"The mutants are made from a combination of alchemy, magic and an intoxicating infusion of herbs during a ritual of some sort. These supposed defenders of the weak are in fact greedy as any other living being. They kill monsters for money. They are not a guild built on rich virtue, but rather willingly face ridicule because the life of a vagabond is convenient for them. Hexers, are above all, an abomination. Up in their little hold in Kaer Morhen, it would be best if they were simply thrown out of this world entirely. Monsters or no monsters, they bring nothing but woe with them. They don't care whose spawn they take, colt or fledgling - they are relics and deserve to be just that, left in the past."
~Sir Trottnam of Vengerberg, Fear and Loathing in the World of Equestria
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Gilroy sat on the stool and immediately felt uncomfortable. It was obviously made for equine and not Gryphons, let alone those who walked around bipedal as officers in the Black Ones' military often did. They had to perch in order to find a comfortable ratio between sitting and not overshadowing the stallion who worked as the innkeeper in front of him. "Remind me again, why this place is called the 'Screaming Vodnik'?" The Hexer asked, perplexed over such a ridiculous name. As it was decently known among fisherman and bricklayers, Vodnik - also known as Drowners or the Drowned Dead, did not scream. They hardly yelped if you slashed their face with a sword. No, instead they gurgled and made disgusting gnashing sounds from their water filled mouths. "Just, enlighten me with the short story. Please. If you can." The Hexer had places to be when they decided to hunker down in this small village for the night. They were short on coin and with not a single piece to spare, thus why they had to take on a contract before even considering to purchase a room at the inn.
The long mustached stallion with a light blue coat had a similar complexion to a Vodnik himself. The old pony looked like he had seen his fair share of adventures and treks through the nearby swamp for which the village was famous for. In times of conflict, the village found itself at the crossroads of destiny - they had to pick a side at one time, for either the Black Ones or the Roanians. It was black hippogrifs versus ponies who bared a black eagle on their coat of arms. Absolute madness and a skirmish that lead to further dismay throughout Te'Mareia. The residents of the village did the only thing they could, they let both sides fight it out in the swamps until they were overwhelmed by disease, hunger and monsters. What remained of them became drowners, that lurked the murkey waters. The corpses that were fortunate enough to remain above water were devoured by necrophages - thus preventing their vessels from becoming horrid creatures.
"It is a long story. I was part of the Te'Mareian Guard at the time. Had a really nice, plosh job, you hear?" The Innkeep started. He washed some tankards and glasses with just his hooves and a wet cloth. A feat that managed to impress even the stubborn and uncaring Gilroy. "There was a bunch of those slippery Mucknixers running about - me and the boys had an idea, however. When the Roanians came in, they were trying to bleed us dry. Requesting supplies and what not."
"The Roanians were short on supplies?" Gilroy interrupted, he looked at his own tankard for a moment. Their armoured hand and gauntlet clicked against the hardened wood counter as his beak sipped at the mead. It was terrible, but for a single coin it was hard to pass up and not too hard on the budget as it might have been if he ordered a shot of vodka to go with it. "I thought they had a straight passage for supplies? After all, it was the Black Ones who had trouble keeping their line going - since they were treading through Te'Mareian territory at the time." The Black Ones, as they were called - where hippogriffs that came from the South. A vast empire that had nearly taken over the northern realms in the past conflict, a war that was thought to bring on a prophesied end of days. They managed to make their way through Naziar and Cintra - their navy supplied a considerable amount of the effort via the North Sea. Roania bordered Te'Mareia at the north - where the two met a compromise with their stubborn neighbor in Kaedwin to fight off the Empire.
The stallion nodded in agreement, he acknowledged that Gilroy was a veteran of the conflict, willing or otherwise. It was not uncommon to hear of a Hexer, even in these times, get thrown into the fray of things. Even though they were politically neutral, wars brought forward a tremendous amount of work for monsterslayers. Necrophages, wraiths, evil vegetation - but also, they were utilized indirectly as mercenaries. Having Hexers eliminate one area of monsters meant that they remainder may flee toward the enemy lines. It was funny, how in times of conflict - even the poor could spare a coin for the war effort, but entire villages would have to combine their savings to hire a single Hexer. "I had a feeling you knew a thing or two. The Roanians, they met up with us and wanted to scout ahead to where the Black Ones were bunkered down. But for a few bottles of mead, we let them in on a little secret..." The Innkeep spit into a glass and continued to clean. Gilroy felt a little revolted over this and hoped that he did not use a similar method for cleaning the tankards. "Of course, the secret was complete shit and we let them walk in through through the swamps and get bitten by Vodnik."
