The story in the books for
Geralt is like that: infinite beauty is followed by sheer horror and vice versa.
***
A west wind brought a storm
that night.
The
purple-black sky burst along the line of lightning, exploding in a long
drawn-out clatter of thunder. The sudden rain struck the dust of the road with
drops as vicious as oil, roared on the roofs, smeared the dirt on the skins
covering the windows. But the powerful wind quickly chased off the downpour,
drove the storm somewhere far, far away, beyond the horizon, which was blazing with
lightning.
And
then dogs began to bark. Hooves thudded and weapons clanged. A wild howling and
whistling made the hair stand up on the heads of the peasants who had woken and
now sprang up in panic, barring their doors and shutters. Hands, wet with
sweat, tightened on the hafts of axes and the handles of pitchforks. Clenched
them tightly. But helplessly.
Terror
sped through the village. Were they the hunted or the hunters? Insane and cruel
from ferocity or fear? Will they gallop through, without stopping? Or will the
night soon be lit up by the glare of blazing thatch?
Quiet, quiet, children…
Mamma, are they demons? Is it the Wild Hunt?
Phantoms from hell? Mamma, mamma!
Quiet, quiet, children. They are not demons,
not devils…
Worse than that.
They are people.
The
dogs barked. The dale blew. Horses neighed, horseshoes thudded. The gang raced through
the village and the night.
Chapter Two
Andrzej Sapkowski, THE TOWER OF THE SWALLOW
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| https://kittiara.deviantart.com/art/RCSI-The-Wild-Hunt-257469796 |
