Lindenvale's location was fairly distinct: to the west lay Lake Wyndamer, to the north ran a tributary off the Pontar River, to the east sat the public cemetery, to the south stretched a natural forest—and farther south still, the land sank into the Velen swamps.
In the public cemetery, Catherine was in an excellent mood today, wheeling freely through the trees and open air beyond the graveyard. Her owner, Angoulême, on the other hand, kept a bright, eager smile and hovered around Victor, waiting on him hand and foot.
She couldn't afford not to be meek right now. Last night she'd hurt the boss's feelings, and once the dust settled, she'd been subjected to Victor "Scrooge" Corion's merciless, top-to-bottom, inside-and-out lecture—so thorough she'd nearly wished the ground would swallow her whole.
But Angoulême still felt it wasn't her fault for being soft-hearted. It was the villagers' fault for being slippery. They wanted the pay lowered, so of course they swarmed into the room to plead their case.
Still—dragging in a few grandmothers in their fifties to sob was excessive. Then they brought little girls and boys too, sucking on their fingers and looking up with wide, pitiful eyes, begging for help.
The most revolting part was when they even hauled over two of the future employees from the forge—Yoana and Fergus—so they could sit there and witness the grand spectacle of everyone begging.
And in the end, she'd caved first, tugged on the boss's sleeve, and said, "Maybe we should give them a cheaper price this time!"
Angoulême still remembered Victor's face going steel-gray for a full second before he finally, helplessly, asked the ealdorman, "So how much can you actually pay?"
She knew he was furious. He wanted to say no—but he hesitated, weighed everything, and agreed anyway, grudging to the end. And sure enough, from last night to this morning, his mouth hadn't stopped.
According to Victor, a village this size—over a hundred people—couldn't possibly be unable to scrape together two hundred orens. Trying to get it for nothing was beyond absurd.
On the surface, he was cursing the villagers. But Angoulême understood: the one he was truly angry at wasn't anyone else.
It was himself.
He was angry that he couldn't bring himself to say no.
She remembered a few lines he kept repeating last night, over and over:
"No wonder witchers 'care about coin, not people.' Hell, maybe they spread that reputation themselves.
Everyone has a reason they can't pay—does that mean monster slayers should all just starve to death?
See enough tears and you stop believing them.
I dressed too well and acted too gentle, so they thought they could push me. That was a mistake. Pricing too low from the start was another.
From now on, I go straight to the top—talk pay with the ealdorman first. If we can't agree, I turn around and walk. I don't give them a chance to set a moral trap…"
…
In the cemetery, Victor walked ahead with a mongrel on a leash. Compared to last night, he'd calmed down a lot. Two hundred orens had become one hundred and twenty; he didn't care about the money he'd lost. What he was angry about was being morally cornered.
As for the dog at his side—a brown mutt with white patches—its name was Teddy, a villager's beloved pet. Victor had borrowed it to stand in for a witcher's heightened sense of smell, helping him track down the "pretty girl's" lair.
Starting from the cemetery, Teddy caught the stink of cadaverine and nearly vibrated with excitement. He trotted south at a happy pace, barking all the way, desperate to sprint at full speed. Not long after they entered the forest, he stopped in front of an abandoned little shack.
Victor studied the building. The windows and door were half-collapsed, the gaps wide enough to see straight through. There was no sign of anything living inside. Teddy strained eagerly, wanting to rush in, but Victor tied him off to a nearby stump.
Victor stepped into the ruined shack, and Angoulême followed. Inside, it was empty, but the stench was thick enough to taste. In one corner were signs of a fire. A pot still sat over the ashes—like a crude stewpot—with scraps of meat and broken bones inside.
Victor crouched and used a twig to stir the remains.
Peering over his shoulder, Angoulême saw them clearly: thin little femurs—children's bones.
She wasn't squeamish about blood, but this was too disgusting. Her stomach lurched. She clapped a hand over her mouth and bolted outside.
Victor's own throat tightened with sour bile, but he'd expected it. Grave hags were among the few necrophages that actually cooked their food.
The nickname Lambert gave them—"pretty girl"—was because a grave hag's long tongue was vicious.
It didn't just lash prey. It could jab straight into a spine and lick the marrow clean, not a drop left behind. Geralt went further, calling her the Merry Widow.
After a moment, Angoulême steadied herself and stepped back into the shack, taking her place beside Victor again.
Victor pointed at a magic circle in the corner, formed from human skulls. "She's using the skulls to draw power from a Place of Power. If she loses this, it'll definitely enrage her.
We'll take the skulls back to the cemetery as bait. After dark, she'll come for them the moment she realizes. Then we end this properly—out in the open."
…
They returned to the village to gather supplies. When they reached the cemetery again, Victor and Angoulême each led a horse by the reins. The saddles were loaded with farm tools, contraptions, bows and arrows—and two sets of ill-fitting iron armor borrowed as spares from Fergus's forge.
Crossbow bolts were considered contraband out in the countryside, so there was none to be had on short notice. Victor had already commissioned a custom batch from Yoana to be delivered later.
Angoulême checked Victor's expression and decided he was clearly in a much better mood now—so she got bolder.
"Vic, what are we fighting this time? You still haven't told me."
"Talk while we set up," Victor said, starting to unload.
Angoulême hurried in to help.
"The monster is a grave hag—nickname 'pretty girl.' She's fast. Probably about as quick as nekkers and ghouls, though not as quick as a bruxa.
What makes her a nuisance is her weapon: that tongue. It can stretch out, and if it nails you, you're poisoned. That's why we brought the armor.
Ideally, you catch the tongue the instant it snaps out and cut it off—but that kind of luck isn't meant for us. If armor solves it, don't overthink it.
Other than that, she's not much different from other necrophages. Maybe a bit stronger. This is Necrophage Oil—take it and coat your blade. Bring it back when you're done."
Victor pulled a vial of necrophage oil from his herb pouch and handed it to her.
Angoulême set a big bundle of long nails on the ground and took the oil. "So we're not drinking Blizzard, Thunderbolt, or Tawny Owl this time?"
"We save those for when we really need them. Ingredients are short—we have to ration. Some things can't be bought even if you've got coin.
Once we reach Novigrad, it'll be different. The 'Pearl of the North' has damn near everything. But until then, we conserve what we can."
Then Victor pointed at a patch of ground in the distance, already marked.
"Take a shovel and dig pits over there. Fill them with nails. I'll rig the farm tools into a simple spring trap, add a bear trap, and set up the heavy crossbow contraption. That should cover the worst-case scenario."
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