"So you let your own comrades die? And for what exactly?" Gilroy was suddenly offended at by how casually this information was being presented to him. They gripped their tankard a bit roughly and took a solid swig of the mead. It was supposed to taste like honey and vanilla cream, but instead it tasted like orange juice with a wad of spit and a little tinge of alcohol. "Even if they were your less than friendly neighbors, they were the ones giving Te'Mareia support while Kaedwin's king sent scholars to document your plunder."
The Innkeep scoffed, but quickly apologized. They finished drying the final glass and placed it on the shelf beneath the counter for later. The Inn was quiet as of now, it seemed the drunkards had drank their last and the whores have followed their customers home or vice versa. A fire was being kept by the Innkeeper's wife, a green mare gaining in age - she let the fire illuminate and define her wrinkles proudly as she looked up at a shield which bared the Te'Mareia coat of arms. A blue shield with three white lilies. "You see, we had a reason. Yes, they came to help out the cause and fight off the Black Ones from Nilfgaard, but there was this one - a sneaky... sneak thief! Pickpocket and frankly, we had enough of him snooping around our barracks and sleeping with our wives..." An awkward cough came from his wife as she pretended to poke more at the fire.
"So we did what we had to do. We told them to sneak up on a camp the Black Ones had via a route through the swamp. The daft ones actually took the path and got tore apart by Vodnik. They sent their scout sometime later to contact us. But, alas, he was so flustered and covered in muck - we thought he was a Black One and stuck him with a crossbow bolt." The Innkeep admiringly looked up at the shield above the fireplace himself. The fire did not cast an enchanting warm glow on his face as it did his wife, but it surely reflected in his eyes a time of glory and compassion. Or at least, what he thought was something to be prideful of - when he likely sat out the war, babysitting his home village while his brothers went off to fight and die. Gilroy assumed this because the Innkeep had a wooden rear leg. Judging by the scar just above it, it was not from a glorious defeat in battle, but a ludicrous encounter with a bear trap. Play stupid games, get stupid prizes. "The swamp had taken them, but being noble stallions of war, we went out and dragged the survivors through the muck and out the other side."
Gilroy sat and listened, unsure whether to believe the mad stallion or not while he drank the orange-water-alcohol solution in his cup. The Hexer used their heightened hearing to listen to the heartbeat of the pony, to determine whether he was lying or not from his increased pulse. However, it was more obvious that the old coot was merely passionately reminiscing about a moment from his past. Passion was a feeling that Hexers could not really feel themselves. There was nothing glorious or exciting about battle, it was either an absolute struggle or a one-sided ordeal. For common equine, it was always somewhere in between. "Low and behold, on the otherside actually was a camp set up by the Black Ones. Their commanding officer stood up on his hind legs, as you do - then called a full scaled assault against us. Those bucket heads with their winged helmets were no match for a bunch of soldiers who just braved the swamps full of Mucknixers, I tell you!"
The coot sat down again, having gotten too excited and waving his hooves about. He rearranged his false leg and continued the story that admittingly, now had caught the interest of the Hexer. "You see, they still managed to plow us back into the swamp. They tried to follow us but were terrified at the sight of the Mucknixers, flinging their wet corpses around and slashing their throats! They retreated and some tried to fly away - only to get ensnared by some deadly plant... We realized they were terrorized of monsters, so we got a viciously good idea!" The stallion licked his lips and played with his mustache a bit, he poured the rest of the mead for Gilroy - who unexpectedly started to drink up his mead quickly. "We met up with one of the painter lads from the village and got a bunch of blue and green paint. We painted ourselves up like Vodnik and charged the Black Ones the next night, I tell you this - we had to march through a kilometer of their shit just to get to them!"
