<div class="floatleft">(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/87/7a/e2/877ae2a8cb4cf149a7531a31949cc154.jpg)</div><strong>Name</strong>: Mael<br/><strong>Location</strong>: Karen Morhen - Mael's bedchamber<br/><strong>Tagging</strong>: Bellatrix<br/><strong>Wearing</strong>: Naked<br/><hr/><hr/><em>Unlike most of the new generation of witchers, Mael had a little something against the potions. Not for their benefits, but for their side effects. Hunting monsters at night, creatures that could see or didn't need to in the deepest dark of night, required, for many, the Cat potion. One of the relics of the School of the Wolf that had been revived by the Lodge, it was a simpler decoction that allowed a witcher to see perfectly at night. Not only that, but it made their hearing sharper, their senses attuned to the dangers of the life that was chosen for them. It also had a habit of draining a witcher of his inhibitions, drawing the most violent side of them out. In Mael particular case, that was something that he could do without. A swordsman might be able to survive in the battle trance that Cat would put them in, but an Archer needed his senses to be balanced. Which meant a long night of meditation, closing his eyes, and letting his senses become one with the world around him.<br/><br/>Crickets stopped chirping, frogs in the swamp suddenly stopping in their spring song in search of a mate. And Mael's eyes opened. He didn't need to see them to know that the rotfiends that he'd been paid to take care of had been drawn out of their hiding to feast on the dozens of corpses that had been left in a recent battle. Small skirmish really, local militia raised by the local towns to fight against a garrison of deserters that had been destroying local trade and demanding money from the towns. The battle had gone the locals way, mostly due to the engorged numbers of the militia. Sadly, they had taken their precious time in getting rid of the corpses left from the battle, and once they decided that they should, they realized that the place was crawling with necrophages.<br/><br/>Sadly for the villagers. Happily for Mael. He mad made Necrophages into something of a specialty. They were easy money, for the most part. And once the Rotfiends had grown too numerous for the rotten flesh to feed them, the stragglers started settling for fresher meat in the form of the inhabitants of the nearby villages. And a witcher had been called for.<br/><br/>And Mael was there to deal with them.<br/><br/>His eyes were adjusted to the evening darkness, and the sounds of the rotfiends beginning their nightly feast drew his gaze to his left. He rose from his sitting position on the piece of relatively dry ground that he had found, moving silently over the ground until his keep eyes caught sight of his quarry. A dozen or more of the creatures, attacking the remains of the militiamen and deserters alike. Brought together in a common end: Monster food.<br/><br/>Mael resisted a shudder and quickly pulled his bow from his back, silently stringing it and drawing five arrows from the quiver on his back. Four were tucked into the hand holding the bow, and the fifth was smoothly placed to the string and drawn back slowly. The rotfiends were about thirty paces out. As they liked to walk around on all fours, managing a center mass shot was next to impossible, meaning that there was only one place to shoot that would bring a monster down with a single shot.<br/><br/>The bowstring sang, and the arrow flew, zipping through the air. And with the sickening sound of flesh ripping and bone shattering, a necrophage dropped to the ground, a long shaft jutting from it's eye.<br/><br/>A small moment of satisfaction touched Mael, but not making him pause as the creatures stopped their eating, trying to detect the origin of their attacker. A second arrow was taken from the fingers holding the bow and smoothly placed to the string, and flew like the second, and like the first, hammered home, this time into the temple of another beast. A roar that sounded oddly like a scream sounded as one of them saw the witcher at thirty paces out, and as one, they converged on their attacker. The bow sang again, and again, and again and each arrow hit it's target, and three more beasts sprawled in the mud and grass. No more arrows in his hands, Male concentrated and extended his free hand, making a sign with his fore and little finger, almost a triangle between the two. It wasn't just the sign that was necessary of course, but it helped focus the will of the witcher, and from the sign, a glow grew out, extending into the form that he had made and flowing out in the form of fire. The rotfiends ignored it. They feared fire as much as they did poison.<br/><br/>Their mistake.<br/><br/>The tongue of flame wasn't directed at them, but maybe a pace or so to their left, where the flames apparently disappeared. But only for a moment. Mael quickly closed his eyes and looked away as the flash from the bombs that he had placed there hours ago would have ruined his night vision for hours. The bombs themselves weren't of much importance. They would kill any humanoid that they encountered regardless, but the silver ball-bearings coated in necrophage oil that were within and sent flying precisely into the crowd of rotfiends shredded the monsters into as much ground beef. The cheap kind, with bits of bone.<br/><br/>Mael opened his eyes again and turned back to the sight of the carnage and smoke. He cursed suddenly, seeing movement emerge from the cloud in the form of a very angry rotfiend. Only one, it appeared. The rest had been destroyed beyond recognition. It was wounded and bleeding, but it didn't seem to slow it down, bearing quickly down on the witcher. He had no time to draw another arrow, so he dropped the bow and down from his belt, his silver sword was drawn.