varlen, the stiffness of the movement one of the only things betraying his true feelings about having a mutant at his bar. “Can’t say I’m glad to see you, but we lost another one last night, so…”

“Another one?” Varlen ignored the drink for a moment, giving the man his full attention. “How many is that now? Six?”

Rolf sighed and nodded, and something more defeated washed over him. His shoulders sagged slightly, and for a moment Varlen actually felt sorry for him. After all, the tavern was where people went to drown their sorrows. It would be difficult, being submerged in that kind of grief every day. Easy to drown in it. “No one has a clue what’s doing it,” Rolf continued with a sigh, “but whatever it is, it seems to like hunting at night.”

“Like a wolf,” Varlen muttered, picking up his mug and taking a deep gulp of ale. “Or a bear.”

“Could be.” Rolf seemed a lot more open to the idea than Varlen expected. “Sure hope we didn’t go pulling all our coin together to pay you to hunt an animal, though.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Varlen shrugged and set the mug down with a low thud. “So you have six people, all dead in the dark. Huh.” He frowned thoughtfully, then glanced up. “Men and women?”

A nod. “Four men, one woman. The Miller boy was the last taken.”

Varlen knew better than to ask, but somehow, he always did. “How old?”

“The lad?” Rolf huffed, leaning his large forearms on the wooden counter. “Not much more than fifteen winters. Can’t say I know for sure. Sorry.”

All Varlen could do was shake his head and take another drink. The boy was dead. That was always how the story went when he was involved. He was so used to it now that he never hoped for survivors. Even a wolf wouldn’t turn down such an easy meal. “Who do I speak to about the contract? You?”

Surprisingly, Rolf shook his head, then nodded towards the back of the bar. “Tall bastard over there’s who you want. He’s the one who convinced us to empty our pockets for one of your lot.”

Shifting, Varlen followed Rolf’s gaze. When he met his target, he raised his brows in surprise. Sure enough, there was a tall man at the far side of the tavern. He was in a low-backed chair, seeming almost bored, lute resting against his broad chest. His fingers absently plucked out the slow, halting rhythm that defined the room. Everything about his demeanor suggested he was a man lost in deep, melancholy thought. 

Everything except his eyes, which were locked on Varlen and likely had been since the second he set foot in the place.

The music stopped as the man stood, carefully swinging his lute across his back with the usual bardic reverence. There were no complaints that the song was over. In fact, no one even looked up as the man abandoned his post and crossed the room. Even Rolf just shook his head and disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Varlen very much alone as the bard approached. 

“Witcher.”

“Bard.” Varlen raised his mug half-heartedly. “I hear you’re the man to talk to about—”

The sound of something heavy thudding to the counter cut Varlen off mid-sentence. A brown pouch, sides bulging at odd angles, barely slid once it made contact, burdened by its own weight. Despite himself, Varlen gave a low whistle, surprised to see so much from a place that seemed to have so little. “That bad, huh?”

“Yes.” Dragging out a stool, the man sat, one foot resting against the metal bar between the stool’s legs. “If the people here had let go of their denial earlier, they wouldn’t be where they are now.” He nodded towards the room. Towards the hunched figures. The vacant eyes. The nursed ales, warming slowly to the temperature of the wavering hearth. “They’ve already paid a higher price than this.”

There was something about his words that piqued Varlen’s curiosity. “You make it sound like you’re not from here.”

“I’m not.” The man’s green eyes cut across to him. There was anger behind them, but Varlen got the distinct feeling it was not directed at anything in particular. It was just there. “I am a bard. I travel.”

Varlen hummed, lifting his mug, draining another two mouthfuls of the strangely sweet brew. “Well, you sure put in a lot of work for someone who doesn’t even live here. What’s your name?”

“Hanin.” It seemed he wasn’t going to take the bait Varlen had so casually dangled in front of him. A shame. “I take it you’re aware you aren’t dealing with an animal here.”

Sighing, Varlen nodded. “Yes. I know.” He’d felt it the closer he got to the village, like a pressure on the back of his neck. Fingers wrapping tighter and tighter. Whatever it was that lurked in the nearby forest, it was strong. It was hungry. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what it is?”

Typically, canvassing the locals was about as useful as interviewing a pig about the war with Nilfgaard. So, needless to say, Varlen nearly choked on his ale in shock when Hanin glanced around then leaned in close. When he was sure he had Varlen’s attention, he murmured a single, terrible word.

“Bruxa.”

Immediately, Varlen felt that same sensation - that same weight on the back of his neck, only this time the hairs on his arms stood as well. He didn’t need to study the man to know precisely two things. 

Firstly, that he was telling him what he really believed was the truth. 

Secondly, that he was right.