Gilroy could not help but find it amusing after all. They bobbed their head a bit and even let out a light chuckle. He was not fond of the politics of either side, but it was one of the few war stories that actually deserved to have an Inn named after the exploits it entailed. "If I remember right, the fleeing Black Ones actually got cut up by stragglers from the Lyrian and Rivian side. In fact, they said that the Rivian Queen was guided by a Hexer, by pure chance..." The monster slayer mentioned, their eyes scanned to something that moved behind the Innkeeper suddenly. Something was in their backroom, their kitchen. It had knocked over some pots and pans. Suddenly, the notice on the board outside made sense. "I imagine, that is not the only reason your inn is called the Screaming Vodnik?"
The Innkeep became gloomy and looked over toward his wife, who cautiously made her way toward their own living quarters, which was down the nearby stairs and in the fruit cellar, where they fermented many of their drinks. "Our battalion got the name 'Screaming Vodnik' ever since. Also, because we had the reputation of boozing and whoring back in the village after the victory, while smelling like mucknixers the entire time... After the war, I decided to set up this little inn - most of the wood is actually taken from the swamps, you see?" The stallion gave a kick to one of the support beams with their non-wooden hoof. The beam was indeed, stable - as the swamp produced some enchanted trees that proved difficult for even the most proven woodcutters around. "But of course, there is something that brings the odd Vodnik around at night... they are mostly harmless, but as you can see - they drive away the customers come night. We haven't had a single person stay over night at this inn in weeks. All because of one of those slimey bastards..."
Gilroy could not help but take good humour in the irony that this was the only inn to truly live up to its name. They crossed their arms and with their feet talons, clawed deep into the wood of the floor to prevent themselves from tipping over in the stool. "Strange, Vodnik do not usually come this far out of the swamp lands to hassle even the most intrusive of fishers..." And with that, the humour left as the most unexpected sound a Hexer could ever conceive was heard. Indeed, it was a screaming Vodnik. One that must have had its vocal chords hexed by a sorceresses or perhaps evolved by some strange, druid root it gnawed on by sure chance. "I see this is a very... interesting case. Even for a Hexer." He returned to his front position on the stool, leaning over the counter a bit and slid a mostly empty coin pouch to the Innkeep. "This is for a single room tonight and a shot of vodka, something that doesn't taste like piss please. When I get back from the kitchen, I hope to see this pouch full..."
The Innkeep gulped, there was no use trying to negotiate a more fair price with the Hexer as a Vodnik continued to screech like an ill mother-in-law just meters behind them, knocking over utensils and stirring something around in a pot. He nodded and from there on end, the hunt was on. Gilroy hopped off of their stool and approached the backroom that was separated by a door behind the counter. They were wearing little more than an undershirt, leggings, foot wraps and a leather jacket. But for a Vodnik, it should not be too difficult and needing of armour or chainmail. They drew their silver sword and carefully started to open the door. As the wood cracked and the hinge squeaked, all sound became silent within where the food was prepared. No matter the mead was weak, looked like they had to water it down since something was drinking all of their booze in the back.
Gilroy instructed the Innkeep to go downstairs and bar the doors to the main entrance, not to mention - to ignore the vicious sounds they would soon hear from upstairs. The Innkeep was worried, as their private room was just above the kitchen and he was unsure if he could dodge any massive amounts of blood shed that would pour in through the boards above. The Hexer stalked the backroom and the stench was even more rotten to his enhanced senses than any well decayed pile of corpses could be. The fish taken earlier that day were now gutted and ripped apart, strewn across the floor. The mead bottles were half full and most of the contents spilled across the tables. The most disturbing was a suit of armour, that sat on display in the corner beside the flour. It matched the description of the story that the old coot had told. Painted blue, poorly at that - with a helmet made to resemble that of a Drowner. It smelled of the swamps - but Gilroy disclosed it could not have been what was attracting the Vodnik to the Inn. "What kind of drowner is this...?" The Hexer questioned out loud.
They sniffed the air, the scent was still strong of mead. They began to follow the trail, it lead from beyond the kitchen and to a loosely hatched window. The monster hunter stopped for a moment and returned the silver sword to its sheath. This just continued to get more interesting. Even he was surprised how he managed to do it, but Gilroy crawled out of the window and fell to the ground - but was able to catch themselves with a strong hand against the muck of the dirt, softened by the light rain they were getting that stormy evening. Back on his feet, the mutant continued to prowl and follow the scent. It grew stronger and stronger, before Gilroy found a new piece of evidence in this contract - that made the contract itself, even less clear. A bottle of mead, a droplet or two left at the bottom - rested against a tree stump. "A Vodnik out for a little drink...? Unlikely..."
