Five days ride.

There was always an adventure to be found in the taverns of Novigrad. Fire eaters provided the entertainment with their cheap attempt at pyromancy, belching flames to the beat of drums and dancing feet. Soldiers swung their swords around, trying to impress the women with tales of slain men and beasts. Fights, affairs, pacts; it all happened at the bar stools and tables of the Southern capitol.

The same could not be said for the inn she found herself in now. It was late evening by the time she’d hitched her horse and ordered a drink, and the most lively patrons were the moths that danced around the candles.

“You don’t look much like a witch.”
I took a sip of schnapps and looked the man in the eye. These village folk were all fairytales and rumours, they didn’t know a thing when it came to actual magick.
“And what does a witch look like?” I asked, “Crooked nose, wart-covered fingers? Dark robes? Come now.”
“Meaning no offense, of course.” The man stammered. “It’s just, not what we was expecting.”
I put the wooden cup down and plucked at the stale tavern air with my fingers like the strings of an invisible lyre. One by one, the candles flickered and the flames became a sapphire blue. 

It was a simple illusion but the man gawked as if he’d seen his mother’s ghost.
“I trust we are in business?”
The man nodded, still transfixed by the blue candle. I snapped my fingers and returned the fire to its natural state.
“Good. Then I shall require half payment upfront and any information you have on this curse.”
The man beckoned to the barmaid, who produced a small purse of coins from behind the counter and handed them over. I felt the cool metal discs between the canvas. These peasant contracts left much to be desired in the way of coin, but it was a long way to ___ and any funds were appreciated. I stowed the purse in my satchel.
“So,” I said, “what are we dealing with? Sick cows? Locusts?”
“Nothing that simple, I’m afraid. Perhaps it’s better if I show you.”

The noon sun beat down on us as our boots kicked up dust from the road. The farmer led me past the small thatched huts of the village, where children played soldier with sticks and women hung out linens to dry. We came upon a small orchard; its trees opened up to a hillside covered in farmland, beyond which the stone walls of the hamlet rose from the other side of the valley.
The farmer vaulted a small stye and held his hand out to assist me. I ignored him and hoisted myself over the old wooden planks. 

“Well, here we are.” he said.
I took stock of my surroundings. This field was lined with rows of barley; the next beans, and beyond that rose sheaves of wheat. I didn’t see anything amiss.
“Forgive me,” I said, “perhaps a comfy life in the city has dulled my senses. What seems to be the problem?”
He beckoned and I followed him to the centre of the field.
“Do you understand now?”
I did.