“… Shit.” Varlen groaned and ran a gloved hand down his face. What he’d give for a wolf. A pack of wolves. Shit, even something as unnatural as a pack of bears would still be preferable to a single Bruxa. “What the fuck is a Bruxa doing here?”

“Quiet.” Hanin glanced around again. His stern expression was definitely for Varlen this time. “The last thing we need is to cause a panic.”

“A little panicking wouldn’t kill them.”

“No, but fleeing their homes this close to sundown would.”

He had a point, as much as Varlen hated to admit it. In truth, if he had his way, he’d clear the whole town out, tell them to relocate, and call it a day. If they were smart, they’d go. But people were rarely smart. Not when land and legacy meant more to them than their lives. “A pissed off bruxa could wipe out this entire village in a single night,” he remarked, then glanced at the pouch of gold. “You’re going to need more than that.”

The bard’s disposition shifted again, and this time the anger behind those eyes was all Varlen’s. Lucky him. “This is everything they have to spare, Witcher.”

“Varlen.”

“I don’t care what your name is. The gold is here. Take it and do your job.”

“It’s not enough.”

“People are dying.”

“People die every day.” Varlen knew it was harsh, but reality often was. He couldn’t be blamed for that, even though he always was. “I’m not risking my life against a bruxa for pocket change.”

He could feel Hanin’s rage, now. It pulsed like a living thing, and he spat each word like a mouthful of blood. “Greedy bastard - it wasn’t ‘pocket change’ before.”

Varlen gave a bored shrug. “It wasn’t a bruxa before.” With that, he stood, the stool grating along the wooden floorboards. He checked his mug, drained the last few drops, then slid it towards the end of the bar with a small stack of dirty bowls and cups. “If I’m so greedy, find someone else to do it. Oh, and tell Rolf the brew was good. It’ll be a shame to lose it.”

Even leaving the tavern was uneventful. In a town being ravaged by a creature as deadly as a bruxa, Varlen expected something to happen. An angry blacksmith blocking his path. A weeping widow. Shit, even a pissed off widow would make more sense than the complete resignation that seemed to radiate from every person he passed on his way to the door. 

Stepping outside, Varlen paused by the town’s main road, closed his eyes, and tilted his head. The sounds of the world slowly rose to meet him, rushing forward at his insistence, surrounding him, drowning him in a steady roar. Leaves rustled high above him in the canopy and it was as though the sound was happening right against his ear. Somewhere down the road to his left, a squirrel scuttled out of a pile of drying firewood. It wasn’t what he wanted. He frowned, concentrating until he heard a sparrow sing out ahead of him, nestled somewhere well beyond the treeline.

One.

He honed in on the sound, searching for more. Seconds passed. Then a finch added its voice to the mix, its song delicate and thin. Two. The more he found, the easier it was to tune out the rest of the world’s noise. A partridge met his ears next, then a pigeon’s coo. With each new bird that joined, Varlen felt something hard sink to the bottom of his stomach. A shrike piped up. A jackdaw. A—

“Wait.”

The voice, even though it sounded distant and distorted like words spoken underwater, broke through Varlen’s focus, pulling him out of his search. Grunting, he blinked his way back to the roadside and turned to regard Hanin. The man was dressed very unassumingly for a bard, in a simple linen shirt and brown trousers. No wonder Varlen had missed him on the way in.

“I already told you, I’m not…” Varlen trailed off as the man, with no small amount of disdain, held out two bulging cloth pouches, one the same as before, the other slightly smaller. If Varlen had to guess, it was enough coin to buy him a new saddle and set of shoes for Arla, and with money left to spare. “Impressive,” he confessed, folding his arms and regarding the bard. “You must have more of a silver tongue than you let on, if you managed to get anything out of that room.”

“I don’t relish this, Witcher. Save your flattery.” With a sharp motion, he tossed the original pouch to Varlen, but kept the second firmly in hand. “That one now, this one when the job is done.”

His tone indicated that he expected an argument about that, but Varlen just hefted the pouch in his hand and shrugged. “Fine. But it better not go missing while I’m gone.”

“It won’t.” Hanin made a point of sliding the pouch into his satchel, fastening it shut with a metallic click. “Because I’m going with you.”

This time there was no helping it. Varlen stared at him blankly for a moment, then let out a bright, astonished laugh. “You’re not serious?”

Hanin did not seem to share his amusement. “I won’t risk you running off with these people’s money. I will have proof that this thing is killed.”

Again, it wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of something like that. “You have my word that I won’t run off into the night,” he said, and actually tried to sound as genuine as possible. “And I don’t give that lightly.”

“Your word means very little to me.” Moving a few steps closer, Hanin paused beside Varlen, his eyes trained on the treeline. “Listen. The birds.”

