Chapter Text
The Members of Our Company.
Despite the many words I have written describing our adventure, I have woefully yet neglected to enlighten you of the appearances of the individual members of our company.
Now, it must be written, dear reader, that appearances are secondary to actions. Even the ugliest man, with the most misfortunate wretched looks, may contain within his breast a noble heart of gold. And, even the loveliest woman, with the most gorgeous face and roundest behind one ever did have the pleasure to pinch, may be a wicked, vile, backstabbing, nasty slut who should not even be graced with a mention in this memoir, so one should cease writing of her posthaste.
My point is thus: One should not judge a collection of poetry by its cover. Verily.
For, if the reader is cultured and well-bred, he or she will know the rest of my grand ouerve, including the decent adaptations it has enjoyed, but also, unfortunately, the few terrible adaptations it has endured. Luckily, the quality of the poetry outshines the pitiful drawings which accompany it; yet, that is not an excuse for poor artistry, and merely a thought of consolation. The remarkable soul of such writing should never be forced into laying adjacent to such caricatures, just as a young, pretty lass should never be forced into lying with a decrepit old man.
Several times, I have rallied and written flaming arguments against wrongful depictions of the characters which appear in my work.
This includes the witcher Geralt of Rivia, my closest friend and companion immemorial, who has, a blemish upon my soul as it may be, suffered at the hands of these so-called artists. In depiciting him, these butchers with brushes decided to not read the very words they were engrossing, but instead make up their own ideas. To do so, they drew inspiration from the limitless well of fictional witchers appearing in prior publications: foul beasts built like bulls, dirtied like beggars, and sporting forked tongues.
It wounds me to imagine my friend portrayed in such a light. The very thought is unbearable, for I am certain some illiterate fools have understood these offensive caricatures as the very propaganda I oppose.
In creating such mockeries, these scribblers have directly ignored my art, and I shall forever disown these publications and stage plays. Although I continue to be flattered by the works of amateurs, inspired to create derivitive works based upon my own—as long as said amateurs do not begin to exert themselves as the true masters and originators of the story—let these derivitive works show that these readers have actually read my words, and did not only use the parchment they were engrossed upon as cleaning rags.
Before I am accused of yet another tangent and diversion from the topic at hand, this is exactly the reasoning of why I wish to preserve our company's appearances in written descriptions. I shudder at the thought of Regis being represented as the kind of monstrous wąpierz one might only find in bestiaries and at the bottoms of dark caves. So too do I fear a fair-haired Cahir.
I also possess another reason for suddenly turning towards description. While I never before have erred in my writing, or, that said, in my life, the descriptions of characters in my ballads have been as poetic as I pleased, as they may never have been at all, and only ever existed in the imagination. But this memoir stands contary to that approach. After all, this is a work of prose, and an account of my illustrious life which is in every way factual. Thus, I have come to terms with the thought that its characters should also be rendered as belonging to such a work: that is to say, with verism.
So follows that I will now aim to sketch everyone's physical attributes: height, bodily shape, age—or appearance of age, facial features, distinguishing looks, and other interesting details which may hopefully please the reader.
I risk my skin to write this for you against the warnings and advice of my comrades, who have demanded that their features not be preserved in writing, for it may lead to their incrimination later on, should we ever be taken into custody and my papers confiscated.
But I insist: These are the details which must be written down, or will forever be lost. Because, it is not as if one can simply lay their head on their pillow at night, and dream of heroes from times long past.
We shall begin with the most aesthetically pleasing of the company, and follow in order of my acquaintance.
Master Poet and Troubadour Dandelion
Height: I stand tall at six feet exactly. Do not listen to other chroniclers who have falsified my height as five feet, eleven inches—their yardsticks were wrong.
Weight and Body: One-hundred and fourty pound. All of it muscle! Yet I appear as slim and svelte as a fox. Despite my love for beer and all the other worldly pleasures you may find in a tavern, none of it has had an effect on my physique, and my abdomen remains as well-proportioned as ever.
Modesty does not permit me to describe my own body in extensive detail, but the testimonies of several hundred satisfied, adoring women across the Continent cannot be in error.
Distinguishing Features: Since childhood, I have had cherubically golden blonde hair that falls into natural curls, for which reason I have never needed to use curling irons. My eyes are dazzlingly blue, my nose straight and well-proportioned, my smile charming, face kind, and soul virtuous and giving. I am thirty-eight years of age as I write this; despite that, I miraculously remain identical to how I appeared in my twenties. It must be attributed to my fortunate, well-bred genetics!
