Prologue:

The Hagraven

Hagravens are misunderstood creatures. Not harmless, certainly, but not well understood. Most people think them mindless monsters who live only to destroy and feed on the flesh of seduced young men. This is untrue. They show little regard for human life and have been known to feed on human flesh when given the opportunity, but mindless they are not. One need look no further than the tattered rags they clothe themselves in to find evidence of their intelligence. Lacking in style and sophistication perhaps, but dumb beasts do not wear clothes. The hagravens possess cunning and guile, but their intelligence makes them more vile, not less. Few know that each twisted, bird-like hag was once a human witch, who through a ritual sacrifice has abandoned her very humanity to gain magical power. That is the true menace of the hagraven – not her cruelty or cunning, but her thirst for power.

So it rather dismayed me, watching the hag shuffle through Falkreath’s ancient graveyard, carefully eyeing the withered tombstones.

Falkreath Hold is a damp forested valley, and in the town at its soggy bottom the chill fog never seems to truly lift even under the midsummer sun. The pale slice of moon was powerless to penetrate the clammy darkness of this autumn night, and so the hagraven was unaware of my presence – while I could see her perfectly.

Women will sometimes compliment me on my long eyelashes, but even they avoid meeting my gaze. I’ve been told most find it unnerving to see the colorful eyes of a Khajiit in the pale face of a Breton. Whether my pupils are narrow slits against the light of day or wide pools of iridescent blackness to take in the night, almost everyone I meet shudder at the sight. Which I can never avoid seeing, regardless of the light conditions.

Of course, few even bother trying to hide their distaste. Witchers are not highly regarded in Skyrim. The clannish Nords are proud of their solid roots, and they are all too happy to despise us ragged wanderers and our lack of allegiance to anything other than our profession and the gold that will buy our next meal. But that does not prevent them from purchasing our expertise when a monster needs dealing with.

As usual, several of the local bold young warriors had tried their luck against the hagraven and been found charred and disemboweled the next morning before the Jarl decided to hire a professional. One can only hope that my guild’s reputation for getting the job done will one day improve to the point where lives will no longer be needlessly lost before we’re called for. At least investigating the corpses gave me valuable knowledge of my prey. Fire magic and distinctive talon marks: I knew this hagraven well before I ever laid eyes on her.

She was a repulsive sight: long, narrow limbs twitching in swift, birdlike motions and gleaming, black feathers poking through pasty human skin in a way that brings to mind parasitic infestations and diseased growths. Coal black eyes glinting coldly above a sharp, curved beak grotesquely thrusting through the ruins of human lips and teeth. Seducer of fair youths, indeed. 

The medallion around my neck, a silver coin emblazoned with the image of a snarling sabercat’s head, twitched against the hardened leather of my studded jerkin. Magic was stirring. The hag had chosen a grave, and was clawing at the earth. 

With less than a whisper, I drew my silver sword from its sheath on my back. Born of magic, the hagraven’s twisted flesh would burn from the bite of the dispelling metal. Forming the Sign of Quen was a reflex as natural as breathing, and I felt the warm, tingling sensation of the shielding energy drive the chill of the fog from my skin as I soundlessly stepped from the shadows beneath the needled boughs of a dew-laden spruce. My witcher’s mutations, apart from granting me heightened senses and resistance to poisons and diseases, allows me to move in near perfect silence on most surfaces, and the hag had not yet been alerted to my presence. 

Once I had positioned myself, I threw the pebble I had chosen from the graveled cemetery path. Startled, the hagraven jerked towards the tiny sound, and I arranged the fingers of my free hand to form the Sign of Aard. The bones of my twisted fingers creaked – a useful bit of magic, but I have never relished the sensation.The blast of raw kinetic energy stirred up a cloud of yellow autumn leaves and dried spruce needles from the mossy ground, and pushed the hag off balance. I made a quick diagonal slice with my silver blade, and torn feathers and hot blood spattered the dirt of the disturbed grave. 

The hag recovered her footing and raked her curved talons across the shimmering shield of energy that protected me. My cut had left a shallow gash along her thin forearm, and the oil that coated my blade – dog tallow and wolfsbane – was already working its way through her veins. Her angry shrieks, voice much like that of a crow imitating an old woman, told me that it burned her. Good.

She unleashed a stream of fire-magic, but Quen protected me as I paced a slow circle. No glint of moonlight leapt off my silver sword as I swung it in erratic arcs, but her black bird’s eyes followed me all the same. Hagravens are aggressive creatures when confronted, and she didn’t abide my passiveness for long. She struck out, both speed and accuracy impaired by the poison, and I nimbly ducked beneath her snaking arm and pirouetted, swiping my blade across her soft abdomen. As she doubled over holding her leaking gut, I planted my feet firmly and made a wide downward sweep, cleanly severing her ugly head.

They may sneer at me and spit as I pass, but when a monster needs killing the Nords of Skyrim know to call on Hekmun the Witcher.