<br/><br/>Connor had told him a story once of a time that he had been hunting a Fleder, a lesser kind of vampire. It had charged him and, in their fashion, leaped to try and bring him down to the ground. Conor had, in the coolest of minds, drawn his silver sword and waited for the leap, extending his blade as soon as the vampire had lifted off the ground, unable to change its trajectory, causing the beast to impale itself on the silver sword. It had been an impressive feat, and Mael doubted that Conor had simply made it up. And had always wanted to attempt such a move himself. The thought came to him when the rotfiend jumped at him.<br/><br/>But not only did he doubt that his own shorter blade was capable of such a move, he certainly lacked the courage that his brother had in such situations. As the rotfiend umped at him, Mael swayed and jumped out of the way. He fell on his shoulder, rolled and was on his feet in a second, a silver throwing dagger appearing his left hand, the sword being held in his right, and with a flicker of his wrist, the dagger flew in the direction of the creature that had been just recovering from its missed attack. The dagger hammered hard into the beast's midriff, eliciting a roar of pain and a moment of distraction as it tried to dig the silver blade from it's torso. A moment that was not wasted. Mael jumped forward and hacked harshly with his sword. The head dropped first, followed by the body that it had been parted from.<br/><br/>Mael spun quickly at the sound of another roar, this time sounding more like anger, his sword held out in front of him. There was no immediate need. The monster that had drawn his attention was ten paces out, staring at him. It was considerably larger than the rest, and seemed to be showing caution as it approached him. It was untouched by the explosion and had likely stayed back to gorge itself while the rest attacked. And now was trying to figure out if the creature that had murdered all of its fellow monsters was too dangerous to attack alone. It stared and roared at Mael, who held his sword ahead of himself, gripping it calmly as he stared the creature down.<br/><br/>Finally, it decided to fight another day and with a hiss and a growl, it spun around and started to run away. Mael didn't pause for a second, planting his blade in the ground and sprinting over to where he had dropped his bow. He swept it up, shaking the mud and grass from it as he draw an arrow from his quiver, placing it to the string carefully. Shooting a charging rotfiend was one thing, as it had it's most vital area, it's head, pointed at him. But one that was running away had to be shot over. And, again, was moving away. A complicated shot. He took a deep breath and let it go, mentally calculating the beast's distance over the time that it would take the arrow to hit. And smoothly released, watching the arrow fly through the air, bending this way and that as it flew. It would be true. It would be a shot for the ages, it...</em><br/><br/>He coughed and spluttered, shaking the liquid from his face as he jumped out of the bed and onto his feet before she had even finished her sentence. If there was one thing that training every day with a bunch of witchers taught him was to wake instantly, and be aware the moment that his eyes opened. His turned to face his attacker. A beast of gorgeously dark skin, shimmering black eyes and shining and well groomed hair. One that he couldn't hope to defeat. Even resistance was something of a joke, as she had shown him the night previous without even breaking a sweat.<br/><br/>At first, anyways, he thought with a smile as he dragged a finger over his skin and tasted the wine that she had so unceremoniously poured all over him.<br/><br/>"A shame to waste such a fine vintage," Mael growled, despite the smile still lingering on his lips," And you're washing the sheets that you poured it on," His tone indicated that it wasn't a request as he turned, not bothering to cover himself. She had seen all of it, in close and intimate detail, many times before. He picked up a rag from his desk and cleaned his face, neck and torso with it, smiling, hidden from her, as he watched the marks that she had left on him ripple under his lean, powerful muscles. She had marks of her own, his courtesy, and quite similar too. Bite marks, signs of nails dragging across her skin, and he had doubted that her bottom was not still flushed red from where his open hand had marked it, repeatedly. Sorceresses, women who near constantly enjoyed having power over their surroundings and it's inhabitants, also seemed to enjoy having that power taken away from them in the privacy of bedchambers.<br/><br/>She had come to his room the night before, late in the night too, having already emptied half of one bottle and with another in tow, demanding that he share it with her. He had voice some weak objection or another. This was a bad idea. The hour was late. They had business the following morning, but no real effort had been put into it. Seeing her had fired him up - the way that it always did, he mused - and had ended with clothes being discarded quickly, lest they be torn off, and a long and sweaty evening that had started on his desk, and ended pleasantly on his bed. He bent down to pick up his grey shirt, smiling as he untangled her undergarments, which had been ruined by him tearing them off of her body, from his shirt and tossed them back to her with a smirk as he began to put his shirt on.<br/><br/>"Knowing Conor, he'll likely want to have something to eat, or... and drink before we get down to the meat of business. So yes, we're expected, but hardly late," He pulled her dress from where he had carelessly draped it over the crude chair near the desk, and it too was tossed to her. If she wanted to end their heated night with a could shoulder, well... he was beginning to get used to that. It wasn't like he was holding her waking him up in such a crude manner against her, so long as she made sure the sheets were clean before he returned to the bed. Besides, he already knew how the dream ended. He had jogged over to where the rotfiend had dropped suddenly in it's run, the arrow jutting from the back of it's squat, ugly little neck instead of it's head, but severing the spine had killed it instantly.<br/><br/>It had been a shot for the ages. Too bad nobody had been there to see it. He wasn't as much for boasting as Conor was.