Out of jealousy for my good looks, some slanderers have depicted me with a gap in my teeth, which I cannot fathom, for I have seen my smile in a mirror many times and it has always been straight and white. Nor do I have any freckles or an uneven tan, for I was blessed by the gods with perfect skin. I am also one of the lucky few whose cheeks do not flush when they drink, which is a good quality to have for one who spends as much time in inns and taverns as I.
I may also note, for the several hundred more adoring women reading this text, that my skill at playing my lute and writing is owed to my dextrous fingers, which continue to be unparalleled. Apart from that, I have been lauded many titles throughout my career, including that of the best tenor north of the Yaruga. Even if one has never had the honor of beholding my handsome face, either in person, or in an etching or print, one may easily recognize me by my voice and by my words.
If you, dear reader, ever by chance pass a manor or castle and hear from above the voice of an angel, look up! For it may not be an spirit from heaven, but yours truly giving a performance upstairs.
Geralt of Rivia, Witcher
Height: He is the tallest of our company at six feet and two inches tall. It adds to his effect, and not only as a fighter. When he declared himself the leader of this hanza, I couldn't help but listen. And I don't always listen to his drivel.
Weight and Body: I have described the bodily physique of the witcher so many times in my writing, it feels needless to describe him once again: Athletic, broad-shouldered, with well-defined musculature.
Yet, I understand that it is difficult to imagine such the man which he is, if one has not known him themselves. Luckily, I have seen him nude many a time, so I might enlighten you.
Being a witcher, Geralt possesses a perfect body—although not more perfect than I—owing to how his metabolism works to shape him into an ideal human form. It is a hard thing for me to believe that when the great sculptors fashioned their masterpieces, they did not have Geralt in their studios to draw reference from. The effect is accented by his tendency to stand contrapposto, even unintentionally. If he were to intentionally pose, he could easily pass for a disc-thrower, a runner, or a dancer, as he is neither a mountain of muscle, nor stick-thin.
It seems everything is in balance with his body. One could only wish the same for his moods.
I have known him to weigh approximately one-hundred and sixty pounds. Give or take several, historically, depending on his condition and the type of vittles we have in our possession. Once, after he had endured a particularly hard winter, I met him weighing only about one-hundred and thirty. Although that was long ago, I wish to never see him like that again.
A pleasant note is that since the couple of years he spent in the mountains with his Child Surprise, Ciri, he seems to me to have been on the farther end of his usual hundred-and-sixty. But I will not tell him this.
Distinguishing Features: The witcher despises it when I reveal his age, for he becomes self-conscious and worrisome about his trade. He imagines that no one will hire him if they know his true age, for they will think him too old and possibly infirm.
I have never understood this for several reasons. Firstly, one look at him is enough to know that he is more than capable for the job. Secondly, I have never known anyone who turned down the employment of an experienced professional, because they preferred to hire a milksop who was not yet past his eighteenth year.
Thirdly, he is not yet the age of an old geezer, being only in the fifty-fifth year of his life, having been born in the year 1212 and it now being the month of September of 1267. Yet he behaves as if he were ninety-five, and all that was left to do in his life was complain endlessly, wring his hands over the changing of the world, and complain again, forgetting he had already complained before.
Fifty-five as he may be, he does not appear older than if he were in his fourty-fifth year, or even fourtieth, on a good day. As I knew him for many years, he appeared not more than thirty-five; yet after his disappearance into the mountains with Ciri, he seemed older, somehow. His eyes grew sick and his expressions even more grave and morose than before. I can only presume it is the weight of fatherhood, which has been known to age a man.
With this in mind, I pray will never taste this fruit for myself, and will thus remain youthful for the rest of my years, as I am now.
Although Geralt does not err frequently in fights, many monsters have drawn his blood. For which reason, his body is decorated with all manner of scars. Most famous is the one across his neck: four parallel slashes from the hand of the Princess of Temeria, Adda the White. His oldest and most faded may be a straight line across his forehead, mechanical and too human to have been the work of a monster, but he has never told me how he obtained this one. It is often covered by his headband, which leads me to believe that he is self-concious about it.
His face is not that of a great thinker and may not be considered pleasing to gaze upon, but has its own iconic shape, bearing angular and less than delicate features. It is dominated by his large pointed nose, which bequeaths his entire essence with a lupine air, and only becomes more emphasized when he frowns, which is often, and even more when he snarls, which is sometimes. His lips are somewhat thin and expressions are mostly neutral, although I can testify that it is more than possible to make him laugh.
As in all the years I have known him, he has possessed straight, white hair, which he ties back often with a narrow leather strip, and sometimes in a ponytail or bun. He shaves at every possible opportunity and I have only once seen him with a beard—that was a month ago in Brokilon.
