The Witch Hunt

In the heart of Velen, a cursed swamp exhaled its fetid breath as the moon ascended to its zenith. A pallid mist clung to the twisted branches of gnarled trees, casting eerie shadows on the dilapidated village of Witherbrook. The air vibrated with an unspoken dread as the townsfolk gathered in hushed whispers, their eyes darting nervously.

It began with a mysterious illness that claimed the lives of livestock and tainted the village well. Fear enveloped Witherbrook, turning neighbor against neighbor. Whispers turned into accusations, and soon, the village was consumed by paranoia.

Rumors of a witch slithered through the alleys like a venomous serpent, leaving terror in its wake. Geralt of Rivia, the famed Witcher, arrived in Witherbrook, his amber eyes piercing through the veil of superstition. The villagers, desperate for a scapegoat, pointed fingers at Elara, a solitary herbalist known for her ancient knowledge of the arcane.

As dusk fell, the air thickened with tension. The townsfolk, wielding torches and pitchforks, marched to Elara's humble cottage. The flickering flames cast ghastly shadows upon the crowd, contorting their faces into grotesque masks of judgment.

Elara emerged from her dwelling, a hood concealing her face. The villagers, consumed by fear and ignorance, accused her of dark magic, blaming her for the village's misfortune. Geralt, standing at the edge of the mob, raised his hand, attempting to quell the frenzy, but the fervor had become a tempest impossible to calm.

Bound by irrational dread, they sentenced Elara to a fate worse than death. A makeshift pyre was erected, flames dancing with malevolence. As the fire embraced her, Elara's eyes met Geralt's, a silent plea for understanding. The Witcher, bound by a code to protect both monsters and men, could only watch in helpless horror.

The crackling flames devoured Elara, the accusing cries of the villagers mingling with her anguished screams. The cursed swamp seemed to echo the injustice, a mournful requiem for a life unjustly extinguished.

The following night, a storm swept through Witherbrook, extinguishing the fires of the pyre. As the rain washed away the embers, the villagers were left to contemplate the darkness within their own hearts. The Witcher, cloaked in shadows, disappeared into the night, carrying the weight of a witch hunt's grim aftermath on his shoulders. The curse that plagued Witherbrook endured, a reminder that true monsters often wore the faces of men.

Inspired from witcher series