"Drowners are timid by nature. Most of the time they only eat scraps dug out of rubbish heaps and the carcasses of animals. They only attack when a lone traveler or an unwary fisherman wanders into their territory.
They look like human corpses hauled up from the bottom of a pond—blue or green, pores oozing slime and river muck, their whole bodies reeking of sour rot.
But in truth they aren't drowned corpses transformed into monsters. Their scales, gills, and dorsal fins all point to a completely different creature. Those features make them excellent swimmers, able to drag victims underwater and drown them before anyone can react.
If they aren't hungry right away, drowners will keep the victim submerged for days, letting the flesh soften and decay until it practically melts in the mouth.
They're especially active at dusk and at night—particularly when it's raining—and they'll even leave the water for short periods to push inland.
Drowners that come ashore usually hunt in packs. On land, even though they can move frighteningly fast, they're still weak when facing anyone other than fishermen or women doing laundry.
Which is why people say: 'When a monster is truly pathetic, it feels braver in a crowd.'"
That afternoon, outside Vizima—by the Ismena River, not too close and not too far from the Outskirts—Victor stood on the bank with his feet planted in a relaxed, grounded stance, arms folded, explaining drowner behavior. Angoulême, meanwhile, crouched in the water with everything below her neck submerged, her face full of resentment.
"I'm telling you, Captain, does this really work? I've been soaking here for half an hour!"
"Wait a bit longer, a bit longer. Have some patience—it'll show up soon. The footprints on the shore are clear as day, there are definitely drowners around here. Besides, it's scorching out. What's so bad about letting you cool off in the water?"
"If it's that great, why don't you get in here with me!" Thinking about being used as bait made Angoulême's skin crawl—and made her angry, too.
"Tch. I've been talking about their habits for ages and you didn't even hear the first sentence. Drowners usually aren't very bold. The scent of a lone woman is plenty tempting, but if two people go in, we'll get nothing.
You lost the roll, so you live with it. That's the will of the dice. Don't worry—sunset's still a long way off. Only a few starving drowners move around this early."
As he spoke, a sudden snap of a mechanism sounded behind her, water splashing hard.
"Up—now! We got one!" Victor shouted.
At his voice, Angoulême shot out of the river like her backside was on fire—three steps, then two, and she was back on the bank. She saw Victor hauling on a rope, dragging something toward shore.
With the catch on the line, she hurried over to help, grinning as soon as she got a hold of it. "Hey, it's heavy! This one's not small, is it?"
Together, they pulled. Soon the drowner trapped by their underwater snare began to rise, its body a deep, dark blue. The trap's barbed claws were buried into its torso, blackish fluids streaming out in rivulets.
It howled and thrashed as they dragged it fully onto the bank. Victor wrapped the rope around a wooden stake to secure it, stepped forward, and decapitated it cleanly with a single swing of his silver sword.
Gloves on, they hauled the remains farther up the shore. Then, with Victor as the "surgeon" and Angoulême as his assistant, they went to work—cracking the skull, opening the chest, and carrying out the rest of their material-harvesting plan.
Not long after, the Ismena's fast, full waters carried away the last of the mess and stink. Angoulême rolled her dice in her palm, then lifted her chin at Victor in open challenge.
"Round two."
…
"See, these kinds of monster traps can kill, mages can kill, armies can kill—farmers can even kill if they band together. So why are witchers the only ones called monster experts?
…Because the difference between an expert and an amateur is right there. Amateurs don't think about cost. Experts control cost. Amateurs don't care about efficiency. Experts pursue efficiency.
Just compare it. Take the most basic necrophage oil—dog tallow and blowball. Mix them evenly, simmer until it turns thick. Fast, simple, and the practical results are excellent.
So we can draw a conclusion.
When you're facing a predictable category of monster, you can skip plenty of things—but the matching blade oil is something you always apply, and apply generously. The herb book I gave you is for identifying ingredients. As for the recipes for monster-specific oils… I'll teach you those later, orally.
You live and you learn. And don't complain that I'm nagging…"
Under the slanting light of dusk, Victor lit a campfire by the river and set up a small kettle. Inside, necrophage oil bubbled steadily—glug-glug-glug—while he rambled on and on, sharing "wisdom" with his troupe member.
Across from him, Angoulême sat drying her clothes. She'd lost four rounds that afternoon. They'd played best-of-five and she hadn't won a single match—twelve straight losses so brutal she'd nearly started doubting reality. If the dice hadn't been her own, she would've sworn the captain was cheating.
The more she thought about it, the more it felt wrong. Cutting off his sermon time, she finally asked what had been gnawing at her.
"Vic—if we were going to end up doing this anyway, why did we spend the whole afternoon working ourselves to the bone fishing for drowners?"
Victor's stirring spoon paused for the slightest moment, then continued rotating.
"Mm… honestly? Because I've never dealt with drowners before. I wanted to get my head ready first. What they look like up close. How they smell. What it feels like when you cut into them—and what kind of wounds guarantee they'll die.
After hooking a few and butchering a few… you're not nervous at all now, are you?"
He leaned to take Angoulême's Mahakaman steel sword, then ladled the oil over the blade in slow, even strokes. After that, he drew his own silver sword and did the same. The air at dusk carried a faint damp, fishy stink. Victor listened, judged the timing, and felt it was about right.
The sound of water grew from a soft slosh to a heavy churn. One by one, drowner heads broke the surface.
"Five… eight… ten… thirteen!" Angoulême called out loudly after taking her Mahakaman back.
The drowners clambered ashore in a rising wave. They had human-like shapes, but they weren't any smarter than fish. They stared at the two pieces of "food" in front of them, puzzled that the prey wasn't running.
Still, they had numbers, and they could feel the advantage. So they spread their mouths full of needle teeth and took turns screeching—threats laced with glee.
"Watch the danger zones," Victor said flatly, warning Angoulême. "Don't be an idiot and step into our own traps."
His silver sword pointed down as he shifted into position, baiting them into a favorable angle. This wasn't going to be some blood-pounding battle. The outcome had been decided before the first monster set foot on land—
Unless something unexpected happened.
For example.
"Danger! Run!" Under the first thin light of a new moon, the moment before impact was shattered by a third party's shout from not far away. The drowner pack immediately surged forward, claws and teeth flying toward the Phantom Troupe.
The interruption was unexpected, but the warning sounded friendly, so neither Victor nor Angoulême paid it much mind. Like they were practicing sword drills, they calmly cut down the lunging drowners one by one.
The two-person sword dance became a three-person sword dance when the running footsteps behind them stopped. In the middle of the fight, Victor flicked his gaze sideways and confirmed it: the man who'd shouted the warning and rushed in to help was a knight with skilled swordwork—
And on his breastplate was carved a flaming rose.