His pupils are alike a cat's: slitted, widening or contracting according to the darkness or light, and they have a yellowish tint to them, although they appear brown in some lights.
They reflect in darkness.
I still remember when that quality of his used to disturb me, when we first met. For some reason, I possess a memory of going out to the outhouse some time past dark, running into him around the corner of the inn, and almost pissing myself with fright. He was deeply apologetic, and seemed even more frightened than I had been. Once I finished my business, I came out to see him readying his horse in the night, as if to ride away. He seemed surprised that I still wished to talk with him, and it took persuasion to get him to come back to our room and return to sleep in the same bed with me. Thus, in the witcher's case, it must be said that a beastly gaze does not equate to a beastly demeanor.
His eyes are narrow in shape, and are accentuated by a frequent squint. I recall that I once asked him about this squint and why he does it, assuming it was a lack of vision. Little did I know, he has perfect vision, and even more than perfect. He squints only because he is tired of seeing the world, in his own words.
Indeed, his eyes are often are tired or weary, and have become even moreso on our journey. Still, I have caught a glimpse of joy in them here or there, when they have narrowed not with hate or paranoia, but mirth and contentment.
I still remember when he used to smile. It is a rare occassion for him now.
Milva Barring, also known as Maria
Height: Approximately five feet, ten inches. She is tall for a woman, although I have known taller.
Weight and Body: It is impolite to comment on a woman's weight. However, I write this estimated figure only in the sense of her comrade and chronicler of our company: One-hundred and fourty-five pounds.
She is incredibly fit and muscular, although not bound with muscle like a guardswoman. Nay, her shape is womanly and pleasing to the eye. She is not very wide, yet she is not very slim; her weight is carried in all the right places.
Once—which I swear was by accident and not on purpose—I witnessed her bathing, secluded in a forest stream. A magnificent sight. Her back and arms are well-developed, and her thighs even more so. Her breasts are round and of medium, ample size, yet her hips are unfortunately narrow. I would write more, but that is all I witnessed before I averted my gaze, fleeing at the sight, afraid she would notice me and tear me apart like a pack of dogs.
Some may accuse me of falsification, claiming that such a shapely woman could not exist in a fighting party like ours. To those, I write only this: Since our archer is illiterate, I have no reason to obfuscate the truth out of the fear she may read my words.
Distinguishing Features: Despite feminine features, she commands a masculine aura. She possesses a piercing gaze and is prone to angry glares, followed by even worse barrages of words. Yet her face is nice and womanly, with healthy, full cheeks, clear eyes, pouty lips, and a dear, rosy complexion. Her nose is broad and pointy, and must have been inherited from her father. Like all peasant women, she has strong hands skilful for weaving on a loom and threshing, although in her case as a hunter, she rather skins animal hides and fletches.
She is a young woman, yet is surely past her twentieth year. I do not know the exact number, as I have never asked a woman her age, and will not begin now. She may not even know herself, being a peasant woman, she may very well be unaware of the year in which she was born. All I can report for certain is that her face bears no wrinkle, except natural bags underneath her eyes when lacking sleep. But since I am an expert of the fairer sex, I might estimate her to be anywhere from her twenty-eight year to her thirty-second.
Nay, her thirty-third, for I forgot once that she scolded me for something unrelated, and I know only older women make it their business to scold.
She sported a long plait in August, yet a little over a week ago, as previously described, cut it off at the nape of her neck. Now it fans out like a broom, the consequence of her messy and impulsive gesture. Her hair color is a dark blonde, not quite golden, yet not quite brown. It is the color of rye ready for harvest, mingling with that of roasted buckwheat.
Cahir, son of Ceallach
Height: A lordly height of six feet tall.
Weight and Body: One-hundred and seventy pounds, nearing one-hundred and eighty. His knightly physique cannot be confused for that of a serf; he is much too weighty and built to resemble a poor man in any manner, unless it was that that poor man somehow dined daily on several square meals of game and hearty amounts of grains.
I confess that once while we stayed in Meve's corps, I succumbed to the anger of hunger, witnessing him devouring an entire rib of boar in a serving. He explained to me that the toil of being a soldier, coupled with the extra exertion of hunting and killing said boar, requires more fuel than sitting at camp and writing about these accomplishments. I concede my apologies to the offended.
Distinguishing Features: Wavy, dark hair and somber, deep blue eyes, somewhat sunken despite his age.
Cahir is a young man, just about in his twenty-fifth year, who has not even lost all of his youthful fat in his cheeks yet, and cannot sport a full beard. What comes in, much to my amusement, is patchy and gives him the appearance of an unkempt teenage lad, and for this reason he shaves with frequency.