The stench of bad mead mixed with that of the swamp, as the Hexer's trail brought him to the same path that the Roanians were set upon as a cruel joke. The swamp started out modest enough, the occasional Vodyanoi altar and various other statues to gods and goddesses. But before the heart of the swamp was met, Gilroy found another clue - this one causing even more confusion. Blood. They knelt down and rubbed some of it against the joint of a finger and gave it a strong sniff. It was pony blood. "Strange." They noted simply, standing back up - only to turn violently at the sound of violent sloshing of the waters around him. "Vodnik..."
Drowners were dastardly, disgusting creatures that inhabited both artificial and natural sources of water. They are made of mud and scum, they feed on those who bathe in rivers and like to pull drunkards into the water with them. A swamp was a perfect habitat for them. A total of three burst out of the murky waters toward Gilroy, dripping wet and just as ugly as they appeared in the Hexers' bestiaries. Skinny, tall and bony, they are bipedal beasts that do not resemble any living creature of this plane. More like sacks of raw fish guts, sewn together with the veins of an equine and with the face of a Vodyanoi fish-person. A knot of hair at the top of their enlarged heads, grimey green eyes, pulsating with a white, milk-like substance as it focuses on its prey. Its multiple sets of eyelids closing and opening as it lurches further.
The first one was cut down with ease, as Gilroy slashed its stomach open with their silver sword. Fish and small tadpoles swamp out of its gaping wound and it dipped back into the water from whence it came. Bright red blood bubbled to the surface for only a moment, its milky white eyes gazed out of the brownish water at the Hexer as its corpse began to float lifelessly. The second showed its teeth and bit at the air as it charged forward like a drowned corpse on stilts. Their webbed fingers could rend flesh like a well sharpened blade, Gilroy was sure to not let a single swipe make contact with them - as it would tear more off than a few feathers. The Hexer was well trained, however - the Vodnik proved to be little more than lame practice for the members of his guild. He swiped only two times and in those times alone, cleaved off both the arms of the creature and lacerated its chest. The final swipe had pierces its temples, then slide eye to eye - nearly decapitating the creature from the mandible upward. The soggy wet body promptly slumped hard into the mounds of muck they fought upon.
The third stood and waited, it was of a slightly red hue - an evolved, mutation of the typical Vodnik. While its brothers were a revolting green or blue, this one could be easily recognized. Its eyes white but with deep, red veins. A orange-webbed fin sat on the back of its neck, which expanded and collapsed as the creature wheezed. Its nails and talons a bright red, like its bretherans' blood. "Damn, you're ugly..." Gilroy stated before swinging heavyhandedly with their sword at the drowner. As if the creature itself could mock, it jumped back from the strikes before finally the Hexer had returned to a one-handed stance. The Hexer leaned down and with their free hand, dug into the mud a strange signature while the Vodnik watched.
Its slimy body glistened alongside the moonlight, it watched the Hexer intently with some sort of intelligence or at least, comprehension. Rather than step toward them from this angle, it quickly jumped to the side back into the muck of the swamp. Bubbles emerged to the surface but then quickly disappeared. Gilroy cautiously retraced their steps backward and made sure not to disturb the symbol they had made in the mud. The Vodnik swam around him wildly, occasionally it would peer up and splash at the surface to deceive him of an attack that never came. On the last occasion, it threw itself out of the water with a large handful of muck that was tossed at the Hexer. Gilroy shielded himself with their hand, which caught most of it - except for a large clod of wet dirt that him directly in the left eye. They turned and once again - carefully stepped over their symbol and hopped back again for a more defensive position.
From behind, the Vodnik emerged with an upward slash as it brought itself back up to land. Gilroy stumbled as he felt his side now had a bloody 'gil', which expended with each of his breaths. It was a deep cut, one that would become a deep scar against their muscle tissue. The Hexer regained their balance and quickly jumped from one small mud island to the other, as the ground seemed to break away due to the Vodniki digging underneath the path. The Drowner followed in suit and as planned, stepped right onto Gilroy's sigil within the mud. Several images of magic origin manifested in a vibrant, violet light - it was the sign Yrden, a trap for lesser monsters. The Vodnik seemed to acknowledge this as it found its movement impeded and down right impossible - as if there were now invisible strings that held their limbs in place, a magical goo that held their joints in their current position. It sneered, as it was angry.
