We rode into town like a couple of hombres, the sun warming the steel upon our backs. The townspeople stared at us wide-eyed, as we sauntered past, whispering to their friends. There was a certain smell in the air, but I couldn’t tell if it was the smell of fear, or just the pigs in their pen, wallowing in their own filth. We hopped off our steeds and wandered up to the local establishment. Tavern patrons were likely to be the best avenue for information and the wench serving the drinks was not hard to look upon either. We walked in but found our path blocked by a couple of muscular types. We were not wanted here, it seemed. That happens quite often. We’re Witchers, and people often dislike things that are different. But our quest will continue regardless.