A healthy sort with a strong constitution, he seems to not have suffered illness nor hunger in childhood, but rather, perhaps an overabundance of too many sweets.
The back of his left hand is scarred from Ciri's blade, from when she struck him on Thanedd. Without the use of two of his fingers, he has adopted an ambidextrious fashion.
He is the first soldier I have known to not only bathe regularly, but to an excellent standard of hygiene. I am unaware if this is a norm for the Nilfgaardian infantry, although I hope I never have the educating experience of being close enough to Nilfgaardian soldiers to smell their breath or see if their hair is laden with grease.
He has a resonant, deep voice, which makes the knowledge that he used to be an officer utterly plausible. I have asked him if he would be curious in joining a chorus, but he has denied these offers.
Emiel Regis
Height: A tall man, standing at six feet and one inch.
Weight and Body: Although it is difficult to tell his true shape in the loose robes he wears, the travels of our company have demanded dressing and undressing at the same times, in the morning and evening. For that reason, I can attest that he appears devilishly thin. I do not mean in the sense of an elf, with a pleasant thinness, but rather nearing emaciation. It is an alarming appearance. Were that I did not know he were a vampire, I would have imagined he were an addict of fisstech or some other narcotic, and had wasted away on the drug. However, since Regis does not seem in any way ailed by his condition, I can only assume he is healthy.
He has an entirely normal and unremarkable appetite. Although, he has never complained of hunger or thirst, or even made a face when our food became monotonous or unpalatable. It is not known whether he needs to eat at all. When I inquired with the witcher, he directed me back to Regis, who simply smiled and asked me in return, "Doesn't everyone?"
Much more confusing was his explanation of his weight. Seeing as how he holds no prejudices of age, sex, or body, I figured it an easy question I could ask directly. Unlike the human members of our company, he would not desire to lie and give an idealized answer—which some are known to do, but never I. However, his answer was: "It depends." When I asked for clarification, he reported not a specific number, but instead, principles of physics.
He explained that since the weight of an object varies due to different amounts of gravitational acceleration, he possesses no determinate weight, but rather an upper and lower ceiling of weight, the latter of which is technically a state of free fall, or zero.
As you know, reader, I graduated summa cum laude and received training in all seven liberal arts, yet this explanation made no sense to me. To follow up, I asked if he does experience gravity, since we were both standing with our feet planted upon on terra firma. He responded: "Sometimes."
Upon asking him how much he weighed at that very moment, he answered one-hundred and twenty-seven pounds. Thus, that is the figure I will record.
Distinguishing Features: He seems to be an incredibly average man at first glance. Such an impression would, of course, be wrong.
A close eye might be able to tell something more from his features. His nose is prominent and nobly aquiline, his cheekbones are high, and his brow is well-defined and prone to expression. I have seen his same looks before in lordly men and judges. Yet his are separate, for the fact that he is oft to smile and has a pleasant, inviting demeanor. And a sense of humor.
His eyes are very dark. I have never before seen such blackness, as if inside him were only shadow. I do not like peering into his eyes too closely. Not only for my having witnessed his ability to send men to sleep, but because knowing his true age reminds me of my own mortality. Despite that, it is easy to hold his gaze in conversation, as one does, for his expressions are always kind and moderate, at times full of amusement, or when alone, deeply within thought.
Although from what he has described of his youth, I would not like to imagine him young, but I cannot help but think he might have once appeared as a beguiling and even comely man.
Yet today he his appearance is only that of middle age, possessing lines across his face, as well as a mature hairline. His hair is dark yet speckled with grey. With hollow cheeks, wrinkles around his eyes, and prominent nasolabial folds, he seems to be a normal man, roughly fifty-five years of age and no more.
But, my dear reader, I have already shared with you the truth.
I know many more will accuse me of simply lying or hallucinating the fact of Regis being a vampire, for he behaves not at all like one and even I have doubted this claim at certain times. Furthermore, people always seem to be skeptical of the existence of fantastic creatures existing amongst men, and the burden of proving their existence has always fallen upon poets such as myself.
Terribly so, for Regis has not many uncanny or monstrous features to describe, and appears to be, as I wrote—an entirely normal, average man. However, he does possess some unique features, which I will describe at length in another passage to come.
The girl, Angoulême
Height: The shortest of us all. She stands at only five feet, six inches.
Weight and Body: A new addition to the company from only a couple of days past, she has come to us a severely underweight girl, bearing signs of chronic malnourishment. As I write this, I estimate she weighs only about one-hundred and five pounds. However, considering the amount of food she has already pilfered from the mule's saddlebags and hoarded from Milva's hunting, she may yet gain fifteen pounds by the coming winter.