Gilroy pulled back and formed both of their hands, despite one gripping their sword, to form a symbol and cast yet another sign - Igni. Sparks of fire emitted from his palms and hit the Drowner square on, lighting some of the nearby foliage, despite being soaking wet - ablaze as well. The Hexer's cat-like eyes widened as he heard the Vodnik scream at the pain of being burned alive. The flesh melted off of its bone and became a black slime which resembled tar. Its weak jaw fell from its mandible and soon the brain melted right out of the skull, but not after the eyes burst and splattered out from the sockets. Still stuck by the Yrden trap, it was only when the sign was released that the flaming corpse ,previously suspended display of burning bones, could distinguish itself by falling into the water. Gilroy felt satisfied, continuing their trek into the swamp - but still confused. The way that Vodnik screamed was not the same sound he heard at the inn. The Hexer was now utterly unsure of what exactly they were hunting and even if the Innkeeper could afford it.
"Aaayyy! Ayyooo!" There it was, that terrible screaming. Gilroy assumed a combat stance once again and started to move forward quickly, it was close - in fact, very close by. But now he heard it was not a drowner, it was none other than a pony. A stallion, with a voice that has become gravely and grisly as a result of age. Thus, it was fairly easy to confuse it for a monster's yelp. "Heeelp! Heeeelllp!" The screams became louder and louder, Gilroy honed in on them and darted through the muck, basically barefoot besides their feet wrappings. Their leather jacket now drenched in swamp fluids and torn open by a single strike from the Vodnik earlier, which had lacerated their side. Next time, he will head straight back to the city and not stop to take any rests.
"You have got to be kidding me..." Gilroy said as he stood over an old stallion, drunk out of his mind with a bandoleer of booze. Their uniform was tattered and outdated, but well worn and very well kept concerning its age. The Te'Mareian coat of arms just above the alcohol sash, the old equine also wore a crude helmet that resembled a Vodnik. The dumb drowners probably mistook him from one of their own, as he was slimy and just as smelly and stupid. Their knees bloody from falling around and bumping into things - they were in no danger at all, which was rare for a pony trapped in this gods-forsaken place. Gilroy scanned the site and realized it was a memorial of some sort. There were mounds of mud that were most likely once graves before being torn open by necrophages. A single sign, carved in the image of a thorny rose - crudely crafted by soldiers' bayonets stood just beside the largest mound. 'Here lies brave Roanians, dead of stupidity' it read. "Who are you and what are you doing out here!?" The Hexer interrogated the drunkard quickly.
"I am sir Plowbottom of Roanian Royalty! Eheheheh!" The drunk coughed out, he rolled around in the mud like an absolute mad cow before he tried to get back up on his hooves. Instantly, they stumbled and hit their armoured head against the gravemarker before drunken-trotting backwards and hitting a metal object concealed in the mud, that toppled them backwards. Gilroy came to his assistance. The Hexer dug out a bear trap, rusted in blood from decades prior, only to toss it into the nearby swamp water with a large splash. "Oh, what was that?! One of the Drowned Dead coming to haunt the old Inn of course! Ooooh!" The Drunk rolled around on his back again, sluggishly kicking their hooves out at the Hexer who was now seemingly drawing symbols that resembled flowers in the air with his fingers.
"Enough of this nonsense..." The Hexer completed the sign of Axii and soon, a soothing, almost-brainwashing effect overtook the maddening dribble that had occupied the intoxicated equine's mouth. Gilroy has hunted many monsters in their time on the Path, but every so often they encountered a demon that not even they could drive out. Alcoholism was abundant in the Equestrian Realms, whether it was Viziman Champion or Rivian Kriek, the 'drink' has caused more madness than a ravenous wyvern unleashed upon a city market. "Tell me, what is a fool like you doing out here in his Te'Mareian best, sloshing about a swamp? Or better yet, why are you breaking into your old comrade's inn?" The drunkard's eyes were empty, yet they widened in recognition of the Hexer's words. As if not intoxicated at all, the equine managed to stand on their own and with more balance than they have ever exhibited even while sober.
