The White Wolf: Destiny

Briars snatched at my clothing, tearing flesh from bone. The brisk autumn air burned my lungs but, still, I ran. My bare feet pounded the frozen earth, fleeing the creature that hurled it’s furred body through the trees behind me. I dare not risk a backward glance.  The creature’s snarls echoed through the trees. It was getting closer. I screamed. No one answered. I was alone. A low hanging branch swung at my ankles. I tripped. Palms scrapped, knees seeping blood, I turned to face my destiny.  I awoke with a start, flinging myself from the small bed nestled in the corner of the barn. Sweat trickled down my spine. I was no longer surrounded by forest. Instead, I’d been returned to my prison. I shifted on the small pile of straw, covered by a thin sheet. For weeks now, I’d been haunted by the same dream. Something, or someone, chased me. It always ended the same. I would stumble or trip and watch in horror as those oddly colored eyes would approach from the darkness. I always awoke before I saw the face of the thing that haunted my nights. With a shudder, I forced myself from my bed. It was time to start my day. The stableman would be none to pleased to find me shirking my duties. It didn’t help that he also happened to be my da. He ...well, he was not a pleasant man. Even less so when he’d had a few pints of ale at the local tavern. It was best to remain on what little of his good side remained. My day started with the feeding of the horses. My nose scrunched at the sight of just how low our grain had become. It’d been a harsh winter. Very few of the farmers in town had managed a successful harvest. Fewer still chose to barter with my da. He was known as the town drunkard, more likely to squander a person’s coin than use it for its intended purpose. “Iliria!”  A shiver ran up my spine at the very sound of my name upon his lips. My back to the door of the barn, I do not need to turn to know he has arrived. The rank odor of ale mixed with sweat reached me first. I swallowed the lump of fear mingled with disgust that had lodged itself in my throat. I turned. Slowly. He staggered over to where I stood. Barely midday and, already, he’d had his fill of ale. I knew what was coming. Running would only make it worse. I stood there, preparing myself for what was to come. As he reached for me, I couldn’t help but flinch. The bucket of grain I had grasped between shaking fingers spilled across the ground. HIs eyes fell to the spilt grain. “Ya think we made out of coin?” He snarled. His palm collided with the side of my face. I toppled backwards. My skirts caught on the edge of rake. The blade sliced my palm. I cried out. He didn’t care. His foot swung out, catching me between already bruised ribs. I curled into a ball, hands rising to protect my face from his blows. When satisfied I’d learned my lesson, I managed to pull myself from the ground. The cut in my palm was pretty deep. It would need tending to. I limped over to one of the water basins. I dipped my oozing hand into the freezing water. Ensuring it was clean, I fetched some rags. They...well, they were not so clean. Alas, it was all I had. I wrapped my wound. It throbbed but I was well accustomed to pain. I inspected my ribs. I winched, fingertips prodding the sensitive skin. A bruise had already begun to appear. At least my face remained unmarred. The slap had barely left a mark. The split lip I could easily pass as having walked into a door by now ...though the lie was not necessary. The way da treated me was well known by the people in town. No one cared enough to do anything. “Toss a coin to your Witcher!”  That voice. A smile crept across my face. It was a voice I knew well. Wiping the muck on my face from da’s boot, I moved towards the inn. A pain coursed through my abdomen. Gasping, I doubled over. Father’s boot had done more damage than I thought. Tiny stars danced in my vision. I gathered myself. I couldn’t let Jaskier see me in such a fashion. He was, perhaps, the one person in town that I cared to see. He was a bit ... enthusiastic. He had a flair that I was unaccustomed me. I could listen to him talk of his travels for days if only he’d let me. His latest obsession? Geralt of Rivia. A Witcher. They called him the White Wolf. If Jaskier was to be believed, he was not the savage they made him out to be.  Finally able to right myself, I wandered outside. Jaskier was nowhere in sight. A frown touched my lips. I glanced up and down the dusty street. He was gone. My eyes travelled to the tavern that lay just across the street. Even from here, I could hear the ruckus within. I grinned. If I knew Jaskier, that’s where he would be. He enjoyed being the center of attention ...though not everyone appreciated his rather boisterous personality. Sure enough, just as I’d crossed the street, Jaskier toppled out into the street. He shouted some rather insulting words towards the patrons that had kicked him out. He tugged at his tunic in righteous indignation before setting his eyes in my direction. I offered him a wave in greeting, one he returned. “Ah, the lovely Ilira graces me with her presence.” Jaskier shouted once I was within earshot. He jerked a thumb towards the tavern, “Uncultured swine that lot.” I bit back a smile. “Tis a shame not everyone appreciates your musical talent, Jaskier.” He stood a bit taller, my words having boosted his confidence. He offered an arm which I gladly took. At first glance, one might think the two of us shared something of a romantic relationship. Alas, we were just friends. Jaskier was ...well, he had a penchant for warming the wrong woman’s bed.  “I come bearing gifts!” Jaskier announced rather suddenly. He leaned in as if to whisper a secret. “Geralt of Rivia. The Witcher. He’s here.” For weeks now, Jaskier had boasted of his friendship with this Geralt of Rivia. Now, don’t get me wrong, I adored Jaskier but he was best taken in small doses. I couldn’t see a Witcher putting up with his excessive need for conversation. “You have to meet him!” He began pulling me towards the only place where a traveller could find lodging in town. “Jaskier. I have things to do-” He wasn’t taking no for an answer. I relented. The inn wasn’t so much an inn as it was a brothel. The girls unable to find other work in town all eventually made their way here. My da had, one more than occasion, threatened to send me here should I not behave myself. A shudder ran up the length of my spine. The mere thought of that was something I considered worse than death. “I present to you, Geralt of Rivia.” He swung an arm towards a rather large man cloaked in black. The second those eyes flickered up, I felt all the air leave my lungs. They were eyes I was all too familiar with. Those swirls of gold were the ones that, for months, had haunted my dreams. Jaskier was oblivious to the change. The Witcher, however, was not. He regarded me a moment before a sneer crossed his face and his eyes dropped back to the pitcher of ale. He thought me afraid of him. He was right.