While that kind of sign was clear to Varlen, he had to admit, he was surprised to hear a bard comment on it. “Yes,” he ventured, following Hanin’s gaze. “I hear them.”

For a moment, they just stood together by the dirt road, silent, shoulders drawn tight by an unspoken tension. Then, softly, the bard began to murmur something to a tune that was barely there. 

“In the tall woods of Velen, where the oak meets the sky,

seven lost birds in the treetops did cry.

But at sundown the sound of her silent screams bled

into the dreams of the woodsman asleep in his bed…”

Quietly, Hanin trailed off, and while Varlen was certain there was more to the verse, he let the matter slide in favour of something more important. “Listen. Don’t come with me. Stay here. You will be safer.”

Again, Hanin shook his head. “I… can’t.”

“Why not?” The question seemed simple enough, but Hanin clenched his jaw tight, and something about the dread that seemed to radiate from him set the pieces in place for Varlen. “You’ve heard her, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” It seemed to take everything he had to say a single word, and for the first time Varlen noticed the dark circles beneath the bard’s eyes. “I’m not alone. Here, no one can sleep anymore.”

With a sigh, Varlen reached up and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Yes. Bruxae like to do that. The stronger ones, at least.”

“Why?”

“They’re clever. It’s dangerous for them to venture into populated places, especially if they’re alone. So they drive people half mad with nightmares. Keep them awake in the dark hours. Stop them thinking rationally.”

Hanin frowned. “The people she’s already taken all went out for a walk in the middle of the night.”

Breathing deep, Varlen nodded. “People tend to do that, after a nightmare. Something about clearing their heads.” He shrugged. “It’s probably not a bad idea. Most times.” He looked across at Hanin, the bard seeming a shade paler than usual, and tried one last time to talk some sense into the man. “The only thing more foolish would be venturing into the bruxa’s territory on purpose. You clearly know the warning sign. Don’t risk your life for this.”

The words jolted Hanin out of his reverie, but much to Varlen’s frustration, he just shook his head again. “No. I… I am going with you.” He turned slightly, glancing back at the tavern. “I’ve seen a lot of places end up like this. Watched things fall apart and towns collapse on themselves as their people are picked off one by one.”

In truth, Varlen wasn’t sure where Hanin was going with his story. But the reality was that the sun was setting and he had preparations to make. So, he started to walk down the dirt road, back towards where he left Arla tethered to a tree. “So… what makes this place any different?”

For a moment, Varlen thought Hanin had come to his senses and wasn’t going to follow. But then the sound of a second set of footsteps joined his own, Hanin’s longer legs making short work of the distance between them. “All of the other times, I convinced myself it wasn’t my problem, and I left.” He shook his head slightly, eyes trained forward, something fearful but determined in that green gaze. It would have been impressive, in any other context. “But I won’t. Not this time. I’m tired of monsters and beasts tearing people apart.”

In more ways than one, Varlen thought. In truth, he could almost understand the man’s drive. Don’t get him wrong - Hanin was clearly out of his mind, wanting to accompany him into a bruxa’s lair. But at the same time, Varlen could sympathise. He used to be like that, when he first left Kaer Morhen. He’d take any job for half the coin other Witchers asked, simply because he wanted to help. But the world had a way of beating that kind of generosity out of you. After enough shredded bodies, lifeless eyes, bloodless corpses and thankless scorn, you learn that compassion comes second to survival. It has to, or no one would be left to walk away.

“I won’t be able to protect you,” Varlen said after a moment, not bothering to sugarcoat the truth. “I’ll have a hard enough time keeping myself alive against a well-fed bruxa.”

Hanin nodded. “I don’t expect you to.”

“When we get out there, you do exactly as I say. Down to the letter.”

Another nod. 

Varlen didn’t buy it. “That means if I tell you to run, you run. No questions asked. You run all the way back here and lock yourself inside. Understood?”

“Understood.”

To Varlen’s surprise, there was something else in the man’s voice. Something almost… amused. He paused, turning to look up at Hanin skeptically. “What?”

Again, there it was. A faint quirk of the lips this time, like he was sharing a private joke with himself. “Hm? Nothing.”

Varlen narrowed his eyes at the bard, then shrugged, continuing down the road. He could see Arla now, her tail flicking back and forth as she spotted him in return. In his mind, he went through a checklist of what he needed. Moon dust bombs. A black blood potion. Vampire oil. Silver.

And beside him, Hanin walked a few feet away, a hand on his satchel, his gaze fixed on the trees. As the sun dipped low on the horizon, the shadows of the branches stretched like reaching fingers across the uneven road.

The birds had stopped singing.