Gilroy crossed their arms and waited patiently for the answer. "The Innkeep was our battalion commander. He lead them Roanian boys into the swamps and got most of them killed. That stumpy legged fool deserves to be haunted by their Mucknixer spirits." The pony spoke as if in a zombified state. Suddenly, they snapped back to reality and felt as if their head was just dunked into water. They were surprised, but still aware of the conversation - merely confused by their sudden moment of clarity after the Hexer had made some shapes in the air. "Yes, yes, the Innkeep... the coward keeps all the glory for himself! He stepped on a bear trap so he would not have to charge the Black Ones with us, that he did. Oh yes, that he did - the coward, I should! I should!" He worked himself up and then straightened just as he made eye contact again with the icy gaze of the Hexer. It would be unwise to do anything foolish around that cat-eyed bird.
The mutant smirked and let their arms drop after a shrug. "Well, you have an interesting way enacting karma. But you folks and your superstitions have it all wrong. Vodnik are not from the souls of the dead, left submerged in the waters..." Gilroy began. He examined the gravesite closer now. There was something strange, they were not dug up by necrophages after all. Something from beneath had defiled the dead, the ground was fertilized somehow - Hexers being skilled herbalists, he could tell that there was some roots sucking moisture from the muck above it. These had to be big roots, roots that pulsated like the veins in a mammal. "Vodnik came from the conjunction of spheres. When the dead die a grisly, unfortunate death - their misfortune may curse the soil..." The ground shifted beneath them at that moment, the now sober equine had started to trot backward - ready to turn at a full sprint back to the village. "Run!"
The monstrous plant burst through the ground, its blood red pedals as thick as flesh. Rotted torsos of the dead were intertwined within its thorny stalk, the head of the beast an organic flower, gushing hateful bouts of unavenged blood. "Gods curse it!" The pony cursed, a tendril snapped at him like a whip and painted his uniform read with blood. The plant wrapped itself around the horse that had disturbed its slumber, indeed - this was an Echinop. Made from the sinful seeds of sin and crime, the soil had birthed a vengeful vegetation. "White one! Help me!" Gilroy often heard the sounds of the innocent and incapable calling out, but this time it was far more grim than he could imagine. The pony was crushed and eviscerated by the thorny body of the meat-flower. The skeletal remains peered out from the green binds - their unlatched jaws laughed as blood poured upon their white bones, covered in a sheet of thinning, rotted flesh. Silver slashed a tendril from the stalk, causing it fly into the swamp waters - leaving a painting of blood behind, to swirl upon the surface. The deadly flower responded promptly.
It crushed the remains of the pony and its vicious, venus-fly-trap of a head sucked in the bleeding guts of its victim before the corpse was cast at the Hexer. Gilroy did not flinch. The deceased basically wrapped itself around his legs, what remained of him at least - nothing but a pile of mangled flesh and broken bones that twitched. Smaller plants burst out from the mucky graves, lesser evolved variants of their mother host. Gilroy had to incorporate the style of the Gryphon School of swordplay. Viroledan Naev'de Feaine Glaeddyv. The 'Nine Swords of the Sun', a style utilized by the swordsmen of the Nilfgaardian hold - Viroleda. Where the highest quality of blades in the world were produced. Masters of this style were said to be able to fight nine opponents simultaneously. For the Hexer, this meant that the style's incredibly lucrative and complex slashing techniques would give them three hundred and sixty degrees of defense from the cursed vegetation.
The Hexer was agile without much armour to bog them down, they swung and turned, parried and half stepped away from strikes. The green tendrils would lash out for his eyes, but in a serious of swings they were severed and cast torrents of blood. It seemed that for every bare feather they had, a drop of blood had painted itself a design on it. Gilroy continued this deadly dance against the lesser plants before they charged the stalk of the Echinop. It was nearly his width, but four times his size. It swung at him like a mighty fist and would come flying down like a hammer. Gilroy was hardly able to avoid every single swipe and attempt at their life, eventually they would have to strike the plant where it would severe it entirely from its life-bearing roots in the ground. Their silver sword carved a line or two into the thick, green vines - which bled as the haunting corpses of Roanian infantry of war's past cried as if being struck by a sword themselves.