Distinguishing Features: Although she nears her twentieth spring, it is hard to see her as a woman, as she appears only to me as a girl—small, fair-haired, and fond of cheeky jokes and mischief.
I might admit that, somehow in her, I see the likes of my talented colleague and bosom friend, the trobairitz Little Eye, also known as Essi Daven. I last saw Essi when she was around this age, upon the cusp of womanhood. Sadly, I never had the opportunity to see her at the autumn festival, which we had both made plans to travel to at the beginning of this year. I suspect our quest may carry us until the end of the year, and perhaps for a few months after that; should we survive the perils, it will fill me with pride to reconvene with her at some later date, possibly in Vizima.
Returning to Angoulême, I must admit that I do not understand why Geralt rescued her from that cell. Unlike Essi, she is largely unremarkable, and asides from her somewhat delicate, girlish features, has nothing of interest to describe.
Her eyes are a regular hazel, not quite green, as they've been spoilt with brown. She has a retroussé nose, which often runs in the cold. Her nails are dirty, flat, and bitten, and her skin is pale, lacking color. She may very well be anemic. Her light hair might be pretty, underneath the grime, but who is to tell?
But I have given up on understanding Geralt's motivations long ago. For what I know of him, it was out of the goodness of his heart.
***
The Fashions of Our Company.
Standing next to one another, we barely appear as a company at all, so piecemeal are we. Our colors clash, we bear no heraldry, and of such different origins are we all, I fear we resemble a troupe of clowns more than we do a company.
Yet I do not know who could confuse the strong builds of Geralt and Cahir for clowns, nor the somber dress of Regis. Nor myself, for I appear nothing like a silly clown.
Geralt, at the very least, was able to shed his elven doublet he was given to wear in Brokilon, which was such an unfashionable thing, it must have been over a century old. Thankfully, in Meve's corps, a brown leather jerkin just about his size was found for him. He was initially going to be made to wear plate, which amused us both greatly, as I know the witcher has never worn plate armor in his life and would have been about as comfortable in it as a dog wearing boots.
Cahir, too, enjoyed an upgrade of his armor, although he held the opposite attitude—he wished for a set of plate, but as a new initiate was not given such an honor, as the army's supplies had been dwindling. I think this was for the best, however, as the weight of it would have soon exhausted his horse. He wears a similar mail shirt now, but of better quality. He also received a gambeson and new boots, which were luckily not emblazoned with any identifiable lozenges.
Milva, Regis, and yours truly, having been resigned to the civilians following Meve's corps, were not given such status, and our clothing remains mostly the same.
I still wear my marten fur cap, but do not think, dear reader, that I have discarded my little plum hat. I am well-aware of its iconic status! In fact, that is the very reason I have put it away for now, as I fear being recognized on the road due to my great fame. My daring quilted jacket also protects me well from the elements, and I have found no better garment to wear. Yet I hope that soon we might enter a nearby city and I may have a chance to wear fashionable garb yet again. My riding boots are fine, but I sorely miss my poulaines.
Milva's gear is also the same, sporting her padded green doublet with the leafy design, tied by a broad leather belt. Despite that she still resembles a member of the scoia'tael, it seems to be less of a concern the more south we get. She too still wears her leather bracer; I presume it is of a sentimental value, for it is extremely worn and none too pleasing to look at. She presented to us an interesting trick while we were in Belhaven, owing to a feminine headscarf which she produced from a pocket and tied around her head and hair to blend in with the locals. I can only write that the effect was stunning.
Regis has nearly not at all changed his outfit or gear since we left his cottage nearby the cemetery, which is so far away now. I suppose this is the result of being prepared. He still wears the same black robes and soft pointed boots, as well as the apron around his waist. The one addition he has made is that of a wide-brimmed felt hat, which he obtained in Riedbrune as part of the local fashion. In my opinion, it looks somewhat silly on him, and I have no reason as to why he purchased it at all, for the sun does not affect him one bit.
Angoulême was delivered to us in the ragged wear of a prisoner, yet the guards also gave her back her belongings, which she then readily dressed in: an oversized embroidered blouse, sheepskin vest and bright red pants. Since her hair has a habit of falling into her face, she also has tied a woolen band around her forehead. Since we have left the jail, she has complained ceaselessly that they confiscated her earrings and rings, although she did not quite know how to pronounce the word "confiscated," or perhaps her pronunciation was part of the local jargon. I know not yet of her origin, nor why she was in that jail, but the amount of jewelry she has described and the fine clothes she sports gives me some hints. I believe I know a bandit when I see one.