Eventually, the plant got the better of him. It swooped across the horizontal plan and knocked the Hexer down into the mud. Their wrist struck a hard rock concealed by the muck with great force. Gilroy could feel the small bones in his wrist crack and the cartilage give away altogether. The Echinop raised itself up only to slam itself on top of the monster slayer. It was successful, Gilroy felt the force of what was at least four fat bastard pile on top of him, their ribs nearly gave away at the pressure alone. As the plant pulled away from his body, the Hexer could feel a sharp thistle slowly exit his abdomen. Gilroy's eyes were shut from the pain, but when they opened they were gifted with the grinning skeleton of a Roanian. Its decayed mouth grabbed the Wolf medallion off of the Gryphon's chest and when the rest of the plant went upward, it pulled the Hexer by the neck as well. Hanging from the nearly unbreakable chain of their silver relic, Gilroy's broken hand laid limp by his side as their feet dangled. Their Sign-forming hand clawed into the green flesh of the plant, whose fly-trap head was soon to reach down and bite into the bird.
Gilroy flapped his single wing and pushed themselves upward toward the corpse of the Roanian pickpocket embedded in the planet. The handle of their still-sheathed steel sword implanted itself into the eye of the living corpse, which made the whole plant screech like a Vodnik on fire. Gilroy let himself fall from this angle, the medallion being ripped out of the rotted jaw of the skeleton on the way down - returning to its owner's chest. Like a cat, the Hexer landed perfectly and took in the momentum from their fall to be turned into a quick dodge - which avoided a tendril that spiked out for his vitals. With one hand broken, they only had a single one free for Sign usage. Using a tactic they had deployed earlier, the Gryphon quickly drew another sigil into the mud and was sure not to disturb it as they hopped away from the plant that came crushing down yet again.
Yrden activated and the Echinop was ensnared in the magical trap. It whined and moaned with the throats of a hundred dead. Gilroy grabbed their silver sword from the muck with their casting-hand and dragged it across the 'stomach' of the plant. To the Gryphon's complete lack of surprise, equine guts poured out from the wound and the Hexer continued their gardening work. They perched themselves on the plant which was pinned to the ground by mystical kinetic forces - from there, they began to slice and hack every flesh-pedal and tendril from the stalk. Hooves reached out from the dead, trapped within the cursed green vines, but Gilroy showed no mercy for them either. He sliced the corpses and watched as not even bone marrow dripped from their wretched visage. The Hexer continued across the vegetarian totem pole of death and finally neared its fly-trap head. The mouth and its thorny teeth snapped, but to no avail. The silver sword, even when dealt in the opposite hand, cleaved the head of the creature off with a single swipe.
The mutant planted their feet back into the mud, but knew that the monster and its roots needed to be killed from the ground up lest the curse become reborn again after a single rain. His silver sword fastened into its sheath, the Hexer cast the sign of Igni with a single hand and from their palm - a spark of embers which ignited a vicious fire. The Echinop roasted before the eyes of every Vodnik in the swamp. The wet environment would prevent the fire from progressing, which was exactly what Gilroy anticipated. The Hexer left the now charred remains of the stalk where it lay - upon the graves of the deceived Roanians that started the curse in the first place. On their trophy hook - the head of the Echinop. Gilroy never thought that a plant could have a face, but then again - he never heard one scream before either. The overgrown venus-fly-trap at his hip looked like it was still screaming in pain, painted a rosy red in its own blood.
Covered in muck and smelling greatly of the swamps, exhausted and fatigued - it was not a surprise that a crossbowmen of the village's Te'Mareian Night Guard would launch a bolt into Gilroy's chest. It was dark, as it had just been dusk and Gilroy returned after the rumour of a "deadly Vodnik that ate a Hexer up" was spread across town via the feverish town gossips - who wished to turn the smallest of events into the biggest ones among their groups of friends. Gilroy received payment after a brief visit to Te'Mareian medical tent and soon, the Inn was renamed after its trophy piece - which sat on the mantle where the coat of arms once did above the fire. This was the story of how the Screaming Vodnik became the renowned Fly Trap - home of Te'Mareia's worst honey mead!